City of Saints & Thieves(55)

“So you did save his life.”

I shrug. “He’s being dramatic. It wasn’t a big deal. I hit one of them in the face and made him bleed. They were stupid kids making noise about stuff they didn’t understand, calling him names. They all took off crying at the first sight of blood.”

Michael snorts a laugh. “I would have liked to see that.”

I let myself chuckle. “It was pretty good.”

We pass a man herding cattle on the side of the road, tapping their rumps with a long stick to keep them moving. The lorry barrels past, not even slowing down, and I hold my breath. A cow starts to veer off toward us, but then the man taps her in just the right spot on her flank, and she lumbers out of the way of her death.

As the man and his cows fade from view, Michael asks, “This trip isn’t just about Mwika, is it? You’re going to Congo because my dad’s headed there.”

“You know about your dad’s trip?”

“He told me he was going. He has to go check on things fairly often. How did you know about his trip?”

“I . . . have my sources.”

“And do those sources happen to hide out in secret tunnels?”

Heat rises in my cheeks. “I-I erased the footage. How do you know?”

“So you did sneak back in there.”

I scowl at him. He’s tricked me into incriminating myself. I wait for him to get mad, but he just says, “You think following him is going to help you figure out if he killed your mom?”

I watch him. I know what Michael is doing. He’s not making a fuss about me sneaking around behind his back. He wants me to reciprocate. But I’m not used to opening up and talking like this, to sharing. “I don’t know,” I say, which is at least honest.

“Do you have a plan for when we get there?”

“Find Mwika.”

He nods. “Boyboy told me my dad made payments to him a couple of years ago.”

I sneak a glance up. “Do you know why?”

Michael shakes his head. I want to ask if he thinks the payment was in exchange for the video, but something in Michael’s face stops me. We’ll find out soon enough. For the first time I wonder if maybe all this is harder for Michael than it is for me. My mom died a long time ago, and the pain hasn’t gone away, but it’s dulled over the years. But how would I feel if I were discovering that she was actually a horrible person, like Michael is finding out about his dad?

Don’t think like that, Tina. Don’t feel sorry for him. Think about Mama. You’ve worked too hard for this.

Thinking of Mama reminds me of the other girl in the photo. Maybe she’s still there in Kasisi and we can find her. Or maybe Mama had other friends we can talk to, or family. My family. Do I have family? Grandparents? Aunts, uncles? Mama never said a word about them, and her UN file said she was an only child, parents both dead. But if she lied about being married, maybe she lied about that too. The thought that I might find blood relatives in Kasisi sends a tingle through my body. What would they be like? What would they think of me?

I look at my tattoos, and my excitement deflates a little, imagining how they’ll take my appearance. I have a feeling tats like this aren’t a thing out here. And that girls wear dresses. Ugh.

I pick at a loose string on the bag of sandals. “Where did you tell your parents you were going?” I ask Michael. “Are you going to be in trouble? Are they going to send people looking for you?”

Michael is watching the hills go by. “I told them I was headed back to school, that they were letting me come back early. Got a friend to call Mom and pretend to be the principal. I had the driver drop me off at the airport and everything.”

“They believed you?”

“After I got suspended, Mom was really mad. She threatened to withdraw our donations from the school. Said it wasn’t fair to punish us equally for fighting if the other kid was throwing around racial slurs. I told them her threat worked.”

“Did it?”

Michael sticks his arms out and looks at them. It suddenly occurs to me that they’re pale by my standards, but probably not by Swiss ones.

“No.”

We’re quiet for a while. I tug at the hem of the kanga Boyboy’s lent me to wrap up in. They all have sayings printed on them. This one reads wache waseme: “Let them talk.”

Michael says, “I told them you decided to go stay with a cousin.”

I didn’t even think about his parents wondering where I went. I’m not really used to asking permission to go places. “Thanks.”

He nods. “And since I’ve now covered for you, I get to ask a question.”

“Okay,” I say warily.

“Tell me about your tattoos.”

It wasn’t the question I was expecting. I had thought he’d want me to finally talk about why I ran away after Mama died. Discuss my feelings, God forbid. “Not much to tell. All Goondas get them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s just what you do.”

“Have you always been with the Goondas? Since you left?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you always a thief?” He looks at his hands. “Did you ever have to . . .”

I scowl. “Did I ever have to whore myself out? No.”