Mists of the Serengeti(16)

“I . . . she . . .” I cursed myself for not paying closer attention to all the things that Mo had chattered on about. “What does it matter? What exactly is it that you think I can’t handle?”

Seconds ticked by before he answered. “You don’t want to know. Trust me. Some things are better left in the dark, where they belong.” Then he drained his bottle of Coca-Cola in a long chug and left the room.





THE PIERCING CALL of a rooster woke me the next morning. It crowed every ten minutes, telling me it was dawn, even though it felt like I had only just fallen asleep. I rolled out of bed, shivering in Goma’s muumuu, and walked to the window.

There was just enough light to make out a figure in the fields. It was Jack, on a tractor, plowing through a bare patch of earth. I tried to imagine what it would feel like, grieving for someone in a place where things kept growing, where new life burst through the soil with bright, green shoots every day.

Where have you brought me, Mo? What are you showing me?

I made my way to the laundry room and found my clothes washed, ironed and ready to wear. I slid them on, savoring the warmth that was still folded into them.

“Oh good. You’re up,” said Goma, when I entered the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready. Be a dear and go get Bahati and Scholastica. They’re in the library.”

The house was a rambling structure, new rooms extending out of the original building over the years, nooks and crannies everywhere. It took me a while to track down Bahati and Scholastica, and when I did, I stopped dead in my tracks.

They were seated on the floor, across from each other—one of them tall, lean, and dark as night, the other soft and silver, like moonlight—watching the strangest sight: a tortoise with a yellow balloon tied around it, crossing the floor between them. They looked at me from the corner of their eyes, then back at the tortoise, and then at each other. The tortoise plodded along on round, stumpy feet, squinting at them—left, then right—like a crusty old man shaking his head in somber disapproval. We all started laughing at the same time. Scholastica’s giggles filled the space, even after Bahati and I stopped to catch our breaths.

“Come on, you two. Breakfast is ready,” I said, making eating motions for Scholastica. I headed for the door but stopped short for the second time that morning.

Jack was standing there, his eyes fixed on Scholastica. His boots were muddy, sleeves rolled up, one foot forward, but going nowhere, as if he’d been frozen by the sound of her laughter—a little girl in his daughter’s dress, giggling over a tortoise and a balloon.

Scholastica clammed up as soon as she saw him, still wary of his reaction to her from the night before. She kept her head down as he strode into the room toward her. Seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence as his shadow loomed over her. Then he said something to her in Swahili. She nodded and went back to staring at the tortoise. Jack reached into his pocket for something and popped the balloon.

BANG.

The tortoise snapped its head and limbs into its shell so fast, the air expelled out of its lungs in a long, hiss. It lay on the floor, vexed and disgruntled, with the balloon in tatters around it, like little yellow flags of surrender.

“And that’s the fastest you’ll see Aristurtle move,” observed Jack, before repeating it in Swahili for Scholastica. He knelt beside the spooked tortoise and stroked his shell. “You okay, little fellow?”

Aristurtle poked his pebbled head out warily and looked at Jack with grizzled contempt.

Scholastica burst out laughing. She laughed so hard, she rolled over, holding on to her stomach. Jack sat back and watched her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the sound of it was piercing his heart with the sweetest shrapnel. He rose and headed over to the corner where a bunch of other yellow balloons were bobbing and handed one to Scholastica. She took it and pointed to the turtle.

“No.” He shook his head. “For you.”

“Lord.” Goma walked in and gave all of us the stink eye. “I send one to get the other and lose all of you. Everyone in the kitchen. Come along now.”

She marched us to the table and filled our plates with food. “Coffee from our farm,” she said, pouring Bahati and me a cup before sitting down.

“It’s delicious,” I said, after the first hot sip. “Thank you. And thanks for looking after my clothes this morning. I hope I’m half as active when I’m your age.”

“It’s the farm,” Goma replied. “Clean air, hard work, fresh food.”

Scholastica tied her balloon on the chair next to Jack, and sat down beside him. He buttered a piece of toast, slathered it with jam, and put it on her plate. He blinked when she thanked him, as if it was something he’d done out of habit, not realizing until after he was finished.

“I heard you saved an expectant mother and her child during the mall attack,” I said, as Bahati and Goma conversed at the other end of the table. “That’s incredible.”

“Is it?”

I put my fork down and looked at him. “What’s your problem? Every time I try to be nice, you throw it back in my face. Every time I think there’s another side to you, you go back to being a jerk.”

“That’s because I am a jerk. I’m the jerk who let his daughter die. I was in the mall that day. Right there. And I stopped to get a couple of strangers out first. I was too busy saving other lives.”