Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  April 14—Miriamu (Noni)

  May 2—Huzuni (Pendo)

  June 12—Javex (Kabula)

  July 17—Juma (Baraka)

  Aug 29—Sumuni (Maymosi)

  Sept 1—Furaha (Magesa)

  The notes were strange and hard to decipher. The first three were crossed out with black ink. They were scattered around the map, some close to Amosha, some farther away.

  “Wow. You got a lot done,” said Corinne, as she entered the room and tossed her bag onto her bed. “Have you been cooped up in here all day?”

  I looked down at myself. I was still in my pajamas.

  “Did you get anything to eat?” she asked.

  I shook my head, realizing that the last thing I’d had was a snack on the plane.

  “How are you Mo’s sister? We called her Woe-Mo when she hadn’t eaten. She got real mean when she was hungry.” Corinne steered me toward the bathroom. “Freshen up so we can grab some dinner.”

  I stared at my reflection as I brushed my hair. The warm chestnut waves parted naturally to one side and swept softly across my forehead. My eyes still held that startled look people get when you snatch something away from them, something precious. They seemed a darker brown, as if the pupils had opened wide and remained that way. Mo had looked like that when she was excited about something, although her eyes had been far from plain brown. They reminded me of warm driftwood and golden sand. Our parents had named us aptly. Mo was the laid-back heat of the Caribbean, the cool, carefree beat of reggae. I was quiet inlets and ancient mountains. I didn’t dress too bright or speak too loud. I was more comfortable blending into the background. My averageness made it easy. Average height, average weight, average job, average life.

  It didn’t take long to change into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Corinne gave me a quick tour of the place. The Nima House volunteers’ compound was located away from the orphanage, with modest rooms that opened to a shared courtyard.

  The other volunteers were already gathered around a long table outside.

  “You have to try the wali and maharagwe,” said Corinne, as we joined them. She ladled my plate with rice and what looked like bean stew.

  “Don’t let the Swahili fool you,” someone piped in. “She’s just reading it off the board.”

  “I’m trying to make a good impression.” Corinne sat down beside me. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you. You guys, this is Mo’s sister, Rodel.”

  There was a noticeable lull in the conversation before everyone started talking all at once.

  “Hey, so sorry.”

  “It’s quiet around here without her.”

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  They shared their stories of Mo. They had all signed on for different terms, some for a couple of weeks, others—like Mo—for the full six months. It was a small, informal group from all over place. Corinne was from Nigeria. The guy next to me was German. A couple of them had traveled from towns that were not too far from Amosha. Not everyone spoke English or Swahili, but somehow, everyone understood each other. My heart grew full as I listened to all the ways they remembered my sister: sweet, adventurous, loud, bold.

  “She was freaking hot,” said one of the guys before someone kicked him in the shin.

  It wasn’t until Corinne and I were back in our room that I realized just how exhausted I was. I was always on edge when I traveled. That, combined with an emotional roller coaster of a day had me yearning to sink into bed. But I had one more thing to cross off my list.

  “Corinne?” I said. “What do these notes mean?” I pointed to the Post-its on the map.

  “Oh, those.” She stood next to me, surveying them. “Mo worked with at-risk children in her spare time. She picked up a kid from one of these places every month and got them to a safe place. See, she’s listed the date she was expected there, the name of the child, and this here, in brackets, is the name of the place. She was aiming to round up six kids in six months. She did the first three.” Corinne pointed to the ones that had been crossed out.

  “What about the rest? Who’s going to look after them?”

  “I guess the guy she was working with. Gabriel something. One of the locals. Nima House has nothing to do with it. It’s already at full capacity. It doesn’t have the resources to look after the kids they were rounding up.”

  “So where were they taking them?”

  “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?”

  “Rutema,” I replied.

  “Get in. I’ll take you there.”

  “How much?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “For you, same price as the dala dala.”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t one to hop into a car with a stranger, let alone a stranger in a whole different part of the world.

  Someone pinched my bum. It could have been the old woman trying to sell me the bracelets. I didn’t check. I hopped into Bahati’s car as a conductor with a megaphone blared something in my ear.

  “You know Corinne from Nima House?” I said. “She told me to come see you.”

  I have friends, buster, and they know where I am.

  “I know Miss Corinne. She gave you good advice. I am an excellent driver.” Bahati made a sharp left, while I clutched the dashboard with white knuckles.

  “You have no seat belts?” I reached for mine but came up empty-handed.

  “No one wears seat belts around here.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. You are in good hands. I have an impeccable record. No accidents.”

  I watched as two pedestrians swerved out of the way just in time to avoid being clipped by him.

  “You didn’t tell me your name, Miss . . . ?” He left the question hanging.

  “It’s Rodel.”

  “Miss Rodel, you are lucky I found you or you would be on that.” He pointed to the dala dala overtaking us. “Most of these mini-vans are supposed to hold ten people. If there aren’t at least twenty, it isn’t a real dala. If you’re comfortable, it’s not a real dala. The driver has absolute authority. Never ask him to turn down the music. Never expect him to stop where you’re supposed to get off. Never make fun of all the pictures on his visor. Once you step out of the dala, you waive all your rights. He can run you over, take off with your other foot in his van, your luggage, your—”

  “I get it. I’m better off with you.”

  “Absolutely. And I offer many special packages. Packed lunch. Banana beer. Free African massage. No. Not that kind of massage, my friend. I mean this, see?” He glanced my way as we bounced over a pothole-riddled street. “African massage. Hehe. It’s good, no? You will leave me a review? I have a 4.5-star rating on—”

  “Bahati?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “You talk too much.”

  “No, Miss. I only give you important information. Today is a good day to go to Rutema. Tomorrow there is rain. The roads get very muddy. I am happy we are going today. Tomorrow I would have to charge you extra for a car wash. For Suzi, my car.” He thumped the steering wheel. “She likes to keep clean. But if you want to go tomorrow, that is okay, too. I have an umbrella in the trunk. It is from The Grand Tulip. Very big, very good. Oprah Winfrey used it. You will see the logo. The Grand Tulip logo, not Oprah’s. They gave it to me because—”

  “Today is fine. Isn’t that where we’re headed?”

  “Yes, yes. That is where I am taking you. You already told me. Did you forget? That’s okay. I have a good memory. But I don’t understand why you want to go there. There is nothing to see. If you ask me, you should go to . . .”

  We passed bustling markets and colonial buildings that stood like stubborn, dusty historians among the modern shops. Bahati droned on as we left Amosha and followed a dirt road through small farms and traditional homesteads. He trailed off on a hill with sweeping views of the area and stopped the car.

  “Look,” he said, pointing beyond the canyons, to the horizon.

  Rising above the clouds, like an ethereal crown of glory against the jewel-blue sky, was the snow-capped dome of Kilimanjaro. I had imagined its vast splendor whenever Mo talked about it, but nothing had prepared me for my first sighting of its lofty, powdered peaks.

  Bahati seemed to share my sense of awe. For a few moments, there was a lull in his commentary. He had no words to share with me, no litany of facts to impress me. We gazed at the surreal giant that loomed in the distance, towering majestically over the golden plains of the African Savannah.

  “Why do you want to visit Rutema?” asked Bahati, once we were back on the road. “It is just a bunch of local homes and a few shops.”

  “I’m looking for a friend of my sister’s.” I explained what had brought me to Amosha, and why I needed Gabriel’s help.

  “I am sorry to hear about your sister. It was a terrible thing,” he said. “This man—Gabriel—you don’t know his last name?”

  “No. Just that he and my sister worked together.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Rodel. We will find him.”

  It was a simple reassurance, but I was grateful for it.

  As we entered Rutema, barefoot children raced behind us on the dusty street, chanting, “Mzungu! Mzungu!”

  “What are they saying?” I asked Bahati.

  “Mzungu means a white person. They are not used to seeing many tourists around here.” He parked the jeep under a ficus tree. A group of grease-stained men were working on a tractor beneath it, muttering like surgeons around a patient. “I will ask them if they know Gabriel.”

  The kids encircled our car as Bahati talked to the men. They gawked and giggled. “Scholastica, Scholastica!” they shouted, pointing at me.

  I had no idea what that meant, but they disappeared when Bahati returned and shooed them away.

  “Lucky for you, there is only one Gabriel in the village with a mzungu lady friend. But he travels a lot, and they haven’t seen him for a while. His family lives over there.” He motioned to a large compound. It seemed out of place amongst the row of small huts. A perimeter of walls with sharp, broken glass, set into the mortar at the top, surrounded it.

  My heart sank. I had not considered the possibility that Gabriel might not be around. “Can we go ask when he’ll be back?”

  We honked at the gate and waited. The men stopped working on the tractor and watched us with curiosity. A woman wearing a dress made of colorful, local kitenge fabric came out to greet us. She spoke to Bahati in Swahili, through the metal bars, but her eyes kept drifting back to me.

  “You are Mo’s sis
ter?” she asked.

  “Yes. My name is Rodel.”

  “I’m happy to see you. Karibu. Welcome,” she said, unlocking the gate. “I am Gabriel’s sister, Anna.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes held ghosts. She was beautiful in the quiet way that people with broken hearts are. She led us into a courtyard with fruit trees and a small play area for kids. An empty swing creaked, still swaying, as if it had been hastily abandoned.

  Inside, the curtains were drawn—a shame, because it was such a beautiful, sunny day. Boxes lay scattered on the floor, some empty, some taped shut.

  “I am sorry to hear about your sister,” said Anna, after we were seated.

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get a hold of your brother.”

  “I wish I knew,” she said, staring down at her hands. “I haven’t heard from him in a while. He’s never been gone this long. I’m afraid he’s not coming back. Or worse, that something bad has happened to him.”

  “Something bad?” I looked from her to Bahati, but he was staring over my shoulder at something behind me.

  I turned and saw a girl standing by the back entrance. Her dark silhouette was outlined against the light streaming in through the open door. She seemed around six or seven years old, but her posture was stiff and wary, as if she was unsure whether she should come in.

  “It’s okay, Scholastica,” said Anna. She switched to Swahili and coaxed the child to come inside.

  When the girl stepped into the light, I flinched. It might have been the unexpectedness of it, the shock of seeing a pale ghost appear out of the shadows in broad daylight. Her skin was a strange shade of white, with patches of pink where the sun had touched it. She looked at us through otherworldly eyes—milky and blue. Her hair was shorn close to the scalp, a muted shade of blonde, but without the softness or delicacy. The absence of color was jarring, like a painting robbed of pigment. I had seen people with albinism before, but this girl had scabs all over her lips and face, like little black flies feasting on her. I couldn’t help the shudder that ran through me, though it was Scholastica who visibly shrank away from me, from the knee-jerk response that she was no doubt familiar with. Disgust. Horror. Revulsion.