Moffat spoke quickly to his wife in Nyanja and then turned to Jane. “Madam, they will see my wife now.”
Jane shucked the sleeping old man’s flaccid arm off her leg, where it lay, heavy and immovable. She stood up. Like water pushed into a void, all the bodies on the bench slid over to fill the space she’d vacated. She took a deep breath to dispel the fear that bubbled up at the thought of exiting the crowded hospital and finding her car and then her way home without Moffat and his wife to help her.
Moffat’s wife looked up at Moffat and whispered something to him.
“Madam,” Moffat said, “we can take you to the car. Maybe the doctor will wait for us.”
Jane smiled in relief and nodded. She wouldn’t have to push through the throngs of people in the hallway alone. But when she turned, she glimpsed Moffat’s wife’s neck, the bare brown expanse of skin and the stain of dried blood visible under the colorful headscarf. She caught the look of worry on Moffat’s face. She remembered the feel of the unborn body sliding under her hand when Moffat’s wife pressed her fingers to her belly, and she remembered, with a spasm of sadness, how thrilled she’d been when she felt the butterfly wing of her own baby’s movement deep inside her, and how that baby grew up to be her daughter—who would always be her daughter. She thought of Moffat’s wife, so pregnant, fighting off the thieves in the night. How brave she was.
“No, I can manage.” She looked Moffat straight in the eye. She thought it was the first time they’d had eye contact. His clear eyes belied the old-man slope of his shoulders, the wrinkles on his forehead.
After the smells and crowds of the hospital, Jane’s car was quiet and still. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her heart beat fast, and she felt sweat sliding down her back. But she was a grown-up. If Moffat’s wife could fight robbers, she could drive herself home. She could do this. She drove slowly and concentrated on not getting lost; she registered the garbage on the streets, the animals wandering past and the grubby barefoot kids with streaming noses. She was careful; she edged around the possibilities of living things darting out from any corner. When she finally pulled into her driveway, she felt like celebrating. She raised her fingers to her nose and inhaled the scent of the orange that lingered there. It was such a familiar and beautiful smell.
Jane locked the car and followed the path around the house to her backyard. She didn’t bother to go inside the house. She didn’t want to lurk in the dim rooms right now. The sun felt good on her shoulders, and the air smelled sweet. The weeds still choked the flower beds; the bare patches of lawn still looked mangy in the late-afternoon light. Jane’s books and her teacup still sat on the outdoor table. But she didn’t sit down. She felt a sense of energy she hadn’t felt for years. She pulled her clippers from their case, slid her gloves onto her hands and breathed deeply the scent of the rich, perfect earth into her lungs. She knew Moffat’s baby would be all right. She’d felt it under her own hand, and she wanted to make sure to have flowers to bring when the baby was born.
It would be slow, she knew, pulling out all the weeds and preparing the soil. Gardening was a process; you had to go through it one step at a time, like being pregnant, she thought, or like grieving. It took the time it took. But she would make this garden grow, and later when Paul came home from work, he wouldn’t find her caught inside. He would find her out here and he would look at her like she was real, like he knew her and was welcoming her back to him. This time she would see it. She would let him look deeply at her, and she would look back at him that way, too.
A ZEBRA TAKES ITS STRIPES WHEREVER IT GOES
“They’re sending me away.”
Adia and Simi sat together under an acacia.
“My grandmother thinks it’s time for me to live in America, to learn to be an American. But it’s not even near where she lives. It’s the place where she went to high school a million years ago. On the east coast. So I won’t even be near the one person I know in the whole country.” Adia picked up a pebble and tossed it away. “She’s worried because I haven’t been going to school since Grace died.”
Saying this out loud made Adia’s eyes fill, tears threatened. “I couldn’t go back to school, not without her.”
Simi knew the story already. Leona wrote from Nairobi, weeks after the accident, asking Simi what to do, telling her that Adia wouldn’t get out of bed, refused to go to school. For a few weeks, Adia had come to stay here, in the manyatta. A change of scenery would be good—they all thought so. But Leona had called Joan, too, who suggested a more drastic change of scenery—a whole world of change. Even John, when Leona mentioned the possibility of sending Adia away, had been positive.
“I can’t see how it would hurt,” he said, but he was reticent. He didn’t know if his vote would even count, and he was relieved when Leona said that Adia would come back for holidays, that of course she’d come to Solai. She wanted John in Adia’s life. That wasn’t a question anymore.
Noni, the baby, now eighteen months, sat in Adia’s lap, chewing on Adia’s hair. Not far away, the toddler twins, Naeku and Naisiae, drew in the dirt with sticks.
“She told my mom to use my dead grandpa’s money. I guess he left Mom a lot, and she has a bunch left. My grandma convinced her to use the money for my education.”
Since her visit to Kenya, Joan called Adia every month. “You’re my only grandchild, and I want you in my life,” she said almost sternly. But Adia felt warmth under the formality, and she looked forward to the calls.
“You’ll get used to America,” Joan said. “You’ll meet lots of new friends and you’ll love the school, it’s absolutely gorgeous.” She told Adia stories about how it was when she was a student there, years and years ago, and tried to convince Adia that it would be fun.
Naeku screamed, and Simi and Adia looked up in time to see Naisiae pulling Naeku’s stick away.
“Children are a blessing,” Simi said wryly. And Adia laughed. “You love it, Yeyo!” This adoption was never made official. After Loiyan died, Simi just continued caring for the children. None of the other wives minded—they all had children, too, and even grandchildren, of their own.
Today, Kiserian, the eight-year-old, was at school. Simi didn’t wait to enroll her. She didn’t ask her husband—she simply walked the child to the school building a few days after Loiyan died and paid the fees. It was a story Simi hadn’t even told Adia. She was determined to send the girls to school and didn’t want to ask her husband for money because that would allow him the chance to refuse. Simi made a promise to herself in the heart of that oreteti tree so long ago. She found the necklace that night, and she wasn’t bitten by a snake or eaten by a leopard. N’gai had encouraged her. She would not risk having her husband forbid her dream from coming true. Instead, she left the girls with Isina early one morning. She didn’t have money to pay for school. She had only one way to get it.
Two hour’s walk down the Mara River was a muzungu hotel. Simi had seen it several times before from a distance. It was a large building that spread along the river like a snake. There were more glinting glass windows than Simi could count, and a large stone terrace on one end with lots of tables and chairs. That’s where Simi went. She walked until she was close enough to see the terrace with the tables and the chairs and the tourists eating things she’d never seen before. They drank colored drinks from tall glasses. Simi stopped. The muzungu tourists sat at those tables, and people brought them things to eat and drink. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen so many muzungus in one place before. Any bravery she’d felt that morning was gone. But she couldn’t let fear stop her. She knew this hotel had a shop inside. Years ago, she’d spoken to some women who lived near here and they’d said that the shops even sold jewelry. They laughed when they told her that they could spend just an hour making a bracelet or a necklace, they could use the cheapest beads and create the simplest designs, and these shops would give them money. They’d se
t the ugly necklaces and bracelets on little tables and then the tourists would buy them.
“The muzungus don’t care if the thing is cheap and badly made.” One of the women laughed. “They will buy everything.”
Simi desperately hoped that was true. Not looking up, and trying to pretend that none of them could see her, Simi walked quickly around the stone terrace. The tourists’ voices were loud. Around the other side of the building Simi found herself standing on a large, circular road with zebra-striped vans parked in a row. These were the vans she remembered from her childhood, the ones she’d wave at, hoping the faces in the window would see her, call out to her those English words she’d craved so much then. Two men dressed in khaki uniforms stood smoking in a shaded spot next to the building. They greeted her in Swahili.
“I am here to sell something in the shop,” Simi said. “Can you tell me where to go?” One of the men chuckled. “They won’t like you to go in there, sister. But I can tell the shopkeeper to come and see you.”
The men dropped their cigarettes on the ground and crushed them under their boots. Then they turned and walked toward a huge glass door, one shaded by trees and flowers in pots bigger than any Simi had ever seen. One of the men turned back to Simi, motioned for her to wait and then they opened the great door and disappeared.
Simi waited. She squatted in the shade where the men had stood and examined the vans parked so neatly on one side of the driveway. Beyond them, in the distance, were purple hills that hid the horizon. Simi wondered how far away those hills were. She waited longer and felt herself getting sleepy. It was midday. She thought of Loiyan’s girls back in the manyatta, and this thing she wanted so badly to do for them. Just then, the door opened and several people came out. There was one of the men she’d spoken to coming through the front entrance and leading several tourists across the driveway. Two of the tourists were women, both with nut-brown skin the same shade as Simi’s own, two were men and then a boy about Kiserian’s age.
Simi called to the man. He glanced over at her, and then spoke to the group of people. She couldn’t hear what he said to them, but then he turned back and called to Simi, “They don’t want to buy anything today. You should go home.”
Simi stood. She wasn’t sleepy anymore. She was hungry and thirsty and she was here for a reason. She wouldn’t leave until she had what she wanted. The man and the tourists were beginning to get into one of the vans. The driver held the door open, and the young boy climbed in first. Simi didn’t want the man to leave before she spoke to him. She hurried over and he looked up. One of the women looked at Simi, too. She said something to the driver, and he answered her.
Then he turned to Simi and said, “I am taking these people on a game drive. That is what they came here for. Don’t waste our time.”
Simi looked directly into the man’s eyes, but she chose her words, and her language, for the woman standing just behind him. She spoke in the clearest, boldest voice she could find, and said in English, “I have a rare necklace to sell. My mother was the best jewelry maker in the manyatta. The necklace is old, and it’s more beautiful than anything in that shop. If you haven’t told them I am here, then you are a bad employee. This will be the best necklace in the shop.”
She’d hoped the man would be struck by her words, maybe ashamed. She knew he was lying. He grinned, though, and only said. “Go away, woman. This is not a place for you.”
“Wait a minute, Jackson.” The woman spoke to the driver, who looked surprised. But her eyes were on Simi.
She continued, “Did you try to see if they’d sell this woman’s necklace?”
Then the man looked annoyed, not ashamed. “They do not sell this kind of thing here.” He spoke in a loud voice, mimicking authority.
“I’ve seen the jewelry in there.” The woman’s voice reminded Simi of Leona’s. The woman smiled at Simi. “Can I see the piece?”
Simi reached up and unhooked her mother’s necklace. She held it up. It was warm from where it had lain against her neck. The woman gently took it from Simi’s hands and looked at it carefully. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. “Your mother was an artist.” She smiled warmly. “It must mean something to you. Why do you want to sell it?”
Simi hoped the woman would understand the reason she gave. She was being a dishonest wife by not asking her husband for the school money, and maybe this woman would disapprove.
“I have four daughters. They are mine now because their own mother died. You see, I want to send them to school, but I need money for the school fees. If I ask my husband, he may refuse. Then my daughters will never get an education.” She looked away. Sharing all this with a stranger made her feel exposed. But she was desperate. She examined those distant purple hills and pretended she was far away from here.
“What is your name?” she heard the woman ask. She answered.
“Simi,” the woman repeated. “Simi, I think your daughters are lucky.” The woman turned and poked her head into the van where the other tourists sat. It crossed Simi’s mind that the woman would jump in the van and drive away—her mother’s necklace still in there with them. But the woman wasn’t getting into the van. She was speaking to the men. Simi could hear her own story being recited in the woman’s voice. Then one of the men spoke. Simi cold hear his gravelly voice, but she couldn’t make out his words.
“Okay,” the woman said, and pulled something off one of the van’s seats. Then she reappeared again and stood smiling at Simi.
“I want to buy your necklace,” she said. Simi glanced at the driver. He’d gotten into the driver’s seat, and Simi could see his face through the window. He looked angry.
The woman spoke again. “Can you tell me how much the school fees are?”
Simi did a quick calculation in her head. “Two hundred shillings for one year,” she said.
“And there are four girls? That’s eight hundred shillings for one year. That’s...less than a week’s groceries at home in Atlanta.” The woman opened a wallet and looked inside. Then she leaned back into the van and spoke to the others. Simi saw them rustling. They gave something to the woman.
When the woman turned back to Simi, she was holding a handful of money. “We’ll pay for five years for each girl.” Simi looked at the money. It was a lot.
“Is it an okay price for the necklace? It’s four thousand shillings.” The woman looked a little worried. Simi felt faint. It was more money than she’d ever seen. She’d hoped to sell the necklace for the two hundred shillings needed for Kiserian’s first year. Now she could send all the girls for five years. She felt dizzy and looked in the woman’s eyes. She wanted to assure her.
“This is too much,” Simi breathed. “It is so much money.”
The woman smiled. She looked happy. “It’s a beautiful necklace. And I want those girls to go to school. Please take it.”
Simi tied the money into a knot of her wrap.
“I can help you put it on,” she said, and the woman handed the necklace back to her and turned, lifting her hair out of the way of the clasp. Simi fit the necklace around the woman’s neck. She’d never touched a foreign person other than Leona and Adia. The woman’s skin was soft, and though her hair was straight, Simi noticed little curls of hair just like her own at the woman’s nape. When Simi secured the necklace, the woman turned around to face her. The blue and green beads looked beautiful.
“Thank you,” the woman said, “I’ll take good care of it.” Then she smiled once more and climbed into the van next to the others. She slid the door shut and the driver, still annoyed, Simi assumed, roared off with a squeal of the tires.
Simi walked home quickly. She was excited and happy, and also terrified that someone would rob her. But she couldn’t stop smiling. She would miss the necklace, but when she’d given it to N’gai the first time, he didn’t want it. He gave it back to her for a reason. She had to make sure that dre
am came true.
Now, sitting under this tree with Adia and three of her other daughters, Simi felt a deep sense of pride. She looked at Adia and said, “You are brave. And you are lucky. You have this chance to go to America and get a good education. It’s a chance the other girls will never have. You have to take it. But you are not going alone, Adia. We will be in your head. You will be learning all those American things for us, too. Bring it back to your yeyo and your sisters.”
“It’s not just that,” Adia said. “I’m scared to go. I’m not brave. I’ve never been anywhere but here. And I just barely met my father. If I go, I won’t see him for a whole year...” She trailed off, and then said, “And Grace.” Adia’s voice cracked and her eyes filled. “I feel like if I leave Kenya I’m leaving Grace, too.”
Simi patted Adia’s arms and murmured. “You know that the dead cannot die if we remember them, Adia. Grace will always be with you, too.”
Later that afternoon, two goats were slaughtered. Adia was going to America, and that was a reason to celebrate. Adia sat with the other manyatta children. She was the oldest one now. The Maasai girls her age had mostly been circumcised and married; the boys she grew up with were moran now. Simi watched her oldest daughter helping Kiserian with her homework. They bent their heads together over Kiserian’s exercise book, Adia showing Kiserian how to form the letters of the alphabet. Simi felt deeply proud. There were times, years and years ago, that she could never imagine she’d be blessed with one child, let alone five. There were times she thought she might not even be allowed to stay in the community, a barren woman like her. But all those years were over, and now everything was different. Everything had changed. Sometimes Simi woke thinking it couldn’t possibly be real, that this must be a dream. But it was a dream tinged with sadness. Simi never thought Loiyan would be someone she thought fondly of, but she found she missed her. The twins didn’t speak much about their mother, and Noni would probably never remember her, but Kiserian talked about her mother with love and sometimes tears. Loiyan had been a dedicated, loving mother.
The Brightest Sun Page 28