City of Saints & Thieves(77)

? ? ?

I want to go fast, so Father Fidele won’t have to walk too far to meet me, but the path is full of stones and my feet are still bruised. I should have taken the sandals Cathi offered, but I could tell they were her only pair. Instead I pick my way through the rocks as best I can. There is no one on the path, and the only noise is the stream rushing past and birds calling above. The late-afternoon sun sends gold spears through the branches. As I walk, the tangled, painful web of what Cathi has revealed about my mother begins to unwind, and the strands reweave themselves, joining with what I already knew. They form the start of a picture.

I organize everything into a sort of timeline of what I know and what I still don’t:

Mama and Cathi were captured by militia and taken to work in a mine.

Mama was singled out by Number Two. This psycho is probably my father. He was sent here by a white guy, who must be Mr. Greyhill.

Mama and Cathi escaped from the militia. I was born. Time passed.

Donatien came around asking questions, and Mama agreed to show him where the deals happened.

Before she could, militia came again to our home and captured her and Cathi again. She pushed me out the window and I escaped. The same day, someone tried to kill Donatien.

Mama somehow escaped again from the militia, found me, and we left Congo. Mama took us to Sangui City.

Mama went to work for the Greyhills, even though Donatien told her that Mr. Greyhill was bad guy Number One, Number Two’s employer. Why? Why did she go there, and why did he agree to employ her?

Mama had Kiki; Mr. G is her father.

Mama threatened to expose Mr. G; he threatened to kill her.

Mama was murdered in Mr. G’s house, but not by Mr. G. David Mwika, head of security, takes the video of the murder and then later tries to blackmail someone with it. Who?

David Mwika could be the murderer, but what’s his motive? And if not him, who? And why? The killer didn’t take anything; he wasn’t a robber. He was deliberate about killing Mama. Was it someone who wanted to stop her from doing something? Or get revenge for something she had already done? Or was it some other reason entirely?

I slow to a stop and stand looking at the creek. Because I realize that while I have a million questions, what I really need to know first is fairly simple. It’s the same question I keep coming back around to: Why did Mama search out Mr. Greyhill? Why ask for a job? And why did he agree to let her work there, let me stay there—essentially sheltering us? What did he gain? If I knew that, I think I’d know a lot more about who might want to kill her.

That’s what I need to find out.

And it won’t be easy, but I know who I have to ask. I need to get back to Boyboy and Michael and a phone. I swivel from the creek back to the path, determined.

And there, standing right in my way, is Father Fidele.

He startles me, and I take a step back. His approaching footsteps had been muffled by the rushing water. I feel the creek bank crumbling underfoot and he grabs my hand to keep me from falling back. “Careful!”

I start to thank him, but something in his eyes stops me. I don’t have time to scream before he’s pulling me close with the hand that is gripping my wrist. With his other hand he presses a cloth over my face. I start to fight, but stinging vapors hit my lungs, and everything goes bright and swirls and fades to nothing.





THIRTY-SIX


Good, now bring the cloth around on both sides so we can tie it in the middle,” Mama said.

We were outside our cottage, standing at the edge of the grass, Mama, Kiki, and me. It was warm and sunny, and all over the Greyhills’ yard I heard the familiar sounds of the staff at work. Maids chatting, the chop of the gardener’s panga cutting back weeds. A thump and the occasional sneeze as dust was beaten out of a carpet. They were preparing for a party.

Mama was needed in the house, so I had a job too. I was bent over at the waist, baby Kiki a squirmy warm mass on my back. Mama’s sure hands guided mine as we gathered the ends of the kanga cloth—one over my shoulder, one around my middle—and made Kiki snug against me. Today I would wear Kiki and take her with me wherever I went. Mama told me it was a big responsibility, but I was six and a half years old and ready for it.

“Can you make the knot?” she asked me.

I could. I made it too tight at first, but Mama helped me loosen it. Kiki made happy little baby noises to herself.

“Now stand slowly; make sure she isn’t going to slip.” Mama stepped back to observe.

I looked up at her, waiting for judgment. Those eyes saw everything. Every loose corner of the fabric, every stray hair come out of my braids, the scabs on both my knees from playing with Michael, my secondhand skirt already getting too short. She would find something wrong; she always managed to.

So I was surprised when she crouched at my level and kissed my forehead. “You are my good girl,” she said, and her smile was something rare and brilliant that I wanted to capture, to hold tight in my fist and reexamine later when I was alone. “Take care of your sister,” she said.

“I will,” I said.

And I did. Not just that day, but every day after.

? ? ?

A hand smacks me across the face. My head bobs back and forth. The sting is enough to draw me out of the darkness, but for a few seconds I still don’t know what’s going on. Someone is yelling at me, I realize.

“Tiny. Tiny Girl. Wake up.”