Stacia Falat

Hairstyle

Nandera takes me to get my hair done on Tuesday after we finish Swahili class under the big tree. I do not know her well and we stand apart on the corner. To my left is a German student who also waits to board the bus. He is the only one who smokes and he does not look around at peopleís faces. He looks at my Birkenstocks. We wear the same brown leather sandals but have different tan lines. His are aged and distinct under his pant cuffs when he shifts his weight. I study my own sandal lines and they are still recovering from their second week of African sun. I am embarrassed by their boldness and wish my dress were longer.

Nandera stands with her arms folded across her chest and does not seem anxious about our silence. Her hair is in braids crossing over her head and her skin shines with tiny sweat beads along her hairline. She is dressed formally like all university students but does not match. Her shirt is sleeveless with a brown striped collar and her sandals are pink. They make her tall, taller than most men. Over her shoulder is an orange bag with an Abibas logo. Something looks odd about the bag, but I cannot place what it is. I am wearing white and notice dust stains under my arms along the edges. The dala dalas kick up dirt when they zip past us and the ones Nandera waves down do not stop. They are busy with elbows and legs jutting out the doors.

ìAh, the lunch hour is very busy,î Nandera turns to me. She studies her watch. ìIt is twelve-oíclock. Saa sita.î I nod and try to ignore the clouds of diesel that settle over my face and dress. I want to cough and wave them away, but no one else does this, so I hold my breath.

When the third bus approaches it says Mwenge-Ubungo on the front bumper. The word Hakim is sprawled across the window in pink paint. ìIt is the name of this dala dala,î Nandera explains when I ask her. ìEach has a name like a person.î Together we wave it down. I follow Nanderaís lead; it looks like she is dribbling a basketball. I am surprised that it works. The dala dala rolls to a stop a few feet from the curb, but no one gets off. There are men hanging out the sliding door and one has lost a flip-flop. I quickly count six people standing. Everyone looks wilted and worn. One man emerges from the tangle of bodies at the door and his gray shirt is open. I can see his chest.

ìMwenge, mia moja!î he bellows. His voice is impatient and when Nandera reaches for me my heart goes fast. The bus has no room. We step forward quickly with our hands interlocked, but the German student steps first. He raises one Birkenstock to the bus step and it finds a place between the ankles of three different people. When they take off, his left arm swings free out the door. He does not look back. As we back up to the curb I wonder if he will fall out, but I remember his tan lines and know that he can hang on.

On the window of the next dala dala to Mwenge-Ubungo, ìJesus is Aliveî is painted, and the dala dala is not overflowing with people. When it comes towards us its music radiates and bounces off the buildings. I recognize it is the Malaika song. Malaika, nakupenda Malaika. One of the first things I learned when I arrived in Tanzania was that nakupenda means I love you. The man handling my luggage had made kissing sounds and said nakupenda dada.

Nandera calls ìnjooî while the dala dala stops and I come, but I am slow. When the door slides open four people rush in front of me, and a tall man leaps to the front seat. Nandera takes hold of my wrist to pull me faster and I am pushed in front of a man with a scratched briefcase and two students with armloads of books. Inside the bus is more like a van and the rows are compact. We move along the side aisle past the people in the first row and also over a bunch of bananas resting there, probably going to a market. The remaining rows are almost full, but there are two seats left. I can feel eyes shifting to watch where Iíll sit. I catch the eye of a young girl with golden earrings and she looks away. Nandera guides me to the second row, still holding my hand. Hers does not shake.

Nandera greets two older men in our row. One wears a crooked Islamic cap and his whiskers are white with age and distinction. She greets them with the respectful greeting. ìShikamooni.î

They answer together. ìMarahaba.î

The men smile at me, but it is a smile of sympathy. They do not expect me to say anything and I am not confident enough to greet them with my rough Swahili. I smile back and sit when Nandera pulls on my dress. I am uncomfortable pressed against the window and Nandera because my hips are jammed in place. I wonder if all Tanzanian women have this problem.

As Nandera settles herself with her bag on her lap, I try to settle myself too. I lean my head against the window and there are vervet monkeys somersaulting in a ditch by the road. We are going fast. When we hit the first of the university potholes my head smacks the window and Nandera asks me if I am all right. It is hard to hear her over the music. I tell her I am fine. The bumps flip up some school kids in the front like chapati pancakes and the people standing lose their balance, some grabbing onto other peopleís shoulders. I am glad to have a seat.

Near a street called Kileleni two people call out ìshusha,î and the driver stops. Shusha is the same as pulling the cord on a CTA bus. Three more people get on at Kileleni, and one of them is a young woman with a baby wrapped in a kanga on her back. The mother shifts the baby so it is like a backpack around her stomach, and when she has trouble getting up the step the conductor helps her up. I look around. There are no seats. Two people are already standing, hunched in the awkward area between the front seat and the first row. The mother and I make eye contact briefly and her baby is fussy. The dala dala starts moving again and she clearly cannot stand with the baby. After a moment of looking at my covered shoulders she unties the kanga sling and hands me her toddler.

Nandera says nothing and though I am not a mother, I take the baby to fill my lap. Her skin is hot and smooth. The mother stands and does not take her eyes off me. The baby touches me freely and her thighs rub against mine like our dresses werenít there. I let my chin rest lightly on top of her head and her tight curls tickle me. The baby turns to look at my face and she puts her hand in my mouth. When I remove her fingers I notice she has a rash on her left hand. I stroke the rash and it feels like sand. ìHuwezi kufanya,î Nandera says, clicking her tongue, and I stop.

At the town of Survee, Nandera calls ìshusha,î and I know it is our stop. We are not riding all the way to Mwenge, the central bus station. I call ìshushaî too, but it is weak and foreign in my throat. The mother frowns her eyebrows at me and reaches her arms out for the baby. They donít look strong enough to carry a child. I donít want to let her go. When we stop, the mother grabs her under the armpits and the baby does not protest.

Nandera motions for me to stand and I have to step over the banana bunch again. I step on one accidentally and the ends squish out like a babyís tongue. The man sitting next to the bananas reaches down to push them closer to him, but he says nothing. When I reach the doorframe the conductor in the gray shirt reaches out his hand and I think heís helping me step down. ìMia,î he says. He wants my fare. I hold out 100 shilingi but he looks at my face and says ìMzungu, mia hamsini.î His fist is dirty from rows of coins that click together like a typewriter. He clicks the shilingi together three times. Nandera touches my back and I pay him 100 shilingi, but he doesnít move from the doorway to let me off. He clicks again. He waits for fifty more shilingi. I start to sweat freely and even the driver turns around to watch the hold up. The music is turned down and I hear the passengers muttering. Then Nandera pushes past me. As she pays him for her ride she utters that he is a thief under her breath, and then guides me out. He lets me go. Five more people get on. The ìJesus Is Aliveî dala dala does not need more from me.

In Survee, Nandera holds my hand in hers. Her nails are rusty with henna. She is not the first woman Iíve seen with henna stained nails. I ask her if the color comes off and she says no. I look at my own nails and they are a pistachio color. Nandera notices this. ìDo you want me to paint yours with henna?î she asks. I smile but say no. The henna wonít wash off and I donít understand why the color is appealing to African women.

When I look up to take in Survee, I cannot. It is too much: dust and tin roofs and fruit stands and men on creaky bikes, three lube oil bottles on a tree stump outside a cafÈ, chickens and a bao game in the shade, a Tusker beer sign. People rest under trees in every direction and many turn their heads to follow my walk with Nandera. Two young girls in matching kangas watch me watching them and they shake their hips like runway models, giggle and go behind a shed. I almost run into a woman with a basket of pineapple balanced on her head and Nandera cautions me to watch my path. I watch the ground and notice that purple flowers are growing by a ditch filled with water and garbage. A Kilimanjaro bottle is flattened on the street and I step over it carefully. Nandera walks on it and it doesnít crunch. All of its crunch is gone like she knew it would be.

ìThis is Survee,î Nandera tells me. ìThe stylist is there.î She points down a side street where four girls in white shirts and blue skirts stare at me. I can make out a patch on the shirt pocket and think they are school uniforms. They look like my old high school uniform. ìBut first we must go to find the hair extensions.î I nod to Nandera and notice a group of young men pass me on the right. Two look back at me and the one wearing a loose fitting tank-top winks. I stare at his muscular arms and wish the women here would accept me as much as the men.

Nandera leads me to a row of low buildings and the third one is a small store hidden behind bars. Inside, a woman with a welcoming smile stands up from a high green chair and greets Nandera, who reaches through the cage to shake her hand. They remain holding hands for some time. The womanís middle is wide and she wears a kanga wrapped over her ears. Her forehead is high with surprise when she notices me, and she reaches to shake my hand. ìHujambo dada? Karibu Tanzania.î

I return the greeting, ìSijambo mama. Shikamoo.î I am fine. I respect her age. She acknowledges my respect with an even wider smile and says ìMarahabaî like itís a song.

Nandera motions to the hair extensions on a hanger by the baby powder. She tells the shopkeeper that I want to buy them. I know nothing about hair extensions. The shopkeeper asks me a question in Swahili but I am thinking about buying baby powder to rub on babies on the dala dalas. The shopkeeper waits for my answer and Nandera touches my shoulder. I try to answer, but I cannot remember the word for braid.

ìDo you want rastas or corn rows?î Nandera asks. I think for a moment before I tell her. ìI want rastas.î The image of my friends returning with braids from vacations in Jamaica comes to me. I picture myself with smooth even braids that move like cow tails when I turn my head. They will be beautiful.

Nandera interrupts my gaze at the extensions: ìAll right. Now we choose the color.î The shopkeeper brings forth three different kinds and they settle on the second, closest to my hair color. When I hold it up I think it is too black, but it is the darkest brown of the three choices. ìIt is real hair,î Nandera tells me. She rubs it between her fingers, admiring it. I think it is a lot like the texture of my hair but I do not say it.

Out of the storeís shade, Nandera and I squint together. She gives me my extensions and they are heavier than I thought theyíd be. I want to hold her hand again. I feel like I belong with her holding my hand but she does not offer hers. ìUnataka soda baridi?î she asks me slowly. I have forgotten my water bottle and the invitation of a soda makes me stretch my dry mouth. We go to Mikeís Kiosk because it is the closest one and get two Fanta oranges. I pay for Nanderaís, though she doesnít ask. When I turn to her she is putting her wallet back in her purse, and I wonder if Iíve insulted her. I do not know the etiquette of a Tanzanian outing.

I ask her if the stylist is good. ìYes, she is good, she does my hair,î she tells me. I stare at her hair plaited tightly against her head. The ends meet on the top in puffs and she shows me how the extensions were sewn in and fluffed. I reach up to touch her braids and she bends her head for my curiosity. It is the gesture of a Maasai child to an elder, one of respect and submission. My hand falls away, though I donít think Nandera notices the offense.

ìDoes it hurt?î I ask cautiously.

Nandera laughs and finishes her soda. ìYes, very much,î she says. ìWhen I was a little girl I would scream and cry. My mother would take me to a salon and the woman would pull my head this way and this way.î She moves her chin left and then right. ìNow my head is tough,î she says. She looks at my hair and touches the loose curls. ìBut you have a young head. I will tell her to be gentle.î I want to thank her for taking me but I have forgotten again the word for braid.

Nandera leads me down the alley we passed earlier and the road is muddy between the crumbling buildings. She is careful to walk around the potholes because they have water and diesel swirling in them. I look around for the salon but I donít see a sign, then Nandera stops abruptly and turns into an opening in a cement wall. I study the crooked doorframe for just a moment before Nanderaís hand reach out and she beckons me inside. When I step into the shadows a chorus of women welcome me. ìKaribu dada.î Welcome sister, they say.

It is dark inside the shop but my eyes browse the room quickly. It is the size of a walk-in closet and a table takes up the back wall. A woman with nicely arched eyebrows is embracing Nandera. They talk quickly and Nandera introduces the woman to me in Swahili. ìHuyu ni Fatuma. She will be your hairdresser.î Fatuma and I shake hands and she doesnít let mine go. She is wearing two orange kangas. The one around her waist touches the dirt floor and the other is draped over her shoulders. It is warm in the shop but I wonder if she is cold. Nandera also introduces me to two other women, Asha and Upendo, and I find the courage to greet them properly with ìhamjambo?î Asha is young, maybe twenty, with large cheeks and jagged toenails. She sits on a carved wooden stool, wide and shaped for a womanís butt. A full-length mirror with a wheat-thin crack reflects Ashaís gray t-shirted back. Upendo sits on a woven straw mat with faded red edges and leans against the wall. Her arms are strong and heavy under her paisley blouse. Three pairs of brightly colored flip-flops lay neatly by the doorway. These are the only people and things in the salon. It is a simple place. It is Nanderaís favorite.

Nandera takes the extensions from me carefully and Fatuma finally drops my hand. The women begin talking in fast Swahili, and I assume they are talking about my hairstyle. I take the opportunity to lean against the table and it is solid. There is a giraffe carved in each of the legs and I remember it is the national symbol of Tanzania. It is illegal to kill a giraffe. When I look up I notice that the ceiling is crumbling in a corner and there is an iron bar coming through. Asha watches me study the ceiling and we meet eyes. Hers show nervousness, but I smile to show her it is all right. I like the salon. I like the table and the mat. Fatuma reaches out to me, still talking to Nandera, and runs her hands through my hair. I am too tall for her to touch the top, so I bow my head.

Fatumaís fingers along my scalp are relaxing and she moves them in slow, deliberate circles. I close my eyes. She is able to comb all my hair quickly with her fingers alone. The knots in the curls separate easily for her. When I open my eyes to Fatumaís bare feet I notice her toes are stained with henna as well. I decide itís the fashion, and maybe even that itís pretty.

ìIt will take a long time to do your hair,î Nandera tells me. She too runs her hands over my head and my scalp tingles. ìI have told Fatuma you are new and not to pull so tight. But your hair is like corn silk and it will be hard for Fatuma to braid it. Mzungu hair is not good for braiding.î

I am surprised she has called me mzungu, the derogatory term for white person, but I ignore it. ìHow long will it take?î I ask. I lift my head to look at her and Fatuma stands back, letting us talk in English. Asha rises from the stool and brushes it off with swift motions.

ìMaybe it will take three or four hours. You must be patient. Your wowowo will be tired from sitting on the stool. When I was a little girl I would run away if it took too long.î She laughs. ìMy mother was very upset.î

Nandera shifts her Abibas bag from her left to right shoulder and talks again to Fatuma, who presses me to have a seat. She turns to me. ìIím sorry that I have to leave now.î I am surprised and my eyes show it; I thought she would stay. ìDonít worry, you will be fine here. Iíve lots of studying to do. I will be back to see you in a few hours.î I notice then that her voice is tired. I have forgotten that she is a student like me with classes and books and a schedule. She cannot spend all afternoon with me. Fatuma grabs a pick and begins combing my hair. ìYou will be fine here,î Nandera tells me again. She says kwaherini and the women return her farewell. When she turns into the Survee sunlight her skin shines like gold dust, and I think that she is beautiful.

The pick is also carved and Fatuma is swift with it. She parts my hair in long horizontal lines and short vertical ones and the edges are dull with use. Asha has opened the extensions and separates them into small pieces. My head is slowly bent forward to my chest and then I feel two sets of hands on my scalp. I am touched gently but firmly, but I tense when an extension winds around the fine hairs along my neckline. Knuckles brush the back of my neck and form a knot, then tighten it in a swift pinch. My eyes start to water. I hold it in. This is what African women must feel. When the first braid touches my spine it scratches my neck, and when I reach around to feel it, it is about ten inches longer than my hair started out with. Less than half the hair is mine. I do not know how to explain that I want them shorter so I say nothing. I miss Nandera already.

More and more braids fall on my back and then someone rights my head. I can look up and out the doorway, into the light. It is an alley but it is busy with people passing, returning to peer in the salon, then going on their way. Fatuma greets many of them and one woman brings in a child with the ends of her hair loose. She looks surprised that all three women are busy, and after a moment they leave. I watch other children pass and the one that strikes me most wears a long t-shirt and no underwear. He walks back and forth, calling to another child, trailing a long, filthy piece of cloth that looks like a lionís tail. Once he stops in the doorway and looks at me, then shouts ìmzungu,î in a defiant voice. His eyes are full of life and his hair full of dust. I want to tell him stories and hold him on my lap, but he dashes away. His feet are little but they pound the earth like drums.

At the end of the first hour my butt is sore. By the second hour I am a bit lonely, highly dehydrated, and my head is heavy with rasta braids. I can see them out of the corners of my eyes. I think about machungwa. Oranges. My mouth is tired though I have only listened to the women gossiping in Swahili, Fatuma always chatting the most. I clear my throat twice before Fatuma stops talking and kneels before me. Her orange kanga slides off her shoulder and she allows it to fall. Underneath she wears a blouse. It is white and finely embroideredóa traditional Tanzanian shirt. The kanga was protecting it from dust. I think about my own stained dress and wonder where I can get a kanga.

ìNimechoka,î I say slowly. I am tired. I want a break. Fatumaís eyes light up as she realizes that I know some Swahili. I am not just a tourist.

ìPumzika kidogo,î she says and puts down the extension she holds on the table. It is time to rest. She sits on the table and I stand up on stiff knees to stretch. Asha joins her on the table and begins to swing her feet, but Fatuma scolds her and hits her knee. She gets down and sulks on the mat in the corner. After a moment, Fatuma sits with her and begins to sing to her softly, and I wonder if they are sisters. Upendo moves in front of me suddenly and crouches to pat my feet.

ìNaomba viatu vyako,î she says, and it is a second before I realize she is trying to undo my sandals. I take off both sandals and hand them to her. She feels the leather slowly and then tries them on, but they donít fit. Her pinky toes are too large. It makes me sad to watch her struggle with them and she says ìasanteî when she gives them back.

While we rest, a teenage girl with cornrows passes the salon eating a sucker. She sees me, stops, and stands in the doorway. She studies me briefly and the light behind her makes her face seem dark. ìYou are from America,î she says. Her accent is British, like Nanderaís. The sucker never leaves her mouth.

I nod my head and feel relief in my veins. I can talk to someone. I size her up to be about sixteen, several years younger than me. ìYes, Iím American,î I say. I sit down on the stool and stretch out my legs. ìHow can you tell?î

ìI can always tell who the Americans are.î

ìOh.î I shouldíve known. ìHow do you know English?î

The girl leans against the doorframe and bites her sucker. ìSchool.î She says it with a sigh. ìWhere are you from in America?î

ìChicago. Where are you from?î

The girl takes a final bite and her sucker is finished. ìI am from here,î she says, gesturing to the alley behind her. She swings her hips from side to side and the pleats of her skirt flare around her. Her cornrows are in diagonal lines across her head and I ask her if Fatuma braids them. She tells me no, that her mother does it.

ìWhat is your name?î I ask her.

ìBrandy. And I am going to come to America someday.î She says it like itís a fact. Brandy looks at my rastas and moves to touch one. She throws the sucker stick on the floor. ìYou look very beautiful. Umependeza dada. Do you know Kiswahili?î

I confess that I only know a little and Brandy laughs. Her voice is not as soft as Nanderaís. ìBut you are trying, and that is good. Tell me,î she says as she digs into a small purse at her side. ìDo you know Michael Jordan?î I tell her no, that I have never seen him. Brandy is disappointed and pulls out a worn magazine picture from her purse. It is Michael Jordan with a heart drawn around his face. She shows me for only a second before she kisses the picture and presses it to her heart.

ìI am in love with him,î she says. I smile and she carefully puts the picture away. ìThen tell me. Do you know the National Anthem?î

I am now surprised. ìFor America?î

ìYes, I want to learn the American National Anthem. Everyone knows the song for Tanzania.î She crouches before me and looks me in the eye. ìCan you teach me?î

ìI can sing it, I think. But it is very long.î While I am thinking about the words Fatuma rises from the mat and says something to Brandy. Brandy takes a step back on her haunches and the women resume their work. I can feel that I am almost finished. The tugging is almost over.

ìSing it now,î Brandy begs. The pick parts the last of the hair above my brow line and I begin to sing. When I get through the first stanza I realize I cannot remember past ìAt twilightís last gleaming.î

ìIíll sing the rest of it later,î I tell Brandy. She moves in to sit on the mat, satisfied.

Fatuma finishes a braid and looks down at my eyes. ìUna mlei?î she asks, smiling. I notice for the first time that her cheeks are sunken slightly, that her teeth are small. I look to Brandy and shrug my shoulders. Fatuma throws her an obvious look.

ìDo you have a housegirl?î Brandy translates.

I answer no, that I am a student at the university and there are maids that clean. I am not even sure what a housegirl is. Brandy takes off her sandals and stretches out her legs like mine. She rubs her toes in circles in the dust.

ìShe wants to know if you want a housegirl in America. She says she will work without pay.î

I swallow and my throat will not make words. My eyes fall on my sandal lines and I manage to whisper, ìI have not been here that long.î

ìWhat do you say?î

ìI do not need a housegirl in America.î I exhale slowly and feel guilty when I say it. I like to imagine Fatumaís cheeks filling in and the puffiness under her eyes disappearing. I can picture a salon with fans and shiny scissors in jars of alcohol. There is no translation.

ìWell. Perhaps you have mpenzi? Do you? Do you have a lover?î She looks at me earnestly and I am embarrassed. I donít even know her.

Brandy rises and she is excited. My silence is enough of an answer. ìThen do you want to marry my brother? He is looking for a wife.î She grins and moves towards the bright doorway. ìYou could stay with me and be my American sister and have babies. Then we could go to America and meet Michael Jordan.î Her voice is loud in the salon. Fatuma finishes the last braid and everything stops in the moment I am turned to look in the cracked mirror.

My first reaction is that I am Medusa with a head of snakes. The curls are gone. My hair is sectioned off in neat, white patchwork-quilt squares, and out of each jolts a cord of black braid that extends to my chest. I reach up to examine one by my ear and hold it out in front of me, feeling the texture like an old pipe cleaner. The ends are all frayed and I realize I have forgotten about rubber bands. When the girls at home come back from Jamaica they always have rubber bands tying the ends. Here they do not need rubber bands because it is not the same. African braids are not the same.

ìUmependeza,î Fatuma says. She gathers the braids from my sides and ties them in a knot in the back. The ends stick out like TV antennas and she smoothes my temple where it is reddened. Asha and Upendo nod their heads in agreement. ìUmependeza sana,î they say. I turn to look at my profile and find myself nodding too. The rastas are large and black and radiant. I look at Brandy behind me in the mirror.

ìNow you are Tanzanian,î she says. ìMy brother will want to meet you for sure. Do you want to meet my brother?î Brandy turns my face with her hands and looks into my eyes. I donít know what theyíre saying, but Iím thinking no.

ìI knew it!î Brandy does a pirouette. ìI will get him now. He will think you are beautiful, too.î

ìBrandy!î I call to her but she has already leaped out the door. She does not come back. I imagine her running down the alley around puddles and Kilimanjaro bottles and old people holding chickens. I imagine her running all the way home and rousing her brother from a sleeping mat to tell him an American girl wants a man. I look at my hair in the mirror again and my head feels heavy. I turn to Fatuma.

ìI donít want a husband. I am a student. I have to go to school.î I say it slowly out loud and Fatuma seems to understand. She touches the white spaces between the rastas and I know they will get burned in the sun. I would like to stay and have African babies. I would like to have soda in a bottle by palm trees and ride a bicycle with a basket of mangoes attached to the back. I would like Fatuma to do my hair every two weeks when the hairs begin to poke out like star points. I think I would be happy that way. But I am only a visitor here. Everything is a reminder of this. Brandy is wrongóchanging my hair does not make me African.

When I stand I know it is time to leave. I say thank you to the women and decide to pay them each 5,000 shilingi for their work. Fatuma refuses to take it until I say ìzawadi.î It is a gift. My generosity separates me from their condition. Nandera is not back yet, but I am ready to leave the salon and go into the afternoon sunlight. I say thank you again and shake my head to the leftover extensions that Asha offers. I will not need them. I am not sure where I am going but I think I need another soda. Fatuma seems to know what I want and leads me down the alley back to the line of shops and Mikeís Kiosk. To my surprise, she points to Nandera who sits at a table with a book, and then walks back to her salon. I had not expected her to wait and approach her slowly. She is busily writing notes in a large notebook. I look down at her textbook and it says Global Economics. She is working to make her country rise. My shadow makes her head turn.

ìOh, my. That didnít take as long as I thought. Umependeza. Do you know what that means?î I nod. ìYou look beautiful!î

ìThank you, I mean, asante,î I say. I am bashful. Nandera stands and she has taken off her pink sandals. She touches the knot at the base of my neck and when I bend my head for her, she runs her hands over the braids on top. Her touch is soft. ìThey are so long! Did you want them so long?î I explain to her that I didnít know how to say otherwise and she laughs. ìWe like rastas long here. But we should burn the ends. That will seal them so they do not unwind.î She tucks some of the ends inside the knot and our eyes meet. ìI can do it for you when we go back to the university.î

Nandera gathers her books and carefully places them in her shoulder bag. She wipes the dust off her feet and becomes two inches taller when she puts her sandals back on. ìTayari?î she asks. Her eyelashes curl up with her smile. I nod my head yes, Iím ready to go back. We wait together in the sun, but we do not wait long. When the next dala dala comes down the Survee road headed back to the university I can smell the exhaust cloud. As it stops, I turn and look down the alley expecting to see Brandy, but the only person there is the child with the lion tail. He is running in circles, but he stops to look at me. When I wave to him, he thrashes the cloth and leaps in a mud puddle.