would be painless to turn into a branch, Ajany heard the sweetest voice on earth that day:
“Silly!” Odidi had called.
She wailed, “ ’Didi!”
Odidi reached her tree. “ ’Jany, come down. Are you Zaccheus?” Thinking that was especially funny, he screeched off-key, “ There was a man in Jericho called Zaccheus …”
A torrent from Ajany: “G-ganda-said-Turkana-people-d-don’t-climb-trees-and-th-then-I-climbed-and-then-he-left-and-th-then-I-was-afraid-and-th-then-you-came.”
“Come down.”
“Mppph.”
“What, silly?”
“C-can’t.”
“Whaat?”
Louder. “Am stuck.”
Odidi had bayed with laughter, rolling on the ground. A hyrax somewhere yowled, and in the distance another one answered. Ajany wept in gulps that should have dislodged her.
Odidi answered, “Ajany yuak-yuak-yuak .”
Hiccups from within the tree.
“ ’Didi, am stuck.” Ajany lisped.
“Try?” Odidi threw pebbles upward. An incentive.
Sobs.
Odidi hastened up the tree, no plan in mind. He got to Ajany, in the Y part of the tree, and sat next to her before hugging her. “Silly goat, I’m here.”
And he was.
After a minute, Odidi said, “OK, sit on my back—I’ll climb us down.”
A slow, sweaty descent. Eight meters from the base of the tree, Odidi miscalculated distances and fell to the ground with Ajany on his back. Rolling to protect her, he had split his forehead in the process. Ajany had used her maroon school sweater to stem the blood flow before racing like a spooked gazelle to get the school nurse, praying Hail-Mary-full-of-grace-The-Lord-is-with-you so that OurHolyMotherMary would let her die in Odidi’s place.
Today, the day after last night, begins with thunder but no rain. Last night three people raised a green tarpaulin over a casket in silence,surrounded it with incense and water, and, five meters away, lit a fire that would witness this death. Last night Ajany had stripped the bed of Odidi’s blankets, carried down his pillow, lifted the coffin’s lid to tuck her brother in. She had wrapped her body against the desert cold and known she would not fall asleep. She had waited for Odidi to tug on the fragment of string around her body and tell her what to do, when to haul him in.
And today he had appeared when her eyes were closed.
Leaden footsteps.
She turns.
Baba. Nyipir. Hollow-eyed, a new tilt to his body, as if he is fighting gravity. A stone sculpture melting. In its searching eyes, white terror.
Re-entering a ceaseless day.
Meaninglessness is ash in Nyipir’s mouth. Swallowing saliva. Failing, falling, clutching at nothings. The compartments into which he parcels his life are broken and leaking. Swallowing, Nyipir stares at sunspots, the contained spaces occupied by pieces of light.
“Baba …” his daughter stammers.
He turns.
Father and daughter sit close to each other. Then Nyipir says, “I named him.” She leans forward. “Your brother, Ebewesit . Akai’s father—she expected that. Oganda so our name would outlive us.”
They wait.
They watch the day walk across their feet. And then it is three hours later and Galgalu is adding tinder to a wake’s fire made pale by daylight.
“We’ll build a cairn,” Nyipir suddenly says, rising and measuring the ground with his eyes. “Seven and a half meters across the base.” He picks up black, white, and brown stones, squeezes them in his hands. “A stone garden.” Dust strains through Nyipir’s fist.
Behind them, a white-fungus-infested chunk of their coral house collapses. The house’s water tank has tilted on its roost and yawned open; it is draining its contents through ceilings and down walls.
4
A CONVOLUTED SILENCE WARPS THE LANDSCAPE. NOTHING seems stable, not even the aged acacias. Nyipir Oganda lifts the hoe way above his head, and when it falls it bounces off the ground with a thwack ! A pause. The sunspots look the same as always. What Nyipir had not considered was the hardness of the ground. Or the
“Silly!” Odidi had called.
She wailed, “ ’Didi!”
Odidi reached her tree. “ ’Jany, come down. Are you Zaccheus?” Thinking that was especially funny, he screeched off-key, “ There was a man in Jericho called Zaccheus …”
A torrent from Ajany: “G-ganda-said-Turkana-people-d-don’t-climb-trees-and-th-then-I-climbed-and-then-he-left-and-th-then-I-was-afraid-and-th-then-you-came.”
“Come down.”
“Mppph.”
“What, silly?”
“C-can’t.”
“Whaat?”
Louder. “Am stuck.”
Odidi had bayed with laughter, rolling on the ground. A hyrax somewhere yowled, and in the distance another one answered. Ajany wept in gulps that should have dislodged her.
Odidi answered, “Ajany yuak-yuak-yuak .”
Hiccups from within the tree.
“ ’Didi, am stuck.” Ajany lisped.
“Try?” Odidi threw pebbles upward. An incentive.
Sobs.
Odidi hastened up the tree, no plan in mind. He got to Ajany, in the Y part of the tree, and sat next to her before hugging her. “Silly goat, I’m here.”
And he was.
After a minute, Odidi said, “OK, sit on my back—I’ll climb us down.”
A slow, sweaty descent. Eight meters from the base of the tree, Odidi miscalculated distances and fell to the ground with Ajany on his back. Rolling to protect her, he had split his forehead in the process. Ajany had used her maroon school sweater to stem the blood flow before racing like a spooked gazelle to get the school nurse, praying Hail-Mary-full-of-grace-The-Lord-is-with-you so that OurHolyMotherMary would let her die in Odidi’s place.
Today, the day after last night, begins with thunder but no rain. Last night three people raised a green tarpaulin over a casket in silence,surrounded it with incense and water, and, five meters away, lit a fire that would witness this death. Last night Ajany had stripped the bed of Odidi’s blankets, carried down his pillow, lifted the coffin’s lid to tuck her brother in. She had wrapped her body against the desert cold and known she would not fall asleep. She had waited for Odidi to tug on the fragment of string around her body and tell her what to do, when to haul him in.
And today he had appeared when her eyes were closed.
Leaden footsteps.
She turns.
Baba. Nyipir. Hollow-eyed, a new tilt to his body, as if he is fighting gravity. A stone sculpture melting. In its searching eyes, white terror.
Re-entering a ceaseless day.
Meaninglessness is ash in Nyipir’s mouth. Swallowing saliva. Failing, falling, clutching at nothings. The compartments into which he parcels his life are broken and leaking. Swallowing, Nyipir stares at sunspots, the contained spaces occupied by pieces of light.
“Baba …” his daughter stammers.
He turns.
Father and daughter sit close to each other. Then Nyipir says, “I named him.” She leans forward. “Your brother, Ebewesit . Akai’s father—she expected that. Oganda so our name would outlive us.”
They wait.
They watch the day walk across their feet. And then it is three hours later and Galgalu is adding tinder to a wake’s fire made pale by daylight.
“We’ll build a cairn,” Nyipir suddenly says, rising and measuring the ground with his eyes. “Seven and a half meters across the base.” He picks up black, white, and brown stones, squeezes them in his hands. “A stone garden.” Dust strains through Nyipir’s fist.
Behind them, a white-fungus-infested chunk of their coral house collapses. The house’s water tank has tilted on its roost and yawned open; it is draining its contents through ceilings and down walls.
4
A CONVOLUTED SILENCE WARPS THE LANDSCAPE. NOTHING seems stable, not even the aged acacias. Nyipir Oganda lifts the hoe way above his head, and when it falls it bounces off the ground with a thwack ! A pause. The sunspots look the same as always. What Nyipir had not considered was the hardness of the ground. Or the
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