Masila

Masila

The boat is the nicest thing I have ever been on. It was sleek and white, with, Traveler, painted neatly on the side in red.

It is morning by the time I awake on the comfortable seat-couch that was next to a porthole. I rub my eyes and straighten my robe, for the first time thanking the gods I remembered to slip on my thin sandles yesterday morning.

I don't know what to do as I pace warily around the lush covered floor, carpet I think it is. I resist the urge to run my fingers through it.

They left a type of drink on my table also.

My Ama told me about these drinks. They had tiny bubbles barely visible in the whole liquid, and fireworks went off when it touched your tongue.

But I don't know if it's mine.

I slowly return to my temporary bed and gaze out at the now calm waters. The blueness slaps the boat with each ripple, specks flying on the glass of my window each time.

"Massilla?"

I gasp and turn, my cheeks reddening as I realize it's one of the men who helped me board last night.

"Just wanted to make sure you were alright," he places a hand on the banister that runs against the wall from my bed. "You do know what's going on, right?"

Not much. Ama told me little. Just I was going to the prettiest land filled with the moving boxes called televisions and plenty of vehicles and most importantly, family.

If only I knew who they were.

"Yes," I say in English, the language he is speaking. I know a lot of English from when Ama could afford my school fees, but this man is a boat handler and he seems more educated than me.

"Mr. Collins is nice, a little cold seeming and distant," the man comments. "but a pretty darn good father,"

"Father?" I question without meaning to.

"Oh, his daughter Hania is super smart and stuff. Known Mr. Collins my whole life and the girl's known me."

My family had children. Not surprising, but I still reacted like I wanted to. Pretending not to be.

I smile and sit down. "Does his child have a name?"

He looks at me strangely, his orange beard quivering as his pale hand scratches at it. "Well, we all call her Han, but uh," he looks back towards the door he entered from and then snaps his fingers. "Hania! That's it,"

Hania.

Graceful in my language. Was she like me? From Kenya?

I don't ask. The man doesn't tell.

He gestures around the room. "Make yourself comfy, and uh, the food'll be down in a few minutes. Bathroom's over there," he pointed at a red door I hadn't seen before. "And water fountain by the door,"

Like a well?

"If you need anything else..."

"My name's Wesley,"

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I stay two more days on the boat.

They give me a new wrap and head cover, not my village's natural colors, and it smells like machines.

I yearn for my Ama and my Earth smelling cloth, but I easily forget about them when they say we dock in three hours.