“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 I thought he would stick up for me, that he would tell them to stop believing outdated superstitions, but he caved.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.