Mists of the Serengeti(8)

“I’m not sure. Mo might have mentioned it, but I don’t recall.” Corinne crawled into bed. “Goodnight, Rodel. Try to get some sleep.”

I turned off the light and slipped under the covers. The ceiling fan turned slowly over me. I could barely make out the ribbons in the dark. My mind was filled with all the bits and pieces I’d learned about Mo. While I had been looking for heroes in books, my sister had been one—a silent, probably accidental one, who would have gagged if anyone had referred to her as one. She wasn’t out to save anyone. She was just greedy for life—for fun, for food, for colors, for experiences. She couldn’t see past what was directly in front of her, and she only did the things that made her happy, but that made her even more of a hero to me.

I thought of the notes that she had not been able to cross off the map—the part of her that remained undone—and resolved to fulfill her wish. Six kids in six months. That’s what she’d aimed for. There were still three kids left.

I’m going to get them for you, Mo. I’m going to cross off every one of the notes before I head back home.





I PAUSED AT the foot of the palatial stairs that led up to The Grand Tulip, a legendary hotel in Amosha, known for its tradition of hosting discerning celebrities. I was still jittery after taking a local mini-bus, a dala dala, to get there, but it was where Corinne had sent me. She didn’t know Gabriel’s last name—the man my sister had been working with—but she knew where he lived.

And no, it was not at The Grand Tulip.

It was in a village on the outskirts of Amosha.

“You could take a dala dala there, but they’re kind of chaotic and not too safe—okay for a quick hop on and off. To get to Gabriel’s place, I would recommend getting a driver,” said Corinne. “I’ve used one a couple of times. His name is Bahati. He doesn’t venture too far out of town, but he knows the area and he’s fluent in English. He’s usually at The Grand Tulip in the mornings.”

So there I was, climbing the stairs to the grand dame of hotels. Massive pillars that resembled giant, gnarled trees supported the shaded entrance at the top. Two uniformed men guarded the open lobby, but what caught my eye was the life-sized statue of a Maasai warrior, set against the stark, white expanse of the outside wall.

It stood in a proud pose, spear in hand, hair embellished with ochre mud. The ebony wood had been polished so smooth that his skin looked like it was smeared with animal fat. His red toga billowed and flapped in the wind. He looked like a young biblical prophet in a time that had moved on, like something that belonged in a museum.

I moved closer, examining the fine details—the red and blue beads that adorned his body, the eyelashes with tips so fine, they caught the morning sun. I pulled out my camera and framed his face.

“Eight thousand shillings,” he said.

“What?” I jumped back.

“To take a picture.”

“You’re real!”

“Yes, Miss. I make it six thousand shillings for you.”

“That’s okay,” I said, backing off.

“You are from England? I can tell from your accent. Two pounds sterling. Cheaper than a Starbucks coffee.”

“No thanks. I’m actually looking for someone. His name is Bahati. Do you know him?”

“A thousand shillings. I’ll take you to him.”

“Never mind.” I shook my head and walked away. He was obviously a hustler. “Excuse me,” I said to the doormen. “Do either of you know where I can find Bahati?”

They exchanged a glance and then pointed behind me.

You have got to be kidding me. I turned around slowly.

Sure enough. The Maasai was grinning at me.

“You found me. Commission-free. You are a smart haggler. What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for a driver, but it’s okay. I changed my mind.” I started walking down the stairs.

“My friend. My friend!” he called after me, but I didn’t look back.

Great. I thought. I’ll have to take the dreaded dala dala all the way to Gabriel’s village.

I trekked a dusty twenty minutes back to the bus stop. It was a dizzy cacophony of charter buses, tour operators waving maps in my face, and people wanting to sell me bracelets, bananas, and roasted corn.

The street resembled an orchestra between motorcycles, cars, and dala dalas, all going at different speeds—starting and stopping with no order or warning. Conductors hung out of minivans shouting their destinations, slapping the side of the van when they wanted the driver to stop for passengers. Each dala dala was brightly painted with a decal or slogan, honoring some type of celebrity. Beyonce, Obama, Elvis. I waited for the call to Gabriel’s village, Rutema, but none of them were going that way.

“My friend. I found you!” A 4x4 screeched to a halt beside me, narrowly missing a man on a bicycle. The driver was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and aviator shades that reflected my frazzled face. “It’s me.” He removed his glasses and shot me a cheeky grin.

Bahati.

“What happened to your . . . costume?” I shouted over the honking.

“It’s not a costume. I am a real Maasai.”

“Your hair is gone too?”

“The braids? They are extensions. I dress up for the tourists. They take pictures with me. I am also a tour guide, but it’s all temporary. I am really an actor—an action hero—waiting for my break. One day, you will see me on the big screen. But that is for the future. You said you were looking for a driver. Where do you want to go?”