Rooted Heat
POV: Silas (First Person)
Location: Belmont College
Two Weeks Later
The second week hit harder than the first.
Routine had set in — morning jogs, two classes back-to-back, training in the evening. I was finally learning how to regulate my breathing between combos and keep my hands tight when I struck the bag. Gym regulars had started to notice too, nodding at me when I walked in. One guy had even offered me his wraps after my tore. "You're serious," he said.
Yeah. I was.
And my body felt it. The soreness lived deep now — not the kind that limped or bruised, but the steady kind that whispered, "You're building something."
I sat in the rec hall that afternoon, ice pack on one shoulder, protein shake in my other hand, when Devon and Aimee dropped into the seats across from me.
"Yo, Coach Shadowboxing," Devon said, sliding a tray across the table. "You better not be skipping leg day."
"He's got that 'I fought five ninjas in a warehouse' look," Aimee added, sipping her iced tea.
"Only three," I muttered.
Devon barked a laugh.
We talked like that for a while — lazy jokes, food, class trash talk. Aimee dragged us into a debate about whether dogs or cats were smarter. Devon launched into some nonsense about gorillas being the original martial artists. I let the sounds settle around me, the warmth of normalcy pressing back against the edges of my darker days.
But it didn't last.
It never does.
It started when Devon brought up cultural clubs.
"There's this African Student Union thing happening Friday," he said. "They're doing some South African drumming, food, poetry stuff. You coming, bro?"
I sounded pissed. "Why would I?"
He blinked. "I mean… your family's African, right?"
"Yeah. I'm Sierra Leonean," I said. "Born there."
Aimee perked up. "Wait, really? That's cool. I thought you were just African American."
"I am African," I said, sitting back. "There's a difference."
Devon frowned, tilting his head. "Aren't we all African-Americans though? You know, Black folk in America."
I lowered my shake. "No. Not exactly."
He blinked. "How you figure?"
"You're Black American, not African-American. You weren't born in Africa. Your parents weren't either, right?"
"Okay, but we all came from Africa if you trace it back. That's the whole point of the term."
"Bruh," I said, shaking my head. "That's like saying I'm Egyptian cause I watched The Mummy. There's history, and then there's origin. If your roots got cut generations ago, you're not African anymore — culturally, you're American. Black American."
"Damn, that's kinda harsh," Aimee said, brows raised.
"It's not an insult," I said. "It's clarity. My mom's Ghanaian, my dad's Sierra Leonean. I grew up speaking Krio and Sherbro. We know our tribe, our land, our people. That's different."
Devon leaned back, arms crossed. "So, what, now I'm just 'Black' with no roots?"
I leaned forward, tired of dancing around it. "Look, calling yourself African-American when there's nothing African about your experience — that's just hyphen pride. You want roots, go find them. But don't claim mine."
The table went quiet.
Then Devon exhaled. "So, what, we ain't allowed to connect? Just 'cause you still got your tribe?"
I answered in Krio, too fast for either of them to follow. "Una nor sabi wetin mi de talk. All dis na confusion for ya." (You don't understand what I'm saying. All this is confusion to you.)
Devon squinted. "Yo, what?""
Aimee stared. "Uh, English, please?"
I looked up, a little sharper this time. "Noto English una want?" (Isn't it English you want?)
"People throw around words like they mean the same thing to everyone. But they don't. Culture ain't skin. It's what you carry inside."
Devon stayed quiet for a second, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I get it. Still stings, though."
"I know," I said. "It stung when I came here and everyone assumed I was just like you, too."
The mood cooled after that, but not in a bitter way. Just thoughtful.
Aimee nudged my leg under the table. "You're still coming to the poetry thing though, right?"
I rolled my eyes. "Depends. Is Devon bringing gorilla martial arts again?"
He grinned. "Only if you promise to teach me your secret Krio takedowns."
That night, I returned to training with a new edge.
The gym lights buzzed overhead as I wrapped my knuckles tighter. The echo of Devon's words followed me here — not in anger, but in heat. I let it fuel me. Punch after punch slammed into the bag. Quick. Heavy. Measured.
I wasn't just working out a conversation. I was building something again. Shaping the self I needed to be.
Footwork. Drop step. Rotate.
I imagined being cornered. Surrounded. Someone grabbing my arm. A blade in a dark alley. My shadow coiled in reflex, but I held it back. No powers. Not yet. Just raw motion and memory.
The martial arts clip I watched the night before replayed in my head — precise takedowns from old-school fighters, stance work from capoeira and Silat videos. I even rewatched that dusty VHS rip of a scene from Fist of the North Star, analyzing how speed and rhythm told stories without words.
A gym regular gave me a nod as he passed. I didn't return it — too locked in.
By the time I finished, my chest burned. Sweat soaked my shirt. My legs felt like stone. But I didn't stop.
Outside, the night air hit me like a cold slap. I sat on the concrete steps, breathing hard, hoodie up, letting the quiet work on me. Somewhere far off, I heard traffic. Laughter. Someone playing music through cheap Bluetooth speakers.
I leaned back and watched the stars.
No suit. No belt. No shadows.
Just me.
And that, too, was enough.
At least for tonight.
I was learning how to stand my ground — in all ways.