Deborah Cloyed - What Tears Us Apart

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. In her email, she did not say she would bring books. But books were what the children craved, and lacked, the most. A luxury Ita always longed to provide.

Mary set the tray of food on the mat. Leda watched the boys first this time. She washed her hands, then took her loaf of bread and a cup of tea. When she took her first sip, her eyes widened in reaction.

“It’s spicy!” she said and licked her lips like a kitten. “And sweet,” she said to herself, then poked Ntimi until he giggled.

“Spicy. Sweet,” Ntimi echoed and everyone dug in much like Leda, absorbed in the happiness of a shared meal.

Ita watched his little family take in this strange new addition, like they did with each new orphan. A warmth spread through his stomach, like the fullness of a big meal. It must have been the tea, he reasoned.

* * *

Once the boys were off to school, Ita and Leda helped Mary with the dishes and straightening. Leda seemed a bit deflated with most of the children gone. Maybe she didn’t feel useful enough. She bounced Walter on her hip, which he loved, though he shouldn’t get used to it, Ita thought.

Ita pictured the paperwork waiting in his office, but he surprised himself by turning to Leda and saying, “Would you like to go exploring with me?”

She hesitated, these little pauses already becoming familiar, and Ita wondered if it was the image of the slum or the thought of time alone with him that caused that little furrow in her brow.

“I have things to buy,” he added, suspecting she would prefer it presented professionally. He was right.

“Oh, okay, sure, let’s go. I’ll just change my shoes. One second.”

She crossed to the secret room. While the boys had gotten dressed, she’d changed into brown pants and a blue T-shirt. Ita wondered if blue was her favorite color. This was something he did with the orphans as they arrived—try to identify their preferences. Jomo always took the blue cup if it was available and had selected blue sandals for school.

* * *

Ita didn’t have a plan for their tour, and this was very strange for him. He preferred to have a plan for everything, a trait that Chege had teased him about since they were small. For the Kibera laughed at nothing more than plans. But it was what had made the orphanage possible. Ita’s business plan had found them sponsors and the space they now inhabited. And planning was what made him a successful safari guide, standing out among the many, Ita believed. He knew how to craft the perfect trip, down to the type of salad and sandwiches he served for lunch and dinner. Everything was meticulously scheduled, so that it looked effortless for his customers.

What about today’s schedule, then? His plan had been to let Mary show Leda the housework she would do around the orphanage while the children were at school and Ita worked in his office. Fetching water, washing, cooking—he’d told Mary that American women didn’t know how to do these things without machines. They’d joked about the idea of a dishwasher. How funny. Imagine having enough electricity to power a machine to wash the dishes.

But here he was, walking the volunteer out the front gate, watching the mix of emotions dance on her face. How was he to know that the volunteer would be beautiful and shiny and completely captivating? The kind of woman who makes paperwork—something he enjoyed, the figures lined up neatly—suddenly boring.

So Ita led the way around the corner, past the beauty shop and the barbershop next to it. The sun struck them between the maze of rooftops, flickering over their skin through the haze of dust. Ita noticed a spring in his step that he loved to see in the children. Not that he remembered ever being a child like that himself. Chege had always said Ita walked as though he had a rhino on his back.

First stop, he needed to charge his cell phone. Leda had asked him questions about his phone yesterday. She seemed surprised that he had one. But how would he run a business without it? From Leda’s descriptions, it sounded as though most businessmen in America had computers. She asked if they had one, making Ita laugh. If anyone knew he had a laptop in the orphanage, he’d have to hire a security guard to live with them. No, Ita explained. He had to pay to use the internet in Nairobi, when he went to check his post office box for the orphanage. When he told her that, he thought of the shillings that had added up in the minutes he’d spent staring at her emails and résumé.