How did they become friends?
In Samara, Russia, the cold permeates the air all year - the warmest it ever gets in July would be up to seventy degrees - and that’s only one month of the year. Most of the year, Misa spends his time bundled up and with the heater cranked up, trying to stave off the below-freezing temperatures.
Regardless of the cold, it was Misa’s home. There was the beautiful red and white drama theater that stood out, vibrant, among rich greens and bright blues in the summer. In the winter, the Oxford Church Saint Tatiana blended in, white, with the snow - distinguishable only by its dark windows and golden dome top that glinted in the sunlight. Castle Garibaldi was made of stone-brick and colored an aging brown, its structure distinctly medieval. In the day, the city was full of bushy green trees, and buildings, their style old and elaborate, of varying height and color, from red, to tan, to white, to yellow, and to blue. The Volga River ran through the city, creating popular ship port that ran all the way down to the Caspian Sea.
He had been to all of these places as a child, and he knew everything there was to know about them for how curious he was. Misa could tell you anything and everything about the culture of Russia, and in most detail, his hometown. Now, at eighteen, he’d been working odd jobs around Samara for two years; Misa dropped out of high school at sixteen, not having been good at any subject that wasn’t history or culture. And, if there was one thing he always wanted to do, it was to get on one of the ships in the dock of the Volga River and head all the way down to the Black Sea and beyond, to the Mediterranean, and Africa.
It was that year, 1820, that Misalov traveled to Cairo, Egypt to fulfill his lifetime dream. He was enlisted on an expedition that would take him from Egypt all the way down to South Africa. Prior to boarding the ship, he had saw it advertised in the newspapers back at home. Being who he was, he was quick to research everything and anything there was to know about the expedition before packing his bags and leaving home, sending a short letter to his parents that he would be gone for the next few years. (He didn’t know his parents as well as some would at his age. His parents had never quite approved of his dream to be an explorer, citing that it was too dangerous. But Misa was confident he could do it.) The shining sun was what greeted Misa in Egypt. The heat was strange for someone like Misa, but surprisingly welcome, heating his russet fur to create a blanket of warmth in the way Russia never had. He liked Africa already; in every corner, at every turn of a street, and even in the air, there was something new to discover.
So the expedition leader told me to investigate the Nile. Someone’s waiting for me there, Misa thought. For years, he’d been researching of what little texts he had on home on African culture and animal life.
Misa jumped off the wagon that had taken him outside of Cairo and to the more wild parts of the Nile. “Thank you!” he called back to the driver, throwing them a coin before running down and along the dirt bank, his lips curled around his tusks in an enthusiastic smile. Papyrus plants, with their long stalks and green bushy tops, whipped past him at the speed of his run. He couldn’t wait to meet his partner for the project.
Head to the place where the log sticks out into the water. It’s pretty distinctive, you won’t miss it. Remembering the instructions of his guide, he spotted that very trunk a good ten yards ahead. Not a foot or so upstream crouched another kalon with short, slicked back red hair and a thin shine of the same color. They were a light sand color with some darker brown, nearly black, stripes, surrounded by the reeds of the water .
Misa looked to the left of the kalon.
That’s a crocodile. It was dangerously close to them, as well - just lurking under the murky water, ready at any point to snap them up for an early breakfast. Misa was quick to act.
“Hey, you! Watch out, there’s a crocodile to your left!” The kalon yelped and fell backwards, their gaze shooting towards where Misa indicated, scrambling backwards and stepping back to the bank. Misalov ran the last few yards to the kalon as they put away their sketchbook. “There you go - it almost looked like you’d fall into the water there. Good thing,” Misa said, his tone calm and good natured, “I’m here to help you with the animal life in the area. It’s not my number one speciality, but I’ve got the know-how to get you by - like, there’s that crocodile there, and I know the names of a lot of fish in the waters - would’ja like to me to name them?” Misa’s golden eyes sparkled with excitement, eager to hear their reply.
The fellow kalon made a relieved sigh. “Thanks, I’d never have noticed it.” They ran a paw through their hair, sitting down on their back legs. Misa was quick to follow their example. “So you’re my partner for the afternoon! I’m Amadou Riqueti, planet specialist.” Amadou tilted his head, his eyes widening slightly in curiosity. “Fish? There’s a lot?” Misa’s smile grew a little at that.
Yes! Nobody else has ever wanted to listen to me before. A snide voice in the back of his head told him it was only because he hadn’t heard him talk yet, but Misa was quick to push that down.
“Ooh yes, we’ve got mudfish, giant catfish, marbled lungfish, african knifefish, the nile motor, the nile tilapia, and many other species that live in the area that aren’t fish!” Amadou’s eyes widened as he spoke. Misa paused for the moment, narrowing his eyes in contemplation.
I’m missing something, aren’t I? His eyes lit up again as he remembered, his expression relaxing.
Woops, I think I forgot introductions again. “Aha, sorry, I got a little ahead of myself. I’m Misalov Curait, culture specialist - but, well, I’ve learned a decent amount about African wildlife along the way.”
Amadou’s ears pricked upright. “Wow, seems I got a good partner today.” He stood up again. “Shall we get right to it then,
partenaire?”
“Totally!” Misa whisked out his own notepad from his satchel. It was crammed with his short handwriting, messy and smudged with lead from his notes. Misa quickly evaluated the area, his heart swelling rising at the beauty and warmth of Africa. “It’s really pretty, isn’t it?”
“Certainly a change from my home,” Amadou replied.
Misa’s eyes caught the sight of a toad, and he quickly scribbled a note on it down. He skipped down to the shore, careful of the crocodiles lurking in the water. Humming, he said,“There’s a little toad in the dirt there. African common toad,” It was chubby and brown with a lighter underbelly and dark spots. He looked back at Amadou, eyes glowing.
This is so amazing! To actually see all of these animals in real life! To be outside of Russia, and in Africa! That’s what he wanted to say, but it was too personal to share with someone he’d just met.
“The ancient papyrus, eh…” Amadou was muttering to himself, examining the papyrus reeds with his sketchbook in hand once again. He turned his dark red gaze to meet Misa’s golden eyes, before they carried down to the toad. At that, he spoke, his tone amused but to no one in particular, “He’s had one too many croissants lately, I think,” Amadou’s lips curled into a smirk before turning back to focus on the papyrus. Misa’s eyes wrinkled at that, his eyes turning shyly to Amadou.
“Niet, I had a apple for breakfast.” Misa definitely knew what he was doing. He didn’t bother waiting for a reply, and went right back to work. “We need to catalog all the animals and plants in the area,” he said, his paw moving fast to scribble down information as his eyes flitted around, noting signs of various animal life in the area.
Just look at all of this! “So let’s get to it!”
Amadou glanced at Misa, blinking in surprise. “Ah, right.” He joined Misa as they settled into a companionable silence of writing, interrupted by the occasional collaborative comment.
By the end of the day, they had scoured up and down the Nile for two miles, both ways. The sky was dyed red, purple, orange and yellow, and with the setting of the sun, the animals were picking up activity as the air cooled.
“It’s so cool that we got so much down! I didn’t think we’d see the african shoebill.” It was a gray, large bird with thick feathers and a tan bill that looked like a shoe. It had been an impressive sight.
“Strange looking bird it was, too. I’m just glad to have found that patch of chamomile. Good for insomnia, makes a nice tea. I needed more.” Amadou closed his book and out it away in the bag. “It’s been nice having you around, Misalov. You know your stuff!”
Misa smiled even wider at that. “Spasibo! I especially like that doum palm that you pointed out that has the Akat fruit. Sweet, but sour!” At that, he began walking up the bank, towards Cairo. He turned back for a moment, towards Amadou. “Maybe I’ll see you around more on the expedition! Gotta run!” With that, Misalov disappeared over the hill. There was still much to be done.
~*~
Time passes and Misa’s down the Nile and in Sudan, among the sparse yellow-green grass. Only the occasional brush dots the land, and trees are few and far between. They meet again, among this troubled land.
And there’s Amadou, stretched out by an acacia scrub taking notes. Misa picked up the pace, breaking away from the natives he was walking with. “Hey, Amadou! Wow, I know we don’t know each other all that well, but I was talking to these natives and they’re taking me to one of the remaining hidden Meroitic pyramids! You see, ever since the Turkish took control of Sudan, there has been a lot of these pyramids destroyed in search of gold, and an increase in the slave trade that has led to the fleeing of many people, especially in the area by the Nile of Al Jazirah. Some have even been sent to Egypt to be conscripted into the Egyptian military, and end up dying of disease!” Misa stopped to breathe, because
damn there’s so much here, so much information and history and pain, and I want to tell you that even if - “Do you wanna come ‘n see one of the last few pyramids around with me?”
Amadou’s ears are pricked, and he’s listening, and Misa smiles at that. He’s a bit bewildered, though, but that’s to be expected. “
Beaucoup d’informations!” he muttered to himself. But his stance changing, and he acknowledges Misa. “I’d like to see the foliage in that area anyway, pyramids have been on my list to see for a while.”
Misa’s happier than anything for Amadou’s acknowledgement. The past few months have just been the meeting of one person to another, all faces with lives, but in the end, they all felt like subjects of Misa’s research, picked clean and through of their knowledge, their experiences of the land in Africa. Misa had always known he was alone, despite how many people he talked to. It was a relief to see a familiar face. Even if he had only known Amadou for one day, it still felt significant. So he said, “Отлично! C’mon!” and he was turning away, motioning the natives to follow as both Misa and Amadou headed along the subtle path that led to the pyramids of the ancient Kushite kingdoms.
~*~
More months pass, and they are at Lake Victoria, a lake broad and blue as the seas he crossed to reach Africa. He’s investigating this banana-looking fruit called matoke, curiously turning the fruit between his paws in the farm he’d wandered his way into. He hears a yell, and looks up to see Amadou, who he hadn’t seen since the pyramids. Excited to talk to his sometimes-friend, he calls out, “Amadoouuuu! Lovely day, isn’t it? This lake is the best lake I’ve ever been to!” That’s when he notices that, well, Amadou’s being attacked by a fish eagle.
He jumps up at that, leaving the matoke behind. “You gotta scare it!” Misalov charges to where Amadou is, shouting at the eagle. At the sight of the charging kalon with tusks, the eagle is quick to take off into the air. It’s noon, and Misa’s sweating under his mane and panting, but it’s a breath of fresh air to see Amadou again.
“
Mon Dieu, I thought I’d have to run back to Cairo to get rid of it!” Amadou huffed and sat down. “Thanks, Misalov. Say, what are you doing here?”
Misa winked. “Glad to know I helped.” At Amadou’s question, he briefly turned back to the farm behind him. “I was just trying to figure out how to eat one of them matokes.”
Amadou perked up. “Ah, those! You’ve got to peel and steam them for hours. It’s quite a process.”
He’s a bit surprised at that, but carries on nonetheless. “I suppose I’ll have to get cooking, then! Wanna help? Or you busy here?”
The tan kalon smiles back at him. “Only getting chased around the lake. The farmers here showed me how to prepare the matokes. I can certainly help you make some.”
“Klassno!” Misalov exclaimed. He loved to try out all of the native foods everywhere they went. It’d be even better to share that with someone.
~*~
“So I’ve been researching the complex politics and infrastructure of the Kingdom of Kongo. You, as the
nkuluntu receive a special premium from your farmers in the vata, yes? What do you do with this premium? Do you have to report to the
awene, your superiors, as part of wene state?” Misalov’s in the Kingdom of Kongo, talking to the chief of the
vata, or village, he’s in. The man has dark skin and is wearing a colorful blue sash detailed with light blue designs, with gold bangles at his wrists, above the elbows, below the knees, and at his ankles. Around them are several tribe huts that are barely five years old. The villages do move every ten years, after all.
The
nkuluntu, or chief, is agitated by the reminder of his status. He shifted, the man’s eyes turning to the guards at his sides. Misa’s attentive and too caught up in his over-eager state, notepad at the ready, to notice the man’s discontent.
“Misalov! Fancy meeting you here!” Misa takes a moment to register Amadou, still barreling on with his monologue. But then he notices Amadou standing to the side, and abruptly falls silent, shocked out of his state. His cheeks feel too warm. He looks to the face of the
nkuluntu, guilty, and says, “Sorry about that,
Nkuluntu. I can ask other tribe members about their experiences.
“Yes, that’ll be good,” the chief says, stiffly.
They walk farther away, out of earshot. “Thanks for that,” Misa sheepishly says, “aha, I can get ahead of myself sometimes…”
Amadou smirked. “I’ve noticed. But if you’re looking for others to talk to, perhaps the group I’m with here? Some of the women from the tribe are going to show me some of the plants they use for medicine, maybe you can talk to them.” He nodded in the direction of three women with dark skin and short hair. They wore colorful dresses and headbands, wearing gold hoop earrings, bracelets on their upper arms, and gold, choker-style necklaces.
Misa nodded. “Oh yeah; they should know a lot about their culture! And from a different perspective, too,” he pauses for a moment, lost in thought - considering their potential experiences in contrast to what he has on the Congo now. “Yeah, thanks!”
~*~
Misalov hears the echo of Amadou’s voice. By now, he knows it well enough to recognize it easily. “
Faut pas pousser meme dans les orties! If you’re going to steal valuable space from people you could at least be civil to them!” He turns quickly to see Amadou’s angry expression; his ears are back, and a growl is in his tone. He’s facing off some Portuguese settlers from Feira - Sandro and Raul, both of whom Misa talked to earlier on their situation.
While he’d been about to leave, Misa knew he ought to help. He quickly doubled back and called out, “Hey, Sandro, Raul!” They’d been about to say an angry retort - Misa was just in time. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what Amadou says - it’s just been a long day, I’m sure. And bad Portuguese… I’m sure he means, like I think, that the space you use is important for farming. After all your work makes it valuable, ладно?”
See? I can be mature too.
“R...right,” Amadou acknowledges. Reluctantly, he continued, “I apologize. Misalov is correct, it’s been a long day.”
Misa’s glad to have helped, especially after the last fiasco in the Congo. But now they are in Zambia, a new country of Africa (for them), again.
~*~
It’s been nearly two years since Amadou and Misalov met at Cairo, and now he’s made all his way down to South Africa. He’s achieved a life dream, but after traveling so long he’s become too familiar with Africa and too comfortable.
So it’s no surprise when finds trouble, too caught up in his passion of investigating the many cultures of Africa to consider his own safety.
The land Misalov wanders is dotted with Marula and Baobab trees, and in the distance, there’s reddish plateaus and brown grass is all around him, reaching up to his shoulders. A breeze blows across the plains, and the grasses flow like water. Yellowish light reflects off every surface as the sun sets on the west horizon, a flaming ball of light.
Misalov was searching for a tribe called the Zulus that had, under their new king, began extending their kingdom and destroying and raiding all the peaceful tribes around them. He wanted to know more about them, blindly hoping that as a foreigner, they would allow Misa into their midst.
He was far too callous to assume such a thing.
Men jumped from the grasses around him, wearing feathered lioncloths, and necklaces, simple headdresses of white and black striped feathers. They wore white tribal facepaint that stood starkly out against their dark skin, and held spears and long boards with white stripes along them. Bows were strapped to their backs.
“What are you doing here?” One of the men intoned aggressively. “Under the authority of King Shaka, we will be taking your belongings!”
Nervous, Misalov attempted to calm them. “Oh no, aha, I just wanted to meet and talk to you! Why are you, the Zulus, expanding your land? Do you ever plan to stop your raids?” At that, the Zulus spat something angrily in an African language Misalov didn’t recognize, and rushed at him, spears raised.
Misa, eyes widening in an alarmed manner at the violent reaction, turned to run. He stumbled over a rock and barely dodged the jab of a spear before he staggered into a full out sprint, his four legs pumping. He could hear behind him the shouting of the Zulus and their pounding footsteps.
“
Mon Dieu, courir!” a shout came, familiar footsteps falling beside him.
Amadou? What’s he doing here? “What did you do,
ami!” The fellow kalon threw a panicked glare over his shoulder.
Between breaths, Misa let out, “Well.” He paused, his feet pounding against sharp rocks, grass, and dirt, “I don’t think I quite learned my lesson from the last time you helped me.” His face was strained and
god. I was an idiot, why do I do these things? In hindsight… For a moment, he glanced back at the Zulus.
Der’mo. They’re too close. Panicked, he jerks to the side. A moment passes, and there is a whiz of an arrow -
It hits his flank, and Misalov stumbles to a near halt
and god no, I can’t have this now. His fur is cut and crimson red blood is already dropping to the ground in a splatter. “Oh god,” he repeats, but out loud, and he’s already sweating from extertion.
“
Tu es fou..!” Amadou mutters. He stops a few feet ahead, after Misa is hit, ears pricking. “Tch.. we need to lose them!” Misalov stumbles to a stuttering run, limping with one his paws desperately gripping at his wound. And while Amadou is looking for a way out, Misa’s somewhere else - stuck, in his head, worrying,
I didn’t come all this way to die, and no, I don’t wanna die… Another arrow hits the ground in front of Amadou, who barely dodged it.
But there’s hope. Because Misalov had, for all the people he knew and came to and met, made more friends than Amadou - even if he himself didn’t know it.
People remember these places, those people that are grand, that are knowledgeable, that are wise. Some are known in their small village for their leadership, another in a well-known college for their knowledge, and a finally one for their enthusiasm, their adventures and the stories they share. Those people are explorers. Don’t you want to be an explorer one day? Those were the words of his mentor, back in the local church in Russia. He, for all Misalov could assume, had seen the young Kalon’s passion and given him a goal to pursue.
Misalov was eternally glad for what that man had done for him. He’d taught him to be kind, to try and not get caught up in his own head and pay attention to what others say. To keep a good nature about him, and to not be afraid.
Panting, with his eyes blurry, Misa stared at the back of Amadou’s protective figure. He was glad he’d found someone like him. And then there’s a chorous of shouting -
“Get out of here! You’ve caused us enough hardship as it is!” It’s the farmers he’d been talking to earlier that day. Silently, he thanks his mentor - while he’d forgotten some of the lessons he’d parted to him, he’d remembered enough to impress upon the farmers his memory well enough. They had come to help them.
“слава богу Слава,” Misa whispered. The Zulus slowed behind them, seeming to be considering retreat.
Amadou perked up, looking back at Misa. “You know them?” Then he realized, “They’re falling behind!”
“I…” Misa groaned through the pain, “talked to them earlier, about their lives,” he smiled a bit, glad again, but a little bitter too. “I guess they liked me better than these Zulus do.”
Amadou grinned slightly. “Ah, they’re leaving!” Misa didn’t bother looking back. He believed him. Amadou sighed, relieved. “We’ll have to thank them, but we should do something about that wound first.” He nudged Misa to the side of the path, and sat down to rummage through his bag.
Misalov collapsed to the ground, angling his wound towards Amadou. His russet fur shone with sweat. “Thanks,” he gasped, his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. “It’s a good thing those farmers remembered me… and that I ran into you.”
The subtle sound of crushing plants seeps into Misa’s ears. “We do that a lot.”
“Yeah, we do, don’t we,” he opens his eyes, a shy grin on his face. Amadou nods in return.
“This might sting,” and it
does, urgh! Amadou puts a different leaf over the herbs he used, and wraps it with a bandage. “If we saw each other any more, we could be partners again, like that first day.” He laughs, more relaxed, and Misa’s glad to see that. “You and your little toad friend, remember?”
Misa lets out a quick muttered thanks for the herbs before replying, “Ah, that little guy. He more got in the way of some of our work than anything, though.” He breathed out and tested his flank, which hurt, but had stopped bleeding. “Partners wouldn’t be bad. Like, permeant ones? The expedition is coming to an end, after all… We definitely won’t see each after this otherwise.”
Amadou pauses whatever he’s doing with his bag to focus on Misa’s comment. “It’s almost over… I nearly forgot..” He looks up at Misa. “There’s still a lot of world to explore, lots of trouble we could end up in. Perhaps we’d manage better as a team?”
And wow, Amadou’s right. It’s less of a could then a will, though - both of them seem to be magnets for trouble and adventure of all kinds. Light floods into Misalov’s golden eyes, and he couldn’t be much happier. “Yea! That’d be a great idea. We can double team the research done!” (If we’re being honest, Misa loves the idea of
more research almost as much as doing
that with Amadou.)
“All right then,
partenaire!” Amadou’s eyes are just as bright as Misa’s. “I’d say we should shake on it, but you need all your paws at the moment.” Just to prove him wrong, Misa carefully adjusts his position upwards to sit, and raises his chin.
“I’ve got a paw to spare.” He holds his paw out, his dark paw pads nearly matching Amadou’s. They shake, and the other kalon looks content with it.
“It’s settled then,” and Misa feels tired again, because while everything just changed and he should be really happy, it only lasts so long. Misa’s comfortable enough with Amadou to let his vulnerability show, after all. “Let’s get back to somewhere safe, друг.”
Friend was a suiting word to end with, was it not?
Link to partner's post:iHolliPixel art done by iHolli may be claimed by the winner
