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.