Flame Lilies

Mercy and I are bouncing in our seats. We have some hopeful notion this will bring our destination closer, but we expend our energy in vain. Ma will not let the speedometer edge a sliver above the limit and the warm day lazes the car into a purring momentum. Eventually, we content ourselves with looking out the windows, yearning for the journey to end.

The days are always temperate in Harare, but this one is particularly beautiful. Perhaps because we have looked forward to the book fair for so long, we willed it to be this way. It is Saturday morning—Mrs. Mwenge and her classroom are already an eon behind us; Sunday is a protective chasm ahead.

Today, women relax under fragrant jacaranda trees, laughing over their crochet work. Their bodies are wrapped in blazing-loud printed sarongs: shrines to the heroes (Mugabe, Nyerere, Mandela) press their soft flesh as they move. Families emerge from the OK supermarket with sagging cloth sacks (plastic is the latest shortage) and linger in the small, sunny parking lot. Flame lilies burst forth at Samora Machel Avenue. As we circle a roundabout, their brilliant orange petals swirl in the light and I imagine we are pilgrims come to worship them. Yvonne Chaka Chaka bellows "African Beer" on the radio—its chorus incanted by a voice that seems to rise from a water-filled urn. Mercy has already taught me to click my tongue around the mild "Umqombothi," and I am getting ready for greater linguistic challenges. She teaches me far more than our Shona teacher at school, and I learn quicker and speak better, she says, than other Indian girls.

Finally, we arrive at the convention center. A giant banner flutters above the entrance: "All-Zimbabwe Books 1985." The book fair has already started, but we are early enough. Mercy and I jump out and race into the building as soon as the car halts, ignoring Ma's calls behind us.

We are surrounded by more books than we have ever seen in one place. Tables covered with crisp white linen fill the open rooms, books piled atop each one. We start at the nearest stall and take our time, poring over the new pages, inhaling the scent of fresh ink. Ma is useful when a purchase becomes necessary. Mercy has brought a beaded coin purse with some pocket money from her mother, but Ma doesn't even let her open it. I am delighted at this generosity by association.

We are engrossed by a table featuring Zimbabwean children's authors (I am leafing through a copy of the "The Mbira Man") when a slight, irritating buzz filters through. I tear myself away from the book and realize that Mercy and I are the only children left in our corner of the center. Ma is nowhere to be seen. A woman in a lavender sundress is flitting about the area, shepherding everyone out. She is saying something to us, maybe shouting. Mercy and I exchange confused glances, but before we can respond, she is gone. Shrugging, Mercy returns to her "Young Reader's History of Mashonaland." After a few moments of curiosity, I return to reading about the man who strums a magical Mbira.

We are soon interrupted by a cacophony of footsteps and whispers. A spongy mass of people is gathered at the next table, and a voice booms from its center. The mass is moving now, less like a crowd and more like an organism, gliding with undulating tentacles towards us. In seconds, it is around us. We see now that it has eyes and legs and arms and briefcases. We come to the lumbering realization that it is staring at us. It is not pleased.

"I deeply apologize, Comrade, I instructed the children to leave, I don't know how . . . " The woman in the lavender dress is speaking. She is wringing her hands, and looks at us murderously as her words trail off.

The throng clears slightly as a large navy suit comes into view. Its trousers have sharp lines down their legs and its jacket has buttons that must be gold...