Mists of the Serengeti(24)

“And here we are,” said Ken.

“Over forty years later.”

“Only because you want to see the world and need someone to carry your bags.”

“We pick up knick-knacks from around the world, for our vintage shop in Canada,” Judy explained.

“A place called Hamilton.”

“It’s by Niagara Falls.”

“Look us up if you’re ever in the area.”

“It’s called Ken and Judy’s.”

They completed each other’s sentences and entertained us with their stories for the rest of the night. Jack and I hung around after they left, watching the flickering lanterns sway in the night breeze.

The watchman did not need his flashlight to show us back to the tent. Someone had built a roaring fire in the center of the semi-circle of tents. A few of the guests sat around on blankets, while one of the guards played a harmonica.

“Stay a while!” Judy patted the empty blanket beside her. “There’s no heating in the tents.”

I wove through the small boulders around the circle of guests and sat down next to Ken and Judy. Jack followed, taking the vacant spot beside me. Above us, a spray of stars hung suspended in the velvet sky. The fire crackled, like leopard eyes in the night, reminding me of ancient men who had come and gone, in the rolling grasslands and volcanic highlands around us.

The warmth from the fire softened my bones. The harmonica played in long, slow drags, lulling my senses. Another guard started beating a drum to the same languid beat. Ken and Judy got up and swayed to the music. The couple sitting next to them passed me a pipe.

“What is it?” I asked.

They said something, but it wasn’t in English.

Another time, I would have declined, but thoughts of Juma and Mo and Lily were starting to crowd my mind. I took a deep puff of whatever it was and handed it back to them. It warmed my lungs and left a woody, astringent taste in my mouth. We went back and forth a few times, exchanging the pipe.

The wood smoke, soft voices, ember light catching on gleaming foreheads, the slow warmth, the cold stars—all melded into a throbbing night sorcery. The music slid under my skin, its drunken notes pulsating through my veins. The valley quaked, the sky glowed in a flame. I felt like a forgotten galaxy in a vast universe, like I was about to float away.

“Dance with me, Jack.” I gripped his hand. It hung heavy, until I got up and tugged.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had danced, let alone asked someone to dance. It was good to be held in Jack’s arms, to shuffle around the fire with his warm hands circling my waist. I lay my head on his chest and heard the drum beat through his heart. I felt like an oracle listening to it. It said I was equal parts earth and stars, equal parts animal and soul. I was hope. I was calamity. I was love. I was prejudice. I was my sister. I was his daughter. I was Juma. I was Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.

“I like the way your heart beats,” I said. “And I like the way you say my name. Rodelle. It makes me sound pretty.”

“You are pretty.” He paused mid-step, like I’d thrown him off. He lifted my chin gently and watched the play of golden light across my face. “You’re insanely beautiful.”

They were not words I would have used to describe myself, but in that moment, I believed him. I felt insanely beautiful, even though I wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, and my clothes were wrinkled, and my nails were bare and ragged. I believed him because he said it with the simplicity of an observation, one that seemed to hold him arrested, as if he had just noticed it himself.

The blood rushed to my cheeks, my lips, the arch of my brows, the tip of my nose—everywhere his eyes seared my skin.

“No.” I averted my gaze. It felt wrong to feel so alive, wrong to feel this burst of exhilaration. “Mo was beautiful. And fun. And funny. I miss her. So much.”

Jack didn’t move away, but it was as if we both took a step back from whatever had momentarily blazed between us, turning instead to our private thoughts, our private grief. As we swayed in silence, I found myself burrowing deeper into the comfort of his arms. He was so warm—warmer than the fire.

“Is that Bahati laughing?” I mumbled, my cheek pressed flat against his chest. Jack was tall, the tallest guy I had ever danced with. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know what you smoked, Rodel, but that’s not Bahati. It’s a hyena. Somewhere out there.” He laughed.

“I like it when you laugh. I mean, when you really laugh. It starts here.” I touched his throat. “But I feel it here.” I splayed my fingers across his chest.

We both felt it then—the flare of something wild and combustible, like a flickering ember leaping from the bonfire. Our eyes locked and Jack turned stone-still, every muscle in his torso locking down in taut, tight tension. His chest was red hot under my hand, as if all of our senses had fused there, in a scorching, molten mess. Then he cleared his throat and stepped away.

“I think we better get you to bed,” he said.

I nodded, feeling a bit like I was standing in quicksand. My legs were wobbly and my heart was pounding. It must have been from the pipe, because I stood there, limp and drained, like a stewed noodle.

I can’t remember if I walked, or if Jack carried me back to our tent, but he tucked me into bed and wrapped the blanket tight around me.