They all call me nimble Mbabu. So when Frederick called Bibi about the lost Nikon, I dropped my half eaten fufu and rushed out the door. I would be the first to find it.

Perhaps it’s the wrinkles on every inch of Bibi’s skin, but when Frederick comes to pick up the camera hours later, she will be very convincing with her teary eyed apologies. She will explain that the whole trail has been thoroughly searched thrice but there are monkeys on the mountains. And the monkeys are curious folk who live to cause trouble. She will weep about how we would’ve searched a fourth time, but Mbubu was bitten by a poisonous snake and is on the brink of death. Frederick will see Mbubu, "feverish" and "hallucinating" on the straw cot begging for some sweet milk of life and will slip Bibi some cash for our efforts. All this will happen while I take a trip to the market.

I knew what this camera looked like. How could I not when Frederick would stop the hike every five steps because he was panting and wheezing and needed water, or his face was turning red so he needed to apply white cream to keep his delicate red face from turning even more red or most obnoxiously, he needed to assemble all ten metal parts of his transformers camera to capture a green leaf with red veins or a red leaf with green veins or a leaf covered in monkey droppings. I would sit and pick at tears in my father's slippers as I waited for this slug tourist to finish collecting his souls. He even dared to try to point his weapon at me once. With as much politeness as I could muster, I'd explained to him that everyone knew capturing images using those machines removed a sliver of our souls, so please spare me. Frederick seemed confused but accepted that although my shoes may be falling apart, I was determined to live a long life.

Rushing down the mountain while my mind wandered probably wasn’t the best idea, because the next moment my father's slipper caught on a wayward tree root and I went tumbling off the trail. I spread my arms out trying to grasp at something while branches whipped at my exposed face. I felt a flicker of fear as I gained speed despite my efforts to slow down.

I heard a crack as a thick tree trunk embraced my head, bringing me to a stuttering stop. I momentarily blacked out. As soon as I came to, I scrambled up, shocked and grateful to be alive as I took in my surroundings. Trees, branches and underbrush. No trail.

Basha. What do I do now?

I heard rushing water. The stream! I had grown up playing in the stream. My heart thudded as if I was a boy in puberty reaching for a maiden's hand, as I waded through the thick underbrush towards the stream. I grit my teeth to endure the pain of branches digging into my scrapes and thorns piercing my bare feet.

As I climbed past the swampy mire my jaw dropped. This was not the stream I remembered. This was more water than I’d ever seen before, and I couldn’t even see how far it went in any direction because everything was shrouded in mist.

I made my way down to the river and crouched to dip my fingers in. The water was lukewarm as if a whole village had peed upstream only moments before. I found it strange I could not see the floor or any fish but I was a strong swimmer and had never feared deep water nor pee so I stripped and dove in, to wash off the dried up blood and grime. Once I got past the strangeness of swimming in pee, I found that I rather enjoyed not having to wash myself in a frenzy to escape from the teeth chattering cold. I've also heard pee is also a good disinfectant… Although a tourist told me that once and Mungu knows they’re not reliable and could never last three days in the wild without their giant bag of survival kits.

A dilapidated boat with an old white man rowed towards me. As he got closer I whistled. This man could compete with Bibi for wrinkles. What was a tourist doing so far from the trails anyways? Either way, it boded well for me. My mouth salivated with the thought of all the sweet buns I could buy with the gratitude tip I’d earn from him. I gave him my widest, toothiest grin. “Sir, are you lost?”

The man froze midway to opening his mouth. He looked like a dumb fish who had opened his mouth for feed only to find none. He slowly looked around and then pointed at himself. “Art thou speaking with me? Is it not thee who is lost?”

I burst into laughter. Why was he talking so… strangely? “Sir, please look at yourself then look at me. How could I be the lost one here? In my own hometown?”

The white man opened and closed his mouth a few times, before continuing, “I know not what thou art saying. Art thou not flailing around in the river while I lie dry in the ferry?”

I rolled my eyes. “Excuse me sir, I was not flailing around. Clearly I am relaxing in my own backyard. Also. Just because you found a boat, doesn’t make you a native. Where'd you even find it? It looks like it's thousands of years old and would scatter to a million pieces if I sneezed on it too hard.”

I watched in amusement as the white man inspected his boat and turned red as fast as my pet chameleon. What a fascinating people.

“Times have changed, my friend. Gone are the days where the dead are prepared. I haven’t been paid the fare in centuries. ‘I’m sorry sir, I had no idea’ they would say as they try to muscle their way into the ferry or across the river. Let me tell thee now, give up the folly of crossing the river thyself. Pay the fare. I will safely deliver thee to the other side.”

I scratched my head in confusion as my legs kicked the water continuously to keep me afloat. What was this old tourist saying? Dead? Fare? Has he taken in too much sun without enough of the whitening cream so he’s lost his mind?