Blood & Milk (27 page)

We spent the next week enjoying the beach, the pool, the room service, and that king-sized bed. The full length mirror made it all the more fun, and there was nothing hotter than watching our love making. Damu could hardly tear his eyes away.

We went to the museum as well. I figured it would give Damu a better grasp on world history and developments, and the extensive Maasai exhibition was incredible. We lost a whole day in the museum, though it was a day well spent.

Over the week, Damu never complained. Not once. He took everything in stride, his placid and gentle nature was a joy, and his sense of humour really started to shine.

After spending a few hours in bed one afternoon, we ordered room service of grilled meat and vegetables, and I turned the TV on for something to do. I rolled my eyes as the 80s movie
Police Academy
started, and I was appalled that Damu found it so damn funny.

He was in hysterics, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

I mean, I laughed too, but I was only laughing because he was laughing. It was a contagious sound, and one I wanted to hear a lot more of.

As the days crept on, our troubles of the past few weeks seemed a lifetime ago. Where my life with Jarrod had been busy and loud, a fast pace of work and social life, Damu was calm and peace. He was the place my soul had longed for, had been homesick for, where I was centred and everything in my world wasn’t broken anymore.

If this was how my life with Damu was going to be, then it only made me more determined to make it happen.

* * * *

Strangely, I wasn’t nervous the morning of our meeting with George. It was going to happen, I could feel it. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t even worried that some federal agent was going to haul my arse into custody as part of some crackdown on crooked government officials. I was just excited to finally get Damu his damn passport.

George wore the same clothes he’d worn before. There was a photo frame of him, a woman, and three kids on the window sill behind him, which I hadn’t noticed last time, and upon closer inspection, George had worry lines on his face I hadn’t noticed before either. If he was having money issues, I hoped, probably naively, that the money I paid him today went to support his family.

Well, that’s what I told myself to justify paying this guy three large for a passport which, through the proper channels, according to the poster in the waiting room, cost fifty bucks.

“Money?” he asked, cutting right to the chase.

“Passport and visa?” I countered.

He pulled a yellow envelope from his desk drawer and slid it across the desk to me. I opened it and took out the contents. Republic of Tanzanian passports were green, and to my very untrained eye, this looked like the real thing. Damu’s name, photograph, and new date of birth were printed inside. The pages were watermarked and had the proper electronic markings. The next item was a permanent visa approval for Australia, stamped and dated three days ago. In all my years with a flight company, I’d seen a lot of these, and this one was legit. I had no clue how George had made this happen―I didn’t want to know. I simply took out the roll of money and put it on the desk, collected our documents and stood up. “Thank you,” I said. Despite the cost and this guy’s general shitty attitude, he had made things happen, and I was grateful. I also couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

Everything after that happened very quickly.

I had Kele at the hotel’s reception book two tickets to Sydney, handed her my credit card, and she printed off the booking confirmation for me. We were leaving in six hours.

She very kindly organised the hotel courtesy bus take us back to the Australian consulate office so they could organise the proper shipping of Damu’s spear and rungu. It was, as she’d explained, highly unlikely a taxi would let us in while we were carrying such weapons.

At the consulate, I handed over the paperwork George had given us to Susan. She helped package the items and addressed them with official Australian Consul stickers. The only catch was, the items would need to be held by the Australian government in quarantine for a few months, but given the alternative of losing them for good, we had little choice. Damu was apprehensive, understandably, but he trusted me to know what was protocol.

When we were done, Susan asked quietly, “Can I ask how much George charged you for these?”

“Three thousand.”

She flinched. “I’m sorry.”

I looked at Damu, then smiled at Susan. “I’m not. I’d have paid him ten times that.”

Susan nodded. She was impressed by the paperwork, that much was clear. “Well, everything’s legitimate. I guess that’s the going price. For what it’s worth, I’m glad it worked out.” She smiled at us. “Good luck.”

“I owe you everything,” I told her.

“Send me a postcard when you get there,” she said. “And I’ll call us even.”

I shook her hand. “Deal.”

I turned to Damu. “You ready to go to Australia?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

* * * *

Checking in and getting through to the boarding gate was horrendously stressful. I swear I didn’t breathe the entire time. Damu was great though, like everything else, he took it all in stride and went with the flow.

Even the flight was stressful, because I knew we still had to go through customs. And I couldn’t go through with him. If they pulled him out and questioned him, he’d be on his own. By the time we landed in Sydney, I was almost sick with worry. I was hoping to arrive rested and happy, but truthfully, I was a nervous wreck.

“If they ask you what you’re doing here,” I whispered to him, “tell them you’re here to work and study. Your visa permits this. Tell them you study history of the Maasai people, and you wish to study at Sydney University.”

“Why my people?”

“Because you’re an expert, and they’re not.”

As I handed over my passport and medical certificates from Doctor Tungu, the lady simply stamped and wished me good day. I moved on, standing and waiting… I waited for Damu to come through, then I waited some more. My heartrate was hammering, and I could feel my blood pounding in my ears. I felt sick to my stomach and had visions of them interrogating him and him not understanding their questions and panicking, and then I started to panic.

“Sir? Are you okay?” a security guard asked me.

“Yes, well, no, I’m waiting for my friend. He hasn’t come through yet.”

“You can’t wait here. You’ll have to move on.”

“But he won’t know where I am,” I said, my panic rising even further. Just when I thought this security guard was going to haul my arse for acting suspiciously, Damu came through the line. He saw me, and his grin was instantaneous.

I cannot describe the relief I felt. There are simply not the words.

“Oh, here he is now,” I said to the guard, a wave of emotions washed over me. I looked up at Damu. “I was worried.”

We walked through the concourse to where people were waiting for their friends and loved ones, though no one was waiting for us. I had all I needed right beside me. And I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t walk another step. I had to sit down.

Damu put his hand on my shoulder, his eyes wide with worry. “Heath Crowley, what is it?”

I looked up at him, at his beautiful and serene face, and couldn’t stop my tears. “We did it. We made it.”

Damu smiled and put his left hand to my face and wiped the tears away. “You did it.”

I took a steadying breath, and my tears finally gave way to a smile. “Are you ready for this?”

He looked out the glass walls to the traffic and to the new life that waited for him. “If I’m with you, I be ready for anything.”

We didn’t last long in Sydney. I showed Damu as many touristy things as I could think of. He loved it all, but his heart wasn’t in it. He longed for a quieter life, out of the hustle and bustle, where there were wide open spaces, much like that of Tanzania.

I couldn’t blame him. He’d been ripped from the only world he’d known, and thrown into the twenty-first century. He loved his new life in Australia, but something just wasn’t quite right.

And for the first time in months, I’d dreamed of where our lives would take us. It was an absurd dream, abstract but real at the same time. There was a flood of butterflies, but they weren’t really butterflies. I knew, in that weird dream kind of way of knowing, that it was Jarrod. And when they swarmed and fluttered their wings, it was the sound of Jarrod laughing. As he took flight, the murmuration shimmered away and the name of a town remained.

Blakeford.

I looked it up on a map the next morning. It was a smaller town, about six hours drive from Sydney. A small farming community hit hard by the drought but soldiering on. There was a population of eight-thousand people, a few stores, a few schools, and not much else.

“What are you looking at?” Damu asked, handing me my bowl of porridge.

I pointed to the screen. “I dreamed last night,” I said, “that we moved here.”

Damu studied the pictures on screen, taking in the dried off pastures and the wide main street. He kissed the side of my head. “Then that’s where we’ll go.

And so we went.

And I knew that fate had the last say when we got out of the car in the main street of Blakeford, and the local police officer who just happened to be walking out of a shop, stopped and stared. “Heath Crowley,” he whispered. He looked at my odd eyes, my most distinguishing feature. “Oh my God, it is you.”

Detective Don Walmsley. He was the policeman who was there when Jarrod and I were attacked. He was the one who had stayed with me in the hospital corridor when Jarrod’s parents kicked me out. He sat beside me when my own mother told me, just minutes after Jarrod died, that now this gay-nonsense was over, I could live a proper, normal life.

I hadn’t seen him in over two years. “Detective Walmsley,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Please call me Don.” He swallowed hard. “I thought about you often. Wondered how you got on.”

I shook my head. “Well, the last two years… jeez, where do I start?” I turned to Damu. “This is Damu, my boyfriend.” I didn’t need to hide anything in front of Don. He already knew I was gay. He took in the six-foot-three black man and never missed a beat.

He went to shake his hand, but seeing it was still in a splint, he clapped Damu on the shoulder instead. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’ve spent the last year in Tanzania, living with the Maasai actually,” I said. “Which is where Damu is from.”

Don looked twice at Damu. “Really? Wow!”

Damu nodded graciously. “We not expect to know anyone here,” he said.

“Yeah, fancy us meeting again here, of all places.” Don looked up the street. “Not much happens here. It’s why I chose to be transferred here. I have to say, Heath, after what happened to you, I… well, it stayed with me. Never much fancied the city after that.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Oh, same.”

He brightened and changed subjects. “So, what brings you here?”

I wouldn’t go explaining the whole dream thing to him. Not yet, anyway. “We’ve come to check Blakeford out. We might move here, actually.”

He grinned. “Well, I’d like that.”

He told us where the real estate office was, the post office, the library, and the supermarket. “Police station is down the end on the right. Call in and see me anytime, you hear?”

“Sounds good,” I said, shaking his hand again. “And, Don. I never did thank you, for staying with me that day.”

His face softened, and he smiled. “Just seeing you alive and well is all the thanks I need.”

We watched him walk away, and after a long silence, I turned to Damu and said, “Fate sure is a funny thing.”

The house we ended up getting was a run-down old farmhouse. Set on thirty acres of drought-stricken land, it was flat and dry, much like the lands we’d left behind in Tanzania.

The real estate agent had been professional, but it was clear she thought the place was a dump. “The house is old and the kitchen and bathroom are original. Built in the 20s I think,” she said, looking around the dusty room. “The owners couldn’t afford to stay on. The drought was too much, and they simply walked out.”

The living room had a fireplace and hardwood floors, leading to an old kitchen with a large window and faded yellow curtains. Yes, the house was old, but if I tried to picture us living anywhere else, I couldn’t. Sure, the fancy hotel rooms had been nice but too modern and sleek. I tried to picture Damu living in a new place like that, but I just couldn’t. He belonged somewhere with history, with character, somewhere earthy and warm.

Damu walked through the house, taking it all in. “What do you think of it?” I asked.

He looked at me and smiled.

“
Enk-âŋ
.”

Home.

I turned to the real estate agent. “We’ll take it.”

I’d organised all my stuff to be taken out of storage and delivered, and I knew going through the boxes of mine and Jarrod’s life together wasn’t going to be easy. But I was ready. It had been over two years, and I had a different life now. Damu helped me, sitting with me and letting me tell stories and laugh and cry as I unpacked Jarrod’s favourite coffee cup, the photos, the clothes. And those damn abstract canvases that I’d hated, but Jarrod bought them anyway. Rich coffee colours, reds, and golds were spread across three tall frames, and it was funny how they now reminded me of my time in Tanzania. I had to wonder if it was Jarrod’s way of telling me of what was to come.

I hung those three canvases above the fireplace. The mantle proudly displayed the gourd bowls Damu and I had used every day, and the small paper crane I’d given Damu, alongside a single framed photo of Jarrod. It was Damu who put it there, telling me his life should be remembered, and it was, after all, Jarrod who led me to him.

I kissed his cheek and whispered, “Thank you.” He understood and accepted my past, he never questioned my ability to read dreams. Not that I’d dreamed anything in months, which I took to be a good sign. Though, dreams or no dreams, Damu accepted all of me.

I surprised him with five goats a week after we’d moved in. He was so excited, so moved by what it meant. Back in his manyatta, for him to have his own goats was simply not fathomable. He wasn’t wealthy enough. He wasn’t
worthy
enough. But here he was, and I’d make it my life mission to remind him every day if I had to.

When the truck had gone and the goats were bleating in the small paddock near the house, watching Damu made everything worthwhile. He could barely stand still, and he almost cried. We spent that afternoon checking the fences and water troughs in the first few paddocks, and I happened to find a long, thin branch that had fallen from one of the trees. I pulled the smaller branches off it, so all that was left was single long staff. I handed it to Damu and leaned up to kiss him. “Here, now go tend your goats. I have work to do inside.”

I left him grinning in the middle of the paddock. And I would watch from the kitchen as he herded the goats. He had plans for more goats, making goat’s milk products, like soaps and cheese, to sell at the local markets. I had no idea if it was doable, but he was adamant and determined to make it work. He wanted to contribute some income, to be equal, and that was something I couldn’t argue with.

I was doing some research on soap making when I heard a car approach outside. I looked through the front window to find a police car coming down the drive. It was Don Walmsley and I felt a stab of dread on what his visit could mean… until he pulled out a long white tube with Australian Consulate stickers on it.

It’d been three months since we’d arrived in Australia. There had been delays because of the change of address, but finally―finally―Damu’s spear and rungu had made it.

I greeted Don at the door with a welcoming smile. “This is gonna make someone very happy.”

Don obviously had no clue what was in it. “You know what it is?” he asked. “Not every day we get special parcels from Tanzania with Consulate labels. Came to the station because it’s listed as “dangerous weapons” but when I saw where it came from, I knew who it belonged to.”

“Don’t imagine you’d get many Maasai weapons out here,” I said with a smile.

He barked out a laugh. “Uh, no.”

“Come through here,” I said, leading the way through the kitchen. “He’s outside.”

Don carried the long tube and put it on the dining table. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s a lovely house. Old, but a palace compared to where I spent the last twelve months. I slept in the dirt and the only thing I owned was that bowl,” I said, nodding to the mantel.

Don shook his head in disbelief, and he looked me right in the eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for in Tanzania?”

“I did.” Then I grinned. “He’s out with his goats.”

We walked into the backyard, and Damu was in the middle paddocks, some four hundred metres away. With his real shuka packed away for safe keeping, he wore a red shawl over his jeans and shirt. It was really just a red picnic-style blanket we found at the store, but his eyes lit up when he saw it. It was a lot like the shukas worn by his people, and now the weather was cooler, he wore it most days when he was outside. And I had to admit, I loved it on him. I called out and waved for him to come in, and as soon as he saw there was someone with me, he started to walk toward us.

“He’s a quiet fella, isn’t he,” Don said. It wasn’t really a question.

That made me laugh. “He is. He’s the most peaceful person I’ve ever met. He’s calming and gentle. Dressed in his Maasai clothes, he looks kinda intimidating, but he’s anything but.”

He studied me for a long moment. His voice was quiet when he said, “You went through something over there, didn’t you?”

I smiled at him. “I went there not caring if I lived or died. And I found my reason to live, in the unlikeliest of places.” I looked back to where Damu was walking toward us and took a deep breath and sighed. “One day I’ll tell you the story of a guy who purchased another human being to save his life, then had to bribe government officials to get him out of the country.”

Don blanched, his eyes wide. “Jesus.”

I smiled at him. “I couldn’t save Jarrod. But I could save Damu.”

Don let out a breath through puffed out cheeks. “Wow.” He shook his head. “Sounds like he saved you too.”

I smiled at him. “He sure did.” By this, Damu was close enough to hear us, so I hurried him along. “Don has something for you inside.”

“Is everything okay?” Damu asked quietly.

I smiled at him and nodded. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

I think Don had a new appreciation for Damu’s timidness, after what I’d just told him. “Special delivery,” he said gently.

We walked back inside, and Damu stopped when he saw the long tube. His hand went to cover his mouth. “I had given up hope.”

“Open it,” I urged him.

Damu pulled the spear out first, gasping as he did. It was just as I remembered, only it seemed better somehow. The tip was still wrapped in my old shirt, and we pulled that off to reveal the blade. Damu grinned and stood tall, holding his spear proudly. “You like?”

“Looks good,” I said, unable to stop smiling.

“It’s incredible,” Don said.

I unwrapped my old shirt and held it up. “Good lord,” I mumbled. It was so threadbare, with holes, and although it had been white, it was now stained brown. “I wore this every day.”

Damu put this hand over his mouth and laughed. “I not remember it look so bad.”

Don stared at the scrap of material I called a shirt. He didn’t say anything, but I could see it in his eyes that he was finally understanding exactly how we’d lived in the manyatta.

Then Damu pulled out his rungu, and ran his fingers over the smooth wood, like they’d forgotten the touch.

“It looks like my golfing driver,” Don said. “Can I?” Damu handed it over proudly.

“You should show him how you use it,” I said.

Damu shook his head, embarrassed, like the idea was foolish.

“I’d love that,” Don said, looking over the wooden club.

“Really?” Damu asked.

“Yes!”

So, out in the back yard, I put an old can on a fence post, and Damu stood about forty metres from it. He tossed the rungu in his hand, getting a feel of the weight of it, then he raised his arm back, and taking a few long strides toward the post, he launched the rungu at his target. With perfect aim and strength, the rungu knocked the tin flying of the post.

“Woo!” I cheered.

“Holy shit!” Don cried, then clapped. “That was incredible!”