Page 5 of His Princess Brat
Chapter Three
Azid
“Jesus, look at you,” Mazi said from the bottom of the landing steps as I disembarked the plane into the sweltering African heat. Dressed in jeans and t-shirt, and donning sunglasses just to survive the daylight, I doubt I looked anything special, but he sure did.
“I could say the same about you,” I teased, coming down the stairs. I dropped my bag and we enveloped each other in the kind of exuberant hug that only brothers who hadn’t seen one another in over a year were happy to share. I hadn’t changed, but he definitely had.
He looked very kingly in his three-piece suit and ornate, tribal yellow and orange sarong. In my ignorance I kind of expected to see him in a crown, but instead, he wore a kufi hat, elaborately beaded in bright colors over black cloth in a traditional zigzag pattern.
“You look good,” I told him honestly.
“You look bald,” he replied the same way, and we both laughed.
I ran my hand over my shaved head. “The chicks love it.”
“And everything south of it, I’m sure. Come on, the car’s this way.”
As if I couldn’t see it. My eye had picked out that cherry-red 1969 Camaro before the plane had even stopped moving. It was parked only thirty yards away.
“I know,” Mazi said, noticing my stare.
“Forget the elephant,” I said as we walked around it. “Where can I get one of these?”
Digging into his pocket, Mazi pulled out the keys and held them out to me, jingling them as he taunted me.
I stared at him, waiting for the teasing laugh. It never came. “No way. You’re going to let me drive it?”
“You still drive like a nun on Sunday, right? You’ve got to be the safest person I know to loan a car to.”
I laughed again at his gentle ribbing. “For this, I might be tempted to go as fast as the speed limit.”
“So long as you’re not doing donuts or crashing,” Mazi said with a shrug, grinning. “I call shotgun.”
With Mazi giving directions, we drove from the airport through the quaint little village of Osei, with its neatly manicured yards and Dutch Colonial architecture in both homes and businesses. The streets were busy, and so the going was slow. Especially since people kept waving and Mazi kept smiling and waving back.
“That’s why you wanted me to drive. You wanted a chauffeur.”
Chuckling, Mazi waved again. “No, but I was looking forward to showing you the town. Nice place, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure.” My answer was noncommittal, as I didn’t want to appear too impressed. But I was. I really was.
The town was quaint, yet still regal, and colorful too. We drove through the market, with its brightly colored rugs, street vendors selling everything from beads to pots to works of art, and even local street food and fresh produce and spices.
