City of Saints & Thieves(99)

“Call when you get there with the phone Mr. G gave you, okay? My number is already programmed in.” Her backpack strap has slipped down her shoulder, and I tug it up.

“Yeah.” She can’t stop staring around.

I push my sleeves up. I’m getting hot for some reason, and agitated. I look around. Mr. G said there was supposed to be someone here to meet her—someone from the airline who’ll watch her and make sure she gets where she needs to go. But I don’t see anyone. I put my hands on my hips.

Kiki turns back to me, like she’s finally remembered I’m there. “You got a new tattoo.”

My tension ebbs. I show her my forearm. My first non-Goonda tattoo. The skin is still raw and scabbing, but the new tattoo artist I found did a good job. My long, straight scar is now the central stem of a palm branch. It looks just like the one Saint Catherine holds in Mama’s prayer card.

“It’s a symbol of triumph,” I say.

Just then a woman breezes up to us. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, but her face underneath is pretty and friendly. She gives us a big smile. “Catherine Masika?”

Kiki raises her hand.

The woman smiles even wider at her and then at me. “I work for the airline. The flight will board soon, but you can go on first with me and we’ll get you settled. Does that sound good?”

Kiki gulps. “Yes, madam.”

I back up, already feeling myself melting away into the crowd, into the background. She’ll be fine, I tell myself. This is what Mama would have wanted for her. Michael will be there. He won’t let anything bad happen. Still, some part of me wants to grab Kiki’s hand and make a run for it. My throat burns, but I won’t cry in front of her.

The woman takes Kiki’s passport and ticket and puts her hand on her shoulder to steer her toward the gate. She looks at me. “Do you want to say good-bye?” she asks Kiki.

My sister nods again and then turns to me.

“Bye,” I say.

“Bye.”

Then I open my arms and she hits me so hard that we nearly topple over. I squeeze her and press my face into her hair and take a deep breath. All the expensive perfumes in all the duty-free shops in the world could never smell so sweet.

For a moment the world is still and golden, and then Kiki pulls back from me. She’s crying, but she’s smiling too.

“Be good,” I say, and rub the back of my hand across my nose.

For a second, Kiki’s smile makes her look just like Mama in the old photograph of her and Cathi. “You be good too.”

Then she turns and walks toward the gate with the lady, past a roped-off area where I can’t follow. As the woman gives Kiki’s ticket to the gate agent, Kiki looks back at me and says something.

“What?” I ask, and come as close as I can.

She points at my arm and shouts, “Your new tattoo! It’s not for triumph. It means peace!”

I look down at the palm branch. When I look back up, Kiki is walking with the woman through the door that will take them out to the tarmac and the plane. She looks over her shoulder and waves at me one last time.

I wave until long after she can’t see me anymore.





AUTHOR’S NOTE


A few notes on liberties the author has taken with the truth:

Much of this story is based on real events affecting real people in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Human rights violations, especially against women, are common. While Anju’s story is fictionalized, it draws from persecution histories I heard firsthand while working with refugees in Kenya, as well as documentation from groups like Human Rights Watch and the UN Security Council. Mining companies bring much-needed employment, but undoubtedly take advantage of chaos and corruption in the region. Refugees flee to neighboring countries every day, looking for peace and security. The conflict is ongoing, complex, and overlooked by much of the rest of the world.

At the same time, eastern Congo is a place of incredible beauty. Its inhabitants are regular and extraordinary people of profound dignity who, like others around the world, are simply trying to go about the business of living their lives. Putting themselves at great risk, brave women and men work every day to help end the conflict and care for survivors of violence. Under-resourced clinics like the mission hospital in this story operate against incredible odds. If you’ve been moved to learn more about such places, here are a few to get you started: Solidarité Féminine pour la Paix et le Développement Intégral (sofepadi.org), located in DRC’s North Kivu; Sister Angélique Namaika’s Centre for Reintegration and Development in Orientale Province; Panzi Hospital in Bukavu; and HEAL Africa in Goma.

That is the real story.

Things that are not real: the characters, plot, Sangui City, and Kasisi are all from my imagination. Of course, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that, like many authors, I am a magpie. I steal things from real life all the time and use them to fancy up my nest. For those who know Kenya, you can imagine Sangui City as a mix of Mombasa’s coastal beauty and Nairobi’s hustle. And while Kasisi is not a real town, Walikale Territory and Walikale Town in North Kivu are.

Saint Catherine’s prayer was adapted from two different prayers: 1) John James Burke, Bonaventure Hammer, Mary, Help of Christians, and the Fourteen Saints Invoked as Holy Helpers (London: Forgotten Books, 2013), pp. 234–5 (original work published 1909), and 2) Réalta [an] chruinne Caitir Fhíona: St. Catherine of Alexandria [McKenna, L.: Aithdioghluim Dána (Irish Texts Society, vols. 37, 40, 1939/40), poem 99].