The Sanaa chronicles; book one

At OR Tembo International Airport, Sanaa pressed her nose to the window, her breath obscuring the glass as the plane's wheels screeched against the tarmac. Under her, Johannesburg spread out like a giant's toy box, with gleaming skyscrapers, highways that curved into the distance, and townships with tin roofs that gleamed silver in the afternoon sunlight. Aunt Zola snapped her patent-leather purse shut and said, "Stop staring." "Once we get home, you'll see enough of this city." Home. The word felt foreign. Sanaa’s fingers tightened around the stuffed giraffe she’d brought from Nairobi, its fur matted from years of bedtime tears. She’d been told Mama and Baba were “gone to the stars,” but stars didn’t hug you when you scraped your knee or sing lullabies in Swahili. The scent of unwritten rules and lemon polish filled Aunt Zola's flat. The only things on the walls were a clock that ticked like a finger reprimanding someone and a framed picture of Nelson Mandela. Zola opened a door to a room that was smaller than Sanaa's former wardrobe and said, "Your room." Staring back were a desk, a shelf of encyclopaedias, and a narrow bed. "There are no toys on the ground. At eight, the lights go out. With a voice as crisp as the starch in her blouse, Zola added, "And never touch the thermostat." The first Day of school St. Theresa Primary School was a fortress of navy blazers and polished shoes. Sanaa’s uniform itched, the wool collar scratching her neck as she stood in line for assembly. A boy with freckles like spilled cinnamon grinned at her. “You new?” he whispered. “I’m Liam. Want my Oreo?” Before she could answer, a teacher’s whistle split the air. “Eyes forward, Miss Mwangi!” At recess, Liam taught her a handshake palm, fist, snap while Sipho, his best friend, bragged about his father’s BMW. “It’s got heated seats,” he said, as if describing a spaceship. Sanaa nodded, though she’d never seen a car fancier than Uncle Thabo’s rattling taxi. “Where’re you from?” Liam asked, licking Oreo crumbs off his thumb. “Nairobi,” she said. “Cool! Do you, like, have lions in your backyard?” She thought of Grandma Makena’s chickens and smiled. “Only on Tuesdays.” The rules One night, Sanaa crept into the living room to watch Generations, Zola’s favorite soap opera. The glow of the TV lit up Zola’s face, softer in the dark. A man onscreen whispered, “I love you,” to a woman in a red dress. “Love is for people with time to waste,” Zola muttered, clicking off the TV. “To bed, Sanaa.” The crush Liam started leaving origami frogs on Sanaa’s desk. “They’re magic,” he said. “Make a wish and flick ’em!” She wished for mango juice, Grandma’s laugh, and a day without Zola’s frown. At lunch, Sipho declared Liam and Sanaa “married” and made them hold hands during tag. Liam’s palm was sweaty, but Sanaa didn’t let go until Zola arrived early, her heels clacking like a warning. “Who was that boy?” Zola asked on the drive home. “Just a friend.” “Men are never just friends. Focus on your studies.” That night, Sanaa buried the origami frogs in her backpack. The goodbye Three months later, Zola announced they were moving to Cape Town. “My firm’s relocating me. Pack your things tonight.” Sanaa’s throat tightened. “What about school? Liam and Sipho—” “You’ll make new friends. Or better yet, focus on your grades.” At the airport, Liam shoved a crumpled note into her hand. “Write to me, okay?” She unfolded it mid-flight: a stick-figure drawing of them both, labeled SAFARI BUDDIES 4EVER. Aunt Zola confiscated it when Sanaa started crying. “Tears won’t change the world,” she said, tucking it into her handbag. “But a sharp mind will.”