This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, and events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Seven & The Seven Revisted © 2012 by Alessia Brio
Cover art © 2012 by Alessia Brio
All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
A Purple Prosaic Production
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License Notes
This free book is intended for the personal enjoyment of its readers, may they be legion. It may be copied, shared, and freely posted as long as it is not altered in any way. It may not, under any circumstances, be sold or used in trade. To do so is in violation of its copyright.
THE SEVEN
Braving frigid winds and driving snow, Nia marched up Washington Street. The tails of her tattered scarf fluttered behind making her appear to strain against a knit leash held by Mother Nature's fury. Although repeatedly delayed by beggars seeking spare change, she was determined to reach the shelter in time to help the others serve dinner—and it looked as if she just might make it.
Nia was a magnet to those less fortunate. Her welcoming demeanor and gentle disposition drew people to her, and her eyes held them. They just knew she'd help, and she always came through—so much so that she seldom had enough left over to make her own ends meet. Case in point: over the course of ten city blocks, she'd given away the last fifty dollars of her most recent paycheck. Thus, it'd be at least another month before she could even think about getting her phone service reconnected.
The shelter would undoubtedly be filled to capacity, and then some. It was, after all, the busiest week of the year. On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, many of the city's civic organizations served the homeless, but the following week such charity fell away like discarded ribbon and wrapping paper. Having salved its collective conscience for another year, the haves returned to their comfortable lives. The have-nots were nowhere near as fortunate.
Intensely aware of the trend, the struggling Nguzo Saba shelter planned accordingly. While community outreach took place year 'round, its most concerted effort always coincided with the week following Christmas—when most folks were preoccupied with college football bowl games, gift returns, and making plans for New Year's Eve.
As she turned the corner, Ujima's lilting voice called, "Nia, where have you been? We've been worried!"
"The usual," Nia sighed, taking Ujima's gloved hands in her own and kissing each cheek.
"So you're broke." The older woman gave a knowing smile.
Nia nodded. "I can't help it, sister. They're in such dire need."
"We'll talk to Ujamaa after dinner. He'll have some ideas." She snorted, "My brother always has ideas."
The women, not really sisters, locked arms and trudged the remaining two blocks to the shelter. Ujima's optimistic outlook buoyed Nia's spirits. As the problem solver of the bunch, Ujima often worked closely with Kuumba. They made a formidable team, and most suspected that their blossoming romance was much deeper than they let on. Passion for a cause often brought divergent people together, and those two were about as different as two people could get. It made for some spectacular arguments as well as some breathtaking accomplishments.
Kuumba's irreverence and seemingly cavalier attitude often rubbed the shelter's founder, Umoja, the wrong way, but no one could dispute that Kuumba was the most effective fund raiser they'd ever known. His good looks opened doors, and his charm melted icy hearts. The only college educated member of their diverse family, Kuumba was considering a run for city council next fall. There, he believed, he could do the most good for a seriously disenfranchised population. Still, Umoja made no secret of the fact that he questioned his daughter's choice in a potential mate.
Ujima held open the shelter's battered outer door, and the welcoming warmth and mouth watering aromas enveloped Nia, jarring her from her thoughts. As they stripped off their layered outer wear, Kujichagulia rolled toward them with a steaming foam cup of hot chocolate in each of his power wheelchair's cup holders.
"Thank you, Kuji!" Nia exclaimed, ruffling the boy's mop of already ruffled red hair and earning a gloriously sunny, freckled grin. "How's the leg today?"
Kuji pecked at his voice synthesizer until the small electronic device emitted a tinny response. "Not so bad," he typed, but his eyes told a different story. The surgery to release his knotted hamstring was considered elective, and no one had yet been successful in convincing Medicaid that it was medically necessary. Kuji, however, was his own best advocate, and Nia had no doubt he'd eventually prevail. His mother, Imani, planned to take him to meet with their legislative delegates right after the first of the year. Her stunning and vulnerable beauty coupled with Kuji's engaging smile were certain to win the day.
"C'mon! Let's eat," Ujima coaxed. "Everyone's waiting."
Nia gasped as she turned the corner and stared into the shelter's main gathering room. At least three hundred people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and colors waited for a free meal. She hoped there'd be enough food. Kuumba spent most of the previous month soliciting donations from grocery stores and restaurants, but the last report on the inventory was not encouraging. The area businesses preferred to donate to the higher profile organizations, often netting themselves some free advertising in the inevitable warm, fuzzy news reports spawned by such events.
The media tended to ignore their humble shelter. It was just not sexy enough for coverage. There were no celebrities graciously giving of their holiday time. No big name corporate sponsors. Ujamaa, who now managed the shelter for his aging father, spent every spare moment trying to form alliances with other entrepreneurs but most often met with derision in spite of his sincere attempts. His ideas were sound, but most found his gruff manner somewhat off-putting. Ujamaa envied Kuumba's easy way with people, and harbored more than a little concern about his sister's future with the smooth talking man.
Nia followed Kuji as he plowed his way through the crowd to the serving tables. He was one impressive kid, she thought. Kuji allowed no one to define him by his disabilities. Even Imani admitted that her son's innate strength carried her through the toughest times, fortifying her faith in humanity. For a child who could not speak, his message deeply affected all who were fortunate enough to make his acquaintance.
The shelter had several dozen regulars, but the number of new faces always took Nia by surprise. Their stories varied, but it all boiled down to a dysfunctional social services system. Most really wanted to get on their feet—or back on their feet—and all were expected to help in exchange for the shelter's hospitality. That seemed to set Nguzo Saba apart from the larger, more institutional shelters.
While the circumstances were dire, the mood was not. Smiles lit a good many of the faces. All were clothed, sheltered—at least for the moment—and about to be fed. They lived for today, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. Yet they had kind words and often breathtaking depths of generosity for one another. Most literally would give you the shirts off their backs. Nia had witnessed it on many occasions.
Earlier, Imani had taken the toddlers to the showers while their parents or older siblings rooted through the boxes of clothing donations. Socks, of all things, were typically in shortest supply but this year Kuumba managed to acquire two hundred brand new pair. They were irregulars, but who cared? It made for an even more festive atmosphere. Socks. Plain white tube socks. Simple things, indeed.
Umoja, in a rare display of frivolity, attempted to entertain the hungry and impatient children with makeshift sock puppets. The sight of the perpetually serious patriarch being so silly struck Kuji as hilarious, and he rep
eatedly tapped the "Whoop!" button on his synthesizer. This, in turn, caused the children to giggle—something the sock puppets had been unable to achieve, much to Umoja's chagrin.
Now that the seven of them were finally together, dinner could be served. The children always ate first, ensuring that they at least had full bellies should the food not last. Imani and Nia led the youngest to the front of the line and began filling their plates while Ujima passed out cartons of chocolate milk, another unexpected treat. It had been uncharacteristically donated by the public school system since it would pass its expiration date before school resumed following the holidays.
When all those under ten years of age had been served, a hush fell over the crowd. Imani's voice, crystal clear and achingly beautiful, began an improvised song of thanks for the fellowship and the bounty they were about to share. Even the children paid rapt attention. Out of the corner of her eye, Nia caught Kuumba as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes.
Kuji beamed with pride as one by one, the crowd stood in reverent silence. When Imani's song ended, Umoja spoke very briefly: "Friends, we share this feast in the hope that our community will continue to give generously, care deeply, and grow in harmony."
He gave a nod to the kids, and as one they enthusiastically dove into their dinners. The elderly were served next, and Nia helped to carry the plates of those who used crutches or walkers. The others engaged either in serving or in the kitchen, and she could hear Ujamaa playfully chiding Kuumba for dishing out meager portions. Perhaps he was warming to his future brother-in-law. Ujima had confided that an engagement was imminent, but she'd sworn Nia to secrecy.
When it became apparent that the food was indeed in short supply, Kuumba began making phone calls to bakeries, pizza shops, fast food joints—anything to supplement the fare. He told each, and truthfully, that his first calls went to the media in the hopes that the potential for free publicity would spawn donations not otherwise forthcoming. It worked, for within the hour they accepted three deliveries containing fifty loaves of day-old bread, two dozen cheese pizzas, and several paper-wrapped bundles of hamburger patties.
Umoja made sure to get a photo with each donor beneath the shelter's sign and promised to send a copy along with a receipt and letter of appreciation that could be used for PR if desired. Kuji posed for the photos, as well. He knew all about the pity factor, and he had no qualms about using it if it would help feed more people. No one need know that the back of his t-shirt read: Poster Child.
When everyone had been fed, the crowd began to thin. Those having a place to sleep departed to make room for others to claim some floor space. Most helped with the clean up, folding the tables, and stacking the chairs. Umoja distributed the vinyl mats that he bought for fifty cents apiece when the local camping supplier went out of business last spring. The purchase had gutted the shelter's meager bank account, but it was worth it to have something to pad the cold, hard floor.
Imani read the children a bedtime story in a small, adjacent room where they'd sleep. It was just slightly warmer inside, and Ujima had painted nursery rhyme characters on the walls for a homey touch. The kids, having so little stability in their young lives, felt safe there. She ended with a soothing lullaby and let a colorful curtain drop across the doorway as she exited.
Kuumba extinguished the lights in the main gathering room, and the noise level dropped to a low hum of quiet conversation. A few of the guests played cards, but most curled up to sleep. In the kitchen, the seven sat around a rickety wooden table and took stock of the shelter's assets. Allowing only a few moments to dwell upon the success of the evening, they quickly moved on to discussions about how to do it all again tomorrow—and the tomorrows after that. It was never ending, but this one week always presented more of a challenge. All were tired of the constant struggle, but quitting was simply not an option.
Nia spoke to Ujamaa about her deepening financial woes, and she finally accepted his invitation to move into the vacant back room. Her board would be a pittance, augmented by some bookkeeping in the evenings. A few of the regular children needed of some tutoring, which Nia would handle as well.
When they'd divvied up the morning's tasks and were about to retire, Kuumba stood. "Umoja," he said in a markedly formal tone that instantly grabbed everyone's attention, "I have asked Ujima to marry me. We would like your blessing."
No one moved. All eyes were glued to Umoja, who slowly rose and circled the table. He placed his hands on Kuumba's broad shoulders and looked deeply into his ebony eyes. Nia saw a bead of sweat trickle down the side of Kuumba's neck, betraying the man's seeming calm. Ujima held her breath. Apparently seeing what he needed to see, Umoja nodded to himself and finally spoke, "I will be proud to call you my son."
All breathed a collective sigh. Hugs and handshakes were followed by tears and laughter, subdued so as not to wake their guests. An announcement would be made tomorrow evening and preparations would begin for a seventh night ceremony. An exceptional end to an exceptional week of exceptional work done by exceptional people.