Her face looked oddly familiar. As she made her way back toward me, I realized where I’d seen her before. We had stopped next to each other at the traffic light earlier. She’d been the passenger, reading a book on the motorcycle.
I reached for the beads on my bracelet, thinking of the words on them.
Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.
We are all connected.
How many times do we pass people on the street, whose lives are intertwined with ours in ways that remain forever unknown? How many ways are we tied to a stranger by fragile, invisible threads that bind us all together?
She paused by a street light and looked at the flyer taped to it for a few seconds. Then she tore off a strip of paper, walked by me, and crossed the road.
“Everything all right?” asked Bahati. “Goma asked me to check on you.”
“What’s on that pole?” I made my way to it and read the sign.
Lost a loved one you would like to contact?
Need a promotion at work?
Want to rid yourself of disease or evil spirits?
For a small contribution, I can make it happen for you.
BestMganga, from Zanzibar.
Call now!
And then a name and phone number.
“What’s amganga,Bahati?”
“Traditionally, a doctor, healer, or herbalist. But the term applies to witchdoctors and potion makers too. The ones from Zanzibar are particularly revered. Zanzibar is an island off the coast with a rich history of local voodoo.”
“And people believe in it?” There were just two strips of phone numbers left on the flyer.
“If you are desperate enough, you do.”
I nodded, thinking of the woman who had just left fresh flowers at the site. I could see how the first line in the flyer would appeal to friends and families of victims of the mall attack. “Thesemgangas—are they also the ones that perform spells using albino body parts?”
“Some of them. It’s impossible to tell unless you’re in their trusted circle.”
“Have you ever been? To a witchdoctor?” I asked, as we walked toward the car.
“No. Unless you count ouroloiboni, Lonyoki. A lot of people don’t have access to doctors or health care in the rural areas. Healers and herbalists are usually their first line of defense. Many healers have legitimate knowledge of how things work, passed down to them from their forefathers, but there are an equal number of quacks. Personally, I shun local superstitions. Maybe because I fell victim to them myself, and had to leave my home and people.”
“Just like Scholastica.”
“Yes.” Bahati paused before getting into the car. “I never thought of it like that, but yes. I guess Scholastica and I have that in common.”
I rested my head against the window and listened to Bahati chatter on. It had become strangely comforting, like familiar background noise. Goma must have felt the same way because she dozed off and her head rolled from side to side as we drove past patchwork fields and shacks with corrugated iron roofs.
When we got to the farm, Bahati backed Suzi into the garage. It was a sloping structure, extending from the house, open on all sides, but sheltering the cars under its roof. A hose was lying next to Jack’s car, with a stream of soapsuds trickling toward the drain on the floor.
“You’re back.” Jack was in his car, one long, tanned arm leaning out the window.
“Are you going somewhere?” asked Goma.
“No. Scholastica and I were washing the car, and out of the blue, she just started crying. I think she’s homesick and missing her father. She’s all right now, but exhausted. She fell asleep a few minutes ago.”
