“You haven’t, my man! You haven’t. Perfectly understandable given my country’s horrors-past and present. There are many men like Chief Kamande. Black men who toil diligently and tirelessly. They make their fortunes quietly-no noise or boasting.”
Roman’s expression was thoughtful. “I know a man who fits that bill,” Roman thought of Damon Ramsey’s father Quentin Ramsey.
“Say? Do you think I could walk from here?” Roman asked after they had ridden in silence for a while.
“Not sure that’s such a good idea, my man,” the driver cautioned. “Security is heavy just now with the wedding about to happen. Lots of important people on the grounds.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Roman dug his wallet out from a back khaki pocket. He took out bills for the fare and a generous tip. “Could you take my bag to the house and tell them I’m here? I won’t be very long,” he said.
The driver regarded his headstrong passenger and then tugged the reins, causing the two brown geldings to slow. “You sound like a man working up courage for something.”
Roman’s gaze wavered. “Is it that obvious?”
The driver drew on the carriage reins again and directed the horses to one side of the red dirt road. “You’re a strange one, my man. I will tell them you’re here. Chances are high you’ll be met before you’ve walked ten paces.”
“I’ll be okay,” Roman clapped the driver’s shoulder as he moved to climb down the modest carriage. “I met the Chief before and we hit it off.”
The driver shrugged. “Like I said, a strange one.” He favored Roman with a broad grin. “Good to meet you.”
“Same,” Roman returned the man’s big smile and then began his slow walk toward the sizable dwelling in the distance.
The place looked to be three times the size of his parents’ house. Roman thought of the patience as well as discipline it must have taken to remain so dedicated to creating something that was more than a showpiece, but a legacy. What lingered in the distance was a labor of love. Not some monstrosity acquired for greed or the kind of social standing his mother craved.
Chief Hilar Kamande had gone about building his life in much the same way Liam Tesano had-slow and steady. Roman wanted the same. He craved following in the same respectable footsteps. He wanted to create his own legacy, one he hoped his sons would share.
Still, there was more. Roman decided his would be a legacy that would benefit those without power or social standing, those who were just as deserving of protection and fair dealing. The details were already in motion, but mulling them over would have to wait. Until he had resolved things here in Mozambique, he was sad to say nothing else really mattered to him.
Off in the distance, he thought he heard a car horn. A quick scan of the endless grounds, showed no sign of a vehicle. Roman waited, praying he wouldn’t regret the decision to walk after all. With the luck he’d been having lately, he was less likely to encounter a vehicle and more likely to encounter a charging rhino.
He wasn’t ashamed of the sigh that escaped him when a dark green jeep rolled up over one of the far hills. Someone waved from the passenger seat. Roman returned the gesture. As the jeep neared, he realized it was a girl who waved. A swath of yellow fabric flew in her wake. His heart melted, but the excitement was short lived. The girl wasn’t Imani.
The jeep pulled to a stop and the young woman greeted Roman.
“Mr. Tesano,” her voice lilted with subtle laughter and the elegant flavor of her homeland. “You don’t remember me. I’m Jmara, one of Imani’s attendants. I was with her in Chicago.”
Roman smiled. “I remember you Jmara. Please call me Roman. It’s good to see you.”
“I saw you arriving in the carriage. You’re here to see Imani,” Jmara’s round dark face reflected concern. “But why are you walking?”
“I had the carriage drop me off. The driver went on to let the Chief know I’m here.”
Jmara looked pleased. “Well if you are here to see Imani, you should head back that way,” she pointed in the direction she’d come in the jeep.
Roman observed the direction with wary eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” heightened laughter followed the observation. “You’ll want to catch her before the caravan leaves. They’re sleeping under the stars tonight. Go now. Your room will be all ready by the time you return.”
“I um,” Roman’s wariness set in deeper. “I don’t want to crowd you guys. I heard it’s a full house.”
“Nonsense,” Jmara waved a delicate hand. “The Chief wouldn’t let you of all people be turned away. Go. She’s just down at the bridal tree.”
“The...bridal tree.” Roman didn’t attempt to mask his dismay.
“Mmm...would you like us to drive you?” Jmara referred to the wiry young man behind the wheel. “The sun will set soon, but it is still dreadful hot for walking.”
“No um,” Roman shook his head with mild defiance. “Thanks Jmara, but um, I need to walk. Really.” Yes, he really needed to walk even if his legs felt totally incapable of carrying him.
“Just follow the music,” Jmara instructed.
Roman smiled tightly and set off. “Oh good,” he grumbled, “a celebration.”
~~~
The bridal tree was one of the massive Baobab trees. The Baobab, known as a Giant of Nature, could span well over 60 feet in height and some 49 feet in width. In Mozambique, the trees were considered sacred-a place where the spirits of the ancestors dwelled. Amid the shelter of the trees was protection and nurturing.
The sun had Roman’s shirt soaked through with sweat, before he heard the first weak strains of music. Drumbeats greeted him as he was tugging the short sleeved blue Polo shirt from the waistband of his khakis. He ignored the sick feeling in his gut and wished he hadn’t told the carriage driver to take his bag to the house. If this was as it seemed, he had the answer to his question of whether Imani was still his to want.
Roman didn’t think he had any breath left to choke on and then he saw her. The music was as infectious as the actions the melodies conjured. A flurry of color circled a massive tree that appeared to shade the ground beneath its broad leaves. Gauzy fabrics beat against the late afternoon breeze as a group of young woman seemed to be giving themselves over to thunderous drums and wood pipes.
Roman saw her, barefoot and wrapped in yards of gleaming ruby fabric. Slowly, he neared the tree. What looked to be a trio of white seashells linked Imani’s ankles as she twirled and stomped her feet to a beat that seemed to spirit her away to a place where only she and the music existed. It actually hurt to look at her. It hurt just as much to look away. If this was to be his last time with her, he didn’t want to miss a second of it.
The energetic twirls around the enormous tree began to slow and then they stopped altogether. Roman looked on as the dancers turned in unison to stare in his direction. Several of the young women then turned to Imani. Roman felt his heart lurch again. She moved, walking slowly away from the group. Her steps gained speed the further away from them she got.
Roman couldn’t get his feet to move at all, at first. Once he did, he could barely trudge forward. His steps were a snail’s pace next to her jog. He lost whatever breath he had left in his lungs, when she slammed into him. Her arms locked around his neck and she pressed a hard kiss into his cheek.
Imani leaned back in the embrace to search Roman’s face in disbelief. “Why are you here?”
Roman surprised himself by how cooly he answered. “You left without saying goodbye.”
