Mists of the Serengeti(5)

“A drink would be nice,” she said to Andy.

“Well then . . .” He looked chuffed as he led her to his car—a compact, white hybrid.

They drove to a small, rustic pub overlooking the river. The rough, hewn wooden tables were snug, barely wide enough to hold their beers, and their knees touched as they sat across from each other.

“In case I haven’t been clear, I think you’re very pretty,” said Andy. “You have umm . . . beautiful brown eyes. I like your . . .” He pointed in her general direction, searching for something elusive, and finally went in for the kill. “I like your hair.”

“Thank you.” Rodel drowned her face in the dimpled mug holding her drink.

Why was dating always so painful? Why were kisses always as piss warm as her beer?

“Do your parents live around here?” asked Andy.

It’s just small talk, thought Rodel. He isn’t announcing his intentions to meet them.

For once, Rodel was relieved her parents were thousands of miles away. She’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to recast her hero. She would happily spend the rest of her life with fictional book boyfriends.

Darcy? Oh yes.

Grey? Oh my.

Aragorn? Oh my, yes, yes, yes!

“My parents live in Birmingham, but they’re retired and love to travel,” she said. “They’re in Thailand right now.”

“Well, if you need help moving, I can . . .” He trailed off and followed Rodel’s gaze. She was staring at the TV. Something on the screen had caught her attention.

She stood, slowly—stiff and wooden—and walked up to the bartender. “Can you turn that up?” It was more than a simple request. There was a tight, controlled edge to her voice that drew everyone’s attention. A hush fell over the pub as all eyes turned to the news broadcast.

“Gunmen stormed into a crowded mall in Amosha, Tanzania, minutes before a powerful explosion went off. Dozens are feared dead. More on this developing story from our foreign correspondent . . .”

They cut to the scene of carnage, billows of black smoke rising like dark tornadoes behind the reporter.

“My phone.” Rodel backed away from the screen and stumbled toward the table. She turned her bag upside down, and got on her knees, scouring the contents for her phone.

“What’s wrong?” asked Andy.

“I need my phone! My sister is in Amosha. I have to get in tou—” She pounced on her phone and started dialing. “Pick up. Come on, Mo. Pick up.” Her chest rose and fell with each breath.

Someone sat her down on a chair. Someone brought her a glass of water. No one picked up at the other end. It went straight to voice mail. She dialed again. And then again. Her fingers trembled as she waited for the string of international dialing codes to go through.

She was about to hang up and try her parents when she noticed the little icon for new voice mail.

Mo. She must have left a message when she’d called earlier.

Rodel listened as her sister’s voice filtered through the speaker, but it wasn’t warm and bubbly like every other time they’d spoken since Mo had left for Tanzania. This Mo was tense and tight, and she was speaking in sharp, staccato whispers that Rodel strained to make out.

“Ro, I’m in Kilimani Mall . . . something . . . going down . . . gunmen everywhere . . .” The words were fading in and out, like a bad connection. “I’m hiding . . . there’s . . . only thing . . . keeping me . . .” There was a long pause. Rodel could hear hushed voices before Mo came back on the line. “ . . . going to wait . . . safe here, but if I don’t . . .” Her voice dropped. “If . . . I . . . love you, Ro . . . Mum and Dad . . . don’t . . . worry. We’ll . . . laugh . . . my crazy stories . . . Australia. I have . . . all the chances, Ro . . .”

The recording ended. And what had started off as the happiest day of Rodel’s life trailed off, just like the empty, insidious echo at the end of her sister’s call.

Ro . . .

Followed by crackling dead air.

Rodel’s mind raced.

Mo had mentioned Australia. She had thought she was going to die then, too, and had called Rodel while crossing a crocodile-infested river in a sinking ferry.

She had been shouting ‘Ro, Ro!’ but the people on the ferry thought she was telling them to ‘Row, row!’ The vessel had made it to safety and as Mo collapsed on the shore, the call still in progress, the two of them had laughed with giddy relief.

“Come home, Mo,” Rodel had urged.

“I’m not done yet,” her sister had replied. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be done. I want to die doing what I love.”

No. I unwish that wish. Rodel clung to her phone, unaware of the invisible threads that connect wishes, actions, people, and consequences. She had no idea that the images flashing across the TV had already set off a chain of events that were heading straight for her, like cascading dominoes set into motion.





FOR A FEW blissful seconds before I was fully awake, I forgot. I forgot that Mo was gone, that I was sleeping in her bed, in a strange room, in a strange land, where she’d spent the last few months of her life. But the guttural call of wild pigeons, the rhythmic thud of a hoe outside, the clank of a metal gate opening and closing, all reminded me that it was my first morning in Amosha.