Mists of the Serengeti(63)

“How can you be sure it’s them?” Jack got up and reached for his rifle.

“It’s them.” Olonana turned to Jack, his eyes full of ancient wisdom.

“We can take them. You, me, the two morans.” Jack gestured to Salaton and the other Maasai warrior. “How many can there be?” He peered through the lens of his rifle.

“No,” replied Olonana. “My men and I do not fight. Ironic for a tribe of warriors, but peace is our way of life now. Every time my people get involved in a confrontation, it affects all of us. We get branded as savage and barbaric. I won’t play into that anymore. I’m sorry, Jack. We can delay them for you. Maybe even throw them off. It’s possible that they’ve turned around because they’re calling it quits, in which case they might just drive right by. And if they’re tracking us, that’s who they’ll expect—us, not you. Take advantage of that. Take the children and go.”

“I can’t just leave you here,” countered Jack. “This could get ugly. Especially if they figure out you took the kids.”

“It could. Either way, I’m responsible for my men, and you’re responsible for the children. That’s two versus thirteen. I’m pretty sure I’m getting off easy. You need to get the kids as far away from here as possible. Go. Take down your tent and go.”

We woke the children up while Olonana and his crew rolled up the cowhides and righted the campsite.

“It will be a while before they get here,” said Jack, heaving his backpack over his shoulders. “You have some time.” He gazed at the flickering lights snaking their way through the night terrain. “Traveling in total darkness is slowing them down. Or maybe they’re stopping to check for tracks.”

“Don’t worry about us,” said Olonana. “Do you have a plan?”

“The train,” replied Jack. “I heard it pass through a couple of times. If we follow the track, we can get on at the next station, and then head to Wanza from there.”

The chief nodded and spit into his hand. “God walk with you, Jack Warden.”

“And with you.” They sealed their goodbyes with a spit-filled handshake.

Then Olonana turned to me and extended the same hand. “Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.”

Well, shit.

He was showing me the same honor he reserved for Jack.

I spit in my palm and shook his hand, all the while thinking hand sanitizer, hand sanitizer, hand sanitizer.

Olonana seemed to see right through me, because he laughed and said to Jack, “I hope she doesn’t make this face when you do the . . . what do you call it? The French kiss.”

Jack grinned and hooked his arm around my hip. “I love all her faces. Every single one of them.”

“Then you should marry her and keep all the children.” Olonana and the morans laughed.

That was how we left them that night—Olonana grinning with his two bottom teeth missing, the fire silhouetting his perfectly round head, and the morans standing by his side. That night, my definition of hero grew bigger and wider. Sometimes heroes were found between the pages of a book, and sometimes they stood on a hill, their checkered togas fluttering in the wind, holding fort for the rest of us.





NIGHT VISION SETTLED in as we moved away from the campsite. The sky was dark and clear, speckled with asters of silver. We moved silently over the barren plains, guided by the light of the moon. It was eerily quiet, considering we had thirteen children in tow. Except these children were no ordinary children. They had all been touched by death, and now it was stalking them. A survival instinct had kicked in and they moved collectively, not asking, not talking. Even the youngest of them clamored to keep up, holding on to my hand, or Jack’s, when the going got tough. There was an urgency about their movements that broke my heart.

“Not far now,” said Jack. “We should be coming up to the railway tracks soon.”

It was progress, but we still had a long way to go. The next station was miles away, and once the sun came up, it would be easy for anyone to spot us.

“You think Olonana and his crew are all right?” I scanned the area behind us. The flickering light of the fire had long disappeared.

“Ona!” One of the kids that Jack had hoisted on his shoulder pointed to something.

There was a faint glow in the distance, a few miles away. It appeared and disappeared.

The headlights of a car, lurching through shadow and shrubbery.

Panic rioted through me. There was no other reason for anyone to be there at that time. They had found us, out in the open, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They wouldn’t let the kids slip away this time, and worse, they might not even try to get them back into the van. It wasn’t the kids they were after. It was their body parts. They could massacre every single one of them and still collect their blood money. And they wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind either.

As the lights moved closer, my nightmare flashed before me.

Blood rain.

Dove children.

A mangled crown.

The sound of my own pulse throbbed in my ears.

Oh God, talk to me, Mo. Say something. Say anything.

There was nothing but silence.

Vast and deep.

And then, from across the plains, on the other side, a shrill cry pierced the air.

The whistle of a chugging train.