Dr. Obaye leapt out of his chair. “Karibu, Sarah. Karibu sana.” He clasped her hands. “How wonderful to see you looking so well. Please, sit down.”
“I’m glad to be alive, and glad to hear that all my students survived the outbreak.”
“Indeed, they did. And many others, too, thanks to your work. The virus has still not been definitively classified. It may be a more virulent strain of Crimea-Congo fever. The women you trained played a huge role in containing the disease. They prevented a major outbreak.”
“I wish I could say that I wasn’t surprised by how they handled things. I mean, that’s exactly the kind of outcome we hoped for, someday. But hope and realistic expectation … those are two different things. For these women to have achieved so much, I would have to say, this is beyond my wildest dreams.”
“My dear, Sarah. You were a catalyst.” He settled back into his chair.
“Ameera and I are applying for an NIH grant for a bigger study, training programs in other remote parts of the country. The Stanford foundation has already pledged some support.”
“So, can we look forward to seeing you back in Tanzania? To carry on this work?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I’d like to come back. Right now, I’m finishing up my surgery training. I’ll definitely keep involved from a distance.”
“You are very welcome here, any time.”
A THRONG OF giggling and chattering village children surrounded the van. The midwives, clad in matching orange and green kitangas, formed a semi-circle, clapping and singing, “Karibu, Sarah, karibu sana, karibu sana, Sarah.”
Balinda, tears streaming down her face, murmured, “You are alive, you are alive, you are alive.” She wrapped her arms around Sarah, and they swayed back and forth to the rhythm.
“I’m only alive because of you. You gave me your blood. Thank you so much.”
“It is we who thank you.” Balinda stepped back to show off her crisp white lab coat, tracing the blue letters embroidered above the chest pocket. “I am clinic assistant. Come, let me show you the dispensary.”
Much had changed in the six months since Sarah was life-flighted out of Kandu. Just as Pieter had predicted, Sarah’s house had helped the village recruit a permanent medical officer, someone who lived in the village four days each week. The dispensary had been refurbished, with new exam tables and cabinets. There was even a landline telephone, so it was easy to communicate with outside hospitals.
Jabari was now the official hospital courier, ferrying patients and lab samples. Sarah had donated her Rav4 for this purpose, and Rasheed had taught Jabari how to drive. (Ameera said her husband deserved a medal for bravery.)
Another change: Rasheed had installed a system to pump water to a spigot in the center of the village. No more toting water up the mountain.
The midwife course had not died after Sarah’s dramatic medivac extraction. Pieter and Ameera had organized volunteer doctors and midwife faculty from NTMC to complete the course. And after the course ended, the graduates formed a sisterhood of community health care workers. They met each Saturday and adopted the orange and green kitangas as their uniforms.
Dr. Obaye was right. Sarah had been a catalyst, unleashing talents and passions.
Balinda produced a large cardboard box containing all the things left in Sarah’s house. Her old passport was buried among clothes, linens, and a few toiletry items. At the bottom of the box lay the small cellphone she had used for calls and messages within Tanzania. She plugged it in to recharge while she enjoyed a cup of tea at Ghalib’s shop. Hamid and Jamal found her there. “Come with us. We have a surprise.”
They jogged ahead, leading her through the village, around houses, cow pens, and past a goat roasting on a spit. Sarah asked, “That’s not one of Bulu’s kids, is it?”
“Oh no,” said Hamid. “Her kids are fine. And so is Bulu.”
“What? She’s still alive?”
Jamal giggled. “That’s the surprise. Look over there.”
Bulu trotted toward them, her rear legs supported on a small platform with wheels. Sarah knelt down and scratched the little goat behind the ears. “Who built this contraption?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Pieter made this from pieces of the cart.” Hamid pointed to the wheels. “See?”
Jamal sniffed. “Pieter gone.”
Hamid patted his brother on the back. “But he will come back. He promised.”
When her little phone was fully charged Sarah switched it on. Still no cell service here in the village, but she could scroll down through old text messages: “Ready in the OR.” “Need you in L&D.” “Want to go get a pizza?” One text message made her stop breathing for a moment.
“Hi. This is Pieter.” The first message that he had sent her—on that night when she had been so very sad and desolate.
And there were the pictures she thought had been lost forever: Ameera’s wedding, David atop Kibo, patients, shots from her safari, multiple images of Spike. But not there was not one single picture of Pieter on her phone. It had all been so … subterranean. They hadn’t wanted anyone else to know. She stowed the cellphone in her pocket and asked Jabari for a lift out to the escarpment. The view across the Rift Valley was just as stunning as she recalled. In the mist, she could barely discern the little blip that was Kilimanjaro. A ping from her pocket startled her. The phone that had been dormant for months rose from the dead with a new text message. From Pieter.
“I heard you were in town. Can we have a drink together? Maybe lunch?”
He had sent the message just one day before. Sarah stared at the words, double checked the date. He was supposed to be back in Amsterdam.