“It’s only women here?” I ask.
“No, there are boys and men also. In the other wing, unless they are small like that one back there.”
The woman in the next bed is sleeping too, and so we pull the blanket over her. There is an odd, coppery smell over her body, and something worse that reminds me of a butchery. I have to force myself not to step back from her. She has a bandage covering most of her face, and what peeks out from under it looks mangled and swollen. The sister frowns and checks the woman’s pulse in her wrist. “She was just brought in today. Three of them, actually,” she says, nodding down the rest of the beds against this wall.
All the women are asleep, their faces slack. White bandages on arms and faces are jarring against their dark skin. The one on the end looks barely older than me, though it’s hard to tell with her bruised face.
“And one who didn’t make it through surgery,” Sister Dorothy adds. She tucks the woman’s arm under the blanket. “They were found out at the edge of the fields, left for dead. They’re medicated now, but we don’t have enough to get them past the first day. Tomorrow will be hard.”
“What happened to them?”
Sister Dorothy looks at me, and for a second I don’t think she’s going to answer. But then her eyes travel around the room, at the still bodies and blank expressions. Some of the women are looking at us, but most stare at the ceiling or the wall or they’re curled into themselves like fists. Sister Dorothy says quietly, so only I can hear her, “Same thing as everyone else. The war.”
? ? ?
My head is still full of images of broken bodies when we sit down to dinner with the nuns, after they’ve finished their evening prayers. I’m glad when Michael and Boyboy don’t involve me in the heated argument they’re having about whether the animal they saw run across their path on the way to the dining room was a stray cat or a civet. One is lucky and one is not, apparently. I don’t bother to ask what a civet is, though I probably should. This place could use some good luck.
We squeeze in with a dozen nuns and a priest. The electricity has been shut off throughout the compound, and everything is lit by flickering oil lanterns. The nuns tell us that since they don’t get many guests anymore, the hotel restaurant has been disassembled and the useful parts scavenged. But the nuns have their own kitchen, and after a blessing they dish out steaming bowls of dengu, sukuma, and matoke.
“It’s just beans, greens, and bananas,” I tell Michael when he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his plate. “Don’t be rude.”
Michael takes a tentative bite, grunts with approval, and is soon digging in. The nuns’ chatter is a warm envelope around the table, and soon, between that and the food, I’m feeling a little better. Exhaustion from the long ride is catching up to us. Boyboy’s head nods over his plate.
“You are students?” the priest, Father Fidele, asks. “What brings you to Kasisi?” He is young and friendly looking. His face is still round with baby fat.
The talking subsides and there are only the sounds of spoons clinking on plates while the nuns turn expectantly to us for an answer. I clear my throat and wipe my mouth, realizing too late I’ve done so with the back of my hand. “Yes,” I say. “We’re on, eh, an assignment.”
“To talk with villagers about farming practices,” Michael supplies. “We’re in a conservation ecology class.”
Boyboy coughs, and I smile and nod, grateful for Michael’s quick save.
“That sounds like a big assignment for secondary school students. And you’re traveling without chaperones?”
“We’re in university,” Boyboy assures them.
One of the older nuns tuts. “It’s not that strange. I traveled on my own for school when I was their age.”
“That was before the roads were clogged with rebels,” another answers.
“There have been reports of raids over the past few days on villages to the north of here,” Sister Dorothy says.
“We are very careful,” I say. “We stay with pastors and priests along the way.”
“You have to watch out for them too,” a nun says, and the others laugh. She’s given a stern look by a sister who I assume is in charge, and murmurs an apology.
“Quite all right,” Father Fidele says. He’s laughing too. “We’ll pray for a safe journey for you.”
“Um, thank you.”
“Sister Dorothy says you are from here, Christina?” the priest asks.
I shift in my seat. I wish I’d thought of some other story to tell the nun, but too late now. “Yes. I left here when I was five, about eleven years ago, with my mother.” I hesitate, glance at Michael and Boyboy, but they’re waiting for me to go on. Can I ask about Mama? They’re nuns, I think. A priest. They take care of the villagers. Hope flashes in my chest. I could be missing my chance by not saying anything. “She was a nurse,” I say carefully, watching their faces. “She may have worked here.”