The Flame In You, by L. Nabang

Before Him

Mom prayed for every bug Dad squashed. A whole three minutes, head bowed and everything. As soon as she finished, she’d do the sign of the cross. You were five when you asked her why she did this. If there was one thing Dad hated, it was inconveniences. Bugs fell under that, thorns in the side when he worked. Why pray for a pest?

Mom stared at the dead beetle in the kitchen before guiding you outside. She closed her eyes for a moment, squeezed your hand. You didn’t realize her breath was shaky. Eventually, she pointed at a fire ant and spoke in steady Akum: it doesn’t matter how tiny something is. If it’s alive it has a spirit, which means it has an aura. Anything with an aura belonged to God. When something belonged to God, it mattered to him. Because it mattered to him it deserved to be cherished.

You frowned at the ants, tilted your head. Instead of God, you asked about the auras. What do they look like? How can you tell? Her smile was small. It depended on the person. Some were white like moons, blue like water. When you asked her about yours she said: What’s the color of strength? You didn’t get it. She looked over her shoulder, eyes on Dad. He was busy fixing the kitchen’s broken bulb, sweat on his creased brow. You asked her if she saw Dad’s aura. She took too long to nod. You eagerly tugged her kaba sleeve, asked her what his looked like, if it matched yours. You hoped it did because of course you would. Her attention lingered at the feet of his ladder, the dead beetle. You had to tug on her sleeve again. Her smile was weaker as she told you to remember her question, carry it with patience. Time will tell. You tried to push the answers out, but she was a brick wall. You frowned again and glanced back at Dad. You asked the biggest question. Does he believe in this stuff?

Mom said nothing.

***

You didn’t have to wait long.

A few months later, you were playing football with Dad in the backyard, midfield position. You had the ball, Dad’s favorite one from Cameroon. Anytime he tried to defend, you applied the inside push-pull technique he taught you a few days ago. Then the outside cuts, a McGeady spin. You knew you were killing it when Dad grinned. Keep blocking, Everett. He pushed. To your left. Eyes on the ball! Your every move was perfect, fluid like flames. You reached the goal, kicked, scored.

“That’s my boy!” He cheered. You laughed when he lifted you onto his sweaty shoulders. You felt like a champ. That was when you saw it. His aura shimmered a crimson red, tinged with orange. Its edges were spiked, bold, blazing around him like a greedy torch.

You remembered Mom’s question about strength, then who you believed personified it. Dad could carry anything over 100 lbs. Whenever something broke at home, he always had the tools to fix it. He worked long hours as an electrician, brought home the most money. When your kindergarten teacher tried to throw you into ESL because of your accent, Dad won the argument before it started. His 6 '4 figure and piercing gaze silenced your teacher, along with his accented voice that spoke the cleanest English.

Admiration consumed you. If his aura was red then red was the answer. If his aura was red then that was the color yours had to match. But you needed to follow his rules. You were two when you learned the first one. You’d sprained your ankle during a practice match and the tears didn’t stop until Dad shushed you. Strong men don’t cry. More rules came. When you lied that you didn't steal a toy car from school, he slapped you, made you return it, apologize. Strong men are honest. When you fell in love with photography, showed Dad a picture of a sunset you took, he looked away. Strong men have better hobbies. When you protected a bug for Mom, Dad glared. Strong men prioritize things that matter. When you told Dad you said nothing to a group of boys who mocked your ndolé, he shook his head. Strong men fight back. Too many rules, but you followed them anyway. They made Dad smile or nod in approval. A strong man respected his father. You respected him.

That was your first mistake.

***

With Him

You didn’t see Lucien’s aura when he was born. Your bitterness got in the way. All you could think about was Dad’s grin the day he and Mom came home from her 20-week ultrasound. A new son. Another man to mold. Another legacy. But for you, a new brother meant sharing Dad. Sharing Dad meant less time with him. Less time with him meant being overshadowed. Dad noticed your anxiousness. Stop worrying. You’re not a woman. A strong man is loyal to his brother.

Out of all his rules, that’s the one you should’ve listened to.

***

Mom’s favorite bugs were fireflies. They infested your backyard every summer, created whole light shows. They gave her more of a reason to stay outside than indoors. Gave her the rare opportunity to bond with you. When she announced it was time for weekly firefly-catching, you dashed outside with your jar. Dad didn’t mind the tradition; it kept you active, got you running. Good football exercise.

Lucien hurried out with his own jar. He was two years old but already looked more like Dad than you ever did. Same diamond face, almond eyes, and straight nose. The one thing he got right.

Mom sat on her kente blanket, and let you go loose. The whole time, Lucien followed you. He always did. You hated it. Only reason why you didn’t push him was because you didn’t want Dad to slap you again. Suddenly Lucien stopped by a row of bushes.

“Effie!” He exclaimed.

You ignored him, attention stuck on the two fireflies fluttering around the yard’s oak tree. You jumped at them. Missed.

“Effie!”

“What?” You snapped.

He excitedly pointed to the bushes. You approached him. A small cluster of fireflies surrounded the bushes.

“That’s what you wanted to show me?”

He grinned at you, hopping on his feet. You rolled your eyes, about to leave when trails of fireflies flew toward you. No. Not you. Lucien giggled as the fireflies swarmed him in a glittering gold cloud. More came, but he didn’t run or scream. Instead of his jar, he held out his hands, let the fireflies rest in them. As soon as they touched him — you swore their light intensified.

That’s when you saw it.

Lucien’s aura gleamed a pure red. But not crimson. It was brighter, candy apple red. Its edges were soft, gentle, enveloping him like a flame from a fireplace.

He raised his palms. “Effie look!”

You didn’t. You were too busy staring at your arm, waiting for your own aura to show. A flame. Something red at least. If you were a good brother you wouldn’t have thought about yourself. You would’ve ruffled his curls, told him you were proud. Told him he was special.

You stormed away.

***

You didn’t even realize his aura was a red flag. As soon as Lucien turned four, Dad put a ball in front of him. Same thing he did to you. Initiation. You’d passed it. Lucien didn’t. With every dribble, he’d trip. Passing, he’d kick the ball too hard or too light. Shooting, he’d rarely score. Dad probably hoped he’d get better with time. He’d keep him outside for hours, voice hard as he drilled the techniques into him. No toe kicks! Keep the ball close to your feet! Defense!

It was pouring during one practice match. You watched from the living room couch, a blanket wrapped around you. Lucien went for the goal only to kick too high. He missed the ball, fell flat on his back. Mud drenched him. His arms wobbled as he tried to pick himself back up. You laughed when he kept slipping on the mud. You laughed at your own brother. He was four. And you laughed. Tears caked his face, but Dad wouldn’t have it. He yanked him up, stated the cardinal rule. Strong men don’t cry. His aura was too dark next to Lucien’s — like the air was bleeding around him. You heard a door slam. Mom. She ran in front of Lucien, begged Dad to stop. But he pushed her and snatched him again. Told her to know her place. You should’ve helped. Two against one. But why ruin your spot as the golden child?

***

You said no when Lucien asked for your guidance. But he persisted. Already, he was working hard on his own. When Dad was at work, he’d be in the backyard practicing his techniques. You’d overhear him watching hour-long football matches and guide videos. He just needed a support system now. It must’ve been his millionth beg when you threw your hands up. You squirmed when he hugged you. You should’ve been that support system.

Lucien was seven when Dad signed him up for his first match. Before the game, you stressed your “advice” to him. Use your toes. Hog the ball. If you’re left position, intrude on right. Dad watched stiffly from the bleachers as Lucien kicked the ball off the field, bumped into teammates. You felt the heat around Dad rise. You used that to your advantage. You critiqued Lucien’s mistakes, explained why he messed up, what he could’ve done better. You smiled when Dad nodded at you in approval. Mom sat quietly. Mid-game everyone stopped passing to Lucien, but he got the ball again when time was almost up. It was a tie. He scored. The wrong team cheered. Dad left before the whistle blew.

***

Lucien stopped practicing football. Another broken rule. Strong men don’t quit. You expected his aura to dwindle, the fire in it. The red to vanish. He wasn’t like Dad. He wasn’t as good as you. But the opposite happened.

If not playing football, you’d be helping Dad fix things around the house. One afternoon while replacing the kitchen faucet with him, you glanced out the window. Lucien was outside with Mom, eight then. He grinned as he held a fire ant. It never bit or stung him. He squatted and rested his hands on the grass. More fire ants scurried onto his palms, relaxed on them. His red aura brightened like his eyes. Mom smiled with Lucien, kissed his forehead in a way she never had for you.

It became a pattern, Lucien outside with Mom, connecting with either a ladybug, red dahlia, or firefly. The longer he was out there, the more his aura shone. A whole walking flame. You looked the other way. Better Mom than Dad. Dad felt differently. He started dragging Lucien inside. Gave him a plier or screwdriver. When Mom tried to protest he silenced her. Lucien isn’t a daughter. Stop treating him like one.

“But I like being outside,” Lucien said. Dad shot him his piercing gaze.

Next morning, Lucien stood quietly as Dad removed the carpet from the upstairs guestroom. You helped more than usual. You threw out the old carpets, swept away the dust, prepared the hardwood Dad planned to install. When he asked Lucien for a tool, you beat your brother to it.

“Stop slacking, Luc.”

You smirked.

Dad asked for hardwood next. You were handing it to him when he swatted at a fly. It dodged, then settled on the wall.

“Kill it, Luc.”

He stiffened. You scoffed and headed for the wall.

“No. Let Luc do it.”

“Hurry up,” you urged. Lucien shook his head. Your eyes widened.

“Lucien.” Dad’s voice was harder.

“I’m not killing it.”

“Are you talking back?”

You thought he’d shrink away, give up as you would’ve. But he stayed where he was, fists clenched at his side. His aura sharpened too.

“A bug shouldn’t be your priority.”

He still didn’t move.

“Your mother’s softened you.” Dad looked at you. You went for the kill. Lucien shouted. The fly flew off before your hand hit the wall. It flitted to Lucien. He reached out, and like a moth to light, the fly settled in his palm.

Lucien dashed away.

***

Lucien thrived during the summer. Not so much winter. He always got sick. Too sick. His temp would shoot past 100. Chills wracked his body. Dad hated it. He never got sick. You rarely got sick. Even Mom was stronger. He rarely checked on him. When Mom visited Lucien too much, fed him soup or hot tea, Dad scolded her. Stop pampering him. Let him recover on his own. Lucien was nine.

It was midnight when you were heading downstairs for water. You passed Lucien’s room; he was having a coughing fit. Still, he recognized your footsteps. He called for you. You kept walking. He kept calling. Got louder. You flinched. If he woke Dad up, you both would be dead. You entered Lucien’s room.

“What?” you grumbled.

He shuddered beneath his covers. His eyes were rheumy, skin pale, red aura a mere wisp.

Your heart shrunk a little. A human moment from you for once.

“C-Can you get me some water?”

“Why not get it yourself?’

“Please, Effie?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Please.”

Your jaws cinched. Finally, you went to the kitchen. You filled one glass, drank all the water. You put the glass away and nearly left until you remembered his face, the way he shivered. You swallowed hard when you also remembered what Mom said about auras. Everything alive has one. But his aura was a wisp. Was his sickness that bad?

You acted human again.

Lucien shifted upright when you entered his room with a glass. His hands shook as he took it and sipped.

“You need to stop getting sick.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You should. You’re inconveniencing everyone.”

“I-I know.”

“Then stop.”

Lucien sniffled.

“Stop crying.”

“I’m not I’m just . . .” he wiped a tear. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t.”

“Did I hurt you?”

You looked away.

“Eff . . . Everett. I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t get sick again.” You trekked to his door.
“Wait!”

“What?”

“I l-love you.”

You should’ve said it back.

Why didn’t you fucking say it back?

***

Dad lost it when he found Lucien in the kitchen with Mom. Cooking. He was ten. Dad marched in while Lucien stirred the tomatoes for stew. Mom shielded him, protesting. But Dad heard none of it.

“Dad wait—”

He seized the long-handed spoon and shoved it into Mom’s hands. The kitchen isn’t for men.

But Lucien fought harder than he did for the fly. He must’ve talked to Mom in private, formed a plan. A week later, he was back in the kitchen with her. Dad was at work. He always was when they cooked. Mom taught Lucien all the Cameroonian cuisine: jollof, eru, njama njama, egusi soup. It didn’t matter how hard it was; he’d pick up the recipe faster than a football technique. By 10:00 pm, she’d shoo Lucien away. An hour later Dad came home. Perfect timing.

You saw this as another opportunity. Lucien and Mom were cooking fufu and Okra when you snuck in, camera in hand. That wasn’t the worst part; three days ago, Lucien pleaded with you not to tell. You looked him straight in the eyes and said yes.

You stood behind the kitchen wall and snapped three photos, then slinked away. As you looked through the camera, someone knocked on your bedroom door. Mom. You hid the camera behind your back but she already knew. That was the best part. She didn’t care that you were sixteen; she had you sit close to her on your bed like when you were young and in trouble, looked at you with that gaze that could see through ten walls. She told you not to show Dad the pictures. Told you to be understanding.

“He shouldn’t be cooking.”

“He should be able to do what he loves. Like you and football.”

“Those aren’t the same.”

“And that’s the beauty of it. You have your strengths and he has his. Try to see them, and please Everett. Be kinder to him. There’s still time.”

You looked at her. Suddenly you were five again, holding her hand in the backyard. The pain that flared on her back then, sat in her eyes, her whole face. This time Dad wasn’t the trigger.

***

You nearly showed Dad the photos. More than once. But Mom’s voice kept stopping you, along with something else you didn’t expect. Every time you passed the kitchen, you’d be blanketed by a wave of warmth. You already knew why; Lucien would be in there, aura ablaze. As usual, Mom would be with him, all smiles as he hovered a spoon to her so she could taste whatever he made. He’d glow brighter when she nodded in approval, kissed his cheek.

By eleven, he memorized all Mom’s recipes. By twelve, he started inventing his own. He’d be alone in the kitchen every morning, singing in Akum like Mom would. All the while he stirred a pot, cut produce, seasoned meat.

He had an insane heat tolerance. Either that or fire just listened to him. The stove flames would intensify before he adjusted them. He’d remove trays from the oven with his bare hands. He’d taste a hot piece of fish without flinching and smile to himself, scribble down notes in the journal Mom bought him to write down his new recipes.

Thirteen, he daringly served his dishes. Mom set the food in front of Dad, lied that she made them. When he tasted it he smiled in approval. Approval you thought was only reserved for you. You bit your tongue until it bled. You deserve applause. The fact that you kept his secret for 3.5 years is one of the only redeemable things you’ve done.

***

You didn’t get it. You never did. Here Lucien was breaking all Dad’s rules. But was he? Strong men fight back. You still denied it. That was just one rule. The rest he broke. So his aura—how was it still red? Where the fuck was yours?

Your breath shook as you removed a kid’s camera from your bottom drawer. You flipped through the photos you took and stopped at the sunset one you showed Dad. Remembered his indifference. A knock. Your door opened before you could react. Lucien, fourteen, popped his head in, said food was ready. You hurriedly stashed the photos away. It was too late.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” You headed for the door. Lucien didn’t follow. He went for your drawer, eyes twinkling as he took the photos. Your blood went cold.

“What the hell’s your deal!?”

You snatched the photos and threw them away.

“Don’t!” Lucien rushed to your trash. You snatched them from him again.

“Cut it out!”

“You took them right?”

“None of your business.”

“Why did you stop?”

Again, you threw the photos away.

“It doesn’t matter what he says.”

You froze.

“You’re talented.”

“A kid took those pictures.” You muttered.

“But they’re still good. You should keep go—”

You left and slammed your door shut.

***

As a commuter, you had easy access to Dad’s pride. He high fived you when you described the rush of scoring 10 seconds before the clock buzzed, bringing your team to the semi final round.

Fast forward to a week before your game. Lucien beckoned you to the kitchen. Two pots were on the stove. One big, one small. You asked why. He said it was a surprise. You were walking away when he hurried in front of you.

“It’ll only take a sec.”

You knew how persistent he was, even at fifteen, so you gave in. He led you to the stove and took a bowl. After serving from the big pot, he handed you the bowl. “Congrats on the win.” He grinned. Inside was his experimental version of Jollof.

“Not hungry.”

He took your arm before you could leave. “I made it for you. It’s stacked with protein and other nutrients you need to do well. You can take the rest back to campus. There should be enough to last you the week. You can also share it with your teammates—”

“I don’t need a dietician.”

Lucien sighed. “Then just one bite. Ev, please.”

You stared at him. The longer you did, the more you realized Lucien didn’t look like Dad. He did. But he didn’t. It was like his aura. His eyes were kinder, face soft like Mom’s. Another difference. Yet here he was with the red around him.

You slapped the bowl from his hands. He gasped. An ear-splitting shatter blared through the kitchen.

“Everett—”

“Why are you like this?” you hissed.

“Like what?”

“Always in everyone’s face. Always doing your own thing. Ignoring what’s right—”

“What’s right?”

“You shouldn’t be in this room. You shouldn’t know how to handle anything in it!”

“Is this about Dad?”

“So what if it is!?” You spat. “You’re delusional if you think you're special, if you think Mom will protect you forever, or if you think you’ll get away with this shit. You won’t Luc. You don’t deserve any of it.”

It was Lucien’s turn to stare, aura sinking into a duller shade of red.

“Here I am wondering why I keep trying.” He whispered.

“What?” You stepped forward. He didn’t move

“You’ll never stop being like him. An asshole.”

You shoved him. Your arm hit the small pot. It fell, so did the boiling water from inside. If there’s anything you deserved, it was the water drenching your feet.

***

While Mom pressed her hand to your forehead, asked how you were, Dad stared at your heavily bandaged feet. Blood red colored his aura. He asked how long recovery would be. You knew the real question, and the lump in your throat was too big for you to answer. He finally asked who did this, voice grated like charcoal.

“The family cook should know,” you scowled.

Mom shut her eyes; Dad’s snapped to Lucien. He stood at the end of your hospital bed, face puffy from tears.

“You were cooking?”

“It was an accident.” He murmured. You should’ve seen it coming. Dad strode to Lucien. Knuckle met bone. He crashed to the ground. Your eyes widened. You'd never been hit that hard. Mom nearly rushed to him, but Dad stopped her with a glare. Lucien cupped his cheek.

You expected him to get up, and when Dad started scolding him in that icy voice, blaming him for hurting you, ruining your game, ruining everything, you expected him to talk back. He did neither.

***

The kitchen grew cold. So did Lucien’s aura. When Mom asked if he wanted to help her with a dish he shook his head. When he went outside he was alone at midnight with the fireflies. When Dad scolded him, caught him with his cooking journal, hid it from him, he said nothing. You didn’t know what to make of it. You wanted to be happy and a part of you was. Your inconvenience was finally out of the way. But another part, the human part . . . you didn’t get it, and of course you wouldn’t.

***

This was the night you fucked up. A year later, you were practicing with Dad’s favorite ball in the neighborhood park. Your emotions distracted you. Your dribbles were off, toe taps fickle. You kicked the ball too hard. It flew across the field. You tried chasing after it, but it already bounced to the road. A truck ran over it.

***

Nothing Mom did or said calmed Dad down. This wasn’t just a ball. His father owned it, passed it down to him. He cherished it. Won games with it. Was sane because of it. You said nothing when Dad cornered Lucien in the dining room. Predictable suspect #1.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Dad told him, voice low. “Where’s the ball?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated flatly.

Dad left. When he returned, he clutched Lucien’s cooking journal. Mom said Dad’s name. He ignored her. He strode into the kitchen, grabbed a lighter from the drawer. Your heart stuttered.

He raised Lucien’s journal, lighter beneath it. “I’ll ask you again,” he enunciated each word. “Where’s the ball?”

Lucien, sixteen, stared at him with a deadpan expression. But beneath it blazed a piercing gaze you’d never seen before. Except you have. Just not on him.

“I. Don’t. Know.”

He raised the lighter.

Lucien gripped the top of a dining room chair, aura spiking. Mom reached for Lucien but flinched back as if burnt.

“Do it.”

“What?” Dad growled.

Mom spoke. “Lu. Sweety don’t—”

“Because a ball? Really? I thought we should only prioritize things that mattered?”

Dad’s aura raged. Candy apple red clashed with crimson. The heat in the room skyrocketed.

“I should’ve stopped at Everett.”

You finally heard what you wanted.

That was probably why you stayed quiet, even though you knew this moment was your last chance to say something. Do something. Strong men are honest. Strong men fight back.

As Lucien watched his journal burn, he said two words. The last thing you remember: “You should’ve.”

He walked out of the room. Left behind was a black handprint on the dining chair.

***

The middle of the night, you walked into the bathroom, breath shaky. You scrubbed your face to rid of the tears. You looked in the mirror.

That’s when you saw it.

Your aura shrouded you, edges muddled, flame faint.

It wasn’t red.

***

Without Him

Your brother ran away. Left no note. Mom couldn’t find him. Police couldn’t find him. Dad probably didn’t care to find him. You’re almost forty and you still don’t know where he is. You don’t even know if he’s alive. You pray that he is, and if he is, you hope he’s doing well. You hope he found better love. You hope he rekindled his fire again, recovered from the shit you threw at him because you failed to figure out the right answer to Mom’s question. Imagine if you did. Imagine if you were the brother he deserved, if you extinguished Dad’s rules, made your own rules. Fucking imagine. But times up, times told, so that’s all you can do.

L. Nabang

L. Nabang is an AroAce Cameroonian-American writer focused on Fantasy/Fabulism stories that explore complex relationships and real-world issues. She’s been longlisted for RevPit 2024, published in InkedInGray Press’ Affection Anthology, and selected for the 2024 WNDB Black Creatives Workshop. Outside writing, she enjoys reading, BTS, and anime.

• Website: https://lnabang.com/
• Twitter: https://twitter.com/l_nabang
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lnabang3/