What Tears Us Apart

Chapter 28



January 11, 2008, Kibera—Ita

KIONI LEAVES AT dawn. Ita tries to stop her, it isn’t safe for her to go, but she doesn’t care. She takes a knife from the kitchen and heads straight for the front gate. Ita convinces her to accept the rest of their money, for bus fare.

After she’s gone, he stares at the door, his mind fissuring like concrete after an earthquake.

He turns and staggers across the courtyard. He wakes Mary in a rushing whisper, with just enough lucidity left to hear how crazed and off-kilter he sounds. He implores her to wake the boys and take them to a neighbor. Her eyes show confusion and outrage at the command, and her mouth rattles off baffled questions that Ita answers automatically. Yes, without breakfast. Yes, now. Right now. Right this second, so he can be alone, so he can think before his mind turns to mush.

Mary’s up, rising quickly, pulling open the sheet. Her eyes dig into Ita’s, her brow knotted with worry. She opens her mouth to protest, but something she sees in his eyes stops her. She dresses in a flash, crosses the courtyard and collects the children.

Ita hears them whispering, startled, then scared. He knows he is behaving strangely, sending them outside as if it’s a regular day and not the end of the world, but he can’t stop it. They have to go. They have to leave, like everyone else.

When they’re gone, Ita paces the orphanage, kicking up dust. He has to think of a solution.

There has to be a solution.

He’s trying, reaching, but one thought finally trumps all the others. I have nothing left to give. Nothing.

What can he do? It’s over. They’re out of money, out of food. The schools are closed, indefinitely. It isn’t safe here or anywhere in Kibera. What can he do? He can go to the missionaries—see if they can take the boys. Then he can close the orphanage and wait out the violence.

Life is war, Chege would snarl into Ita’s face, standing on his toes for effect. Why pretend otherwise?

Ita goes into his room and lets the stillness of the orphanage steel him. The boys will cry, they will lash out. Everything he has tried to teach them will be lost.

All he has to do is start the process, say it aloud. No one will blame him in these times. There will be no more safaris. The world will tell its citizens not to come to Kenya, where the tourist industry has been murdered by the violence, the same as all its victims—with no thought to consequences.

He leaves his room, goes to the space near the washing area. He stares at the leftover cans of paint. He lugs the cans into the courtyard, two at a time, then sits down on one of them to rest. All around him dance the murals he painted with Leda and the children. Was it really such a short time ago?

He looks at the yellow sun, remembers Leda laughing in his ear. Then he looks at the sparrows, and his mind shakes free of the last grip of reason. He stands up on shaky legs. With trembling fingers, he picks up the brush atop one of the cans. With its handle, he pries open the colors.

Ita begins to paint, to paint over every mural in the orphanage. Over the animals the boys painted with Leda, he paints black columns of smoke. He paints the truth. No rainbows or yellow suns exist here anymore. Kenya’s underbelly is exposed. Exteriors always hide something. Messy human anatomy underneath smooth taut skin. Evil intentions behind friendly handshakes. Genocide behind slick election-poster slogans.

Ita paints Raila and Kibaki as two black clouds, raining down fire on shadowy stick figures below. He paints their hands reaching up like bare tree branches, outstretched and empty. Ita paints stormy seas with ships carrying slaves. He paints Chege dancing, his dreads arcing from his head as if he’s been struck by lightning.

Sweat runs down Ita’s arms in rivulets. His hot, moist skin makes him think of Leda spread out on the bed, her white skin glistening, her hair curling in the heat. He hears her laugh in his ear, feels her breath on his neck. He paints her as an angel with broken wings.

All the paintings are rough, outlines, but the colors speak clearly—black slashes and red everywhere. Darkness and death.

All of a sudden, Ita stops. He staggers back from the wall, a sound gurgling in his throat like a clogged drain. His sandals make two long continuous tracks as he backs his way toward his room. He pushes the door open with his back, his eyes fixed on what he’s done. His vision reels, he feels like he’s falling. He has to lie down or the paintings will swallow him up. He can hear them. The billowing smoke, the ships at sea. The fluttering sound of the wounded angel, scuttling away from him. Chege’s feet, dancing with the devil.

But there is another sound. Outside, growing louder, cutting through his raging thoughts. A scraping sound. Scrambling.

His mind jolts back to reality.

Someone is trying to break in. Climbing over the metal wall.

Ita reaches for his rifle.