Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  “Well, we’re off,” said Goma, as we stepped out the door.

  “Kwaheri!” Scholastica waved goodbye. She seemed to have grown closer to Goma while Jack and I were away.

  “Look how my Suzi is shining today!” Bahati preened as Goma and I got into his jeep. He had waxed and polished her to a dazzling gleam.

  “If you spent half as much time paying attention to a nice, young lady, as you do to your Suzi, you’d have a family by now.”

  “Family is fickle. My Suzi—” he thumped the dashboard “—she is solid. Reliable. Jack said you met my father, Miss Rodel?”

  “It’s Ro.” It was funny how he called Jack and Goma by their names, but was more formal with me. I was learning it was his way of distancing himself. “And yes, I met Olonana. Your grandmother gave me this.” I held up the bracelet so he could see it in his rearview.

  “They were nicer to you than to me. You know what my father gave me? My nickname. Bahati. Bahati Mbaya.”

  “You don’t like it?” I asked. We had left the stone pillars of Kaburi Estate behind and were driving down the main road to Amosha.

  “You wouldn’t like it either if you knew the meaning. Bahati means luck. Mbaya means bad. My father thinks I am bad luck. When I was born, Lonyoki, our oloiboni, had a vision. He saw me riding the back of a giant, black serpent. I was fighting my own kind, helping the white people. Many years ago, the colonialists took our land. We are still trying to recover and hold on to our way of life. Lonyoki believed I was a threat to the village, but my father loved me. He listened to Lonyoki on all matters except that, and it displeased the oloiboni. He blamed every misfortune on me. If the rains didn’t come, it was my fault. If his spells didn’t work, it was my fault. If disease wiped out our cows, it was my fault.

  “Maybe if I had been like the other morans, if I had proved my worth, it would have passed. But I was not a good hunter or herdsman. I liked hanging out at the village. I liked putting on shows for the tourists. I liked gadgets and music and movies. So, the elders urged my father to send me away. I thought he would stick up for me, that he would tell them to stop believing outdated superstitions, but he caved. He thrust a few shillings in my hand and saw me off. He told me to never step foot in Maasai land, that if I did, the prophecy would come true. I tried to reason with him, but my father said we would all be better off if I just went away. I have not been back since.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. “I hope you’re able to reconcile with him someday.”

  “Olonana is a stubborn old coot. Just like me. We don’t come around easy.” Goma rifled through her purse and passed me a bar of chocolate. “Here.” She handed Bahati one too. “Chocolate makes everything better.”

  It was warm and soft, and I rolled it in my mouth like a sweet piece of comfort.

  When we got to the Nima House volunteer’s hostel, I went inside and packed my things. I sat at the foot of Mo’s bed after I’d stripped it clean, thankful that Goma and Bahati had stayed in the car. I needed a moment, one last moment to occupy the space that Mo had been in, to breathe the air she had breathed.

  I was glad I had come, but there was no denying the pockets of emptiness where she was supposed to be. I realized these moments would always creep up on me, always echo with her voice, her face, her smile, like an empty room in my soul. I was overcome with a sudden sense of gratitude and connection to Jack, and Goma, and Scholastica, and Bahati. They were all showing me different aspects of what it meant to be strong, at a time when I was struggling with it myself.

  I left a note for Corinne, letting her know I would be at Kaburi Estate for the duration of my stay. Then I slipped my sister’s orange cat-eye frames into my handbag and picked up my suitcase. The streamers she had attached to the fan fluttered when I opened the door to leave. I couldn’t bring myself to untie them, so I hoped that whoever took her place enjoyed the whirl of bright colors whenever they turned the fan on.

  Goodbye, Mo, I thought.

  You wish, she replied.

  It was such a Mo thing to say, at such a Mo moment, that I wanted to smile and sob at the same time.

  I was thankful for Bahati’s chatter as we drove away, through the congested streets of Amosha. A motorcycle stopped beside us, the passenger on the back sitting sidesaddle as she read a book. Our eyes met briefly as she looked up, over the din of traffic and street vendors. Then the lights changed, and Bahati turned into the local police station.

  “I have to pick up a few things from my place,” he said, dropping Goma and me off at the main entrance. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  I surveyed the shabby building while Goma breathed on her psychedelic sunglasses and wiped them with the edge of her caftan. Her silver hair popped against its vibrant, fuchsia print.

  “Let’s go light some fires,” she said, sliding her glasses back on.

  I had to hand it to her. She knew how to make a dramatic entrance. She was loud, demanding, and colorful, like a whirlwind of pink energy in the drab setting.

  “Goma, you’re still alive?” One of the policemen grinned at her.

  “And I will be, long after you’re gone, Hamisi.” She plonked down a stack of bills on his desk. “This is for the chairs.”

  “What chairs?” He slid the money into his drawer without waiting for an answer.

  “The ones you’re going to get for me and my friend so we can sit down and discuss business.”

  And that was how we jumped the line of tired, ragged people waiting their turn. No one batted an eye or questioned it. Goma kept her rainbow lenses on as Hamisi took down Gabriel’s details.

  “I believe a missing person’s report has already been filed by his sister. I need this man found.”

  “Sounds personal,” said Hamisi.

  “It’s for my friend.” Goma tilted her head my way. “Her sister died in the mall attack. She knew this guy. If we can talk to him, we can tie up some loose ends.”

  Hamisi shifted his gaze to me. “Sorry about your sister. It’s unfortunate, but most of our resources are tied up in the investigation. This could take a while. Was there a romantic connection, perhaps?” He tapped his pen on the form.

  “How about this for a connection?” Goma snatched the pen from him and scribbled a figure on the paper. “Personal enough to free up some of your resources?”

  “Maybe.” Hamisi examined the number. “It’s a start.”

  “A start, my bony ass. You agree to that sum right now, or we leave. I’m sure I can find someone else who would be happy to help.”

  “Goma.” Hamisi held his arms out in a placating gesture. “Always like pili pili mbuzi. You know pili pili mbuzi?” he asked me. “Crushed chili seeds, so hot they burn your tongue. Even in their old age.”

  Before he could go on, four police guards stopped by his desk. They were holding a man between them. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but he was bald, and not in a clean-shaven way. He had little hairy tufts growing in odd patches on his scalp. A red tribal bandana was wrapped around his wrist. The two ends stuck out like a stiff V as one of the guards held on to him. He wasn’t particularly big or burly, nor was he resisting them, so it seemed odd to have so many guards on him. He wore an expression of utter nonchalance, as if he were waiting for a bus on a summer day.

  “K.K.” Hamisi sighed. “Back so soon?”

  K.K. smiled, as if something good was about to happen.

  There is nothing creepier than a person whose emotions don’t match the situation. His eyes fell on me, and I couldn’t help but think of the scavenger storks I had seen in the crater, with their hollow leg bones and spotty, featherless heads.

  “Take him to the holding cell,” said Hamisi.

  “When are you going to tire of this game, Inspector? I’ll be out of here before you can start the paperwork.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s not going to stop me from doing my job.”

  “Your job is a joke,” said K.K, as the guards led him away. “Hey old lady
. You!” he called Goma from across the room. “I want those glasses!”

  Goma glared at him over the rim of her frames. “Over my dead body.”

  “That can be arranged.” The man cackled, before the bars slammed shut on him.

  “Sorry about that,” said Hamisi, turning his attention back to us. “Where were we? Ah, yes.” He circled the bribe Goma had offered. “I think we can work with this. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as he shook our hands.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Goma said to Hamisi.

  We found Bahati waiting for us in the car park. He had changed into a button-down shirt and trousers, and was standing by the boot of the car, rifling through his backpack.

  “I forgot to pack my moisturizer,” he said, staring forlornly into it.

  “It seems like you packed everything else.” Goma poked the two suitcases he’d loaded into the car. “You’re not moving in, you know. Just until Jack and Rodel get back from Wanza.”

  “I take my assignments seriously.”

  “Apparently. And your skin care too.” Goma slid into the front seat.

  “You could do with a good moisturizer.” Bahati shut the boot and started the car. “What do you use? The spa at The Grand Tulip passes me all their extra stuff. Here. Feel my skin. Smooth as a newborn baby. I am going to get some headshots done soon. For my portfolio. I was waiting for my hair to grow out a bit . . .”

  We were driving past a part of town I had not seen before. It looked like the commercial center, with newer buildings and wider streets. A huge construction zone interrupted the line of shops and offices. At least, that’s what it looked like until I saw the wreaths of flowers, stretching across the fenced-off area, from end to end.

  “Wait,” I said. “Stop here.”

  Bahati broke off his ongoing commentary. He and Goma exchanged a look.

  “It’s fine. Really. I just have to see.” I stared out of the window, at what was left of Kilimani Mall.

  The cleanup crew had removed all the debris and shattered glass. The plumes of smoke I had seen on TV were gone. What remained was the shell of a half-collapsed building, its steel beams sticking out like sharp, fractured bones. At its center was a dark, gaping pit, where the roof had been blown off the underground car park. Police-tape fluttered in the wind, its bright yellow color clashing against the somber, ashen scene.

  I got out of the car in a trance. This was where it had happened, where Mo had lost her life. But she wasn’t the only one. Photos were taped to the wire fence—names, notes, dates, pleas for information on people that were still unaccounted for.

  Sleep in the arms of angels, Morgan Prince.

  Taken too soon. Salome Evangeline, my baby girl.

  Beloved husband and father. Always with us.

  Have you seen this man?

  I walked past the long line of candles and flowers and toys. People leaving their tributes, perhaps some who came every day, whose souls were anchored to this place of lost loved ones.

  Where were you, Mo? I peered through the crisscross of the fence, to the rubble beyond. What were you doing?

  I would never know the answers to my questions, but the one that hurt the most, the thing I tried not to think about, was that she had died alone.

  “Excuse me.” A woman brushed past me. She stopped at a particular spot, removed a dried-out wreath, and replaced it with a new one.

  Her face looked oddly familiar. As she made her way back toward me, I realized where I’d seen her before. We had stopped next to each other at the traffic light earlier. She’d been the passenger, reading a book on the motorcycle.

  I reached for the beads on my bracelet, thinking of the words on them.

  Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.

  We are all connected.

  How many times do we pass people on the street, whose lives are intertwined with ours in ways that remain forever unknown? How many ways are we tied to a stranger by fragile, invisible threads that bind us all together?

  She paused by a street light and looked at the flyer taped to it for a few seconds. Then she tore off a strip of paper, walked by me, and crossed the road.

  “Everything all right?” asked Bahati. “Goma asked me to check on you.”

  “What’s on that pole?” I made my way to it and read the sign.

  Lost a loved one you would like to contact?

  Need a promotion at work?

  Want to rid yourself of disease or evil spirits?

  For a small contribution, I can make it happen for you.

  Best Mganga, from Zanzibar.

  Call now!

  And then a name and phone number.

  “What’s a mganga, Bahati?”

  “Traditionally, a doctor, healer, or herbalist. But the term applies to witchdoctors and potion makers too. The ones from Zanzibar are particularly revered. Zanzibar is an island off the coast with a rich history of local voodoo.”

  “And people believe in it?” There were just two strips of phone numbers left on the flyer.

  “If you are desperate enough, you do.”

  I nodded, thinking of the woman who had just left fresh flowers at the site. I could see how the first line in the flyer would appeal to friends and families of victims of the mall attack. “These mgangas—are they also the ones that perform spells using albino body parts?”

  “Some of them. It’s impossible to tell unless you’re in their trusted circle.”

  “Have you ever been? To a witchdoctor?” I asked, as we walked toward the car.

  “No. Unless you count our oloiboni, Lonyoki. A lot of people don’t have access to doctors or health care in the rural areas. Healers and herbalists are usually their first line of defense. Many healers have legitimate knowledge of how things work, passed down to them from their forefathers, but there are an equal number of quacks. Personally, I shun local superstitions. Maybe because I fell victim to them myself, and had to leave my home and people.”

  “Just like Scholastica.”

  “Yes.” Bahati paused before getting into the car. “I never thought of it like that, but yes. I guess Scholastica and I have that in common.”

  I rested my head against the window and listened to Bahati chatter on. It had become strangely comforting, like familiar background noise. Goma must have felt the same way because she dozed off and her head rolled from side to side as we drove past patchwork fields and shacks with corrugated iron roofs.

  When we got to the farm, Bahati backed Suzi into the garage. It was a sloping structure, extending from the house, open on all sides, but sheltering the cars under its roof. A hose was lying next to Jack’s car, with a stream of soapsuds trickling toward the drain on the floor.

  “You’re back.” Jack was in his car, one long, tanned arm leaning out the window.

  “Are you going somewhere?” asked Goma.

  “No. Scholastica and I were washing the car, and out of the blue, she just started crying. I think she’s homesick and missing her father. She’s all right now, but exhausted. She fell asleep a few minutes ago.”

  I peered into the car and saw her curled up on the passenger seat, her head resting on Jack’s lap. “How did you manage to calm her down?”

  “I told her a story that Lily used to love.” He stroked her hair absently, as if strumming a beloved, forgotten lullaby.

  “I’ll take her inside.” Bahati scooped her out of the car, careful not to wake her.

  “I think I’ll lie down for a bit too,” said Goma. “These rough roads rattle my bones.”

  We watched them open the door and disappear into the house.

  “I don’t know how any man can abandon his daughter,” Jack said softly. “If I could squeeze in one more moment with Lily—one tiny, fleeting moment—I would do it. No matter the cost. I’d trade my soul to the devil for it.”

  “I don’t think Gabriel’s abandoned Scholastica. It doesn’t make sense. Here he is, getting all these kids to safety—putting himself at risk
in the process. And then he just takes off and leaves his own daughter? It just doesn’t fit.”

  “How do we know he was really getting those kids to safety? All we know for sure is that he was rounding up albino children, using your sister. Did she ever say they actually delivered the kids to the orphanage in Wanza? Did they physically lead them in through the doors, get them registered, and settled in?”

  “Mo never brought it up, but I’ve never questioned Gabriel’s motives. He has an albino daughter himself.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t automatically align him with the cause. We know nothing about him as a person. We’re assuming he’s a good guy. What if he’s not? What if he’s just been using Scholastica to get the families of other kids to trust him? We know he offered Juma’s family some sort of compensation. Is it out of his own pocket, or is he working for someone else?”

  “Are you saying that Gabriel could be an albino hunter? That he duped my sister into helping him?” I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of it.

  “I don’t know, but it’s a possibility we need to consider. We won’t know for sure until we get to Wanza. Once we’re there, we can check the records and find out if he really delivered those kids to the orphanage.”

  “Why don’t we just call them?”

  “I don’t want to tip anyone off—in case Gabriel has someone keeping an eye out for him there. I’d rather just show up and check it out myself.”

  “What about the police? Goma has Hamisi searching for him.”

  “Hamisi keeps his mouth shut. His discretion is what earns him a second income.”

  I nodded, but it felt like the ground was shifting from under my feet. Everything I had based my decisions on seemed to be illusory, like a distant mirage. “I stopped at the mall today.”

  We were talking through the window, with Jack still sitting in the car. For the first time since our early morning exchange by the barn, our eyes met and held. There was something indefinable in his, something he didn’t want me to see. And then like a curtain, it dropped, and he cupped my face. The rough pad of his thumb brushed against my cheek in a gesture that was so tender, the breath stilled in my chest.