so I could confirm that he was down and safe, but it didn’t happen. Apparently Maasai could not only climb a tree like a monkey and leap like a leopard, but also move with such stealth that they didn’t even trigger a motion sensor. He was like a ghost. Or a dream. That’s what it was like—a dream.
I stood there, thinking that even though I’d seen him, spoken to him, it all still could have passed for a dream because it was nothing short of bizarre. I could just imagine the conversation I’d have with somebody who didn’t know about any of this: “Oh yeah, by the way, a Maasai warrior climbed a tree and jumped into my room last night … No, no problem … No, of course I was scared. Wouldn’t you be scared? Well, he was just there because he was delivering a letter …” The letter. I’d forgotten!
I grabbed the sheets and duvet and pulled them aside—there it was! I picked it up off the floor and turned it over. On the front, in graceful lettering, it said, “To Alexandria, my sister.” That made me smile.
Ruth was Maasai, like Nebala. She lived with her nine brothers and sisters in Kenya, in a village, in a littlehut made of mud and cow dung. We’d known each other only a few weeks, and other than a couple of letters we’d had no contact for the past seven months. We had absolutely
nothing
in common—nothing except the fact that we were friends. Good friends.
I opened the envelope and took out the letter, and something fell to the floor. It was a picture. I bent down and picked it up. It was a picture of Ruth holding Alexandria—her baby sister, my namesake. Ruth was smiling and Alexandria was laughing. It looked as though they were sharing a joke.
I stared at the picture. Alexandria was now almost seven months old—which meant she was almost seven months older than when I’d last seen her. I’d been there when she was born, right there. Ruth and her parents believed that if it hadn’t been for me, Alexandria wouldn’t have lived. Maybe they were right. I’d basically stolen a car to get them to the clinic, and then bullied and threatened and bribed my way to make sure Ruth’s mother—baby Alexandria’s mother—got the right medical care. Who would have thought that threatening, bribing, bullying, and grand theft auto could have led to something as beautiful as Alexandria?
I unfolded the letter.
Dearest Alexandria
,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. We are all well here, especially your namesake. She is growing so fast, and we all think that she looks more and more like you each day
.
I looked at the picture again.
I couldn’t really see the resemblance between myself and a seven-month-old black Maasai baby, but I could see how much she
did
look like Ruth. For starters, they shared the same perfect, beautiful eyes. I wished I had those beautiful dark eyes, or at least her nose—straight, with no bump, and with nostrils that were the same size.
I put a hand up to the bump on my nose. Of course that bump wouldn’t be there for too, too much longer. My parents had promised me I could have my nose fixed when I turned eighteen, less than two years from now.
Some people might have thought that was vain, but I thought it was exactly the opposite. Anybody who thought they were so perfect that they didn’t need to have some surgical adjustments had to be some sort of egomaniac! I could admit that I needed a little help.
I went back to the letter.
The rainy season has failed this year. The land is very brown. Hopefully soon we will have a well and water so we can take care of our crops and our cattle. We know that you and your family will help Nebala and Samuel and Koyati so they can win the money to build our well.
I just hoped we
could
help them. I guessed we could. We were putting them up here in our home, and I’d make sure they could get to the race. That was helping … at least as much as I could help, short ofrunning the race for them. Not that that would
I stood there, thinking that even though I’d seen him, spoken to him, it all still could have passed for a dream because it was nothing short of bizarre. I could just imagine the conversation I’d have with somebody who didn’t know about any of this: “Oh yeah, by the way, a Maasai warrior climbed a tree and jumped into my room last night … No, no problem … No, of course I was scared. Wouldn’t you be scared? Well, he was just there because he was delivering a letter …” The letter. I’d forgotten!
I grabbed the sheets and duvet and pulled them aside—there it was! I picked it up off the floor and turned it over. On the front, in graceful lettering, it said, “To Alexandria, my sister.” That made me smile.
Ruth was Maasai, like Nebala. She lived with her nine brothers and sisters in Kenya, in a village, in a littlehut made of mud and cow dung. We’d known each other only a few weeks, and other than a couple of letters we’d had no contact for the past seven months. We had absolutely
nothing
in common—nothing except the fact that we were friends. Good friends.
I opened the envelope and took out the letter, and something fell to the floor. It was a picture. I bent down and picked it up. It was a picture of Ruth holding Alexandria—her baby sister, my namesake. Ruth was smiling and Alexandria was laughing. It looked as though they were sharing a joke.
I stared at the picture. Alexandria was now almost seven months old—which meant she was almost seven months older than when I’d last seen her. I’d been there when she was born, right there. Ruth and her parents believed that if it hadn’t been for me, Alexandria wouldn’t have lived. Maybe they were right. I’d basically stolen a car to get them to the clinic, and then bullied and threatened and bribed my way to make sure Ruth’s mother—baby Alexandria’s mother—got the right medical care. Who would have thought that threatening, bribing, bullying, and grand theft auto could have led to something as beautiful as Alexandria?
I unfolded the letter.
Dearest Alexandria
,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. We are all well here, especially your namesake. She is growing so fast, and we all think that she looks more and more like you each day
.
I looked at the picture again.
I couldn’t really see the resemblance between myself and a seven-month-old black Maasai baby, but I could see how much she
did
look like Ruth. For starters, they shared the same perfect, beautiful eyes. I wished I had those beautiful dark eyes, or at least her nose—straight, with no bump, and with nostrils that were the same size.
I put a hand up to the bump on my nose. Of course that bump wouldn’t be there for too, too much longer. My parents had promised me I could have my nose fixed when I turned eighteen, less than two years from now.
Some people might have thought that was vain, but I thought it was exactly the opposite. Anybody who thought they were so perfect that they didn’t need to have some surgical adjustments had to be some sort of egomaniac! I could admit that I needed a little help.
I went back to the letter.
The rainy season has failed this year. The land is very brown. Hopefully soon we will have a well and water so we can take care of our crops and our cattle. We know that you and your family will help Nebala and Samuel and Koyati so they can win the money to build our well.
I just hoped we
could
help them. I guessed we could. We were putting them up here in our home, and I’d make sure they could get to the race. That was helping … at least as much as I could help, short ofrunning the race for them. Not that that would
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