Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  And now I was responsible for getting Scholastica to safety, and I had dragged Jack, and Goma, and Bahati, into it too.

  “The mobile phone reception is sporadic out here,” said Jack. “I’ll have to use the landline at the reception. I’ll let Goma know not to expect Juma. You have anything in the room?”

  I shook my head and patted my handbag.

  “Okay. You stay, finish your breakfast. I’ll go check us out.”

  When he returned, I was talking to Ken and Judy. The mist was lifting, and guests were slowly drifting into the dining room.

  “If you want to see the crater, we need to get moving,” said Jack.

  “Listen to the man. He knows what he’s talking about.” Ken poured tea for himself and Judy. “We had a late start yesterday, and it was filled with cars.”

  “Here.” Judy handed me a business card. “If you’re ever in our corner of the world, and still ‘not together.’” She made hand gestures around not together.

  “Thank you.” I laughed. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

  We said goodbye and headed for the crater. Jack stopped at the gate to look after the permits and paperwork.

  As we took the winding road that descended into the caldera, the clouds that covered the rim gave way to a sweeping, surreal landscape. The haziness dissipated and the world came into sharp focus again. The first animals I spotted were . . .

  “Cows?” I turned to Jack in surprise.

  Against the soft, pastel grasslands, a red cumulus of dust marked a line of cattle, inching down the steep, narrow track to the crater floor. A scrawny figure was guiding his herd into the mouth of the lion’s domain.

  “The Maasai,” he explained. “They are free to roam the Ngorongoro Conservation Area, but they cannot live in the crater, so they bring their cattle to graze here. They have to enter and exit daily.”

  “But what happens if he’s attacked? Or one of his cows?”

  “Cattle are the Maasai’s greatest wealth. A Maasai man will do anything to sustain or defend his livestock. He is trained for it from the time he’s a little boy. When he passes the ultimate test of bravery, he earns his warrior name. Killing a lion used to be the final rite of passage to becoming a warrior, but things have changed. There are government rules and regulations to be followed now. Still, that there—” Jack motioned to the lone man, marching to the clang of cowbells, spear in hand “—is the ultimate warrior.”

  “Is this what Bahati would be doing if he lived here? Is Bahati his warrior name?” I asked as we left the man behind.

  “Bahati is his nickname. He never received his warrior name.”

  “What happened? He told me his family disowned him, but he didn’t say why.”

  “That is something you should ask him.” Jack switched gears as we reached the floor of the caldera.

  Patches of forest edged around steep cliffs, providing a soaring backdrop to the sea of grass, dappled with herds of grazing buffaloes. Sharp-eyed vultures scanned the morning from above. A skittish warthog ran across the plain, tail upright, the tuft of bristles at its end waving like a little black flag. Ostriches surveyed us with bright eyes, their bald heads bobbing up and down. The view was flat and clear for miles and miles.

  I took a deep breath. So much earth. So much sky. Vast and infinite. It was humbling and awe-inspiring, like the roof had been lifted and I could see the dawning of the world.

  It’s beautiful, Mo, I thought. I wish I’d come when you’d asked me to. While you were still here.

  “There.” Jack turned the car off and pointed to something behind us in the knee-high, golden grass.

  There was an almost imperceptible shift in the blades. Then they parted and a pride of lions ambled out, tails swishing as they walked down the road towards us. I watched them approach in the rear-view mirror, and held my breath as they prowled by us with long, powerful strides. There were ten lions, including two males with thick, black manes. Their massive, padded paws made no sound as they passed the car. One of the cubs broke away, but his mother went after him. She picked him up by the scruff of his neck and didn’t let him down even after they’d caught up with the rest of the pride. He swayed back and forth, dangling out of her mouth, mewling apologies.

  “Not a very regal send-off for a prince.” I laughed as the lions retreated into the bush again.

  “That was me and Goma when I was little,” said Jack, starting the car. “I was always chasing something, and she was always pulling me back.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “My father loved to fly. My parents were on their way home when his two-seater crashed. I was seven. Goma locked herself up in her room for a week. When she came out, she was just as fierce as she’s always been. Although, sometimes I think it was more for me. She didn’t have the luxury to fall apart. Like I did with Lily.”

  She didn’t blame herself for what happened to her son, like you’re doing with Lily, I thought, but held my tongue. “Your grandfather wasn’t around?”

  “He died before I was born, but I feel like I knew him. Probably because of all the stories Goma told me about him. I used to think she was making them up, but I still meet people who talk about him. He was larger than life. An extraordinary man.”

  We passed herds of wildebeest and zebra. Jack explained that zebras grazed on the harder parts of the vegetation, while the wildebeest preferred the softer parts, so they were perfectly paired. Roaming the plains together heightened awareness of predators, and the zebra’s stripes confused the big cats.

  “Where we see black and white, the lion sees only the patterned stripes because it’s pretty much color blind. If a zebra is standing still in the wavy lines of the grass around it, a lion may completely overlook it.”

  I’d always been attracted to men who had brains to back up their brawn. Jack fit the bill perfectly, but I was only half-listening to his words. It was his voice that held me entranced. He didn’t speak much, but here in the vast, unobstructed space, he seemed to be opening up to me. And his voice was delicious. It set my skin vibrating like a tuning fork—the perfect pitch, the perfect timbre, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wanted him to go on and on.

  He might have sensed the shift in the air because he trailed off and looked at me. Directly at me. And it wasn’t with the softness of his earlier morning gaze. It was different. Heart-poundingly different.

  There’s an unspoken rule about how long you can stare like that at another person. No one says it, but we all know it. There is the quick glance we give to strangers, the acknowledgment we exchange with people we know, the private joke, the silent acceptance, the lover’s gaze, the parent’s concern. Our eyes are always different, always speaking. They meet and look away, a thousand nuances expressed without words. And then there’s this. Whatever was passing between Jack and me in the middle of that ancient caldera. Perhaps it was because we didn’t know exactly where we fit—two people bound by a sunny, tragic afternoon, retreating from the edge of attraction—lives that were oceans apart, breaths that lingered in the space between us.

  A jeep blaring loud music rattled past us, leaving a film of fine dust on the windshield. Jack drew away and started the car.

  “They’re beginning to come in. We should head to the lake before it gets too crowded. There’s a salt lake, not too far up ahead, in the center of the crater.”

  I let my breath out and nodded. Something was always crackling between us, waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t something either of us wanted, and so we resorted to distance and distraction.

  I stared out of the window, at herds of Cape buffalo, so tame that they didn’t budge as we drove past.

  “They are one of the Big Five,” said Jack.

  “The Big Five?”

  “Lions, leopards, elephants, rhinos, and Cape buffalo. They’re called the Big Five. It’s a term that originated with big game hunters. It has nothing to do with their size, but because they were the fierces
t and most dangerous animals to hunt. Now no safari here is complete without spotting all five.”

  “I’ve seen two so far. The lion and the buffalo.” I missed Mo in that instant—so much that it suddenly hurt to breathe. I’d been so wrapped up in my goals, I’d let the important things slip. I had my cottage, but I would never have the memory of going on a safari with Mo.

  “I’m sure we’ll see elephants, closer to the forest, but leopards tend to be shy, and rhinos have dwindled from all the poaching,” said Jack. “Rhino horns are in high demand, mostly due to the myth about their medicinal value. Truth is, you might as well chew on your own nails for all the difference it makes.”

  “Rhino horns. Albino body parts. You ever wonder who starts these myths and how they gain their power?”

  “We all want magic, Rodel. We want to wake up rich. Or healthy. Or beautiful. We want to make the person we love stay with us, live with us, die with us. We want that house, that job, that promotion. And so we create the myths, we live them, and we believe them. Until something better comes along, something that suits us better. Truth is that you and I are creating a myth ourselves. With Scholastica and the other children. We think if we get them to Wanza, we’ll save them. And, yes, they’ll be safer, but it’s still a lie. Because it will just keep them cut off from the rest of the world. Eventually, they’ll have to leave, and the world will still be the world. They might be better equipped to handle it, not quite as vulnerable, but they will still be targets.”

  “I know.” I followed the swooping flight of a brightly plumed bird before turning to him. “I know it’s not a solution. Nothing will change until the superstitions about them disappear. And who knows when that will be? I don’t have the answers, Jack, but sometimes the only things that keep us from falling off the edge are necessary lies. The kind we tell ourselves, so we can keep going.”

  “Necessary lies,” Jack repeated. He took his eyes off the road and glanced at me.

  Suddenly, we weren’t talking about the kids anymore. We were talking about the sweet, necessary lies we could tell each other in that moment. We could pretend—exchange phone numbers, promise to stay in touch, to visit, to remember birthdays—just to allow ourselves a taste of whatever was beating hard and fast between us. It would be like sucking on chili pepper candy balls. It would buzz and sting when it was gone, but it would be so, so good. And maybe that was it—the allure of something wild and indulgent to jump-start us back to life. Except we were not those people. We were Jack and Ro. And the last thing we needed was to connect and then let go of yet another person.

  I turned away and gazed out of the window as we approached the lake. It sat like a shimmering jewel in the center of the crater.

  “A pink lake?” I asked.

  “Look again,” said Jack.

  “Flamingos!” I exclaimed, as they came into view.

  Thousands of pink-feathered birds lined the shore. Their serpentine necks dipped in and out of the water, as if pecking at their tall, slender reflections.

  “You’ll get a better view through there.” Jack slid the roof open, and I scooted to the back so I could stick my head out.

  As Jack drove closer to the shore, the flamingos scattered around us, like pink petals in the wind. Some soared into the air, unfolding their wings and displaying the red plumage beneath.

  My heart lifted with unexpected gladness, for Mo. That she’d seen this incredible sight, that she hadn’t listened when I’d lectured her about finding a real job or renting a real apartment. She had packed so much into her life, living every single day on her own terms, it was as if she’d known there was no time to waste. Some people are like that. They listen to their inner voice even if it’s mad and feral and doesn’t make sense to the rest of us.

  It was short, Mo. But it was full and bursting with flavor.

  Are you talking about my life or those chili pepper candy balls?

  I laughed as the flamingos danced around me, honking like geese. They were so close that I could see the yellow of their eyes and the curve of their beaks. The sky was a stark blue now, except for a few salt clouds whipped up from the lake. It was much warmer and my skin felt sated from the sun.

  “Ha!” I thumped the roof with my fist, loving the wind in my hair. “It’s a beautiful day!” I called to the birds.

  We left them behind and passed swamps and marshes where hippos wallowed in thick, wet mud pools. A pack of narrow hipped hyenas circled the remains of a kill. They nipped at the black-backed jackals that were encroaching on them. Vultures and Marabou Storks hovered above, looking to get in on the action. Two gray-crowned cranes watched a group of aggressive buffaloes chase a lion around the water hole.

  Jack veered off the dirt track and stopped the car. A few minutes later, he popped up beside me and handed me a set of binoculars.

  “See that group of birds over there?” He waited for me to spot them. They had creamy white throats, and were picking at the ground with their bills. “They’re Kori Bustards. The males are amongst the world’s heaviest flying birds. Now look up into that tree. The tall one with the branch extending off to the right.”

  He stood behind me, his chest to my back, pointing it out. His other hand rested on my shoulder, warm and heavy.

  It took me few minutes to find what he wanted me to see.

  “A cheetah,” I said.

  It was stretched out on the branch, eyes closed, tail flicking away the flies hovering around it.

  “Not a cheetah. A leopard.” We were so close that Jack’s breath stirred my hair as he spoke. “They’re easy to confuse because they both have spots. Cheetahs have solid black spots and black tear lines that run from the corner of their eyes. Leopard spots are clustered, like rosettes. Leopards are also bigger and more muscular. They’re not built for speed like cheetahs, but what they lack in speed, they make up for in stealth and power. They’ll often carry their prey high up in the trees to prevent other predators from eating them.”

  I watched the leopard’s belly rise and fall with each breath. I thought of it slipping through the tall Savanna grass with scarcely a ripple, lunging on its unsuspecting quarry, and exerting a lethal hold with its powerful jaw.

  “Number three of the Big Five,” I said, with a bit of shudder.

  “You still cold?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, tilting my face to him.

  The sun was directly behind him, framing his thick, untamed hair like a golden mane.

  I wonder if he goes at it like Mufasa, Mo.

  “What’s so funny?” Jack caught my grin.

  “Nothing.” I glanced away. “Sometimes I have these weird conversations with my sister.”

  “It had something to do with me, didn’t it?” he asked, as if talking to my dead sister was a completely normal thing to do. Then again, maybe it was something he could relate to.

  “Do you do that?” I asked. “Do you ever speak to Lily?”

  “I can’t.” The fences came back up around him, like I’d wandered in too far and touched something he didn’t want anyone to see, something personal and raw and painful. “I can’t . . . face her.”

  My heart constricted. Jack was too guilt-ridden to have a conversation with his daughter. Even an imaginary one. Because he hadn’t been able to get to her in time. Because she had died alone. I wanted to say something, but I kept my mouth shut. Telling someone to get over something like that was bullshit.

  “If you can’t speak, just listen,” I said. “Maybe one day you’ll hear what she’s saying.”

  I squeezed past him through the open roof and took my seat. We drove in silence until we got to a patch of tall, yellow-barked trees. Vervet monkeys swung from the dense canopy, and birds flitted through the branches.

  “The Lerai Forest,” said Jack.

  “Oh, Jack. Look!” I squeezed his arm and pointed into the shady thicket.

  A massive elephant was rubbing itself against a tree, its large tusks dragging in the dirt.

  �
��It’s an old bull. Most of the crater elephants are male,” said Jack. “The large breeding herds only descend here occasionally.”

  “Why is he doing that? Rubbing up against that tree?”

  “Probably scratching himself. Or getting rid of parasites on his skin.” He leaned forward and squinted through the binoculars. “Maybe he’s just horny.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, I burst out laughing. “Are you checking out his schlong?”

  Jack glanced at me sideways. “Did you just snort, Rodel Emerson?”

  “It was a chortle.”

  He sat back and folded his arms. “You snorted. And you call a dick a schlong.”

  “Mo said I should come down here so she could show me an elephant’s schlong.”

  “In that case, mission accomplished.” He made an imaginary check mark in the air and passed me the binoculars. “Go on. Don’t be shy.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t need to see his . . . his schlong.” I was pretty sure my cheeks had turned beetroot red, or maybe a bright shade of scary cherry.

  “Oh, my God. You’re shy. You’re coloring up like the Serengeti sunset.” Jack was grinning. A full-fledged ear-to-ear smile that was completely dazzling.

  “Can we just go?” I handed him back the binoculars.

  “Hang on to those,” he said, starting the car up again. “We’ll probably see some more schlongs up ahead.”

  The color receded from my cheeks as we drove through the dappled forest, but the buzz remained—the high I got from seeing this man smile.

  We sighted baboons, waterbucks, and more elephants tearing off branches and stuffing them in their mouths.

  “It doesn’t look like we’re going to get all of the Big Five today,” said Jack, as we approached the ascent back up to the rim. “No rhino sighting.”

  “Four out of five isn’t so bad,” I replied, looking down at the crater.

  Lines of cars traversed the plains below, whipping dust clouds in their wake. A pride of lions sprawled under the shade of a tree, while a Maasai grazed his cattle within stone’s throw. A few paces away, a newborn zebra nuzzled up to its mother on unsteady legs. With the mist now gone, the crater was visible all the way up to the forested rim. A handful of white clouds lingered, casting dark shadows on the floor.