What Tears Us Apart

Chapter 30



January 11, 2008, Kibera—Ita

ITA CROUCHES, THE rifle aimed in front of him, ready.

He scans the inside perimeter of the courtyard, trying to pin down the sound’s origin. He hears the loud clang of someone throwing himself at the metal wall, trying to clear the top.

Then he sees it—two sets of fingers and a foot in a sandal. Clutching. Clinging to the wall straight ahead. Ita aims the rifle. But the disembodied fingers and foot vanish with a thud behind the wall.

They didn’t make it, but they will try again.

There’s a pause, a deafening silence that claws at Ita’s ears. He waits, ready.

The same sequence again—Ita hears the scrambling in the dirt, the determination of body and mind. Then the thump, the clang of body on metal.

And now Ita has to decide. Morality doesn’t always allow for deliberation, it happens in instants. Which is the choice that will save him and which is the choice that will kill him slowly, for the rest of his life?

When the fingers appear, Ita doesn’t fire.

When the foot appears, he takes a breath.

When the foot becomes half a leg in jeans and a knee, Ita squeezes the trigger.

The choice is made. The sound of the bullet pinging off the metal rings through the air. He missed on purpose. The foot and fingers vanish with a thud and a yelp.

It takes a few seconds for Ita to realize that the yelp was not a man’s, but a boy’s. And that the sandal was blue. Familiar.

Jomo.

The rifle in Ita’s hands is a hose turned into a serpent. He casts it to the ground. Then he drags a stool over to the wall, climbs atop it and peers over.

Jomo is heaped on the ground, clutching his ankle and rocking himself. He’s hurt.

“Stay there!” Ita says and Jomo looks up at him, terrified. “I’m coming to get you.”

Ita runs around the side of the orphanage, scoops Jomo up into his arms. His heart races as he carries him inside, disgusted with himself for what could have happened. Jomo doesn’t say a word. Ita wishes he would yell at him, but no, the boy bites down on his lip to quell his tears, tucked silently in Ita’s arms as he speeds through the courtyard into the medical room.

Ita sits the shaking boy down on the metal table. “Are you okay? Is it your ankle?”

Jomo nods, clutching his right calf. Ita slides his jeans up and sees that already the ankle is hideously swollen. Please don’t let it be broken.

“Okay,” he says, “I’m going to turn it around, very carefully. You tell me when to stop.” He slips off Jomo’s sandal and straightens his leg. He proceeds to turn the wounded ankle slowly, 360 degrees. Jomo sucks in a wincing breath, but Ita makes it the full circle without him calling out. A sprain then, most likely. Ita sighs.

“What were you doing?” he snaps. “Why didn’t you knock? Where’s Mary? Jomo, I almost—”

But Jomo’s face is like a beaten puppy’s. Something is very wrong, not just the ankle. His long fingers grip the edge of the metal operating table, the rest of his body is quivering.

“Jomo, what is it?” Ita is aware he’s making it worse, scaring the boy by his tone. He tries to soften his voice, imitate how Mary talks to them, soothingly. “You can tell me. What is it, angel?”

This was the wrong thing to say. Jomo’s silent whimpers switch to muted sobs. His shoulders shake so violently Ita worries he will make himself sick. Not knowing what else to do, Ita takes the boy into his arms and hugs him tight.

Miraculously, Jomo allows it. His dusty head tucks underneath Ita’s chin. Ita feels his dread start to fade away.

Then suddenly Jomo recoils. He scoots to the other side of the table, leaving a cold hard space between them.

“Jomo.” Ita gives him a long look. “Tell me.”

Jomo’s eyes dart to Ita’s hands. “The necklace,” he says.

The necklace? Ita looks at the boy in confusion.

“Necklace,” Jomo repeats.

He wants to see the necklace? Ita reaches inside his pocket and takes out the broken sparrow necklace. The severed links of chain dangle from his fingers. Jomo’s eyes fix on the necklace and grow wide, wider.

“Where did you find it?” Ita asks, watching the boy’s tear-smeared face. But maybe that is the wrong question. “When?”

“That night,” Jomo whispers.

Ita feels a drumbeat in his stomach, the heartbeat of a monster growing within. “Tell me, Jomo. Tell me now.”

“I saw—” Jomo halts.

“You saw what?”

“Everything,” he answers, looking at the floor. “I saw everything.”