The steam from the shower billowed, obscuring the white tiles of the opulent bathroom in a shroud of mist.
It felt like a fitting metaphor for the grief that choked him, the darkness that threatened to consume him.
The bathroom, a haven of luxury, was filled with Shaka symbols: intricate carvings on the marble countertops, obsidian sconces shaped like crescent moons, even the towels, woven with a subtle pattern of the Shaka crest.
Malachi leaned against the cool, smooth wall, his weight a necessary anchor against the storm raging within.
His damp, blonde and black locs clung to his head, framing the sculpted lines of his face.
His amber eyes, the signature eyes of the Shaka's, stared blankly at the swirling water disappearing down the drain, a reflection of the turmoil within.
Through the swirling mist, a towering figure emerged.
His father, a phantom cloaked in a crisp purple suit.
The scent of old leather and peppermint filled the air, a ghostly echo of his presence.
His long, flowing dreads seemed to reach for Malachi, a silent plea for recognition. The absence of his father was a gaping wound in Malachi's heart, a constant reminder of the loss that gnawed at his soul.
His father had been a legendary captain, known for his unwavering courage and strategic brilliance, a legacy Malachi felt the weight of every day.
A minute later, Malachi faced the mirror, his reflection sharp and clear.
Dressed in a pristine white suit, the fabric smooth and luxurious against his skin, a white undershirt peeked from the collar.
He raised his hand, thumb tracing the obsidian band on his finger, a white crescent moon etched into its surface.
The ring felt heavy, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried, the responsibility that weighed heavily on his shoulders.
His phone buzzed on the dresser, the sharp chime cutting through the quiet.
Over a hundred messages, all offering condolences.
He pushed his locs out of his face with a sigh and tapped on Miguel's message: "*Yo, ready? We're about to head over there.
Or are you gonna go your own way?*".
Malachi pondered. *Don't wanna travel with so many people,* he thought. Just then, a soft knock on the door was followed by an angelic voice, "Mal, you in there?"
He looked up, relief washing over him. "Thank God," he muttered under his breath.
"Coming!" he called back, quickly typing a reply to Miguel: "*Coming On my own ."*
Pocketing the phone, he opened the door.
Standing there was a vision: Bianca. Her pink braids were pulled back in a sleek ponytail, cascading down her back like a waterfall of fire.
She was dressed in a one-shoulder black dress with a daring slit, revealing just enough to intrigue.
An ornate necklace and a headpiece, both crafted with intricate Shaka symbols, completed her look, making her seem like a goddess descended from the heavens.
She was his best friend, always there for him, a source of unwavering support and understanding.
"Hi," she said, her voice sweet and soothing, like a melody that calmed the storm within him.
Malachi's heart hammered in his chest. "How you doing?" he asked, his voice uneven.
She stood there, a vision of poise in her black dress, her presence radiating strength and grace.
Her pink braids swept elegantly over one shoulder, and when she smiled, a warmth radiated from her eyes that made him momentarily forget his grief.
He swallowed, his palms just the slightest bit damp.
"I'm holding up," she replied, her smile softening.
"I was just thinking about you and wanted to check in. How are you feeling?"
Malachi's lips curved into a small, grateful smile.
"It's hard, you know? Trying to process everything. But you know me, I'm trying to stay strong."
Bianca nodded, understanding shimmering in her eyes.
"I know you are," she said softly, "and you're not alone in this. We're all here for you."
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace.
Malachi stiffened for a moment, not expecting the contact, his arms awkwardly hovering before he slowly returned the hug.
"It's just... it's hard," he murmured against her shoulder.
"I know," she replied, her voice a balm to his soul.
"But you're strong, Mal. You're strong."
They pulled away from each other, a sense of shared grief and understanding filling the air.
Bianca stepped back, her expression a mix of concern and support.
"How's Miguel doing?" she asked, her voice gentle.
Malachi paused, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes.
"He's... he's not really talking much. I think he's just trying to deal with things in his own way," he explained.
Bianca nodded sympathetically.
"Yeah, I understand. I think we all process things differently.
But it's important to remember that you're not alone. I'm here for you, you know that?"
He offered her a small smile, the tension easing slightly. "Thanks, B. That means a lot."
The sound of multiple car engines roared to life outside, the vibrations reverberating through the walls.
She glanced at him, a question in her eyes. "You ready?"
Malachi gazed up at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled web.
"No," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
"Not really."
Bianca chuckled softly, standing up and extending her hand. "Come on, I got you."
He took her hand, allowing her strength to pull him up.
They walked outside, stepping into the sprawling grounds of the mansion.
The mansion, a sprawling estate, was a testament to the Shaka's wealth and power.
The gardens were filled with ancient trees and exotic flowers, each carefully chosen to represent the strength and resilience of the Shaka lineage.
Even the air seemed to hold a sense of history and power.
Cars were lined up, with some already pulling out onto the long driveway.
The sky was a somber gray, fitting for the occasion.
As they made their way toward a sleek black BMW, a voice called out, "Yo!"
Malachi turned to see a young man standing on the mansion's steps, looking barely older than a teenager.
He was dressed in a sharp white and black suit, and his large dreads were adorned with beads at the tips.
Black glasses shielded his eyes, adding to his mature, yet youthful appearance.
Deon was Malachi's cousin, the son of his uncle, a man known for his ruthless ambition and cunning.
Deon had always been a thorn in Malachi's side, their rivalry stemming from a childhood filled with heated arguments and jostling for attention.
The young man held out a folded paper to Malachi.
Hands still in his pockets, Malachi asked, "What's this?"
The young man walked closer, pressing the paper into Malachi's chest.
"My dad wants you to do the eulogy."
Malachi frowned, bewilderment clouding his features.
"Isn't he supposed to be the one doing it?"
"Well, he said he's gonna be late, so you gotta do it," the teenager replied, his tone a mix of urgency and annoyance.
Malachi thought, *Late to your own brother's funeral? That's kinda crazy.* "Does Gramps know about this?" he questioned, eyebrows arching in surprise.
The young man sighed in exasperation. "Yo, just take the damn paper."
Malachi took the paper and the teenager called out, "Hey, Bianca," spotting her on the other side of their car.
"Hi, Deon," she replied with a warm smile.
With that, Deon turned and went back inside.
Malachi slipped into the passenger seat of the BMW, Bianca taking her place behind the wheel.
She started the car and glanced over at him. "What was all that?"
"Just...family stuff," Malachi said, staring out the window.
"It'll all be okay, I guess."
As they drove off, the weight of the day settled over them. The somber drive to the cemetery was filled with silence.
Bianca's presence was a steady comfort, her gaze often drifting over to him, a silent assurance of support.
The weight of his grief, the shock of his Father's sudden passing, the impending responsibility of the eulogy, and the looming presence of the Shaka legacy, all settled upon him like a heavy cloak.
As they approached the cemetery, the sound of mourners' hushed voices filtered through the open windows.
The sight of the assembled crowd, the black banners with the Shaka crest, the somber atmosphere - it all felt surreal, a dream he couldn't wake up from.
As they pulled into the clearing deep within the woods, the sound of murmured conversations filtered through the open windows.
The sight of the assembled crowd, the white banners adorned with the Shaka crest, the ethereal glow of the moon overhead—it all felt surreal, a dream he couldn't wake up from.
Bianca parked the car a short distance away, a silent understanding hanging between them.
Malachi took a deep breath, the familiar scent of damp earth and moss hitting his nostrils, the aroma of his own family's history intertwined with nature.
The crowd, dressed entirely in white, moved with a quiet reverence among the towering, ancient trees.