Neo: And?
Me: And nothing.
Except I really meanteverything.
But I need to stop obsessing, and talking about Luna isn’t going to help with that.
I take in the spread across the patio table. It’s a blend of both cultures: braaibroodjie, kare-kare, creamy coleslaw, mielies, and adobo rice.
“Smells delicious.” I kiss my mother’s smooth cheek, warmed by the sun. “What can I help with?”
“Go relax.” She pats my chest. “Today, we’re serving you.”
“I’ll sit back and be king then.” I grin, grabbing a beer from the cooler.
“You joke, neh?” my grandmother says as she comes up behind me. I turn to Buhle Dlamini, almost eighty and vibrant, her hair wrapped in a multicolored headscarf. Her eyes crinkled with pride. “Remember, you have igazi lobukhosi—royal blood—in you from long ago. Gumba Sihlangu, one of our ancestors, came from the Zulu royal house. He married into the family when the clans were merged. That history still walks with you.”
Then her mouth quirks. “But don’t let it go to your head. Even kings wash dishes in this house.”
“Ready to roll up my sleeves anytime, Gogo.”
“You’re a good boy.” The earned creases on her face deepen, telling a story of a life that has known both joy and pain. “A good helper. Not like some people who will not be named.”
“That’s cold, Gogo.” Neo feigns injury, clutching his chest.
“Nx.” She clucks her tongue, but there’s no real heat to it. She adores him. She just understands me better.
“Ngikufisela okuhle ngosuku lwakho lokuzalwa, mzukulu wami oyigugu,” she says, offering me birthday wishes and pulling me in for a hug. “Ngiyakuthanda.”
“I love you too, Gogo,” I murmur, hugging her back.
My brother unfolds his long body from the lounge chair. Twenty-six. Allergic to structure. Never held a nine-to-five or anything remotely traditional.
My summer jobs were typical—cutting lawns, bussing tables. His? Setting up a neighborhood car wash, putting the other kids to work while he collected the money. Not lazy. Just enterprising.
A serial entrepreneur whose latest venture involves buying up old homes and converting them into modern living spaces, with crypto investments and a stake in a sports betting lounge on the side—because that’s Neo.
I watch a slow grin travel across his face. We share our father’s eyes and mothers’s nose. He’s tall and lean like the Ramos side, where I also got the height. But my thick build is pure Dlamini.
“Happy Birthday, bro.” He hugs me hard, clapping my back, then lowers his voice. “So… did my present keep on giving?”
I shove him away. “You’re an idiot.”
He laughs. “No details?”
“What details, neh?” Gogo perks up. There’s not a thing wrong with her hearing, except when she wants there to be.
“Nothing,” I say, shooting him a death glare as my mother brings a gift bag to the table.
Gogo points a knowing finger at him. “Hhayi bo, tell me.”
“Just brother stuff, Gogo,” Neo responds with an innocent face, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
My grandmother frowns, nosey and unappeased, she lets out a sharp suck of her tongue—a skepticalnx—and narrows hereyes. She’s not buying it. She’ll try prying it out of one of us later. For now, the attention’s on my mother.
“Present before we eat,” Mom announces. “Open it up,ntanami.”
We all round the table beneath the large umbrella. I pull the card from the envelope tucked inside the tissue paper. On the cover, a little Black boy reaches for the stars, surrounded by words in bold colors and fonts: unique, special, smart, powerful. I open the flap and silently read my mother’s handwriting.
