‘Can I have one last request?’ asked Makena. ‘For my sixth magic moment, I mean. Would you dance for me? The sunset can be the backdrop and maybe me and those little kids coming up the hill can be your corps de ballet.’
Snow lit up like a boxful of stars. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Snow called to the eldest boy on the next-door rubbish heap. ‘Hey, Innocent? What tunes do you and your crew play?’
He strutted across, drumming a rhythm on a tin can. ‘We know everything.’
‘We’re doing Slum Lake. Swan Lake, only in Mathare. It’s a ballet by Tchaikovsky. You wanna play for us?’
‘Sure thing. We don’t know no Chomsky but if you’re talking 2face Idibia, Pharrell, Akon, Beyoncé, Ladyship Black Mambazo, we’ve got the beats.’
Makena wasn’t a dancer. ‘Two right feet,’ her mama used to tease. ‘Right for climbing but maybe not for dancing.’
Snow wouldn’t take no for an answer and before Makena knew it she was following her friend’s flying feet (sort of) as she performed allegro and cabriole leaps. Innocent’s band sang and drummed up a storm on buckets, tins and a homemade guitar, and the sun set in a wildfire blaze over the rubbish heaps of Mathare Valley.
Children came running from every part of the slum. Their audience grew by the minute. But it was Snow who was the star of the show. She never tired. When night descended and Mathare’s cooking fires and illegal lights flickered uncertainly to life, Snow became a girl of myth; free of gravity.
Thunder blasted, bombshell loud. Makena, who had sat down because her stomach hurt, felt the ground shake beneath her. Lightning snaked across the dump. It illuminated Snow as she flew through the air, suspended above Mathare Valley just as Michaela had been over Harlem.
A bulldozer ramped over the hill, dazzling Makena with its lights. A tsunami of rubbish came with it. Dirt spat in her eyes. Trying frantically to evade the crushing treads and stampede of children, she went tumbling down a dark slope. Unable to halt her fall, she rolled until she hit the road below, twisting her ankle.
The pain was electrifying. For a minute, she thought her ankle was broken. It ballooned in an instant, making hobbling difficult and running impossible.
A second bulldozer arrived and began demolishing a line of shanties. Its progress was overseen by aggressive, shouting men. Panicked residents were running everywhere. Police sirens added to the din. A security guard spotted Makena and moved threateningly towards her.
Makena gritted her teeth and half-jogged, half-limped out of range. A chaos of children came flying from the slum. ‘Run, Kissmass!’ yelled a girl from her story group. ‘Run with us.’
‘Where’s Snow?’ called Makena. ‘Have you seen Snow?’
A police car screamed into the street, drowning her words. The children sped off. Makena followed as fast as she could. People were tearing in every direction, some dragging possessions, but she couldn’t keep up with any of them.
She became increasingly panicky and disoriented. A family tried to take her with them but gave up when Makena had to stop to rest her ankle. When she rounded the next corner, she was alone.
Her stomach cramps had returned and a headache hammered at her skull. She hoped she didn’t have cholera. There’d been an outbreak in Mathare. Health workers had been distributing leaflets warning people to wash their hands regularly with soap and avoid buying street food. The mandazi now seemed a mixed blessing.
Given the state of her foot and stomach, Makena decided that her best and perhaps only chance of surviving the night would be to do what she’d done that first night alone in Nairobi: find a bin and sleep beneath it.
In the morning, she’d return to Mathare Valley and find Snow. She’d convince her friend to leave the slum. They could hitch a ride to Mount Kenya and live off honey and foraged roots and leaves. Snow was talented and resourceful and Makena understood mountains. Together, they’d thrive. And when they were old enough, they could save up and go to the UK or Europe, where Snow would become a famous ballerina.
Anxiety added to the cauldron in Makena’s stomach. She kept seeing Snow suspended in mid-air as the bulldozer crested the rise. Had her friend escaped its crushing treads and great metal jaw, or had she…?
No, Makena refused to allow the thought to take up residence in her brain. Snow would be as angry and sad as everyone else in Mathare Valley. She’d no doubt have a few cuts and bruises. But she’d bounce back. That was the thing about free spirits: they were indestructible.
It was then that Makena noticed the Mercedes. It was idling by the side of the road, dust motes twirling in the red glow of its rear lights. There was no number plate on its bumper.
Terror paralysed her. If the Diplomat was here, the Reaper wouldn’t be far behind. They were probably on the look-out for lone children.
Lost girls like her.
Like a beast from a fairy tale, an immense silhouette unfurled from behind the car. The Reaper had been leaning down, out of sight, talking to the driver.
Makena dropped to the ground, desperate for somewhere to hide. Almost immediately, she recognised the street opposite. It was the one where she and Snow had picnicked on the day they met. If she could get to it without being seen, she might be able to hide under the market cart. She prayed it was still there. Either way it was a risk. The street was a dead end. If the Reaper or the Diplomat spotted her, she might end up trapped.
The monster leaned down again, summoned by the driver. Makena crawled behind a low wall and inched forward. She was in luck. The cart was standing in the shadows, a tarpaulin hanging over it.
The Reaper straightened. He strode away in the opposite direction.
It was now or never. Makena made a break for it as speedily as her swollen ankle would allow. Unfortunately, the cart was further along the street than she remembered. Each step and every breath was pure torture.
She was almost there when she tripped over a can concealed in the darkness. Its tinny clang reverberated along the silent street like a cymbal smashed by a drummer.
Makena dived under the cart. Nothing happened for a moment. Then she caught the muffled thud of running feet. Her head was spinning; her heart slammed her ribcage. Had the giant seen her or not?
He was walking now, his footsteps stealthy and sure. She could almost hear him smile. There was nothing she could do. Nowhere she could limp or crawl. She’d run out of options.
The Reaper stopped beside the cart. He lifted the tarpaulin and reached in.