Mists of the Serengeti(76)

It was a long way back, but I drifted off in the back seat as Bahati chattered on. Parts of me I never knew I had were sore, but sublimely so. Every now and then, Jack glanced at me from the passenger seat. We had a secret language going, whole stanzas hidden in our eyes.

As we drove past Magesa, evening started to settle around us. Jack guided Bahati to the spot where our car had broken down. It was still there, lonely and dusty. We had picked up the spare parts in Wanza, and the ground was finally dry, but it took a while to patch it up. By the time we got back on the trail, the moon was high and Bahati’s headlights bounced behind us, all the way back to Kaburi Estate.

“You think they’re up?” I asked Jack when we passed through the stone pillars at the gate. Goma had demanded an estimated time of arrival.

“I hope not. It’s almost dawn.” His eyes wandered over the rows of coffee plants, assessing them out of habit. The tops were starting to turn a silvery pink as morning stirred beyond the majestic peaks of Kilimanjaro.

Bahati parked next to us, and we got out, lugging our backpacks behind us.

Jack fiddled with the keys before shaking his head. “Goma left the door open again.”

Bahati chuckled as I stepped inside. It felt good to drop my bags and soak up the warmth of the place. It made me realize how much the farm had grown on me, and how much I’d missed it.

“I think I’ll—” I froze as I looked around the living room.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Family portraits lay smashed on the floor, glass strewn like glittering confetti; lamps were toppled over, cushions strewn, curtains hanging askew.

“Jack, someone’s been here . . .” I trailed off when I saw him picking up a blood-soaked bandana.

He straightened, holding it up, his face twisted in dark, dazzling fury. “K.K.” He crushed the bandana in his fist and whirled around, racing through the house. “Goma! Scholastica!”

There were bloody palm prints by the door, blood on the floor, blood on the banister, on the stairs. Everywhere.

A primitive alarm began ringing in my head. K.K. had scanned Jack’s driver’s license. He knew his name. He knew where he lived. He had come for Jack but had found Goma and Scholastica instead.

Oh God. Scholastica. I shuddered, imagining the moment he’d seen her. He made his living off kids like her. What better way to get back at Jack than steal her from right under his roof? And finish his grandmother off too.

My bones turned brittle. Anxiety filled my veins as we searched the house.

Jack slammed through the kitchen and stopped short. I froze behind him, unable to go any farther, afraid of what I’d see. Bahati hovered behind me as the silence stretched out.

“What the fuck?” Jack swore and stepped forward, his frame no longer blocking my view.

Goma stood there, seemingly unhurt and unaffected, stirring a pan of milk over the stove. Scholastica was seated at the table. They were wearing matching muumuus. It was like we had just walked into a slumber party.

“About time you got here,” said Goma, pouring the hot, frothy liquid into a cup and handing it to Scholastica. “Want some?” She waved the pan our way.

We shook our heads and watched as she drained the rest herself and slammed her empty mug on the counter. “Ah, much better.”

“Are you going to tell us what the hell is going on?” asked Jack. “The place looks like it’s been ransacked, and there’s blood everywhere.”

I sank into one of the chairs, my knees still weak with fright. Jack took the seat across from me. Bahati turned on the tap and gulped down three glasses of water.

“That bastard K.K. barged in here, looking for you. Him and his buddies. Mangy as stray dogs. The look in their eyes when they saw Scholastica. Like they’d hit the jackpot. They wanted to take me too. Figured the old crone might be worth a shilling or two to you.

“We put up a fight, but it was pretty useless. I stopped K.K. as they were herding us out the door, and said, ‘Hey. I know you. I ran into you at the police station.’ He peered at me. And then his face lit up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re the old woman with the crazy rainbow sunglasses. I remember what you said: Over my dead body.’ That tickled him. He laughed like a maniac. He wanted the glasses, so he marched me up to my bedroom.

“I opened my wardrobe and grabbed my rifle. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I turned around, and BOOM. The fucker was on the floor, clutching his leg. I was loading the gun again, when his men came up, dragging Scholastica behind them. They looked at me, looked at him—bleeding on the ground by my feet, and took off. I stopped them in their tracks. I don’t want garbage lying around in my home, so I made them carry K.K. out. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. I hope he’s burning in hell as we speak.” She took a big gulp of milk and shook her head. “Think they can mess with my grandson, come into my home, and steal this little girl from under my watch? The fuckers.” She wiped her milk mustache off with the back of her hand and sat down next to Scholastica.

No one said a word. We sat around the table, a little shocked and dazed, as the minutes ticked by.

Then Scholastica finished her milk and slammed her cup down with a thump. Mo’s frames slid farther down her nose.

“The fuckers,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, just like Goma had done.