The Mixed race

Just before the bullet seared through his heart, Qast’s world had just turned perfect.
He had been strolling down the Kopdel, the wide glimmering walk-way that led straight into the heart of Mixtit, with a spring in his step. The address of his destination was written on the piece of paper – the single most important document in his life – which he clutched tightly in his fist. He had sauntered along the shimmering street, squirting at his reflection at intervals to check that he got the walk right. It was the way the Cix walked – the right way to walk. Dignifying. Two dicodas and one nothes of practice had brought a smile to his face at what he saw each time he looked down.
If only he had gotten the walk wrong at that very instant.
The street lights – another magic of the Cix – hunched over like tall steel men casting a radiance of homage to the magnificent street below, could only manage an opaque luster which did not quite cut through the cold blanket of fog settled like a blanket on Mixtit that morning. Early birds chirped out of the huge pine trees that kept the street lights company. The large grotesque shadows of the trees added to the darkened gloom of the atmosphere – the least of Qast’s worries (he should have been worried about something else). Everything had been going his way. Even the Wexninti had had a smile for him as they examined his pass out of Kikowa. He had closed his eyes for a few seconds, to savor the joy of being in the new world he had just walked into; where his life was about to start. He had felt the morning breeze, heard the whistling birds then opened his eyes wide to a singular report, not quite in sync with the natural sounds of an unfolding morning but one which he was quite familiar with…the blast of a gun.

He had been born a Mulu because his father, whoever he was, had raped his mother. The man was Cix and, understandably for Qast, would have found it too demeaning to own up to fathering a child by a Mulu woman. By default Kikowa lay claim to his childhood dicodas. The adoration in his heart for his unknown father just outshone his resentment towards the man for not having the sense to see that Mulu women were too filthy to be touched let alone raped – cheating him out of being a full blooded Cix.
He chucked his mother to the recesses of his mind where she could not disturb his thoughts. She had died when he was three; killed during a stampede when Cix guns shot into a large Mulu crowd that protested against the wall built around Kikowa.
Within the walls the Mulu could do as they pleased but they needed passes to leave their confines to work, shop or whatever it was they couldn’t get in Kikowa. Both exits out of Kikowa were manned by well armed Wexninti at whose discretion the passes were issued. No Mulu went out without a pass. The incidents of Mulu men trying to run out of Kikowa without passes always ended up one way. When the guns are aimed at the Mulu the Wexninti shot to kill.
Though he lived in Kikowa and needed a pass outside the community, Qast saw nothing wrong with the wall. How could the lowly Mulu, ugly and filthy in their ways, hope to mingle with the sophisticated Cix? Unimaginable.
Uncle Zhestu of the burukutu bottle, his mother’s brother and his only surviving kin, brought him up.
The old man had always made it explicit that he would have long strangled Qast had he not been blood. Uncle Zhestu it was that made him very conscious of his distinguished features. The colour of Qast’s skin was a bluish-green pigment with more of the Cix blue than the Mulu green. His hair was Cix wriggly rather than Mulu straight. With age he grew slightly over seven feet – the average height of the Cix – heads above the average Mulu.
As a child these features had been a puzzle. No one (save his uncle) treated him any different though. He did not lack friends and a steady flow of compliments from adoring parents. It was his first trip outside Kikowa that unraveled the mystery. Uncle Zhestu had taken him as an extra hand for a cleaning job in Mixtit. He was just ten at the time. Qast’s first sight of a Cix was the Wexninti at the Kikowa gates. A fly or two threatened to explore within his ‘O’ shaped mouth which wouldn’t close in wonder at the new beings; their sheer size, crisp clean uniforms, sophisticated weapons and the aura of power with which they walked and talked. The most amazing thing, however, was uncle Zhestu’s countenance. Here was a man who very few Mulu could look in the eye, now standing like a sheep before lions in front of the Wexninti. Uncle Zhestu had his fingers locked in front of his chest like he was in prayer. His face, which was bent as low as possible, was the look of a stray dog kicked timid by a dozen unfriendly legs. That was just a taste of things to come. Qast stepped into another world the moment he walked down the Kopdel for the first time into Mixtit. In Kikowa, the houses were communally built (mud for the walls and thatch for the roof) for a young man of age. Here the houses were made of glass, cement and steel. And they rose into the skies. If these were communally built, Qast wondered at their great skill. The roads, a never ending maze of opaque glass, were wider than twenty Kikowa roads – which were really paths created by feet trodden down the bushes over time – put side by side. Qast had only heard about the Skards from his friends. They were transparent tube like vehicles that glided over the roads in their hundreds. One could see Cix men, women and children in them being whizzed about at great speeds. Then he had banished the stories as a myth but now he was overwhelmed. The Mulu went everywhere on foot.
The lights shone everywhere, hanging over the streets, on the walls, through windows and even used to write things on large boards along the streets. It was far brighter than the candle light he was used to. It was almost as bright as the sun. Intriguing. The Cix were gods. They had to be.
He and little uncle Zhestu (he never believed he would ever think of his uncle as little) scrimped very close to the walls like the ants that they now were, with their faces to the ground. They had just reached the gates of the estate where the house that uncle Zhestu was to clean when it happened.
A young Cix man, huge as every other Cix, ran towards them. They stopped and pressed themselves against a wall to make room – though the running man had more than enough. At the very last minute, the young man veered off course and crashed into uncle Zhestu. Such was the force of the impact that the scrawny Mulu man cleared the ground on impact and landed on his back a good four yards off. The Cix man stood unscathed, watching uncle Zhestu wriggle on the ground in pain. Some distance away, Qast spotted two other young Cix men holding their sides in laughter. He froze. It had been a prank.
‘Are you blind Mulu?’ The young man now stood over uncle Zhestu.
‘N….no….boss.’
‘Shut up! You old fool. How can you say you are not blind when you don’t have the sense to get out of the way?’
‘You were coming too fast boss. ‘
‘Are you trying to say it is my fault?’ He spat the question into uncle Zhestu’s face. ‘I will have you arrested for those words.’
‘Oh no boss, it is my fault. Please forgive me.’
The laughing men were having a fit now, enjoying every minute of the live drama.
‘And what are you looking at?’ Qast shriveled up instantly. Thankfully the Cix did not think him worth the trouble.
‘On your way, you dried up after-thought and next time, look where you are going.’ He swung his feet into uncle Zhestu’s stomach. Uncle Zhestu winced and scrambled to his feet.
‘Oh thank you boss, thank you.’ He grabbed a wholly mesmerized Qast and quick as they could they made away from the jeers.

‘Get me my bottle of burukutu and to the devil with your stupid questions!’
That was the only time uncle Zhestu broke his uneasy silence after they returned. Qast had asked if he would like anything to eat. He calmly obeyed but the old man’s tirade had lost its unsettling effect.

The little boy did not welcome sleep that night. He kept awake as long as he could to marvel at the wonders of Mixtit and the Cix – a place he wanted to be and a people he would gladly give his right arm to be part of.
He had the most wonderful dream that night. He was a full-blooded Cix. The very one that had bumped into uncle Zhestu and this time he did not stop kicking at his uncle’s pleas. Then it wasn’t just uncle Zhestu on the ground any longer but all the dirty Mulu he knew. Exhilarating.
After that first day in Mixtit, Uncle Zhestu could not tell him enough of his origin by way of curses whenever he did something the old Mulu saw as wrong.
‘Pick that up you son of a Cix rapist.’ ‘Are you deaf Cix dog?’ ‘Look at him, just like his father and all other bastard Cix.’
Qast would lower his head whenever his uncle was on the attack. This was not because he was sorry but rather because he hoped his penitent posture would give his uncle more verve to carry on so he could learn more. With time he pieced the whole story together. His father was Cix. The revelation was intoxicating. He wasn’t a part of these dirty people amongst whom he had grown up. Oh no. He was part of those lovely people with lovely houses and lovely roads and lovely lights. He had every right to slap and kick these dirty Mulu around and all they would do is beg for mercy. He was a Cix, a lord.
He sought every opportunity to go with uncle Zhestu into Mixtit. He studied the Cix and their culture and gradually began to copy what he could. Uncle Zhestu noticed.
‘You should be ashamed of being a Cix. They have brought us nothing but misery and you…you are one of them.’
Ashamed of being a Cix? What a laugh.
At sixteen he was proud of the change he saw in himself. The build was certainly there. All that remained was to perfect the mannerisms. Soon the sight of him will send Mulu in the street scurrying to hide.
With the papers that granted him access into Mixtit without uncle Zhestu’s company, the first thing he did was to get a job in the mines. Independence gave him power and his uncle became an irritant. Qast had promised himself that he would knock out all the old man’s teeth with a bit more provocation so it was a disappointment when uncle Zhestu turned tame and began to keep out of his path
In Kikowa, he strutted about with a nose in the air and a swollen chest. He spoke to no one when he could help it. When he couldn’t, he used words sparingly and in an authoritarian tone. When the time was right, he would leave this filthy place and backward people. His place was in Mixtit.
The only problem however was his work place. The mine wasn’t a place fit for a Cix. Besides the hazards and the filth of the place, he had to endure the presence of the hundreds of Mulu encrusted with tough times in the mines and Cix brutality, sweating beside him, searching for precious metals. Try as hard as he could to disassociate himself from his Mulu workmates, they were always in his face. He snubbed those that tried to be friendly and was paid back with taunts.
‘What is with that green leaf?’
‘He thinks he is a Cix.’
‘All hail the Cix lord.’
Their incessant laughter at his efforts made him hate them a little more every day. There was nothing he could do about it. In size he was bigger but each one of them was hardened, having endured the hardships of the underground over the dicodas. He wouldn’t last in a fistfight. Besides he was only one against so many. The only thing was to leave. Find somewhere and something that befitted someone of his standing.

He had to do something ‘stupid’ – ask a Mulu for help.

Qast had seen Gundumiki twice before in Kikowa and noted that he wasn’t like any other Mulu. The aging Mulu man wore relatively expensive clothes and carried himself with stateliness. He lived in a nice house (if there was such a thing in Kikowa) and was highly respected by other Mulu. He entered the Cix city daily and returned evenings, meaning he had a good job in Mixtit or he wouldn’t look that way or be so highly respected. All that had meant nothing to Qast. One Mulu was as insignificant as the other, no matter the adornment. Four nothes in the mines changed that. He made his way through the lowly pathway to the old Mulu’s house. If he was to live his dream, he would have to swallow his pride – if for only a while.
A startling beauty opened the door. It was the old man’s teenage daughter. She flashed him the sweetest smile. Qast scowled back. He took no notice of dirty Mulu girls always trying to catch his attention with seductive smiles. He only had eyes for Cix girls. So far he hadn’t summoned the nerve to chat one up. He couldn’t pass for a full blooded Cix yet – not in his miner’s work clothes – and he might just end up getting the beaten of his life by the Wexninti if a Cix girl he tried chatting up raised an alarm. When he got the proper job he would look for a fat, ugly and desperate Cix lady who would be happy to have him. Better that than the prettiest Mulu girl.
‘Is your father in?’
She recoiled at his angry tone.
Without answering, she opened the door for him to enter and retreated. Gundumiki was beside an open window, seated in one of his cane chairs, smoking a pipe and listening to the chirping of the evening birds. He raised his head to see who it was and motioned for Qast to join him.
As they talked the evening grew darker until the red glow from the old man’s pipe did the little it could to illuminate the place. In an hour of exchange, Qast learnt that Gundumiki was a butler, that half the young Mulu in Kikowa had come for the very same request Qast was there for and that Gundumiki had turned all of them down. With a deep scowl, hidden in the darkness, Qast listened to reasons Gundumiki listed for turning him down as well.
‘No doubt it is a good job and I am well paid but my young man, it is demeaning for anyone. One is always at the beck and call of children and they really make you look foolish. With time it becomes you. At my age I have nothing to lose but it would kill the fight in a young Mulu blood like yours.’
‘That is not a problem for me.’ Qast refrained from denouncing his Mulu heritage before the old man. It would hurt his chances. His patience however wore thin by the second. He was Cix and no Mulu – no matter how highly placed – dared deny him a request.
‘Oh but it is a problem. I know that there is going to be a revolution very soon. The Mulu people are going to rise against this oppression and we would need fire in every Mulu. I am past fighting so there is no danger in my being complacent.’
Qast could hold back no longer
‘Look, I can’t work one more day in those mines with those filthy bas… I don’t care about fighting and fire. Just get me this job!’
A heavy calm held the atmosphere spellbound after that outburst. In the red glow of the old man’s pipe, Qast just made out the creased face contorted more in contemplation. He wondered if he had stepped out of line and then he didn’t care.
‘Come and see me in two days.’
‘Thank you.’ Qast was as curt as possible as he rose and walked out into the darkness. How dare the old man compare him to other Mulu and what was all that stupid talk about a revolution. Not in a million dicodas could the Mulu hope to match the sophisticated weapons of the Cix. Utter nonsense.
He crossed the road to avoid passing by two Mulu girls coming in the opposite direction.

At the end of two very long days Gundumiki returned from work to find Qast waiting.
‘Did you get me the job?’
‘You young Mulu…so impatient.’ Gundumiki greeted with a smile.
‘Did you get me the job or not?’ Qast asked with a straight face.
The old man sighed, reached into his breast pockets and sliced the air with a folded piece of paper.
‘They want you to start tomorrow. They will give you uniforms and…’
Qast snatched the paper.
‘What of the address?’
‘It’s all in there. You will find things relatively easy because of the way you look and…..’
‘Thank you.’ Qast wheeled about and walked away with the deftness of the Wexninti leaving the old man to wonder after him.’
‘Cix blood.’ Gundumiki muttered to himself sadly then walked in to his dinner.

Menkakuki kept his eyes on the bright red glow as he sucked long and hard at the dying cigarette. The harsh morning wind raised his large unbuttoned coat and found his bare skin under his light shirt. On the rooftop of the Mixtit museum – a good fifty stories high – the wind was fiercer with no building or tree to serve as a break.
‘Shit.’ He spat out the spent cigarette butt and pulled the coat about him to button it. It was a coat too large for his scrawny figure and the cold air still found spaces to get in. ‘Blast it! Have you got a spare cigarette by any chance?’
The other Mulu, a much healthier looking figure, on the museum rooftop seemed oblivious of the biting wind. He lay prone, still as the wicked looking weapon which he held by his head. A long range rifle aimed at the wide glassy road beneath the museum. They were part of the Mulu revolution which the Wexninti had not even known existed. Their presence on the museum rooftop that dark cold windy morning was the result of countless meetings in the underground. This was to be their first strike back at the Cix. Just kill one or two Cix to send a message. That was the plan.
So far no Cix had come out of the buildings, but they were usually early birds. They were sure to come out soon.
‘Chiwele’ Menkakuki called out again, this time impatiently. ‘Do you have any…’
‘Shhh’ Chiwele signaled for Menkakuki to lie down as well. The fat gun man had sighted movement.
‘Where?’ Menkakuki moved his head from side to side and strained his eyes in the foggy darkness.
‘There, down there, look.’
‘Yes I see him now.’
The gunman adjusted his rifle on his shoulder and took aim.
‘Just tell me when.’
‘Wait! Something is not right. Why is he coming from the direction of Kikowa?
Chiwele cast an angry eye on his partner.
‘What are you talking about? Does it matter in which direction he is coming from? If we don’t hurry up, we are going to let this one get away.’
Menkakuki studied the strolling figure. The height was right, the springy step was right and from the museum rooftop, the complexion was right.
‘Well?’ the gunman asked impatiently.
‘Kill him.’