Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  “Sumuni,” I said. I had memorized all their names. “But what about Scholastica? I promised Anna I’d get her to Wanza.”

  “And we will. Correction. I will. You have to catch a plane when we get back. I’ll make another trip after you leave. In the meantime, we’ll let Anna know there’s been a delay. I don’t think it matters, as long as she’s assured that Scholastica is safe.”

  “What’s going on?” Bahati piped in, checking in on us.

  “It’s Scholastica. She’s sick. She can’t go with Ro and me today,” replied Jack. “Can you stay a little longer? Until I get back?”

  “But Jack, it’s so bori—” He stopped mid-sentence as Jack announced a figure. “I can get new tires for Suzi with that amount. And then all she’ll need are new seats. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like it here, but I miss The Grand Tulip. The guests, the pretty girls, the movies, the resta—”

  “You want in or not?” asked Jack.

  “Fine,” replied Bahati. “I’m in.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” huffed Goma. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself and Scholastica. But if you’re staying on, no more hollering for me or Scholastica to check for lizards under your bed at night. Clear?”

  Bahati had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “Anyone want breakfast?” He dashed out without waiting for an answer.

  By the time I went downstairs, he had coffee brewing and was helping Jack load the car.

  “You’ll be all right?” Jack asked Goma when she came to see us off.

  “Fine. And so will Scholastica.” She wasn’t one to hug or kiss goodbye. “It’s this one I’m worried about.” She tipped her head toward Bahati.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “No one takes me seriously around here. This is why I—”

  Jack started the car, drowning out the rest of his comments.

  “Bye, Goma.” I waved as we backed out of the garage. “Bye, Donkey Hottie.”

  The clouds hung low that morning, muting the trail of dust we left behind. We passed riverine forests and wooded hills with towering termite mounds. Other times, the landscape turned dry and brown, with nothing but scruffy bush for miles. Then the road snaked around the Great Rift Valley, offering sweeping views that took my breath away. This vast trench in the earth's crust stretches from the Middle East in the north to Mozambique in the south. It is also the single most significant physical detail on the planet, visible from space. To be driving along it, hugging the steep walls, where I had once pointed it out on the map to my students, was completely surreal. Across the horizon, not too far in the distance, colossal thunderclouds trailed shawls of rain across vistas as wide as the sea.

  As we approached, the rain washed over us in thick, diagonal sheets of gray. The wipers squeaked, double tempo, but it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

  “We’ll have to wait it out.” Jack pulled over and turned the car off.

  Mother Nature was in full drama, knocking on the roof, the windowpanes, the doors, as if trying to smudge everything into a Monet masterpiece. It was a day of inescapable wetness.

  Jack’s mood shifted, turning as somber as the sky. In the thunderous roar of the rain, I almost missed his words.

  “She’s leaving me,” he said.

  “Who’s leaving you?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on his window, watching the droplets trail down the glass in fast, furious rivulets.

  “Lily.” He pressed his palm to the pane, meeting the fading chocolate prints on the other side. “I’m losing the last of her.” If torment could be grasped, it would be in the pauses between his words. “My baby’s out there, under that big tree. I always watch over her. Every time it rains, I stand by her side. I think of her little body getting soaked by the rain and I can’t stand the idea of her being cold and alone. But today, I’m not there, and she’s leaving me. I’m losing my baby girl.”

  He fell apart slowly, his walls crumbling brick by brick, as if the house he’d been living in was being swept away by a mudslide. When he cried, there was a rawness to it, an agony that spoke of denial, of an open wound that had gone untended. The sobs were stifled at first, like he was trying to hold his grief at bay. How deep he’d buried it, I didn’t know, but it washed over him in waves. He hunched over the steering wheel, his hands clasping and unclasping, as if searching for something to hold on to, to keep from getting sucked into the next surge of pain.

  “Jack,” I said. But he was in his own world, lost to me.

  It didn’t stop until he gave in to it, until he let himself drown in it, until his whole body shook as it ripped through his skin and bones. When he finally lifted his head, he was a picture of complete devastation.

  I witnessed, for the first time, how someone can radiate pure strength from a place of pure pain. Sometimes the most heroic thing we can do is fight the battle within and just emerge on the other side. Because it’s not just one battle, one time. We do it over and over again, as long as we breathe, as long as we live.

  Jack pressed his forehead to the windowpane, his breath steaming up the glass. Lily’s fingerprints were gone, washed away by the silver streams cascading down the sides of the valley. The thunderclouds had passed over us, and there was a watery sheen to the world. Everything was wet and slick and new. Rods of soft, luminous light shimmered in the puddles as a muted sun appeared through the haze.

  “Remember when you told me that if I couldn’t speak to Lily, I should just listen?” said Jack.

  “I didn’t realize you’d never truly let her go until just now—”

  “I’m listening.” He pointed to the other side of the valley.

  There, against the graphite horizon, a soft arc of colors hung suspended across the washed-out sky.

  “A rainbow.”

  “Lily loved rainbows. Everything was rainbow colored. Her tutu, key chain, socks, pencils . . .” He drifted off, as if rediscovering its beauty in the newborn light. “I told her to dance up a storm. And that’s exactly what she did. She got my attention. All this time I’ve been searching for her in the wrong places—in the rain, and in thunder, and lightning. And all this time . . . there she is, hiding in rainbows.”

  We sat in silence, witnessing the miracle of sun and rain and color. Then Jack took a deep breath and started the car.

  “See you on the other side, baby girl,” he said to the rainbow across the valley.

  THE VILLAGE OF Maymosi was perched by a river, in a meadow strewn with baobab trees. Bare of leaves and fruit, they arched into the sky like masses of clawing roots, looking like they’d been planted upside-down.

  Maymosi was much bigger than I had imagined, with a wide road lined with modest stalls. It was muddy from the rain, but that didn’t stop everyone from squelching around in their rubber flip-flops. Women with shaved heads picked through fruits and vegetables, bargaining loudly over the price. A butcher in a red baseball cap hung slabs of glistening goat meat, surrounded by an audience of hopeful dogs. Thin smoke rose out of charcoal burners as vendors brewed milk tea and fried mandazi bread for their customers.

  We parked by the river and got out. Women sat on their haunches, washing clothes and hanging them to dry on thorn trees. Children lugged buckets of water home, leaving a trail of wet splashes behind them. Herders waited in line with donkeys and cattle for their turn at the stream.

  “Bongo Flava! Bongo Flava! Come see!” A procession of kids banging on pots and pans surrounded us—beautiful children with their faces dusted gray from hearth ash.

  “What’s Bongo Flava?” I asked them.

  They looked at me like I’d grown two heads and started laughing.

  “Music!” one of the girls explained. “You will like it.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not here for that.” I tried to extract myself from the tangle of arms as they started dragging me along with them. “We are looking for Sumuni. Do you know Sumuni?”

  “Yes! Come to Bongo Flava!”


  I shot Jack a questioning look as they tugged me past him.

  “We should check it out,” he said. “Looks like all the kids are heading there.” He pointed to the circle of kids already seated before a makeshift stage. It looked like a boxing ring, with a rope strung around on four wooden posts. The orchestra entered—three kids with handmade instruments. One of them had an upside-down gourd lodged in a bucket of water. A drum, I assumed. The other one held a shoebox with rubber bands wrapped around it. I couldn’t imagine what that was for. The last kid rattled two tin cans filled with stones to get everyone’s attention.

  “Nyamaza!” she said.

  In the silence that followed, a short figure, wearing a hooded robe entered the ring. It was actually a blanket, tied at the waist with a floral sash that looked like it might have been swiped from a woman’s dress.

  “Awright! Let’s get this party started!” he said, dropping his hood and turning to the audience, Michael Jackson style.

  “Sumuni! Sumuni! Sumuni!” the other kids chanted, throwing their hands in the air for him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Jack. “Sumuni is a motherfucking superstar.”

  Sumuni bopped around the stage, a pale demi-god with flaming orange hair, rapping lyrics that were half English, half Swahili. He had no microphone, but his voice carried effortlessly, pulling in the other villagers around us. They laughed at his moves, his words, but most of all, at his over-the-top attitude. It didn’t matter that the music was off, or that the shoebox with dirty rubber bands was a valiant yet lacking substitute for a guitar.

  Everyone cheered at the end of the performance. Sumuni and his band took a bow. Some of the adults dropped mangoes and oranges into a box by the stage before shuffling off.

  “I should have known,” said Jack, shaking his head in amusement.

  “Known what?”

  “Sumuni. It means fifty cents in Swahili. I guess he’s named himself after 50 Cent, the rapper.” He pulled out a couple of bills from his wallet and handed them to Sumuni.

  “Thank you.” Sumuni put the money into his hat before putting it on. “You’re tourists?”

  Our presence didn’t seem to arouse much curiosity. Maymosi was obviously a place that saw its fair share of visitors.

  “We’re actually here for you. To take you to Wanza,” said Jack. “Are your parents around?”

  Sumuni paused and squinted at Jack. He must have been twelve or thirteen, but his eyes were those of an old soul. They were different from Scholastica’s—more pink than blue. “Yes, but there must be some kind of a mistake. We’re expecting Gabriel.”

  He led us to his home and asked us to wait in the courtyard while he went to get his parents. They greeted us warmly, though they were quick to inquire about Gabriel.

  “We’re not sure where he is,” I said. “I found Sumuni’s name on some notes my sister had made, and we decided to come get him.”

  They nodded as I explained the situation, but I could tell they were busy assessing Jack and me.

  “We are very grateful that you made the trip, but the thing is, we know nothing about you. We cannot just hand our son over to you.” Sumuni’s father spoke with a finality that left no room for argument. And yet, it was Sumuni’s mother he looked to for direction every time he spoke. She was clearly the one in charge.

  “We are in no rush to send Sumuni to Wanza. It is mostly for school,” she said. “There is no high school here and he will need one soon, but we will wait for Gabriel—whenever he shows up. Sumuni’s situation is not like that of most other albino kids. He is loved and protected here. The whole village would rise up if anyone tried to hurt him.”

  “We understand,” I said, even though it felt like an anti-climax, having come all this way, only to be turned away. “It’s totally your call.”

  “And if Gabriel doesn’t show anytime soon?” Jack interjected.

  “Then no school for me!” Sumuni fist pumped. “I get to be a Bongo Flava star.”

  “We’ll see about that,” his mother said, hushing him. “If Gabriel doesn’t show, we’ll just have to save up for a train ride to Wanza, by private coach. Taking Sumuni there by bus is too risky. You never know who you’re traveling with.”

  “We hope it hasn’t been too much trouble coming this way.” Sumuni’s father shifted in his chair. “Where are you headed next?”

  “To Magesa, but we have a couple of days before we’re expected there. Or rather, before Gabriel is expected there.”

  “Why don’t you stay for supper?” Sumuni’s mother asked. “We planned a big meal. We thought it would be Sumuni’s last night with us before he left for Wanza with Gabriel. We’ve invited some of our friends and family too. Consider it a token of gratitude, a little something for coming out this way. We would be honored if you ate with us.”

  A LITTLE SOMETHING’ turned out to be a major feast. Half the village gathered under a tall baobab tree. Pots filled with stewed chicken, and peas in coconut, simmered in the fire. Potatoes baked on hot coals, and the aroma of milk tea drifted late into the night.

  Sumuni and his little band put on another show for everyone. His father watched proudly, a wad of tobacco tucked behind his ear, while his mother threaded beads on long strands of fiber from the baobab.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jack. “It feels like you’re somewhere else.”

  We were sitting shoulder to shoulder by a warm spot near the fire.

  “I’m just . . . I feel like I’m failing Mo. I’m not getting anywhere with these kids. We got to Juma too late, and now . . .”

  “Now what?” He turned to study my face.

  When Jack looked at me, it didn’t matter where I was, or what I was thinking. I came right back to the present. To his eyes. To his voice. I could be drowning in torment, and all he had to do was look at me, just like he was doing then.

  “You see that?” He tilted his head toward Sumuni. “Look at him. Look at his parents. That’s love. That’s happiness. They’re glowing with it. How can that ever make you feel like you failed Mo? Besides, it’s not like she entrusted you with anything. You took it on yourself. Your decision. Your mission.”

  “It’s a stupid mission,” I said. “I wanted to honor her memory, I wanted to make a difference, but I feel like it’s all been for nothing.”

  A cool breeze rustled around us and blew dry leaves into the embers. We sat there, watching the women sweep the ground clean with hand brooms of grass and twigs until most of the guests dispersed.

  “You did make a difference,” said Jack, as they started dousing the fires, one by one. “To me.”

  He got up, boots spread, and held his hand out for me.

  Around us, the night sky grew shrouded with clouds of smoke and blowing dust, but that moment, that moment shone with clarity so sharp and poignant, I knew it would remain lodged in my heart like a diamond.

  You did make a difference. To me.

  THERE WERE NO hotels in Maymosi, but one of the wealthier villagers rented rooms in his private villa. Jack and I spent the night in adjoining rooms that were sparse, but functional. The walls were paper thin, so I knew he’d been up most of the night. He was as bleary-eyed as I was in the morning.

  Glad I wasn’t the only one tossing and turning all night, I thought.

  It was getting harder to keep things platonic between us. I wondered if the same thoughts had been running through his mind—to tear through the flimsy partition that separated us, give in to the crazy pull between us, and fall asleep to the sound of spent breaths.

  We were both quiet as we drove away from Sumuni’s village, lost in our own thoughts. I held Mo’s final note in my hand:

  Sept 1—Furaha, (Magesa)

  The edges were curled up from all the times I had flipped through her Post-its. Furaha meant happiness. I wondered if her parents had named her that so it would always stay with her . . . happiness . . . no matter what the world threw at her. I was realizing that the situation with albino children i
n Tanzania was complex—Juma at one end, sacrificed by his own family, and Sumuni at the other—whose parents and friends would do anything to protect him. I wondered where Furaha fit within the spectrum.

  “We’ll go through the park, and on to Magesa through the western corridor,” explained Jack, when we got to the Serengeti National Park.

  “Oh, look!” I said, as soon as we entered. “Giraffes! I didn’t spot any at the crater.”

  “No, they find it too difficult to negotiate the cliffs there.”

  With their legs half-hidden by a sea of golden grass, they appeared to be floating gracefully across the horizon.

  “What are those?” I pointed to a pair of wide-eyed animals that looked like overgrown hares on spindly legs.

  “Dik-diks. They’re a type of antelope.”

  “So tiny. So cute.”

  Just then, something spooked them, and they skittered away in zigzag patterns, whistling through their noses.

  “You missed the annual migration,” said Jack. “It’s an extraordinary sight.”

  “I can’t imagine it getting any better than this,” I replied, staring out the window.

  It was easy to get lost in the setting, almost as if something primal kicked in, peeling away the inner static and sharpening the senses. Everywhere around us, animals roamed the plains. Lions, elephants, impalas, wildebeest, zebras, warthogs, birds with iridescent feathers that shimmered like rainbows in the sun. There was a spectral magnificence to the ever-changing landscape. As we drove through the center of the park, the grassy plains gave way to patches of woodland and riverbeds lined with trees. Outcrops of granite stuck out like rocky islands on the horizon.

  “Kopjes,” said Jack. “That one looks exactly like the rock where Rafiki presented Simba to everyone in The Lion King. You want to check it out?”

  “I doubt we’ll find them there.” I laughed.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Jack smiled. “But it’s the perfect place for a lazy lion to warm up.”

  As we rounded the rocky outcrop, Jack slowed down and turned the car off.