How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan

well over an hour to go, but we stop for a drink soon, not to worry.”
    The General proceeds to point out a number of gardens filled with sweet potatoes and a slew of vegetables I’ve never heard of. As I look down at the dry red soil, the General explains why the plants aren’t flourishing: everyone is waiting for the rain which will be here for sure tomorrow afternoon and all I’m wondering is what Winston is doing as Mr. Meteorologist is now proudly pointing out quite a few unfinished brick structures larger than those we’ve already seen and he says many of these are going to be big three-bedroom villas but I can’t picture it. Every now and then he shows me what he defines as mansions which would not quite qualify as a Section 8 home in the hood at home and then I wonder something else. “General?”
    “Yeah, mon.”
    “How do these folks get home? I mean we’re like very high up here and these roads aren’t exactly smooth and I have not seen a streetlight yet.”
    “Who needs light, mon? Everybody knows their way home. No problem, mon. We live ’ere. Some people have cars and some ride bicycles and others walk. Nothing will hurt you here. We’ve got Ja looking over us and who needs light, mon, if you know where you’re going?”
    Good point. I am ashamed for feeling the way I do but it is hard not to. We pass a bunch of children playing in a small meadow which appears to be in the middle of nowhere and then a little girl with a backpack stops to stare at me like I’m a freak and I’m thinking what is she doing out here all by herself? Further up are more kids, shabbily dressed but clean and chasing each other around and some are digging something up from the ground and one is chasing a goat (I think it’s a goat) and they are all laughing and it suddenly occurs to me that these children look pretty damn happy like they are having big fun and I’m certain they don’t have Sega Genesis or Super Nintendo or five-hundred-dollar road bikes or Lightning Rollerblades at home and doesn’t look like any crack houses or drive-bys or gang-banging going on around here and these kids look like they know how to amuse themselves, something we have forgotten, and I understand they are probably better off much better off than I thought.
    “Would you like a Red Stripe?” the General asks as we stop by the fence of one of those little stores is what I guess they’re called.
    “I don’t drink beer, but I’ll take some water,” I say.
    To the right about a quarter mile up the hill I see an old black man sitting on a big rock and two little boys giggling. A pale gray horse stands right next to the man and all of a sudden the General yells out, “Hey Tanto!” and no shit, that horse starts galloping down that hill toward us and he looks like he’s going to run into the fence but then when he gets close he makes a sharp right turn and continues on about his business down the trail we were on until we can’t see him anymore. “How did you do that?” I ask.
    “What?”
    “Get that horsie to run down here like that—and where did he go?”
    “He knows his name, mon. On a good day I bring an apple but he knows when I have one and when I don’t. Come on in for a drink, mon.”
    Once again the local children stare at me and I smile at them and since there’s no bottled water I get a green bottle of Ting which is a wonderful sparkling grapefruit drink that is ice cold which of course means that they do have electricity up here and I am very relieved. The General bums a cigarette from the man who apparently sells a lot of different items such as beer and soft drinks and fresh vegetables and fruit and candy and even some household items and toiletries from this little store. A girl of about sixteen stands in the doorway of the little shack that is connected to the store. She looks like she’s going somewhere because her hair is greasy and slicked back and she is wearing freshly ironed old bluejeans and a starched