I had a funeral to attend the next day.

After wearing a black suit with matching shoes, I boarded an auto-rickshaw to Kigamboni, where it was being held. I never liked crossing over to the island, knowing the history of the ferries and how poor management led to the death of many innocent people.

It was one of those things where I wished the occult had been involved so I could have something other than human negligence to blame. But no, greed and corruption ran foul here. I couldn't do anything about it.

Arriving at the funeral, there were hundreds of sorcerers and a few non-sorcerers. The former's magic energy filled the area, clashing against each other like gods and monsters, seeing who had the most power. Those with more of it stood above the rest, getting looks of admiration or jealousy.

Sorcerers only gathered together to show off, scout the competition, and see where they were in the magic hierarchy—everyone was below The Supreme Leaders. So seeing many of them at David Paul's funeral made me laugh.

The man wasn't well-liked.

Alright, maybe I didn't like him.

Still, the turnout was surprising. But thinking about it, there hadn't been a death of a high-profile sorcerer in many months. This was like our twisted version of Award Season, Coachella, or... or... or... or whatever. I'd find another example later. Mxiu!

Criers—people hired to cry at a funeral—stood in front of David's coffin, doing their job to perfection by wailing so hard it was almost comical. You'd think they were his relatives or family members. But I had seen a few of them at other funerals. They made a good chunk of change. If I didn't hate crying and I wasn't a sorcerer, I'd have applied to... Who was I kidding? No, I wouldn't. Still, they helped maintain the mood and remind everyone what we did was dangerous and we could lose our lives at any moment.

"Binti," a familiar voice called.

Turning around, I saw Preacher Boy and Zainab heading my way, with the former waving at me. He had asked if we could come to the funeral together, but I declined. I wasn't in a chitty-chatty mood, and I didn't want to be in a confined space with Zainab. Today wasn't the day for us to fight. There was a time and place for that.

"When did you arrive?" I asked Preacher Boy.

"Just now. You?"

"Same." I glanced at Zainab, who had her arms crossed on her chest. She glanced at me from head to toe and scoffed. "You like what you see, little girl?"

"There's not much to like or see," she replied.

"That's what your exes say about you."

She snarled. "Bitch."

"It takes one to know one."

I didn't want to get in a fight with her, but the look in the twerp's eyes, like she was looking down on me, pissed me off. Unlike me or Preacher Boy, Zainab came from a wealthy family—The Hassan Family—and they had spoiled her. They owned gas stations throughout Africa and had plans to expand in Europe and South America within the next five years. Maybe that was why we never saw eye to eye. She hated the fact that for someone not as rich as her, I was ridiculously powerful—Ok, maybe I was exaggerating—while she wasn't even with all her money.

That was the saddest thing about magic: money couldn't buy you more magic power.

Before Zainab replied, Preacher Boy grabbed her arm. "You promised you wouldn't," he said.

Zainab observed me again, sighed, then frowned. "I'm sure Sammy and Christa are around here somewhere. Let's go find them," she said.

"Alright." As they turned to leave, Preacher Boy glanced at me and mouthed, "Sorry about that."

I nodded.

David's death seemed to shock everyone, seeing how powerful he was. The Supreme Leaders loved him, and they thought he had the potential to become one of them. So the fact someone had killed him with ease, and no one knew who it was, left most a bit on the edge. It wasn't surprising everyone seemed itchy for a fight—even me.

"Binti Nasra," a raspy voice called.

I turned to see Mr. Simon, my late father's best friend. They used to compete to see who could exorcise the most demons per month in their youth. Baba always smiled when he reminisced about the "good old days" and how thankful he was for not taking anything for granted.

At nearly seventy-five years old, Mr. Simon looked great with his grey hair and wrinkleless face. Though he was slimmer than before, he had a straight figure, unlike most people his age who had slouched.

"Uncle, it's good to see you." I hugged him, the smell of cigarette smoke glued to his clothes. He smoked more than anyone I knew. I once saw him finish four packs in one day. Baba had said Mr. Simon used to smoke ten packs per day back then.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Good."

He stared at me for a moment, making me check myself for anything out of place. Crows loved shitting on people and cawing off to their friends like they had won a trophy, so I needed to make sure I hadn't been their target.

"Is it true?" he asked.

"About what?"

"The necromancer."

I sighed. Of course, he knew. And if he did, then the whole sorcerer community knew too. Thanks a lot, Brenda. There was no one else who'd tell him. Though an Asian sorcerer with no connections in the country, coming here and walking around like she owned the place, would raise suspicion and make people find out who she was.

"Do you want help?" he added.

Sorcerers had three types of magic: Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary. Primary was the one you were born with, while the latter two you got through learning and training. Unless someone gained a power-stocking ability—like me—every sorcerer had only three abilities.

Mr. Simon's primary magic was necromancy, like Esther. But just because sorcerers had similar abilities didn't mean they used them in the same way. Each magic attribute was special to its user, and its application would never be the same—even if they tried. It was why I hadn't sought him out when I found out a necromancer was after me. It was useless.

"I can handle it," I replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I smiled. "Trust me."

His lips thinned. "Those were the same words your father said to me before he died." He tsked. "If only I knew who killed him."

My heart rate slowed, and a chill ran down my body, raising the hair on my arms. I gulped, wondering if I should tell him or not. If there was anyone who could assist me in this matter, it was him. He had gathered trustful friends and allies all over the world who'd die for him if he asked.

"I know..." I wheezed. "I know... I know who killed him."

"Killed who?" Mr. Simon tilted his head, confusion coating his face.

"Baba. I know who killed Baba."

He chuckled. "You with your jokes." He laughed harder. "This is the first time I laughed today. Thank you for that." He rubbed the tears from his eyes.

"I'm not joking." I pursed my lips.

I knew how hard it was for him to believe me. Baba was like a brother to him. They had been through too much for me to make jokes. Mr. Simon had done everything in his power to find out who had killed Baba and ended up empty-handed. For me to come here many years later and tell him I knew Baba's killer sounded like a fallacy.

"Binti."

"Yes."

"I don't like the look on your face."

"What look?"

"The serious look. I don't like it." He shook his head. "You're joking. I know you are. It's what you do. It's who you are. You're good at it. Everyone knows it."

Tears welled in my eyes. "Not this time, Uncle."

Mr. Simon frowned and grabbed my arm, his nails digging into my skin. Anymore harder and they'd draw blood. He dragged me to the side, away from prying ears. "You better not be playing with me, girl. I've spent years searching for the killer and didn't find a single clue. Care to explain how you did it?"

"Do you know about Joshua and Nuru Bendera?"

"The dead Lutheran preachers?" His forehead creased.

"Yes, them. Apparently, they had sacrificed their daughter to a secret group called The Fellowship. And that group is the one that killed Baba."

Mr. Simon released my arm from his grip and nearly collapsed before I caught him. I took him under a tree for shade, and he leaned on it. Sweat coated his face: his eyes widened, and his mouth hung ajar.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I don't understand why they'd kill him. It makes little sense."

"Who?"

"The Fellowship. Why would they kill your father?"

"Why wouldn't they? They're evil."

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. "They couldn't have killed him, Binti. Your father was a trusted member of The Fellowship."