Safiyah found her grandmother asleep on a crate, leaning against a cluttered counter at the back of the bicycle shop. It was very dark, and smelled of oil and sweat and tobacco smoke. “Cucu?”
Her grandmother opened her eyes slowly.
“Cucu!”
“There you are, my little one.” Cucu pulled Safiyah onto her lap. She patted Safiyah’s back as she gulped and hiccupped. She stroked Safiyah’s cheek as she groped for the words to tell her about Mrs. Okella.
“That poor, poor lady.” Cucu eased Safiyah aside. She pulled the little cloth bag that bulged with mancala stones from her pocket. “She was so happy to win this time.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Now you are here, we will go home.”
“I couldn’t find you,” wailed Safiyah. She started shaking again. “I thought you were dead!”
Cucu pulled Safiyah back against her thin body. “After Mrs. Okella won her game, I came home. But you were gone. I came looking for you.” She patted her chest. “Mr. Zuma found me coughing and brought me here.” She looked around the crowded shop. Two babies slept on their mother’s shoulders. A group of men smoked as they talked quietly together. A family sat against a wall without speaking. “We were both lost, for a little while,” said Cucu. She stood with one hand resting against the bench. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and her lips were dry and cracked. She put a fist to her mouth and began coughing.
“You see?” Safiyah said to Mrs. Pakua, who had waited silently as Safiyah was reunited with her grandmother. The old worry about losing the only family she had left rose in Safiyah like a gust of wind.
“Perhaps you should rest a little longer.” Mrs. Pakua helped Cucu sit down. “I am Grace Pakua,” she told her. “You granddaughter’s new friend.”
“I know of your family.” Cucu scrabbled in her pocket for her rag. She wiped her mouth. “I met Rasul the other day. Blade as he calls himself.”
“Rasul,” said Mrs. Pakua quietly and firmly. “His name is Rasul.”
Cucu struggled to stand. “Thank you for your help. But as you can see, my Saffy will take good care of her old cucu.”
“Perhaps you need more help than she can provide,” Mrs. Pakua said. She quickly added, “It may not yet be safe for you to return to your own home.”
“Cucu,” begged Safiyah. “You should go to the clinic. Your coughing…”
“It is nothing,” said Cucu.
“Cucu!” Safiyah’s voice was so loud that the crowd of people filling Mr. Zuma’s shop turned to stare.
Safiyah bent closer to her grandmother. “You are sick.” Her chin trembled as she searched for the right words. “If you get more sick…if you die, I will have no one.” Mrs. Pakua’s warm hand on the back of her neck gave her the courage to go on. “I can’t take care of everything.” She leaned against her grandmother. “Please, Cucu,” she begged. She tried to swallow the tears that rose in her throat. “I want you to be well so you can look after me.”
Tears ran down the long creases of her grandmother’s face as she nodded slowly. “Of course you do, my child. Of course you do.” Cucu wiped her own face with her rag, then dabbed at Safiyah’s tears. She looked closely at Safiyah, her eyes shimmering. She turned to Mrs. Pakua. “I would be very grateful for your help.”
Safiyah leaned against her grandmother and felt her thin arms hold her tight.
“Mr. Zuma will let you rest here a little longer, I am sure,” Rasul’s mother said. “I will find someone to bring you tea. And as soon as I have seen what arrangements can be made for your care, I will return.”
For just a moment, in her brightly colored kitenge, Mrs. Pakua reminded Safiyah of her mother who, a long time ago and far from here, had stood in the doorway of their village house waiting for Safiyah to come home.
Rasul’s mother lifted her hand and waved. “I won’t be long,” she called. Then she was gone.