Mists of the Serengeti(33)

“You drink when you’re offered,” he said. “It’s a sign of respect.”

“Between the blood and the spit, the exchange of bodily fluids is clearly a winning theme,” I remarked under my breath, but Jack heard me nonetheless. I’d always thought I was fair and open-minded, but my prejudices were starting to surface, and it was making me irritable and uncomfortable.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the invite to the communal orgy we’re headed for?”

“What?” I stopped in my tracks.

The little boy walking behind me nose-dived straight into my bum. It was a cushioned landing for him, but he had a hard head, and I rubbed my arse as everyone passed us by.

“It’s part of the celebration.” Jack checked out my tush with great interest, so I glared at him, even though a part of me ached whenever I caught a glimpse of this Jack—the fun, laid-back Jack who’d been buried under the rubble of a mall.

“It’s an eating orgy, Rodel,” he said. “They’re going to slaughter a goat in honor of today’s ceremony.”

“And I’m supposed to eat it?” My bum was sore, I was tired, and the flies seemed to have a thing for me. I was hungry, but not that hungry.

“They’re going to roast it.” Jack laughed. “But first, they dance,” he said, as we found ourselves at the edge of a circle of villagers.

A moran entered the circle, poised and regal in his scarlet sheet and turquoise cape. He started jumping, spear in hand, while the rest of the men emitted a low-pitched drone. As he jumped higher and higher, they raised their pitch to match his leaps, until he got tired and another warrior took his place. Then the women took over the singing. A lone woman crooned a line, and the rest of the group answered in unison. A lot of the ladies wore ornate, beaded collars around their necks that rocked up and down when they flapped their shoulders. As the men jumped, fierce and proud, attaining impressive heights, everyone heaped praises upon them. It was a very male display of muscle, virility, and stamina. I sneaked a look at the women to see if they were taking notes.

Holy crap, they were. They were totally into it. Especially the girl who had undergone the symbolic circumcision ceremony. She was being nudged and elbowed by the other girls. She was The Bachelorette, the debutante, the Belle of the Boma. I wondered if she got to choose her husband, or if it would be decided for her.

I was about to ask Jack when Olonana pulled him inside the circle. A high-pitched trill ran through the crowd as Jack kicked off his shoes. Apparently, it was a call to battle—to see who could jump higher. Olonana and Jack leaped facing each other, rising and falling. I caught glimpses of a sheathed dagger under the chief’s clothes as they rose higher and higher. It was a duel between the chief and his visitor, and Jack was all in.

There was an unrestrained fluidity about his movements, a rawness that stirred something hot and electric in me. He was muscle in motion. Dynamic, dominant, compelling. I could make out the warm lines of his body through his clothes—the expanse of his chest, the cut of steely thighs, the arms that had brushed past me in the bathroom last night. I dug my nails into my palm, hoping to wake myself up from the madness consuming me, spreading through my nerves like wild grass fire. There was something in the dust, something in the dry, low humming around me, that settled in my stomach and writhed like a fish gasping for a drop of water.

I suspected Jack held back in the end, out of respect for the chief. And the older man was wise enough to know it, because he invited the other morans to join them, declaring a shared victory for all. When the group broke, Jack found me. I avoided his gaze, acutely aware of the way his breath had turned quick and shallow, the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, the heated glow of his body.

“Everything okay?” he asked, taking a big glug of water from a gourd someone handed him. No Coca-Cola here. “You seem flushed.”

“Just . . . from the sun.”

He passed me the water, and I took a sip. And then another. I wanted to douse myself with it. I had no business thinking sexy thoughts about this man. I didn’t want to, damn it.

We were invited into Olonana’s inkajijik, a traditional Maasai house. The entrance was a long, narrow arch with no door. After the bright afternoon sun, it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I felt around and found a knobby chair.

“Rodel.” Jack cleared his throat.

It was at that moment I realized I was clutching an old woman’s knee. Not a chair.

“I’m so sorry.” I jumped on Jack’s lap instead. It was turning out to be my safe haven.

Olonana and Jack conversed, while the old woman eyed me from her stool. She rummaged through a burlap sack then held something out for me. As I reached for it, something landed on my head. It was wet and warm. I was about to touch it when Jack grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t,” he said.

“What is it?” I could feel it settling into my scalp.

“A drop of rainwater from the roof.” His spoke the words softly, in my ear. “The gods have favored you. Just smile and accept the gift she’s holding out for you.”

I did as I was told, retrieving a bracelet from the old woman. It was a string of small, round beads threaded through a leather cord. Jack tied it around my wrist.

“It says something.” I held my hand up to the light. There was a letter seared into each bead.