Alexandria of Africa (11 page)

Jimmy got to his feet, stumbled over his chair, and walked to the front. He looked nervous.

“Stand facing me, a few steps back,” Nebala ordered Jimmy. “If I throw the farthest, then I get first throw … at you.” He swung the club like he was going to throw it, and Jimmy screamed and jumped backwards. Nebala was still holding the
konga
.

“If the person flinches or moves, like that, then he loses the dispute.”

“How about if he doesn’t flinch?” somebody asked.

“If he survives the blow, then it is his turn to throw. They take turns until somebody moves or dies.”

“How about if he doesn’t flinch, but it hits him in the head and kills him?” a third boy asked.

“Then he dies with great honour,” Nebala said.

Without thinking I laughed, and everybody turned to me.

“Alexandria?” Renée asked. “Something about this strikes you as funny?”

“Not really … it’s nothing.”

“There must be something,” Christina said, “or you wouldn’t have laughed. Please share with us. There’s no need to be afraid to talk.”

I knew what she was doing. Neither of us was holding a
konga
but this was a challenge. I wasn’t going to be the one to flinch.

“I was thinking that the Maasai remind me of the Klingons on
Star Trek.”

Christina broke into laughter, like I had said the stupidest thing in the entire world. A few others joined in, but not with the same enthusiasm. I remained straight-faced, not moving, not showing emotion.

“You can’t seriously compare some bad television show with the proud culture of the Maasai peop—”

“I always thought the same thing,” Nebala said, cutting her off.

“You know
Star Trek?”
Christina gasped.

“I went to college in Nairobi. I live in Kenya, not on Jupiter.”

This time everybody laughed—everybody except Christina.

“On that note, I think we should all settle in for the night. Morning will come early … 
very
early,” Renée said, looking directly at me.

People got up and started off to bed without complaint or discussion. These weren’t teenagers, they were like really, really well-behaved six-year-olds. Very wimpy six-year-olds.

As everybody filed out of the dining room and set off for their tents, I moved over to Nebala. He was putting his weapons on again.

“Did you really always think that Klingons are like the Maasai?” I asked, so quietly that nobody else could hear.

“That’s what I said.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He didn’t answer. I wasn’t going away until he did.

“Well?”

“I did watch the show sometimes, and I can see your point.”

“But you never thought about it before, right?”

He shook his head.

“Then why did you say it? Why did you agree with me?” I asked.

He smiled. “You didn’t flinch.”

“That wasn’t pleasant,” Sarah said. Her hair was wet and she was trembling.

“The water was incredibly cold,” Andy agreed. Lucky for her, though, she didn’t have enough hair to really worry about a decent shampoo.

“Freezing,” I agreed. “I was the first one in line to shower this morning and it was cold for me, too. There must be something wrong with the heater.”

What was wrong with the heater was that it wasn’t big enough to supply hot water beyond the first thirty minutes of my shower. Ha! So much for not being able to take a long, hot shower. I would have loved to have pointed that out to Renée, but I figured that wasn’t such a great idea. I’d just keep my mouth shut and smile. She was wrong and I was right!

“Your hair still looks good,” Sarah said.

“Cold water works the same as hot … not that
I’m
complaining about the cold. After all, so many people in
Africa have no water at all, so who are we to complain that ours isn’t hot enough?”

That shut everybody up pretty quickly. This was hardly a challenge. These people were all so dedicated and earnest and guilt-ridden that I could play them like a piano.

“Aren’t you going to wear a bandana around your hair?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t think so.” Certainly not in this life.

“Aren’t you worried about the road dust and the concrete dust?” Andy asked.

“Not really.” They could roll up the windows for the drive, and I wasn’t getting anywhere near concrete or its dust. Unfortunately, I had
forgotten
to mention to Renée my need for work gloves, and surely it had to violate at least some safety law for me to work without them.

“And your clothes are so beautiful, aren’t you afraid of ruining them?” Sarah asked. “They look so expensive.”

She was actually kind of sweet to be worried about that. I was wearing a darling little Lilly Pulitzer flower-print tunic and matching capris from the resort wear line.

“Honestly, these are the least expensive clothes I have,” I told her—and really, it was true. But okay, maybe the Prada sneakers were worth worrying a bit about. Never mind, I wasn’t planning on doing enough work to ruin anything, except Renée’s plan to force me to do hard labour.

“Let’s get to the truck,” somebody called out, and I followed the rest of the gang in a little line. This was not good. Being in the back of the line meant a greater chance of being in the back of the truck. Regardless, maybe I could convince whoever was in the truck to let me take their place. I knew if it was Tim or one of the other boys I could probably convince him to run along beside the truck. But I did have a backup plan.

All that dust couldn’t be good for my asthma. It might even trigger an attack, a
severe
asthma attack. At least, it might if I actually had asthma, but who would know that? I could hyperventilate with the best of them. When I was little I’d sometimes hold my breath until my parents gave me what I wanted. That might still work.

Everybody seemed happy and pumped. Lots of chatter, laughter, playful teasing, and smiles. These were happy, happy,
happy
people. They were like the Stepford children. Did they think we were going shopping?

Sarah followed the little line leading up the ladder and into the back of the truck. This was where we were going to part company.

“I’m going to ride up front,” I said.

She looked down from the ladder. She looked sad. “You’ll miss all the fun.”

“What sort of fun?” I asked, although I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be anything I would really regret missing.

“We sing songs and play games!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know, Sarah, a person can only take so much of a good thing. Save me a little chunk of that for tonight.”

I went to the front and started to climb in when I remembered that the passenger seat was on the other side. I had no interest in driving this thing. I had my heart set on my Mercedes, not some broken-down old truck. I circled around the front and practically bumped into Renée.

“I thought I’d keep the driver company,” I said.

“I’m afraid he’s going to have to survive without your sparkling wit. Everybody rides in the back.”

“I would but … don’t you think it would be better for somebody with asthma to ride up front, so the dust doesn’t trigger an attack?” I asked.

“It would be, if somebody had asthma.”

“
I
have asthma.”

“No you don’t,” she said.

“Don’t you think that I might know if I had asthma or not?” I demanded.

“I agree, you’d really think you would know, but apparently you don’t. You are allergic to penicillin, and develop a skin rash when exposed to certain man-made fibres.”

“Like polyester,” I said.

“I’m surprised polyester ever got close enough to your skin for you to know that.” She chuckled.

If that was an attempt at an insult, she’d missed by a mile.

“But you don’t have asthma, and I have the medical records to prove it.”

I remembered my mother having to fill out forms, but I didn’t know what they were for. Now I knew.

“It’s just recent. I just developed it.”

“Really? So where’s your puffer?”

I opened my mouth to say something and then realized it was pointless. There was no reason to wage a war you couldn’t win, and this one was over. I turned on my heel and started to walk away.

“Hold on!” she called out, and I stopped.
Here it comes, the big lecture about lying
.

“You can’t wear that necklace.”

My hand went up to touch it. I hadn’t even thought about it. I knew there were places where you shouldn’t go wearing expensive jewellery, and this was certainly worth a lot of money.

“Where can I put it?” I asked.

“I’ll lock it in the glove compartment of the truck.”

I was going to take it off and hand it to her, but first I had a question.

“Will it be safe there?”

“As safe as it would be around your neck,” she answered.

“But aren’t we putting it away because it’s
not
safe for me to wear?”

“Theft is no danger whatsoever. Weren’t you listening to anything that we talked about last night?”

I resented that comment. To my surprise, I’d listened to everything.

“These people are Maasai. They think they own all the cattle in the world, not all the gold and diamonds. They would never take your necklace. Matter of fact, if you accidentally dropped it a Maasai would walk for days to return it to you. Integrity is as much a part of their culture as bravery.”

“Then why can’t I wear it?”

“It’s disrespectful,” she said.

“How can a necklace be disrespectful?” I’d been accused of having attitude myself many times, but never my jewellery!

“How much is that thing worth?” Renée asked.

“Isn’t that a little personal? Besides, it was a present, so I really don’t know.”

“But you must have a rough idea. It’s gold, right?”

“Of course.”

“And those stones are diamonds, I’m sure. How many diamonds?”

“Fifteen. It was my fifteenth-birthday present from my grandmother.”

“So it would be safe to say that the necklace is worth at least a couple of thousand dollars.”

“It would be safe to say that it’s worth more than twice that amount,” I said.

“Okay, say four thousand dollars. Each dollar is worth
sixty-four Kenyan shillings, so your necklace is worth around twenty thousand shillings.”

“Twenty-five thousand and six hundred,” I said.

She looked puzzled.

“Four thousand multiplied by sixty-four. I can do simple math in my head.”

“Okay, if you say so, twenty-five thousand and six hundred shillings. The people at the school we’re visiting today live on less than fifty shillings a day.”

“That can’t be right, that’s only about seventy-eight cents.”

“You did that in your head too?” she asked.

“Yes, although I rounded it down. It was seventy-eight point one five, but you said it was
less
than fifty shillings so I thought it was okay. Regardless, nobody can live on that amount of money. It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t right. It’s horribly wrong. But it is a fact. Somehow they survive on that amount of money. So, the daily existence of how many people is hanging around your neck?”

Fifty-one thousand, two hundred was the answer. I didn’t give it. I handed her the necklace and walked away.

Everybody but Nebala was already in the back of the truck. He stood at the bottom of the ladder.

“It is a good day to die,” Nebala said to me.

“What?”

“It is a good day to die. Isn’t that what Klingons say before they go into battle?”

Despite everything I burst out laughing. Everybody in the truck looked down at us for a second and then went back to talking. I held out my right hand, my four fingers split into a v shape.

“Live long and prosper.”

He smiled from ear to ear. So what if he knew I was a closet Trekkie? It wasn’t like he was going to tell anybody I knew, or that I was going to run into him at the mall or at a party.

I climbed up the ladder and into the back. I was greeted by a chorus of “Hello”s as if I’d been gone for a month. These people just didn’t get
cool
at all. Reluctantly I waved back.

There were two rows of twinned seats and a big long bench seat along the back. Where should I sit?

“Come back here and we’ll make room!” Sarah yelled out. Once again, Sarah to the rescue.

There was an open seat beside my dear roommate. I squeezed past her. Much better to be wanted and popular, especially with her looking on. Nobody had made space for
her
or even taken the available space beside her. They probably didn’t want to hear a lecture about something she’d read, heard, or thought.

I shuffled sideways down the aisle toward the little gap they had made on the bench seat.

Sarah was on one side of the opening and Mary Beth on the other. I’d never met anybody with two first names before, although it seemed like something half the beauty pageant winners in the world had in common. She smiled at me. Poor dear. With her looks she’d need two plastic surgeons instead of two names if she ever wanted to win Miss America. She was sweet, though, so she would have got my vote for Miss Congeniality. I flopped down in the little seat and they both gave me a hug. Definitely Miss Congeniality.

The truck rumbled and then roared and then took off. This wouldn’t be so awful—it was only a few miles. I’d endured this truck for six hours, so ten minutes wasn’t
going to be any great problem. Then the truck hit a gigantic bump and everybody was thrown into the air. I’d somehow conveniently forgotten just how bad these roads could be. A few miles wouldn’t be just a few minutes.

“How about if we sing a song?” somebody called out, and before I could even think to yell, “No, let’s not!” a chorus of people screamed out agreement.

“I know which one,” Sarah said.

“Me too!” Mary Beth agreed.

“Jambo, jambo bwana!”
Sarah sang.

“Habari gani!”
she and Mary Beth sang together.

And then everybody else joined in. I didn’t know the song. I didn’t know the words. And even if I had known the words I still wouldn’t have known what they meant—no wait,
jambo
meant hello, didn’t it? I just knew this ride had suddenly gotten longer.