The Town of Tsaha’ota
The Etoririq’dzwei has pulled up to the edges of Tsaha’ota along the river. The scrublands beyond wind with the Turga, pushed and pulled by the river’s rushing; here and there, narrow trails of water spill off the edges of it, trickling through low sprawling brown-green marshes; the land beyond disappears into dry, cracked earth.
Tsaha’ota is waking up with the sun; smoke drifts from wooden rooftops here and there. The bleating of goats echoes over the rasping of insects. From the deck of the steamboat, Nkemi can see the cluster of roofs and shacks, dark brown over the lighter packed earth, with the edges of wooden fences to mark pens around the edges of it. It spills over, out of sight, to where the caravans gather.
There is no dock which can sustain a steamboat of the Etoririq’dzwei’s size, but there are rowboats which come from the shore, which line up along the edge of the edge. Nkemi climbs down the swaying ladder; two men from the ship hold it above, and a man from the boat holds it steady below, as Anetol too makes his way down. They sit together on one of the low benches in the center; his trunk and hers, both, are gliding ahead of them towards the shore.
Nkemi wears tan today, all long lightweight covering, though her headwrap is a vibrant yellow against the pale blue-gray of the sky. The boat glides away from the steamboat, and she leans over the side; one small hand cups the water of the Turga, and tilts, letting the riverwater stream free.
“Thank you Hulali,” Nkemi whispers in Mugrobi, a prayer only just given life by her breath, “for the mercy which you bestow upon us; thank you for guiding us here, to Roa’s shores.”
Droplets of water cling to her palm, cupped carefully upright; Nkemi flings them onto the shore as they pull close, and the thirsty ground drinks them greedily.
The boat rocks up onto the shore, and the men with the oars hold it still; Nkemi climbs out first, and her hands are there as well, if Anetol should need them. It is not quite mud on the riverbank; it is drier than that, for all that grasses grow where the water laps, and almost crumbly beneath one’s sandals. A few steps later, and the ground is all smooth and hard.
“Where to, ada’na?” There is one man each for their trunks, hoisting them on sturdy shoulders.
“Tseq’úle caravan,” Nkemi says, smiling. She thanks the boatman with the clink of a coin, and they set off, leaving the wash of the river behind; her arms settles, comfortably, through Anetol’s.
They skirt wide around the edges of the town, following not roads but groves in the dust, where many feet have walked before. Chickens chase one another across the path, clucking and squawking; a woman, crouched outside a small hut, is stirring a thick porridge; she looks up as they pass, her eyes lingering on Anetol.
There are other smells, too, drifting through the air; there is kofi, first, strong and fresh, and something hot and fried beneath it. Nkemi’s stomach grumbles its impatience, and she smiles, tolerant, but does not yield.
At the back of the town there are camels; two men are working, settling saddles onto them one by one, as the tolerant beasts nibble at hay with large, flat teeth. Beyond them, a blur of indistinct figures move busily between tents; with a snap, one of them comes down, ropes loosening to sag into the dirt.
“Ayah ayah!” One of the man calls from the other side of a camel; he grunts, pulling a strap steady. The camel snorts, but does not react; her head shifts to another spot on the hay, and, almost delicately, she works another bite free, long eyelashes fluttering.
“Trunks here,” He gestures with his chin to a large wagon.
The two men leave the trunks behind; Nkemi passes them each a coin, and they hurry back towards the rivershore, now almost swallowed by the town behind.
There is time to sit with the trunks, a moment, to unpack and repack. Nkemi shifts some clothing between her cloth bag and her trunk, and takes out the goggles; she gives Anetol his with a smile, on a woven cord to be worn around the neck, and settles her own into place.
“There is time before the Úwaq’dzola?” Nkemi asks, closing her trunk once more and easing away.
“Ea ea,” The same man says, dusting his hands off. He squints at the horizon. “The rest are buying supplies,” he shrugs. “Half a house, at least.”
Nkemi nods; she tucks her arm through Anetol’s once more, and smiles at him. “Will you take breakfast?” She asks, smiling up at him. "There is time, I think, for all."