Mists of The Serengeti

by Leylah Attar

  My lashes spiked from unspilled tears, though I didn’t know exactly why I wanted to cry. It could have been from seeing the mall, or the possibility that I might have totally misjudged Gabriel. But a part of it was also because of this. This sense of fitting so easily into the curve of Jack’s palm, the rightness of it, the ripeness of it, like a fruit—sweet and heavy—waiting to be plucked. I knew I would have to leave it hanging—untainted, untasted—like a perfectly round echo of what could have been.

  I don’t know how to say goodbye to a sister, and then to a lover, all in one breath.

  And so I stepped back, and Jack withdrew his hand. He rolled up the window and got out of the car.

  “You missed a spot,” I said, pointing out the smudges on the glass.

  “They’re not smudges,” he said. “They’re Lily’s fingerprints. She was eating chocolate that day. When we got to the mall, my phone rang. She came around to my side and put her hand here. Like this . . .” He hovered his fingertips over the marks. “One, two, three, four, five. See? Five perfect little chocolate prints. I haven’t washed them since. Every time I look out of the window, I see Lily there, holding her palm to the glass, making faces at me.”

  Whenever Jack spoke of Lily, his entire profile softened. In those moments, his innately captivating presence was like a flame, kindled from within. For a second, I was completely jealous, because I had never lived in someone’s heart like that. And I wanted to. I wanted to make someone, someday, glow like that when they thought of me.

  As Jack put the hose away, I realized that it wasn’t true. I didn’t want someone, someday. I wanted now. Today. And I wanted it with Jack.

  No matter how many reasons I gave myself not to, I was falling for Jack Warden, more and more, with each passing day.

  THE DAY STARTED early at the farm. The best time to pick coffee was before it got too hot. It had to be done by hand because coffee cherries on the same branch ripen at different stages, so the harvesters pluck only the mature cherries and place them into their baskets, one by one.

  “It takes around seventy cherries to make one cup of coffee,” said Goma, when I asked her.

  “Wow.” I cradled my cup with a new sense of appreciation.

  “Hapana, Scholastica. Not for you,” said Goma, as Scholastica swiped her coffee. “Watoto wana kunywa maziwa.” She pointed to the glass of milk on the table.

  “Sitaki maziwa.” Scholastica pushed it away and stared at us sullenly.

  The back door creaked open, followed by two heavy clunks as Jack removed his boots.

  “What’s going on here?” He eyed Scholastic and then Goma.

  “A standoff,” said Goma. “She’s acting up, refusing to drink her milk. She wants coffee.”

  “Of course she wants coffee. She’s on a coffee farm. It’s all around her. You’re all having it. It’s only natural that she wants to try it. I suspect she’s also looking for a reason to piss you off. She’s probably thinking it’ll get her sent back to Rutema. It’s the only home she’s known.”

  He circled the table, stirring up the smell of green leaves and dark earth in his wake. “You want kahawa? Coffee?”

  Scholastica nodded. “Harufu nzuri sana.”

  “Yes, it does smell good, doesn’t it? How about you finish everything on your plate, and I’ll show you how to make your own cup of coffee?” Jack repeated his offer in Swahili and got an even more enthusiastic nod.

  “Take Rodel with you, too,” said Goma. “I’d like the place to myself for a while. I can only take so many people for so long.”

  I had the sneaking suspicion that Goma was trying to play matchmaker, but I kept my mouth shut. I slathered sunscreen on Scholastica before we went outside. She squirmed and giggled as I applied the cool lotion to her skin. The scabs on her face were healing, and her eyes had lost some of their wariness. The fear was still there, deeply ingrained, and her eyes darted nervously as we followed Jack through the rows of coffee plants.

  “Coffee beans are actually the seeds of coffee cherries,” he explained, as Scholastica and I tied baskets around our waists. “See these bright, red ones? These are the ones you want.” He cracked the red skin and picked out the seed beneath. It was gooey and slimy. “The cherries from your baskets will get dried in the sun, raked, and turned throughout the day, so they don’t spoil. They’re covered at night or when it’s raining, to prevent them from getting wet. Depending on the weather, it can take a while until they’re dry enough, when the beans ‘rattle’ inside the cherries. Then we separate the beans from the rest and sell it as raw coffee. We save some for the farm and the workers, so we can roast it for our own use.”

  “That’s so cool,” I said to Scholastica when she plucked her first cherry and held it up for us to see.

  The farm was a balanced grove of banana trees and coffee bushes. The banana leaves provided shade and shelter for the coffee. The rows were tight, and as we moved between them, Jack slid by me to help Scholastica. It was barely a brush, but his entire body tightened in reaction. I felt the quickening of his breath on my face, the jolt of his thigh against my body, the crackle of awareness where his bare arms touched mine. I felt the kind of chemistry I’d been holding out for, the kind that ignites all your senses, so that you’re more alive in that one second than in all the moments, in all the days before. Then Jack stepped past me, from under the shade of glossy banana leaves, and into the sun.

  “Good job!” He peered into Scholastica’s basket and high-fived her. “Safi sana. I think you guys have earned your coffee.” He combined our baskets and headed for the collection site.

  “Come on,” he said, as I trailed behind them, still trying to catch my breath. “Time to make your first cup of coffee from scratch.”

  He dumped our cherries into a giant bin, scooped an equivalent amount from the ones that were drying on large, flat containers, and poured them into a giant, wooden mortar.

  “We use a machine for this part, but this works great for small batches. Here.” He handed the pestle to Scholastica.

  We took turns pounding the berries. Once the husks were off, we poured everything into a shallow basket and winnowed, leaving only the inner bean. Jack roasted the coffee in a small clay pot over an open fire, until it turned dark. Then we pounded the beans and brewed them in boiling water.

  “Ready?” He handed Scholastica a cup.

  She blew on the hot liquid and took a big gulp.

  “Kaaaaa!” She spit it out and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Mbaya sana!” She handed the cup back to Jack.

  “You don’t like it? Hupendi?” He feigned surprise.

  “Ah-ah.” She shook her head and said something in Swahili.

  “Bitter like medicine?” Jack tsked. “But it smells so good. Harufu nzuri sana.”

  She turned her nose up as he held it out for her. “Ninapendelea maziwa.”

  “Maziwa? Jamani.” He sat down with an exaggerated sigh. “All this hard work and you want milk? Go on. Go ask Goma for maziwa.” He pointed her toward the house.

  She didn’t need further prompting.

  “You knew she wouldn’t like it,” I said, as we watched her race away in her sunflower hat.

  “I guess I could have offered her milk and sugar.” Jack gave me a sheepish smile. “But it’s not really coffee she wants. It’s having some kind of control over her life, even if it’s something as small as choosing what to eat or drink. All we really want is to feel that we matter—that we’re seen, that we’re heard.”

  “You’re really good with her,” I said. “I feel like I’m at a bit of a disadvantage because I don’t speak Swahili.”

  “If you can’t speak, just listen. That’s what someone once said to me.” He poured me some coffee and sat down on the wooden log across from me.

  “Good advice.” I accepted the cup and smiled. He’d remembered my words, and for some reason, that made me happy. “You don’t like coffee?”

  “I love coffee,” he replie
d, watching me take a sip.

  “Really?” I prodded. “I’ve never seen you drink it.”

  He leaned back, picked a cloud, and fixed his eyes on it. I didn’t think he was going to answer when he finally spoke.

  “I was drinking coffee in the parking lot when it all started that day. At the mall. The taste of it was still in my mouth when the building collapsed. I retch every time I have coffee now because it takes me right back to that moment.”

  I didn’t know what to say, because I had no idea what it was like to be surrounded by acres and acres of something that you loved, but could never taste. Instead, I cradled my coffee and followed his gaze toward the sky. We watched silently as the clouds drifted past the majestic face of Mount Kilimanjaro, like wispy veils of silver.

  “THIS ONE, SCHOLASTICA.” I pointed to the letter A in the book and encouraged her to copy it on the sheet of paper before her.

  She seemed to have trouble understanding, so I went ahead and wrote a small A at the top of the page.

  “Your turn,” I said, handing her the pen.

  She looked at me, then at the paper, and scribbled something completely different in the corner.

  “Like this: A,” I said, as I wrote the letter.

  She repeated the sound perfectly, but her A was nowhere close to mine.

  I flipped to a blank sheet and filled the entire page with a big A, exaggerating the strokes. “Can you do it like this?”

  She copied my letter slowly and held it up.

  “Yes!” I clapped my hands. “That’s it! How about this one?” I asked, indicating a B in the book.

  Her expression was blank, so I wrote a big B and showed it to her.

  She bent over the desk and replicated it perfectly.

  “Well done! This is A, and this is B.” I pointed out the letters in the book. She peered at them but had no reaction.

  “Here.” I pulled the book closer to her. “Can you see them now?”

  Scholastica looked at the pages and brought them even closer, until her nose was inches from the center crease. Then she smiled.

  “A.” She showed it to me, before picking up her handwritten one and waving it gleefully.

  “Good!” I beamed at her. “Can you find a B?”

  Once again, she held the book near her face and examined the words.

  “B!” she exclaimed, when she found one.

  We were still celebrating when Goma entered the library.

  “Scholastica is learning the alphabet,” I said. “But I think she needs glasses.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Poor vision goes hand in hand with albinism. I’ll make an appointment for her to see Dr. Nasmo. He’s the optometrist we use in Amosha.”

  “That’s great! You hear that? You’re going to get fitted for glasses.” I made hand gestures for Scholastica. It’s strange how much we can communicate with expressions and body language when words are not an option. And stranger still, is how much more authentic the conversation can feel.

  “Oh, wait!” I rummaged through my bag and pulled out Mo’s spare frames. “Let’s see if these help. They won’t be perfect, but . . .” I placed them over her ears and stepped back. “How’s that?”

  Scholastica blinked a few times and looked around the room. Then her mouth opened in pure awe. She stared at Goma and me for a few seconds, before whirling around to the bookcase.

  “B!” She pointed it out on one of the book spines. “A!”

  She went down the entire row, stopping to greet every A and B like they were her new best friends.

  “I haven’t seen a girl so happy since we bought Lily that tortoise,” said Goma. She had a wistful look in her eyes until she noticed the little droppings Aristurtle was leaving by her feet. “That’s it! You’re getting a box. I’m not taking any more shit from you, you hear?” She picked him up and said something to Scholastica in Swahili.

  I followed them outside and watched Scholastica race off with Aristurtle tucked under her arm. She pushed Mo’s glasses higher to keep them from sliding down her nose.

  “Where is she going?”

  “To find Bahati. Maybe he can clear up one of the crates we have in the barn. It’ll make a fine home for Aristurtle.” She retrieved the laundry basket and started hanging the clothes out to dry.

  “Here. Let me do that,” I said, taking the clothes from her. “You go on inside. It won’t take me long.”

  I alternated between the basket and the clothesline, hanging up the smaller items before moving to the bigger ones. It was a perfect, sunny day. The clouds had cleared, leaving a blue satin sky. There were a few more days before we left for Wanza, and I was getting used to the daily routine on the farm.

  As I moved between the lines of fluttering laundry, I caught a glimpse of Jack. He was standing shirtless between the berry-laden rows of coffee, his body glistening in the afternoon sun. I looked away but couldn’t help stealing glances at his strong, golden body. I might have been able to ignore my attraction to him, even though it flared up constantly, if it wasn’t compounded by my affection for him. It was a deadly combination—one that made me dream about being crushed in his embrace, even as I focused on the mundane task of hanging clothes up to dry.

  I was almost done when the wind picked up. I struggled with the last bed sheet, trying to keep it steady so I could secure it, but it flapped wildly around me. I dropped a clothes peg and bent to retrieve it, pinning the sheet down with one hand on the line. That’s when Jack’s strong, long fingers closed over mine. My knees lurched at the unexpected impact of his warm grip. I fumbled as I picked up the peg, my heart hammering in my chest. Our eyes held across the damp sheet as I straightened.

  For a long, breathless second, we found ourselves in a laundry-scented bubble of suspension. Jack’s gaze fell to my lips as the wind whipped my hair across my face. The touch of his hand was sudden—electric—but it lingered, gently brushing the strands away. I felt myself swaying wildly, like the clothes on the line. The only thing holding me steady was Jack’s other hand, anchoring mine.

  The clothesline bucked between us as another gust picked up. The bedsheet slid off at the other end. We picked it up and stretched it across the line, like a curtain between us. Jack held it down while I clamped a peg over it.

  “Any more?” he asked.

  “No. All done.”

  Thank God, my knees declared. This guy makes it hard for us to do our job right. We don’t like him.

  “Thank you,” I said to Jack, gathering the empty basket. “I’m going to . . .” head back inside, but I was tongue-tied, so I pointed to the house, and started walking toward it.

  If there’s ever an occasion to carry off the nonchalant, graceful, catwalk stride, it’s when you’re walking away from someone, and you know they’re still watching. Ironically, that’s also about the only time when you become painfully conscious of every single step you’re taking. And so I kept my back straight and put one foot in front of the other until I made it to the door.

  When I got inside, I caught Goma ducking from the kitchen window with a sly smile on her face.

  It wasn’t long before she asked me to call Jack in for supper.

  I found him in the barn with Scholastica, tending the calf that had been attacked.

  “Mfalme! Mfalme!” said Scholastica, pointing to Jack when she saw me. She was still wearing Mo’s glasses and even though I was the one that had given them to her, my heart contracted a little, missing Mo’s eyes looking back at me through them.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Mfalme?”

  “It means king,” Bahati answered from the corner. He was sanding the box he’d made for Aristurtle. “She’s made Jack a crown out of twigs and hay.”

  “Oh?” I noted her lopsided creation on Jack’s head.

  “I just finished telling her the story I started the other day, when she fell asleep in the car,” he replied. “She seems to have cast me as the lead character.”

  “Well, if it p
leases Your Majesty, supper is ready. You’ve all been summoned by Goma.”

  “You go ahead,” Jack said to us. “I’ll be in shortly. I’m almost done with her.” He patted the sleeping calf in the stall.

  “Twende, Scholastica.” Bahati held his hand out for her. “Let’s put Aristurtle in his new home and see if Goma approves.”

  “How is the calf?” I peered into the stall as Bahati and Scholastica headed back to the house.

  “She’s fine. Just making sure this cut doesn’t get infected.” He flushed it with some kind of medicinal solution, applied salve, and bandaged it up again.

  “Poor thing.” I knelt beside her and stroked the abrasions on her skin. She stirred and opened her big, brown eyes.

  “Thankfully, those are superficial. She’ll be good as new in a few days. Won’t you?” Jack nuzzled her. “But you need to rest right now. That’s right. Close your eyes. You’re safe now.” He rubbed her hide in broad, gentle strokes, as the light of the setting sun fell in golden beams around them.

  Suddenly I was in the presence of a flesh-and-blood man that no book boyfriend could ever live up to. He wore a crown of dried twigs and hay, but he was more royal, more magnificent than all the jeweled kings in all the fairy tales because he walked in real life—mortal, vulnerable, broken, jaded, but still a king—with the heart of a lion, and the soul of an angel. I ached to touch him, to feel his golden energy. My hand moved heedlessly toward him, the sides of our palms touching briefly as he soothed the calf. It was the softest sweep of skin against skin, a little nibble for my hungry heart before I withdrew.

  Anyone else would have brushed it off as accidental, but not Jack. He knew. Perhaps because he was just as acutely aware of the currents that spiraled between us. His gaze shifted to my face, searching my eyes. I don’t know what he saw in them, but the air between us felt locked and loaded, like it was rigged with dynamite—one false move and we’d both get blown to bits. I didn’t care though, not in that moment. His closeness was like a drug, lulling me to euphoria. I drifted toward him, slowly, helplessly, until my lips tasted the full, intoxicating essence of his.