Mists of the Serengeti(56)
“One more check,” said Jack, turning his phone on. He searched for a signal and shook his head. “We’re still out of range.”
I adjusted my backpack as we marched on. It wasn’t as heavy as Jack’s, but the load was starting to take its toll.
“Do you hear that?” Jack shielded his eyes and peered behind me. “There’s a car coming. We might be able to hitch a ride.”
I turned and followed his gaze. A white van was rattling down the road, music blaring.
“Is that a dala dala?” I asked.
“No. Looks like a private vehicle.” Jack stood in the middle of the road, flagging it down.
It was hard to see anyone through the dirty windshield, but there was yellow text emblazoned on the side—something about repairing air conditioners. The van slowed as it approached, but just as Jack lowered his hands, the driver suddenly hit the accelerator. The wheels spun as he came at Jack, head on, at full speed.
It was a blatant, deliberate disregard for his life, almost like he was road-kill trophy to the lunatics in the car who were cheering to run him over. I caught a glimpse of them—grinning and banging the sides of the car, windows down, as they hurtled toward him.
“Jack!” I gasped as they zoomed past me in a flash of dust and hot metal.
He dived to the side of the road, dodging the front bumper by a hair’s breadth. The van careened down the road, and I heard the loud, raucous sound of laughter.
Keh keh keh keh.
The driver gave a blaring victory honk, celebrating his dangerous, infantile prank.
“Fuckers!” Jack got up and dusted himself off.
“Are you all right?” My stomach was in knots. “Who runs a person off the road for fun?” I stared after the van as it disappeared around the bend, the beat of heavy bass fading with it.
Jack rubbed his shoulder, rolling it forward and then back. His eyes had a burning, faraway look. “I hope we never see them again.” His gaze refocused on me. “The sooner we get to Magesa, the better. Come on.”
My fingers threaded through the warmth of his outreached hand. They were shaky and stiff.
“Frightened for me, Rodel?” Jack raised my hand to his lips.
“No.” I swallowed. His hot lips on my skin were breaking down my brain-to-mouth connection. “Just wishing we’d packed the oh-shit handle.”
“Here.” He laughed, hooking my finger through one of the belt loops on his jeans. “Hold tight and don’t let go.”
He might have meant it as a joke, but I took him up on it. We must have walked another mile like that when a rusty pickup truck came into view.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, as it approached.
“Chicken,” he muttered, under his breath.
“Really?” I stopped, hands on my hips. “You would chance it? After what just happened?”
“Really.” He grinned. “Chicken.”
The truck bounced by, wheat colored chickens squawking at us from its cargo hold. We stood by the side of the road, staring after it in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
“Come on.” He nudged my elbow. “You know you want to laugh.”
I kissed him then, suddenly and without warning, standing on my tiptoes to reach him.
“What was that for?” His mouth quirked higher.
I wanted to know what your lips taste like after a smile. I shook my head and grinned like I was holding a big secret.
Everything seemed sharper and clearer after that, even though the day was gray and painted in a dull, desolate light.
Magesa was little more than a collection of crumbling mud homes in the shadow of a tall, rocky hill. It was a hot, sweltering dust bowl—dry brush, a dried up well, and dry, bony people. It seemed like a place that rain clouds skipped over, probably because the hill soaked up most of the precipitation.
“Give me sweet. Give me sweet. I am school child. Give me sweet.” A doe-eyed boy came running up and tugged on my top.
“A school child, huh? Why aren’t you in school then?”
He looked at me blankly and held out his hand. He had no idea what I had said, but he’d had memorized all the English he needed.
I laughed, and he smiled shyly, before turning to Jack and repeating the same four lines.
“Give me sweet. Give me sweet. I am school child. Give me sweet.”
Jack said something to him in Swahili. The boy ran off and returned with a woman who I assumed was his mother. They talked to Jack for a few minutes. Furaha’s name was mentioned. The woman shook her head. Jack asked a few more questions and got the same response.
“Thank you.” He handed her some things from his backpack. Then he pulled out some granola bars and gave them to the boy.
“Asante sana!” they said.
“So . . .” Jack turned to me after they left. “You want the good news or the bad?”
“How bad is it?”
We were standing next to an empty oil drum behind a tin-roofed hut. Small, green bugs hovered at the bottom, atop what remained of the rainwater it had collected. It was thick now, with dust and debris.
“Furaha isn’t here. But—” Jack held up his hand as my shoulders sagged “—the good news is that she moved with her family a few weeks ago. Her father inherited some property. The lady said he’s a rich man now.”