“Then you’re the man who is going to get me to Wanza.”
“And why exactly should I give a fuck about you? Or Wanza?”
I stared at him, the schoolteacher in me wanting to reprimand him for his manners, his uncalled-for attitude. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to what I had to say.
“You hear that?” he said, cupping his hand to his ear. “That silence is exactly how many fucks I give.”
My face burned a bright red. “You know what? Whatever was tearing you up earlier, you damn well deserve it.” I pivoted on my heel and marched into the pouring rain, water running down my hot, inflamed cheeks.
“Let’s go, Bahati.” I slammed the car door shut. “I’ll have to figure out some other way.”
But Bahati was looking at the man staring into the rain. “Something is not right with his eyes, Miss Ro. That is not the Jack Warden I know.”
“Well, it’s the Jack Warden that I talked to. And he’s a . . .” I bit back the words even though Scholastica wouldn’t understand me. “Let’s just go.”
We were almost at the gates when a red jeep, going the other way nearly careened into us. Bahati slammed on the brakes and we skidded to a halt barely a few feet from it. The other driver pounded on the horn, a loud, blaring, continuous beep.
“Crazy lady,” mumbled Bahati, as he put the car in reverse. It was a one-lane road, and she was bearing down on us, giving us no choice but to back-up as she advanced.
The rain was coming down in sheets and I could barely make out the road as Bahati reversed the car to the main building. But instead of parking, the jeep kept coming at us until we were backed up in a tight corner. The driver got out and rapped on Bahati’s window.
“Where do you think you’re going in this god-awful weather, young man? Driving like a maniac on that washed-out road?” She peered into the car, raindrops trickling down her plastic hood. She must have been at least ninety, but her blue eyes shone bright and clear.
Bahati and I exchanged a look. She was the one that had come barreling at us like a bat out of hell.
“With a lady and a child, no less,” she continued, looking at Scholastica and me. I had to hand it to her. She didn’t bat a wrinkled eye at the girl’s appearance. Then again, given her age, she’d probably seen it all.
“Get out. All of you.” She clapped her hands and made for the house, leaving her car parked exactly where it was.
“That’s Goma, Jack’s grandmother,” Bahati explained. “You can’t argue with her.”
We made a beeline for the porch, our shoes squelching in the mud. I was relieved that Jack was gone. The screen door shut behind Goma as Bahati, Scholastica, and I shivered in our wet clothes, under the awning.
“Well? Are you coming in or should I send my homing pigeons to deliver an invitation?” Goma hollered from inside.
We stepped into a charming living area with large windows, plump sofas and faded pine floors. The house was as eccentric as the lady who had invited us in—a blend of colonial design and African heritage, with mismatched pieces and earthy textures.
Goma was standing in the middle of the room, trousers around her ankles, stepping out of her soggy clothes. Bahati and I averted our gazes while Scholastica watched with wide eyes.
“Brave girl,” said Goma. “Not afraid of old skin. You don’t speak English, do you?” She switched to Swahili and soon Scholastica was giggling. “Come on.” She held a hand out to her. “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”
I snuck a peek out of the corner of my eye, relieved that Goma had left her underwear on. They returned, wearing colorful muumuus—long, loose dresses that covered them from head to foot.
“I make these out ofkitenge.You’ll never want to wear those jeans again,” said Goma, handing me a muumuu.
Bahati looked at her like she’d lost her mind when she gave him a green and yellow one.
“Oh, go on.” She shoved it into his hands. “You’re dripping water all over my floors.”
They faced each other for a few seconds, battling silently. Then Bahati snatched the muumuu from her.
“Bathroom’s over there.” She inclined her head and watched as he ambled towards it, his feet shuffling like he was heading off to a sacrificial altar.
“I’m Katherine Warden,” she said, turning to me. “Everyone calls me Goma.”
“Rodel Emerson.” I shook her gnarled hand. “And this is Scholastica.”
“Rodel and Scholastica,” she repeated, looking at us with curious eyes. “So what brings you here?”
