Three Beads (Part Three)

Dust motes danced in the air as the truck jogged through potholes and dry washes. Asya watched them spin in unison as they moved with each jostle of the cab. “What’s that you’re playing with?” the large scarred man asked. It was the first time either of them had uttered a word in many miles.

Asya’s hand clamped convulsively around the bits of worn glass in her palm. “Beads,” she said quietly.

“Well let’s see then,” he said. “I’m not going to take them,” he growled as his eyes flickered over her reluctant face.

Asya watched her hand slowly open to reveal Kunta and Kgosi, their vivid blue catching the sparkle of sunshine and refracting it throughout the interior of the vehicle. “They’re beads from my father’s marriage bracelet,” she said.

Suddenly the man slammed on the brakes and the truck fishtailed to a stop in the middle of the road. The beads flew from her hand and bounced onto the floor at her feet. Asya scrambled to her knees to retrieve them.

“Your name girl,” the man bellowed. “What’s your name?”

Aysa stared up into his wild eyes from the floor. Her name stuck in her throat as she watched rage and great sorrow battle across his countenance. “Asya Okeke,” she whispered then ducked her head when she saw his great hand rise up as if to strike her. She only peered up when she heard the door open, then saw the man throw himself from the vehicle.

She watched with great round eyes as he flung himself onto the ground and called out in the language of the H’Tari. Her mouth hung open as he wailed and tore at his clothing and hair. She thought of leaping from the truck and running into the bush, but she didn’t even know where they were, and she knew that her chance of survival in the jungle, alone, was slim.

After a long, long time the man grew quiet and still; finally he made his way back into the truck. Dust, tears, and blood streaked his face and arms. Asya stared at the hanks of hair stuck between his fingers.

“You are Asya Okeke, daughter of the late Amadi Okeke, from the village of Ngaliama,” he said with a voice hoarse and croaking. Asya nodded her head, unable to form words from her constricted throat.

“Many years ago your father saved my life and paid for it with his,” he said quietly. “He pushed me out of the way of a runaway log and was crushed. The last thing he said to me was, ‘Otee, take care of my little girl and wife; they are precious to me.’ Then he pulled his marriage bracelet from his arm and pushed it into my hand and died.” His voice broke and he sobbed quietly. “It was made with orange and blue beads. Those blue beads in your hand.”

His large scarred hands cupped Asya’s small ones. He patted her awkwardly then grabbed the steering wheel, the skin on his hands turned grey as he twisted the cracked plastic. “I was reborn that day. And I carried your father’s shaitani in here,” he slapped his chest with a loud thud. “But what did I do? Did I take his wife and child under my protection? No, I did not. My best friend was dead – because of me. My job was gone. I felt nothing but contempt for my life and the world. From that day on the only thing I cared for was another drink.” He stared at her with unseeing eyes. “I became a bad man Asya. A very bad man.”

A long silence stretched, and the dust motes continued their dance in the late afternoon sun while Asya digested this information. Then with trembling fingers she undid the twine holding her beads together and removed one. “This is Kunta,” she said. “I named it for a star that will always guide you on your way.” She handed it to him and gave him a shy smile.

~

Asya stepped from the plane and shivered under the cold harsh lights of the terminal. The flight had been a long arduous journey and the little girl was sick with longing and exhaustion. The only thing keeping her on her feet was the firm grip of the nice stewardess’s hand. Clutching Kesi to her chest she looked around the huge room fearfully when she spotted her mother’s smiling face.

To be continued…

Image Credit

“International Arrivals,” by Holidayextras. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved.

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