What Tears Us Apart

“Jomo.”

The boy’s face is swollen, bruised and taut, as if it will split open. Blood is crusted in his eyelashes, still wet under his nose.

“My God, Jomo, come here.”

Jomo looks like he will take a step, but the roar outside changes again. The women screech, outrage at its highest pitch, until a new sound follows the fists—the whack of machete on bone. The screams become the wail of hopelessness.

As Ita looks upon Jomo’s broken face, he hears the women’s tears rain down on crimes they will never forgive.

“I’m sorry,” Ita whispers.

They stand perfectly still, Ita and Jomo, facing each other, listening to the attackers running off, receding into the merciless night.

Chapter 6

December 11, 2007, Kibera—Leda

HER THIRD DAY in Kibera, Leda woke with a smile curved like a fortune cookie. The blanket Ita had given to her was clutched in her fingers; she wriggled her toes into it. She could already hear them, the children, outside in the orphanage clanking pots and chattering. On the other side of the wall of her little room, she could hear people shuffling past in the alley, a rise and fall of greetings and “good mornings” Leda was surprised to find comforting rather than scary in their proximity.

The buoyancy she felt in her heart didn’t hold for her body, however. Even with the foam beneath her, Leda’s body felt as rigid as her metal bed. For a moment, as she stretched her aching limbs, Leda imagined what she normally awoke to—gentle light through the curtains in Topanga, Amadeus licking her fingers, the first glimpse of her things lined up neatly, then the expanse of the scruffy mountains, the quiet ritual of her morning tea.

But not this morning. Leda opened her eyes. She surveyed the sheet-metal door, its dented ripples and patchwork surface of dirt and paint and rust. She flipped over and looked at the ceiling, which was much the same. A two-foot space surrounded the metal table, her bed, on all sides like a moat. The far wall was the one that connected with the outside world, an effect more like a folding screen than a real barrier. Nothing at all like her house in Topanga, blanketed by trees, or her childhood home facing the sea. She tried to think of the word that would best describe those houses. Not isolated as much as—

Insulated. That was the word.

That was her comfort zone—being alone. But now, as she pictured the Topanga house she loved, the house that had seemed wild and warm compared to mother’s ice-cold mansion, now it too seemed sterile.

Leda turned onto her side again, facing the interior of the orphanage. She replayed scenes from the day before. First, cringing at how she popped out in her blue pajamas when everyone was ready for the day. Then her abashed realization that they probably didn’t own pajamas. Did she look ridiculous or pretentious? Ita had laughed, though not meanly. His eyes never looked meanly at anyone. Stern, maybe, with the children, and with that nasty gangbanger Chege. But even with him, Ita showed a generosity of spirit that surprised her. After growing up with Estella, who emanated distaste, an annoyance, at her presence, Leda found Ita’s kindness unsettling. But warming.

When they’d ventured out into Kibera together, she’d studied him from behind, marveling at how he moved with ease, with purpose, winding through the slum. He was a better guide than Samuel, telling her little flecks of gossip about the neighbors, connecting different locations to stories about the boys. Ntimi wanted to get his haircut here. I had to explain it was only for women. He still wanted to go. Ntimi likes to be around ladies.

She was saddened by Michael’s story, of how the orphanage came to be. All the boys have stories like that, she reminded herself.

Ita’s eyes as he told the story—they filled with a love so pure and rich, Leda had almost felt jealous.

Then she remembered the dark alley. The part of the day she’d been thinking about ever since. Leda closed her eyes to picture it better—how she squeezed past the old man into the darkness, how she lost her footing, bumping into Ita, and them squeezing up against the wall together.

How his eyes filled with desire, with wonder, with appreciation. Leda couldn’t believe how he left his emotions free to jump off his face like that, but she loved it. She’d heard his breath quicken, felt his body stiffen, sensed that he was breathing her in like a sudden perfume, memorizing her for later. And then they’d said it, at the same time, in harmony like an impromptu song...

You never know.

They’d come so close to kissing, Leda could still taste it. She’d felt the hotness of his breath, his hands rising to her sides, seen the tuck of his chin, the flutter of his eyelids.

She got up off the table. No pajamas today. She put on the brown pants from the day before—she’d noticed everyone repeated clothing—but dug a bit for the teal blouse with the ruffled collar, the one that brought out her eyes.

After she swiped her face clean and brushed her hair into a ponytail, Leda went back into the bag for some lip gloss and perfume. Just a light spritz, she thought. Not too much.

With a smile and a near twirl, she stepped from her slippers into sandals. It wasn’t until she put her hand out to the door latch, catching a glimpse of herself in the small mirror, that she remembered something else. Something that Chege said. American rich lady, out to have a little fun.

Leda’s hand recoiled. And hadn’t he looked at Ita when he said it, like it had been Ita who had advertised her that way?

Leda wiped the gloss off her lips.

I’m here for the children, she thought as she swapped the sandals for sneakers. She debated the blouse, hovering over the suitcase, until she caught herself with a this is ridiculous, and stepped outside.

And there they were, waiting.

“Good morning, Leda,” Ita said with a gentlemanly nod of his head.

She started forward, drawn to him, already feeling more relaxed.

“Sleepyhead!” Ntimi shouted with his Cheshire cat grin, his big square teeth ready to chomp on life. He pointed at his head and giggled, thinking the wordplay hilarious.

Leda faltered in her path, self-conscious. Lazy rich lady sleeps through breakfast.

But Ita chuckled and swatted Ntimi on the head, and his laugh was kind. It rolled across the distance to Leda and snagged when he caught her eye.

Ntimi waved Leda closer, impatiently. He had little Walter in his lap, pinning him down—the toddler with the potbelly and enchanting giggle.

Michael’s smile had already faded, the gentle stare resumed. The other two, Thomas and Peter, started in on the bread and Michael, catching it in his peripheral vision, smacked their hands.

Leda smiled. She snuggled in next to Ntimi and rinsed her hands in the bowl of water.

“Where’s Jomo?” she asked, but nobody answered.

Leda ran her eyes over the perimeter of the orphanage. The wood for the bunk beds was there, waiting. The cans of paint were stacked along the walls, too. Leda smiled, remembering how excited the boys were to hear of the plans.

There. Leda spotted Jomo—well, his feet, anyway—peeking out under the sheet in the same little spot he’d hid in before. As if he could feel her watching, the sheet moved aside a tiny crack, and the sunlight found a crescent of Jomo’s face. Leda smiled. Jomo’s glance dove straight down. But Leda kept her eyes on him, let him feel the smile linger. Sure enough, he looked back up and saw her still looking. He tried hard as he could to stop it, but the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly. Then the sheet swung closed.

Like a ghost, Leda thought, his presence wispy and fleeting. A ghost of what? Of the child he could have been?

She chewed on her bread and tried to follow the chatter of the boys. She didn’t get a chance to slurp down much of her tea before the boys were up and scurrying off, Ita on their heels, doling out hurry-ups.

Leda scolded herself for sleeping in. She’d have to get up earlier to maximize her time with them before school.

Mary came out to round up the dishes. “Good morning,” she said quietly. Mary didn’t speak English, so her efforts were all the more touching.

“Good morning, Mary. Thank you for breakfast.”

“So,” Ita said, returning, and Leda’s stomach fluttered. “Today I thought Mary could show you the housework.”

Leda’s stomach sank. But she scolded herself again. About time she made herself useful. Ita probably thought she didn’t know how to clean.

“Of course—” she said, but Ita interrupted with a smile.

“So I can finish the paperwork piling up, and later I can take you to the clinic. Would you like to go with me?”

“Can’t wait,” Leda said. Was it her imagination or did Mary chuckle?

Ita shut himself in his office and left Leda to star with Mary in a comedy skit. The older woman rambled off explanations to which Leda smiled and nodded and said, “I’m sorry I don’t understand a word,” to which Mary smiled and nodded and in Swahili said, Leda imagined, “I’m sorry I don’t understand a word.” Mainly Mary pointed at pots and rags and Leda had no idea if she wanted them cleaned, carried or filled with something.

But by the end of three hours, Leda knew many things. For one, she knew the cooking never stopped. Ever. The breakfast pot got washed and put back on the stove to boil water for washing, then for the lunch stew. After that would come dinner, plus more boiled water for tea. Leda wondered where the water came from. It would be an awful lot of water to carry.

Now, Leda knew that the house had four very important jugs that must always have water in them. Two waist-high jugs in the bathroom area contained water for bucket baths and flushing. In the kitchen, the one on the left was for general cooking and washing. The one on the right was smaller, and Mary made a big fuss over this one. “You, you, you,” she kept saying and pointing at Leda. After a rousing game of charades and bubbling noises, Leda figured out that one was boiled water for the tourist. One peek inside at the swirling sediment and Leda made a mental note to buy more bottled water when she went out with Ita.

Pantomime can’t help but make for laughter, and it wasn’t long before Leda and Mary were fast friends. Mary got into it and it became a game. Leda even mimed her life back in America, drawing air pictures of the mountains and the ocean and the way Amadeus greeted her at the door. Mary watched Leda with amusement and Leda loved to watch her, too, so strong and capable, so sure. This was Leda’s favorite trait to discover in people, ease and calm, and was delighted to study it up close in Mary. Estella was a bundle of nervous tension, anxiety and impatience. Being around her mother was like tiptoeing through a cactus field.

Mary’s fingers wrapped around ladles or cups or piled up the logs for the fire with force and grace. If Leda’s fingers were too slow or the logs were crossed wrong, Mary rearranged them with a “tsk” and preciseness that Leda adored. This is how we wash the boys’ clothes, make them look smart and clean, her strong hands said. This is how we keep the men fed and happy, her smile said. “Ita,” Mary said, and she straightened up her back, pretended to sit up straight in a chair. She spread out imaginary items—a cup of tea to the right, four stacks of paper lined up, just so. She jabbed at an imaginary calculator with a serious look carved into her face. She tapped a pretend pencil against her forehead.

Their combined laughter continued until Ita stuck his head out the door and called, “What’s so funny?” making them laugh all the harder.

A moment later, Ita stepped out of the office entirely. He looked at the two of them with a fresh smile and a warmth Leda was starting to crave like kids crave summer. “Ready?”

The slum outside burst at Leda with clashing colors and sounds and smells. Ita took off at a brisk pace, and Leda scurried to keep up. The paths between houses were so narrow they barely fit two people, especially being divided down the middle by a ditch of wastewater. At times, Leda could stretch out her arms and touch both sides. In other spots, the path was soaked in slime and turned to slippery, splattering mud.

Everywhere, beneath the houses and the stalls and the latrines, was the same red dirt mixed and packed together with every kind of trash: broken glass, plastic bags, rags of clothing, empty lighters, soiled cardboard, food wrappers and bits of wood and metal.

Leda discreetly peeked into some of the homes that were open. Most of them looked to be one room, no more than eight feet by eight feet, filled to the brim with teakettles and buckets and clothes, plus people who jumped when they caught Leda looking. A dozen people slept in one house, it appeared.

Intermittently, the narrow pathways opened up and a tiny store—a duka, Leda reminded herself—would appear. Soft drinks, candy, cigarettes, cooking oil—all were displayed on a stand like a desk.

When they made it out onto a main road, wooden vendor booths lined the street as far as Leda could see, often two deep. Before them, on the ground, other vendors laid out their wares. Vegetables, clothing, electronics, phone cards, hair products, lotion, fried sweets—the assortment was mind-boggling. After a bit, the booths gave way to giant garbage piles that industrious children, goats and chickens hunted through.

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