City of Saints & Thieves(59)

We squeeze in with a dozen nuns and a priest. The electricity has been shut off throughout the compound, and everything is lit by flickering oil lanterns. The nuns tell us that since they don’t get many guests anymore, the hotel restaurant has been disassembled and the useful parts scavenged. But the nuns have their own kitchen, and after a blessing they dish out steaming bowls of dengu, sukuma, and matoke.

“It’s just beans, greens, and bananas,” I tell Michael when he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his plate. “Don’t be rude.”

Michael takes a tentative bite, grunts with approval, and is soon digging in. The nuns’ chatter is a warm envelope around the table, and soon, between that and the food, I’m feeling a little better. Exhaustion from the long ride is catching up to us. Boyboy’s head nods over his plate.

“You are students?” the priest, Father Fidele, asks. “What brings you to Kasisi?” He is young and friendly looking. His face is still round with baby fat.

The talking subsides and there are only the sounds of spoons clinking on plates while the nuns turn expectantly to us for an answer. I clear my throat and wipe my mouth, realizing too late I’ve done so with the back of my hand. “Yes,” I say. “We’re on, eh, an assignment.”

“To talk with villagers about farming practices,” Michael supplies. “We’re in a conservation ecology class.”

Boyboy coughs, and I smile and nod, grateful for Michael’s quick save.

“That sounds like a big assignment for secondary school students. And you’re traveling without chaperones?”

“We’re in university,” Boyboy assures them.

One of the older nuns tuts. “It’s not that strange. I traveled on my own for school when I was their age.”

“That was before the roads were clogged with rebels,” another answers.

“There have been reports of raids over the past few days on villages to the north of here,” Sister Dorothy says.

“We are very careful,” I say. “We stay with pastors and priests along the way.”

“You have to watch out for them too,” a nun says, and the others laugh. She’s given a stern look by a sister who I assume is in charge, and murmurs an apology.

“Quite all right,” Father Fidele says. He’s laughing too. “We’ll pray for a safe journey for you.”

“Um, thank you.”

“Sister Dorothy says you are from here, Christina?” the priest asks.

I shift in my seat. I wish I’d thought of some other story to tell the nun, but too late now. “Yes. I left here when I was five, about eleven years ago, with my mother.” I hesitate, glance at Michael and Boyboy, but they’re waiting for me to go on. Can I ask about Mama? They’re nuns, I think. A priest. They take care of the villagers. Hope flashes in my chest. I could be missing my chance by not saying anything. “She was a nurse,” I say carefully, watching their faces. “She may have worked here.”

“Oh? What was her name?”

I take a breath. “Anju Yvette Masika.”

My words are met with silence, and I look around to see spoons hovering en route to mouths, eyes widening. One of the nuns discreetly makes the sign of the cross over her chest. My stomach drops. Then, just as suddenly, the moment is over and everyone is back to eating, like nothing happened. But I see Sister Dorothy exchange a look with the older nun before returning to her food.

“Do you know her?” Michael asks, subtle as ever, when no one responds. I want to kick him under the table, but I’m afraid of hitting a nun.

A few heads shake no. No one else offers up any explanation for their reaction, and the priest clears his throat and asks for seconds. There is a flurry to accommodate him, after which the talk turns to the dwindling pharmaceutical inventory, and whether anyone should be sent to Goma for supplies, and if the malaria season will be bad this year. I glance at Boyboy, and he raises an eyebrow. Someone here knows something.





TWENTY-SEVEN


I want to catch Sister Dorothy and talk to her privately after dinner, but a young woman who works in the hospital gets to her first, tugging her arm before Sister Dorothy has even stood up from the table. The other nuns vanish in twos and threes like ghosts, and there’s no opening for me to ask about my mother. We’re given oil lanterns, and I’m left to trail after Boyboy and Michael, a mix of exhaustion and uneasiness settling into my bones.

The rooms we unlock are damp and feel neglected. Geckos scatter in the lamplight, barking in alarm. There are no beds, but the caretaker has found a couple of chairs and some cots that remind me of the one I slept on in the Greyhills’ dungeon.

I half expect Michael to make a fuss about the conditions, but he just slings his bag onto his cot and says, “Home sweet home.”

Boyboy flicks a switch on the wall experimentally in Michael’s room, but nothing happens. “My laptop’s not going to last long with no electricity,” he says.

“I hope your brain doesn’t dry up without screen time.”

He makes a face. “I’ve got brainpower for miles, sweetie, don’t you worry. It’s my computer I’m worried about. I’ll charge it up tomorrow. I brought a solar panel. I just won’t be able to do much work until then.”

“What was that all about at dinner?” Michael asks.