The Brightest Sun

by Adrienne Benson

  Standing there, by the changing lake, she sent a prayer to the sky that her daughter wasn’t really disappearing. “Don’t let her leave me,” she murmured. “Not like Lance, and not in a way that will never, ever change back.”

  It was a mistake to come to the lake, to the floor of the Rift. The landscape was so familiar it made her ache, and the memories came too fast. It hurt to remember Muthega and the women by the river and the dusty kids. It hurt to remember herself back then and how much stronger she was. But she’d still been too weak to stay, still too weak to swallow her fear and continue her work. After Muthega’s murder, she told herself, and she told Paul, too, that what she admired most about the elephants was their deep maternal instincts. She said she’d lost her desire to work in the bush with them, and only wanted to emulate them.

  It felt true at that time, and she hadn’t missed the work in the years since. She’d followed another path—to be a mother to her own baby, to keep the child close, folded safely in the curve of her arm, her metaphorical trunk. Elephant daughters lived with their mothers for life, though. Human daughters didn’t. They grew apart from their parents, up and away, and the mothers had to open their arms wide and release them. It took strength. Jane wondered if she would ever be strong enough to let Grace go.

  FOREST OF THE LOST CHILD

  The son of the shopkeeper always yelled his messages long before his feet reached the manyatta. Simi and the other women, gathered by the muddy trickle of the river, heard his voice and looked up from their washing. They could see a small billow of dust moving toward them.

  “That boy has the voice of an elephant in pain,” Loiyan muttered. She didn’t smile, although the other women laughed. Simi noticed Loiyan’s pinched face, and realized that she hadn’t heard Loiyan enjoy her own jokes recently. Simi wondered if the other woman was pregnant again. She had three sons who were already moran, and a newly married daughter pregnant with her own first baby. Loiyan also had four children who still lived in the manyatta. All girls, two were toddlers, one was a serious girl of seven and the last was a baby, barely weaned. During the early pregnancies, Loiyan blossomed. Her cheeks grew round, her belly blossomed like a flower and her skin shone. Each of the first three babies was born quickly and easily. Loiyan was good at bringing babies into the world.

  Then there was a tiny boy born too soon to live, his body perfect and waxen and far too still, and it was then that Loiyan shifted. Just a bit. Her humor, Simi thought, was always a bit sharp. Her voice was always a little too loud, and her opinions a little too important. But there was always a brightness behind her barbs and her actions. She was quick and tough and never afraid. After the stillborn son, though, her personality grew uneven, a little darker, a little angrier. Some of the brightness had faded. Simi knew the pain Loiyan felt—she could remember her losses like they were still happening. But instead of that making it easier to talk to Loiyan, it became harder. Loiyan and Simi were never close, but the terrible thing they had in common seemed to drive them apart further. Loiyan no longer teased Simi; she didn’t address her at all.

  The pounding of footsteps came closer, and with it a cloud of dust that descended on the women. The boy bent over, breathing hard. He lifted water from the stream into his mouth with one hand and wiped his forehead with the other. “Simi,” he huffed, “Adia is coming to Narok town tomorrow. She will have things for you. You can meet her there at midday.”

  He splashed water on his face and rubbed it hard. The sun glinted off the droplets like tiny shards of glass. Simi smiled at the boy and thanked him. “Go to my house and wait. I’ll come soon and make you tea. You shouldn’t go back to your father hungry and tired.”

  The phone in the little shop where the boy’s father worked as both postman and shopkeeper rang often; so many husbands and sons were in Nairobi now that every day someone would call, asking the boy to deliver a message to one of the manyattas nearby. Simi, though, was the only one who had a daughter who called.

  Simi turned back to the river to rinse the few items that were still soapy. She noticed Loiyan staring at her sideways. Even with all her children, she’d never be happy, Simi thought. Loiyan was a jealous woman. And for some reason she couldn’t begin to explain, that made Simi feel sorry for her. Before she knew what words were going to slip from her mouth, she said, “Loiyan, come with me tomorrow. Adia will have things for all of us.” Loiyan looked down at the slow-moving water and sucked her teeth, but Simi knew she would agree.

  Simi laid her wet clothes on bare, hot rocks and hurried home to make the shopkeeper’s boy tea. She knew his family had little these days. The drought lingered, and there were children born now who couldn’t remember ever seeing the land green—the descriptions their parents gave them were nothing more than fairy tales. But the families who still had livestock were doing well enough to feed themselves. Leona had kept her promise to the Maasai—in certain situations, for prescribed lengths of time, people could take their cattle and goats to feed in the highlands, where there was still grass to eat and water to drink. In the driest months, this left manyattas full of only women and children. Women and children who didn’t have money to buy things from the shopkeeper. Women and children who did without sugar in their tea anymore and whose bellies often grumbled in the dark hours of the night.

  Simi was the lucky one. Her Nairobi daughter never let a month pass without bringing soap and tea and sugar and fat to cook with. Adia was generous, and everyone in the manyatta benefited. This made Simi proud.

  The next day, Simi and Loiyan began the walk to Narok. First wife, Isina, came, too, as well as her grown daughter, Nalami, who was visiting her mother. Both the other wives missed Adia almost as much as Simi herself did. The walk from the manyatta to Narok was long, and it was hot, and Loiyan carried her smallest baby on her back, wrapped in a kanga. Still, though, Simi was surprised at how slowly Loiyan walked, how heavy her breathing was, and wondered again if Loiyan was pregnant. She worried that they might miss Adia. By the time the sun was almost directly overhead, Isina had taken the baby from Loiyan and tied it securely to her own back. Loiyan hadn’t argued—she gave up her burden wordlessly. This alone made Simi worry. Loiyan wasn’t someone who easily kept from arguing.

  The women stopped to drink water from a trickling spring just outside of Narok. Isina handed the baby to Loiyan, who sat, slumped and breathing hard, on a flat rock. The baby was hungry and wanted to nurse. Loiyan clasped her daughter to her breast, but even as the baby pulled and suckled, Simi could tell she wasn’t getting much milk.

  “Loiyan, are you sick?” Isina asked. It comforted Simi, somehow, that the other women noticed, too. Simi noticed beads of sweat dappling Loiyan’s hairline, gathering together and sliding down the sides of her face.

  “I’m just tired,” Loiyan answered, and she stood, a little unstable, on her feet. She handed the baby to Isina. “Help me carry her.”

  It wasn’t much longer until the woman noticed the outline of Narok on the horizon, the squat buildings, the uneven rooflines, and then there was a white car, new and shiny under the film of dust. There were two figures Simi could see: one sitting on the hood, one leaning against the car. Simi squinted to catch sight of Adia, and then she saw her daughter sliding off her perch and striding toward her. Her daughter. How lovely Adia always looked. And then they were standing together, talking. Even Loiyan looked better. She’d always had a place for Adia in her heart. All the members of the manyatta did.

  “Yeyo, I have things for you,” Adia said as she took the baby from Isina. Adia held the baby against her hip, and the child reached up and grasped a handful of Adia’s hair and laughed. “My mother’s worried about the grazing. Are the men back yet? She wanted me to ask you. It’s important for them to stay there only for the time allowed. If they’re still out there, if they stay past what they’re allowed, they may not be allowed to go back next time.”

  Isina answered. “T
hey’re still there. None of them has come back yet. We only have a few goats here for us to eat, no cattle. We cannot sell them or we’d have no meat, so we cannot buy the other things we need.” Adia turned then and waved her arms. “Hey, Grace, bring me the pack.” Turning back to Simi, she said, “I have soap and milk powder and sugar and kimbo. Some tea, too. And my friend. I want her to meet you, Yeyo.”

  The other girl began pulling items out of a backpack and handing them up to the women. Simi watched her carefully. She was similar to Adia—the same color skin, the same texture hair, but also so different. Her face was pale, and her eyes big and rounder, somehow, her fingernails were clean and white. Simi thought the girl looked a little frightened.

  “We can’t stay long,” Adia said in Maa, and Simi felt a pang of disappointment. She’d have to say goodbye again so soon.

  “Grace’s mother is waiting. She’s impatient.” Adia smiled when she said it, but it made Simi angry with the other woman, that still figure in the distance, leaning against her car. She wondered if that woman had ever experienced any sadness at all. As Simi watched, the faraway woman put a bottle of water to her mouth and tipped her head back, drinking a long drink. Simi could imagine the feeling of cool, clean water in her mouth. It had been so long since the rivers were clear and cold.

  “But I’ll come again soon, Yeyo.” Adia kissed the baby on her little cheek and handed her back to Isina.

  Simi watched the car drive away. She thought she saw the round, pale face of Adia’s friend pressed against the window, staring back at her. But then Loiyan made a small sound and sank to her knees. She was so close to Simi that her hair grazed Simi’s calf as she fell.

  “Loiyan!” Nalami shouted, and she knelt to hold Loiyan’s head in her lap. She felt Loiyan’s cheek and said, “She’s too hot. It’s a bad fever.”

  Simi wished they had some water, even a little, to wipe Loiyan’s face, cool her down a bit, and to squeeze into her dry, hot lips. But the drought had made the smaller sources, the ones they might have found nearby, dry up and disappear.

  Simi carried Loiyan on her back the same way Isina carried Loiyan’s baby. Nalami was weighed down, too. She had the tins of kimbo and the butter and all the other things Adia had brought. The women walked slowly, and Simi had to stop often and gently slide Loiyan down to the ground and then stand up straight, catch her breath and stretch her aching back. Nalami’s manyatta was not far, but the walk was slow, and the afternoon was hot and still. Worry weighed on Simi, too. She’d never seen a person faint and not revive quickly. Loiyan was still limp, her heart was beating and her breath was even, but her eyes were open and unfocused, and her jaw was loose and slack.

  When the women finally reached Nalami’s manyatta, it was evening. The sky was purple and the sun a dull red. It looked like an unhappy sky, a worried and bruised sky. By this time, Loiyan’s baby, having slept during most of the walk, was wide-awake and hungry—crying for milk. Nalami’s husband had three wives, one largely pregnant and another with children beyond weaning age. The pregnant woman might have milk. Otherwise the baby would have to eat ugi and maybe a little cow’s milk, if some could be found. That would be a problem for Nalami to fix. Simi, meanwhile, carried Loiyan into Nalami’s hut and laid her out on the bed. The laiboni would help now.

  Simi didn’t sleep well. It was too dark for her and Isina to make the walk home, so they slept on the rawhide bed in Nalami’s mother-in-law’s house. Simi wasn’t used to sleeping that close to another adult, and every time Isina shifted, the movement woke her. It was still night when she gave up. Outside the hut, the sky was beginning to shift from darkness into dawn, and a pale, almost imperceptible orange light was the only indication of where the earth and the sky joined.

  Simi and Isina left for home before the sun was fully up. Simi carried Loiyan’s baby, who, still hungry from her sudden and unwelcome transition from mother’s milk to gruel, fell asleep immediately, her cheek pressed against Simi’s shoulder. She thought of Loiyan’s other children, who waited for their mother to return. They would be sad and frightened. But Isina was carrying all the things Adia had given them, and maybe Simi could cheer the children up with sweet tea. None of them had had sugar in their tea for so long.

  Two days later, Simi lay with Loiyan’s baby in the shade of an acacia. The baby had begun to get used to eating ugi. She was a happy little thing. Simi had been caring for all of Loiyan’s daughters for the last two days. Loiyan’s older children had left the manyatta, the oldest daughter was married, and the three older boys were moran. These four little girls needed care, though, and Simi stepped in to provide it. The baby slept next to her at night, and the three younger ones slept nearby, like a pile of puppies cuddled together near the warmth of the banked fire. Simi loved hearing their sleeping breaths whenever she woke.

  Now the baby was sitting next to Simi and running her chubby hands in the dust. Simi began to sing a song she’d made up when Adia was a baby. She was trying to pull the words out of her memory when she heard a shout. She sat up and shaded her eyes with the palm of her hand. There was dust, lots of dust in the distance. It was movement. A child darted from behind a nearby tree and raced past Simi to a large rock outcropping that had a view over the valley. From there he might be able to see what was within all that dust. Other woman, other children, appeared next to Simi. They gazed out at the brown cloud. Then the boy on the rock shouted. He jumped up and down and shook his fists in the air. It was a victory dance. He’d seen the cause of the dust and it was the men and boys, the livestock. They were coming home.

  That night a cow was slaughtered. The moran danced and, after so long being so quiet, the manyatta was filled with noise and movement, people and animals and activity. Simi watched the dancing with Loiyan’s baby in her lap, the two toddler girls leaning on her thighs. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt this happy, this full.

  Several days later, Simi and some other woman were at the river again. The children milled around them, some helping pound soap into the dirty clothes, some splashing water on themselves and laughing. Simi was happy to see that Loiyan’s seven-year-old was playing with a friend and that the toddler girls were splashing in the water. They asked about their mother sometimes, and each time Simi told them not to worry. Their mother was coming but, until then, she would care for them. “Don’t worry,” Simi told them, “I will care for you like you are my own until she comes. Don’t worry.”

  Then the shout again, the pounding of a boy’s feet, and the shopkeeper’s son appeared, breathing hard and bending over, hands to knees.

  “The laiboni sent news,” the boy said. “It’s Loiyan. She’s dead.”

  Simi looked up to see if Loiyan’s daughters had heard the boy and was relieved to see that the children were outside hearing distance; they’d moved to play farther down the river. Etwaltwa, death—a bad omen for someone as young as Loiyan to die.

  “They took her outside the inkajijik,” the boy continued. “The laiboni saw that death was coming. They didn’t want to bring bad things to the manyatta.”

  Simi nodded. It was common. To have a death in your home meant having to move the whole manyatta to a different place. Often this was avoided by moving the dying person a distance away.

  “Where is the body?” Simi asked the boy.

  “It is there,” the boy answered.

  Simi didn’t accompany her husband or co-wives to Nalami’s manyatta. She stayed behind with Loiyan’s children. She didn’t want to see Loiyan’s body rubbed with fat and taken to the forest. She didn’t want to remember Loiyan that way. Tonight, when it just started to grow dark, hungry nighttime animals would come out of their lairs. If Loiyan was lucky, and enough fat was used to prepare her body, the hyenas would come first. They would feast. Hyenas, like the oreteti tree, were messengers between N’gai and the people, and they would return Loiyan’s body to nature. For her part, Simi would keep Loiyan al
ive in the best way she knew how, by caring for her girls. A woman with children, after all, would live forever.

  JACARANDA

  Adia shivered with anticipation and a desperate need to pee. Her body’s movement made the branches shake, and the feathery jacaranda leaves fluttered. A few lavender blossoms flickered past her as they fell to the ground. Adia caught one and rubbed it between her fingers until the petal turned to purple juice, and then she dabbed it on her lips. Sometimes the stain lasted for a while, like lipstick, unless she forgot and let herself chew her lower lip—a habit she was trying to break. Adia leaned forward and craned her body as far as she could without falling out of the tree. From this exact spot she could see the road. Right now it was empty. Grace wasn’t here yet.

  She’d never had a friend come and visit her before, and she couldn’t wait. She’d imagined what it would be like to have someone else there, someone besides her mother and Gakaki. But instead of spending her weekends with friends, she’d climb the jacaranda tree and stay high up among the leaves and lavender flowers for as long as she could. Some days, after she’d been in the tree for hours, Gakaki would wander out to the garden and call her name.

  “Miss Adia!” he would call. “Are you here?” But he never saw her up in the tree. He never looked very hard. He’d call once and then go back inside. If Adia climbed high enough, she could see into the window of her mother’s study. She had to lean her whole body onto one large branch and rest her chin on her arms. It was comfortable like that and she could watch her mother typing her papers—or was it a book now? Often her mother would pause and lift her fingers off the keyboard to think, and twirl a particular strand of hair through her fingers. Adia tried staring at her mom really hard—letting her eyes bore into her mother’s head. She tried not to blink and she concentrated so hard she shook—but it never worked. Her mother never felt Adia’s presence. She never turned, sensing the eyes on her, to find her daughter’s face.