Birth of a Dark Nation Read online

  Birth of a Dark Nation

  Rashid Darden

  Copyright 2013 by Rashid Darden

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Birth of a Dark Nation is a work of fiction. Any references to real people (living, dead, or undead), events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Old Gold Soul Press

  Washington, DC

  www.rashiddarden.com

  www.oldgoldsoul.com

  First Edition

  Kindle: 0-9765986-7-1

  All other EBook: 0-9765986-8-8

  Ebook Formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Birth of a Dark Nation

  is dedicated to the life and memory of

  Adejimi Shopade

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Easter Sunday

  Part One: The Seduction of Justin Kena

  June

  June

  Happy Hour

  Carnival

  Resignation

  July 4

  One Door Closes

  Another Door Opens

  Sunday Dinner

  Brotherly Love

  At the Go-Go

  A Sinister Request

  A Dangerous Mission

  Admonition

  Proof Beyond Faith

  What We Learned

  The Dressing-Down

  The End

  The Zealot

  Part Two: The Coming of Ominiyi

  In the Blood

  Changing

  The Lessons

  West Africa, 1724

  West Africa, 1724

  Loss and Liberation

  Dominique Bellanger of Dominica

  Today, you learn how to fight.

  A Late Night Snack

  The Gym

  You Better Run

  The Uprising

  The Second Coming

  Thanksgiving

  The Initiation

  The Morning After

  Envy

  Part Three: Daywalker's Delight

  The Meeting

  Leaving New Orleans

  Chiyoko Kobayashi

  Sasha Forzani

  Dr. Zolotov

  Goodbye

  Hell

  Back to Work

  Epilogue

  Other Works by Rashid Darden

  Acknowledgements

  My gratitude goes to God, first and foremost, then my family, in the blood and in the spirit.

  To my loyal readers who have made the leap with me from contemporary fiction to stories of the paranormal, I thank you for supporting me from the beginning. You have believed in me even when I wasn't sure I believed in myself.

  Rhaema Friday, you have been a blessing to me in my time of need. Thank you for saving this project. Thank you to my copyeditor Elizabeth Collins and to my review panel Nikki Butler, Lana Johnson, Latoya Mitchell, and Trenile Tillman.

  Thank you to the team who made the cover happen: designer Charlis Foster, who brought my vision to life in ways I couldn't imagine; my brother Coy Lindsay and my friend Zac Yorke for providing faces to match the story; and to Teri Greene and Christopher Akinbuwa for being in-person assistance and for being soundboards to the emerging ideas. Thanks also to Neil Wade, Gavin ML Fletcher, and D'Mario McDonald for their coaching and feedback.

  Thank you to my friends Steven Allwood, Demetrius Beynum, Anthony Bowman, Elizabeth Khalil, Zun Lee, Lydia Obasi-Hills, and Michael Myers II for their various assistance throughout the writing of this novel.

  This book could not have happened without Indiegogo and the generosity of so many people who stepped up to the plate when it was time. Those people are:

  Tony Lamair Burks II, Teresa Weber, Carmen Cardenas, Andre Robinson, Erin Cribbs, Geoff Riggins, Williams Ricks, LaJwanne Louis, Lindsay Kendrick, Tab Robinson, Will Saunders, Cassie Jeon, Jayson J. Phillips, Pontip Rasavong, Shari Hunt, Tremaine White.

  Gil Shannon, Jr., Mario Camacho, Josephine Bias Robinson, Scott Purnell-Saunders, Emily Shaffer, Aaron Mitchell, Alexander Parks, Amanda Hicks, Jamie C. Stewart, Sara Matz, Devin Cunningham, Danielle Hunter, Erin Marie Meadors, Jason E. Livingston, Criscilla Stafford, Robert J. Donigian, Robin Robinson, Chanta Cobb, Krista Robertson, Delphinia Brown and Jamie Sykes, Duane Edwards, Tiffany Lezama, Carly Kocurek, Edwina King, Elyshe Voorhees, Elyssa Brecher, Harrison Beacher, Jason Williams, Jarrett Beck, Latoya M. Mitchell, Monica Segura, Raina Fields, Rhaema Friday, Sarah Reilly, Yarnell Culler-Dogbe, Zoila Primo, Terredell Burroughs, Denise Monty, Desmond Patton, Bernard Bazemore.

  Frederick Davis, Takima Jones, Angela Stepancic, Danielle Barrios, Lorri G., Samantha Kerr, Allison Poole, Chris Hill, Mary Garvey, Ayana K. Domingo, Michael Brown, Christopher R. Brient, Andrea Robinson, Charles Murray, Douglas Franklin, M. L. Ward, Elizabeth Louis, Alex Trivette, Heather Graham, Crystal Taylor, Danita Brooks, Jeanné Isler, Jeri Ogden, Joseph Alexander, C. Lorenzo Johnston, Ken Alston, Cheyanne Keene, Lakisha Odlum, Lenore Matthews, Mekea H., Michelle Freeman, Marie Preston, Rodney Frank, Robert Barrow, Sandie Bumbray, Storme Gray, Symya Williams, Tiffany White, Monique Eddleton, Christy Chukwu, Donnetta Butler, Jordyne Blaise.

  Cicely Garrett, Zaid A. Zaid, Jennifer Samson, malik m.l. williams, Nickay Penado, Omar McCrimmon, Kimya Moore, Erika Gunter, Angel Brown, Moises Mendoza, Brandon Jay McLaren, Cashana Morrison, Chris Moore, David Carus, Liz Burr, Carolyn Ricks-Lakey, Dana Baylous, Erica Cannon, Linda Madison, Gary Chyi, Ivan Land, Jr., John Foster, Kathleen McDaniel, Katherine Steadwell, Latoya Hankins, Linda Finder, Marcus Felder, Marllana Whitaker, Maya Zimmerman, Mike Ramsey, Muhammad Salaam, Olivia Sawyer, Tracy Joseph, Patrick Higgins, Raven Moore, Courtney Beale.

  And special thanks to those supporters who declined public acknowledgement, and all those readers who gave whatever they could to help make this happen!

  My Indiegogo campaign could not have happened without the assistance of Joe and Sheela Alexander, Tony Burks, Lana Johnson, Omari Aarons, Muhammad Salaam, Jennifer Gormley, and Geoff Riggins.

  To all of my teachers everywhere, but particularly the following teachers from Georgetown University, here on earth or in Heaven, I owe this to you: Keith Fort, Stephanie Vermeychuk, Angelyn Mitchell, Dennis Williams, Tod Linafelt, Joseph Murphy, Maurice Jackson, and Adam Rothman.

  Finally, God bless you, Brandon Elliot, wherever you are.

  Prologue

  Good Friday

  By design and by choice, he had the sort of look that was unmemorable. He had the skill of disappearing in a crowd and turning invisible while standing by himself on the corner of Rhode Island Avenue. Like a chameleon, he became part of the scenery, unnoticed by anyone who walked by him. His was an invisible life.

  Discretion was paramount to his survival. There would be no need for anyone to remember the not-too-short, not-too-tall, brown skinned young man of 18 to 30 years old. His face was not meant to be picked out of a line-up. To be recognized would be suicide. The length of his hair would have betrayed him, had black men and dreadlocks not gone together like peanut butter and jelly in the early years of the 21st century in Washington, DC. If the '90s were known for bald black rappers and R&B crooners, the trend was ultimately reversed by a fusion of hip-hop and Caribbean culture that marinated in DC's multiple generations of political and aesthetic resistance, with a side of mambo sauce for good measure. Black hair was beauti
ful and men embraced their locks like the crowns they were meant to be.

  It was a good time to emerge from the shadows. He could let his locks descend from his head like they did hundreds of years ago when they were free. And he could walk among the people without fear for the first time in a long time.

  He had a meeting with the big man at St. Augustine's Catholic Church, a huge urban cathedral on 15th and V Streets, near the epicenter of DC's campaign of gentrification. For as many years as he had quietly lived in DC, it had been quite some time since he'd been in a church. It just wasn't his scene. He had to go out and purchase a blazer and necktie just for the occasion.

  He pulled his dreadlocks back with a rubber band and kept his look nondescript. He looked up the tall spires of St. Augustine's reaching to heaven and entered the sanctuary.

  He counted three pews from the back and took a seat, clasping his hands in front of him as if in prayer. St. Augustine's stayed open until midnight on Good Friday for the faithful to quietly pray and reflect on the significance of the day. It was around 11:15 p.m.

  By 11:30, he was joined on his pew by an old friend, another average-sized, average-looking black guy in his 30s or 40s. His dreadlocks cascaded down his back and hit his waist.

  "Aragbaye," the friend said.

  "Welcome back to DC, Babarinde," he said. They shook hands and smiled. They vaguely resembled each other with their subtly handsome features; not quite brothers, but definitely from the same place. Aragbaye looked around and then clasped his hands again. Babarinde did the same.

  "How long are you here?" Aragbaye asked.

  "Only for as long as I need to be. I'm heading to Union Station as soon as I leave here."

  "I wish you could stay longer. DC has changed a lot since the last time you were here."

  "I know. I saw the new convention center. Never even saw the old one. And an elected mayor? Who knew?"

  "I knew."

  "You probably had something to do with it," Babarinde joked.

  Aragbaye chuckled. "Maybe."

  They sat in silence for a few more moments.

  "I know this isn't a social call," Aragbaye said.

  "You're right. It isn't. I came here to tell you something important."

  "I'm listening."

  "The new dawn is coming."

  Aragbaye held his breath.

  "When?"

  "I'm not sure. But soon."

  "So…what do you want me to do?"

  Babarinde handed his friend a thick folder.

  "The man in this folder…he's your responsibility now."

  Aragbaye carefully opened up the folder. On the left was an eight by ten photo of a handsome man who was about thirty years old. It looked like a simple portrait, as though for a passport or maybe for his job. Black polo shirt. Dark skin. Close cropped hair. Extra meat on his bones. Good looking.

  "My responsibility, huh?" Aragbaye repeated.

  "Know him. Keep him safe."

  "Who is he?"

  "It's all in there. His name is Justin Kena."

  "But who is he to us?"

  Babarinde stood up.

  "He's 'The Key.' Our people will see the new dawn because of him. That's all you need to know. Be well, brother."

  Babarinde left the church. Aragbaye took another glance at the folder.

  "Justin Kena. This should be interesting."

  Easter Sunday

  He decided…

  He decided…

  He decided to die…

  "Turn that music down," he growled. "It's giving me a headache."

  The radio softly whined gospel music in the cozy, dark room with the four-poster bed. His stately wife glided over to the clock radio and turned it off entirely.

  "Well you didn't have to turn it all the way off," he said snidely.

  "I know you hate it."

  "I don't hate it. It just…doesn't ring true to me."

  His wife sighed. As her husband paced, she sat at the foot of the bed, gazing at their prisoner: a beautiful, young, bound and gagged black man with long dreadlocks, naked from the waist up, wide-eyed with unbridled fury.

  "I never thought we'd capture one of them," he said. "They're so few in number. So strong. So fast."

  "So smart," his wife added. "To live among them all these years and never get discovered."

  "We'll do that again. Sasha!" he barked at his servant.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Did you draw his blood?"

  "Yes, sir. The vials for the week are downstairs, in the vault, waiting for pick-up."

  "Did he put up much of a fight?"

  "Yes, sir. But Malcolm and Andre restrained him."

  "Very good," he said. "You'll do this every other day until otherwise instructed. He'll get used to the routine." He walked toward his wife and exhaled. "As long as we keep this one alive, we'll figure out how they do it."

  "He'll never talk. His kind is defiant."

  "His DNA will talk for him," the husband said, addressing the angry young man on the bed. "And then we won't have any more use for you."

  "Come to bed, darling. It's almost sunrise."

  The man and his wife calmly but quickly left the room. The servants were left to tend to the patient before the sun rose.

  The brown haired white woman and the dark black man smoothed out the wrinkles in the sheets and tightened the restraints on the prisoner's hands and feet.

  "This is supposed to be one of their high holy days, too," Andre said.

  "You know a lot about them," Sasha replied.

  "Yeah. I make them my business."

  The man in bondage stirred. His eyes softened and pleaded for mercy. His breaths were rapid.

  "Poor thing," she said.

  "I've got the morphine."

  He found a vein and injected the ordinarily deadly dose of morphine deep into the prisoner's body. The prisoner tried to scream, emitting only sickening muffled wails from behind the gag. The prisoner's skin healed itself shortly after the injection was done. In only a few moments, his eyes fluttered closed.

  "This should have him out for the day," Andre said. He removed the gag from the prisoner's mouth.

  "Let's go," Sasha said.

  "Wait," he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a strand of green and white beads. He carefully placed them under the prisoner's pillow.

  "Stay strong, brother," he whispered.

  They left, turning endless locks on the other side of the door. As the sun came up over Rock Creek Park, the prisoner felt the thinnest of rays pierce the shade of the sole window in the room. Sunlight slashed all the way across the room, almost touching his hand. He knew it was there, but he was too weak to grasp it.

  Part One:

  The Seduction of Justin Kena

  One day in June

  I was always the first person in the office because I didn't want to have to walk past the other idiots I worked with. It was much better on me and everyone else if I just came in first, unlocked everything, and settled into my little corner of Magdalene House without having to worry myself with small talk. On paper, we were a social service organization for HIV positive women. In reality, we were the place that social workers went to die.

  I was their IT manager, which meant I had to show old ladies how to reboot their computers and empty their spam folders.

  Thirty years old, a computer science degree from Syracuse, and this is where I was. Trapped.

  Magdalene House was located in the Northeast quadrant of DC, in a neighborhood which hadn't decided yet whether it would be sleepy and suburban or gritty and blighted. Rhode Island Avenue had storefront churches and liquor stores dotting each corner, with Chinese food carry outs and beauty salons in between.

  There weren't many trees in this neighborhood, at least not on the main street. Just bare sidewalks. In the summer months, there were always pockets of kids and young adults loitering about. They were loud, but usually harmless.

  Magdalene House was located just off R
hode Island Avenue, on 22nd Street. But in contrast to Rhode Island Avenue's bustle, 22nd Street was quiet, tree-lined, and purely residential. The row houses were short, wide, and spacious. The yards were small in the front, but always well-manicured. This was not the type of neighborhood that had neighbors who didn't give a damn about appearances. And just because they were in "the hood" didn't mean they were poor, or couldn't afford to maintain their homes.

  So, even though Magdalene House was nestled in an area of Ward 5 that was no stranger to prostitutes and drug dealers, it was still clear that if they wandered into the residences on 22nd Street, they would not be welcome (unless, of course, they were visiting their own grandparents).

  DC was weird that way. The city was nothing at all like Hamilton, the small New York town where I grew up.

  Between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m., I was the only one at work. The official hours of the office were 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., but since I didn't provide any direct service to clients, I could work an earlier shift and be home in time for the evening news.

  I didn't hate my entire office, though. Over the years, I had made two good friends there: Steve and Cissy.

  Steven Waller was a tall, slim man in his early fifties with a bald head and a gray beard. He had a soft, raspy voice like Harry Belafonte. You couldn't tell him that he wasn't still pimpin' after all these years. His eyes seemed to twinkle when he talked. That twinkle wasn't enough to blind his two ex-wives to his cat-daddy ways, so he was resigned to enjoying himself on the singles scene once more.

  Cecilia Flint had been known as Cissy among her friends and family for most of her forty years. She was short and buxom with curly blond hair that often fell into her eyes. She had a husband and a daughter at home and she took no shit from them or anyone else in her immediate vicinity.

  About two and a half hours into the day, Cissy and Steve would usually stroll in at the same time, either with breakfast to share or with car keys in hand, eager to take a short trip to a diner or coffee shop.

  This time, Steve brought the breakfast, which was good because Cissy was always trying to sneak some healthy shit into the mix, as if we really gave a damn. Steve knew what I really liked.