e’s grateful to follow, to wind down the shady avenues that branch off from the Walk. He looks down another tributary at Nkemi’s gesture, where the shadows are thick in small balconies where students – seventeen, eighteen, he wagers; he watches one young man, wearing only an asymmetric-cut wrap about his waist, leaning back with his elbows propped on a railing, blowing curls of smoke into the warm, breezy air. Overhead, there’s a long strip of cloudless blue, so brilliant it almost turns the facades of buildings on either side to silhouettes.
There are so many colors, nevertheless, and smells. There are more spices than he could ever name, more than he could ever count – they spill out of this or that cafe as the wind tugs them to and fro. Now, an inhale of something rich and sweet and tomato-red, buoyant on it the chattery laughter of teenage girls; now, a whiff of baking bread, a boy shouting, bajea!, the clack and shuffle of what sounds like ging on a table.
“Small ravenous beasts,” he repeated, laughing, when he found the breath to. He grinned, remembering Ezre’s common room, littered with wine bottles and papers and other spitch.
This is more familiar, at least; or – he thinks – it’s so different from anything he knows that he’s no choice but to follow, to let her lead him through until he can weave the streets and the stories together in his head into something that makes sense. He passes fields; he passes their absence. Sometimes, together, sometimes eating together, though often in groups of either.
Much of the detail’s lost in the magnificent whirl. He can hold onto her voice; everything else blurs, swirls. His thoughts move like syrup, slow but sweet, content.
Once, they pass a place that’s set into a shaded corner, a number of boys sprawled over and demolishing a spread of plates on an outdoor table. The sign above the awning has a turtle on it, and the script is only in Mugrobi. One looks up from his yats as they pass; a few pairs of eyes follow them, not with the sort of frown he got in the library, but with a different sort of look he knows but can’t define.
He blinks up, drinking in the bright blue; he smiles. “I’m glad you can find it again,” he puts in wryly, “unlike a certain Sparrow-picker’s lane.” She opens the door, and he steps inside, and he laughs, even though he braces himself at the sight of the stairs.
They go up slowly, and Nkemi says nothing of it, as usual. He holds the railing as tightly as he needs to; he holds to her arm, too, as tightly as he needs to, and hopes he does not ask too much. They’ve chosen this together, he thinks – he looks up the winding stairs to where light trickles down, and holds his upkeep.
The curl’s nevertheless a relief; he’s taxed, but no sap’s spilt, and he breathes in the shaded, breezy air and knows it was worth it.
He’s been a regular at enough dives to know a favorite spot when he sees one. He caprises the fields as they caprise his, polite and easy, grinning and raising his eyebrows at the curious eyes. When they come near to the edge, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in a sigh, and then a laugh – they look small down there, clumps of students spread out across the sun-bathed walks and shaded streets. Like embroidery – and again, he doesn’t know the pattern, only it’s no less sacred than the mosiac in Idisúfi, perhaps more so for its motion.
“Ah,” he says after they’ve taken a seat, after the server has come and gone. He raises his eyebrows at Nkemi, then takes a wedge of lime; he squeezes it into his water. He considers – he’s never heard of taking syrup in water – but then he takes the pitcher, too, and takes a drizzle.
He’s careful not to spill any, though his hand shakes. He stretches them out on his knees beneath the table, taking a moment before he trusts himself to stir his glass.
All is the rippling of cloth overhead; indirect sunlight dapples the deep shade, sparks in the bubbles in the water, picks out the skin of the limes vivid green. Contented green creeps out into his field, and he breathes, taking a sip of cool, tangy sweet water. “I’ve a feeling I’ll be here often in the rainy season,” he says, looking out over the rooftops, some of which are thick – to his surprise – with greenery.
He might ask what, roughly, they’re likely to bring; but in the spirit of surprise, and in his own desire to float on his exhaustion, he trusts Nkemi’s grin. He looks at her, smiling. “Are you looking forward to it?” he asks, his voice soft. “The journey.”