Beverly Hills Maasai (22 page)

“It isn’t much farther,” I said to Samuel.

He nodded.

“Less than three hundred yards. Look up and you can see the finish.”

He took his eyes from the ground and looked ahead. The banner over the finish line was clearly visible. He was going to make it.

The cheering of the crowd suddenly got, impossibly, even louder. Why now? I looked behind us—there were Nebala and Koyati. They’d kept going and they’d caught up to us!

They weren’t running very fast—it was obvious that Koyati was struggling badly—but they were still moving much faster than us. Everybody was moving faster than us. They came up beside us, one
on each side, and then slowed down so they matched our pace.

Samuel said something to Nebala. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the tone. He was apologizing. Nebala responded by saying a few words, nodding his head, and putting a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. He was telling him that it was okay … that he understood … that he forgave him.

The four of us moved forward. It was right that the three of them were going to finish together. But it wasn’t right for me to be with them. I wasn’t a participant, and Samuel didn’t need me anymore. He had them.

I stopped running and let them move forward without me. That would put the focus where it belonged, on them. Besides, it gave me a minute or so out of the spotlight. I knew that Olivia had a hairbrush in her purse, and I had my makeup in mine … I could do a little touch-up. There would definitely be photographers at the end, and I wanted to look my best for those shots.

I moved off the course to the side and continued to walk as the three of them limped toward the finish line. They hadn’t won the race. They hadn’t won any prize money. There wouldn’t be any money for the well, or to buy cows, or even to buy airplane tickets. How were they going to get home? I wasn’t too worried about that, though—I knew I could talk to my father. He’d be able to take care of it.

The cheering got louder as the three approached the finish line. They crossed the line and then they disappeared as they were engulfed in a crowd of runners
and spectators. When they reappeared, they were lifted up high above the crowd, carried on people’s shoulders!

They hadn’t won the race, but they hadn’t quit. They
were
Maasai.

It was three hours since the winners had crossed the finish line—two hours since the Maasai had completed the race—and only in the last fifteen minutes had the crowd started to drift away. Every runner, every spectator, dozens of reporters and television crews—where had they all come from?—they all wanted to talk to, interview, congratulate, back-slap, or take a picture of Nebala, Koyati, and Samuel, in particular.

There was so much attention on the three of them that the winner had all but been ignored. I felt sorry for him. At least, as sorry I could be for somebody who’d just won $250,000.

I really felt sorry for—well, bad for—my Maasai. Though they stood there stoically, this all had to be so painful for them. They had said they were going to win the money and return to build a well. They had
lost, and they had no money, so there wasn’t going to be a well. For them, not winning was like not keeping their word, and a Maasai always kept his word. I wondered how hard it would be for them to return to their village.

And then, even worse, they were being asked to relive their loss—their dishonour—in interview after interview. One crew even showed them replays—Nebala and Koyati struggling and being passed by runner after runner, Samuel falling and then hobbling forward, the three of them crossing the finish line—and asked them for their comments, their
“feelings,”
about what had happened.

I knew they had feelings—terrible feelings of hurt—but they would never reveal those feelings. I think the interviewer wanted some kind of emotional outburst. Instead, they were calm, showing no emotion. The interviewer didn’t know that you couldn’t get an emotional outburst from a Maasai if you broke his arm. I knew that. I also knew that they must be in pain … Samuel because of his ankle, but all of them because they’d failed.

This interviewer—he was from Channel Nine News—wasn’t talking to them as much as using them as background. I’d seen him on the news before. He was a pretty-boy with great clothes and better hair. He looked like he lived in
The Hills.

“I stand with three brave Maasai,” the reporter said, gesturing to Nebala, Koyati, and Samuel standing beside him. “They came to Beverly Hills to run in the marathon. They tried to win a race, not for
personal gain, and not for glory, but simply to raise funds to build a well for their destitute community … a well that would have been used to water crops, for livestock, and simply for drinking water. They came with this simple and noble dream.” He paused and looked directly into the camera. “A dream that lies shattered on twenty-six miles of pavement.” He paused, and I looked for a reaction from Nebala—there was none. “This is Bart Stone, reporting live from Beverly Hills.”

The bright lights faded. “That’s a wrap,” the man behind the camera called out.

Good old Bart shook hands with the Maasai, and he and his camera crew quickly departed.

“Excuse me, but that’s a wrap for
everybody!”
Dakota called out. “They’ve given enough interviews.”

There was grumbling and some groans from those still waiting for their turn.

“Come on, people, have some understanding. These men have just run a marathon—him on one foot,” he said, pointing at Samuel. “They need to rest.” He turned to me. “Let’s all go to my office, where we can talk in private.”

I didn’t really have anything to talk about, but I was happy to get away from the crowd. I’d never thought I would get tired of having my picture taken, but this was too much. I had no idea how
anybody
could ever get used to this. It had to be incredibly draining on the rich and famous and beautiful to have to deal with this all the time. I didn’t know if I could face that. If that was to become my fate … well, I figured
I could always hire enough big, burly security people to keep the paparazzi at a safe distance.

Dakota shepherded us toward his office. I hung behind at the back of the line so I could speak to my father.

“Did you get them?” I asked.

He nodded.

“When?”

“Two weeks from now.”

“Nothing sooner?”

“I’m afraid not. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, of course not.”

We walked into the office and Dakota closed the door, sealing us off from the crush of press and well-wishers. It got a lot quieter.

“Please, everybody take a seat,” he said.

The three Maasai and Olivia sat down together on the big leather chesterfield. My mother came over and brought a chair. She lifted up Samuel’s ankle—which the medics had checked out at the scene and encased with ice—and carefully placed his foot on the chair. Samuel grimaced ever so slightly and gritted his teeth, trying to resist reacting to the pain he must have been feeling. His ankle was a swollen mess. It was a very bad sprain, but apparently all it needed was rest.

“This has certainly been an incredible end to an incredible day,” Dakota said. He got up from his desk and stood right in front of Nebala. “And I speak for all of us when I say how proud we are of your efforts.”

Nebala looked up. “I do not understand. There is nothing to be proud of.”

“Of course there is! You three are heroes!”

Nebala scoffed. “Heroes win. We failed.”

“I don’t think that’s how anybody sees it.”

“We did not win.”

There wasn’t much to argue with. I didn’t see them as failures either, but they hadn’t won, and as far as they were concerned that was all that mattered.

“Look, the only reason you didn’t win was because of me,” Dakota said. “If I’d placed you in a better position none of this would have happened.
You
didn’t fail …
I
didn’t allow you to succeed.”

Wow, I didn’t see that coming. I guess a guy who knew Prada had to have some class, and he was showing it.

“And that’s why I want to extend an invitation to you to participate in next year’s marathon.”

“You want them to come back?” Olivia questioned.

“Not only come back, but I will guarantee them a starting spot on the first line, and they will receive an appearance fee.”

“An appearance fee?” my father asked. “How much are we talking about?”

“Well, I can’t give an exact figure at this point, but I can guarantee it will be sufficient to cover airfare, hotel, and a small sum on top of that.”

“If you want them back it’s going to have to be more than a
small
sum,” my father said.

Dakota smiled. “We can certainly enter into negotiations.”

“Judging from the reaction of the crowd and the media, I would think it would be in your best
interests to be very generous in those negotiations.” My father smiled. “Unless, of course, you want to see them compete in the New York or Boston marathon instead.”

“No, no! I don’t think that will be necessary. We take care of our runners. I give you my word that it will be a very generous offer.” He paused. “Do we have a deal?”

My father got up, extended his hand to shake, and—

“Wait!” I said, stepping between them. “I think we have to ask Nebala what they want to do.”

“Of course … excuse me!” My father looked genuinely embarrassed. He never missed a chance to make a lucrative deal, but he was forgetting whose decision this was.

I put my hand on Nebala’s shoulder and he looked up. “Do you want to come back and run next year?”

“Next year? I … I cannot say what will happen next year … I do not know.”

“I understand,” I said. “You need time to think about everything that has happened, time just to go home and—”

“We cannot go home.”

We all knew that they didn’t have return tickets or the money to buy tickets. But I knew they
could
go home. I looked at my father, and we exchanged little smiles.

“Why don’t you tell them?” I said to my father.

He shook his head. “It was your idea. You should tell them.”

That was nice of him.

“You
can
go home. My father got you airline tickets.”

“That’s one of the things I was doing while everybody else was giving interviews and being TV stars,” my father said. “You’ll be leaving in—”

“We have no money to pay,” Nebala said, cutting him off.

“No, no, you don’t have to pay!” I said. “The tickets are a gift.”

“Your family has given us so much already. We are grateful, but we cannot accept your tickets,” Nebala said.

“I’ve already bought the tickets,” my father said. “If you don’t take them, they’ll just go to waste.”

“My father’s right. Besides, if you don’t take the tickets, how will you get home?” I asked.

“We will not get home. We cannot go home.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have failed. We are too … too … There is too much … shame.”

I looked at my father. He always had an answer to everything.

“Daddy?”

“What if I were to give you the money for the well? Then you could go home.”

“You are a kind and generous man, but we cannot take your money.”

My father shrugged his shoulders. This time there was no answer.

“Then what are you going to do?” I asked. “Where are you going to go?”

“We will go as soon as Samuel has healed.”

“Go where? Where will you go?”

Nebala shrugged. “We will walk.”

This was insane! Did they think they could walk back to Africa? Or were they just going to wander around the States?

“Look, there has to be another way,” I said. “Dakota, can you give them some appearance money for participating in this year’s marathon?”

“I wish I could, but there’s nothing left in the budget. I’m so sorry.”

There had to be an answer. There was always an answer. I just had to think harder and I knew I could come up with—

“What about Hollywood Boulevard?” Olivia suggested.

“What
about
Hollywood Boulevard?” I asked.

“We can take them back to Hollywood Boulevard, and they can pose for pictures for the tourists.”

“Olivia, you’re a genius!” I exclaimed. “That could work!”

“They can’t earn that much money posing for pictures, can they?” my father asked.

“They might be able to earn three or four hundred dollars a day,” Olivia said.

“And how much is it that they need?” my father asked.

“With everything … maybe fifty or sixty thousand dollars.”

“So it would take them quite a long time to earn that much,” my father said.

“At three or four hundred dollars a day, it would be between one hundred and twenty-five and one hundred and seventy-seven days, assuming they need only fifty thousand dollars, but if it’s sixty thousand, then it would take—”

“A very long time,” my father said, cutting me off.

“Maybe none of that will be necessary,” my mother said.

I looked over. She was sitting at Dakota’s desk and her eyes were on his computer screen. What was she doing? And was she going to finish that thought?

“Mom?”

“You should have a look at the website I built.”

“I will, and I’m really sorry I didn’t look before—that was wrong—but I don’t think this is the time,” I said. “We have to find a solution.”

“I
have
a solution. You all should come and see this. Please.”

Everybody got to their feet and we crowded around my mother, looking at the screen. There were pictures—wonderful pictures of Nebala and Samuel and Koyati. And there was text explaining why they were here and what they were going to do with the money. It was a great site, but how was this a solution to the problem?

“I put a couple of things on the site … I had to, for my assignment. I needed to know how many people had visited the site, so I put a counter on the page.”

I looked where she had pointed. “Is that right? There have been over one hundred thousand hits … in four days?” I gasped.

“Three days, and yes, that number is correct. That’s the power of the Internet. But here’s the really important part.”