It was, however, too soon to admit this to myself or to Tabitha, so I remained among the bicycles, reminded of the man in the desert who kept fresh food in a hole in the ground. I thought of this man and found myself unconsciously touching my shin where the barbed wire had made a meal of me. It was then that I saw that Tabitha had returned. She was storming down the aisle to me, past the electric fans and the coffee makers and towels, and she was soon in front of me, standing inches away.
— Stupid boy! she yelled.
I had no answer for that accusation, for it was certainly true.
— Now kiss me, she demanded.
She was as angry as I had ever seen her, her forehead making use of muscles I did not know a face possessed. Her lips, though, were pursed, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head up to mine. And immediately all of my opinions about her fell away. My stomach and heart collided but I leaned down to Tabitha and kissed her. I kissed her and she kissed me until a clerk in the grocery store asked us to leave. They were closing, he said, pointing to his watch. It was ten o'clock. We had been kissing for forty minutes there among the bicycles, her hands on the handlebars and mine on hers.
I remember nothing from the next day. Tabitha was obligated to spend the day with her sponsors, and because Mike and Grace were working, I spent much of the day in their apartment. Occasionally I walked around the neighborhood, attempting to think, even for a second or two, of anything beyond the kiss we shared. But it was futile. I relived that long kiss a thousand times that day. In the apartment I kissed the refrigerator, I kissed every door, many pillows and all of the couch cushions, all in the effort to approximate the sensation again.
I should have been concerned about Tabitha, about whether or not she would appear that day at the rehearsal, but I had not yet processed the night before. When Tabitha arrived that afternoon at the theater, I was so entranced by memories of the night before that I barely noticed the real Tabitha, who was purposely ignoring me. Sometime in the night she had decided to be mad at me again. She would continue to fume for weeks to come.
On the night of our performance, the theater was full. There were eighteen different groups performing, from all over Kenya. Ours was the only troupe of refugees. I thank the Lord that we performed well that night; we remembered our lines and under the lights, with all those seats, we still found a way to be present in the words and drama of the play we had written. We did well, we knew we did well. When we finished, the audience cheered and some people stood and clapped. Our group placed third overall. We could not have asked for more.
Afterward, there was a celebratory dinner, and then we all went to our sponsors' homes. Even on the walk there the struggle was evident on my face.
— What's the matter? Grace asked.-You look like you ate something sour.
I told her it was nothing, but I was a wreck. I knew that I had only this night to speak to Mike and Grace about the possibility of his sponsoring me.
But I said nothing to Grace, and nothing to either of them as they washed up before bed. Grace went to sleep and Mike did, too, before he returned to the living room.-Couldn't sleep, he said.
We sat on the couch that night watching television for hours more, and while I asked him questions about what we saw-who are the men in the curved hats? who are the women wearing feathers? — all I could think was Could I? Could I really ask him such a thing? I could not ask such a thing of Mike. It was far too much, I knew. Mike was too busy to be burdened with a refugee. But then again, I thought, I could be such a help. There were so many things I could do to earn my keep. I could cook and clean and certainly help in any way the theater needed me. I was organized, I had proven that, and I was well liked, and I could clean the theater after it closed, or clean it before it opened. I could do either or both, and afterward, could come home and turn down the bed for Mike and Grace. Certainly Mike would know all the things that I would be willing to do. He knew that I would be willing to work for my room and board, to make it advantageous to have me around.
I cursed my stupidity. Mike did not need or want someone to help with all that. He wanted to be a young man unencumbered by the plight of a gangly Sudanese teenager. This was his good deed, this week of hosting me, and that was enough. If my mother knew I was even contemplating imposing on someone in such a way, she would be so ashamed.
— Well, this is the end of the night for me, he said, and stood.
— Okay, I said.
— You staying up again? he asked.-I don't know when you sleep. I smiled and opened my mouth. A tumble of words, obsequious and needful words, were so close to leaving my mouth. But I said nothing.
— Good night, I said.-Your hospitality has meant everything to me.
He smiled and went to bed, to join Grace.
We went home the next morning, all of us refugees from Kakuma. Everyone was tired; I was not the only one who had developed a taste for television. I did not sit near Tabitha, and did not speak to her the entire ride back. It was just as well. I was drowning in so many thoughts and needed a rest from her, from any reminder of the choices I had not made. I rested my head on the glass, trying to sleep it all away. We did not stop at Ketale this time, instead driving straight through to Kakuma. I slipped in and out of consciousness, watching the lush parts of Kenya pass by, its great green hills and sheets of rain drenching far-off farms. We flew past all that and back to the howling mess of Kakuma.
CHAPTER 24
I am in the parking lot of the Century Club and there are twenty minutes before the gym opens. There is not enough time to nap, even if I were able, so I turn on the radio and find the BBC World News. This program has been a part of my life for so long, since Pinyudo, when the SPLA commanders would blast its reports from Africa across the camp. In the past few years, it seems that no BBC World News broadcast has been complete without an item on Sudan. This morning there is first a predictable story about Darfur; an expert on African affairs notes that seven thousand African Union troops patrolling a region the size of France have been ineffectual in preventing continued janjaweed terror. Funding for the troops is about to run out, and it seems that no one, including the United States, is ready to put forth more money or come up with new ideas to stop the killing and displacement. This is not surprising to those of us who lived through twenty years of oppression by the hands of Khartoum and its militias.
The second Sudan story is more fascinating; it concerns a yacht. It seems that the African Union was to meet in Khartoum, and el-Bashir, the president of Sudan, wanted to impress the heads of state with an extravagant boat, which would be docked in the Nile and would carry the dignitaries up and down the river during their stay. The vessel was ordered from Slovenia, and Bashir paid $4.5 million for it. It goes without saying that $4.5 million would be useful in feeding the poor of Sudan.
The yacht was transported from Slovenia to the Red Sea, where it sailed to Port Sudan. From Port Sudan, it needed to be transported overland to Khartoum in time for the conference. But getting it to the capitol proved far more difficult than anticipated. The 172-ton boat challenged the bridges it had to be driven over, and the overhead electrical wires along the way were problematic; 132 of them had to be cut down and reassembled after the yacht had passed. By the time the yacht was within sight of the Nile, the leaders of Africa had come and gone. They had somehow managed without the yacht and its satellite TVs, fine china, and staterooms.