Jakarta Missing by Jane Kurtz Page A

asked.
    Dakar settled herself into storytelling position on the chair, back straight, legs crossed. “In West Africa until I was three. I don’t remember that at all. In Egypt when I was four. I think I remember Egypt, but we lived there again when I was ten, so maybe I’m really remembering that. In Maji the longest—five to seven. I went to boarding school in Addis Ababa when I was eight and nine and only went home to Maji at Christmas and in the summer.”
    â€œWow,” Melanie said. “How could you stand not seeing your mom and dad for so long?”
    Dakar shrugged. “It was hard. Egypt when I was ten. Dad was in Somalia. Nairobi when I was eleven and Dad spent a lot of time in the Sudan. Now I’m twelve and I’m here.”
    â€œI thought you’d be eleven, like me,” Melanie said.
    â€œI’m used to being the oldest in my class. Mom says I was always small for my age, and she home-schooled me for the first two years, so she didn’t want to push.”
    â€œNo wonder you’re so mature for your age. Here, put this on.” Melanie tossed a bracelet to Dakar. “It’s the most exotic thing I have. My aunt got it at the Wisconsin Dells.”
    Dakar fastened it. “You have to be absolutely quiet so I can start.” Feeling powerful and dramatic, she held up her arms. The bracelet gleamed. Dakar took a deep breath. The beginnings of stories were probably the most important parts to get right.
    â€œLong ago in the grasslands of Somalia lived a man who was chief of a mighty clan, so rich he had a thousand camels. The man loved his camels and his horses, his sheep and his goats, but more, far more, he loved his daughter, Donbirra, who was graceful as a leopard.” She was relieved to discover she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d loved this story from the first time Dad told it. She loved “graceful as a leopard.” She loved it that Donbirra’s father loved her more than anything in the world. “Nothing was too good for Donbirra,” she went on. “She always had hippopotamus hide sandals for her feet and amber beads to hang around her neck.”
    â€œWait,” Melanie said. “I’m sure we can find the hippopotamus hide sandals in here.” She rummaged, giggling.
    â€œYear after year,” Dakar said, not waiting, “the man and his daughter and his clan moved with the rains, following the water.” Then there was this terrific place, when the story started to flow, the words blossoming out of her mouth like fancy, flapping butterflies. Fat, smooth words she could almost taste.
    Melanie abandoned the box. “Go on,” she said. She sat on the floor and stared up at Dakar.
    â€œOkay. Well, when the Dhair rains were few and water was scarce, they settled by a river. There the young men drove the camels out to find grass. And there Donbirra watched the sheep and goats and made rope, and in the evening she took smoke baths of myrrh and frankincense.”
    â€œI knew it,” Melanie said triumphantly. “The smell in this room is perfect, isn’t it?”
    â€œDay followed peaceful day,” Dakar went on. “But one day a mighty noise shook the camp. When the chief stepped out from under his awning of palm branches and went to see what was happening, he found three young men standing in the middle of his camp.
    â€œTwo of the men were dressed in new clothes with ostrich feathers in their hair and ivory bracelets on their arms. By this the man knew they were great warriors. The first stepped forward and lifted his shield of rhinoceros hide. ‘We have heard of your wonderful daughter,’ he said.
    â€œThe second stepped forward and shook his spear. Then he said, ‘Do you give me your daughter?’
    â€œThe chief looked at Donbirra where she sat with her sheep and goats, but he saw no softness in her eyes when she looked at the warriors. So he said,