Pigment (4 page)
May 10
Theirs is the sole Geita-bound vehicle on the paved road, and there are few people in sight.
The sun is high and floods the windows of the van. Aliya rubs sunblock into her skin, on her face, neck, shoulders and where her sandals don’t cover her feet and toes. Kennen, at the wheel, gazes at her with wanting eyes.
Aliya notices the way he’s looking at her and she’s not having it. “Oh no.”
Kennen veers his eyes back onto the road.
“This isn’t gonna be a problem is it? We talked about this.”
Kennen answers, “I know. I know. We’re just friends.” But what’s a man to do when he’s in the presence of such sensual beauty? “I looked and now I’m looking at the road. I appreciate the curves of it, but you’re much easier on the eyes.” She tries not too, but the corners of her mouth curve up into a smile. “There you are.” Kennen, “Welcome to Tanzania, Aliya Scott.”
The terrain is flat for miles; save for the few simple scrap metal and wood structures they pass along the way. The land is vast and dry; it must be so plush after the rains. In the distance there is a tree demanding attention. It is a Mukuyu tree at the crossroads. The tallest tree for miles, it has no competition reaching the sky. The branches are ash brown in color, the thin bark and ochre green leaves remind of the Sycamore tree in the yard back home. But the shape of the leaves is oval.
Kennen drives closer to the tree and at about ten yards, he pulls over, cuts the engine and bounds out of the van with a granola bar. “Come on.” His enthusiasm is contagious. Aliya smiles at how child-like he can be, full of wonder and adventure and follows.
“This is the majestic Mukuyu tree. It holds a lot of history and meaning for the people here.” He’s teaching class now and Aliya is his student.
“How so?” Aliya asks.
“It’s like the tree of life. Its roots are the ancestors of the people and its limbs the offspring of generations.” As they arrive at the base of the tree, he takes her hand and puts it on a low hanging branch that extends parallel to the ground. “Do you feel that?”
Aliya is skeptical at first, and then she relaxes her hand and senses the vibration of it. A big smile lights up her face. “Yeah.”
Kennen continues, “This branch here is where many people were hung. Not long ago, during the slave trade, thousands of people were held here begging its shade before they were auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
“That’s awful.” Her smile turns stern.
“I know, but it’s part of the history. We have to understand what these people and this country have been through in order to understand how to help. Tanzania only got its independence in the 60s. Socialism led to capitalism and that only worked for a select few. The fishermen and the miners in Lake Victoria and Geita were promised riches and rewards for all their hard work. Now they are lucky if they can afford fish heads for dinner.”
“What are you on about, Kennen?”
“These are people just trying to survive. And these are people who believe in witchcraft. It’s not some mystical thing. It’s real.”
“You sound like you feel sorry for the hunters!”
“Compassion more than pity, or maybe just understanding. Me own Gran used to blame things on fairies. It was something that was very real to her. It somehow was in the fabric of her experience. Fairies were powerful strong during the so called famine in Ireland.”
Kennen goes over to the Elder on the other side of the tree and gives him the granola bar. The old man smiles at him, with his few remaining teeth, peels back the skin and takes a bite.
Aliya circles the tree, stroking the trunk with her hand. A gentle breeze blows and the leaves shake like countless faces in a crowd. She closes her eyes and feels the energy as the wind blows across her skin and through her loose reddish-blonde afro.
When she opens her pale eyes, the Elder is standing in front of her, close, too close for her comfort. He isn’t smiling now, just studying her.
“He likes you.” Kennen breaks the intensity of Elder’s stare. Aliya moves out of the shade of the tree with a polite smile for the odd old man. Kennen pats him on the back. “See you around, Man.”
Elder squats at the trunk, and catches Aliya’s gaze through the window as Kennen and she drive away.
May 10 (later) - 11
The converted large shack, which houses the Kuchuna office is makeshift. There’s a solitary, old computer on a desk, a couple of chairs, and the rumble of a generator outside the back wall. On a poster that hangs without a frame is an image of the earth and people of diverse ethnicities. The text reads,
“Kuchuna: The smaller the world gets, the more we are all accountable.”
A dark black, handsome man in his late twenties is sitting at his desk, trying to fix the fan. He looks up as Aliya rounds the corner. There is no denying their mutual instant attraction.
He says hello. “Hujambo.”
Aliya nearly stutters for the first time in her life, surprising herself. “Hi. Mimi ni pamoja...”
Kennen appears in the doorway.
“Kennen, brother.” Rhadi rises to greet him and shake his hand.
“Hey. What’s going on, man?”
“This beautiful malaika just walked into my office.” He translates the compliment for Aliya. “‘Malaika’ means angel.”
“Oh.”
Aliya and Rhadi can’t take their eyes off each other.
“I like your shirt.”
Aliya blushes girlishly. She’s still sporting the “Skin Deep” T-shirt.
Kennen is put off by the obvious spark he is witnessing.
“I’ve been trying to fix this fan to get some air moving in here. Take a look at it while I show Aliya what we’re working on.”
He hands Kennen the fan. Kennen sort of looks at it, though not really.
Rhadi leads Aliya to his computer and pulls up the Kuchuna website.
“I’ve been to your site.”
“Then you know what we do?”
“Yes, but Kennen told me you do more than what’s online.”
Kennen puts down the fan and positions himself between them, a little too close to Aliya. “I told her about the Internet campaign with Amnesty International. How you could have been more honest.”
“Yes,” he concedes, “The son of the jailed journalist did not receive threatening letters, as we alluded.”
“Amnesty wasn’t happy to learn you lied.” Kennen chides. It’s clear he’s disapproving of this tactic.
“But it did get the journalist and his father the media attention needed to get him released and both of them to safety.” Rhadi defends with no regrets.
Kennen insists, “Right, but it cost Kuchuna the trust of Amnesty.”
#
Later, having had dinner, Kennen is passed out on the floor. Rhadi and Aliya are talking softly.
“They need us. They can’t make the extreme moves that we can. They are too big. We must do what we do to get things done. There is no one else who will do it. Our current mission may directly involve you, Aliya. As you know, we need to have an impact; we are trying to find bolder ways to show the world what is happening to albinos here. They are too few and too small a casualty for the larger organizations to pay attention. Will you help us?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she answers.
Rhadi and Aliya are staring into each other’s eyes. Aliya is blushing. Kennen coughs to interrupt them. He had awoken and been watching them.
“Of course,” she blurts out eagerly.
#
Next morning, the van is loaded with supplies. Kennen’s frustration is clear by how hard he slams the cargo door.
Rhadi resists saying goodbye to Aliya. “See you in two weeks. We have much work to do.”
“Yes.”
Kennen doesn’t return Rhadi’s wave goodbye. They drive down the road.
“He’s really cool,” Aliya says.
“He’s all right, I guess,” unimpressed. “What’s in two weeks?”
“He’s coming out to the camp so we can put an action plan together.”
“To do what?”
“Nothing in particular, yet.”
“Watch yourself with him. He can be reckless. The lies on that case could have backfired. He doesn’t always lay out the best plans.”
“Have you met me? My eyes are wide open. You’re just jealous.”
Kennen swallows this hard and in complete denial. “How could I be jealous of that guy? We’re just friends, Aliya.”
She daydreams, gazing out the window at the wonder of this new world before her.
#
About an hour further along on their journey to Camp Kivuli, they approach some mean-looking guys who are parked on the side of the long dirt road. It is midday and the sun is high and hot.
Kennen puts Aliya’s hat on her head.
She takes it off, thinking he’s being playful and flirting.
Kennen warns, “Put it on for now.”
“I put on sunblock.”
He puts it back on her head.
She takes it off.
“What? Are we gonna have to have this talk again? I told you I...”
“No. It’s not that.”
As they pass the parked car, the rough guys, looking through their window, set their eyes on Aliya. Aliya finally sees them.
“It’s them.”
“Seriously?”
The drawn look on Kennen’s face assures her how very serious he is.
“You want me to hide my skin? You are out of your effing mind.”
“Bandits on this road pulled three cars over the other day. Killed everyone in them. And they weren’t even albino. I hate to think what they’d do to you.”
She clenches her hat in her hand as she stares back at the men and deflects, “Who says ‘bandits’ any more?”
July 15
Jalil is on the same road to Geita that Aliya traveled some weeks earlier. They’ve picked up more aides so it’s much tighter in the van. Rolf and Jalil now share a double seat, which is too small for them. It keeps them awkwardly close, but these men have smelled each other up close in bunkers for days at a stretch. They haven’t grown too soft to take this now.
“Old friend, I must be honest with you. There is very little hope that Aliya is alive. And there is little I can offer to help find her.”
Jalil glares at him with surprise.
“I’m trying to save the lives of 138,000 Burundians. Can’t turn my back on them to try to find your daughter. You can’t ask me to.” Rolf takes out the paper he had been writing on when Jalil had walked into his office and hands it to him. “Here. Go see the District Magistrate Luamke. Aliya made quite an impression on him at a party I had. It was the one time I saw her.”
“How did she make an impression?”
“Called him out on a recent ‘trial,’ if you can call it that. Three men killed an albino boy and were released without a trial.”
“Released?”
“No one will prosecute them. They don’t want the bush knife coming down on them.”
“Even the magistrate?”
“Bureaucracy, politics, call it what you will. I wrote down Luamke’s address and that of the head of the regional police, Akida. I don’t know him.”
“Who else was at your party? Will you give me a list?”
“I’ll have my secretary get it to you, but I doubt anyone there had anything to do with it. You know me well enough to know that all my friends aren’t saints, but this would be well outside what I’d expect of anyone I’d invite in.”
The squeaks and rocking of the van seats lull them. They both grow quiet and watch out the window.
#
Hours later, the paved road turns to dirt and kicks up dust. The industrial whistle of the Geita Mines blows. The van passes miners who are making their way off the property on foot after their shift. Jalil is watching them. He palms his phone and looks at the same picture of Aliya.
Rolf sees it from over Jalil’s shoulder. “She is beautiful. Are you sure she’s yours? You never showed a picture of her in all the year’s I’ve known you.”
“Didn’t I?” Jalil knows this is true. He kept the couple pictures of her that he had to himself.
“She knew the danger.”
“She didn’t tell me the extent of what she was planning on doing. I figured she’d write some letters, hang posters. I never thought. I should have…”
“It’s one thing to know the facts. It’s another, to be young and invincible and on a mission. Aliya is like you were twenty years ago -- wild and radical.”
“I’m not that man any more.”
“Unlike you, she has a cause. At her age you were just angry and ignorant. Growing up albino can’t be easy, no matter where you live. There are worse things than being black after all.” His delivery is deadpan.
Jalil’s gut reaction is defensive. His shoulders rise and he clenches his fist. Then, he remembers Rolf’s scathing ironic humor and bad timing and a sharp reminder of the tasteless racist jokes they used to ride each other with in the old days and lets it roll.
#
At the crossroads to Geita, Rolf rises, awkwardly, because of the low ceiling of the van and his unusual height. His hand rests on the lid to spot his head, as he ushers his friend off the van.
Outside, the vast space around him and this strange world and circumstance in which he's being led around, seams surreal. He hasn’t been the same since Teheran.
“Geita, one of the poorest/richest places in the world. The mines strip the land and its people of their resources. No PhDs here. Sorcerers and witch doctors and little potable water,” says Rolf. As he stretches out his long stiff back, his shirt comes up and Jalil sees the tip of the scar from the shrapnel that nearly took Rolf’s life. It would have, had Jalil not treated him in the field then gotten him to a medic.
“That’s why I’ve never been here before.”
“Weren’t you in Rwanda?”
“For three hours once. Just long enough to confirm there was nothing there for us.” -- Us meaning U.S. Jalil was working for Sentry at the time, a multi-billion dollar private securities firm hired by the government for “special projects.”
Rolf shakes his head. “Always looking for the shiny side of the coin.”
Jalil shrugs, not denying it. “And getting jobs done.”
Rolf points him in the direction of the police station. “You’ll find Luamke’s office ten clicks that way. You can’t miss it, or him.” He squeezes his old friend’s shoulder.
Jalil looks lost and then snaps out of it. “What about the activist group she was working with?”
“Kuchuna. Grassroots. Started last year. Good for social networking, getting the extreme word out on human rights and environmental issues in the area. They broke the story, even reported Aliya was missing to the magistrate. They’ve stirred things up once or twice, so Akida can probably tell you where to find them.”
Rolf boards the van and sits by the door, still speaking with Jalil. He hands him a Tanzania guidebook, as the vehicle starts moving. “Good luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Take it anyway. Sixty albinos were killed in the last year. I lost 3000 refugees. Tanzania lost 80,000 to HIV. If by some miracle, Aliya is alive, you are her best hope. Inaweza mungu akubariki. May God bless you.”
Jalil watches him as the van drives away. The spine is disjointed. He opens the guidebook and finds a knife in his knapsack. The sun shines on the blade. How strange, Jalil thinks. Rolf is so distracted...Dismissive...He’s given him a quick brief, armed him and sent him on a mission. He is a mess. Rolf won’t last another year at that pace. He shuts the book and looks around in a circle to gain his bearings. He goes in the direction Rolf sent him, following at the heels of his quick pace.