A Touch of Betrayal by Catherine Palmer

you are too thin. Have you been drinking that terrible drink of the Maasai?”
    “Kule naailang’a?”
    “The soured milk and blood.”
    “I’ll have you know, a well-respected Maasai gentleman once told me that kule naailang’a provides all the essential amino acids—”
    “Do not talk to me of acids, Grant. You need vegetables. Potatoes and beans and cauliflower.”
    “But not those green ones! Please don’t make me eat those nasty green ones!”
    Hannah chuckled. “You believe I mother you too much.”
    “Nah,” he said. “Well, maybe a little. I mean, I’ve had to shave every day since you’ve been here.”
    “The better to see your handsome face.”
    “And then there’s the matter of laundry.”
    “I do not think you had washed those socks for three months.”
    “You may have a point there. On the other hand, I’ve been living in Maasailand. To get laundry water, I have to dig a hole in a dry riverbed. I prefer to use that precious commodity for making a cup of coffee or giving myself the occasional shampoo.”
    Mama Hannah leaned back in her canvas chair and studied the man across from her. “Why, Grant?” she asked softly. “Why do you choose to live in this way?”
    “It’s my job.”
    “It is more than that.”
    “Okay, I really like the people. The Maasai are incredible. Strong, powerful, self-sufficient. I admire them.”
    “You wish to be self-sufficient. You wish to need only yourself. But the Maasai live in a clan. Others just like themselves live all around to give help, comfort . . . and love. You have no one.”
    “I don’t need anyone.”
    “The Maasai depend upon each other. And they depend on their faith in God, the one they call Engai. But you?”
    Grant set down his spoon and let out a sigh. Not this again. “Mama Hannah, if I ever need a god, maybe I’ll invent one to call on. But things are fine. I can take care of myself.”
    “Ehh,” she said—that enigmatic response that drove all the Thornton children nuts.
    Grant picked up his spoon again and began to eat. “So, you want me to tell you a story? I just heard a new one about two brothers who quarreled. The Maasai saying goes: Etaarate ilmoruak are alasharra nejoki obo olikae, olpurkel osidai, nejoki olikae, osupuko. To settle their argument—”
    “I will tell you a story about two brothers,” Hannah cut in. “One brother asked to be given his inheritance even before his father’s death. The loving father gave the young man half of his wealth. But the boy went into the city and spent it foolishly on sinful living.”
    “This is the story of the Prodigal Son, Mama Hannah,” Grant said. “It’s Judeo-Christian, okay? That means it originated in the Middle East, and it has an entirely separate contextual portfolio from my African studies. It’s a good story, a valid story, but I’ve already heard it. If you want to tell me a Kikuyu legend—something from your own tribe—I’ll listen.”
    The old woman looked down at her lap. Guilt crept over Grant’s heart. If Mama Hannah loved the Bible stories so much, he ought to let her tell them.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “The Maasai say that we begin by being foolish, and we become wise through experience. You’re a lot wiser than I am, Mama Hannah. If you want to tell me the story of the Prodigal Son, I’ll listen.”
    “The young man who ran away found it better to live with a father who might despise him than with pigs,” she said gently. “People need each other. It is God’s plan.”
    “And I have you.”
    “Grant, my toto , you will not have me forever. I have not seen your sister Fiona in many years, and Tillie will have her baby soon. One day, I will go away from this place.”
    “I’ll miss you. But truly, Mama Hannah, I don’t need—”
    “ Bwana Hadithi! Bwana Hadithi!” One of the young boys from the nearby kraal came running toward the camp. He babbled in such rapid Maasai that Grant could hardly make sense of his words. When he