What Tears Us Apart

Chapter 31



December 30, 2007, Kibera—Leda

AS LEDA RAN toward the mob, she fixed her eyes on Jomo, on the flickering glimpse of him between ankles and legs. But once she dove into the crowd, all clarity vanished.

The pain was shocking enough. Elbows jarred, feet kicked, weapons nicked her flesh. Instead of falling, she was lifted and carried forward, her toes dragging in the dirt. Men growled and screamed in her ears, spit peppered her face. A shoulder jabbed her in the jugular. They chanted, they bobbed in unison, they shoved each other in fervor. They were a train she’d climbed aboard, speeding down the dirt artery of the slum.

Leda lost sight of Jomo and couldn’t hear if Ita had come after her. She couldn’t see or hear anything clearly at all. Shadowy glimpses of sweat, blood and metal flashed before her as she squinted, trying to form an exit plan.

When a man to her right shoved another man to the left, creating a pocket, Leda’s feet hit firm ground and the crowd spit her out on a corner.

Leda flattened herself against a storefront, the sheet of corrugated metal cool against her shoulders. She looked down at her arms and saw they were scrawled with bleeding scratches. In the street, the mob started to circle, thrusting their fists in the air. No Raila, no peace, they chanted. No Raila, no peace! Someone hurled a burning stick, set two men aflame. A man shoved his neighbor crashing through a front door. A woman inside screamed, children ran out, wailing.

She had to move. She had to get back to the orphanage. But she was so disoriented, she had no way to get her bearings. And she had to find Jomo.

A man in the crowd stood still suddenly. He looked at Leda, his squinty yellow eyes glittering. He nudged the man beside him, pointed.

Move. Now.

Her back to the metal, Leda edged the way she thought she’d come, eyes down, praying for invisibility.

Suddenly she pitched backward into empty space, a narrow path between a row of shacks. She turned and ran as fast as she could. Her feet sloshed through a stream of sewage and debris, until one of her shoes slipped off. Leda cursed under her breath as her toe sliced down on something sharp. The stumble brought her to her knees, her skirt soaking up the mud, adding weight.

As she struggled to her feet, she heard voices enter the alley. And footsteps. She didn’t look back. She ran.

Until someone grabbed her elbow and yanked her backward.

Leda careened into the man’s chest hard enough to topple them both. She landed sitting on his stomach, bewildered and terrified. The man wrapped his arms around her middle so she couldn’t get up. Her feet pawed in the mud while her hands grasped at air. A river of urine and filth coursed over them both.

His friends caught up, skidded to a stop, and for a second they were silent, as if they were as shocked as she. The man let go and Leda scooted as far away as she could. Her breath came in sharp fragments. When she tried to stand, her feet snagged her skirt and she fell back down. Sobs tore through her throat and snot poured from her nose.

The men stared at her. “No Raila, no peace!” one of them yelled suddenly and thrust his machete into the air. Short, spiky dreadlocks stuck out of his skull like nails.

The other three teenagers followed suit, one holding a hammer, one a kitchen knife.

For a second, Leda thought they would move on. She scuttled away, close to the ground, like a crab. But as they plucked their friend from the mud, one of the men turned sharply to Leda and pointed.

“Kisasi!”

That word Leda knew. Revenge.

The men looked around the empty alley, out of sight of the mob. They looked at their weapons, their thoughts uniting as plainly as rain falling into the sea.

The kid closest to her reached out.

Leda clawed the ground, trying to rise, trying to run away. But her elbow was caught in rough fingers that gripped hard enough to pull her shoulder from its socket.

No. Please. Please, world, God, fate, don’t let this happen.