Birth of a Dark Nation
Read Birth of a Dark Nation Online
Authors: Rashid Darden
Tags: #vampire, #new orleans, #voodoo, #djinn, #orisha, #nightwalkers, #marie laveau, #daywalker
Rashid Darden
Copyright 2013 by Rashid Darden
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews.
Birth of a Dark Nation
is a work of
fiction. Any references to real people (living, dead, or undead),
events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended to
give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names,
characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Old Gold Soul Press
Washington, DC
First Edition
Kindle: 0-
9765986-7-1
All other EBook:
0-9765986-8-8
Ebook Formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
is dedicated to the life and memory of
Adejimi Shopade
Contents
Part
One: The Seduction of Justin Kena
Part Two: The Coming of Ominiyi
Dominique Bellanger of Dominica
Today, you learn how to fight.
Part Three: Daywalker's Delight
My gratitude goes to God, first and foremost, then
my family, in the blood and in the spirit.
To my loyal readers who have made the leap
with me from contemporary fiction to stories of the paranormal, I
thank you for supporting me from the beginning. You have believed
in me even when I wasn't sure I believed in myself.
Rhaema Friday, you have been a blessing to me
in my time of need. Thank you for saving this project. Thank you to
my copyeditor Elizabeth Collins and to my review panel Nikki
Butler, Lana Johnson, Latoya Mitchell, and Trenile Tillman.
Thank you to the team who made the cover
happen: designer Charlis Foster, who brought my vision to life in
ways I couldn't imagine; my brother Coy Lindsay and my friend Zac
Yorke for providing faces to match the story; and to Teri Greene
and Christopher Akinbuwa for being in-person assistance and for
being soundboards to the emerging ideas. Thanks also to Neil Wade,
Gavin ML Fletcher, and D'Mario McDonald for their coaching and
feedback.
Thank you to my friends Steven Allwood,
Demetrius Beynum, Anthony Bowman, Elizabeth Khalil, Zun Lee, Lydia
Obasi-Hills, and Michael Myers II for their various assistance
throughout the writing of this novel.
This book could not have happened without
Indiegogo and the generosity of so many people who stepped up to
the plate when it was time. Those people are:
Tony Lamair Burks II, Teresa Weber, Carmen
Cardenas, Andre Robinson, Erin Cribbs, Geoff Riggins, Williams
Ricks, LaJwanne Louis, Lindsay Kendrick, Tab Robinson, Will
Saunders, Cassie Jeon, Jayson J. Phillips, Pontip Rasavong, Shari
Hunt, Tremaine White.
Gil Shannon, Jr., Mario Camacho, Josephine
Bias Robinson, Scott Purnell-Saunders, Emily Shaffer, Aaron
Mitchell, Alexander Parks, Amanda Hicks, Jamie C. Stewart, Sara
Matz, Devin Cunningham, Danielle Hunter, Erin Marie Meadors, Jason
E. Livingston, Criscilla Stafford, Robert J. Donigian, Robin
Robinson, Chanta Cobb, Krista Robertson, Delphinia Brown and Jamie
Sykes, Duane Edwards, Tiffany Lezama, Carly Kocurek, Edwina King,
Elyshe Voorhees, Elyssa Brecher, Harrison Beacher, Jason Williams,
Jarrett Beck, Latoya M. Mitchell, Monica Segura, Raina Fields,
Rhaema Friday, Sarah Reilly, Yarnell Culler-Dogbe, Zoila Primo,
Terredell Burroughs, Denise Monty, Desmond Patton, Bernard
Bazemore.
Frederick Davis, Takima Jones, Angela
Stepancic, Danielle Barrios, Lorri G., Samantha Kerr, Allison
Poole, Chris Hill, Mary Garvey, Ayana K. Domingo, Michael Brown,
Christopher R. Brient, Andrea Robinson, Charles Murray, Douglas
Franklin, M. L. Ward, Elizabeth Louis, Alex Trivette, Heather
Graham, Crystal Taylor, Danita Brooks, Jeanné Isler, Jeri Ogden,
Joseph Alexander, C. Lorenzo Johnston, Ken Alston, Cheyanne Keene,
Lakisha Odlum, Lenore Matthews, Mekea H., Michelle Freeman, Marie
Preston, Rodney Frank, Robert Barrow, Sandie Bumbray, Storme Gray,
Symya Williams, Tiffany White, Monique Eddleton, Christy Chukwu,
Donnetta Butler, Jordyne Blaise.
Cicely Garrett, Zaid A. Zaid, Jennifer
Samson, malik m.l. williams, Nickay Penado, Omar McCrimmon, Kimya
Moore, Erika Gunter, Angel Brown, Moises Mendoza, Brandon Jay
McLaren, Cashana Morrison, Chris Moore, David Carus, Liz Burr,
Carolyn Ricks-Lakey, Dana Baylous, Erica Cannon, Linda Madison,
Gary Chyi, Ivan Land, Jr., John Foster, Kathleen McDaniel,
Katherine Steadwell, Latoya Hankins, Linda Finder, Marcus Felder,
Marllana Whitaker, Maya Zimmerman, Mike Ramsey, Muhammad Salaam,
Olivia Sawyer, Tracy Joseph, Patrick Higgins, Raven Moore, Courtney
Beale.
And special thanks to those supporters who
declined public acknowledgement, and all those readers who gave
whatever they could to help make this happen!
My Indiegogo campaign could not have happened
without the assistance of Joe and Sheela Alexander, Tony Burks,
Lana Johnson, Omari Aarons, Muhammad Salaam, Jennifer Gormley, and
Geoff Riggins.
To all of my teachers everywhere, but
particularly the following teachers from Georgetown University,
here on earth or in Heaven, I owe this to you: Keith Fort,
Stephanie Vermeychuk, Angelyn Mitchell, Dennis Williams, Tod
Linafelt, Joseph Murphy, Maurice Jackson, and Adam Rothman.
Finally, God bless you, Brandon Elliot,
wherever you are.
Good Friday
By design and by choice, he had the sort of
look that was unmemorable. He had the skill of disappearing in a
crowd and turning invisible while standing by himself on the corner
of Rhode Island Avenue. Like a chameleon, he became part of the
scenery, unnoticed by anyone who walked by him. His was an
invisible life.
Discretion was paramount to his survival.
There would be no need for anyone to remember the not-too-short,
not-too-tall, brown skinned young man of 18 to 30 years old. His
face was not meant to be picked out of a line-up. To be recognized
would be suicide. The length of his hair would have betrayed him,
had black men and dreadlocks not gone together like peanut butter
and jelly in the early years of the 21
st
century in
Washington, DC. If the '90s were known for bald black rappers and
R&B crooners, the trend was ultimately reversed by a fusion of
hip-hop and Caribbean culture that marinated in DC's multiple
generations of political and aesthetic resistance, with a side of
mambo sauce for good measure. Black hair was beautiful and men
embraced their locks like the crowns they were meant to be.
It was a good time to emerge from the
shadows. He could let his locks descend from his head like they did
hundreds of years ago when they were free. And he could walk among
the people without fear for the first time in a long time.
He had a meeting with the big man at St.
Augustine's Catholic Church, a huge urban cathedral on
15
th
and V Streets, near the epicenter of DC's campaign
of gentrification. For as many years as he had quietly lived in DC,
it had been quite some time since he'd been in a church. It just
wasn't his scene. He had to go out and purchase a blazer and
necktie just for the occasion.
He pulled his dreadlocks back with a rubber
band and kept his look nondescript. He looked up the tall spires of
St. Augustine's reaching to heaven and entered the sanctuary.
He counted three pews from the back and took
a seat, clasping his hands in front of him as if in prayer. St.
Augustine's stayed open until midnight on Good Friday for the
faithful to quietly pray and reflect on the significance of the
day. It was around 11:15 p.m.
By 11:30, he was joined on his pew by an old
friend, another average-sized, average-looking black guy in his 30s
or 40s. His dreadlocks cascaded down his back and hit his
waist.
"Aragbaye," the friend said.
"Welcome back to DC, Babarinde," he said.
They shook hands and smiled. They vaguely resembled each other with
their subtly handsome features; not quite brothers, but definitely
from the same place. Aragbaye looked around and then clasped his
hands again. Babarinde did the same.
"How long are you here?" Aragbaye asked.
"Only for as long as I need to be. I'm
heading to Union Station as soon as I leave here."
"I wish you could stay longer. DC has changed
a lot since the last time you were here."
"I know. I saw the new convention center.
Never even saw the old one. And an elected mayor? Who knew?"
"I knew."
"You probably had something to do with it,"
Babarinde joked.
Aragbaye chuckled. "Maybe."
They sat in silence for a few more
moments.
"I know this isn't a social call," Aragbaye
said.
"You're right. It isn't. I came here to tell
you something important."
"I'm listening."
"The new dawn is coming."
Aragbaye held his breath.
"When?"
"I'm not sure. But soon."
"So…what do you want me to do?"
Babarinde handed his friend a thick
folder.
"The man in this folder…he's your
responsibility now."
Aragbaye carefully opened up the folder. On
the left was an eight by ten photo of a handsome man who was about
thirty years old. It looked like a simple portrait, as though for a
passport or maybe for his job. Black polo shirt. Dark skin. Close
cropped hair. Extra meat on his bones. Good looking.
"My responsibility, huh?" Aragbaye
repeated.
"Know him. Keep him safe."
"Who is he?"
"It's all in there. His name is Justin
Kena."
"But who is he to us?"
Babarinde stood up.
"He's 'The Key.' Our people will see the new
dawn because of him. That's all you need to know. Be well,
brother."
Babarinde left the church. Aragbaye took
another glance at the folder.
"Justin Kena. This should be
interesting."
Sunday
He decided…
He decided…
He decided to die…
"Turn that music down," he growled. "It's
giving me a headache."
The radio softly whined gospel music in the
cozy, dark room with the four-poster bed. His stately wife glided
over to the clock radio and turned it off entirely.
"Well you didn't have to turn it all the way
off," he said snidely.
"I know you hate it."
"I don't hate it. It just…doesn't ring true
to me."
His wife sighed. As her husband paced, she
sat at the foot of the bed, gazing at their prisoner: a beautiful,
young, bound and gagged black man with long dreadlocks, naked from
the waist up, wide-eyed with unbridled fury.
