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reached his hands to cup her face so they could touch foreheads, as close friends and family do, but she intercepted his hands and held them between them.   Jakenzo blinked at their hands and frowned, but hurriedly put the grin back on his face.
    “Jem’ya Okobi ,” he smiled.
    “ Kenzo ,” she nodded and released his hands.
    “You look well.”
    “I am well. You look…the same.”
    “Thank you.”
    Of course you would take that as a compliment.
    “You’ve finally returned to Tikso . Did it get too hard for you, too lonely on the Coast?”
    “I’ll be going back in three days,” she corrected him. “I just felt it was time to come home and visit the family that I love and who truly love me.”
    He nodded.
    “How is your wife?” Jem’ya had learned the news from her father’s last letter a few months ago.
    He sighed, mildly annoyed by the question. “Fine. She is a good cook and we are expecting a child,” he dismissed.
    “Congratulations. Give her my blessing.”
    Then Jakenzo gazed into her eyes, smiling still. “The truth is…I missed you.”
    Jem’ya laughed. Before she had a chance to insult him in front of everyone, Kibwe appeared.
    “Just the man I was looking for,” Kibwe announced. “Come, Kenzo . We must build a new hut for Jem’ya.” He pulled Jakenzo to his feet. Kibwe chuckled and winked at Jem’ya as he led Jakenzo beyond the village to gather the materials. Kibwe always had perfect timing and the right words for any situation. He’d saved her from numerous awkward circumstances. Sometimes he saved her from herself. He did it all complaisantly, never holding it against her. Jem’ya loved her brother endlessly and couldn’t imagine she would have had the courage to be herself without him.
    Papa stood from his mat. “Tonight we will have a welcoming ceremony for Jem’ya, my first daughter,” he announced to everyone in the courtyard. “There will be dancing and feasting, for which I will slaughter eight goats from my own herd,” he grinned.
    Ah’s and whistles came from the crowd at the prospect of good food and fun.
    “Celebration! Yehyehyehyehyeh !” Papa shouted. The crowd returned the call with excitement. Jem’ya waved shyly at everyone and thanked them. A few stood up and began to show off the dances they would perform. Mama went with her aunts to plan the meal. Jem’ya couldn’t wait for sundown.
     
    The drums started off slow. Boom boom boomboom boom. The tribe got dressed in their costumes, grass skirts, woven headdresses, rows and rows of bracelets and anklets made of wood and bone and metal that rattled and jingled when they moved. They took turns painting Jem’ya’s face with white and black paint. Those who weren’t dancing stood swaying in a circle around those that performed. A small fire burned in the center and the light flickered against their dark skin. The fire illuminated their bright smiles and their vibrant, busy arms and legs. 
    They clapped, whistled and trilled as the drummers sped up the tempo and the volume.
    Boom-boom- boomboomboom ! Clap-clap- clapclapclap !
    The swaying turned into stomping and bouncing. Sweat began to bead on Jem’ya’s skin as she moved. Her own heartbeat began to match the feverish pounding of the drums. When a group of six young men, including Kibwe , holding decorated spears went to the center of the circle and started her favorite dance, she was delighted.
     A memory from the Coast entered her thoughts. One morning after his session, Tareq woke up in a particularly good mood and came out of the healing room dancing, which amused Jem’ya immensely. At the time she’d been his healer only a month. It was the first moment she began to see him as more than her patient. It was a dance that Jem’ya had seen other North African men do, a kind of hopping and stepping from foot to foot while waving your hands above your head and twisting your hips.  She stood up from the table and clapped and whistled for him as he