“K.K.” Hamisi sighed. “Back so soon?”
K.K. smiled, as if something good was about to happen.
There is nothing creepier than a person whose emotions don’t match the situation. His eyes fell on me, and I couldn’t help but think of the scavenger storks I had seen in the crater, with their hollow leg bones and spotty, featherless heads.
“Take him to the holding cell,” said Hamisi.
“When are you going to tire of this game, Inspector? I’ll be out of here before you can start the paperwork.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not going to stop me from doing my job.”
“Your job is a joke,” said K.K, as the guards led him away. “Hey old lady. You!” he called Goma from across the room. “I want those glasses!”
Goma glared at him over the rim of her frames. “Over my dead body.”
“That can be arranged.” The man cackled, before the bars slammed shut on him.
“Sorry about that,” said Hamisi, turning his attention back to us. “Where were we? Ah, yes.” He circled the bribe Goma had offered. “I think we can work with this. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I said, as he shook our hands.
“I’ll be waiting,” Goma said to Hamisi.
We found Bahati waiting for us in the car park. He had changed into a button-down shirt and trousers, and was standing by the boot of the car, rifling through his backpack.
“I forgot to pack my moisturizer,” he said, staring forlornly into it.
“It seems like you packed everything else.” Goma poked the two suitcases he’d loaded into the car. “You’re not moving in, you know. Just until Jack and Rodel get back from Wanza.”
“I take my assignments seriously.”
“Apparently. And your skin care too.” Goma slid into the front seat.
“You could do with a good moisturizer.” Bahati shut the boot and started the car. “What do you use? The spa at The Grand Tulip passes me all their extra stuff. Here. Feel my skin. Smooth as a newborn baby. I am going to get some headshots done soon. For my portfolio. I was waiting for my hair to grow out a bit . . .”
We were driving past a part of town I had not seen before. It looked like the commercial center, with newer buildings and wider streets. A huge construction zone interrupted the line of shops and offices. At least, that’s what it looked like until I saw the wreaths of flowers, stretching across the fenced-off area, from end to end.
“Wait,” I said. “Stop here.”
Bahati broke off his ongoing commentary. He and Goma exchanged a look.
“It’s fine. Really. I just have to see.” I stared out of the window, at what was left of Kilimani Mall.
The cleanup crew had removed all the debris and shattered glass. The plumes of smoke I had seen on TV were gone. What remained was the shell of a half-collapsed building, its steel beams sticking out like sharp, fractured bones. At its center was a dark, gaping pit, where the roof had been blown off the underground car park. Police-tape fluttered in the wind, its bright yellow color clashing against the somber, ashen scene.
I got out of the car in a trance. This was where it had happened, where Mo had lost her life. But she wasn’t the only one. Photos were taped to the wire fence—names, notes, dates, pleas for information on people that were still unaccounted for.
Sleep in the arms of angels, Morgan Prince.
Taken too soon. Salome Evangeline, my baby girl.
Beloved husband and father. Always with us.
Have you seen this man?
I walked past the long line of candles and flowers and toys. People leaving their tributes, perhaps some who came every day, whose souls were anchored to this place of lost loved ones.
Where were you, Mo? I peered through the crisscross of the fence, to the rubble beyond. What were you doing?
I would never know the answers to my questions, but the one that hurt the most, the thing I tried not to think about, was that she had died alone.
“Excuse me.” A woman brushed past me. She stopped at a particular spot, removed a dried-out wreath, and replaced it with a new one.
Her face looked oddly familiar. As she made her way back toward me, I realized where I’d seen her before. We had stopped next to each other at the traffic light earlier. She’d been the passenger, reading a book on the motorcycle.
I reached for the beads on my bracelet, thinking of the words on them.
Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.
We are all connected.
How many times do we pass people on the street, whose lives are intertwined with ours in ways that remain forever unknown? How many ways are we tied to a stranger by fragile, invisible threads that bind us all together?
She paused by a street light and looked at the flyer taped to it for a few seconds. Then she tore off a strip of paper, walked by me, and crossed the road.
“Everything all right?” asked Bahati. “Goma asked me to check on you.”
“What’s on that pole?” I made my way to it and read the sign.
Lost a loved one you would like to contact?
Need a promotion at work?
Want to rid yourself of disease or evil spirits?
For a small contribution, I can make it happen for you.
Best Mganga, from Zanzibar.
Call now!
And then a name and phone number.
“What’s a mganga, Bahati?”
“Traditionally, a doctor, healer, or herbalist. But the term applies to witchdoctors and potion makers too. The ones from Zanzibar are particularly revered. Zanzibar is an island off the coast with a rich history of local voodoo.”