I got up and traced my fingers over the yellow Post-its she had stuck on it. Taking off her glasses, I leaned closer to read them.
April 14—Miriamu (Noni)
May 2—Huzuni (Pendo)
June 12—Javex (Kabula)
July 17—Juma (Baraka)
Aug 29—Sumuni (Maymosi)
Sept 1—Furaha (Magesa)
The notes were strange and hard to decipher. The first three were crossed out with black ink. They were scattered around the map, some close to Amosha, some farther away.
“Wow. You got a lot done,” said Corinne, as she entered the room and tossed her bag onto her bed. “Have you been cooped up in here all day?”
I looked down at myself. I was still in my pajamas.
“Did you get anything to eat?” she asked.
I shook my head, realizing that the last thing I’d had was a snack on the plane.
“How are you Mo’s sister? We called her Woe-Mo when she hadn’t eaten. She got real mean when she was hungry.” Corinne steered me toward the bathroom. “Freshen up so we can grab some dinner.”
I stared at my reflection as I brushed my hair. The warm chestnut waves parted naturally to one side and swept softly across my forehead. My eyes still held that startled look people get when you snatch something away from them, something precious. They seemed a darker brown, as if the pupils had opened wide and remained that way. Mo had looked like that when she was excited about something, although her eyes had been far from plain brown. They reminded me of warm driftwood and golden sand. Our parents had named us aptly. Mo was the laid-back heat of the Caribbean, the cool, carefree beat of reggae. I was quiet inlets and ancient mountains. I didn’t dress too bright or speak too loud. I was more comfortable blending into the background. My averageness made it easy. Average height, average weight, average job, average life.
It didn’t take long to change into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Corinne gave me a quick tour of the place. The Nima House volunteers’ compound was located away from the orphanage, with modest rooms that opened to a shared courtyard.
The other volunteers were already gathered around a long table outside.
“You have to try the wali and maharagwe,” said Corinne, as we joined them. She ladled my plate with rice and what looked like bean stew.
“Don’t let the Swahili fool you,” someone piped in. “She’s just reading it off the board.”
“I’m trying to make a good impression.” Corinne sat down beside me. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you. You guys, this is Mo’s sister, Rodel.”
There was a noticeable lull in the conversation before everyone started talking all at once.
“Hey, so sorry.”
“It’s quiet around here without her.”
“I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
They shared their stories of Mo. They had all signed on for different terms, some for a couple of weeks, others—like Mo—for the full six months. It was a small, informal group from all over place. Corinne was from Nigeria. The guy next to me was German. A couple of them had traveled from towns that were not too far from Amosha. Not everyone spoke English or Swahili, but somehow, everyone understood each other. My heart grew full as I listened to all the ways they remembered my sister: sweet, adventurous, loud, bold.
“She was freaking hot,” said one of the guys before someone kicked him in the shin.
It wasn’t until Corinne and I were back in our room that I realized just how exhausted I was. I was always on edge when I traveled. That, combined with an emotional roller coaster of a day had me yearning to sink into bed. But I had one more thing to cross off my list.
“Corinne?” I said. “What do these notes mean?” I pointed to the Post-its on the map.
“Oh, those.” She stood next to me, surveying them. “Mo worked with at-risk children in her spare time. She picked up a kid from one of these places every month and got them to a safe place. See, she’s listed the date she was expected there, the name of the child, and this here, in brackets, is the name of the place. She was aiming to round up six kids in six months. She did the first three.” Corinne pointed to the ones that had been crossed out.
“What about the rest? Who’s going to look after them?”
“I guess the guy she was working with. Gabriel something. One of the locals. Nima House has nothing to do with it. It’s already at full capacity. It doesn’t have the resources to look after the kids they were rounding up.”
“So where were they taking them?”
“I’m not sure. Mo might have mentioned it, but I don’t recall.” Corinne crawled into bed. “Goodnight, Rodel. Try to get some sleep.”
I turned off the light and slipped under the covers. The ceiling fan turned slowly over me. I could barely make out the ribbons in the dark. My mind was filled with all the bits and pieces I’d learned about Mo. While I had been looking for heroes in books, my sister had been one—a silent, probably accidental one, who would have gagged if anyone had referred to her as one. She wasn’t out to save anyone. She was just greedy for life—for fun, for food, for colors, for experiences. She couldn’t see past what was directly in front of her, and she only did the things that made her happy, but that made her even more of a hero to me.
I thought of the notes that she had not been able to cross off the map—the part of her that remained undone—and resolved to fulfill her wish. Six kids in six months. That’s what she’d aimed for. There were still three kids left.