What Tears Us Apart. Deborah Cloyed

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      But Chege doesn’t get up. He doesn’t leave. He sits, huddled over, feet dug in. Anchor to the ship thrashing in a storm.

      December 30, 2007, Kibera—Ita

      Ita wrings the rag out over the bowl of water and studies his face in the cloudy mirror.

      He knew the terrible things Chege was capable of, but to betray him like he did tonight, to do that to Leda...

      How could you, Chege?

      Hatred pumps to the rhythm of Ita’s blood. His reflection, staring back—the monster in the mirror—a mis-sewn Frankenstein’s creature, everything about him grotesque and misshapen, distorted by the electrifying visions that won’t stop coming. He sees Chege on top of Leda. Sees her white legs in the red dirt, rows of scratches like lions tried to devour her. He sees the look in Chege’s eyes. Guilt. Pure and clear. Guilt and regret bubbling out as Ita lunged at him with his fists. Good. Ita remembers the blood spouting from Chege’s nose. If you don’t die from guilt as you should, I should kill you. You are poison. You take everything that is beautiful—

      Now it’s a different memory vying for Ita’s mind. A memory more than a decade in the past, but somehow sharper with time. That look, sick and shamed, twisting across Chege’s face—Ita’s seen it before. That was Chege’s face the day he loomed above Ita as he wrapped his arms tight around a different, trembling, sobbing girl, the smell of fear mixed with the scent of her blood and sweat. I’m sorry, Ita whispered into her hair. I’m so sorry.

      Ita covers his face with his hands, trying to blot out the images, but it makes them grow stronger and louder.

      He opens his eyes, stares at the monster in the mirror. You see? You knew. You knew Chege would betray you again. What he did to Leda is your fault. You let him get close. Close enough to covet her, to hate her.

      Ita remembers how Leda scrambled away in the dirt, her face stained in tears. He remembers her screams. She screamed while the men beat him. Screamed at the world, at fate, sobbing and screaming until she collapsed and pulled Ita’s head into her lap, rocking him until the police dragged her away.

      Now she’s gone. And she’s never coming back.

      Ita hears a noise outside. His engorged body turns to iron. The sound swells like the roar of a charging animal. It’s a pack of men—tearing through the alley. They stop at the house behind the orphanage. Without the thin metal wall, Ita could touch them. The men rip a door from its hinges. Women scream—

      Ita grabs the rifle. He must get to the front door.

      Then he hears a noise behind him. Inside. In the courtyard, at the door.

      He grips the rifle with both hands and spins around.

      As the shouting outside turns violent, fists thudding against skin and bone, the door to the hidden room scrapes open.

      Ita aims the rifle, holds his finger on the trigger.

      But what appears in the crack of moonlight is Ita’s nightmare memory come to life. Ita’s childhood self, misshapen, a child-sized Frankenstein’s creature come back to haunt him.

      The little monster blinks, eyes wide and watery.

      Ita lowers the rifle, gasping.

      “Jomo.”

      The boy’s face is swollen, bruised and taut, as if it will split open. Blood is crusted in his eyelashes, still wet under his nose.

      “My God, Jomo, come here.”

      Jomo looks like he will take a step, but the roar outside changes again. The women screech, outrage at its highest pitch, until a new sound follows the fists—the whack of machete on bone. The screams become the wail of hopelessness.

      As Ita looks upon Jomo’s broken face, he hears the women’s tears rain down on crimes they will never forgive.

      “I’m sorry,” Ita whispers.

      They stand perfectly still, Ita and Jomo, facing each other, listening to the attackers running off, receding into the merciless night.

      Chapter 6

      December 11, 2007, Kibera—Leda

      HER THIRD DAY in Kibera, Leda woke with a smile curved like a fortune cookie. The blanket Ita had given to her was clutched in her fingers; she wriggled her toes into it. She could already hear them, the children, outside in the orphanage clanking pots and chattering. On the other side of the wall of her little room, she could hear people shuffling past in the alley, a rise and fall of greetings and “good mornings” Leda was surprised to find comforting rather than scary in their proximity.

      The buoyancy she felt in her heart didn’t hold for her body, however. Even with the foam beneath her, Leda’s body felt as rigid as her metal bed. For a moment, as she stretched her aching limbs, Leda imagined what she normally awoke to—gentle light through the curtains in Topanga, Amadeus licking her fingers, the first glimpse of her things lined up neatly, then the expanse of the scruffy mountains, the quiet ritual of her morning tea.

      But not this morning. Leda opened her eyes. She surveyed the sheet-metal door, its dented ripples and patchwork surface of dirt and paint and rust. She flipped over and looked at the ceiling, which was much the same. A two-foot space surrounded the metal table, her bed, on all sides like a moat. The far wall was the one that connected with the outside world, an effect more like a folding screen than a real barrier. Nothing at all like her house in Topanga, blanketed by trees, or her childhood home facing the sea. She tried to think of the word that would best describe those houses. Not isolated as much as—

      Insulated. That was the word.

      That was her comfort zone—being alone. But now, as she pictured the Topanga house she loved, the house that had seemed wild and warm compared to mother’s ice-cold mansion, now it too seemed sterile.

      Leda turned onto her side again, facing the interior of the orphanage. She replayed scenes from the day before. First, cringing at how she popped out in her blue pajamas when everyone was ready for the day. Then her abashed realization that they probably didn’t own pajamas. Did she look ridiculous or pretentious? Ita had laughed, though not meanly. His eyes never looked meanly at anyone. Stern, maybe, with the children, and with that nasty gangbanger Chege. But even with him, Ita showed a generosity of spirit that surprised her. After growing up with Estella, who emanated distaste, an annoyance, at her presence, Leda found Ita’s kindness unsettling. But warming.

      When they’d ventured out into Kibera together, she’d studied him from behind, marveling at how he moved with ease, with purpose, winding through the slum. He was a better guide than Samuel, telling her little flecks of gossip about the neighbors, connecting different locations to stories about the boys. Ntimi wanted to get his haircut here. I had to explain it was only for women. He still wanted to go. Ntimi likes to be around ladies.

      She was saddened by Michael’s story, of how the orphanage came to be. All the boys have stories like that, she reminded herself.

      Ita’s eyes as he told the story—they filled with a love so pure and rich, Leda had almost felt jealous.

      Then she remembered the dark alley. The part СКАЧАТЬ