NIGHTS AT THE farm were slow, welcome pauses when everything hung suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. Goma sat at her old sewing machine, her foot on the pedal, filling the library with a soft whirring. Occasionally, she would get up, measure the fabric against Scholastica’s form, and either nod or get her scissors and tailor’s chalk.
“What are you making?” I asked.
Jack, Scholastica, and I were leaving in the morning to pick up the next child on Mo’s list, and from there we had one more stop before we headed for Wanza.
“I’m sewing some wraparound skirts for Scholastica,” replied Goma. “They’ll last her a while.”
Scholastica looked up at the mention of her name. We were practicing how to write her name. Ever since she had seen it on paper, she’d developed a fascination with it.
Scholastica
Scholastica
Scholastica
She scribbled it on every blank piece of paper she could find. It was as if she was discovering her identity, solidifying it every time she wrote it.
This is me.
This is me.
This is me.
“She looks exhausted,” said Jack. He was seated at his desk, working on some invoices.
“She does, doesn’t she?” I stroked her hair, wondering how much of her apparent tiredness came from knowing it was her last night on the farm. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
She might not have understood the words, but she took her glasses off and laid her head on my lap.
“Well, I’m all done for the night.” Goma snipped a thread and held the skirt up for inspection. She folded it and placed it on the pile of other clothes she’d stitched for Scholastica. “I’ll take her upstairs. Come along.” She held her hand out for Scholastica. “Let’s get you to bed. Twende kulala. Big day tomorrow.”
Bahati let out a long sigh as they left the room.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There is absolutely nothing to do out here,” he moaned. “I’m bored out of my mind, and it’s only 8 p.m. Don’t you crave the lights and action, Jack?”
Jack glanced up, and then went back to what he was doing.
“How about we play book charades?” I asked.
“What is book charades?” Bahati perked up.
“It’s charades, but with these.” I pointed to the shelf. “We pick a book and see if the other person can guess the title.”
“I’ve never played charades with two people. That’s silly.”
“Oh, come on! I’ll go first.” I pulled a book off the shelf, read the spine, and placed it, cover down, on my chair. “Okay. Here goes.” I held up three fingers.
“Book, obviously. Three words.”
I nodded and tried to communicate the first word, holding my nose up and walking haughtily around the room.
“Fart! You smell a fart!” exclaimed Bahati.
I glared at him and shook my head.
“Sounds like . . .” Bahati interpreted my ear-tugging gesture. “Cowboy!” he said, as I pranced around.
“Pride and Prejudice,” said Jack, without looking up.
I turned to him with my mouth hanging open. “That’s right. First word sounds like ride. That’s what I was trying to convey,” I said to Bahati. “Okay, your turn.”
“So, who wins?” he asked, removing another book from the shelf.
“Jack, I guess,” I replied.
“But he’s not even playing.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just get on with it, Bahati.”
Bahati made a face when he checked the book he was holding. He put it aside and thought about it for a while.
“Book. Two words. First word . . .” I hesitated as he pointed to his butt. “Umm . . . rump, rear end, backside, tush.”
Bahati motioned for me to keep going.
“Bum, arse . . .” I stopped when he jumped on it. “Arse?”
He nodded, but wanted me to expand.
“Butt?”
He shook his head.
“Derriere, bottom . . .”
“No, what you said before!”
“You’re not allowed to speak. Stick to the rules. So . . . arse?”
“God, you English! Never mind. Moving on to the second word.” He sashayed like a diva across the room, hips swinging, fanning his face, and fluttering his lashes.
I was about to take a guess when Jack piped in again.
“Don Quixote,” he said, head still bent over his desk.
“That’s right!” said Bahati, holding the book up for us to see.
“How the hell is that Don Quixote?” I asked. “You pointed to your arse.”
“Ass, as in donkey. But you say arse, which doesn’t work. So then I moved on to being a hottie. Donkey hottie.” Bahati clapped his hands together. “Don Quixote.”
“That’s just . . . there’s just no way in hell . . .”
“You try to pull off Don Quixote. Besides, Jack got it.” Bahati gloated.
I glanced at Jack. He was busy writing something, but I caught the slight upturn of his mouth.
“No.” I walked over to him. “I don’t believe it. Something’s not right here.”
Jack put his pen down and sat back, regarding me with eyes that looked like rain on wild, blue forget-me-nots. “What are you saying, Rodel?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” My eyes narrowed on him. I grabbed my book and swiveled on my heels.