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through the narrow opening. Once outside it picked up speed, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed behind. I just hoped they didn’t look back at the camp as they left. I wanted them to only look forward. Forward was where they were going, toward their future. Behind was nothing worth seeing or remembering. I wished them the gifts of forgiveness and forgetfulness.
    The car got smaller and smaller until it took the rise and disappeared over the other side. Soon even the plume of dust was gone. I felt sad and happy. Sad that they were leaving—that my friend was leaving—and happy because it meant it was possible to leave. Somebody I knew and cared for was going to a better place. I was happy for my friend, and I was happy because it meant that maybe someday I could go through that gate to a better place as well.

Chapter Eight
    “C ould you tell me about Kikima?” I asked my mother as we sat around our fire, and she stirred the food in the pot.

    “It is a village like any other village.” She shrugged and offered a sad little smile. “It has been a long time since I left.”
    “So long that you don’t remember?”
    “So long that it has changed, I am sure.”
    “Is it like Eldoret?” Jata asked.
    Mother laughed. “Eldoret is a big city. Kikima is a small town, more like a market. Or at least it was then. Most days it is a sleepy little place, but Mondays and Thursdays are market days. People flow in from the whole Mbooni district to buy and sell. The square is filled with stalls and blankets laid out with produce and merchandise, and it is so filled withpeople that you can hardly move. It is very exciting.”
    “It would be fun to be there on a market day,” Jata said.
    “When I was a little girl, those were my favorite days.”
    “Was your school far away?” I asked.
    “It was no more than a twenty-minute walk to Kyangoma—that is the name of the school I attended.”
    “You and your brothers?”
    “My brothers and my cousins. And now I’m sure my nieces and nephews must go there as well.”
    “Do we have lots of cousins?” Jata asked.
    “Dozens and dozens and dozens I am sure.”
    “It will be wonderful to meet our cousins,” I said.
    “If we go, you will meet them,” she replied.
    “It should not be
if
,” I countered. “It needs to be
when
.”
    She looked hesitant, almost afraid.
    “We can’t stay here, Mother, and there is no place to go back to. Our home is not safe … if it is even there anymore.”
    “The government will help us go back to Eldoret,” she insisted.
    I shook my head. “Nobody is being allowed back. The government says it isn’t safe.”
    “And how do you know this?”
    “I listen. I ask questions. I speak to the sergeant everyday. He has told me. He knows.” Our dinner guest had become my friend—almost against my will. Who would have thought that I could become friends with somebody of his tribe after all that had happened? We spoke often about the weather and other small pleasantries, but sometimes we also talked about things that were significant.
    “You know that Kikima is not close,” my mother said.
    “Is it as far as Eldoret?” I knew how far that was from the trip to the camp.
    “Not as far,” she admitted. “But right now, it is far for me. I cannot even go as far as the front gate.”
    “We are not leaving today. We need to wait for you to recover.”
    “Yes, I must get better before anything can happen. Even then, it will still be far away.”
    “Do we travel through Nairobi?” I asked.
    “Through Nairobi, and then toward Mombasa. Along the route to Mombasa, we head north toward Machakos Town. It is almost as big as Eldoret, except that all the people are Kamba.”
    “All of them?” I asked.
    “The whole region. That area is called by some Kambaland.”
    “And from there where do we go?” I asked.
    “From there, Kikima is not far. The people of Machakos all know of Kikima.”
    “The sergeant told me that the government is