Mists of the Serengeti(45)

“This thing between us—” his shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath “—it’ll just hurt us both. When it’s all said and done, we belong in different worlds. My home is here, yours is there. I could never ask you to stay, and you can never ask me to leave. It wouldn’t be fair. And I don’t have what it takes to let you in and then let you go. I can’t handle any more goodbyes, Rodel.” He stood at the foot of Lily’s grave, as twilight descended and shadows melted under the canopy of the ancient acacia tree. “The last one destroyed me.”

My fingers ached to straighten the crown on his head, but I stood next to him, my hands by my side, fighting the strangest pull of emotions. My heart was heavy with a sense of loss: his, mine, ours. At the same time, something beautiful had come alive at Jack’s declaration, his acknowledgment of our connection. It was as if a tiny seed filled with magic had taken root. And even though it would never see the light of day, just the fact that it had formed, where there had been nothing before, made me feel like infinite blossoms were blooming inside me.





NIGHTS AT THE farm were slow, welcome pauses when everything hung suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. Goma sat at her old sewing machine, her foot on the pedal, filling the library with a soft whirring. Occasionally, she would get up, measure the fabric against Scholastica’s form, and either nod or get her scissors and tailor’s chalk.

“What are you making?” I asked.

Jack, Scholastica, and I were leaving in the morning to pick up the next child on Mo’s list, and from there we had one more stop before we headed for Wanza.

“I’m sewing some wraparound skirts for Scholastica,” replied Goma. “They’ll last her a while.”

Scholastica looked up at the mention of her name. We were practicing how to write her name. Ever since she had seen it on paper, she’d developed a fascination with it.

Scholastica

Scholastica

Scholastica

She scribbled it on every blank piece of paper she could find. It was as if she was discovering her identity, solidifying it every time she wrote it.

This is me.

This is me.

This is me.

“She looks exhausted,” said Jack. He was seated at his desk, working on some invoices.

“She does, doesn’t she?” I stroked her hair, wondering how much of her apparent tiredness came from knowing it was her last night on the farm. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

She might not have understood the words, but she took her glasses off and laid her head on my lap.

“Well, I’m all done for the night.” Goma snipped a thread and held the skirt up for inspection. She folded it and placed it on the pile of other clothes she’d stitched for Scholastica. “I’ll take her upstairs. Come along.” She held her hand out for Scholastica. “Let’s get you to bed. Twende kulala. Big day tomorrow.”

Bahati let out a long sigh as they left the room.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“There is absolutely nothing to do out here,” he moaned. “I’m bored out of my mind, and it’s only 8 p.m. Don’t you crave the lights and action, Jack?”

Jack glanced up, and then went back to what he was doing.

“How about we play book charades?” I asked.

“What is book charades?” Bahati perked up.

“It’s charades, but with these.” I pointed to the shelf. “We pick a book and see if the other person can guess the title.”

“I’ve never played charades with two people. That’s silly.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll go first.” I pulled a book off the shelf, read the spine, and placed it, cover down, on my chair. “Okay. Here goes.” I held up three fingers.

“Book, obviously. Three words.”

I nodded and tried to communicate the first word, holding my nose up and walking haughtily around the room.

“Fart! You smell a fart!” exclaimed Bahati.

I glared at him and shook my head.

“Sounds like . . .” Bahati interpreted my ear-tugging gesture. “Cowboy!” he said, as I pranced around.

“Pride and Prejudice,” said Jack, without looking up.

I turned to him with my mouth hanging open. “That’s right. First word sounds like ride. That’s what I was trying to convey,” I said to Bahati. “Okay, your turn.”

“So, who wins?” he asked, removing another book from the shelf.

“Jack, I guess,” I replied.

“But he’s not even playing.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just get on with it, Bahati.”

Bahati made a face when he checked the book he was holding. He put it aside and thought about it for a while.

“Book. Two words. First word . . .” I hesitated as he pointed to his butt. “Umm . . . rump, rear end, backside, tush.”

Bahati motioned for me to keep going.

“Bum, arse . . .” I stopped when he jumped on it. “Arse?”

He nodded, but wanted me to expand.

“Butt?”

He shook his head.

“Derriere, bottom . . .”

“No, what you said before!”

“You’re not allowed to speak. Stick to the rules. So . . . arse?”