Page 9 of Bastard
I’m making a difference. My words matter.
The crowd applauds as I exit the temporary stage.
“That went well,” Donovan exclaims, drawing up next to me with condom boxes in hand.
“It did, didn’t it? Even Tight-Lipped seemed engaged in what I was saying.” Truth is, it was hard to ignore the man standing so stoically beneath the tree, his attention bouncing from the audience to me and back to them.
Donovan laughs. “You waved that dildo at him, demanding to know if he was paying attention.”
I shrug. “Dios. He stood there like a member of some royal guard. No reaction whatsoever. It’s infuriating ... why is he here in Nmimpi? ”
“He intimidates me too much to approach him to ask.”
“Luciana!” an excited voice screeches, interrupting our conversation. “Bwera kuno, girl. Come here,” Mustafa exclaims, breaking through the crowd to come stand with us.
“Muli bwanji.” I greet the village matriarch with a slight, customary bow of the head.
“Splendid. Just splendid.” She turns and waves at the crowd of men forming a line in front of us. “You listen to Luciana. She is a good girl with a good heart.”
“With a good message,” I add, winking at her.
Mustafa’s enthusiasm is refreshing. Eighty-plus years old, and the vivaciously intelligent, matriarch of Nmimpi is more open-minded than a room full of UWF board members. In a short time, I’ve grown very close to her. She’s the closest thing to a grandmother I’ve ever had.
“They are listening. Really listening.” She claps her hands with glee, and I feel wonderful, basking in her praise.
“Do you want to help distribute the packets?”
Mustafa’s eyes light up. I hide my grin, knowing not a single man will be able to refuse her.
Ten minutes later and three boxes distributed, the crowd begins to disperse, most making their way home to nearby communities.
And the big guy positioned beneath the baobab tree? Dios, is he really still standing there?
“Bwera kuno, Luciana. Come drink some maheu with me.”
“I have something I need to do. Maybe tomorrow night, okay? But I’m sure Donovan will have a drink with you.”
Mustafa claps her hands together, and Donovan makes a noise in his throat. We both have learned that, for such a seemingly innocent woman, she handles her liquor better than either of us.
I break down the last of the boxes and wait for everyone to leave before making my move. I stalk across the circle until I’m standing before him.
Tight-Lipped’s eyes narrow.
“Why are you here?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did my brother send you?”
His eyebrows lift. A small response, yet telling. “Dark hair. Brown eyes. Can be intimidating and violent?”
He pins me with a harsh stare, but there’s a slight tick in his jaw like he knows exactly who I’m talking about. But before I can press him further, he sidesteps me and charges off.
“This conversation isn’t over.” Either I’m right, and Diego did send him. Or I’mmuy locaand have serious brother issues.
“I promised Mustafa we’d try her homemade brew tomorrow night over poker,” Donovan says, approaching across the circle. “He rushed off in a hurry. You say something to piss him off?”
“That the condoms I handed him would probably be too big for him.”
