Hiding in Plain Sight

4

Bella knows that she is procrastinating, but she does not yet feel up to the enormous responsibilities that await her. She tells herself that until she has a better grip on her emotions she shouldn’t make contact with her niece and nephew. The folly of mourning, and thus confusing love with loss, is so natural in us humans that it can leave us physically and mentally unable to perform any of our usual tasks, let alone look after anyone else.

She pulls her mobile phone out of her shoulder bag to ring Gunilla again. But she has scarcely dialed the long international number when the hotel phone on the bedside table rings, startling her. With her hand shaking and her head spinning with an array of conflicting fantasies — someone is ringing to tell her that Aar is injured but still alive; or it is Gunilla calling to tell her that Valerie has been released and is on a flight bound for Nairobi? — she finally finds the strength and the voice to pick up and say hello.

The hotel receptionist informs her that she is sending up a fax message that has arrived marked VERY URGENT. And because the woman gives neither the sender’s name nor the country of origin, Bella again allows her mind to go wild, imagining all sorts of far-fetched scenarios. Perhaps the fax brings news that her niece and nephew have been in a car accident on their way from their boarding school on the outskirts of Nairobi. Bella sits down, her lips silently unleashing a salvo of Koranic verses she hasn’t recited since childhood. The next minute her optimism is ascendant, the fax bringing a different kind of news about Aar: that his body was found in perfect condition, proof that he did not suffer much pain or trauma. She stands by the entrance to her room, ready to open the door to the bearer of the message. When she hears the lift doors open and then footsteps approach, she gives in to her eagerness and opens the door. But there is no one in the corridor. So she sits tight and waits, accepting her powerlessness to do anything about anything.

Bella tells herself that she has lived for years in a cocoon. With no child of her own and no steady partner, she hasn’t had many worries to bother her. Healthy, young, and blessed with good looks, content with the professional niche she has made for herself, she has had few serious worries, at least until Aar’s transfer two years ago to the UN office in Mogadiscio. From that day on, she paid more attention to the news coming out of Somalia. Even so, she was unmoved by much of what she read, even the suicide bombings and the constant deaths from IEDs planted by the terrorists. As long as the casualties were unknown to her personally, the tragedies felt abstract. Until now! As she said to Marcella — was it yesterday or the day before? — “Aar’s death changes everything.” What she meant was this: From now on, when the telephone rings in the middle of the night, she will imagine a car accident, a bombing in a shopping mall or restaurant in which someone dear to her loses their life. And while she will no longer worry herself to death about Aar, she will dread what might happen to her nephew and niece, the same way many a parent she knows has an ear cocked for a phone call when her teenagers are out at a party after midnight.

Bella is just at the point of wondering if she might have misunderstood the receptionist when she hears a gentle knock on the door. Now she takes her time before answering, searching for a little baksheesh, but she has found only euros when there is a second tapping and then a third. She opens the door and finds herself face-to-face with a handsome young man with big eyes and a fetching smile, in hotel uniform. Extending her right hand to receive the envelope he bears, she sees that it is shaking and stops. But the young man has no eyes for her trembling hand; he is ogling the slight opening where her robe has slipped a little. Suddenly amused, Bella relaxes and, no longer shaking, receives the envelope with both hands and thanks him.

“Why has it taken you so long to come up?” she asks him. “I’d almost given up.”

“The receptionist twice sent me to the wrong room,” he replies, shaking his head and smiling. “Maybe she was confused because your name is hyphenated on the fax, but you registered with only a single name.” But he apologizes and she gives him a couple of euros for his troubles before she gently closes the door.

Her hand is trembling again as she takes a seat, her feet planted on the floor. Bizarrely, she looks left and then right, as if she expects someone else to be with her in the room or as if she were engaged in a conversation. Then she nods her head, as though giving an okay, and tears the envelope open and reads the name of the sender: Helene, in Kampala. But Bella knows no Helene in Kampala. The message is in legalese and brief. Helene introduces herself as an attorney who is writing at the suggestion of Gunilla, who provided her with the name of Bella’s hotel. She continues, “Since the matter I wish to discuss with you is of utmost urgency and its nature delicate and familial, I would appreciate it if you could contact me at your earliest.” Helene provides two office landline numbers and a mobile phone number, each bearing a Kampala area code, and an e-mail address.

This must be an attorney representing Valerie and Padmini, Bella guesses. The thought that such a person exists relaxes her. She will not walk away from her responsibility to her sister-in-law, she knows, but she also knows that, once free, Valerie will carry on as if nothing has happened, except that she will blame the whole thing on anyone but herself.

Bella calls one of the landline numbers she has been given. As she waits for someone to answer it, she tells herself that she won’t ever forgive herself if she does nothing to help Valerie, never mind the nature of the trouble the woman is in. And Uganda being Uganda, she thinks that she will be able to find the right officers to bribe. To get matters moving, Bella decides to insist that Helene not disclose to Valerie who is putting up the bail and paying all other expenses incurred.

Finally, Helene answers. After Bella has introduced herself and then acknowledged receipt of the fax, Helene says, “I’ll tell you enough of what we are up against so you can decide whether you wish to get involved.”

“I can’t help it, I have to be involved.”

Bella can hear papers being shuffled and then Helene says, “I must tell you this at the start. We do not represent Valerie as such.”

“Please explain your meaning.”

“We represent Padmini, her partner, in a property dispute between her and a Ugandan businessman,” Helene says. “And then this.”

“‘And then this’? What’s ‘this’?”

Helene says, “A few days before Padmini and Valerie’s arrest, we had received notice from the courts about a preliminary date when a judge would hear the property dispute.”

“Are you telling me that this is why they are locked up?” says Bella. “Because the Ugandan has played a dirty hand?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“The Ugandan tycoon hired a private eye to dig deep into the dirt,” Helene says. “He hopes to force Padmini’s hand so that she will flee the country or at least withdraw her case.”

“How much dirt did the private eye dig up?”

“The private eye sneaked in on Valerie and Padmini’s privacy and left his hiding place with a rich harvest of sexually explicit photographs.”

“How careless of them,” Bella says.

“Their lack of awareness would be quite understandable if it weren’t for the fact that Padmini comes from here,” Helene says. “She was born here and her family is well known and well respected too.”

“How do we proceed?”

“We need to get them out of prison. The yellow press is sniffing around, readying to run off with the story. This will do irreparable damage to their reputations. Somalis, as Valerie told me — as if I needed telling — will bay for her blood if it comes out that she is Aar’s widow. We must do something quick, get them out, and put them on a flight to Nairobi.”

“Why a flight to Nairobi?”

“According to Valerie, Nairobi has one of the largest communities of homosexuals, second only to Cape Town in the entire continent, and she says they will feel comfortable there.”

“How can I help?”

“Can you come in person to Kampala?”

“As I said, I do not want her to know that I am her benefactor,” Bella says, this time with great emphasis.

“We need to move fast,” Helene says.

“How much will it take to get them out?”

“A couple of thousand dollars in legal fees, and a couple more to make sure that we grease the right uniformed palms adequately so they will be discreet in their dealings with us and the press,” Helene says.

“What if I can’t come in person?” Bella reminds herself that she is primarily in Africa not to solve Valerie’s problems but to mother her nephew and niece.

“You can choose one of two options.”

“I am listening.”

“You can wire the funds. Or you can find someone residing in Uganda whom you know personally and whom you trust — a Somali, say, as there are hundreds of thousands of your nationals residing in Kampala, many of them very wealthy, and you arrange with them to settle the bill right away and then pay them later. This will be the quickest way of having them released. The money will be delivered to us in cash and we will act forthwith — very efficient!”

Bella doesn’t like either option.

“What if I transfer it electronically?”

“We don’t have that facility at our legal firm, I am embarrassed to say,” Helene says.

Uganda has never figured in Bella’s imagination in any shape or form beyond the revulsion she felt for Idi Amin when he was in power, in addition to being disgusted by the bloodthirsty Lord’s Resistance Army sect led by Joseph Kony. “Let me come back to you shortly,” she says to Helene. Then she requests that Helene supply her with all of the bank details and the address of her chambers just in case.

But she won’t ring off until she understands how it is that a lawyer with her own chambers is in no financial position to have funds transferred electronically from a neighboring country. Maybe there is something not kosher about the deal. She asks Helene to explain.

“Recently, we’ve been victims of hackers,” she says. “We suspect a former client of mine, a Nigerian, now in jail for drug-related crimes, has had a hand in this. Since then, all our accounts are frozen because of the ongoing criminal investigation. But trust me. We are legit.” Helene goes on and then breaks into laughter, adding, “Listen to me trying to convince you to trust me! This is hilarious.”

Whereupon Bella says, “I do trust you.”

Helene says, “You do? How noble of you!”

And then Bella does ring off, promising to get back to her in an hour at most.

Next Bella rings Gunilla on a mission for more information. While she waits, she Googles Ms. Johansson, who is described as heading the forensic department for the UN office in Nairobi and who is charged with determining the disposition of the UN victims’ assets as well as dispersing any additional support for their dependents.

“Gunilla,” she answers, sounding clipped and purposeful.

This time, Bella, who has her wits about her, remembers to ask Gunilla for further details, not about Valerie’s situation but about where Aar’s body was discovered.

Gunilla confirms what the news reports said, that his body was blown apart by the blast of the bomb, unrecognizably mutilated, and that his head was recovered several yards away.

“Where is he buried?” Bella asks.

“At least he has his own grave.”

“Not a mass grave, like the others share?”

“That’s right.”

In the pause that follows this, Bella joins Gunilla in crying herself sore. Then she remembers her first order of business, as well as the promise she made to Helene. “Where are you now?” she asks Gunilla.

“I am currently in Kampala.”

“The children, where are they?”

“The children know you are expected.”

“But no one is answering their phones.”

Gunilla explains that people in Nairobi do not answer their phones if they do not know the identity of their caller, too many wrong numbers. “Have you sent text messages?” she asks.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Bella says.

Gunilla says, “I’ll call them.”

Then Bella says, “Speaking of Kampala, Gunilla…”

Assuming that Gunilla is in the know about Valerie and Padmini’s situation, Bella fills her in on what has transpired with Helene. Gunilla then says, “Will you please allow me to act on your instructions and settle the attorney’s fees and all other expenses, and you and I will go over it when we meet in a couple of days?”

The phone line carries Bella’s hesitation all the way from Nairobi to Kampala — and Gunilla can sense it. Bella, in turn, can feel it, even though the two women have never met. But Bella says, “You’ve been of immense help.”

Then Gunilla says, “Tell you what. I’ll call on Valerie and her partner in the police holding cell in person and see if there is anything else we can do for them, including lending them money or taking them a change of clothes.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

They ring off, agreeing to speak again.

—

When Gunilla rings back in a couple of hours, neither of them is as emotional as before. She updates Bella on what she has achieved since they last spoke, which is to say a great deal: She has settled the attorney’s fee and oiled enough corrupt police palms that Valerie and Padmini are in the process of gaining their freedom.

“What’s their plan?” Bella asks.

“Helene tells me they are Nairobi-bound.”

“Did you tell them I’m here?”

“Of course not.”

Bella asks whether Gunilla has spoken with the principal of the children’s school or his wife, as she has been unable to reach them or the children.

Their phones must be off, Gunilla thinks, or perhaps they are somewhere where there is no mobile coverage.

Bella hesitates before asking the other question that is on her mind, but she reminds herself of what Somalis say, being a hardy people with a great sense of pragmatism: The shoes of a dead person are more useful to the living than the corpse itself. “And can I get access to Aar’s house and car keys?” she asks.

The children have their own keys to the house, and Gunilla tells Bella where a spare set of car keys is located in Aar’s study. She invites Bella to stay at her house when she returns to Nairobi; she has a spare room with its own bath.

Out of politeness, Bella takes her time in answering, as if she were giving the offer serious thought, even though she knows that she won’t accept it. Finally, she says, “I am okay where I am until I meet up with the children. And then, I think, we will go to Aar’s house. But thanks all the same.”

They say their good-byes, agreeing to talk before the end of the day and keep each other abreast of developments.

Bella telephones Mahdi and Fatima. As with Gunilla, Bella loses hold of her emotions as soon as Fatima lets loose with a bellow of grief. At last she hears Mahdi, the epitome of self-restraint, say to his wife, “Come, come!” From this, Bella gathers the strength to shut off the flow of her tears. And then Mahdi is on the line, saying, “Where are you now?”

She names her hotel.

He says, “Can we fetch you home? We would very much like to see you, hug you, hold you, be with you.”

“Too exhausted,” she says.

“Say the word and we’ll fetch you home.”

But she excuses herself and hangs up, more knackered than before.

—

Bella can’t sleep. She changes into a pair of pajamas, draws the curtains, turns out the lights, and gets under the covers. But sleep won’t come.

Her phone rings, but when she answers it, no one is there. When this happens several times, she clicks on the log of recent calls and, finding the number to be local, copies it out on the pad by the landline and then dials the same number. Bizarrely, there is a recording, both in English and Swahili, telling her that this number cannot be reached.

She decides to go out for a walk, convincing herself that the fresh air will do her good and that there is no point in staying cooped up, fretting and moping, in her curtained room in the hotel. She dresses again, this time in stylish jeans, as if intending to set herself apart from the large number of Somali women here who wear body tents. She has heard that lately, following terrorist threats linked to Shabaab, the Kenyan authorities have been harassing anyone who looks Somali, especially in Eastleigh, the district with the heaviest concentration of Somalis. She selects one of her favorite DSLR compact cameras to take along, with the intention of capturing Nairobi by daylight.

Going out of her room, she puts the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. At the reception desk, she purchases Kenyan shillings with euros in case she needs to pay for coffee or something to eat in a café or for a taxi on the way back. As she prepares to step out of the hotel, she hesitates for a moment, uncertain if it is wise to leave her expensive cameras and other equipment in her room. But what the hell! she thinks. Hasn’t she already lost her most precious Aar. Even though the cameras are expensive, they can be replaced. Not so her one and only brother. What a pity she hasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell to avenge him, sending every one of his murderers to the lowest place in Gehenna!

Having stayed at this hotel on multiple occasions, Bella is rather familiar with the neighborhood. The city center, she remembers, is at most twenty minutes’ walk, a compact neighborhood not much bigger than the layout imposed on it in the late 1890s when a railway depot was built on Masai-owned land. Photographs from that period show tents pitched and shacks hurriedly erected for the railway workers. And from what she has read, confirmed by what Aar and others who know the city well have told her, Nairobi has never enjoyed much stability; right from the get-go, a concentration of British colonists occupied the best land and the Africans were pushed into the slums to live in shanties knocked together out of sheets of zinc, earning no standing in the colonial scheme as the city became a hub for business and, eventually, international organizations. The instabilities, which are of a piece with an African neocolonial city, have continued till this day, making Nairobi one of the most violent cities in the continent.

There is a greater agility to her stride now as she waves away invitations from a couple of the taxi drivers parked inside the hotel grounds and then walks past the uniformed security to the street. Once outside, she discovers that one half of the street has been totally blocked off to vehicular and human traffic. Presently, she observes that this is because the Israeli embassy sits directly opposite the gate of the hotel, a fact she had not remembered. Keeping to the open half of the street, she takes care to avoid twisting her ankle or falling on account of the many potholes. Eventually, the road widens, and it is lined with red-tiled, timber-framed villas on either side, as she remembers. Then there is an incline that makes her huff and puff, exhausted and out of shape as she is. She half regrets that she didn’t take a taxi, but she soldiers on nonetheless, the camera slung over her shoulder knocking against her ribs as if urging her on and on, the way a jockey spurs his horse.

The road is a lot longer than she remembers, and she hopes she hasn’t made a wrong turn. When it bends to the right, now in a steep incline, she comes upon a mass of unwashed commoners in dirty overalls, men with something scurrilous in their appearance who are gathered in huddles, smoking. They look to her like mechanics on their tea or lunch break, but the low way they speak is worrying. Her heart misses a beat in fright, and she is relieved when the men take no notice of her. Hurrying past without incident, she reminds herself why she is in Nairobi this time and remembers the responsibility awaiting her. When she spots a taxi, she flags it down.

The driver asks her where she is going. “Kimathi Street,” she says, without a second thought. The price he names is far too much, but under the circumstances, she decides not to fuss about it. She gets in, remembering that Kimathi Street was named for a Kenyan warrior whose statue was unveiled there in 2007, the year she met HandsomeBoy Ngulu. She remembers with nostalgia the bar the two of them used to frequent, close to the Stanley Hotel.

Near the city center, the streets are too jammed for the taxi to proceed easily and she gets out. The sidewalks here are narrow and busy, and the shops fronting them appear to be Indian run, their customers nearly all African. She knows that a forest of eyes is trained on her, following her every move, taking in her jeans, her T-shirt, her upmarket sunglasses, her foreignness. She is used to Italian streets throwing up troublesome wet blankets in the shape of men wolf whistling at passing women. Here the local yokels ogle, their ceaseless staring bespeaking their desires. No harm in that, she thinks, only she wouldn’t want to be in their company alone in a room or a dark alley. But as it is daytime and the streets are full of people, Bella allows her sense of mischief to get the better of her.

“May I take a picture of you, please?” she calls to a man undressing her with his eyes.

“On condition we have a photo together,” the Ogler says.

And soon enough a crowd gathers as the Ogler poses. Others volunteer to be photographed. As Bella presses the button, now taking a photo of one person, now of a group, she rejoices in the charm of Africa, even as she knows that such a friendly crowd can just as quickly turn violent. Here one must be on one’s guard at all times, she knows.

When some of the men suggest that she lend them her camera for a minute or so, Bella extricates herself from the engulfing mob. But as she tries to move away, the Ogler insists that she keep her word. She is reluctant to let anyone else handle her camera so as a compromise she suggests that someone else use the Ogler’s iPhone to take a photo of the two of them standing side by side. That way he will have their picture together, she points out to him. And so the Ogler, his right hand mauling her side, poses with her as if he were the happiest man ever.

Finally, Bella decides enough is enough, as a number of other stragglers have gathered around her and are asking to have their photographs taken with her. Quitting the scene as fast as she is able, she enters a shop to buy a local SIM card and a hundred euros’ worth of airtime for the spare mobile phone she brought along from Rome. Another minute or so later, with a train of lollygaggers still in pursuit of her, she hails another taxi, gets in, and says, in the assured tone of a local, “Take me to Village Market, please.”

—

At the market, she finds a café and sits at a corner table, where she orders a latte and a croissant. While waiting for it, she eavesdrops on a young couple in their early twenties who look to be newly married and Somali — Bella judges this from the woman’s palms, henna decorated the way Somali women do. Debating whether Bella is Somali, Ethiopian, or Eritrean, the man insists that she is Somali and the woman maintains that she isn’t. As if to prove his point, he goes over to Bella’s table and asks in Somali if she would take a photograph of them using his iPhone. Bella obliges and at first takes a series of shots with the iPhone, and then, given their permission — in fact, urged by the woman — takes more with her camera, at one point suggesting that they stand outside with the city’s skyscrapers in the background. When the young woman says “Mahadsanid” in Somali to thank her, Bella answers, “Adaa mudan.”

As they return to their respective tables, the man says to his bride, “My sweet, I’ve won the bet, haven’t I?”

The woman introduces herself to Bella as Canab and her husband as Kaamil, and explains that the two bet on whether Bella was Somali or not. And they invite her to join them.

“But may I continue to take pictures of you?” she asks.

“Of course,” the woman agrees, delighted.

The couple is so excited to pose for her that it isn’t until the waiter brings Bella’s latte and croissant that the man asks what her name is and what has brought her to Nairobi.

She is in no hurry to answer, not yet having decided how much of her story she can bear to tell to total strangers lest she burst into tears in front of them. She takes a sip of her latte and has a bite of her croissant, and just as she is about to speak, a young man comes to their table to offer her a wood carving of no exceptional quality. “Cheap, cheap, cheap,” he says.

Canab, seeing Bella hesitate, says in Somali, “I know where you can get the best of this kind of wood carving, or better still, the best Zimbabwean stone sculptures.”

Bella turns to the young seller of the wood carving and, apologizing, says politely that she isn’t interested in buying his wares. The peddler is suddenly and inexplicably furious, and looks from Bella to Canab and back to Bella and asks, “Where are you from and what language are the three of you speaking? Arabic?”

“We are speaking Somali,” says Bella.

Whereupon the peddler begins to shout, his rage, insofar as Bella is concerned, coming out of nowhere. He says, “Y’know what? My goods are not from a flea pit, where you come from and where you rightly belong. Terrorists, the lot of you, who have no right to be here! Blowing up our malls, terrorizing our nation. Go back where you come from!”

The outburst is so violent that it draws a few uniformed security officers. Meanwhile, Bella and the couple get ready to leave, and gather their things. Canab pays the bill, leaving a generous tip under a saucer for the waiters. Kaamil offers to take Bella to the craft shop, but Bella is too unsettled by the volatile outburst, which makes her uneasy. She says good-bye to the couple, declining to exchange phone numbers and e-mail addresses. She hurries off, catches a taxi at the stand outside the mall, and returns to the hotel.

—

Back at the hotel, Bella finds a fax waiting for her at the reception desk. “Valerie,” it says, with a telephone number that has a Uganda exchange. Bella puts it in her pocket without reading the rest and walks up the stairs instead of taking the lift to her room. Inside, she starts to set up her local mobile phone by inserting the Kenyan SIM card. She is eager to reach her niece and nephew.

When there is no answer, she checks her e-mail messages and finds one from Catherine Kariuki waiting. The message reads, “Please accept our condolences for the tragic loss of Aar. We feel a deep sorrow. You are in our thoughts and our prayers.” The message explains that the Kariukis have taken the children to a nature reserve out of town, intending to return to Nairobi in time to meet her flight. Bella checks the date. Evidently, there has been some confusion over the timing of her arrival. No matter. She is relieved to learn the reason for her inability to reach the Kariukis or the children.

And now that she can make a call from her newly rejuvenated phone, she dials Salif’s number and then Dahaba’s number. When neither answers, she calls Mrs. Kariuki. Catherine answers on the second ring, and at once the two of them speak of their brutal shock and great loss, for which neither can find adequate words. Then there is a brief pause, when one or the other of them speaks Aar’s name and both are choked up with tears. Then Bella hears a man’s voice — it must be James — offering to pull over and give Salif and Dahaba a chance to speak to their aunt. But Catherine insists on having a word with Bella first.

“We thought we would meet your flight tomorrow.”

“My mistake. I must have confused the dates when I wrote to you,” says Bella. And then she says, “Please let me talk to the children.”

Salif takes the phone first. “This is terrible, Auntie,” he says in Somali. “I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. It is so unfair, so unfair.”

Bella commiserates with him. “I am here now, my sweet.”

There is a pause, and then Bella hears a sound she cannot identify, followed by an expletive from Salif. It sounds as if Dahaba has suddenly snatched the phone away from him. Without missing a beat, Dahaba asks Bella, “Where were you when you heard it?”

Bella tells her how she found out about it in the airport, from the newspaper, and Dahaba says, “How terrible. It’s so unfair.” They weep together, and then they speak again at the same time, exchanging languages and words of commiseration.

Finally, James comes on the line. Bella thanks him and his wife for looking after her niece and nephew and asks how they can arrange for her to come and take the children home to Aar’s house. They offer to pick her up at the hotel and then bring her and the children to Aar’s house, but she insists on going there herself in a taxi. James promises to e-mail her directions to their house the moment they get home and rings off.

It takes Bella a minute to bring herself to unfold the fax from Valerie even though she is aware that there is no way of avoiding coming face-to-face with her. She feels a flush of rage at the thought of having to behave not only civilly but also solicitously toward a woman who, unless she has changed, is not likely to show an ounce of kindness back. Even though it has been years since the two have met, Bella has not till this day forgotten the initial shock and anger she felt when she first learned of Valerie’s sudden disappearance from Aar’s and the children’s lives without an explanation. Because of this, she is determined not to allow Valerie to take advantage of her, especially now that Aar is no longer in the picture. Still, Bella must steel herself for the worst, knowing how exploitative and naturally abusive Valerie can be. A blighter of a woman, Valerie does not know what is off-limits and what is acceptable. Valerie’s loyalty is only to herself, never to any other person.

Bella thinks, what a pretty kettle of fish, cursing the day her brother met and then married this woman; she can’t bring herself to open and read the message, annoyed that she has to do so. The cheek of the woman! Does the fact that she cannot keep her irritation in check mean that Valerie has her completely in her power, Bella wonders. Hurdo, she recalls, would have had no such doubts. She would describe Valerie as some peanut-brained la-de-da with no self-regard. As much as she loved her son, rather than see him as a gentle spirit and saint the way Bella did, Hurdo thought him a weakling and a pathological procrastinator who lacked the balls to square up to Valerie. Hurdo’s words seem prescient now. “Imagine what a nightmare their lives, and everyone’s, would become if something were to happen to him,” she said, adding, “One day, he will regret his indecision.” Now, it seems, such a day has come.

Finally, Bella reads Valerie’s message. It fans the flames of her anger, recalling their previous associations as well as their unspoken acrimonies — unspoken because she had no wish to upset Aar. Even so, Bella knows she must accede to some of her sister-in-law’s demands, including meeting up with her and allowing her to see Salif and Dahaba. She sends a text message to Valerie instead of calling her on the number she has provided, maybe because she doesn’t wish to hear the woman’s voice, which is bound to irritate her no end.

Valerie replies almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for a return message. She informs Bella that she will be in Nairobi tomorrow and looks forward to linking up with her there. She doesn’t mention Padmini, and Bella wonders if Valerie will bring her too. Anyhow, Bella resolves that, escorted or unaccompanied, Valerie will be received with the welcome due a sister-in-law.

Bella is exhausted from all her inner tensions, some to do with Valerie’s arrival, with Padmini and other untellable troubles in tow and others to do with her anxiety over the challenges awaiting her with Salif and Dahaba. Because she is too exhausted to spend more time and thought on Valerie and her doings, Bella concentrates on what needs to be done. And in a moment, she has the clarity of mind to call down to the reception desk and book a limousine to take her to the Kariukis’ house first thing tomorrow morning.

Then she draws the curtains, darkening the room to such an extent that it feels as though it were night. She then prepares to take a well-deserved sleep. At first, she tosses and turns for a long time, apparently too tired, too jet-lagged to achieve her aim. However, when she perseveres in her desire to give to her body what her body needs most— a restorative sleep — Bella ultimately succeeds into dropping into the deepest of slumbers, from which she is awakened by a nightmare.

In the dream, Bella finds herself standing on a cliff, engaged in a heated argument with a woman who is unknown to her. The two exchange unkind words, and then a falling sensation from the cliff’s great height causes Bella to wake up, and she screams in fright.