Mists of the Serengeti(98)
As the sun began to set, I pulled Rodel into the stall where she had first kissed me. There, as the golden light fell on her, I aimed my Polaroid camera at us.
“Wait!” She fished for something inside her bodice. “I’ve been waiting to use this all day.” She pulled out a Post-it note, on which she’d written our wedding details:
August 11th—Jack & Rodel (Kaburi Estate)
She held it between us as we smiled into the camera.
We watched the picture develop, our faces appearing on the milky film like a painting coming alive through the mist. Two bright, overexposed faces—black suit, white dress, a yellow note between us.
This is what it looks like when you wander somewhere between the sand and stardust, and meet a piece of yourself in someone else.
My lips found their way instinctively to hers and I kissed her. My wife. My rainbow-haloed girl.
“It’s good, Mrs. Warden.” I lifted her off the ground and spun her around.
“The photo?” She giggled, flushed and a little dizzy.
“The photo. Your smile. Life. You. Me.”
“And baby makes three,” she said softly, as I set her down.
My heart lurched like it always did when she mentioned the baby. I placed my hand over her tummy in a silent vow to the little life growing inside and felt a circle close around us. My greatest loss had led to my greatest love. Hearts were broken, and hearts were healed. Lives were lost, and lives were saved.
As I tucked our photo into my wallet, next to the one I kept of Lily, I noticed the triangular flags that had been captured in the frame. They were part of the jute banner behind us, hanging from the beams. Together, they spelled out the words on Rodel’s bracelet, the one that Olonana’s mother had given her:
Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.
We are all connected.
“What is it?” asked Rodel as I looked around the barn.
“You ever wonder what we’d find if we could pick up the threads back to the point where things unravel, where paths cross, and lives pivot, and people come together?” I took her hand as we rejoined our guests.
That night, the lights blazed on until dawn in an old, red barn at the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro.
MO EMERSON FLIPPED through the travel magazine as she sat in the optometrist’s waiting room. Dr. Nasmo’s office was in the lower level of Kilimani Mall, across from the food court. Her appointment had been a few weeks earlier, but she’d been away with her friend Gabriel, so she had rescheduled.
And what a day I picked, she thought. Through the glass doors of Dr. Nasmo’s office, Mo could see a crowd of people gathered around a makeshift podium.
“What’s going on out there today?” she asked Christine, the receptionist.
“Some kind of political meeting. A convention for supporters of John Lazaro.”
“Who’s he?” Mo had seen his name on posters and signs around Amosha, but she hadn’t paid any attention. The elections were coming up in October, but her volunteering gig would be over by then. She didn’t know where she’d go next, but that was the thrill of it. She could close her eyes and point to the map for the start of a new adventure. The possibilities were endless. Mo thrived on the adrenaline rush of the unexpected. It made her feel more vibrant, more alive than anything else could. It was the one thing her sister, Ro, could never understand. And yet, if anyone gave her hell over her choices, Ro was the first one to step in and defend her.
“John Lazaro?” Christine looked up from her desk. “If you ask me, he’s a dirty politician, but he’s rich and powerful, and he’s been making all the right promises.”
“Hmm.” Mo went back to the article she was reading:
Get Paid To Travel: Become A Travel Photographer.
Yes, she nodded, talking herself into her brilliant new calling. She was no photographer, but she could learn. And then she wouldn’t have to mooch off her parents when she fell short, halfway around the world. Well, maybe just one last time—for a good camera. And lenses. And some classes. But after that, watch out, world.
She got her cell phone out and snapped a picture of the resources listed in the article. She would have torn the page off, but she liked Dr. Nasmo too much for that. He was a sweetheart, and someone she looked up to. She’d met him at the orphanage in Wanza. He toured a lot of the rural areas, giving free eye exams and glasses, but it was his work with the albino children that he claimed was the most rewarding. Mo had witnessed the joy of it herself, the first time she’d seen the expression on a child’s face, when the whole world had come into sharp, clear focus. Naturally, he was the first person she thought of when she realized she’d neglected her own checkups for way too long.
The door to Dr. Nasmo’s office rattled as a young woman tried to make her way in with a stroller.
“Here.” Mo held the door for her. There was a little boy, fast asleep in the stroller.
The woman thanked her and checked in with Christine. “Hi, I’m here to get fitted for contact lenses. My name is Zara Ayadi.”
“Thank you.” Christine checked her name off. “Please have a seat. Dr. Nasmo is running a little late today. He’s with a client, but he’ll be done soon.”
Zara sat next to Mo and turned her stroller so she could keep an eye on her son.
“Batman fan?” asked Mo. The little boy’s face was painted in the trademark black and yellow logo.