“Nkamba, let us sit here,” he said, making room under the tent that protected him during the service. “I would like to read you an article. Actually, Adimu, why don’t you try to read it?” He gave her the newspaper.
“It’s better if you do it,” she replied, lowering her head.
“Don’t be shy! You must be good at reading by now,” encouraged Father Andrew.
“I’m not very good at reading aloud,” said Adimu in a small voice.
“She doesn’t see well, Father, and the teacher sits her at the back of the classroom.”
“Go ahead and try,” urged the priest.
“Her teacher doesn’t understand on purpose,” grumbled Nkamba.
“Albino…Woman…Appointed…as…Member of the Parliament.” Adimu sounded out the title of the article and then handed the newspaper back to the priest who continued to read it aloud. The article told about an albino woman who had become a lawyer and had been nominated by Tanzanian President Kikwete to be a member of parliament.
“She is a national politician,” he told the elderly woman who listened with her mouth agape. Adimu paid little attention. She wanted to go look for her new friends.
While she was sitting with Father Andrew, Nkamba’s gaze fell on a mangy goat not far from where they sat. The poor beast, little more than skin and bones, pulled itself along the side of the road with its front legs, escorted by vultures that hopped about, each one making space for itself by flapping its broad wings. Nkamba heard the squawking of the birds of prey that circled above, convinced each bleat would be the goat’s last. She saw a vulture land, pushing its way among the others with the patience of one waiting for the certain end, death.
“Nkamba, do you understand what it means?” Father Andrew asked, pulling her away from her thoughts.
“Yes, of course I understand. Are you sure it’s true?” The news came from a world she had never imagined existed.
“How can you doubt it? It’s written in the newspaper!” he replied. “Adimu, have you understood what you just read? A white woman, like you, has become an important person.” Adimu was distracted, still busy looking around for the other children.
Nkamba was tempted to tell the priest about what had happened at the mill and about how she wanted to send her granddaughter to the protected community in Tanga, but she held back. She would have to first speak with Kondo and, with his help, convince Sefu. When she had dug the paper out of the earth, it had been damp and black ink had run into its creases, just as she imagined might happen when the doctor first handed her the telephone number. She was pretty sure that the figures could no longer be read, that the last two certainly were too smudged. And she hadn’t saved enough money to make the ninety-nine phone calls or even pay for the ferry. It was unthinkable to ask Father Andrew for money before speaking with the head of the village and her son, especially because the priest belonged to a different clan. The following day she would go to Kondo. Kondo knew how to read. Maybe she was wrong about the smeared ink.
Early the next morning, Nkamba thanked the village chief many times for having assured the necessary protection for Adimu over the years and then told him about what had happened at the mill. She was worried that the thugs would return to hunt down her granddaughter. With her head bowed, she confessed that she wanted to send Adimu away from the island and explained to Kondo that the white doctor had given her the phone number for a children’s community in Tanga. She handed Kondo the creased piece of paper with the smeared numbers written in the white doctor’s writing. She told Kondo that she scratched the first four symbols on her wall, but the child accidently wiped off the last two. Sefu had the money to send her, and in Tanga, Adimu would no longer be a bother to the community. She begged the village chief to intercede. She begged him to read the numbers from the tattered paper, and if they were illegible, as she feared, to find the complete telephone number so her granddaughter might be safe before she joined Kheri, who, she pointed out, was Kondo’s clan-brother. She even reminded Kondo of the daughter she sacrificed for the good of the clan. Nkamba pulled out all the stops—Kondo had to help her.
The village chief didn’t seem like himself. He showed little interest in her heartfelt words and sent her away in a hurry, saying he needed time to think about it. He violently rubbed the piece of paper Nkamba had handed him and said the ink was blotched, the numbers couldn’t be read, and he’d speak with Sefu if and when the opportunity arose. Nkamba saw he was distracted and wanted her out of his home. She saw an inexpressive look in his eyes. Her old friend. The one who was so happy when she and Kheri married and whom she cried to daily after her husband’s time in the village ended. Nkamba left Kondo’s house more apprehensive than when she entered. What can Kondo’s behavior mean? Might some misfortune be visiting him?
As soon as Kondo nudged Nkamba from his home, he hurried to a drawer in his main room to retrieve a green notebook and scrawled the six numbers into it from Nkamba’s paper, tossing the paper in the desk drawer. This children’s community could free Sefu from his disgrace. I’ll have to find out about it, he told himself. And what about Ramadani? Maybe this place can help him too. Or maybe there’s a simpler solution…
* * *
Nkamba was prepared to send Adimu away without Sefu’s or anyone else’s permission, even though she was aware she’d be banished from the village. She would do whatever was needed to save enough money for that ferry. Although, at first, she had taken in her granddaughter to repay her debt for abandoning her own daughter, Adimu had become the daughter she always dreamed of having, a unique and precious soul. The face of the infant she had abandoned in the forest visited the old woman’s memory, and tears of anger streaked her face. She dried them in a hurry and marched off toward the fields.
25.
Ramadani had been with a group of boys when a medical van with a red cross came to Ukerewe. Most of his friends were reluctant to have their blood drawn. “I don’t trust those doctors,” said one of the boys. “People take blood from cows to drink,” said another. His friends had never left the island for their education as he had, and Ramadani felt he should act as an example, so he said he would take the test. Actually, it was curiosity more than a sense of duty that drove him to do it. Living on Ukerewe bored him to death. He desired to learn new things and was frustrated by how time seemed to have stopped in his village. Days passed without variation. The sun and rain beat down on the island, following their natural cycles. Nothing ever changed.
In what little free time he had—Kondo was incessantly teaching him how to be village chief—Ramadani wandered in search of animal specimens to study. By the light of a candle—to keep his parents in the dark—he studied the manuals he brought from the city. During the day, he welcomed every opportunity to put what he read into practice. Sometimes, early in the morning, he would stand on the dock where the ferries from Mwanza landed in hopes of meeting at least one newcomer he could practice his English on. He yearned for contact with anyone from a different world.
Ramadani had climbed the three unsteady steps into the health clinic on wheels and ducked his head under the low entrance. One of the two nurses closed the door and had him sit while the other asked personal, embarrassing questions. They’ve just met me, thought the young man, how can they speak to me about such things? Nevertheless, he left nothing out, except for a few sporadic lies that were necessary to maintain his dignity. After their interrogation, they asked him to extend his arm for the blood sample. He concentrated on following the needle into his vein, though after a moment, he averted his eyes. The sight of his own blood made him lightheaded.
“Come back tomorrow for the results, and try to convince your friends and family to have the test. It’s free. We’ll be here this week, and we’ll return in a month,” said the nurse as she deftly placed a Band-Aid on the skin puncture.
“I have to come back tomorrow?” Ramadani would have preferred never to enter the mobile clinic again. His head was still spinning.
“Yes, if you want to know the results of the test.”
The next day, Ramadani did return to the clinic, and he was handed a sealed envelope. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
At home, he sat down with a copy of National Geographic while he was waiting for lunch to be ready.
“Did you pick up your test results?” his father asked.
“Of course. I told you, I was brave enough to do it.”
“AIDS, another disgrace brought to us by the whites!” Kondo said, shaking his head.
“Here.” Ramadani handed his father the envelope and returned to his reading.
Kondo tore open the envelope. He held it close to his face. Then he frowned. “Positive?” he said.
“What did you expect?” his wife said on her way out the front door to get more wood for the cooking fire.
“Yeah, did you think I’d be one of those dead-men walking?” Ramadani said, turning the pages of the magazine.
“Positive,” repeated Kondo. “How is it possible?” He collapsed onto a chair.
Ramadani stopped reading and looked at his father. “Why this face?” he asked. “Positive is… positive. A positive result.”
Kondo shook his head. He struggled to his feet and approached his son. “I’ve seen the same result for other men of the clan. In the beginning, like you, I thought it meant something good. But ‘positive’ means you have AIDS. Damn white men and the day they set foot on this soil. I pray the Spirits of the Lake curse them for eternity!”
“You’re wrong, Baba. It’s a positive result. Positive is a good thing,” said the boy, taking the letter from his father’s hand.
Kondo wrapped his arm around Ramadani’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way for you to get better. You’ll be all right.”
Get better? thought the boy. I’m sick with AIDS? Whose fault is that? How did that happen?
“No one must know,” muttered his father.
“What mustn’t they know?” asked Ramadani’s mother, tousling her son’s hair.
“Nothing important,” her husband replied.
“Well, instead of standing there talking secrets, could you stoke the fire? Otherwise today we’ll have nothing to eat but your words.”
Yunis’s life had become hell since that Sunday, seven years before when she’d snatched Adimu. Her lies to Sefu tormented her, but even more tormenting was that the children she desired had yet to come. Yunis, the-woman-without-children: that was how she was known among the villagers. Every time she met a female relative or friend, she would be offered prodigious advice and remedies. Yunis knew few who shared her pain. Instead, the women of her clan showed interest because in the face of her disgrace they had good reason to consider themselves fortunate.
She avoided going out as much as possible. In part, to minimize the risk of meeting Juma, though she had heard that Juma rarely left her home and cared for her sick, elderly father. The few times that they had run into one another, when their eyes met, Juma lowered her head and changed course. The pain that Yunis caused Juma tore up her heart.
Fortunately, Yunis’s husband was against taking a second wife. And one advantage to her condition was that she and her husband had a very active sex life as they were continually trying to conceive—except, of course, during her monthly period. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for the pressure of others, they would have been happy without children. Unfortunately, becoming parents was an inescapable duty within the community. She felt terrible each month when she looked into her husband’s eyes and announced that her period had come. She loved him, and she would have done anything to give him what she imagined he desired most in the world.
Days turned into months and months into rainy seasons, and Yunis became convinced that, since it hadn’t happened, children were not going to brighten their future. Her anguish distorted her thoughts, which stole her sleep and serenity.
However, that she was barren and aging had given her time to reflect on the responsibilities of conceiving life. She had gained the understanding that children do not exist as pillars for one’s old age, nor do they belong to their parents as was generally believed on the island. A child is his- or herself from the moment of its birth and has the right to choose the life he or she prefers, Yunis decided after nights of anguish. Instead of thinking about motherhood as the most natural thing for a woman, she began to sense that a child might also be a limitation. Maternity was no longer a desire but had transformed into a requirement created by the laws of others.
Charles had been thinking a lot, too, and he was tired of wasting his time. Two hours to reach Ukerewe from Mwanza by boat on the weekend was absurd. He saw a sixty-five-foot-long and three thousand horsepower speedboat in a catalog and ordered it: the jewel would take him to the island in only twenty minutes. Charles would have to wait nine months for the boat to arrive, like a pregnant mother, after making a down payment consisting of a series of zeros and no decimal points. The modifications he had requested, including bronze paint with iridescent gold tones, required customizing.
The second mine’s lack of productivity and the cost of building the clinic—which by then, the entire community was aware of—had reduced his liquid assets to an all-time low. To pay his workers and keep his good reputation, Charles dipped into his reserves.
Only Sarah and Jackob knew about the speedboat, and Charles could create a credible excuse to postpone buying it without setting off any bells about his cash-flow troubles. Charles phoned the shipyard and, alluding to financial obligations, said that despite himself, he would have to forgo the acquisition. Only for now, he explained. The boat-maker insisted that the down payment remain in their hands: he could apply it to another vessel as soon as he was ready for a purchase. Charles posed no opposition. No one must harbor suspicions about his economic difficulties. In any case, it would be resolved soon.
“In a few months I’ll buy an even bigger one,” he boasted to Jackob. “Unfortunately I have the tax assessor breathing down my neck, and I can’t wear a scarf right now.” This was his way of saying he couldn’t corrupt anyone at the moment and that his financial difficulties were caused only by taxes due.
Charles was far from lighthearted and tranquil as he tried to appear to Jackob. Sacrificing the boat shook the podium on which he performed as a public figure. He had an urgent need to find a solution to his financial worries and to preserve his identity. He obsessed over his behemoth problem.
Simple—Zuberi’s favorite word. It was his response when someone came to him with a problem that called for supernatural power. Whether it was a request for help from fishermen or from Yunis: Simple. He knew exactly what to do. For each of their problems, there was a solution. He had earned credibility, thanks to the skill of his father and ancestors. He knew how to set every person’s mind at ease.
Even Kondo needed his services. At the height of his anguish, the old man went to see Zuberi about Ramadani’s illness. Kondo hoped for a potion to heal the boy, just like when his son was little and had been saved from that fever. The witch doctor clutched Kondo’s hands and offered him words of hope. He would heal Ramadani.
Zuberi felt inferior to his predecessors. Anecdotes circulated about each of their extraordinary talent, anecdotes that had been handed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. He had not yet achieved anything so grandiose that warranted commemoration. Not one of his amulets was stored in the great wooden chest. What would people say about him once he lived on the other side? He desperately needed to perform an act that would benefit the entire community and be passed down as lore.
Zuberi’s fear increased as the hospital project moved forward. Construction of the building was now far along, and soon it would be operative. The evil spell had failed, which further undermined Zuberi’s faith in himself. It wouldn’t be long before villagers visited the modern hospital for their potions. Thus, Zuberi’s worries grew, sunset after sunset. Fortunately, however, he still had one card up
his sleeve, though it was top secret due to its risk. If the authorities were to hear about it, he would be sent to prison. He had to move with extreme caution, and his negotiations had to remain between him, his clients, and Jane. Only at the right moment could he make their amulets and potions. Zuberi imagined the lake filling with fish—all types, like how it used to be. He saw Yunis giving birth to one child after another. He envisioned Ramadani cured of the illness that was destroying his father’s equanimity. The problem was how to find the money necessary to buy the universal remedy, the panacea that would assure his place in history. Not so simple. “Where can I find this amount of money?” he asked Jane. “It will take time…but the moment to rejoice will arrive!” Zuberi’s laugh rose up from the depth of his chest.
26.
Charles awoke and weighed himself. He’d lost two pounds in three days. At first he thought the scale was broken. He checked again three days later. This time, five pounds under his last weight. For years his numbers remained consistent: six foot two, one hundred ninety-eight pounds. Now he was at one hundred ninety-three. A week later when at the couturier, his tailor asked, “Are you sure you’ve lost only five pounds?”
His weight loss was unequivocal, just like the insomnia that tortured him. Charles’s sleep routine had been as consistent as his weight. He’d fall asleep within the first minutes of lying down. If he read, he’d do it sitting up so he wouldn’t wake in the middle of the night with the book on his chest like a roof over his heart. As soon as he would lie down, he’d sniff the clean scents of the pillowcase and Sarah’s hair and then stretched out a foot or arm to touch his wife’s body. To his dismay, for several weeks, his routine had been disrupted. Insomnia and weight loss were feasting with one another.
Then She Was Born Page 12