What Tears Us Apart

The door scraped ajar and a tall, wiry man darted through to jab Ita and cackle. When the man’s yellow eyes scurried over Leda’s skin, she shuddered and averted her gaze. When he turned to converse with Ita, Leda looked again.

At first glance, Leda might have called him handsome, with his angular face and cat eyes, but beside Ita, she decided, definitely not. The man was a praying mantis, creeping along on folded pincers. Dreads snaked down his back, trembling as he shuffled closer. Dangling, bouncing from his belt, was a battered machete. When he sneered in her direction, Leda recoiled at two rows of stained teeth. Then she saw that his face was covered in scars, several of them burns like hers.

Her hand went to her scar while her mind filled with fifty thoughts at once. The man was clearly a gangster, yet seemed to be Ita’s friend. There was a word at Leda’s lips, a scary word. Mungiki—what the guidebook named Kenya’s vicious mafia and more or less warned to look out for dreadlocks. Mungiki ran the slums—extortion, female genital circumsion, beheadings.

“So, this is the volunteer?” The man stopped at the edge of the mat, close enough that he cast a shadow over Leda. “You the woman Ita can’t stop talking about, two weeks now?”

Ita’s face blanched. Wary? Or apologetic?

“Chege!” Ntimi jumped up. The other children greeted him with enthusiasm, too.

Chege turned to Ita and laughed his hyena cackle again. “She speak?” He looked down on Leda meanly, his eyes on her as he continued in a growl before she could answer. “Funny, nah? Here Ita been talking ’bout this educated white woman, smart, rich, talking up a summer storm.” Chege smirked, he flickered his eyes over to Ita then back to Leda. “Lot to live up to, this man a big dreamer. He dream big beautiful things. Like an angel come from America, come save everybody.”

“I’m not—” Leda said, but Ita interrupted.

“Kuacha, Chege,” he growled. He held out his hand to Leda and tugged her up to stand beside him. “This is Leda. She is my guest.”

“Leda,” Chege purred. “Welcome to Kibera, Leda.” He put out his hand and she took it reluctantly.

Ntimi interrupted. “You bring gifts, Chege?”

Ita shook his head and steered the boy back to the mat.

When Leda tried to retract her hand, Chege held tight and pulled her closer to him. She squeaked, desperate to escape his calloused grip, but he peered into her eyes and whispered, “Don’t tell him you no angel yet. American rich lady come save Africa, and have a little fun.” He nodded his head in Ita’s direction.

Leda’s eyes flickered over to Ita. Were those his words?

“But what if—” Chege’s voice rose, pulling Ita from the children into their huddle “—what if us Kikuyu brathas don’t need your help, Leda? Don’t need a volunteer—”

“Chege,” Ita said. “Stop.”

Chege laughed, his smoky breath hitting Leda in the face. “Okay, okay. I play nice.” He dropped Leda’s hand and slung down his knapsack. “Presents!” he called out.

The second he let her out of his grasp, Leda stumbled back and wiped her hand on her pants. She wrapped her arms around herself then, trying to still the wave of nausea and panic. Chege strode past her, chuckling, and crouched down among the boys.

Leda coerced herself into taking one clean, full breath.

Chege dug in his bag and brandished a coconut, winning “oohs” and “aahs” from the children. He untied the machete from his belt, its edge jagged, its blade sticky with congealed brown stains. Leda watched him swipe it across his jeans, telling herself firmly the stain wasn’t blood.

He split the coconut with a single, expert stroke. He sucked down the milk that came spilling out, letting it course over his chin before he dribbled it into the kids’ open mouths, like watering a ring of flowers. The children gulped the sweet juice and giggled. With the machete, Chege carved smaller pieces and handed them out.

Leda watched the whole process in a daze, until Chege ran his tongue over the white coconut flesh, one eye leering sideways at her. She looked away, her cheeks burning.

Ita couldn’t seem to tell anything was wrong. He looked over at her and smiled, the same pure, easy smile.

As all the children sat content with their treat, Chege stood next to Ita. With a flare obviously for Leda’s benefit, he pulled a bulging wad of money from his pocket. “Been a good month, brother.”

Ita looked at the cash and the smile was gone, replaced by steel. “No,” he barked, followed with daggers of Swahili, fervent hand gestures, and a look searing enough to ignite a forest fire.

For a fleeting moment Chege was surprised, he teetered backward on his spindly limbs. He recovered at the same moment Leda saw Jomo edge into the courtyard.

Chege saw him, too, and waved him over. Jomo hesitated, then jutted out his chin and walked over.

Chege peeled off a leaf of Kenyan shillings. “Ita say he don’t want any,” Chege said. “He don’t like where it come from. Ita always think money cares where it come from. Always. Even when we was you age. Course, then he had no choice.”

Chege took Jomo’s wrist. He thrust the money into the boy’s palm. Jomo’s eyes bulged as if he was scared to blink, as if the money might disappear. Now Chege looked up at Leda. “Maybe he think things be different now?”

Leda felt the nausea tip and pour back through her stomach. What had they said about her? What did they think of her here in this place?

“Chege, enough,” Ita said, but Chege put out his hand and knelt down next to Jomo.

“But this boy knows. Every hungry boy knows money have to come from somewhere.” Chege’s coiled stance made Leda think of a feral cat—watching, plotting, waiting. “And somebody always have to give something to get it.”

Leda could tell Jomo didn’t understand the words, but everything Chege did was a cartoon requiring no caption. Ita’s jaw was clenched so tight she wondered how words could possibly escape, but she could see them, piled up behind his teeth, being chosen carefully.

When he opened his mouth, however, Ita’s words were swallowed by banging at the door. Deep voices followed, so loud Leda jumped.

Chege laughed. “For me,” he said with a wink.

Ita’s frown was like a deep etched carving. “Go,” he said and strode quickly with Chege to the door. Leda stayed where she was, holding her breath.

When the gate opened, thugs huddled outside, their words like little firecrackers. Leda couldn’t understand any of it, but the men looked back and forth behind them as if they were being chased by the devil himself. One man took the machete from his belt and demonstrated a whack. With another glance behind him, he tried to dart inside the orphanage.

Which is when Ita started shouting. He screamed at the men, then at Chege, all the while trying to close the metal door on top of them.

But everybody, and time itself, stood still when Chege hollered into the air. With terse, measured words he spoke to the men, who lowered their heads and nodded. He pointed beyond the door and they left.

Chege turned to Ita. A look passed between them and Ita raised his chin. Chege slipped out though the doorway. But as Ita slid the door shut, Chege’s eyes found Leda and sent a chill all the way down into her shoes.

Leda backed away, air locked up in her lungs.

When she sat down on the mat, she found she was shaking.

All the children had scattered off, to their room or to the kitchen. Leda pressed a finger to her scar.

What in the hell had she gotten herself into?

Chapter 3

December 30, 2007, Nairobi airport—Leda

THE SEAT BELT shakes in her fingers, as Leda buckles in and wishes she could likewise restrain her mind. Above the rushing of the air vents, the rumble of the engines, the chirpy chatter of the stewardesses, Leda hears her own horrible sound track on repeat. The sound of fist on flesh, the crack of machetes, the thud of Ita hitting the dirt. Screaming. Leda hears the awful, high-pitched screams, then realizes they were hers.

She sees Ita silhouetted in the doorway of the shack when he discovered them. Sees him hit Chege so hard the blood is like a hose, instant and coursing. Leda could smell it. She can smell it now.

She buries her face in her hands, presses against the small glass window, like she can make the sounds disappear, like she can snuff out the images.

She can’t.

She feels Chege’s wet mouth over her ear, stubble slicing her skin, his arms pinning her, sure as shackles, hissing into her ear in a voice that will never leave her again.

Ita found them, but too late. He found Chege sprawled atop her, grinding into her, her body pinned as though beneath a scorpion’s tail.

She looks down at her skirt, balling it up in her fists, fighting not to cry, wishing among so many other things that she’d changed clothes at the airport. Thirty hours she will have to look at her skirt and remember. Thirty hours she will be imprisoned in memory.

No, forever. Forever is how long she will have to live and relive this night.

Ita hit Chege and the world exploded. In the grand finale of the fireworks show, Chege’s men descended on Ita like bloodthirsty warriors. How many men were there? Leda couldn’t count. She’d covered her face and cried, begging them to stop. If the police hadn’t arrived—

But the police had arrived and they’d dragged her away. Once they’d learned she was already scheduled to fly out tonight, they asked no more questions. They dragged her away from Ita and left him there. As though her life was more precious than his. You don’t know anything! she’d wanted to scream at them as she looked down at his bloodied body in the dirt. Save him, not me! I cannot live with this.

The child in the seat next to Leda is asking the stewardess for ice cream. The stewardess jokes with the boy, looks hard at Leda, as though she’s about to ask her something.

Leda turns farther toward the window in a preemptive response.

How? How is she alive and on a plane? How is the world still spinning? How can the child next to her be deciding between strawberry and chocolate?

Leda thinks of the orphans. What will happen to them? What’s happening to them right now?

She burrows into her seat and tries to breathe.

“I liked the zebras best, mummy,” the little boy is now saying. “And the hippos. But they looked mean. I think the zebras are nice. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I think I liked the zebras the best, too.”

The mother sees Leda’s 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. 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.

“What’s up, brother?” the charging-station man asked. Ita handed him his phone and saw the man look Leda over, alternately like a skewer of meat and a purple elephant.

Leda noticed. She smiled at the man, at the same time averting her eyes and backing away.

Ita handed over the money and rushed back to his charge.

“So,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “What do you plan to teach the children while you are here? Improve their English?”

Leda’s face lit up instantly, like the first rays of sun that woke Ita up every morning. “I was thinking about it last night.”

He couldn’t help but picture her curled up on the table in her blue pajamas, modest enough to hide her body, but thin enough to fuel his fantasy of undergarments.

“I would definitely love to teach them, and read to them, and I’ve brought several cameras, but—” Leda’s voice grew shyer suddenly. “I wanted to see what you thought about the boys’ room. What would you think of building them bunk beds?” She made a gesture with her hand like a shelf.

Ita was caught off guard. There were many things the boys needed before wooden beds, but the thought was touching, and the boys would feel like city princes. And did she mean they would build them together? Ita liked the idea of them working side by side.