Mists of the Serengeti(13)

“Crazy lady,” mumbled Bahati, as he put the car in reverse. It was a one-lane road, and she was bearing down on us, giving us no choice but to back-up as she advanced.

The rain was coming down in sheets and I could barely make out the road as Bahati reversed the car to the main building. But instead of parking, the jeep kept coming at us until we were backed up in a tight corner. The driver got out and rapped on Bahati’s window.

“Where do you think you’re going in this god-awful weather, young man? Driving like a maniac on that washed-out road?” She peered into the car, raindrops trickling down her plastic hood. She must have been at least ninety, but her blue eyes shone bright and clear.

Bahati and I exchanged a look. She was the one that had come barreling at us like a bat out of hell.

“With a lady and a child, no less,” she continued, looking at Scholastica and me. I had to hand it to her. She didn’t bat a wrinkled eye at the girl’s appearance. Then again, given her age, she’d probably seen it all.

“Get out. All of you.” She clapped her hands and made for the house, leaving her car parked exactly where it was.

“That’s Goma, Jack’s grandmother,” Bahati explained. “You can’t argue with her.”

We made a beeline for the porch, our shoes squelching in the mud. I was relieved that Jack was gone. The screen door shut behind Goma as Bahati, Scholastica, and I shivered in our wet clothes, under the awning.

“Well? Are you coming in or should I send my homing pigeons to deliver an invitation?” Goma hollered from inside.

We stepped into a charming living area with large windows, plump sofas and faded pine floors. The house was as eccentric as the lady who had invited us in—a blend of colonial design and African heritage, with mismatched pieces and earthy textures.

Goma was standing in the middle of the room, trousers around her ankles, stepping out of her soggy clothes. Bahati and I averted our gazes while Scholastica watched with wide eyes.

“Brave girl,” said Goma. “Not afraid of old skin. You don’t speak English, do you?” She switched to Swahili and soon Scholastica was giggling. “Come on.” She held a hand out to her. “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”

I snuck a peek out of the corner of my eye, relieved that Goma had left her underwear on. They returned, wearing colorful muumuus—long, loose dresses that covered them from head to foot.

“I make these out of kitenge. You’ll never want to wear those jeans again,” said Goma, handing me a muumuu.

Bahati looked at her like she’d lost her mind when she gave him a green and yellow one.

“Oh, go on.” She shoved it into his hands. “You’re dripping water all over my floors.”

They faced each other for a few seconds, battling silently. Then Bahati snatched the muumuu from her.

“Bathroom’s over there.” She inclined her head and watched as he ambled towards it, his feet shuffling like he was heading off to a sacrificial altar.

“I’m Katherine Warden,” she said, turning to me. “Everyone calls me Goma.”

“Rodel Emerson.” I shook her gnarled hand. “And this is Scholastica.”

“Rodel and Scholastica,” she repeated, looking at us with curious eyes. “So what brings you here?”

I explained the situation as concisely as I could.

“I’m sorry Jack was so rude to you,” she said, when I was done. “It appears you are both bound by the events of a tragic afternoon. Jack hasn’t been the same since he lost Li—” She stopped as Bahati returned, wearing the muumuu. It barely skimmed past his knees.

Goma pinched Scholastica—a quick, sharp nip on the back of her hand to stop her from giggling. Bahati in a muumuu was a very quiet man, nothing like the Bahati who rattled on and on.

“Excuse me.” I needed to get out of there before Goma pinched me too. “I think I’ll go change.”

When I came back, they were all in the kitchen—Bahati and Scholastica huddled around the table, while Goma ladled hot soup into their bowls.

“You can hang those up in the laundry,” she said, pointing to the wet bundle rolled up in my arms.

The rain was still falling hard as I made my way down the hallway to the laundry room. I found some clothes pegs and was hanging up my things when lightning illuminated the back of the house. I thought I saw Jack momentarily through the window, standing outside in the middle of a full-fledged tropical storm. I was about to chalk it up to my imagination when another flash lit him up again. He was just standing there, under a tree that looked like it was hundreds of years old, staring at the ground, while the rain whipped hell and fury all around him.

“I think Jack is still outside,” I said when I stepped into the kitchen.

Goma nodded and continued having her soup. “He does that. Sits with her whenever there’s a storm.” She pushed a bowl toward me. “Eat.”

“Sits with who?” I asked, taking the chair across from her.

“Lily. His daughter. She’s buried out there. They all are. This place sure lived up to its name.”

“Kaburi Estate?” I recalled the sign at the entrance.

“Yes. It was supposed to be Karibu Estate. Karibu means welcome, but I was still learning Swahili back then and I wrote Kaburi on the work order. It means a grave. Sam—my husband—thought it was hilarious. He refused to correct it. He always said he’d love me to his grave.” Goma stared into her bowl. “And so he did. He loved me to the end.”