Archive of Our Own ^beta

Nearly every evening had been the same, the first and third Friday of every month. Nag Champa-scented nights in the smoke-hazed jazz club. Hard-wood floors scuffed from stools and heels and the occasional shattered glass. Tables decorated with years of water ring stains. The faintest traces of whiskey and palm wine sticky in the cracks in the tabletops. 

M'Baku sat, tall and broad, on a stool. A weathered notebook perched on his bent knee. A pen held carefully between strong fingers. The deliberate strokes of his writing forming on white, lined pages. He should be present, focusing on the beauty of the woman onstage before him. She was certainly focused on him. His is a familiar face, in Jabariland, of course, and in the dimness of the club. A regular showing up for months. Always watching or writing, but never making his way to the stage. 

His first time at the club had been unplanned. He had been restless. The long days in his office had been maddeningly monotonous. His tasks had been completed early, as they nearly always were. A wise and trusted friend, T’Challa, had recommended he go out and enjoy the Jabari sunset alone, some solitude to settle his mind. He had wandered into the club out of curiosity, hearing drum beat and saxophone whine from outside its doors.

He had read poetry before. The classics, of course. Chinua Achebe, Maya Angelou, Paul Lawrence Dunbar. But, he had never heard it spoken, sung, chanted before. He had sat in the back. Anyone--meaning everyone--who had recognized him nodded their greeting and looked away quickly, not wanting to distract from the night of expression. 

And so it had continued, twice every moon, a temporary escape from recognition and responsibility. Here he was simply one of many who appreciated a steady rhythm, a heart-stirring melody, and a stiff drink.

Tonight, though, would be different. He had something--just a little something--to share. He had always been good with his words. Plenty of women to attest to that. This would be something new, poetry written to be spoken from lips. He bit his in thought as he crossed out a line, shook his head, then wrote it out again.

"And now, show some love to a very special performer," hummed a voice from the stage. Rather than snaps, the audience erupted in Jabari howls.

M’Baku strode to the stage. He placed his battered notebook and half-finished drink beside him. After adjusting the microphone, he took a seat on the stool. A sliver of light from the setting sun cast his face in a copper glow. Just like that, he appeared statuesque and mythical.

The band began to play a smooth tune. Drums set the rhythm and the tempo. Saxophone cried low and passionate. Bass added just the right something to make feet tap and heads sway.

“Brothers, how y’all doin’? Sistas, how y’all feel?” he called, dazzling his audience with a gap-toothed smile. Those in the crowd responded in turn.

 “I must admit, this is my first time,” he said, fidgeting with the sleeves of his button-up. “Go easy on me?”

“Oh, I’ll go easy on you, baby!” An eager voice hidden in the shadows of low light. A few chuckles flowed from the crowd, M’Baku’s joining them.

“Yes, thank you. You are…too kind. This is, uh, a little something inspired by the beauty of Jabariland.

what dwells beneath twin Jabari mountains

warm earth under the beguiling cover of snow

hills and valleys parted by sweet river water

Hanuman’s humble servant wishes to know

fertile ground awaiting the touch of

just

the

right

man

Hanuman’s patient servant wants to know

shy blossoms opening only at just the right time

sticky wet nectar dripping just for Spring

will the bud open for me?

Hanuman’s hungry servant desires to know

how does one earn the privilege hearing the birdsong

of running furtive fingertips along velvet stems

indulging in the pleasures of a job well done

planting seed with

just

the

right

stroke

Hanuman’s capable servant yearns to know.”

Snaps, claps, and howls followed as M’Baku gathered his things and returned to his seat.

“Mm, something has got me feeling a little warm under the collar and it’s not the wine! You feel me? Give it up once again!” The hostess continued the applause. M’Baku bowed his head humbly in response.

The rest of the evening went as it usually did. Liquor and lyrics flowed until even the smallest of stars were visible in the night sky. Feeling refreshed and even more inspired, M’Baku fetched his coat and made his way from the club. Before he walked out the door, he spotted his muse sitting across the room, brown eyes wide and enraptured in the beauty of the spoken word.