Alexandria of Africa (6 page)

I started to feel a bit panicky. And why was it so stuffy? I was having trouble drawing air into my lungs and I felt hot all over and … my goodness, I knew what was happening. It was a panic attack! I’d seen my mother go through enough of those to know what they looked like from the outside. This had to be what it felt like from the inside!

My mind raced, trying to remember what she always did when an attack hit. It was something about taking slow, deep breaths, thinking about being in a happy place, and taking a little white pill that dissolved under her tongue—that little pill I’d taken to fall asleep on the flight to Paris! I didn’t have another pill, and my happy place was anywhere but here, with all those men standing around!

Maybe I could just leave, go and find a policeman. No, I couldn’t abandon my luggage. Nobody was going to chase me away from my new wardrobe. I didn’t care how those men looked or how they looked at me, those clothes were
mine!

“You must be Alexandria.”

I turned around. It was a woman! She was blond, young, a few years older than me, and she had a big smile. I felt so happy to see her that I had to fight the urge to wrap my arms around her, or jump up and down, or even burst into tears of happiness. Instead I scowled at her.

“You are Alexandria Hyatt, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And who, may I ask, are you?” I asked.

“I’m Renée, your contact. I’m here to pick you up.”

“Do you have any I.D.?”

“What?”

“I.D. Identification. I need to know you are who you say you are.”

“I’m definitely me and—and I’m definitely from Child Save,” she said, stammering over the words. “I will be your supervisor on this mission.”

“You
say
that’s who you are, but how do I know that? I need proof.”

She didn’t answer right away. That was either a good sign or a bad sign. She had a rather stunned look on her face. Perhaps that was her natural look.

“I have to admit that I don’t have identification on me. Nobody has ever asked me for I.D. before.”

“Well, I can’t be responsible for the safety of others, or what they choose to ask or not ask for.”

“But if you think about it,” she said, “if I weren’t who I say I am, how would I know that your name is Alexandria Hyatt and you’re here with Child Save?”

“There might be many ways,” I said. “Perhaps you got my name from the airlines.”

“I guess that is a possibility. Is that your bag?”

I turned around. A large, brilliant pink suitcase had just been spat out and was making its way toward us on the conveyor belt.

“Yes, that’s
one
of my bags.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three, plus my carry-on, and, of course, my purse.”

Two more pieces of my matching luggage appeared and rolled toward us. She helped me pull the bags off the belt.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such bright luggage … or so
much
luggage.”

“This? Is this a lot? Because I had to leave
so much
behind that I simply needed to take. Now, getting back to identification.”

“As I said, I don’t have any, so I guess there’s only one thing to do,” she said.

“And that is?”

“Since I can’t convince you to come without identification, I’ll just have to go and get some. I’ll be back … in about four, maybe five hours. You sit tight. Keep an eye on your luggage. And whatever you do, don’t go anywhere with anybody … especially those men standing by the wall over there. They are
not
your official welcoming committee.”

Wait a minute—what did
that
mean? But she just turned and started to walk away. My chin dropped to the ground. She kept walking. She wasn’t stopping. She wasn’t even looking back!

“Wait!” I screamed.

She stopped then and turned around. I grabbed one bag and piled a second on top, pulled out the handles and awkwardly dragged, carried, and rolled the three suitcases along, bumping them off my leg as I muscled them forward. She just stood there watching, and was she … 
smirking?

“You can’t just leave me here!” I snapped.

“I also can’t physically drag you away. I’d be surprised if I could even drag your
luggage
away. Either you’re coming or you’re not. Yes or no?”

That smirk seemed to grow wider and more distinct. She was enjoying this. Well, I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of hearing me beg her to—

“I guess that means no.” She turned around and started to walk away again.

“I’m coming!” I yelled out, and she stopped one more time. “I need some help with my luggage,” I said.

“So, what’s the magic word?”

Magic word? Abracadabra?
Voilà?
What was she talking about?

“Please,” she said.

“Please?”

“Now that didn’t take much, did it?”

She grabbed two of the wheeled bags and I followed behind with the rest of my things. I scrambled to keep up with her, my heels clicking against the hard floor. It was hard to move quickly in heels. My father had suggested that I wear running shoes, but I’d told him I wasn’t planning on entering a race.

I fell in beside her. “I’m really looking forward to a long, hot bath, but first I should have a little nap.”

“A nap you can have in the truck, but the hot bath might be a slightly longer wait.”

“I can wait.”

“Good. Patience is a virtue.”

“Yeah, right,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Did you say something?”

“Nothing … nothing at all. How long before I can take a bath?”

“Three weeks. We don’t have any bathtubs at the centre. Just showers.”

I hated showers. They were just so … gym class. “A shower it will have to be.”

“Either that or stay dirty, your choice.”

I had just met this person but I was certain that I didn’t like her. I was a very good judge of people and I could size them up almost instantly. She was not the type of person that I’d even
consider
having as a friend. For starters, I could hardly imagine being friends with anybody who wore socks and sandals together! Didn’t this woman have
a full-length mirror in her house? If she did, she would have known what that looked like. She might as well have worn a sign that said “Loser.” And of all people,
she
was going to be my supervisor. If I didn’t do what she said, I could end up in juvenile detention after all. Did that suck or what?

She stopped beside a gigantic truck. It looked like a garbage truck. Why would she stop there?

“Here, I’ll take that,” a man said as he stepped out of the darkness.

I was stunned.

“Let me have your bag,” he said. He was almost as black as the night and he was wearing a red dress and a blanket! I was being robbed by a weird African transvestite!

When he stepped toward me and reached out his hand, I swung my purse and struck him square in the face! He wasn’t getting
my
wardrobe without a fight! He staggered backward and I swung the purse again, screaming as loudly as I could to get attention!

“What are you doing?” Renée yelled.

I pointed at the man. He’d backed off a couple of steps. Just to emphasize my point I screamed again, louder and longer.

“This is Nebala,” Renée said. “He’s with us.”

I stopped mid-scream and mid-swing. He smiled. Brilliant white teeth stood out in contrast to the black of his face.

“He’s not a mugger?” I asked meekly.

“He’s our guide and guard. He was just trying to help you with your luggage. Let me introduce you.”

He reached out his hand and reluctantly I did the same.

“Nebala,” he said, and his smile widened.

“Alexandria Hyatt.”

“Nebala, could you please put her bags in the back?” Renée asked.

I suppose I should have guessed that he was there to take care of me. For the amount of money my father had paid for this trip, I expected a little more service.

He grabbed the big bag and with one hand lifted it up and over his head, as if it were empty. I knew just how much it did weigh because my father had to pay extra charges for it. With the other hand he scaled a ladder on the side of the truck, and he tossed my bag up and away into the back. He jumped down like a big cat, hitting the pavement without making a sound. He picked up the other two remaining bags, putting the smaller of the two under his arm, and scaled the side of the truck again.

“If there were a lot of people you’d have to ride in the back too,” Renée said, “but since there are only three of us we can all ride in the cab.”

She reached up and opened the door to the cab. I went to climb in and then stopped. This was the driver’s side of the vehicle, and I wasn’t planning on driving.

“Just climb up and slide over into the middle,” Renée said.

Okay, that made sense. I climbed up. The steering wheel was on the wrong side of the truck! Renée climbed in beside me and Nebala got in the other side, settling in beside the steering wheel.

“The steering wheel,” I muttered, “it’s … it’s on the wrong side of the truck.”

Nebala looked at me and then at the wheel. He shook his head. “No, this is the side where I left it.”

Renée broke into laughter, startling me.

“That side,” Nebala said, pointing to where Renée sat, “would be the wrong side.”

“Kenya follows the British model,” Renée explained. “They drive on the left side of the road.”

I’d been to London and knew that the British drove on the
wrong
side of the road, but I didn’t know about Kenya. I thought it was just a thing in England because they wanted to be different, sort of like bad teeth, pale skin, and lousy cuisine.

“I don’t care which side we drive on, as long as we drive. Can I have that shower as soon as—”

The truck started and the rumbling of the engine overwhelmed my words.

“—as soon as we get there?” I said, finishing the sentence.

“You can, although you might want to have something to eat before your shower. That way you could meet everybody.”

I most certainly didn’t want to meet anybody until I’d showered, and done my hair, and reapplied my make-up. You never get a second chance to make a good first impression.

“Maybe I should wait until later to meet them. I’m really not a morning person.”

“What a shock!” she said. Was she being sarcastic?

“And I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You might be by the time we get there, although by then lunch will probably already be over.”

I wasn’t that hungry so it didn’t matter that much and … did she say
lunch?
The sun was just coming up.

“You mean breakfast, not lunch,” I said. And I was the one who hadn’t slept! The truck hit a gigantic bump and we were all thrown into the air before bouncing back onto the bench seat.

“No,” Renée said. “Breakfast will be long gone before we arrive. Lunch is what I’m aiming for.”

Either these people ate breakfast in the middle of the night or something was seriously strange. “When do you eat lunch here?”

“Noon. Twelve or so.”

“But it’s only … only …” I looked at my watch and tried to rotate the hour hand to tell me the time. “It’s only six-thirty.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s going to be around a six-hour drive to get to the compound.”

“What? Six hours? Is it on the other side of the country?”

“About a hundred and fifty miles. That’s how long it will take on these roads.”

“And these roads aren’t bad,” Nebala added. “At least, compared to some others. When the rainy season hits this drive can take twice as long.”

“I’m not driving in this thing for six hours. I simply refuse to do that!”

Renée looked at me and then at Nebala. “Okay, stop the truck.”

The gears ground down, the engine whirred, and he pulled the truck off to the side of the road—the
wrong
side of the road.

“Alexandria, I know you’re tired,” she said.

“I’m
exhausted!”

“Okay, exhausted. You are also probably hungry, thirsty, confused, jet-lagged, and at least a little angry that you’re here to begin with.”

“A little angry? Hah!”

“Okay, maybe a lot angry. Regardless, I’m not prepared to spend six hours with you in this truck listening to you complain. So, you have three options. One, you go in the back with the luggage.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Very. Two,” she said, “you get out and walk.”

I looked out through the windshield. It was now light enough to see. There were cars and trucks and motorcycles careening along the road. The way they were moving reminded me more of bumper cars at the circus than any roadway I’d ever seen. All along the roads, on both sides, was a steady stream of people walking. Each and every person was black—black and foreign and Kenyan. There was no way she could possible leave me at the side of the road.

“And the third option is that you just stop complaining and accept that you don’t always get what you want.”

“Mick Jagger,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Maybe
she
didn’t usually get what she wanted, but
I
did.

“Well?” she asked.

I looked straight ahead. “Option three.” As far as I was concerned, I’d be happy not to say another word to anybody for the next three weeks.

I was so tired that I was starting to feel nauseous, but every time I drifted off I was rudely awoken by another enormous bump in the road. This had to be, without a doubt, the worst road in the entire world and the worst ride of my entire life.

Feeling bored, I looked out the window. I saw the same things I’d been seeing for hours: rutted, rotten, red roadway winding off into the distance. On both sides of the road was scrubby growth—not jungle, but certainly not
Lion King
country, either. Little clusters of buildings—no, shacks—appeared from time to time at the side of the road. These were stores, apparently. For the first time in my life I’d discovered stores that even
I
didn’t want to shop in. And while there were very few vehicles, there were always people. They’d be sitting in the shade, or standing in groups, and lots and lots of people just walked along the side of the road. Didn’t these people have better things to do than wait or walk?