here.”
“What about your safety?” Angela’s need for protection had never extended so acutely to another before Samson. That, more than being in a harsh foreign land, made her want to suggest they escape, run, hide. So long as it was together.
“Let’s just say my motivation to return is high, all systems fully intact.” His mouth took on a slight, mischievous curve. He kissed her full on the lips, a hot and heavy reassurance that rivaled the air against her skin and didn’t end until a crackling and cooing of female voices spilled from the house.
“How will I communicate?”
“Her daughter, Nahyea, in blue, lives here with her. Nahyea studied at university in Pretoria. She will translate.”
Three women, each a generational stepladder of the same physical traits—hair stretched tight into a high curl, prominently set eyes and the most beautiful cocoa skin Angela had ever seen—gravitated to Samson as if he were the messiah in brown camouflage pants and a ridiculously tight t-shirt. They were all hands and vigorous hugs, all words pregnant with joyful emphasis, and completely and totally adoring of her companion.
Samson beamed. He lavished the most attention on the elderly woman beneath the shade of the tiny porch, taking the time to drop down to one knee and kiss the back of her knotty hand. Her eyes shrunk to crescent moons; her lips parted to a snaggle-toothed smile. She uttered words that didn’t require translation—they already conveyed love in their notes.
“Fana, this is Angela.”
“ Engel ?” said the old woman.
He turned back to Angela, squinting against the morning sun. “Yes. She is an angel, isn’t she?”
Angela took the woman’s fragile hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She couldn’t help but return Fana’s infectious smile. The remaining women gathered in the shade of the porch and exchanged words with Samson she didn’t understand. His expression turned grave.
The younger women nodded, their eyes drifting often to Angela. Being the subject of the conversation peppered with English words like secret and danger made her feel like she had donned a heavy parka in the stifling heat, so she sat beside Fana and preoccupied herself with the woman’s impressive collection of hand-hewn bracelets. To say this pleased Fana was an understatement. Her eyes alighted as Angela studied each and every facet as if she were studying the molecular sequence for an element named perfection.
When Samson finished his discussion, he corralled Angela’s hand again. She knew he didn’t want to leave her there. He’d had the same look countless times—at the plaza, when Julian’s men overcame him at his compound, the moment she presented herself on the plane and there was no turning back.
Words would have been trivial. They were far past any that weren’t silly placations in the face of enormous odds. Instead, his eyes transcended language.
“Umkhululi.” He kissed her hand the way he had Fana’s then hurried back to the Jeep without turning around. She heard his strangled command—“Go-go- go ” to Augustine, who nodded fiercely, turned the off-road vehicle inside a torrential dust spiral, and raced off down the hill.
Nahyea settled beside Angela.
“What does that mean? Umkhululi ?” Angela did her best not to butcher the word.
“’Tis old Zulu.” Nahyea’s mouth stretched to a knowing smile. “It means liberator .”
***
The GPS coordinates in Julian’s instructions led to a school for young children. Samson and Augustine exited the Jeep and picked their way through the playground. Two steel swings twisted together on a wind gust brought on by an impending thunderstorm, scratching out a dry, repetitive sound through the inner compound. Littered at their feet: brick fragments from the bombed-out west wing of classrooms, broken window panes, weeds high enough to pass for trees. And clothing. Bloody, child-sized clothing.
Everywhere, insects swarmed and
“What about your safety?” Angela’s need for protection had never extended so acutely to another before Samson. That, more than being in a harsh foreign land, made her want to suggest they escape, run, hide. So long as it was together.
“Let’s just say my motivation to return is high, all systems fully intact.” His mouth took on a slight, mischievous curve. He kissed her full on the lips, a hot and heavy reassurance that rivaled the air against her skin and didn’t end until a crackling and cooing of female voices spilled from the house.
“How will I communicate?”
“Her daughter, Nahyea, in blue, lives here with her. Nahyea studied at university in Pretoria. She will translate.”
Three women, each a generational stepladder of the same physical traits—hair stretched tight into a high curl, prominently set eyes and the most beautiful cocoa skin Angela had ever seen—gravitated to Samson as if he were the messiah in brown camouflage pants and a ridiculously tight t-shirt. They were all hands and vigorous hugs, all words pregnant with joyful emphasis, and completely and totally adoring of her companion.
Samson beamed. He lavished the most attention on the elderly woman beneath the shade of the tiny porch, taking the time to drop down to one knee and kiss the back of her knotty hand. Her eyes shrunk to crescent moons; her lips parted to a snaggle-toothed smile. She uttered words that didn’t require translation—they already conveyed love in their notes.
“Fana, this is Angela.”
“ Engel ?” said the old woman.
He turned back to Angela, squinting against the morning sun. “Yes. She is an angel, isn’t she?”
Angela took the woman’s fragile hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She couldn’t help but return Fana’s infectious smile. The remaining women gathered in the shade of the porch and exchanged words with Samson she didn’t understand. His expression turned grave.
The younger women nodded, their eyes drifting often to Angela. Being the subject of the conversation peppered with English words like secret and danger made her feel like she had donned a heavy parka in the stifling heat, so she sat beside Fana and preoccupied herself with the woman’s impressive collection of hand-hewn bracelets. To say this pleased Fana was an understatement. Her eyes alighted as Angela studied each and every facet as if she were studying the molecular sequence for an element named perfection.
When Samson finished his discussion, he corralled Angela’s hand again. She knew he didn’t want to leave her there. He’d had the same look countless times—at the plaza, when Julian’s men overcame him at his compound, the moment she presented herself on the plane and there was no turning back.
Words would have been trivial. They were far past any that weren’t silly placations in the face of enormous odds. Instead, his eyes transcended language.
“Umkhululi.” He kissed her hand the way he had Fana’s then hurried back to the Jeep without turning around. She heard his strangled command—“Go-go- go ” to Augustine, who nodded fiercely, turned the off-road vehicle inside a torrential dust spiral, and raced off down the hill.
Nahyea settled beside Angela.
“What does that mean? Umkhululi ?” Angela did her best not to butcher the word.
“’Tis old Zulu.” Nahyea’s mouth stretched to a knowing smile. “It means liberator .”
***
The GPS coordinates in Julian’s instructions led to a school for young children. Samson and Augustine exited the Jeep and picked their way through the playground. Two steel swings twisted together on a wind gust brought on by an impending thunderstorm, scratching out a dry, repetitive sound through the inner compound. Littered at their feet: brick fragments from the bombed-out west wing of classrooms, broken window panes, weeds high enough to pass for trees. And clothing. Bloody, child-sized clothing.
Everywhere, insects swarmed and
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