Some of the people in our row looked over.
“Stop tapping your foot,” I muttered low enough for only her to hear. “It’s making the bleachers vibrate and people are looking over. Play it cool and pretend you’re either bored or enjoying the show.”
“But can’t you see the poor man needs help? Why don’t they stop the fight?”
“The only one who can stop is himself.”
“How? He’s throwing up and he’s injured.”
“Unless he gives up, the fight continues.”
Like a true performer, Wayne was showing disgust for his opponent by making faces of revulsion and pulling the man away from the pile of vomit. The fact that he pulled him by his hair made the audience laugh and for the first time in my life I didn’t feel amused by any of it.
The empathy and distress that radiated from Devina made me see our culture through her eyes and it wasn’t pretty. “All of this happens with consent, you know. We love the adrenaline kick of fighting and every time I walk into a ring, I understand that it comes with a risk. So do the men down there.”
“Why doesn’t he give up then? He has to understand that he’s losing.”
“Because giving up a fight means giving up your dignity.”
“So?”
I sucked in a deep breath and spoke on my exhalation. “A life without honor and dignity is no life at all.”
Devina couldn’t fathom what honor meant to us Nmen, and it wasn’t something I could explain to her in a few mumbled sentences.
In the ring, the loser was taking another round of beating to his face and from this distance he seemed unconscious.
“Kill, kill, kill,” the men around us chanted and sure enough, Wayne lifted his elbow in the air.
“Close your eyes,” I warned.
“Why? He’s not really going to kill him, is he?”
A sunbeam landed on Wayne as he stood over his opponent. It made the perspiration on his face shimmer. Closing his eyes, he smiled like this was his moment in the spotlight.
“Kill, kill, kill,” the audience continued, but instead of crushing the man’s throat with his elbow, he spread out both arms and spun in a full circle until he faced Wilma and our parents.
The VIP section where Wilma was sitting was on the right side of the ring and I could see my sister smiling at Wayne. Unlike Devina, who saw only a monster, Wilma saw a strong and powerful warrior and she was pleased he was winning.
“He’s giving her the choice.”
“What choice?” Devina’s fake bushy eyebrows were drawn so close they gave her a unibrow.
“Whether to spare the man’s life or kill him.”
Wilma rose to her full height and beamed from all the attention. Even from this distance I could see the blood rush in her eyes, but then my mother tugged at her dress and whispered something to her. Wilma turned her head in our direction and her shoulders fell.
Thank you, Mom.My chest eased a little. I had no doubt Wilma would have asked for the kill, but my mother had reminded her that a Motlander was watching and that Devina wouldn’t understand that killing the man on the floor was the kind thing to do.
“Let him live,” Wilma said and sat down again. My dad shook his head in disappointment and the audience booed.
“As you wish.” Wayne bowed his head to her and the referee came to raise his hands in victory.
With the loser lying passed out on the floor, the audience rose up on their feet and applauded the winner.
“Get up.” I pulled Devina up with a strong hand to her arm.
“Just so you know, I’m only clapping because he spared his life.”
