Excerpt From “Black Mountain” 

Michael A. Bucaoto

This is a work of speculative fiction that is set in 2016.

The road went straight for as far as the eye could see. The side of the road heading in the northbound direction was an open field. Rows of wheat sway gently in a breeze that provided momentary relief from the oppressive summer heat. The southbound side was lined with poplar trees so that what lay on the other side was concealed, hidden from anyone simply passing through. Their car slowed to a stop a few feet from an opening in the trees, so Kizzi got out and walked into the clearing to get a better view of the land leaving the passenger side door open. She stopped in a patch of dry dirt and squatted, her back to the road, perched on the balls of her feet with her butt hovering just over her heels. She was surveying the acres of soybean plants that topped her in her current position.

Malachi sat in the car for a while with his head on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to hear it, but he knew this was his fault. She told him to stop letting the meter go below a quarter tank, but he was convinced that even if the gas light came on that they could go at least 30 miles more in his gray 2002 Hyundai Sonata. But he didn’t take into account how fast he liked to drive, or the fact that running the AC on full blast was using gas. He tried to open the map on his cellphone to check their GPS location – no service. He got out of the car, slamming the door. As he stood in the road he stared blankly into the wheat field, the sweat already beading on his face. 

Kizzi reached into her back pocket and pulled out a brochure that she picked up at a rest stop they visited once they crossed over into Kentucky from West Virginia. She opened the brochure and pulled out the joint that she rolled in the car. She hadn’t noticed before, but as she held the brochure open she began to read it to herself: Black Mountain, highest point in Kentucky. Holding the tightly rolled paper joint between her middle and forefinger, she patted all of her pockets checking for her lighter. She sifted through her fanny pack, past the genealogical DNA test, and found it. She placed the joint between her lightly pursed lips and lit it. 

“We should check this out,” she said as she stood and took a drag of the joint.

Malachi was still standing in front of the car looking back and forth down the road as if expecting something. The sound of her voice relaxed him. He was expecting the first thing out of Kizzi’s mouth to be some version of “I told you,” so this seemed like a verbal olive branch. He glanced over his shoulder still trying to assess the situation and did a double take when he noticed the plume of smoke rising from under her denim bucket hat. The smell wafted into his nostrils.

“Check what out?” he said as he sauntered over to her in the clearing. 

Without turning to face him, she held out the brochure for Black Mountain. He took the glossy accordion folded paper from her and opened it, dusting the crushed flowers and stems off onto the dirt.

“Hmm… That’s interesting.”          

“What?” Kizzi asked as she turned her head and handed him the joint.      

“That the highest point in Kentucky is called Black Mountain,” he replied.  

“Hmm…”

“And its in the middle of Lynch, Kentucky,” he added. 

A much needed gust of wind blew creating waves in the soybeans. Kizzi closed her eyes and held out her arms as if to embrace the air. In that moment, she felt closer to herself than she had ever been.

They were led to Kentucky by a DNA test. Kizzi’s mother was the only family she ever knew. Growing up in New York City with no known relatives anywhere always seemed, at the very least, weird to her. Her friends had mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, even step-family. Malachi, her best friend since high school, was adopted and he still maintained contact with his biological family. Anytime she would ask her mother about family members, her mother would say “All you need is me,” and would change the subject. Eventually her mother stopped responding to her questions altogether. So after her mother’s death, she was alone. Kizzi was 27 when her mother died of breast cancer. She grew nervous, concerned about the possibility that breast cancer ran in her family so on her 28th birthday, in April, she treated herself to a DNA test. She discovered that different companies utilized genetic information in different ways and were able to identify different things based on their processes. She opted for the test done by a company called Recovery. Although fairly new, Recovery claimed to identify genetic ethnicity estimates and the risk of developing certain medical conditions. They also had access to a central database that could identify possible DNA matches which could help her identify family members. But, what sold her on Recovery was that through their patent-pending process they were able to identify “what region of the United States you belong to.” When her results came back she called Malachi and they looked at them together. 

After looking through the different results that the Recovery DNA test provided, Kizzi found out that she was 74% African which was not a surprise to them. When they first met, Malachi told Kizzi she was the color of roasted almonds which were his favorite snack. She was no stranger to hearing how beautiful her complexion was and didn’t mind when people asked her if she was Ethiopian, Eritrean, Ghanaian. No matter where they said, she would smile and say “yes” just for fun. She once told someone that guessed several different countries that she was all of them. Now she knew that her ancestors came from Senegal, Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Mali, Congo, Gabon and/or Angola. The remaining 26% was a melting pot that was inconsequential to her. Her DNA revealed that sickle cell and breast cancer run in her family. And while that was a sad revelation it was overshadowed by a match that was revealed; Recovery’s database identified a genetic match in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. 

It took some convincing on Malachi’s part and a lot of prayer, but a week after the discovery they were here, in some field somewhere in Kentucky. And although she did want to tell Malachi about himself and about how stupid he was for letting the car run out of gas, she welcomed the delay. She was aware of the sound of her heartbeat and the clamminess of her hands when she thought about meeting the faceless, nameless match that Recovery identified.

“I feel like the ancestors are calling to me,” she said with her arms still spread and her eyes closed preventing the tears that were forming from falling.

“They probably are,” Malachi said as he tapped her shoulder to hand her the joint.

“This was probably a part of some plantation back in the day,” she said as she wiped her eyes before taking it from him. “They were here. Imagine how many of them were here. Were tortured here. Died here.”

Malachi looked out into the field of soy plants and listened to the wind playing in the leaves. He noticed the synchronized movements of the plants.

“It really looks like an ocean. Imagine how many of us had to stay low to escape from places like this.” As he was talking he noticed a current moving in the opposite direction of the bright green ocean. He pointed at it.

“Look,” he said, “it’s the souls of Black folks.”

“It really looks like something moving, like someone is escaping.” Kizzi added as she exhaled. They stood there a while longer in silence just taking in the moment. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he said as the wind died down.

“I know,” she replied, “I wish my mama was here to see this. So, now what?”

“Now?” Malachi questioned as he scratched his head, “Now I gotta walk to town and get some gas. You coming?”

“Your plan was to leave me in the middle of nowhere, stranded on the side of the road by myself? Are you dumb or are you dumb?” She said as they both laughed.

“Well let’s bust a move then!” he replied as he turned away from the plants and walked toward the road. 

Kizzi took one last long drag of the joint until she could feel the heat of the cherry-red embers on her finger tips. She tossed the clip in the dirt and stepped on it. As she looked out into the field, far in the distance, she saw someone emerge from the plants like they were coming up for air. They stood there staring at each other, two almonds roasting in the sun.

Michael Bucaoto is a product of Brooklyn, New York. His love of words and language led him to the English Department of Medgar Evers College where he graduated with his Bachelor of Arts in English. He is a writer, poet, and educator. A lover of Afrofuturism, his creative works explore themes of family, identity, race, religion, education and urbanism. Michael will be graduating with a Master of Arts in Teaching from NYU Steinhardt in May '23. He is committed to his calling as an educator and plans on pursuing a doctoral degree.