What Tears Us Apart

Chapter 39



January 11, 2008, Kibera—Ita

JOMO SPITS THE words from his mouth as if he’s choking on fish bones.

Ita hears the torment, a young boy’s confusion, disgust over what he witnessed in that room. Ita feels for him, even as his blood starts to boil and he grips the edge of the metal table as if he will tip off the edge of the earth.

At the part of his story where Ita came barreling through the door, Jomo’s voice nearly drops off completely. Jomo admits in a strangled whisper to watching the men beat Ita and drag him outside, confesses he stayed hidden under the bed and did nothing, scared to death.

Finally, after the police came and went, Jomo emerged. He found the sparrow necklace squashed into the mud in the alley and pocketed it before ducking around the corner and running back to the orphanage. The slum was engulfed in chaos, a roar like lions in the clouds.

Finally, Jomo can say no more. His thin shoulders cave in on him and he slides off the table, ashamed to even look at Ita.

Ita is amazed that his heart continues to beat, though it’s in four pieces. One for himself. One for Jomo. One for Leda, one for Chege. His thoughts are a pack of wild dogs, tearing each other apart. He can observe, he can listen, but he can do nothing to stop the battle.

Chege’s death.

Leda’s betrayal.

Kioni.

The violence.

The fires.

That night. Ita is back in that night, his feet pounding the dirt, searching, pushing through the mobs, calling out Leda’s name. Finding Chege’s men crowded outside the door, cheering. Bursting inside. Seeing their bodies pressed together. Naked flesh, the red scratches on her skin, the blood and bruises. The dust curling around them. The look in Chege’s eye. Guilt. Guilt so sharp he couldn’t see past it to Leda’s mirror-image eyes.

Ita’s mind wanders into a seething cloud, a swarm of locusts eating his insides. There is no escaping the horde of emotions. Hatred, jealousy, love, regret—one by one and at all at once they swirl up through his guts until he wants to cry out.

When Jomo tugs on Ita’s pant leg, he lets the cry escape. Jomo jumps back, as if expecting to get hit. Steps forward again, as if wanting to.

“There is more,” Jomo says. “In your room, on your desk, I found something. I stole it.” He holds an envelope out to Ita. A cream-colored envelope, thick and folded, worn at the edges. Ita’s name is written across the front. He feels a shiver go up his spine as its familiarity settles upon him. Leda gave it to him, that night, but in the chaos, he’d forgotten about it until just now.

“I’m sorry,” Jomo is saying, near tears. “I was going to take a little and give the rest back. I was going to run away. I’m sorry.”

Ita takes the envelope, feels how fat it is, how heavy.

“I understand if you hate me,” Jomo says, “if you don’t want me here anymore.”

Ita opens the flap of the envelope. It’s stuffed with money, layers and layers of cash, flattened together. And there’s a letter.

“I’ll go now,” Jomo whispers.

But Ita is transfixed by the letter. Only when Jomo turns and hobbles to the door, wincing at the pain of his ankle but forcing himself to step on it as punishment, only then does Ita feel a flutter in his stomach, rising like birds taking flight. Jomo means to leave for good. He doesn’t expect to be forgiven, doesn’t expect to be loved. Doesn’t feel he deserves it.

“Jomo, wait—”

The boy doesn’t turn. But he stops. Halfway through the door, he stops.

“Jomo, look at me.”

He turns around, his eyes flitter up to Ita’s and then drop. He looks just off to the side, face blank, mind racing. It is such an exact replica of Leda’s stance, Ita wants to cry. To hug him tight.

“Sometimes, we can’t help it,” Ita says. “Sometimes, we can’t outrun the little monsters inside us that make us do bad things.” He sets down the envelope so that his hands are empty, open. “But do you know something?”

“What?” Jomo’s voice is the squeak of a mouse, the tiniest squeak of hope.

“We’re all like that. Everyone has them.”

Jomo doesn’t say a word. He’s holding his breath.

“Which means we can forgive each other.”

Jomo’s face is like paper in the fire, curling in on itself. Ita takes a chance—he opens his arms. Jomo considers, lowers his chin, hesitates.

When he tucks into Ita’s arms, he cries. His little body shakes like acacia leaves in the rain. But his feet are planted firm as if they’re growing roots. He will stay with Ita a long time.

One arm still wrapped around the child, Ita reaches his other for the envelope on the table. When he opens the flap, he feels a chill. He slips the letter free.

Leda.

Her name fills the room as though whispered by the red dust itself.

He unfolds the paper.





Ita,



You deserve better, in every way.



Take this money. And please cash the check. I want to help more, too, as much as you’ll let me.



I’m sorry. But I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t think you should. I tried to warn you—I’m no good at love. Even if I love you more than you can ever know.



Leda





Ita stares at the page. He reads it three more times. And please cash the check.

Jomo’s stopped crying. He gently pulls away and looks at Ita with big, full eyes. He watches as he nudges the cash aside in the envelope. Tucked in at the back is a check wearing Leda’s name and address and a number with four zeros to follow.

Jomo watches, curious. Ita thanks God Jomo didn’t throw it away, not knowing what it is.

Because Ita does. It is a small piece of paper big enough to save them.

Big enough to save them all.