Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  Olonana’s mother offered me a piece of charred, marbled fat. I knew better than to refuse. The kids touched my hair and picked at my clothes as I ate. Flies bunched around their mouths and eyes, but they didn’t seem to notice. Someone passed me a horn filled with soured milk. I dipped my lips into it but didn’t drink. There wasn’t a single loo in sight, and there was no way I was making a mad dash for the bushes in case it didn’t agree with me.

  You’re such a wuss, Ro.

  Thanks, Mo. Like I need to feel any worse about myself right now.

  I always said you need to get out more. You meet yourself when you travel.

  I ignored her but she persisted.

  Wuss.

  Fine! I bit into the meat ferociously. Happy now?

  When I was sure she was gone, I spit it out, but didn’t want to risk offending anyone. I thought about dropping it in a dark corner, but my covert operation turned out to be unnecessary. A dog entered the hut, sniffing around the women and children. I scratched his ear and fed him the charbroiled lump in my hand, turning his face to the wall until he finished eating.

  I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry it’s kind of pre-chewed.

  My stomach growled because I hadn’t eaten anything since we left the campsite that morning. Olonana’s mother smiled and handed me another piece of goat meat.

  Crap.

  Thankfully, a busload of tourists arrived, and everyone headed out to greet them. Jack emerged from Olonana’s inkajijik with the chief and joined me. Olonana grabbed a handful of coffee beans from a pouch and threw them into his mouth.

  “He chews the coffee beans raw?” I asked.

  “They’re roasted. But yes, he eats them whole. For energy,” replied Jack. “Sometimes the morans use them on long treks, or when they want to stay awake at night.”

  Olonana took Jack aside while I wished his mother goodbye. The rest of the villagers were putting on a welcome dance for the tourists. A few were trying to sell them bracelets and other handicrafts.

  “What was that about?” I asked, when Jack returned. “It looked pretty intense.”

  “He was giving me a message for Bahati.”

  “He wants to reconcile?”

  “He just had two words for him: Kasserian ingera.”

  “Isn’t that what he said to you earlier?”

  “Yes. It’s a Maasai greeting. It means, ‘How are the children?’”

  “I didn’t know Bahati had children.” I stopped by the stall at the entrance to the boma. It was filled with colorful, hand-made souvenirs.

  “Bahati doesn’t have kids. It’s not about his children, or mine, or anyone else’s. You always reply ‘Sapati ingera’, which means ‘All the children are well’. Because when all the children are well, everything is good and right with the world.”

  “That’s beautiful. And profound. What strange, wonderful people they are.” I might not have been able to relate to their customs or lifestyle, but I admired them for the pride and authenticity with which they held on to their rich, fierce heritage.

  “You like that?” Jack motioned to the wooden figure I was holding. It was about the size of my palm, carved in the shape of a boy playing a flute.

  He paid for it without waiting for an answer and handed it to me after the woman wrapped it up for us.

  “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I kind of did. My way of saying sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “You know when that drop of water landed on your head?”

  “Yes?” I walked faster, trying to keep up with him as he made a beeline for the car.

  “I didn’t want you to freak out, but the old lady spit on you.”

  “The old lady . . .” I stopped in my tracks. “She spit . . .” I touched the spot on my head. My hand came back dry, but I stared at it, horrified.

  “She liked you.” Jack’s mouth wobbled, like he was trying to keep from laughing. “It was her way of blessing you.”

  Most people are uncomfortable with silence, especially the kind when you know someone is about to erupt. Jack was not one of them. He ignored the steam coming out of my ears.

  “This is not going to make any difference.” He opened the trunk, poured some water on a rag, and patted my scalp with it. “But it’ll make you feel better.”

  I glared at him without a word.

  “This?” He offered me a packet of biscuits.

  Silence.

  “This?” He threw in a bottle of pineapple juice.

  My outrage dissipated, because yes. Yes. I was starving, and that made me feel much, much better.

  “Friends?” he asked, holding the door open for me.

  I was going to come back with a sharp retort, but my stomach chose to answer instead. With a wild growl. To his credit, Jack kept a straight face.

  I ripped into the biscuits before he got in the car.

  “Not a fan of the local cuisine?” he asked.

  “Not a fan of roasted entrails, local or otherwise. And you’re one to talk. You got all the good stuff.”

  “Hey, I came bearing gifts for the chief. We caught him just in time. He’ll be heading out soon with the cattle.”

  “But he’s the chief. He can get someone else to graze the cattle.”

  “He’s a nomad. When he feels the call of the land, he goes. Sometimes he’ll trek clear across the plains with them, following the water.”

  “Wow.” I stuffed my mouth with chocolate-coated biscuits. “I’ll have a lot of stories to tell my students when I get back.”

  We left the bleak plateau behind, and the landscape changed once again. Huge fig trees lined the road, draped in spools of trailing moss. Starry bursts of sunshine sparkled through the leaves as we drove by. I could see Mo in them—her warmth, her dazzle, her sharp, bright energy. For a moment, I was transported back to a time when we were kids, playing peek-a-boo.

  . . . 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . ready or not, here I come!

  I remembered the thrill of hiding. The rush of seeking. Hearts racing. Bodies squirming. The squealing when you find someone, or when someone finds you. Maybe that’s what life was about. Seven billion people playing hide and seek, waiting to find and be found. Mothers, fathers, lovers, friends, playing a cosmic game of discovery—of self, and of others—appearing and disappearing like stars rotating on the horizon.

  Maybe Mo was still playing hide and seek in these beams of sunlight, in the dance of elephant grass, in the fragrance of wild blossoms, waiting for me to find her again and again. Maybe Jack found Lily in thunderstorms, under the tree, by her grave. Maybe he looked for her in raindrops, because she felt like redemption pouring down from the heavens. Maybe when he recorded thunder and lightning, he was capturing bits of her, to carry with him on his phone.

  “Can we stop here?” I asked, as we rounded a rocky outcrop. A lone fig tree grew on the patch of soft earth at its edge.

  We got out and stretched our legs. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were getting longer on the plains below. I dug a small hole under the tree and buried the wooden statue we had picked up from the boma.

  “What was that about?” asked Jack, when we got back into the car.

  “For Juma,” I replied. “Every kid needs a lullaby. Now he can listen to the birds in the trees, and the wind in the valley.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, as the sun slipped slowly behind the silhouette of the giant tree.

  Then Jack took my hand, lacing our fingers together. “We’ll get the next one.”

  Something sparked and buzzed in the stillness between us. It felt like hope, like life, like my heart galloping away from me.

  “We’ll get the next one,” I repeated, thinking of the other two kids on Mo’s list.

  Maybe it was a necessary lie, one we were trying to convince ourselves of, but in that moment, with my hand resting in Jack’s warm, solid grip, I thought anything was possible. Because that’s the way
holding hands with Jack made me feel.

  BY THE TIME we got back to the farm, the lights were off and everyone was in bed. For the first time in weeks, I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

  The shot rang out in the early morning—a single, jarring crack that echoed through the stillness like a clap of thunder.

  Scholastica! It was my first thought as I bolted out of bed. I flung her bedroom door open, but she wasn’t there. I checked for Jack, but he wasn’t in his room either.

  “Scholastica!” I called, spinning around and running straight into Goma. “I can’t find her,” I said, steadying her tiny frame.

  “She’s fine. She’s been sleeping with me, in my room.” Goma held her door open, and there was Scholastica, snuggled peacefully under the covers.

  “What was that noise?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down. “Did you hear it? And where’s Jack?”

  “It was a rifle. And Jack is probably out already.” Goma belted a thick gown over her muumuu. She unlocked her wardrobe, parted the clothes, and reached for a shotgun tucked in the back. She loaded it calmly, propped it against her hip and racked the pump. “Never piss off an old bird. We’re cranky, constipated, and we need our beauty sleep.”

  She signaled me to stay behind her as we made our way down the hallway. Had I caught sight of myself, creeping behind Goma’s frail form, I might have laughed. But she held the gun like she meant business, and my heart was still caught in my throat. I had no idea what was waiting for us downstairs. And neither did she.

  The floorboards creaked as we checked out the ground floor. When we got to the kitchen, Goma pushed the sheer curtains aside with the tip of her shotgun.

  “There.” She motioned to the glow of light in the fields. “Someone’s in the livestock pen.”

  We stepped outside and made our way toward it, two dark figures against a violet dawn sky. Goma kicked the corral gate open, keeping the rifle pointed firmly ahead of her. Something was on the ground outside the barn, barely discernible in a weak pool of light.

  My mind played out all kinds of scenarios. What if someone had come for Scholastica? What if Jack had gotten in the way? What if he’d been the target of the shot we’d heard?

  Oh God. Please don’t let it be Jack.

  “No!” I rushed toward the figure sprawled out by the barn. The ground was dark and wet around it.

  Blood.

  “Step away from there.” It was Jack’s voice. Gritty and raw. I turned towards it with the kind of relief that couldn’t be contained.

  “You’re okay,” I said. Nothing else mattered, just that he was standing there.

  I didn’t realize that I was running to him until I was a few feet away, when I caught a glimpse of Goma’s expression. She was watching me with a mix of curiosity and astuteness that made me stop short.

  You care for him. She didn’t say it out loud, but she might as well have. You care for Jack.

  Of course, I care for him. I stumbled and came to a halt. If anything happened to him because of me, I’d feel awful about it.

  Right. Goma lowered her shotgun. And that’s all there is to it.

  But her sharp eyes stayed on me, making me feel like she could see clear to my soul.

  “We . . . we heard a shot,” I said to Jack.

  “A pack of hyenas on the prowl. They were after one of the calves. I shot one.” He motioned to the prone figure. “The rest took off.”

  “And the calf?” asked Goma.

  “A few cuts and scrapes, but she’ll recover.”

  Goma nodded. “I’ll go find her a blanket.”

  She disappeared into the barn, leaving Jack and me standing by the dead hyena.

  “Does this happen often?” I asked.

  Jack had shot the hyena dead center, in the middle of its forehead. How he’d managed that in the bleak light of dawn, was beyond me.

  “Mostly when the rains fail. That’s when the animals tend to stray from their turf. Luckily, the horses got nervous and alerted me.”

  “You have horses too?”

  “And cows and hens. We try to be as self-sufficient as we can. Eggs, milk, fruit trees, a vegetable patch. Even our alarm clock is organic.”

  I smiled as the rooster crowed again. “You like to keep it au naturel?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  I knew the nuances in his voice now. And from the way he was looking at me, he wasn’t talking about the farm. My throat went dry as I realized I was completely back-lit from the light, that my every curve was exposed to him. My nipples were puckered from the morning chill, but a rushing warmth flooded through my every pore. My heart fluttered wildly, like a kite in a whirlwind. There was a magnetism and self-confidence about Jack that made me want to hand him all my strings. I wanted to know what it would feel like to have his hands wrapped around my hair—pulling, tugging—

  “You two should get a barn.”

  We both jumped at the sound of Goma’s voice.

  “Seriously, with a carcass at your feet?” She looked from me to Jack. “No. I don’t want to hear it.” She held her palm up as Jack started to say something. “You can deny it all you want. Both of you. But you’re not fooling this old crone. There’s some major ogling going on here. Sparks and all.”

  We stared at her in awkward silence. What do you say to something like that?

  “Get back in the house, Goma,” said Jack.

  “With pleasure,” she replied, giving us a sly, haughty look.

  Oh God. Could the ground just part now and swallow me whole?

  We stared at our feet when she was gone.

  “I’m sorry she—”

  “It’s okay.” I cut him off. “I should head to town today and pick up my things from the hostel.” So I’m not wandering around in your grandmother’s muumuu, which is the furthest thing from sexy, so it’s kind of insane that we even had that moment, and maybe if I just keep talking to myself long enough, I’ll be able to heckle this embarrassing incident right out of my head, and then we can just go back to—

  “You hear that?” Jack swiveled around, shielding me with his large frame. “Something’s out there,” he said.

  “It’s just me.” Bahati emerged from the shadows. “I heard a gunshot.”

  “That was half an hour ago. Where have you been?”

  “Watching. From my window.” He pointed to the upper floor of the house.

  “And you let Goma and Rodel check out the situation first? You make a lousy guard, Bahati.”

  “I am not a guard. Never claimed to be. I am an actor. You paid me to stay here until you returned. You got back last night. The way I see it, my contract ended then. Besides, I am only playing the role of a guard. When people see me, they see a fierce Maasai warrior they don’t want to cross. That’s all that matters. Their perception. They don’t have to know I wouldn’t harm a fly. So, you see, everything gets resolved peacefully. No combat, no fighting. But hyenas in the middle of the night? They’re all yours.”

  “Well, you can help me bury this one,” said Jack. “And then I’m hoping you can drive Rodel to Amosha so she can pick up her things. It turns out that I need you a little longer. I’ve been gone a couple of days, and I need to catch up. I could do with some help until Rodel and I leave for Wanza. You think you can handle that?”

  Bahati rubbed his chin and glanced at the hyena. “Same pay?”

  “Same pay.”

  “No bonus for disposing of dead bodies?”

  “No bonus. It’s still a lot more than what you make from your trips and The Grand Tulip,” said Jack. “You want in or not?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Just checking. But I think we should have a code. For emergencies, you know? In case I need you. Your farm is a dangerous place. Yesterday, I saw a snake. It crossed the path right before me. Maybe I should get a whistle. What do you think? And all this stuff with Scholastica gives me heartburn. I hardly slept a wink while you were away. Goma forgets to lock the front door. And your h
ouse is old. It makes a lot of noise at night. I keep having panic attacks. And then this shooting. Wild animals sniffing around. I should get some kind of compensation. Health and hazard . . .”

  I retreated slowly as he prattled on. I wanted to slink away and pretend that my insides weren’t jangled, that the tingling in the pit of my stomach was from the early morning scare, and had nothing to do with Jack’s scorching appraisal.

  When I got to the house, I turned around.

  I could have sworn Jack was still watching me.

  “I AM GOING to town with Rodel and Bahati,” announced Goma.

  “What for?” Jack refilled his water bottle and leaned against the counter. He’d been out all morning, and his face was flushed from the sun.

  “Someone needs to follow up on that girl’s father.” She gestured to Scholastica. “He’s missing, and no one seems to give a damn.”

  “His sister already filed a report with the police.”

  “Yes, I spoke to her. Rodel left me her phone number in case of an emergency with Scholastica. Anna said the police think Gabriel’s abandoned his daughter. If that’s the case, fine. But I want to hear it from him. I’ve jotted down all his details. I’m going to visit my friend at the police station and have them track Gabriel down.”

  “Just be careful, okay?” Jack couldn’t hide the concern he felt for his grandmother. “Don’t let them know we have Scholastica here. In case someone knows he has an albino daughter.”

  “I’m no fool, boy.” Goma put on a pair of mirrored, rainbow sunglasses. They covered most of her face and reflected the world in two colorful, round saucers. “You’ll keep an eye on Scholastica?”

  “We’ll check in on the calf,” replied Jack. “Would you like that, Scholastica?” He switched to Swahili and sat down beside her.

  Jack and I were avoiding gazes, which was fine with me. Dealing with the high voltage zinging between us was one thing; having it pointed out by Goma just served to amplify the whole situation. We were both feeling guilty for it because desire has no place at grief’s table, and yet, there it was, sitting between us like a shameless, uninvited guest.