Mists of the Serengeti(42)

“Good job!” He peered into Scholastica’s basket and high-fived her. “Safi sana. I think you guys have earned your coffee.” He combined our baskets and headed for the collection site.

“Come on,” he said, as I trailed behind them, still trying to catch my breath. “Time to make your first cup of coffee from scratch.”

He dumped our cherries into a giant bin, scooped an equivalent amount from the ones that were drying on large, flat containers, and poured them into a giant, wooden mortar.

“We use a machine for this part, but this works great for small batches. Here.” He handed the pestle to Scholastica.

We took turns pounding the berries. Once the husks were off, we poured everything into a shallow basket and winnowed, leaving only the inner bean. Jack roasted the coffee in a small clay pot over an open fire, until it turned dark. Then we pounded the beans and brewed them in boiling water.

“Ready?” He handed Scholastica a cup.

She blew on the hot liquid and took a big gulp.

“Kaaaaa!” She spit it out and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Mbaya sana!” She handed the cup back to Jack.

“You don’t like it? Hupendi?” He feigned surprise.

“Ah-ah.” She shook her head and said something in Swahili.

“Bitter like medicine?” Jack tsked. “But it smells so good. Harufu nzuri sana.”

She turned her nose up as he held it out for her. “Ninapendelea maziwa.”

“Maziwa? Jamani.” He sat down with an exaggerated sigh. “All this hard work and you want milk? Go on. Go ask Goma for maziwa.” He pointed her toward the house.

She didn’t need further prompting.

“You knew she wouldn’t like it,” I said, as we watched her race away in her sunflower hat.

“I guess I could have offered her milk and sugar.” Jack gave me a sheepish smile. “But it’s not really coffee she wants. It’s having some kind of control over her life, even if it’s something as small as choosing what to eat or drink. All we really want is to feel that we matter—that we’re seen, that we’re heard.”

“You’re really good with her,” I said. “I feel like I’m at a bit of a disadvantage because I don’t speak Swahili.”

“If you can’t speak, just listen. That’s what someone once said to me.” He poured me some coffee and sat down on the wooden log across from me.

“Good advice.” I accepted the cup and smiled. He’d remembered my words, and for some reason, that made me happy. “You don’t like coffee?”

“I love coffee,” he replied, watching me take a sip.

“Really?” I prodded. “I’ve never seen you drink it.”

He leaned back, picked a cloud, and fixed his eyes on it. I didn’t think he was going to answer when he finally spoke.

“I was drinking coffee in the parking lot when it all started that day. At the mall. The taste of it was still in my mouth when the building collapsed. I retch every time I have coffee now because it takes me right back to that moment.”

I didn’t know what to say, because I had no idea what it was like to be surrounded by acres and acres of something that you loved, but could never taste. Instead, I cradled my coffee and followed his gaze toward the sky. We watched silently as the clouds drifted past the majestic face of Mount Kilimanjaro, like wispy veils of silver.



“THIS ONE, SCHOLASTICA.” I pointed to the letter A in the book and encouraged her to copy it on the sheet of paper before her.

She seemed to have trouble understanding, so I went ahead and wrote a small A at the top of the page.

“Your turn,” I said, handing her the pen.

She looked at me, then at the paper, and scribbled something completely different in the corner.

“Like this: A,” I said, as I wrote the letter.

She repeated the sound perfectly, but her A was nowhere close to mine.

I flipped to a blank sheet and filled the entire page with a big A, exaggerating the strokes. “Can you do it like this?”

She copied my letter slowly and held it up.

“Yes!” I clapped my hands. “That’s it! How about this one?” I asked, indicating a B in the book.

Her expression was blank, so I wrote a big B and showed it to her.

She bent over the desk and replicated it perfectly.

“Well done! This is A, and this is B.” I pointed out the letters in the book. She peered at them but had no reaction.

“Here.” I pulled the book closer to her. “Can you see them now?”

Scholastica looked at the pages and brought them even closer, until her nose was inches from the center crease. Then she smiled.

“A.” She showed it to me, before picking up her handwritten one and waving it gleefully.

“Good!” I beamed at her. “Can you find a B?”

Once again, she held the book near her face and examined the words.

“B!” she exclaimed, when she found one.

We were still celebrating when Goma entered the library.

“Scholastica is learning the alphabet,” I said. “But I think she needs glasses.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Poor vision goes hand in hand with albinism. I’ll make an appointment for her to see Dr. Nasmo. He’s the optometrist we use in Amosha.”