Mists of the Serengeti(18)

“I made her that hat. I can give it to whoever I choose.”

“It’s not just a hat. Not to me!”

They went back and forth, hurling sentences at each other.

Scholastica’s eyes darted from Jack to Goma. It didn’t take much to figure out what they were arguing about. She took off the hat, sliding it slowly from her head. For a moment, she admired the big, floppy flower in the center that looked like a little burst of sunshine. Then she folded it in half and held it out to Jack, squinting up at him with her bizarre, milky blue eyes. He stopped mid-sentence, staring at her. She nudged the hat closer and when he continued standing there, stiff and frozen, she placed it in his palm and curled his fingers around it.

My throat clogged as the sun beat down on her exposed head. Somewhere down the line, she had become my ward, my responsibility. I had moved beyond her startling appearance and saw her for the little girl she was.

Jack saw something too, something that made him grab her hand as she turned to go. He held his daughter’s hat tight in his other hand and knelt before Scholastica.

“Her name was Lily. Jina yake ilikuwa Lily,” he said.

“Lily?” asked Scholastica.

Jack nodded. “Mtoto yangu, my daughter. She liked rainbows and chocolate. Melted chocolate. See?” He pointed to the stains and slid the hat onto Scholastica’s head. “She liked dancing. And singing. And taking photos.” He adjusted the hat so that the sunflower was centered in the front. “She died,” he said. “Alikufa.”

“Pole,” replied Scholastica. Sorry.

Then she put her arms around him and gave him a hug. They embraced under the gable of the house, Scholastica’s balloon bobbing over them, and Kilimanjaro watching silently from the clouds.

It was a moment of big and small—the man, the girl, the mountain, the manor. I couldn’t see Jack’s face, but I knew something was happening—something powerful, yet tender. When it was done, they spoke to each other without any words. Jack straightened and led Scholastica to the car, where Bahati and I were waiting.

“You said you’ll come back tomorrow,” he said to me.

“Pardon me?”

“Yesterday. You said, ‘Maybe this isn’t the best time. I’ll come back tomorrow.’”

I stared at him blankly.

“It’s tomorrow, Rodel Emerson. Come back inside. I’ll take you and Scholastica to Wanza.”

“You will?” A small thrill shot down my spine. “What about the other kids?” I had other names to cross off. I needed a commitment.

Jack opened the car door and waited for me to step out. Then he extended his hand out. When I put my hand in his large, rough grip, he held it for a moment, as if allowing me the opportunity to back out.

Then he squeezed.

It was a silent handshake, an unspoken agreement. And although I had only just met him, I knew I could trust Jack Warden to keep his promise. Come what may.





I FOLLOWED JACK into the library after lunch and watched him unroll a map across the polished walnut desk. He took the three Post-its I handed to him, and laid them out on the map:

July 17—Juma (Baraka)

Aug 29—Sumuni (Maymosi)

Sept 1—Furaha (Magesa)

“We’ll make one trip to Wanza,” he said, after studying Mo’s notes. “The last two stops are on the way there and the dates are close. Your sister and Gabriel probably planned it that way. Instead of driving back and forth, we’ll go to Baraka and get Juma first.” He tapped the location on the map. “We can leave tomorrow and bring him back to the farm. The next pickup isn’t for another week. We’ll set out with him and Scholastica then, stop at Maymosi and Magesa, and head on to Wanza from there.” He looked at me for confirmation.

He was silhouetted against the window, dust motes dancing around him as beams of light slanted in through the pane. The edges of his hair shone like pale gold where the sun touched it, making him look like a dark, charcoal drawing, infused with light. He was still walled up, still barricaded from the inside, but something had cracked open.

Jack had no desire to be pulled back into a world that had taken his daughter away. He had done his part, played the hero, been lauded for saving three lives—a woman, her unborn child, and her little boy—but he found no comfort in the fact that they were alive, or that he was alive. Lily was gone, and he was in pure agony. And yet, there he was, waiting for a reply, looking at me as if acknowledging for the first time that I existed, that what I thought mattered.

“That sounds great.” If he could see me from within that vortex of pain, if he could see beyond himself, I sure as hell could look past his rough, harsh edges. Besides, there was something to be said for a man who kept a bunch of balloons in his all-dark library.

“They remind me of Lily,” he said, when he noticed my eyes lingering on them. “I pick up a new batch whenever I’m in town. It was the last thing she asked me for. Yellow balloons. She wanted them for Aristurtle, so we wouldn’t have to keep looking for him,” he explained, before returning the Post-it notes to me.

I thought about how Mo and Lily were still so present in the yellow paper I held, in the yellow balloons that Jack held on to, and the tortoise that was somewhere behind the desk—invisible, but with a burst of color trailing him.

“I hope we all go like that, leaving something bright behind,” I said.