“You. Betrayed us.”  He says, in what little English he knows:The chieftain of the small Swahili village stands in front of me, fuming.I stand there, confused about what I did wrong.  Its futile to say anything, to defend my case in any way. It would come off as weak, undeniably so.
I have just gained their trust, and looking weak will put me in a bad position.
He's talking with the people, his hand motions large in the growing dimness, words in swahili being thrown back and forth, but his large pointed staff stills in my directions, pointed at my belly button.

The stars seem to blink from the sky, beautifully, and there's a chill in the evening air. I shift my stance, standing on the balls of my feet, ready.  There are village people out, witnesses to whats about to happen. Out of the corner of my eye I can see malnourished children, standing, hugging their mothers skirts, their eyes wide like saucers, their chocolate skin glowing in the growing darkness and softening by the light of the giant fire.
That's when the Chieftain turns to me, his dark skin glingting with the fire behind him, the shadows casting deep lines across his dark cheekbones. “You not say, anything.” His dark ebony eyes glint like a stray cat's caught in the headlights of a vehicle.
“I dont know anything.” I shrug. My brows are raised and my hands are out in an innocent motion. “Nothing. I'm Sorry.” I look into his eyes and everything becomes clear: I made a misstep. I did something very wrong.
Suddenly someone steps up to my ear, quickly, whispering in my ear and filling me in. I try not to flinch at the close proximity and rub my ear from the stale breath.“A boy. Died by you're hands. He was Chiefs son. He thinks you killed him- when he got sick.” I stop the speaker, their rough voice like sandpaper in my ear.
I don’t need the rest of the story.
     I can guess what happens next,
remembering the little boy.
His face was like sunshine to a dark world, and I remember drinking it in: faster than any drug could, he made the world seem less like hell. I remember trying to save him, his upper respiratory infection was not responding to treatment and there was nothing I could do. It was to late by the time I figured it out.
The boy had asthma. I could have saved him- but instead I condemned him. His last words to me were simple, pleasurable words. “Thank you, Maisha kipa.” Meaning, life keeper or life preserver. And still as i think back, i have no idea why the boy thanked me. I had done nothing but quicken his death.
His last breath was a struggle, his mother was by my side, crying. I hadnt thought about it, but now that i think on it, i had never seen the boys father come around.
The small boy had died with a smile on his face.I remember closing his stiff cold eye lids, and the mother hugging my arm, her tears soaking through my cotton shirt, the air seemed too hot.

Having moved here from a smaller city and then being the only paramedic they knew- they thought I was a Doctor. Being put in the middle of nowhere- they still had spears and used rocks as tools. So they didnt know that iwasnt a doctor, just that i arrived looking like one. Soon they took up to calling me Maisha Kipa. A name I liked- enjoyed, even.
I had found it amusing.

I focus back on the task at hand: the stick pointed at my belly, while the leader of the small village yells at the elders. The Chieftain never yells at the Elders, let alone in the square, where there are all are witnesses. It dawns on me: I have just created a war.

I've seen what traitors get, here, in the middle of nowhere. And somehow I know that i]I might die, here tonight in a war I had just created.
I stand tall and flashes of my family, like slow moving pictures fall across my vision as I stand before the chief tan, a traitor amidst friends, ready to die.
“No!” the scream comes somewhere near my left side, my best friend , Ben, and director of the christian organization that brought me here, for the two years I was supposed to stay.
It's been a year and a half. He pulls against the hands that hold him, his scream deafening. It makes my chest cave and my breathing come faster, but I stand before the chief, staring into his dark eyes.
“Go ahead.” I motion to his stick. The same stick that's been poked through many others.
He cocks his head to the side and thrusts the stick upward.
A fire erupts through my stomach as it feel it pierce through my skin and pinches it's way through my chest. I gasp, but I don’t hear it; I feel it and it's like Hells fire through my very being. I slump to the side. Dirt crusts it's way through my nose as bare feet are kicked around, and I open my mouth, breathing in the dust. “Ben.” I try to grasp at his name, to find something to center me through the pain. I look down and I try to breath around the odd sight: a spear sticking through my belly, blood pooling over my blue uniform and down onto the gray dirt staining it a deep crimson color.
the chieftain yells one word in Swahili. “HEALER! NOW!”
He's calling for a healer. Traitors don’t get healers. Someone steps up to my nose and bends: It's Ben. He's saying something to me, his hands touching my face, his lips moving rapidly, and then I'm being lifted but all I see are the stars.
Orange and burning, bright.
Slowly, as if every inch of the room is filled with oozing blankness, no walls and no where to go, I wake up. The room seems to come to me in pictures: a thatched roof. Dirt dances in the air in front of me, rays of sunshine bright, glaring through the window to my left. Sheeted beds take up the majority of the small -yet biggest housing unit because it's a medical station- room, each one a different color. When supplies drop in: it's all or nothing. And everything out here gets used whether it matches or not.
A shadow falls across my stomach as my eyes linger on the white bandage taped above my belly button, stained red.
I should be dead.
Very dead.
“What happened?” My voice is hoarse and burns up my trachea.
“Shhh, Dear. Be careful. You dont remember?” Ben asks me. I look up at him. He has a five o'clock shadow on his arrow like chin, and his deep blue eyes are crinkled in concern.
“No.”
“The Chieftan of the Village stabbed you.”
“But he called for a healer. I should be dead.” I ponder the oddness of this situation. I should be dead.
“He did, yes.” Ben sits, slowly as if the situation at hand pains him, greatly. It feels like all of this is a dream, something of a parrallel universe, something I might have watched on TV but never thought that it would happen to me. A small town girl who just wanted to make a difference in the world. “I dont ever want you to do something like that again.” Ben reaches ofrward and wraps his hand around mine, his fingertips cold against the back of my hand. “Please. I... I realized that... that...”
Ben has been my Best friend. I've known for awhile that I love him. He knows I love him, more than anything. He's like a figure in my life that I can't imagine living without. “That?”
“I love you, too.” He's whispering. “Please dont do that again.”
We both know I cannot promise such a thing. Trouble seems to follow me like a magnetic field, I stay away and it pushes back. “As much as I can.” I state. His hand squeezes, back.
In the morning, the Chief suprises me, by visisting.
The man moves silenetly but for some reason I was waiting for him to show up. His black skin slinks into the room and he moves like a pretator- always searching for pray, or for an attack. I remain relaxed into the bed, as best as I can, so as not to make him feel threatened. I dont need to make things worse.
“Chief.”
He slowly moves closer to my bed and the one stud in his ear, glints just the the whites of his eyes. Which seem slightly glazed over this morning. He stares at me, for a long time before speaking.
“You're alive.” His voice is garbled.
“Why is that?” I c*** an eyebrow at him.
He sits on the stool by the bed, and sighs. He crosses his arms over his bare chest, his animal skin shorts pullling up his thighs.
“I...no kill you.” He states. I looks like he wants to say more. His borws are drawn over his dark eyes and his bald head seems to reflect the single strand of light coming through the window above us. “I no kill you... because, you're eyes.” He waves his fingertips around his eyes, the tattoos up his arms dancing.
“My eyes?”
He nods his head, yes. “My son, had eyes like you.” He points his finger at my chest and moves in, stareing me in the eyeballs. “Like you. Eyes like the stars- sparkle. Sparkle. Deep. Wise.” He bobs his head with every word thrown at me about my eyes. “He loved the stars, you know.” HE sits back down and looks at his hands which are clasped between his knee's. “Why you not scared when I stab you? You seemed...”
Yes, Why wasnt I scared? It seemed like a stupid possobility, really. Not to be scared when you face death. Thats the question, isnt it? I smile, slightly, the corners of my mouth lifting.
“I was terrified.” I correct him. “Of the pain. But... I know with absolute certanty where I was going when I die.”
“Where you go?” His eyes are squinted. “Limbo. Me. You, go to limbo.”
“No. Not me, Sir. Everything I am- everything I believe is not what you believe. I have a different faith.”
“No. No. Only one faith. One. Mine.” He points to himself.
“No.” I take his hand and point it at me. “I have faith to. Faith in God, And Jesus Christ who was whipped and beaten. Beaten, Chief.” I mimick being whipped and stoned. HE shrinks back, confused. I pray silently for this conversation to go correctly, for the Holy spirit to surround us. I can see his eyes glaze over even more andi know I'm losing him.
“Sir-”
“No. I go.” He stands to leave but before he leaves, he gives me one last look.
–
I'm released from the infirmery the next day. That's when the Cheiftan and the Elders find me- dressing. I pull the shirt down, quickly and all three old men look fairly uncumfortable.
“Come.” He leads me to his ten made of hides that he hunted, and pelts and skins. He sets us on those skins. I hadnt realized that I had carried my bible with me, but I had.
“Tell them. What you tell me.” He moves his hand around the circle and I tell them about Jesus Christ.
I had planted the seed.
Later that night, I call home.
“Hi honey!” My moms chipper voice makes me want to cry or laugh. Or both.
“Hey Momma. I need a favor.”
“Sure.”
“I need a plane full of bibles and water. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure.” I can hear the smile in her voice and I think of the stars.
Fathomless and beautiful. Just like her smile.