The Lion King In The Human World Part 3

Rani In Africa.

RANI

So, Kion proposed.

Part of me freaked out, part of me was madly in love with him, part of me wanted to get pregnant, and part of me stopped working completely. I had never really thought about marriage since Dick happened, so I didn't answer him. Instead, after graduation, I went to Africa to find Dad's family.

The Jeep hit every root and rock and bump on the way. I held on as my driver went on to the village where my dad was born. He had tried to explain to me that it was a bad idea, but I had to try. The village was only about two hours from the city and I had extra money.

Then the Jeep stopped, thankfully, and the driver got out to get my suitcase out. I was not looking forward to driving back with him.

The driver handed me my suitcase. "Don't be outside after dark," he said. He climbed back in and took off, without so much as a goodbye. I sighed and turned towards the gathering of huts, bursting with people. I was about to walk towards it when I heard a voice speak to me in Swahili.

"Who are you?" I turned. A young girl, about ten or eleven, stared at me with wide eyes. A dog of some sort stood at her side. Her curly hair was pulled into a mess on her head and she wore bright colored fabrics and a beaded necklace. 

"I am looking for my father's family," I told her in her own language, "My name is Rani and I believe that my father was born in that village." I pointed to the village.

"You are American," the girl said, "My mother's brother went to America. We could be cousins." We could. She grabbed my hand and started to pull me towards the village. "Come and meet Grandfather." I had a grandfather other than Papa, strange to think about that.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Amahle."

All eyes were on me as Amahle lead me through the village. I could hear a few whispers as we passed.

"An America?"

"What is she doing here?"

"Why is Amahle bringing her here?"

"Are there others?"

A middle-aged woman approached Amahle. "Daughter," she said, showing herself to be Amahle's mother and my possible aunt, "Why do you bring an American here? Does that seem wise?"

"She says her father was born here," Amahle said, "She could be Uncle Sahasi's daughter, could she not be Mother?"

Amahle's mother looked at me. "Are you sure that's what she said?" she asked her daughter, "You speak little English."

"I speak Swahili," I told her, "Rather fluently. I have a picture of my father if that would help."

Amahle's mother was joined by other women, one with a baby tied to her back. "Show us the picture," Amahle's mother ordered.

I took Dad's picture out of my pocket. It was him just off the boat from here, I hoped they would recognize him. I held up the picture. The group of women gasped. "What?" I asked, and then I repeated the question in Swahili.

"This is my brother!" Amahle's mother shouted joyfully, "You are my brother's child. My niece. Everyone, everyone, Sahasi's daughter has come!" I was swooped up in a hug by this strong woman, very strong woman. And then I was hugged by every relative in the village, which was the whole village. All of which were as strong or stronger than Amahle's mother Aba.

Then Aba lead me to a hut in the center of the village. Pushing past the strings of beads, I entered a smoke filled room with three elder woman cooking something and an elderly man sitting on a rug in the corner. 

"Father!" Aba called, "Sahasi has sent his daughter to us. Surely she has the money."

"Money?" I asked.

The elderly man, my grandfather clearly, rose from the rug. I had expected to hear bones cracking and joints popping, but nothing. He pulled me in for a hug and asked once again about money. "What money?" I asked, "I don't know anything about money."

"We sent your father to America to earn money," one of the elderly woman, one of which might be my grandmother, "So we could buy the land we live on and our farms. We used to get money from your father, but the money stopped. We thought he was waiting to earn it all. Has your father forgotten about us?"

I gulped. I just had to be the bearer of bad news, didn't I? I sighed. "Dad hasn't forgotten about you all," I said, "He died when I little with my mother."

One of the woman fell to her knees and sobbed. She must be my grandmother, she cried out for her son. "My son!" she sobbed, "My son! My only child! My son!" Only child? Then how was Aba here?

"Dear brother!" Aba cried, confusing me even more. I shouldn't bring that up now. 

My grandfather lowered his head for his son, my father. "I'm sorry," I told him, "I didn't know you weren't told. My grandmother, my mom's mom, said she sent you guys a letter. Did you get it?"

"It was in English," Grandfather said, "My other sons and grandsons were away at school, and when they came back, we had lost the letter." That sucked.

I sighed. "I didn't know about my dad sending you money. He never told anyone, I don't even think my mom knew. Though I can't ask her because she's dead too."

"Our land belongs to our enemy tribe," Grandfather said. They still have tribes? "We don't know how it got in their possession or why we live here, but we have been trying to buy it from them. We now own all the land our houses rest on because of your father, but our fields and our well still sit on their property."

"So Dad was sending you money to buy your land," I finished, "I didn't know, but now I can help. My husband is from a wealthy family in America, he can help you."

"Husband?" an elderly woman who's not my grandmother asked, "You are married?" I realized my mistake.