“It’s a stupid mission,” I said. “I wanted to honor her memory, I wanted to make a difference, but I feel like it’s all been for nothing.”
A cool breeze rustled around us and blew dry leaves into the embers. We sat there, watching the women sweep the ground clean with hand brooms of grass and twigs until most of the guests dispersed.
“You did make a difference,” said Jack, as they started dousing the fires, one by one. “To me.”
He got up, boots spread, and held his hand out for me.
Around us, the night sky grew shrouded with clouds of smoke and blowing dust, but that moment, that moment shone with clarity so sharp and poignant, I knew it would remain lodged in my heart like a diamond.
You did make a difference. To me.
THERE WERE NO hotels in Maymosi, but one of the wealthier villagers rented rooms in his private villa. Jack and I spent the night in adjoining rooms that were sparse, but functional. The walls were paper thin, so I knew he’d been up most of the night. He was as bleary-eyed as I was in the morning.
Glad I wasn’t the only one tossing and turning all night, I thought.
It was getting harder to keep things platonic between us. I wondered if the same thoughts had been running through his mind—to tear through the flimsy partition that separated us, give in to the crazy pull between us, and fall asleep to the sound of spent breaths.
We were both quiet as we drove away from Sumuni’s village, lost in our own thoughts. I held Mo’s final note in my hand:
Sept 1—Furaha, (Magesa)
The edges were curled up from all the times I had flipped through her Post-its. Furaha meant happiness. I wondered if her parents had named her that so it would always stay with her . . . happiness . . . no matter what the world threw at her. I was realizing that the situation with albino children in Tanzania was complex—Juma at one end, sacrificed by his own family, and Sumuni at the other—whose parents and friends would do anything to protect him. I wondered where Furaha fit within the spectrum.
“We’ll go through the park, and on to Magesa through the western corridor,” explained Jack, when we got to the Serengeti National Park.
“Oh, look!” I said, as soon as we entered. “Giraffes! I didn’t spot any at the crater.”
“No, they find it too difficult to negotiate the cliffs there.”
With their legs half-hidden by a sea of golden grass, they appeared to be floating gracefully across the horizon.
“What are those?” I pointed to a pair of wide-eyed animals that looked like overgrown hares on spindly legs.
“Dik-diks. They’re a type of antelope.”
“So tiny. So cute.”
Just then, something spooked them, and they skittered away in zigzag patterns, whistling through their noses.
“You missed the annual migration,” said Jack. “It’s an extraordinary sight.”
“I can’t imagine it getting any better than this,” I replied, staring out the window.
It was easy to get lost in the setting, almost as if something primal kicked in, peeling away the inner static and sharpening the senses. Everywhere around us, animals roamed the plains. Lions, elephants, impalas, wildebeest, zebras, warthogs, birds with iridescent feathers that shimmered like rainbows in the sun. There was a spectral magnificence to the ever-changing landscape. As we drove through the center of the park, the grassy plains gave way to patches of woodland and riverbeds lined with trees. Outcrops of granite stuck out like rocky islands on the horizon.
“Kopjes,” said Jack. “That one looks exactly like the rock where Rafiki presented Simba to everyone in The Lion King. You want to check it out?”
“I doubt we’ll find them there.” I laughed.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Jack smiled. “But it’s the perfect place for a lazy lion to warm up.”
As we rounded the rocky outcrop, Jack slowed down and turned the car off.
“It’s your lucky day, Rodel.” He pointed to one of the rocks.
“Wha—” I halted when it moved. “Oh, my God. A rhino.”
“Number five of the Big Five—the black rhinoceros. Now you’ve seen them all.”
It was facing away from us, plucking on the bushes that sprouted between the boulders. Its body was thick and gray, like a round, armored tank. Red-billed birds perched on its back, feeding on what I assumed were ticks on its hide. We spent a few minutes admiring its imposing bulk, the large, lethal horns, and its surprisingly slim legs.
When Jack started the car, the rhino whirled around and turned its mud-crusted face to us. For a moment, it did nothing. Then it bellowed until a smaller figure appeared at its side.
“Fuck!” said Jack, backing away slowly. “She’s got a calf.”
Shielding the baby with her body, the rhino lowered its head and snorted loudly.
“Easy, big momma,” said Jack, as he continued reversing.
For a moment, it looked like the hefty beast had been placated by our retreat. Then she came at us, so fast and furious I had to blink to believe something that size could move so quickly. The ground rattled as she exploded into motion—hot anger, cold, dark eyes. My skin turned to ice, all the blood pumping desperately to keep my heart from collapsing. She was close, and looming closer, so close that I could see her breath—heavy with moisture exhaled from her lungs—the thick, dense fiber of her skin, the menacing iron horn lowered as she headed straight for us.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.