sullied clothes, sees her mussed hair, the scratches on her neck and arms.
Leda sees the woman’s blow-dried hair, her careful makeup, her attempts to hide her scared eyes, the lines of worry. The mother knows what’s happening beneath them. She can only guess the horrors responsible for the scratches on Leda’s skin and the look on her face, but she knows.
The look she gives Leda is a plea.
Their eyes lock, two women in a world of men gone mad. Leda looks at the boy, who’s around Ntimi’s age. Then she thinks of the youths who attacked her, their teenaged faces hard as wood.
Leda turns away. She obliges the mother with her child’s innocence and her mind returns to the stench of blood cloaking her. She washed her hands in the airport bathroom, but now as her hair falls forward, Leda sees it matted with the stuff. Her stomach clenches when she remembers how, as she cradled Ita’s battered head in her lap, her hair caught in the blood on his face. His eyes could barely stay open, as the fire reflected in them raged all around them. The sorrow in Ita’s eyes quickened the terror in the gazes of the policemen staring down at them.
I’m sorry, Ita. I’m so, so, so sorry.
Chapter 4
December 9, 2007, Kibera—Ita
THAT NIGHT ITA lay in his bed, wrestling with his eyelids as though trying to clamp shut two hippos’ mouths. With a grin, he gave in to replaying the day instead. The sudden blooming smile when she said his name, the breathless tinkling sound of her laughter and the way her hair danced to it, dark brown curls swirling. It wasn’t like Ita hadn’t met white people before, mostly at the clinic. But none like her. Leda was like an American movie star, but from old films he’d seen in black-and-white. Maybe it was the way her skin glowed in the dark, or the curves of her body like flowing cloth. Even when she first arrived, covered in a fine dust, her cheeks looked creamy underneath, like milk. Her green eyes peeked out from her slender face, watching like a bird on a branch, poised and wary at the same time.
She was nothing like Ita had imagined—an aggressive older American woman. Crass, maybe, loud, even wanton, from what he’d seen at the theater in Kibera that showed current movies. Women with plastic breasts and lipstick, who wore little clothing and made dirty jokes.
Leda didn’t seem this way in the least. She reminded him of an old-time movie star because she didn’t seem real, of this time, or even human. She floated behind him on her first tour of the orphanage, taking everything in like a first visit to Earth. Could she tell that they’d cleaned? Swept? Washed all the dishes? Ita had sensed her discomfort at sharing a room with Mary. He was glad he’d thought of the hidden room.
Goose bumps crept up his skin in the dark. She was nearby, in that room—asleep on the metal table, wrapped in the blanket he’d given her. He imagined her wispy eyelashes, a smile on her face, her slender fingers curled around the cloth.
He sighed. Everything was perfect.
Suddenly his heartbeat sped up like a motorcycle. Nothing was ever perfect, or ever stayed so for more than a fleeting second.
Ita knew why he pictured Leda curled up, smiling in her dreams. He’d known another girl to sleep that way.
He tried to stop the stampeding memory—he put his hands over his eyes, he turned to his side, dug his head into the foam. But he couldn’t stop it. The vision of Leda’s beatific face was gone, mutated into the image that haunted Ita every day. A different smooth, beautiful face, but darker and twisted beyond recognition by fear, battered and swelling with blood, as she slumped down beside him in exhaustion. Behind her, Chege.
The memory crept away as it had slithered in, leaving only the guilt twisting Ita’s stomach like wringing wet clothes.
Chege.
Ita replayed Chege’s appearance today, how he pushed his way in to see Leda. How he took her hand, seductively, teasing her, leering at her. Then he’d pulled out that money. What are you showing off, Chege? Nothing to be proud of—how his boys made that money.
It was Mungiki creed to despise Westerners, Americans, even as they coveted their clothes and music. Did Chege really not see the hypocrisy? Could he not see what he’d become?
The air in Ita’s room seemed to grow hotter as he thought of what Chege had said to Jomo—money in Kibera can only be gotten by giving something up. Filmstrips of memories spiraled in Ita’s mind, of how much Chege had given him—so much, everything, saved his life even, countless times. And now Chege wanted to help the orphans the same way, give them money, protect them. It made Ita’s blood boil. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe he should be grateful. But Ita knew what it cost to accept Chege’s help. He knew what it meant to repay in regret and nightmares.
In the dark, Ita shook his head, trying to wriggle free of his thoughts. He wished he could be like Leda—clean, new and fresh to the ways of Kibera.
Suddenly, he remembered how she bent down for her suitcase, sending her curls to cover her face. Was it the scar she wanted to hide? A mark like white paint dribbling down her jaw.
Maybe she had memories she wished she could forget, too. Ita felt a tenderness ache through his chest. In his eyes, that only made her more perfect.
* * *
In the morning, Ita wasn’t surprised to find the children awake early for school, waiting on the mat for breakfast, eyes darting to the secret room.
“She is in there, stop worrying,” he said in Swahili. “Do you think she will fly away?”
As he said it, he realized it was his worry, too.
While they stalled a bit, Ita asking them about their studies, Jomo appeared and sat on the mat as if it was the most normal thing in the world. But in the few months since Jomo’s arrival, he had yet to willingly come sit with them. Ita’s gaping mouth reassembled into a smile.
Mary came outside with the food, and as they debated whether to wait or wake their visitor the door scraped open and there she was, looking exactly like a crumpled angel in the best of ways. He had seen pictures of the men’s pajamas American women wore, and she wore a set herself. But it didn’t strike him as wanton like the pictures. On Leda, it actually looked quite demure.
But Ita must have been indiscreet with his looking because she seemed suddenly self-conscious and stepped backward.
“Good morning,” Ita said, worried she would duck back into her room.
The children echoed him, practicing their English greetings. “Goo-mowning, goo-mowning, Ledaaah.”
“Breakfast is ready,” Ita said. “Please, join us.”
She smiled, but he could see her hesitation, and the flurry of thought scurry across her face. He had noticed this the day before—she was always thinking, dreaming, watching. But he liked this quality, it reminded him of the children, the rapt curiosity with which they regarded the world.
Leda walked across the dirt in her blue pajamas and sandals. She sat down in the empty spot next to Jomo. “Good morning,” she said. Jomo didn’t look up, but Ita could see the glint in his eye.
The children were at a loss as to what to do with this mysterious species in their midst. It was Ntimi who looked up shyly. He took a moment and then he opened his mouth. “I trust you slept well, Miss Leda,” he said.
Ita nearly split open with pride, hearing the phrase they’d practiced.
Leda beamed at Ntimi, too, looking equally impressed. “What a gentleman you are. I slept like the princess in the fairy tale. Well—” Leda leaned in closer “—not the one about the pea.”
Ntimi smiled blankly at the foreign words, and Leda noticed. She mimed opening a book. “I will read it to you. I brought lots of books.”
That the children understood, and they clapped and chattered in response.
Ita was touched.