Say You’re One Of Them Read Online Free PDF Page A

recounted his itinerary to the skies with eyes closed, his index finger wagging at invisible stars. He searched his socks, then he got down on all fours, scouring the wet ground. He dabbed at the sweat, or tears, running down his face. “Where is my money?” he said to Maisha, finally finding his voice. “
Haki,
it was in my pocket now, now.”
    Maisha charged forward and screeched at Baba until his stern face crumbled into a sheepish grin. He returned the fat wad of notes, giggling like the twins. The driver thanked her curtly, brushing his clothes with trembling hands. As soon as he’d reconnected the ignition wires to start the car, he creaked off, his horn blaring, his headlamp pointing up and to the left like an unblinking eye.

    MAISHA STAGGERED INTO THE shack, holding her perilously high heels over her shoulders. Mama had made room for her and the bags and had sprayed our home with insecticide to discourage mosquitoes. My siblings inside started to cough. As Maisha came in, Mama stood aside like a maid, wringing her hands. I could not look Maisha in the eye and did not know what to say.
    “Good night, Maisha,” I blurted out.
    She stopped, her tired body seized by shock. She searched my parents’ faces before tracing the voice to me.
    “Who told you to talk?” she said.
    “You leave full time, I run away. No school.”
    “You are going to school,” Maisha said. “Tuition is ready.”
    “Run away? Jigana, shut up,” Baba said. “You think you are family head now? ‘All are leaders’ causes riots. Stupid,
mtu dufu!
Nobody is leaving.”
    Maisha glared at us, and we all turned our backs to her as she opened the trunk to take out a blanket. The sweet smell of her Jaguar adventures filled the shack, overpowering the heavy scent of insecticide. Though her arrivals always reminded us that life could be better, tonight I hated the perfume.
    “Me and your mama don’t want full time, Maisha,” Baba said, picking his nails. “We refuse.”
    “Our daughter, things will get better,” Mama said. “Thanks for canceling our debt!”
    “You are welcome, Mama,” Maisha said.
    Mama’s face lit up with surprise; she was so used to being ignored. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, she sobbed the words “
Asante,
Maisha,
asante
for everything!” and bowed repeatedly, her hands held before her, as if in prayer. The women looked into each other’s eyes in a way I had never seen before. They hugged and held on as if their hands were ropes that tied their two bodies together. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat broke out on Mama’s forehead, and her fingers trembled as she helped Maisha undo her earrings and necklace. Mama gently laid her down.
    I believed that Mama might have been able to persuade her to stay, but then Baba signaled to Mama to keep quiet so that he could be the negotiator.
    “Our daughter,” Baba said, “you need to rest and think carefully. As our people say, north
ama
south, east
ama
west, home the best . . .”
    “Maisha, no school for me!” I said. “I told Mama and Baba. They will return fee to you.”
    “Jigana, please, please, don’t argue,” Maisha said. “Even you. You cannot even pity me this night? Just for a few hours?”

    MY PARENTS SAT OUTSIDE , on the paint containers. I stood by the wall, away from them. I wanted to see Maisha one more time before she disappeared.
    Fog brought the dew down, thickening the darkness and turning the security lights into distant halos. We could hear Maisha twist and turn on the floor, cursing the limbs of her siblings and swatting at the mosquitoes. It was as if we were keeping a vigil of her last night with us. We were restless, the silence too heavy for us. Baba mumbled, blaming himself for not going more often to sweep the church premises. He agreed with Mama that if he had swept daily, instead of every other day, Saint Joseph the Worker would have bettered our lot. Mama snapped at him, because Baba