meat. If they leave it here, the meat goes bad quickly in the heat. They don’t have refrigeration. So they call their friends and relatives and everybody eats well tonight.”
The crimson hands, slabs of raw meat, and rusty sick smell of fresh blood made Sara queasy. The metallic taste of last evening’s delicacy returned as she stifled a dry heave and turned her attention to something less evocative.
She needed desperately to talk about anything except the sight she’d just witnessed. A line of old telegraph poles stood like bent soldiers, some holding their ground, others bowing toward earth. Wires hung from their tops and danced on the slightest breeze. “What happened to the telegraph poles?”
“Elephants used them as scratching posts.” The image made Sara smile. As they approached a strip of tin shanties along the road, Zak announced, “We’re here.”
Sara studied the crude brightly painted buildings and tried to imagine them as stores. “This is the town?”
“Yep, think of it as a yard sale or thrifty market.”
Ben nodded toward some men lingering in the doorways of several of the shops. “I will ask for workers.”
“Stay with me, please,” Zak instructed Sara as they exited. While Zak checked every building in the strip for another sleeping enclosure, Sara tried to identify what they were selling and for how much. The conversion from Kenyan shillings to dollars made her head hurt. They both finally gave up and headed back just as Ben returned.
“They will spread the word,” he said as they climbed back in the truck. “Materials arrive tomorrow and work begins. Last day of rest.” As Ben drove, he started singing a lively African song and Zak, to Sara’s amazement, helped out. “Jambo, jambo bwana. Habari gani? Hakuna matata.” After the first verse, Zak quickly translated for Sara. “Hello, greetings, sir. What’s new? There are no problems.”
She watched the interaction between Zak and Ben and marveled at the difference between this woman and the one she’d met on the plane. She was much more relaxed and animated. The human shell was filled with vitality and emotion, and she was glowing from the inside out. How easy it would be to care about this Zak Chambers. As the two friends continued to sing, the catchy tune and lyrics enticed Sara to join in. Soon they were all belting out the words, laughing and bouncing through another African massage.
When they reached the top of the incline near their destination, they stopped mid-song. Their small encampment beside the river bank was a hub of activity. Several vehicles had parked around the tents, and blue-clad police officers rifled through their supplies. Boxes had been emptied onto the ground, and their clothes littered nearby bushes like scarecrows.
Zak bolted from the truck, running full-tilt toward the officers and yelling in Swahili.
“Not good,” Ben muttered.
Chapter Seven
The Kenyan police officers turned their AK-47s on Zak and ordered her to stop. She froze, realizing they were serious and would have no problem filling her full of holes.
“On your knees, hands behind your head. Now!”
Zak complied, an image of her father in the same position flashing through her mind. She scanned the officers for Wachira and, not finding him, felt a little less threatened. “What are you doing here? We just arrived. We haven’t done anything wrong.” In her peripheral vision she saw Ben and Sara approaching and wanted to warn them off. Sara’s expression was a combination of horror and outrage.
“Silence.” The lieutenant of the group stepped forward. “We know who you are and when you arrived. And we do not need a reason to be here. You are on our land.”
Not breaking eye contact with the man, Zak forced her voice to reflect a composure she didn’t feel. African authoritarians didn’t like having their power questioned. Deference was the better tack and she needed to calm the situation before Sara launched into one
The crimson hands, slabs of raw meat, and rusty sick smell of fresh blood made Sara queasy. The metallic taste of last evening’s delicacy returned as she stifled a dry heave and turned her attention to something less evocative.
She needed desperately to talk about anything except the sight she’d just witnessed. A line of old telegraph poles stood like bent soldiers, some holding their ground, others bowing toward earth. Wires hung from their tops and danced on the slightest breeze. “What happened to the telegraph poles?”
“Elephants used them as scratching posts.” The image made Sara smile. As they approached a strip of tin shanties along the road, Zak announced, “We’re here.”
Sara studied the crude brightly painted buildings and tried to imagine them as stores. “This is the town?”
“Yep, think of it as a yard sale or thrifty market.”
Ben nodded toward some men lingering in the doorways of several of the shops. “I will ask for workers.”
“Stay with me, please,” Zak instructed Sara as they exited. While Zak checked every building in the strip for another sleeping enclosure, Sara tried to identify what they were selling and for how much. The conversion from Kenyan shillings to dollars made her head hurt. They both finally gave up and headed back just as Ben returned.
“They will spread the word,” he said as they climbed back in the truck. “Materials arrive tomorrow and work begins. Last day of rest.” As Ben drove, he started singing a lively African song and Zak, to Sara’s amazement, helped out. “Jambo, jambo bwana. Habari gani? Hakuna matata.” After the first verse, Zak quickly translated for Sara. “Hello, greetings, sir. What’s new? There are no problems.”
She watched the interaction between Zak and Ben and marveled at the difference between this woman and the one she’d met on the plane. She was much more relaxed and animated. The human shell was filled with vitality and emotion, and she was glowing from the inside out. How easy it would be to care about this Zak Chambers. As the two friends continued to sing, the catchy tune and lyrics enticed Sara to join in. Soon they were all belting out the words, laughing and bouncing through another African massage.
When they reached the top of the incline near their destination, they stopped mid-song. Their small encampment beside the river bank was a hub of activity. Several vehicles had parked around the tents, and blue-clad police officers rifled through their supplies. Boxes had been emptied onto the ground, and their clothes littered nearby bushes like scarecrows.
Zak bolted from the truck, running full-tilt toward the officers and yelling in Swahili.
“Not good,” Ben muttered.
Chapter Seven
The Kenyan police officers turned their AK-47s on Zak and ordered her to stop. She froze, realizing they were serious and would have no problem filling her full of holes.
“On your knees, hands behind your head. Now!”
Zak complied, an image of her father in the same position flashing through her mind. She scanned the officers for Wachira and, not finding him, felt a little less threatened. “What are you doing here? We just arrived. We haven’t done anything wrong.” In her peripheral vision she saw Ben and Sara approaching and wanted to warn them off. Sara’s expression was a combination of horror and outrage.
“Silence.” The lieutenant of the group stepped forward. “We know who you are and when you arrived. And we do not need a reason to be here. You are on our land.”
Not breaking eye contact with the man, Zak forced her voice to reflect a composure she didn’t feel. African authoritarians didn’t like having their power questioned. Deference was the better tack and she needed to calm the situation before Sara launched into one
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