From invisible hubs, Arwyn’s “Benedictus” echoes.
Surreal disbelief. “Rejoice,” murmurs Isaiah.
They have reached a rusting missionary outstation.
Two grizzled nuns walk up to meet the pair; the nuns are leather-skinned die-hards with Jesus sandals who wield large wooden rosaries.
“Can we help?”
Ali Dida Hada makes introductions: “Assistant Commissioner of Police Ali Dida Hada. This one is Mr. Isaiah Bolton.”
“From?”
“Kalacha.”
“Chasing cattle?” A glance at Isaiah.
“Yes.”
A penetrating stare. “I assume you’re hungry and looking for a place to stay?”
Ali Dida Hada stands at attention. “Correct, madam.”
“How many days?”
“One.”
“Mhh! I’m Sister Catherine.”
“A pleasure.”
Isaiah follows silently.
Later.
After meditations under a kerosene lamp, seven nuns and three aides examine the visitors to the tune of Álvarez’s “Plegaria” while they eat scrambled eggs and rice and a dark-green bitter-salty vegetable. Soft murmurs. Lilt in speech. Four of the nuns are Irish. Two are from the Philippines, the other a local, from Marsabit.
All of a sudden Isaiah starts to cough laughter. Ali Dida Hada nudges him. Isaiah leans over his plate, struggling with the juxtaposition of Álvarez, a woman whose face was the dusky-hued version of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, Irish prayers, Filipino lilts, and two unwashed male travelers eating sensible scrambled eggs in a dark, arid landscape tormented by moaning winds. Tears from suffocated mirth flavor Isaiah’s meal.
Later.
A tiny, clear-eyed nun with freckles says, “Next to the corral, there’s a small room. Good for two. Someone will bring water. Use a cup to wash. At dusk, join our prayers. Then breakfast. God bless.”
Isaiah and Ali Dida Hada cross the short distance to their room across a pathway lit by fireflies. The wind lowers its tone. And then, in this derelict place, a cold and fearful stone, a decrepit resident of Isaiah’s soul, crumbles.
In his safari bed, listening to Isaiah’s snoring, Ali Dida Hada, grateful for the presence of another human being, crosses his arms behind his head and looks into a place in his being where Akai Lokorijom has lived from the day he first saw her. He examines its contours and how it has formed him.
36
GALGALU IS SWATTING FLIES BUZZING OVER MEAT HE BARTERED for honey when the drone of a laboring engine scatters his attention. Few cars ever drive into Wuoth Ogik. And when they do, it is usually someone who is lost.
A dark-green Land Rover with government number plates stops at the gate. A man in a dark-blue suit jumps down. With the sun glancing off his shiny Italian shoes, he strolls over and stops next to the courtyard fence. Standing with his legs apart, he surveys everything.
When Ajany recognizes him, she ducks. She is sure that Isaiah has officially accused the Oganda family of his father’s murder. Grief. It bothers her that this should matter.
Nyipir turns.
Stares.
Hands clinging to the handle of his walking stick, Nyipir limps unsteadily toward the man. It takes him six seconds to toss away the stick, and another five to rush the man and pound on every accessible part of his body.
The visitor rolls in the dust. “Msee,” he cajoles, “is that how to greet a lost brother?”
Petrus Keah has come to Wuoth Ogik.
A brown bird squeals past them. Petrus narrows his eyes, adjusting his bifocals. Nyipir sweats, breathing heavily. Petrus lies on his back to consider the sky. “About the boy … we were betrayed,” he explains, watching for Nyipir’s hands. “I was late.” A grunt. “But we’ve taken care of it.” Rising, he scans the ranch, tilts his head at the crumbling house. “This is Wuoth Ogik?”
Nyipir looks at Odidi’s cairn. “What you’ve said has not caused a resurrection.”
Petrus flinches. “It’s hot.” He tears off his coat. “I am on a mison to the mison. Some American prayer people were supposed to have reported to their embassy five days ago. I’m here to find them and the terrorists they’ve spotted.”
Nyipir scoffs: “A junior officer’s job?”
Petrus lifts his head. “Msee, you underestimate its difficulty. I was heading up here anyway.”
“To see me?”
“Yes. And Ali Dida Hada. Where is he? He’s signed over all his bank accounts to me. Has he killed himself?”
“You’ve come to save a life?” Nyipir’s brows rise and almost touch his scalp.
Petrus grins. “Yes.”
Nyipir snarls in Luo, “I jajuok?”
He scoops up dirt to throw at Petrus. “Murderer!”
Petrus dodges.
Ajany has picked up a stick to wield against the invader. Galgalu circles.
Petrus, his hands raised, says, “Before you grind me into flour … I’ve a message from Odidi.”
Ajany rolls her eyes, steps closer.
Petrus continues, “I was with him. He was alive when I got to him.”
Nyipir stops.
“Mos, jaduong. Mos.” So sorry, Petrus says. “Here, for you …” He digs into his coat pocket and plucks out a pile of banknotes.
Nyipir addresses the earth. “You kill everything. This was my only son.” He reaches Petrus, rears up, pulls back his fist, and slams it into Petrus’s face. “You kill everything!”
Petrus steadies himself, the money scattered around him. His lip bleeds. A grunt. “That, msee, is the last time. Next time I soot.”
Nyipir bows, winded.
Petrus moves, touches his wrist. “Wuod loka, we’re too old for this. I was there with the boy. Before … before he went. I talked to him, I held him like this.” Petrus cradles Nyipir’s hand. “He thought I was you. A brave boy.”
Nyipir shakes himself loose.
Petrus continues: “That day Oganda, I, too, found a son.”
Ajany hears. Remembers the hardness of tarmac. The warmth it retained. “You were with my brother?”
“Yes.”
She drops her guard.
Nyipir replies, “I’ve heard you. Now go.” He shuffles past Petrus and reaches for his fallen walking stick.
Petrus stretches out a hand.
Nyipir stares at his own gnarled fingers.
Thwack!
Petrus’s buttocks hit the ground, and he clutches his head.
“Aiee! This is really the last time, Oganda. What are you angry about? Nineteen sixty-nine? If I’d done less, they’d have killed you,” Petrus yells. “You sould thank me. A stick like that can break a skull. You sould thank me, not try to kill me.”
“Why?” yells Nyipir. An over-forty-year-old question explodes: “Did I submit to your filthy covenant?”
Petrus gets up with care, brushing his trousers.
“And if you had?”
Nyipir’s voice is hoarse. “Did I?”
“No.” Petrus shakes his head. “Another did.”
“In my name?”
Petrus lowers his head.
Nyipir asks, “Who?”
“You want to know?”
Nyipir glowers.
“He died.”
“Who?”
“He was with you.”
Nyipir scans his still-grieving memory. “There were many — who?”
“Tap. Tap. Tap.”
Nyipir frowns, gathering strands of memory. “His name?”
Petrus had always erased the memory of names. “Tap, tap, tap,” he answers.
“Who?”
“Don’t remember.”