WHISPERS OF THE NILE

THE PERFORMANCE

[Scene: Main hall, late afternoon. Rows of wooden chairs face a small stage. Twenty practice-uniformed choir members are warming up their voices while Mrs. Nakiwala, the choir master, is taking notes at the piano.]

Ben Katongole had dressed three times.

Now he stood in the doorway of the main hall at 3:58, his heart straining to escape his ribcage, wearing the least crumpled possible version of his school uniform and trying to convince himself that this was not the most terrible idea he'd ever had.

[He runs a hand through his short hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. His fingers are still ink-stained from taking notes in Mathematics. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, the very picture of nervous indecision.]

"You going in or just going to stand there sweating?" Margaret Akello appeared beside him, her arms full of sheet music and her expression knowing.

"I'm thinking," Ben managed.

"You're always thinking. That's your problem." She shifted the music to one hip and regarded him with the kind of frank assessment that made him shift uncomfortably. "She asked you out for a reason, you know."

"To mock me? To-"

"To offer you a chance." Margaret's tone softened. "Don't waste it by being cowardly."

Before Ben could move-or flee-Margaret pushed the door open wide and motioned him inside. His legs moved ahead of his thinking head could catch up with them.

[The main hall is smaller than he recalls, intimate. Sunlight streams in through high windows, filling everything with golden light. The choir members cluster on risers, their voices blending in warm-up scales that sound almost mystical.]

And there, in the front pew, stood Sheila.

She wore the choir's practice uniform-a simple white blouse and navy blue skirt-but appeared more beautiful than in her regular uniform. Her braids were tied at the back of her neck with a white ribbon, exposing the beautiful line of her throat. When she noticed him, her whole face lightened up with a smile that constricted his chest.

[She waves once with one hand, the motion so instinctive and friendly that it almost knocks him over. A couple of the members of the choir glance her way, whispers start.] Ben melted into a back-corner chair, trying to vanish. It didn't work-he felt something standing behind him, the weight of question and wonder.

"Focus, everyone!" said Mrs. Nakiwala clapped her hands sharply, her voice carrying authority. She was a small woman with iron-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing. "We're learning 'Tuliyo' today. This is an old song-older than your grandparents' grandparents. It deserves respect."

[The pianist begins an introduction-haunting minor chords that seem to echo with longing and loss. The choir takes a collective breath, and then they begin to sing.]

Luganda's words poured over Ben like water:

Tuliyo, tuliyo, we nga gye ndi Nnakomyewo, nnakomyewo

Although he did not know each word, he could tell the emotion-love and loss, promises made and miles traveled. The song spoke of waiting, of trust, of returning home.

Then Sheila began her solo, and the rest of the world dissolved.

[She steps or two steps forward, her posture perfect, fingers crossed at her waist. When she begins to open her mouth, the note that emerges is clear as crystal, filling space with music.]

Her voice wasn't technically perfect-although it was. It contained something more, some vibration that caused the words of centuries ago to be intimate and present. She did not sing the song; she breathed it.

Where I'm going, I'll return. My love waits for me like the sun waits for the moon. My heart stays with you even when my feet wander very far away.

And as she sang, he caught her eye across the room. The moment was brief, only two seconds, but in those moments, Ben understood what she was singing to him: I'm here. I'm waiting. Be strong.

[The last note fades, hanging in the air like a question. Silence. Then Mrs. Nakiwala begins offering corrections, and the spell breaks.]

"Sopranos, watch your breathing after the second verse. Tenors, you're rushing-" The director's professional notes faded into background noise as Ben sat transfixed, still feeling the impact of Sheila's voice in his bones.

"What's he doing here?"

Mark Okello's voice cut through the drab sounds like a razor. Ben's blood curdled cold when Mark entered the hall, flanked by Joseph on both sides, and two other footballers. Mark seemed to own the place, his designer scent wafting over to Ben even from a distance.

Mark's eyes scanned the hall and fixed on Ben with predatory intent. His jaw flexes, and something unpleasant crosses his handsome face.]

"That's the way it is with the lab, Science Boy," Joseph said, waving his hand unnecessarily. "This is for people who really do have talent."

Some of the choir members giggled, careless but not nasty, but it hurt Ben anyway. He felt his old habit kicking in, the instinct to flee, hide, disappear before things got uglier.

Then Sheila changed.

[She jumps off the risers with fluid ease, descending gently on the balls of her feet. Without preamble, she walks toward Ben-not toward Mark, but toward Ben-her chin up, her eyes snapping with something deadly.]

"You came," she said when she reached his side, her tone filled with genuine pleasure. She completely disregarded Mark, acknowledged him as furniture.

"I-yes," Ben struggled.

"Sheila." Mark's voice had a warning edge. "What are you doing?"

She finally glanced at him, her expression polite but cold. "Conversing with a friend I invited. Is there something wrong?"

"A friend?" Mark's laughter was nasty. "Did that be what he said?"

"That's what I decided." Sheila turned her back on Ben and consciously showed Mark her back-a social rejection so complete that several students gasped. "Did you like the song?"

Ben swallowed hard, aware twenty pairs of eyes were at this moment, aware what he did with it would determine everything that came next. Bravery or cowardice. Brawl or bolt.

He forces himself to meet her gaze, to ignore Mark's presence branding the edge of his vision. When he speaks, his voice is low and firm.]

"Your voice," he explained warily, "put the whole room on hold. Like the song addressed every person who heard it. That isn't talent. That's..." He grappled for the appropriate word. "Magic."

Sheila's smile was dazzling, making her suddenly shine with brightness. "Thank you. That means more from someone who actually hears." She spoke louder into the room and never broke eye contact with Ben. "For anyone who's curious, Ben's here because I asked him. Any issues with that?"

[Silence. Complete, stunned silence. Even Mrs. Nakiwala pauses at the piano, her eyebrows twitched upwards in surprise.]

Mark's expression had darkened with the near-unsuppressed anger. Three strides brought him closer to them, his girth suddenly overpowering in a way it hadn't been when he'd stood at the back of the room. "Sheila, might I have a word? Privately?"

"No."

"I think you're wrong about-

"I'm not confused about anything." Sheila's voice was still friendly, but steel beneath. She inched toward Mark and Ben in a guard position that constricted Ben's chest. "I invited a friend to watch the choir rehearsal. That's all. If you're not here to sing, you have to go away."

"Friend," Mark repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. He looked past Sheila to Ben, his gaze flickering with threat. "Do you think she's interested in you? You're a project, Science Boy. Something to be rebellious against Daddy's ideals."

The words hit Ben like punches, more painful because part of him had feared that they were going to be so. He saw Sheila's shoulders tense, saw her fists make at her sides.

[Mrs. Nakiwala stands up from the piano bench, her tiny body radiating presence.]

"Mr. Okello," the choir director snapped, "This is rehearsal time. If you're not a part of this choir, I'll have to ask you to leave. Now.".

Mark's jaw worked, so tightly Ben could see the muscles flicker. For a second, he seemed to come close to actually making a scene, to letting his anger get the better of his normally careful restraint. But even Mark wasn't foolish enough to disrespect a teacher in public.

[He fires Ben one last look of pure venom, a promise of impending consequences, then turns about and slinks off. His minions patter after him like strayed puppies.]

The door having shut behind him, debate raged. Sheila took no notice whatsoever, turning back to Ben with worry in her gaze.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"I think so." Ben's hands shook slightly, adrenaline flooding through him. "He's going to make my life hell for this."

"He was already doing that." Sheila reached out and-in full view of everyone-took his hand. Her fingers were warm and steady against his trembling ones. "But now you're not facing it alone."

The brief contact caused a shiver to run along Ben's arm. He gazed into their joined hands, at her smooth palm against his dirty fingers, and felt something stir deep in his breast.

[Mrs. Nakiwala clears her throat rather emphatically.]

"Miss Nalwanga, we have fifteen minutes of practice left. Mr. Katongole is welcome to stay and watch in silence, but we need to continue practice."

"Yessum." Sheila pulled Ben's hand once more, letting it go. "We're almost done. Wait for me?"

"Wait for you where?"

"Right here. Then we'll walk back together." She tossed it lightly, but her eyes dared him: Are you strong enough? Can you handle that?

Ben thought about Mark's rage, about the whispers that would follow, about all the logical reasons to say no. Then he thought about Sheila's voice singing about waiting and returning, about promises kept at a distance.

"I'll wait," he said.

[Sheila's answering smile is gorgeous, illuminating her whole face. She runs her fingers lightly down his arm, then returns to the risers. The other members of the choir chat quietly among themselves, but Mrs. Nakiwala's crisp clap silences them.]

As the choir started practicing again, Ben sat back in his corner seat and couldn't make sense of what had just happened. Sheila had stood up for him. Had defended him. Had claimed him openly as her friend-or perhaps something more-before the whole group.

She'd stood between him and Mark, a barrier.

And she was calling him to be courageous enough to stand by her.

[The chorus of the choir harmonizes, making its way through the challenging passages of "Tuliyo." Sheila's solo is heard again, and when she sings of waiting and coming back, this time she's looking directly at Ben.]

He'd gone his whole life avoiding conflict, playing it safe rather than taking a chance on connection. But seated in that light-filled hall, hearing Sheila sing from the heart, Ben felt something different stir inside of him.

Maybe courage was not the absence of fear. Maybe it was to do the scary thing anyhow, because the alternative-a life without this, without her-was worse than anything punishment Mark could devise.

Rehearsal over. Members of the choir gathered their music and suitcases, sending curious glances toward Ben and Sheila. Some of them looked encouraging. Some of them looked stunned. Most just looked captivated by the drama unfolding.

[Sheila picks up her folder and strides towards Ben with that same self-assured walk. She feels all eyes on them, but she maintains a calm face, undisturbed.]

"Ready?" she said, like they did this daily.

Ben stood, his legs wobbly. "Ready."

They walked out of the hall together, and the evening sunlight felt different somehow-warmer, golden, full of possibility. Students in the courtyard turned to watch them pass. Whispers followed in their wake like ripples in water.

"You're shaking," Sheila observed.

"Terror tends to do that."

"Terror of what? Mark? Or me?"

Ben laughed at himself. "Both, maybe. You're terrifying in your own way."

"Good." She elbowed him playfully. "I'd hate to be predictable."

[They reach the place in the trail where the boys' and girls' dormitories branch off. Sheila stops, turning to face him. The sunlight catches her face, highlighting her skin.]

"Thanks," Ben said gruffly. "For sticking up for me. Again. You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to," Sheila's voice became gentler. "I want to. Ben and Mark are not used to being told no. His father's on the school board, his family's rich, and he's used to doing what he wants. That doesn't mean he gets to decide who I hang out with."

"People are going to talk."

"Let them talk." She stepped in, close enough that he could smell her-something simple and fresh like coconut. "I realized a long time ago that you can't live your life in fear of what other people think. You'll drive yourself crazy trying."

"Is that why you invited me today?"

"I asked you in," Sheila warned, "because when you told me what my voice was like, you actually listened. Not the technique, but what I was saying through the music. Most people just tell me that I have a pretty voice and drop it."

"It's prettier than that. It's-" Ben fumbled for words. "It's like you're translating feelings into sound. Making emotions visible."

Sheila's breath catches. For a moment, her confident mask slips, and he sees vulnerability underneath-the real girl behind the performance.]

"See?" she said softly. "That's why. Nobody talks to me like that. Like I'm more than just the perfect girl who sings well and gets good grades."

"You are more than that. Obviously."

"Say that to my parents. Say that to the rest of this school that thinks they can define who Sheila Nalwanga is." She spun away, and Ben could see tension in the angle of her jaw. "Sometimes I feel like I'm performing even when I'm not on stage. Like everyone expects that there's this idealized version of me, and if I reveal anything authentic, anything flawed, I'll disappoint them."

The confession hung between them, tight and unexpected. Ben recognized the feeling-the urge to be what other people needed, to hide the messy truth of yourself in a simpler lie.

"I see that," he said. "In a different way, naturally. But I am familiar with secrets."

"About what?"

Ben recalled the poverty of his family, the shame he carried like a burden in his chest, the recognition that he didn't belong in institutions like St. Jude's. "Lots of things. Mostly fear."

"Of what?"

"Of being seen. Really seen. And found wanting."

[Sheila reaches over and takes his hand once more. There were no witnesses, no performance. Only two seventeen-year-olds trying to be honest.]

"I see you," she whispered. "The super boy who loves science. The one who writes perfect letters he won't deliver. The one who thinks he doesn't fit but works harder than anyone." She clenched her fingers. "And I don't think you are short, Ben Katongole."

Ben felt tears prick his eyes, sudden and embarrassing. Nobody had ever said something like that to him-with that certainty, that conviction. Like she could see all his flaws and inadequacies and chose him anyway.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "Whatever this is. I've never-I don't have experience with-"

"Neither do I." Sheila's smile was apologetic. "Whatever Mark is no doubt telling everyone, I've never had a boyfriend. Never even kissed anyone. I'm making it up as I go along."

"Really?"

"Really. Boys either want the perfect version-which bores me-or they're too scared to actually talk to me." She leaned against him, staring up at him. "You're the first person who wants to get to know the real me."

"I'm very interested in the real you."

"Good. Because I'm extremely interested in the real you, too." She glanced in the direction of the girls' dorm, where her dorm friends were probably already gossiping. "I should go. But Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let Mark spook you. Whatever he says, whatever he does-don't run away. Please."

[The plea in her voice catches him off guard. This isn't the confident girl from the courtyard or the talented singer from the choir. This is someone afraid of being left, of having another person choose comfort over her.]

"I'll try," Ben promised. "I can't promise I'll always be brave. But I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking."

She turned and went, and then she halted and wheeled around. Before Ben could make sense of what was happening, she came onto her toes and bussed him on the cheek-quick and demure, her lips gentle against his cheek.

"For courage," she smiled, her eyes sparkling with devilment. Then she disappeared, running down toward the girls' dormitory with her braids bobbing, leaving Ben standing there dazed in the crepuscular light stroking his cheek like a fool.

[He stops there for a minute, trying to get his brain working again. Finally, he goes in the direction of his own dormitory, a smile spreading across his face that he can't repress.]

David was standing on their dorm steps, his face somewhere between amusement and concern.

"So," David said to Ben as he approached, "word is you went to choir practice."

"News travels fast."

"It's St. Jude's. News travels at light speed." David stood, studying Ben's face. "You're smiling. That's either very good or very bad."

"I honestly don't know which."

They climbed the stairs to their room, where their dormitory mates were already gossiping about the day's drama. Several voices fell silent when Ben entered, then resumed in urgent whispers.

[Ben tunes them out, crossing over to his bed and pulling out his textbooks. His Chemistry homework accuses him, but his head's elsewhere-running through every second with Sheila.]

"He's going to strike back," David had said in a low voice, sitting on his bed. "Mark, that is. Joseph was asking questions about him during football practice. Your scholarship status, your family history, looking for ammunition."

The warmth of Sheila's kiss faded a bit. "What ammunition?"

"I have no clue. But no matter what he finds out, he'll use it."

David scowled. "Ben, dude, I don't want to discourage you. Sheila's great. But are you ready for what comes with dating her? The target on your back?"

Ben pondered the question. Was he ready? Could anybody be ready for the sort of social warfare Mark Okello waged?

"No," he admitted. "I'm not ready. But I'm tired of letting fear make my decisions."

"That's growth." David grinned. "Terrifying, stupid growth, but growth."

That night, Ben lay in his narrow bed while forty other boys slept around him, and tried to imagine what came next. Sheila had kissed his cheek. Had asked him not to run. Had seen him-really seen him-and not turned away.

But Mark had something up his sleeve. Rumors were already going around. And Ben's bluster was as fragile as spun glass.

[He rubs his cheek where her lips had lain, trying to hold onto that moment of certainty. Footsteps of the night guard sound out in the compound.]

His cell phone buzzed-an old used phone that didn't work properly at all. A text from a strange number:

Don't let him win. Sleep well. -S

Ben looked at the message, his heart pounding with feeling. She'd gotten his number somehow. Was thinking about him. Was on his side.

He replied with" I won't. You too.

And then he threw in: Your voice was beautiful today.

She replied quickly with: So was your bravery. See you tomorrow in Chemistry?

I'll be there.

Good. I'll save you a seat.

Ben hung up the phone and shut his eyes, Sheila's words echoing through his mind: I see you, and I don't find you wanting.

For the first time in his life, he felt maybe-maybe even-himself, that he could be somebody worth seeing.

Even though it frightened him.

Even though it would mean losing everything.

Some things, he discovered, were worth the risk.