A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

At dawn, Bongani is already preparing breakfast. He notices that I am awake and brings me tea. When the children wake I have more tea and some plain toast and watch the children consume an enormous breakfast. While we are eating, I ask Bongani about his family. He says they are all well and that he has lived here his whole life.

We are told to pack bathing suits and a change of clothes, and take off on an early ride in pursuit of elephants. This time the couple from the Netherlands is in another car, and we are on our own. A child in one of the other cars has a temper tantrum and throws his stuffed animal overboard; the cars all come to a halt. Dirk approaches the little boy; I’m worried he’s going to give him a talking to about breaking the rules. Instead, he gives the boy a lollipop to quiet him while Josia hops out to pick the teddy out of the brush, and we continue on.

At the next stop, while the others are shooting photos, I mention to Dirk how magical I find Bongani’s presence. Dirk tells me that Bongani’s father was murdered and that his mother became a prostitute in order to survive and later died of AIDS.

We have a feast of a picnic lunch at a picture-perfect spot under an enormous tree, which just happens to have several swings — strung from enormously long ropes that allow the children to sail through the air. The air smells deliciously like earth and grass. “Picnic” means cocktails and large comfortable chairs, as well as beautiful tables set with real dishes and food that materializes out of endless enormous wicker hampers. On the way back to the camp, we stop at a river where dressing “tents” have been set up and we’re told we can swim, alligator-free, while a “lifeguard” with a gun stands watch. The children go in. I abstain, fearing parasites or anything that might aggravate my digestive tract.

That night, after dinner, there is no pretense about who is sleeping where; we all put on our pajamas, hop into the big bed, and sip warm cocoa as Bongani talks us to sleep.

What do you want? Tuttle asked me, what seems like months ago. I want this, whatever this is, never to end.

The next morning, while the children are visiting a nearby crocodile farm, I’m busy stuffing everything we arrived with and everything we accumulated along the way back into our suitcases. Abruptly, I decide not to bring most of our clothing home, keeping only what I use to wrap fragile items.

The suitcases are laden with tourist memorabilia — hats, T-shirts that seemed so urgent and of the moment earlier in the week but which likely will never be worn again.

I put aside a giant pile of clothing, and when Bongani returns I ask him if he will keep it.

“Yes,” Bongani says, taking the job very seriously. “I will hold them until you return.”

“I want you to use the clothing,” I say, “or give it to someone who will. I do not expect it back.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I will wear them well.”

As we are leaving, I give him money and he gives some of it back to me. “It is no good for me to have too much money. If someone thinks I am rich, they will try and steal from me. I can only take so much. I enjoyed being with you and your family.”

I think of bringing him to the United States — he could go to school and study. I write my name, address, phone number, and e-mail on a piece of paper and give it to him. “Do not hesitate to contact me,” I say.

We hug goodbye.

“So long, it was good to know you,” he says.

On the road to Durban, we make two stops for shopping. Ashley buys a painting for her room and some earrings. Determined to bring the right thing home for Madeline and Cy, she has been shopping for them, much like she shopped for the beloved Miss Renee. She buys something, and then finds something else and buys that too. Ashley and Ricardo zero in on a variety store and beg the driver to stop. Sensing a serious shopper, the owner encourages Ashley to take her time, which she does, settling on what she thinks is the most perfect gift — dark-black baby dolls, rather large, male and female, anatomically correct. I tell her it’s fine if she wants to get one for herself but I don’t think it’s the right gift for Amanda’s parents.

“You’re wrong,” she says, point-blank. I then have to decide between asserting that I am not only the adult in charge but am footing the bill, or just sucking it up and letting her have her way. “All right,” I say. “But this is it, this is the last perfect gift.”

“I actually know what I’m doing,” she says. “I saw it on one of my favorite shows, and then I looked it up for real life — fact checking, we call it at school. There was a study done in which demented old people were given dolls to care for and it made them much happier.” She takes the dolls to the cash register. “It made them feel closer and needed.” At the last minute, as the shop owner is about to swipe my credit card, Ashley adds a blanket for each one. I say nothing and sign the charge. Ashley immediately takes the dolls out of the packaging, swaddles them, and calls them her twins.

Ricardo says he wants an all-too-real-looking toy gun — the kind that the police see and accidentally shoot you for.

“Absolutely not,” I say.

“What are the twins’ names?” Nate asks when we are out of the store and the owner is pulling the metal gate closed behind us.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Ashley says.

We get back in the car, and are on the outskirts of Durban when things start to go wrong. The driver seems nervous: he’s stepping on the gas, passing cars on a road that is for the most part lightly trafficked.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“They are on my tail,” he says.

“Who is on your tail?”

“A car,” he says, pulling into oncoming traffic, attempting to pass a slow truck. Another car is heading right for us, and before we are able to pass, the driver has to cut back into our lane. As we approach a red light, the driver pauses, checks the intersection, but doesn’t stop.

“Hey,” I say, “we’ve got kids in the car.”

“Trust me,” he says. “Sometimes it is better not to stop.”

I glance out the back; the other car did not stop either. There are three men in the car. Soon they are next to us, pushing us off the road. Ashley screams. Our driver keeps going, pushing the pedal to the floor; great clouds of dust rise up. The white car is beside us still, urging us farther off the road.

“Maybe we should just stop,” I say.

“No,” the driver says. “No good can come of it.”

It goes on like this for what feels like a couple of minutes — maybe it’s only thirty seconds — and then there is an enormous sound like a bang, and the car jerks to the right. The driver struggles to maintain control; slowly we roll to a stop, and the dust settles around us.

“Are we in an accident?” Ricardo asks.

“Flat tire,” the driver says.

The three men stop behind us, get out of their car, and approach. As soon as they’re within striking distance, they start banging on the car, rocking it from side to side — it’s terrifying.

“Hijacking,” Nate whispers. “Just give them your money.”

“My babies, my babies,” Ashley suddenly screams. “My babies aren’t breathing.”

I throw open the car door — knocking over one of the men, who’d been leaning against it. Ricardo, Nate, and Ashley jump out, carrying the brown babies wrapped in their blankets.

Ashley is on the side of the road, wailing, “My babies, my babies are not breathing.”

Nate is hunched over the babies, pressing his ear to their chests, his mouth to the plastic baby mouths. Nate shouts—“Do you know CPR?”

Ricardo and I are on our knees at the side of the road, hunched over the brown baby boy, while Nate is compressing the baby girl’s chest — shouting, “Breathe. Breathe.”