“Miknikstic can see into the near future,” Orlu said into her ear. “About five seconds ahead. So he’ll know all of Sayé’s moves before he makes them! They’re as evenly matched as I’ve ever seen.”
“But if these two guys are so great, why are they fighting each other?” she asked. Orlu just shushed her. “It’s an old West African Leopard tradition,” was all he said. She sat back. At least she knew who she was rooting for.
The opponents stepped up to each other and warmly shook hands.
“Rules,” Mballa said. She spoke more to the audience than the competitors. “One. Stay in the arena at all times. The arena ends twenty feet above the ground. Two. You can only use your natural abilities-no powders, dusts, juju knives, et cetera. Three. This is hand-to-hand. Whatever your ability, the fight must remain so. No mental or spiritual manipulation is to be used against your opponent. The powers who watch over you will decide what the winner wins. Good luck and may Allah help you.” She threw down what looked like a flat black stone and quickly left the arena. She took a seat in the front, two rows away from them.
The two men circled each other, Miknikstic crouching low and Sayé moving sideways. The drums beat a steady rhythm. The men ran at each other. When their bodies collided, the crowd shouted, “Wah!”
They grasped each other’s shoulders, their muscles flexing as they tried to throw each other down. But, as Orlu had said, they were evenly matched. They grabbed each other, let go, and grabbed again. Sayé’s leather sleeve bulged more and more as the fight intensified. Miknikstic pushed Sayé back. Sayé paused, then grabbed the zipper of his sleeve. He pulled.
“Now they start!” Mballa announced. “Miknikstic crouches low as Sayé prepares to give him the worst.”
The zipper caught a little on Sayé’s sleeve and he looked down, but even before this, Miknikstic was in motion, quickly moving to the side and lunging at Sayé. Sayé had barely ripped the sleeve off when Miknikstic threw a hard punch at his head.
“Wah!” the audience shouted.
“Look at that!” Sasha screamed, standing up.
Sunny wanted to close her eyes. But she didn’t. She knew that no matter what she did, the fight would continue.
Sayé staggered several steps and fell. Everyone in the crowd stood up and started shouting.
“Get up, o!”
“Brilliant!”
“Chineke!”
“Why did I bet on that man?”
“Allah will protect you! But only if you get up!”
“Use your ghost arm, you idiot!”
Miknikstic didn’t prance about talking trash as Muhammad Ali did in old TV footage. Nor did he spit on Sayé, gesticulate, taunt, beat his chest, or laugh, as they did in pro wrestling. Instead, Miknikstic stood over Sayé, looking down at him, waiting for him to get up or call it a match.
Sayé slowly got up. Miknikstic was ready. He must have seen what was coming next because he did everything he could to block it.
“Oh my goodness!” Sunny shouted when she saw Sayé’s right arm. It seemed to be made of a blue substance somewhere between water and mist. At first it was shaped like an arm, but as Sayé rushed at Miknikstic, it shifted and morphed.
Miknikstic held his arms up to block it, but it kept changing shape. It split in two. Miknikstic threw himself to the side. Sayé’s arm missed Miknikstic’s head by a fraction of an inch. Miknikstic tumbled and then quickly got up.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Sunny muttered. She’d just spoken to Miknikstic, and now he was out there fighting for his life. He’d been so kind to her.
Sayé landed a punch, sending Miknikstic flying and the crowd to its feet again. Sunny pressed her hands to the sides of her face. “No, no, no!”
“That was a heavy blow. Is he dead?” the commentator asked. “No. He still moves. Miknikstic is getting up. He spits out a tooth. Brushes himself off.”
Sunny shut her eyes and jammed her index fingers into her ears to block out the commentator’s gleeful descriptions. She sat like this for minutes, listening to herself breathe and the muffled sound of the crowd.
“Okay,” she finally said to herself. Her voice was loud with her ears plugged. “We’ll be going home after this, so-take it in. Even if it hurts. Miknikstic would be proud.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. When she saw the two opponents, her vision blurred with tears. They were bleeding profusely, and neither would give up. She looked around at everyone. It was as if they’d become actual leopards, leopards who smelled blood. They were shouting and laughing and encouraging-nostrils, mouths, and eyes wide, trying to take it all in in as many ways as possible.
The only people who seemed calm were the scholars, who sat stiffly and clapped once in a while. Anatov had stopped getting up whenever Sayé or Miknikstic fell. His face was unsmiling and stern. Sunny, Sasha, Orlu, and Chichi were the only students who had stopped enjoying the spectacle. Chichi was frowning. Orlu had a stunned, blank look on his face. Sasha looked angry and glared at the commentator whenever one of the competitors fell, as if waiting for her to put a stop to it.
Miknikstic was wrestling with Sayé’s ghost arm, which kept escaping his grasp. A part of it extended away from Miknikstic. It threw a punch at Miknikstic’s chest. Miknikstic doubled over but didn’t fall. He wiped the blood from his face. Sayé took the moment to spit out a tooth.
Suddenly, Miknikstic’s face undulated.
“What the hell?” was all Sunny could say.
His face had become a wooden square mask. It looked like a robot-if a robot were made of wood. The crowd gasped in shock.
“Oh, Jesus,” Chichi said, looking away.
Sayé brought forth his spirit face, too-a gray stone face of a lion.
“And now they are down to it,” Mballa said. “The blood is flowing and the true selves emerge. Don’t turn away, people. Truly these two are noble and selfless men, o.”
They went at each other again. This time, their spirit selves took the lead. Miknikstic lumbered forward, and Sayé leaped. Miknikstic dodged Sayé, rolled around him, and grabbed his arm. He yanked. There was a loud crack, and Sayé’s good arm was dislocated from its socket. Sayé gave a mighty roar, rolled over Miknikstic, and drove his ghost hand right through Miknikstic’s chest.
A silence fell over the crowd. Sunny clapped her hand over her mouth.
Miknikstic fell to his knees, gushing blood. Sunny whimpered, tears rushing into her eyes. She wiped them away.
He whispered something to Sayé, and then fell to the ground. He was dead.
It started raining chittim on the field. As they fell, Sayé straightened out Miknikstic’s body. Not one chittim hit either of them. Sunny would never forget the metallic clacking. When the chittim stopped, Mballa the commentator found her voice. It cracked as she said, “Bow down to this year’s Zuma International Wrestling Cha-”
Miknikstic suddenly got up. He gazed up at the sky as brown feathered wings unfurled from his back. He crouched down and then leaped, shooting into the sky like a rocket.
“Oh, praise Allah! What a fight this was tonight!” Mballa shouted. “We have witnessed yet another fallen wrestling competitor become a guardian angel! People give our new champion, Sayé, and Saint Miknikstic a hand! Oh, this is just amazing! Amazing! Ah-ah!” She started clapping. The whole crowd could hear her soft sobs because she’d forgotten her voice was still amplified.
“I want to go home!” Sunny shouted, getting up. Anatov reached over his chair and grabbed her by the collar. “Let go! I hate this, I hate all of this! You people are crazy!”
Chichi stared at her feet. Sasha was furious. Orlu took Sunny’s hand. Anatov let go. Orlu pulled Sunny to him into a tight hug, and she sobbed into his chest.