Page 15 of Bastard
I pour the yogurt-textured drink. “Homemade maheu?” The beverage is made from maize meal though I’ve yet to try it.
“Yes.” Mustafa slides into the seat next to me. “Pang’ono pag’ono,” she says, tapping cups then drinking deeply.
“What does that mean again?” I ask.
“A fire grows little by little.”
I laugh. “As in be patient?”
“Yes.”
“Patience isn’t in my nature, unfortunately.” I take a sip of maheu, and fire rips down my throat. Coughing, I place the cup on the table.
“Malawian moonshine,” Mustafa informs me, sipping the hard alcohol like it’s chamomile tea. She winks at me. “Frees the lips. Three sips and that man sang like a woodhoopoe.”
My watering eyes widen. “He did? And ...?”
“He speaks Chichewa but is anazungulike you.”
“A foreigner.”
“American.”
“Did he say why he’s here?”
Mustafa reaches over to pat my hand. “What do you think, girl?”
I reach for my drink. “My brother is behind this,” I say, taking another sip, wincing as I swallow.
“His boss is a mean son of a bitch. That is what he told Mustafa.”
I choke on my drink and hastily cover my mouth.
She pats me on the back. “You are a beautiful woman, Luciana. Outside and inside. Your brother is wise to want to protect you. You protect the people you love. There are worse things than having a handsome azungu to watch over you.”
I close my eyes, struggling to keep the memories at bay. My seekinghishelp. Him, protecting me.
Loving me.
I touch the bare skin of my ring finger, almost by instinct. His ring had been on a chain around my neck when the South Africans arrived. Somewhere between my hut and the Malawian tundra, I lost it. And the truth is, it hurts. Despite my plans to bury the thing. Despite my resolve for closure.
“There is that look again.” Mustafa makes a clucking sound.
“What look?”
“The same one you arrived in Nmimpi with. What is the word? Dispirited?”
I wince. Dios, have I been that obvious?
“Sometimes, girl, you seem so lost. Tell Mustafa what happened to hurt your spirit so bad.”
I hesitate.
“Was it a man?”
I toss back my drink, eyes watering, until my cup is empty.
Mustafa sits quietly, waiting me out. Her, with her pang’ono pag’ono.
