He told her the one he used: Ali Dida Hada.
Akai moved closer and laid her head against his.
“Your sheep?”
“Keep them.”
She bit hard into his chin.
He moaned.
She skipped away. She looked at him over her shoulder. “You’ll come back.”
Akai laughed at him.
Echoes of that laugh touch Ali Dida Hada’s Nairobi present. Where is she? Ali Dida Hada stirs. How to forget? He used to know how. For example, he no longer thought of his mother’s face. He did not even speak his original name.
28
FOG IN THE CITY. A TEMPORARY PEACE AGREEMENT HASHED out. Kofi Annan’s name is enshrined in matatus plying the land. Since dawn, Ajany has been shading in the outline of Wuoth Ogik on art paper in red, blue, black, and green ballpoint ink. Little details. A cairn under which she writes the name Engineer Moses Ebewesit Odidi Oganda, 1964–2007. Four shapes to represent Nyipir, Akai-ma, Galgalu, and herself. Koroli springs. She outlines Ali Dida Hada. Water Singer, she writes. The backdrop is Odidi’s face.
Ajany stuffs the map, three of Odidi’s pictures, and a wad of money into a large, plain brown envelope. Odidi’s Baby, she scrawls. She sits on her bed, knees drawn up, staring at the package.
Long after dusk, when the frantic traffic sounds outside have eased, she steps out her door, walks down the short corridor to where the stairs begin.
Isaiah has been waiting.
He says, “We didn’t finish our conversation.”
“I did.”
“Apologize for spitting on me.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not.”
“I’ll call the police. They’ll talk to you.”
“Please do.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere.”
“As I am.”
“Go away.”
“Or what? You’ll spit on me again?”
“Yes.”
They jostle past the reception.
“Bye, Jos,” says Ajany.
“Bye, Jos,” repeats Isaiah.
“Uh,” Jos replies.
The chilly evening air.
Ajany rubs her arms, adjusts her hold on her purse and envelope. They stand in the car park. Peter the taxi man sees Ajany, flashes his lights, and switches on the car engine. He says nothing when Ajany and Isaiah reach for the same door and cling to it.
“What do you want from me?” Ajany groans.
“My father,” says Isaiah.
She looks up at Isaiah. “I don’t know him.”
A sudden sheen in her eyes.
“So tell me about your mother.”
A shrug. “Go find her. Talk to her yourself.”
“Where is she?”
“Don’t know. Somewhere.”
“Liar.”
Ajany, her voice brittle, says, “My mother left the day we brought my brother home.”
Isaiah pulls open the car’s door.
“Twilight,” she tells the taxi man.
Inside the car, Isaiah asks, “You don’t know where your mother is?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Isaiah exhales, tousling his hair.
Families are complicated organisms.
They reach the venue.
The bouncers glance at Ajany, swivel their heads at Isaiah, and glance back at Ajany. She winks back. Yesterday’s man in pink is today in vivid purple.
Ajany stops to waylay Justina.
“You can go in,” she tells Isaiah.
“No,” he says.
“You can’t keep this up.”
“I will.”
A quarter of an hour later, Justina approaches the main dance hall. She sees Ajany.
Justina says, “Mavi ya kuku, you’re here to fight again?”
Ajany thrusts the envelope at her.
“What?”
“For you and the baby.”
Justina fingers it, glares at Ajany, pouting.
“Who’s this?” Her chin indicates Isaiah.
Ajany shrugs. “Ask him.”
“He’s with you?”
“No.”
“Yes,” answers Isaiah. He drapes a firm arm over Ajany’s shoulders.
She wriggles. An idea: “This is Odidi’s friend Bolton.”
“Oh. The mzungu he was meeting at Wuoth Ogik? Wasn’t he an old man?”
“Yes,” confirms Ajany.
Isaiah scowls. He grips her wrist.
Ajany tugs at her hand.
Justina is looking Isaiah up and down.
She asks Ajany, “Does he pay well?”
“You beat him up.” She pulls free. “Then he pays double.”
Justina’s eyes flutter, mocking Ajany as two fingers pluck Isaiah’s shirtsleeves. “I’ll beat you with chains, if you want.”
Isaiah lifts Justina’s fingers from off his shirt. “This woman and I”—he indicates Ajany—“sewn together.”
Ajany escapes.
Isaiah guffaws.
Justina joins him.
“You know Ebewesit … Odidi?”
“We wrote to each other. I’d have enjoyed meeting him.”
She nods. “England?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look English.”
“What does English look like?”
Justina gestures to a part of the dance floor that is visible. There, five men of indifferent stature and shape gyrate in paroxysms of off-beat pain. One of them slides left to right and back. The music is determined to push them off the dance floor. It is also apparent that they are committed to staying on. Arms and bodies in motion, whirring like propellers ready for liftoff.
Isaiah watches the dancers. “Moses told me to come here. But then … uh …”
“Yes,” breathes Justina wistfully. “That sister calls him Odidi; me, I say Odi-Ebe; you say Moses. Many people. One person.”
Isaiah remembers the corpse.
“A true man.” Justina wipes her eyes. She makes a face. “Want to go in?” Isaiah scans the crowd, looking for Ajany.
“She’s inside,” says Justina, now amused. She inserts the envelope into her shoulder bag.
They step in and are swallowed by the warmth, noise, and rhythm.
Ajany is dancing. Justina watches Ajany as she has before. Finds Odidi’s stormy abandon in Ajany’s gestures, in her sinuous moves. Ajany is unconscious of her complete otherness. She is not of this place. Just like Odidi Ebewesit.
A vision, a feeling.
Justina takes three urgent steps toward it. Ajany must go. She’ll beg Ajany to leave before the rottenness creeps over and possesses her.
Her baby moves. I know, Justina soothes the child.
She turns to confide in Isaiah.
He stands frozen, his eyes fixed, mesmerized by this Ajany.
Justina scowls.
“You?” she prods.
Isaiah slips his hands into his pockets. He casts his eyes to the ground, lips pursed. A shudder.
One of the Twilight regulars bumps Justina’s shoulders. “Sa’a Jusi?” She gestures at Isaiah.
Justina sticks her tongue out, wraps her hand around Isaiah’s. “Dance with me?”
“No.”
“I need you.”
“You don’t.”
Justina giggles. “But you can’t dance with her,” pointing at Ajany.
“Why?”
“You are just a human being.”
“So?”
“They don’t really need us.”
“Who are they?”
Justina starts to say something, but hugs her body instead. She would do anything to feel Odidi’s strong and securing arms around her, even for a minute. She wants to hear again his vow to keep her safe forever.
Isaiah says, “She’s human.”
The DJ changes the music.