A corner of his mouth tilted up in a way that made my heart skid.
I held on to that image as I walked through the sliding doors and checked in to my flight. As the plane took off, I watched the cars and buildings get smaller and smaller: the pastures where cows grazed, the fields of corn, the mud huts thatched with sheets of corrugated iron. And then the clouds were floating below us like spools of lambs’ wool. I reached into my handbag for the little parcel that Goma had asked me to open on the plane. It was a lace handkerchief, tied into a pouch with a jute string. I was almost done opening it when I looked out of the window and caught my breath.
Kilimanjaro rose through the clouds, like a bride of the Gods, its ice-capped peaks glistening like a crown of majestic crystals. Silver mists swirled around the summit, changing and shifting under the rays of the sun. There was something delicate and poignant in the fleeting, moving play of light—the kind of beauty that only transient things can hold.
I blinked back the tears that trembled on my lashes. The mists reminded me of Mo and Lily, of the albino children who appeared and disappeared without a trace, of a love that reached for the summit, if only to kiss it goodbye.
A hot tear rolled down my cheek and splattered on Goma’s handkerchief. I wiped my face and untied the knot that held it together. A bunch of M&M’s spilled onto my lap. There was a note folded among them. I opened it and read Goma’s bold handwriting.
“Chocolate makes everything better,” it said.
I laughed. And sobbed. It came out like a strange snort.
“Are you all right?” the lady sitting next to me asked.
“Yes.” I dabbed my eyes with Goma’s handkerchief. “I just . . .” I looked at Kilimanjaro and thought of a white manor with a green swing, sitting in the foothills. “I’ve been on a grand adventure.”
“Well, I’m all ears. You must tell me about it.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I smiled at her and stared out the window.
Once in Africa, I kissed a king . . .
IFINISHED MARKINGthe last paper and flipped to the front to tally up the final grade. My pen wavered momentarily as I noted the student’s name.
Jack.
Four letters strung together to form a name. Simple. Common. Ordinary.
Four letters that had held no meaning, but that now felt like I had fallen ten stories and hit the ground—splat—every time I came across it. How many Jacks had come and gone before him? None had warned of the Jack that was to come, the one whose name would leave me breathless in the middle of the day.
It was July in the Cotswolds, ten months since our rainy goodbye at the airport. Peach colored roses bloomed outside my window. Bees and butterflies darted from flower to flower. It was the end of another school year, my last day at work before the summer holidays. I finalized the exam marks and glanced around my classroom.
“You’re still here?” Jeremy Evans popped his head into the room. He was a temp, filling in for the music teacher’s maternity leave.
“Just leaving,” I replied.
“Me too. You want to grab a drink? I’m heading to the pub for a pint.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to pass.” I powered down my laptop and smiled at him. He was cute, with soft brown eyes and dark hair that curled on his forehead.
“Ouch.” He clutched his chest. “Shot down again. You’ll have to cave one day, even if it’s just to shut me up.”
“Have a good summer, Jeremy.”
“Ah. I see what you did there. You just blocked me out of your entire summer. You might as well just shut the door in my face.” And with that, he proceeded to drag himself out by the tie and slam the door behind him.
I was still smiling when I unchained my bicycle and headed home. How can you dislike anyone who makes you laugh? I cut through the cobblestone alleys that meandered around honey-hued cottages and little box hedges. Bourton-on-the-Water was a hot spot for tourists in the summer, and the main routes were teeming with visitors. It was a small price to pay for the way I felt every time I came home—the wooden gate, the slate blue door, swathes of yellow flowers spilling out of the window boxes, lavender growing wild against the golden stone.
I secured my bike and collected the mail—bills, a postcard from my parents, flyers . . . a letter from Tanzania. I unlocked the door and dropped the rest of my things on the couch.
I want a clean break, I’d said. And Jack had given me that. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d left—no calls, no texts, no emails. Sometimes, when I thought of him on the porch, sitting on the swing and looking up at the stars, bombs exploded in my chest.
Is it you?I asked the letter sized envelope, my heart pounding as I tore it open.
It wasn’t. But I laughed when I saw the photo that Bahati had sent. He was on a billboard, looking very debonair in a business suit, modeling a fancy watch. On the back, he’d written:It’s not the big screen I thought it would be, but it’s pretty big :)
A surge of aching pride filled me. Underneath all the fancy stuff, Bahati was a warrior, every bit as fierce as his brothers and sisters in theboma. He had held fast to that tradition of pride and self-sufficiency. Not only had he come through when the children and I had needed him, he had also managed to carve out his own path while earning his father’s respect, and more importantly, his own.
