Pigment (6 page)
July 16
Jalil drives a beater he rented from a gas station near Kuchuna. Its exterior shows years of desert exposure. There’s no paint left on the body and no AC, but the engine runs well. No AC in this car either. He passes the Mukuyu tree. The Elder is squatting on one of the roots at its base and observes Jalil drive by.
Hours later Jalil is parked on the side of the road, which goes on for miles with seemingly nothing around. He maps out Aliya’s travels and timeline in military precision form: flight lines from Mwanza and Dar, the choice driving route from Mwanza to Geita and on to Camp Kivuli. He uses the outline of the bottom of his water bottle to draw a radius around Mwanza and Kivuli. He removes the bottle and traces the circle with his fingertip. He lands on the Geita Mines and taps it, as if sending a telegraph to his brain to make special note of the mines. He slides his finger down toward the south west part of the circle to Camp Kivuli. He starts the car and drives slowly, looking for clues that might lead him to Aliya.
He arrives at the camp. It is sparse, a few small structures -- three for sleeping quarters; one for the school; one that functions, on one side, as the kitchen and, on the other side -- divided by a grass wall -- as the bathing area. There is a room in the school hut that is set up for administrative purposes. There is a tall makeshift fence around the perimeter that, most importantly, keeps hunters out and the children in. If not for the armed men standing guard it might look like a normal schoolyard with children at play, only the children are mostly albino and many are scarred from skin cancer and missing limbs.
Jalil drives up to the gate.
The lead guard, Jengo, a very lean, agile man with a light step and a big gun, approaches Jalil, whose window is rolled down.
Jalil shows him his passport. “I’m Aliya’s father. I am here to see Delila.”
Jengo, of course, knows her name, “Aliya...” He hands the passport to another guard who takes it into the camp. He soon returns, exchanges a few words with Jengo out of Jalil’s earshot, then Jengo comes and hands the passport back to Jalil. “Welcome, Mr. Scott.”
#
The other guard opens the gate and Jengo motions for Jalil to drive in and park over to the side.
Some of the children gather around the car. Jalil gets out, and they stare at his American clothes and nice shoes. He’s still in his office clothes from Los Angeles. Amid the children, he catches a glimpse of Bashima wearing Aliya’s glasses. At first he thinks it’s Aliya and follows her. When the children move out of his line of vision and he sees her condition -- one legged, on a crutch -- he knows she isn’t Aliya. But those are her glasses.
Jalil approaches her nevertheless. She shyly draws away from this dark stranger. He is gentle, even smiles for her. “Hi. I’m Jalil. Where did you get the glasses?”
She doesn’t understand.
“Your eyeglasses.”
He tries again, in French, using his fingers to make circles around his eyes. But he comes off as too aggressive. She withdraws from him.
Delila approaches. She’s in her forties, though she looks much younger. Her high cheekbones and long neck have a royal grace that seems misplaced in this camp where poverty pervades. The only hint that this strong, maternal woman has lived a less-than-sheltered existence is a burn scar that mars the left side of her body. Somehow the heat source missed her face, but its discolored veins claw up her neck. She leans forward to compensate. Bashima runs to her for protection. She speaks words of comfort to the child in her language.
As Jalil introduces himself to Delila, Bashima hobbles away as fast as she can.
“I don’t think she understood...”
“She hasn’t spoken since Aliya left. This poor child had been dragged from her bed in her home. Men cut off her leg. One man even...Mtu mmoja hata kunywa damu yake mbele yake. He drank her blood in front of her.”
“I’m afraid this or worse has happened to my daughter.”
“Samahani, Mr. Scott.
I’m sorry.
I am Delila.” She extends her hand. He accepts, his strong demeanor softening at her feminine touch.
“Please, call me Jalil.”
“I am the head mistress here. Your daughter is missed.”
“Bu...”
She helps him. “Bashima.”
“She is wearing Aliya’s glasses.”
“Aliya gave them to her, and, in their place, she wore an old pair she had with her.”
“What happened?”
“All I know is that Aliya and Kennen stopped in Geita on their way back from Mwanza with supplies. Kennen made the run regularly. But they had gone to Dar before for Saba Saba. You must know all this…”
“Yes. Was there anyone you know of who may have targeted her?”
“She is albino in Tanzania.” She raises her hands as if to imply it could be anyone outside the gate. “There was a man who followed her from the airport, but then he was gone. She showed me his picture...”
“Do you have it or remember it?”
“It was on her phone. She had that with her, but...she may have uploaded it onto her computer...If she didn’t have it with her, it must be with her things; maybe in her journal. She would print out her pictures at Kuchuna and paste them in it.”
Delila leads him to Aliya’s shared quarters, a small grass-roofed structure. There is very little inside -- her luggage, a few photos, and some toiletries. She shows him the picture that’s pressed in a page in her notebook. “Men like him come and go, sometimes never to return...I don’t know if it was him. You should take her things.”
In a matter-of-fact tone, Jalil says, “She’s not dead.”
Delila is sensitive to what he must be going through as she says, “Most Africans do not believe in death the way you Americans do. Some might say Aliya was never alive, that she didn’t have a soul because of the lack of pigment melanin. There are more bodies than souls, after all. But I believe she had a soul. A very pure soul.”
“Can I stay here tonight?”
She hesitates.
He continues. “It’s just...”
“Yes.” She gathers her mat from the floor and carries it with her.
“Am I putting you out?”
“I don’t sleep much these days. Bashima has night terrors. I stay with her, now that Aliya is gone.”
“Will you show me Kennen’s quarters?”
“He slept outside or in the van. Let me know if there is anything I can do.” Delila is about to leave the room but there is something that she can’t leave unsaid, something that has been weighing heavy in her heart. That Jalil is here is a gift, the father of the woman with whom she shared a room and a mission. Her eyes are facing the ground, too heavy to look at him, when she says, “I made her go. Volunteering was taking a toll on her, and she needed a break.”
There is a long pause, and then Jalil relieves her. “Few people could make Aliya do anything. She must have respected you.”
Delila raises her eyes to meet his. He nods, encouraging her to accept his words. Which she does then graciously leaves.
The pictures in Aliya’s laptop instantly consume Jalil. The power is low, but he takes it as far as it will go:
- There’s a playful close-up of Aliya and Kennen;
- One of Kennen pretending to pout;
- A peaceful picture of Aliya under the Mukuyu Tree;
- A shot of the Mukuyu tree with the Elder at its trunk;
- One that Kennen took of Aliya with Delila and the kids singing to welcome her;
- Aliya with Kennen and Rhadi outside the Kuchuna office, standing in front of where the poster hangs;
- A selfie of Aliya and Rhadi looking into each other’s eyes;
- A follow-up image of them kissing on the cheek.
Jalil rests on Aliya’s mat, studying her pictures. He hears singing and is lulled by it.
In the children’s hut, next door, Delila rocks Bashima to sleep in her arms as she sings an old Tanzanian lullaby: “Malaika.”
Malaika, nakupenda Malaika
Angel, I love you, angel
Malaika, nakupenda Malaika
Angel, I love you, angel
Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio
and I, what should I do, your young friend
Nashindwa na mali sina, we,
I am defeated by the bride price that I don't have
Ningekuoa Malaika
I would marry you, angel
Nashindwa na mali sina, we,
I am defeated by the bride price that I don't have
Ningekuoa Malaika
I would marry you, angel*
[i]
Jalil fixates on a picture Kennen took of the children and Delila hugging and welcoming Aliya. His eyelids grow heavy as the screen dims, and he falls asleep.
May 12
The sun is setting as Delila leads the children, most albino, some black as the coal from one of the mines, sing and sign “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” in English. They are delightful and playful.
A five-year-old albino boy, who has only one leg, sings along and does the motions. When he sings he uses the singular instead of the plural, since he only has one knee, and like a long-legged bird, keeps his balance when he touches his toes and returns to standing with a hop.
Aliya is enamored with each of them. Her eyes convey her deep emotion and marvel. She can’t sit still. She gets up and joins the fun for another round.
They finish the song and some of the little ones give her hugs.
“Nzuri sana. Very good, children. Sasa...” Delila leads them. “Welcome, Miss Aliya!”
Aliya offers, “Ajabu! That was wonderful! Asante. Thank you.”
Delila says to Aliya, “They’ve been practicing all week. Aliya, they are very happy to have you here as their new teacher.”
“I’m happy I’m here.” she responds.
Delila shows Aliya into the hut. Her new backpack, a “happy trails” gift from Mike and Mama, looks out of place.
“We will share quarters. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Delila pauses for a moment. She’s got to ask: “Aliya, throughout all our correspondence, why didn’t you tell me you are albino?”
“It shouldn’t matter.”
“Maybe not in America, but here...”
“Especially here it needs to not matter.”
Delila responds, “Especially here, it does matter. I have to check on the food for the children.” She leaves Aliya to organize her things.
Outside, Delila approaches Kennen who is a few yards from the hut. “You should have told me.”
“And ruin the surprise? Come on, Delila, Aliya’s very brave...”
“More foolish than brave. We need the help, but it’s hard enough to protect the ones we already have.”
“She’ll be anything but a burden. I promise. I’ll look after her. She’s my responsibility.”
“No, Kennen. She’s all of ours.” Delila walks away, pensive.
#
Inside the hut Aliya is unpacking. Kennen steps in the doorway. “You settling in all right?”
“I think so.”
“Tired?”
“I should be, but I’m too excited, too much going on in my head.”
“Well try and get some rest. ’First day tomorrow. Wee ones will run you ragged for sure.”
“I will.”
“I’m outside if you need anything.”
“Outside?”
“You know me. The sky’s the limit...”
“Okay...” She follows his lead and steps outside to see the many brilliant stars above their heads.
He looks at her.
“Okay,” she exhales long, relaxed. “Kennen?”
“Yeah...”
“Thanks for helping me get here.” She gives him a peck on the cheek.
A big grin and blush envelop his face. He lingers a little too long in the doorway, and then says, “Right. Sleep well.” Kennen stares at her, not wanting to go.
“Good night, Kennen.”
“’Night.”
Aliya walks into the hut. She climbs onto her mat to sleep. She looks up at the sky through the open square where a window would be. She takes her spectacles off and lays them next to her mat and closes her eyes.
#
The sun bursts high and hard, as it never slept.
Aliya wakes to children -- albino and black -- peering in, watching her. They are whispering and giggling. Her light eyes look almost a pale green and are sensitive to the morning light. She squints and slides on her nerdy glasses and their faces become detailed. She smiles and jumps out of bed. She pats their heads through the window frame, a big smile on her face. Then there is the sound of Kennen’s morning chant roaring into the cloudless sky, “It’s a beautiful day!” It echoes and his enthusiasm for the day spreads to two of the older boys who playfully mimic him. And her first typical day begins. She hands out hats and sunglasses to the children, teaching some how to apply sunblock to their skin, she teaches the English alphabet to an all-ages class, she helps Kennen and some of the older children and adults repair a fallen hut, and Aliya tells the story of “The Three Bears” to some of the children.
#
One day, while Aliya is teaching class, she notices Bashima longingly looking out the window with tears streaming down her cheeks. Aliya looks to see what Bashima is seeing. Delila joins them. Bashima’s mother is outside the camp, looking in.
Delila says quietly to Aliya, “She has no choice but to leave her daughter here. She can’t protect her at their home. It took her five days to safely smuggle Bashima to the camp, hiding in the bush all the way. She lives a long way from here on foot...longer with one leg. She has three other children -- not albino -- at home whom she must care for.”
“What about her father?” Aliya asks.
Delila shakes her head, then replies, “Women who have albino babies –- if the midwife doesn’t kill and bury the babies before the mamas even get to hold them and before anyone finds out about them –- the mamas are accused of having had sex with a white man or even a Tokolosh.” She answers the inquisitive look on Aliya’s face, “It’s a devil imp that lives under beds and sleeping mats. Like most men, Bashima’s father left when he saw his albino baby.”
“I can relate to that. My father left when I was little.”
“Some of them do worse than leave. Her father was one of the attackers.”
“What!” Aliya’s voice cracks open the quiet of their soft whisper pulling the attention of all the kids. She turns her face from them back to the window, so they put their focus back on writing their names, and softly continues, “Poor Bashima! She loses her leg, her home, everyone she knows and loves...and by her own father’s hand.”
Aliya gives Bashima a gentle hug and leads her by the shoulder outside to visit with her mother.
#
Ten miles away in Northwest Tanzania, in a sparse hut, an albino cherub of about three years old is playing in the shadows, holding up his hand to the fine light. He squints, laughs, enjoying his game and the warmth.
His Mama calls him in to go to sleep. He runs into her arms for a goodnight embrace, and she lays him gently down on a mat to sleep.
Shadows play heavy against the fire. The boy sleeps peacefully close to his mother. Stars peer through the cracks in the grasses and boards that serve as walls. Figures cross the light from outside -- three thin, desperate hunters enter the hut and drag the boy from his slumber.
His Mama wakes and shrieks in protest, “
Hakuna! Acheni!
” No! Stop!
They ignore her pleas and persist.
“Mama!” The boy wails as he is taken to the front yard, near the fire.
One of the hunters holds his Mama back while the other two shove the boy to the ground. One raises a machete, and with brute force hacks at the little colorless body. The blade is raised and plunges down numerous times until there is silence. The mother stops fighting and collapses on her knees. The hunters take the boy’s limbs and leave what’s left on the ground in a pool of blood. The boy’s face looks strangely peaceful amid the shadows and blood.
#
This same night, Bashima is in the midst of night terrors, thrashing and screaming in her sleep.
Aliya comes to her side, cradles and comforts her. She sings a song that her Mama used to sing to soothe her:
Hush-a-by,
Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
And when you wake,
You shall have cake,
And all the pretty little ponies.
As she sings, Bashima fights sleep with all her strength. When her eyelids finally get too heavy, she nearly rests but her body twitches, especially where her leg was cut-off, her phantom limb. They make ghosts of children here one piece at a time.
Paint and bay, Sorrel and gray,
All the pretty little ponies.
So hush-a-by, Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
A tear runs down Aliya’s cheek.
#
Next morning, at the camp, Kennen is working with Jengo digging a hole in the ground, about two feet long and one foot wide, and three feet deep.
Aliya comes out of her hut, spots them and goes to them. “What are you guys up to?”
Before he can answer, the sound of a woman crying is heard in the distance. They all turn to see, the Mama carrying the remains she has left of the small boy swaddled in a blanket ushered by Delila. Aliya steps back, her eyes widen as she realizes she is standing in a graveyard.
Kennen mixes cement in a bucket as they approach. He pauses to receive the boy. Mama won’t let go. She wails to the heavens in Swahili: “My baby is missing pieces. My baby is not whole. How can my baby rest in peace?” Her grasp is tight and fingers clenched. Delila rests her hands on the Mama’s shoulders to give her strength. She releases him into Jengo’s hands and he places the baby in the ground so that his body faces right, toward the sun.
Delila says a small prayer over the little body as Mama places the hide of a slaughtered goat over him. Then, Delila escorts her, both of them weeping, back to the hut. Kennen and the guard pour the cement over the corpse, filling in the hole.
“You alright, Aliya?”
“Cement?”
Kennen nods as he wipes cement from his fingers with a rag and tears from his cheeks with the back of his wrist. He and the guards look sharp at the perimeter for any unfriendly faces. “Grave robbers.” They will stand watch until after the cement dries. Guards here protect the living and the dead.