Mists of the Serengeti(50)

“We understand,” I said, even though it felt like an anti-climax, having come all this way, only to be turned away. “It’s totally your call.”

“And if Gabriel doesn’t show anytime soon?” Jack interjected.

“Then no school for me!” Sumuni fist pumped. “I get to be a Bongo Flava star.”

“We’ll see about that,” his mother said, hushing him. “If Gabriel doesn’t show, we’ll just have to save up for a train ride to Wanza, by private coach. Taking Sumuni there by bus is too risky. You never know who you’re traveling with.”

“We hope it hasn’t been too much trouble coming this way.” Sumuni’s father shifted in his chair. “Where are you headed next?”

“To Magesa, but we have a couple of days before we’re expected there. Or rather, before Gabriel is expected there.”

“Why don’t you stay for supper?” Sumuni’s mother asked. “We planned a big meal. We thought it would be Sumuni’s last night with us before he left for Wanza with Gabriel. We’ve invited some of our friends and family too. Consider it a token of gratitude, a little something for coming out this way. We would be honored if you ate with us.”



A LITTLE SOMETHING’ turned out to be a major feast. Half the village gathered under a tall baobab tree. Pots filled with stewed chicken, and peas in coconut, simmered in the fire. Potatoes baked on hot coals, and the aroma of milk tea drifted late into the night.

Sumuni and his little band put on another show for everyone. His father watched proudly, a wad of tobacco tucked behind his ear, while his mother threaded beads on long strands of fiber from the baobab.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jack. “It feels like you’re somewhere else.”

We were sitting shoulder to shoulder by a warm spot near the fire.

“I’m just . . . I feel like I’m failing Mo. I’m not getting anywhere with these kids. We got to Juma too late, and now . . .”

“Now what?” He turned to study my face.

When Jack looked at me, it didn’t matter where I was, or what I was thinking. I came right back to the present. To his eyes. To his voice. I could be drowning in torment, and all he had to do was look at me, just like he was doing then.

“You see that?” He tilted his head toward Sumuni. “Look at him. Look at his parents. That’s love. That’s happiness. They’re glowing with it. How can that ever make you feel like you failed Mo? Besides, it’s not like she entrusted you with anything. You took it on yourself. Your decision. Your mission.”

“It’s a stupid mission,” I said. “I wanted to honor her memory, I wanted to make a difference, but I feel like it’s all been for nothing.”

A cool breeze rustled around us and blew dry leaves into the embers. We sat there, watching the women sweep the ground clean with hand brooms of grass and twigs until most of the guests dispersed.

“You did make a difference,” said Jack, as they started dousing the fires, one by one. “To me.”

He got up, boots spread, and held his hand out for me.

Around us, the night sky grew shrouded with clouds of smoke and blowing dust, but that moment, that moment shone with clarity so sharp and poignant, I knew it would remain lodged in my heart like a diamond.

You did make a difference. To me.





THERE WERE NO hotels in Maymosi, but one of the wealthier villagers rented rooms in his private villa. Jack and I spent the night in adjoining rooms that were sparse, but functional. The walls were paper thin, so I knew he’d been up most of the night. He was as bleary-eyed as I was in the morning.

Glad I wasn’t the only one tossing and turning all night, I thought.

It was getting harder to keep things platonic between us. I wondered if the same thoughts had been running through his mind—to tear through the flimsy partition that separated us, give in to the crazy pull between us, and fall asleep to the sound of spent breaths.

We were both quiet as we drove away from Sumuni’s village, lost in our own thoughts. I held Mo’s final note in my hand:

Sept 1—Furaha, (Magesa)

The edges were curled up from all the times I had flipped through her Post-its. Furaha meant happiness. I wondered if her parents had named her that so it would always stay with her . . . happiness . . . no matter what the world threw at her. I was realizing that the situation with albino children in Tanzania was complex—Juma at one end, sacrificed by his own family, and Sumuni at the other—whose parents and friends would do anything to protect him. I wondered where Furaha fit within the spectrum.

“We’ll go through the park, and on to Magesa through the western corridor,” explained Jack, when we got to the Serengeti National Park.

“Oh, look!” I said, as soon as we entered. “Giraffes! I didn’t spot any at the crater.”

“No, they find it too difficult to negotiate the cliffs there.”

With their legs half-hidden by a sea of golden grass, they appeared to be floating gracefully across the horizon.

“What are those?” I pointed to a pair of wide-eyed animals that looked like overgrown hares on spindly legs.

“Dik-diks. They’re a type of antelope.”

“So tiny. So cute.”

Just then, something spooked them, and they skittered away in zigzag patterns, whistling through their noses.