Invasive Species by Joseph Wallace Page B

what had happened here, or at least most of it.
    He stood in the midst of the rubble and breathed in deeply through his nose. Nothing but the odor of smoke and wet wood.
    He turned and walked past the scorched trees to the edge of the clearing. Breathed in again, but smelled only the forest itself.
    Somewhere in the distance, a trumpeter hornbill let loose with its raucous call.
    He went back to the waiting taxi. Climbed inside, slamming the door behind him. Before he was even settled in his seat, the car had pulled out and was leaving the ruin behind.
    â€œUjiji Market,” Trey said.
    The driver grunted.
    *   *   *
    THEY PASSED BENEATH an avenue of mango trees lining the road. People were clustered in the shade, eating lunch or sleeping or just sitting in twos or threes, talking. Some of them looked up at the passing taxi, but without much interest.
    â€œIt’s not a market day,” the driver said. “No ferries today.”
    Trey didn’t reply. In silence they headed past the mango trees and toward the market, the docks, and the shore of Lake Tanganyika, its surface ridged with whitecaps under a looming sky.
    *   *   *
    AS THE DRIVER had said, the market was quiet. But not deserted. Many of the stalls and tables were open, selling piles of bananas, stacks of brightly colored textiles, or wooden sculptures of elephants and giraffes.
    Trey bought a little carved warthog made out of rosewood, then walked over to a woman selling
kanga
s, traditional garments made from cotton. She was wrapped in one herself, blue with a pattern of big gold leaves on it.
    Trey knew that
kanga
s always came with a
jina
, a kind of motto or aphorism, stitched into the fabric. From a distance, he couldn’t make out what hers said.
    She was an old woman, somewhere between seventy and eighty, with a wrinkled-nut face and white hair cropped close to her scalp. Her eyes were sharp, though, watching Trey approach. Sharp and suspicious.
    He was used to that.
    â€œ
Habari,
Mama,” he said.
    She inclined her head.
“Mzuri.”
    Now he could read her
kanga
’s
jina
. It said,
Majivuno hayafai
: “Greed is never good.”
    He smiled, and again when she bargained fiercely with him over a red-and-blue
kanga
patterned with fanciful birds and a motto that read, “Humanness is better than material things.”
    Finally he handed over twenty thousand
shilingi
—about ten dollars, more than the woman had asked—and made a “keep it” gesture when she looked at him with raised eyebrows.
    The money disappeared into her
kanga
, and she handed over his purchase. Then, with a sigh, she lit a cigarette and said, “Yes.”
    Yes. Ask your questions.
    Trey said, “Mama, what killed the missionary lady and those other people?”
    â€œFire,” she said at once.
    When he didn’t reply, argue, push, she watched him.
    â€œHave there been other such fires,” he said after a while, “in Ujiji and Kigoma?”
    After a pause, she nodded.
    â€œMany?”
    She shrugged and made a back-and-forth motion with her hands. “Some here. Some there. Not so many.”
    She looked up to the sky, where only a pair of vultures circled.
    â€œNot yet,” she said.
    Trey leaned against her table, looking out at the quiet marketplace before turning back to her. “Have you seen them?” he asked. “The wasps?”
    She nodded.
    â€œI have as well.”
    Her eyes were very dark. “I was . . . afraid.”
    â€œYes. Me, too.”
    â€œYet we both still live,” she said.
    He looked back at her. “Mama, why burn the house? Why blame the daughter?”
    For a long time, many seconds, she didn’t answer. Then she said, “They do not want anyone to know what happened.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œIf people learn about this, who will be blamed?” she said. “We will. Tanzania. Aid will stop. Tourists