I do not own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Lucius Fox, or Alfred Pennyworth. I did create all the African characters. The African country, its city, and even its language is left unnamed purposefully. Zambia is the country my sources on life in Africa are most familiar with. If anyone notices the setting has similarities to Zambia, that is likely why. Character names came from these sources too. I suppose you could say this country is as much Zambia as Metropolis is New York City. (I actually think of my Gotham as 'not' New York City, but a Midwest city on a Great Lake.) Fictionalized events in this chapter and others in this story will take place in this Zambia-like setting as fictionalized events in Gotham take place in a fictionalized Midwest-like setting. I will try to make them plausible and relevant to recent, tragic events and issues on the African continent. However, they will not be directly tied to Zambia's history.
This story is for entertainment purposes only.
"Well Bruce, what do you think of Africa?"
Six-year-old Bruce turned his head. He had been staring through the window. Now he met his father's gaze with wide, despairing eyes. "It takes a looooooong time to get anywhere."
Thomas chuckled. This made the leg Bruce was perched on shake beneath him. He grabbed his father's knee to hold on as Thomas replied. "Yep. Sorry son. Traffic is slow in the city and roads are rough in the country, but every journey's unforgettable here. Plus, you can eat while you wait."
The shouts of vendors walking between frozen vehicles proved his father's point. Bruce looked out the window again. "Why are there so many people?"
The way vehicles smushed bumper to bumper was nothing compared to the milling mass of humanity beyond the roads and spilling into them. Women carried baskets on their heads and offered what was inside them (bananas, bread, papaya, sweet potatoes, and mangos) through car windows. Some of these salespeople were just a little older than her son. The colors and scents dazzled Bruce's eyes and nose. He might have been more excited were he out among them rather than in a stuffy and still car.
Martha's eyes softened at the sight of him, but she replied in a cheery voice. "Africans are known for having big families and being okay with sliding and bumping past each other, Bruce. You'll have to work on your patience and persistence to fit in."
Bruce huffed. He crawled over and sat down on his mother's lap before looking up at her with big eyes. "How much patience will I need?"
Martha smiled brightly back. "Let's sing some of the school songs to pass the time, after we eat some bananas."
. . .
Hours (that seemed like days) later, Bruce leapt from the car. He stretched up and down hoping he would never have to sit down again. He'd bounced on his mother or father's laps for what seemed the whole way after leaving city limits. Their knees had never seemed so pointy. His mother got out behind him, also stretched, and was then engulfed in the embrace of a great woman. She'd breezed past Bruce with surprising speed to thus greet his mother. He looked up and listened to their conversation.
"Mrs. Wayne! You're finally here!"
Martha chuckled. "Yes, we made it, Esther."
"Doctor Wayne!"
Bruce turned his head and gaze. A tall man in a white shirt and dress pants had appeared. ('Trousers' he had to 'think' like an African too. Pants were underwear here) The man strode around the back of the car. He clapped hands with Thomas. Then they shook hands. Bruce stared at the greeter's wide smiled. His teeth were as white as his shirt, maybe whiter. Both men pulled in on their handshake and patted each other's backs.
As Lucius stepped out of the car, a boy with a ball of assorted materials ran up to him. The boy spoke in the language Bruce's parents has been teaching him. Bruce thought a good translation would be, "Look at this." Bruce recognized the boy from pictures. From the same source, he also knew the man greeting his father and the lady hugging his mother. "Esther Masoka" had sent photos of herself, the man, and even the child. She told Lucius he would be impressed with the latter's creativity. Bruce studied the younger child. It wasn't often he met a fellow genius.
A finger tapped Bruce's shoulder. He turned. A girl almost exactly his height stood behind him.
Her skin and eyes were dark. His were light. While their hair was the same color, hers was as curly as his straight. Their expressions were identical. They were the only two not grinning. Yet their lax faces contained intent stares. She spoke in English, "Are you good at maths?"
Bruce's eyebrows rose. Then his chin did the same. "I'm three grades ahead in the subject."
The girl nodded. "Good. I'm always looking for someone to help with my maths-sheets, but Masoka is always helping someone else." The girl then tilted forward. Their noses almost touched. Bruce bent backwards with widened eyes. The girl sniffed. Then her face creased. She leaned back even farther from him than he had from her. "You smell."
Bruce's mouth fell open. Before he could think of a reply in any language, a declaration above made him jump. "And this must be your SON!"
Bruce whirled around and stared up at Masoka who had stopped hugging his mother. She knelt down in front of him. The Africa sunlight flashing off her teeth blinded him. "Hello, Bruce."
Bruce responded with a greeting in the language his mother, father, and Lucius had taught him the past few months.
The woman's teeth disappeared as her mouth made the shape of an "o." "You know our language already?"
Bruce nodded with a grin of pride and replied with an affirmative from the language.
Masoka swept him into her arms. Bruce blinked. The woman's flesh had the consistency of bread dough, and she was damp with sweat. His nose twitched. He made the same face the girl had.
Esther Masoka released him, stood, and spread her arms wide before waving them toward herself. "Come in! Come in! I have a feast prepared for you."
She turned and led the way. Bruce fell in beside his father and tugged on Thomas' sleeve. The man looked down and saw a familiar expression on his son's face. He picked him up and began to carry him as he walked. Bruce whispered in his father's ear. "Dad, why do we smell different from them?"
HIs father's grin grew a bit wider. His sides vibrated with a chuckle. Bruce turned his head and leaned it away. His father's mustache tickled his ear. "It's the food. We'll eat like, and then smell like Africans too."
Thomas looked forward again. Bruce paused to think about that. His parents had been speaking to each other, Lucius, and him in the language used here for months. He'd heard and sung "learning songs" in it. He'd looked at pictures and been told stories. They'd studied out of the curriculum his mother had created and sent to the school. They'd kept the mansion warmer and taken long walks together. They'd even had Alfred drive a car over rough roads with them packed together in the cramped back seat of a tiny car rather than the roomy limousine. They had even had Alfred prepare African dishes. His mom had helped with that.
What did the people living here eat they hadn't already? Why hadn't his parents made themselves and he smell like Africans before they got here? Then that "girl" wouldn't have invaded his space and insulted him! His parent had told him if people here in Africa did or said something that seemed mean to him, it was probably just a "cultural misunderstanding." But "that girl's" statement had been … been ..!
Thomas stopped walking. Bruce snapped out of his thoughts and followed his father's gaze. A table with bowls of things he'd only seen glimpses of in pictures lay before them. Thomas sighed. He turned his mouth toward his son's ear again. The mustache once more tickled him. "And you'll have to be brave, son. We can't shield your digestive tract any longer."
About half an hour later, Bruce shoved a half-filled bowl away, laid his head upon the table, and groaned. A finger tapped his shoulder. He glanced up to see a sheet of math ... "maths" problems hanging in front of his face. The problems on it were like those his mother gave him when she wanted his mind "stretched." A queasy sensation rippling through him grew stronger. He looked up. The dark eyes he'd looked into not long ago stared into his again. "Can you help me with my maths sheet now?"
Bruce let his forehead land on the table again. Then he let our a longer and louder groan.
. . .
Seventeen years later Bruce turned the pages of an album. Most of the pictures were against a yellow-tan backdrop. Brick walls, dusty roads, and almost as dry landscapes stretched behind collections of dark and light skinned figures often standing together. A few had skyscrapers and crowded street backgrounds.
One showed he and the girl from his memory. They were smiling with an arm each draped over the other's shoulders. He had gotten much more comfortable with others touching him there, though in Gotham he often desired space again. Both he and his friend held up sheets of math, "maths" problems. Everything was identical from the problems to the marks beside them, save the handwriting. Underneath the image there was a caption on the photo's white-space. "Bruce finally meets his match in maths."
Bruce smiled back at the faces in the photograph. A shadow fell over the page. With the clink of a full tray being set down came an English-accented voice. "Reliving old memories, Master Bruce?"
"Some."
"It wasn't your fault, you know."
Bruce straightened and put the album down as he stood. "I forgot about them, Alfred. They paid the price."
"You did more than many a man could in the end. Perhaps you would have been able to do less had you been there when the crisis occurred."
Bruce reached for the cup of tea his servant and godfather had brought. He replied as he lifted it to his lips. "It wasn't enough. Yet."
Hi guys, in the interest of cultural sensitivity and desire to neither display my own nor spread ignorance, I attempted to do research before writing and posting this chapter. As many of you have likely noticed, the long attempt at such research caused this chapter to be greatly delayed. For years now, Africa and its people have been on my heart, but I have never been there. I did, however, speak with people who've spent much time there. If I have in this chapter or in later chapters offend anyone, please tell me kindly with the knowledge I didn't mean to do so. One thing I decided to incorporate in this chapter was something I was surprised and amused to learn in my research. Some groups of people do indeed smell different from each other. This is connected to differences in diet. Therefore, one's own scent can change with a like change of diet. I put this observation in the mouth of a child, because I was reassured by my source kids will say anything in America or Africa it seems. ?
God Bless
ScribeofHeroes