Then She Was Born

by Cristiano Gentili

  Adimu escorted her grandmother, her hand resting on the rough wood, the skin of her palm insensitive to the splinters. Not a single person, including the elderly, dared challenge Adimu’s decision to participate in the funeral.

  Family members gathered on either side of the grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Father Andrew stood at the foot of the box, Adimu at the head. She stared at the coffin that held her bibi, wanting to climb inside it.

  “Now, Nkamba, you are closer to God,” said Father Andrew.

  “Now she is closer to the Spirits of the Lake,” added an elderly member of Nkamba’s clan in a gravelly voice.

  “Don’t bring trouble to the living, Nkamba,” admonished an old woman.

  The only thought in Adimu’s mind was that her bibi was too far away, incredibly far away. She was the one across the lake. And she would stay there for as long as Adimu lived. The handful of dirt Adimu collected in her fist from the freshly dug pile was still cool. She squeezed it, ready to throw it at anyone who uttered stupid words that would ruin it for her beloved bibi, who would get in the way of her leaving this world in peace.

  None of her family offered her a word of comfort. At the end of the funeral, people gathered in front of Nkamba’s hut to eat the meal offered by Sefu to honor his departed mother. Adimu didn’t participate; she had no desire to eat. She sat at the edge of the open grave, her feet dangling over the side, her eyes fixed on the coffin. Food will taste different from now on, she told herself. Bibi worked the flour, used the fire, peeled the fruit, and prepared the meals in her own way. All I have are my memories of you to keep me going, Bibi, and I don’t know if they’ll be enough.

  37.

  Adimu was forced by her stepsisters and sister-in-law to take on most of their domestic work in exchange for occupying the only home she’d ever known, which she now lived in alone. She washed laundry and dishes at the lake, collected firewood, got water from the well, cleaned the latrine, and took Nkamba’s and her stepsisters’ and sister-in-law’s goats to graze. Nothing from her previous life—with the exception of thoughts of her bibi and taking out Nkamba’s goats—was part of Adimu’s present life. She remembered when Nkamba made her spend a day without water to develop gratitude. Now her life was without water. She desired everything that she once had, or didn’t have, because her bibi had been included in it.

  Jackob told Charles and Sarah about Adimu while the couple was eating lunch.

  “She was leaving the island to go study when her grandmother died. Let’s pay for her education,” said Sarah, pushing some rosy tomatoes around on a white and blue china plate.

  “Absolutely not,” replied Charles. “If we go so far as to maintain the girl, our quiet life will be over. Throngs of needy people, each one with compelling reasons to receive our help, will inundate our house. It will be enough to give Adimu some encouragement. For example…” Charles paused and his eyes swept the room. On his right was a bookcase stuffed with novels, some nonfiction, an old set of encyclopedias, picture books about animals and, on the bottom shelf, a collection of videocassettes. The words “Woody Allen” were on the spine of several of the videos and a line from a movie came to mind—“I read in self-defense,” Charles said, right before he had what he considered a brainstorm. “We’ll give her a set of encyclopedias!”

  “Encyclopedias?” repeated Sarah. “A typical gesture of a Westerner who wants to assuage his conscience with a useless gift.” She thought of the time, years ago now, when she handed the little beggar boy a music box and how it had baffled him.

  “Why would it be useless?” Charles asked, annoyed.

  “If you gave a pair of high-heeled Prada shoes to an African woman, she wouldn’t be able to walk in them,” blurted Sarah.

  “Enough with the preaching, dear.”

  “You’re not as European as you think. You’re African, a privileged white African who insists on considering himself European by virtue of his ancestors. You’ve been trying to foil my every attempt at changing things by using the same few words.” Sarah’s rage at her husband surprised and excited her.

  “Which are?”

  “‘That’s how it is in Africa,’” she muttered. “Who, if not privileged people, like us, can contribute to improving the condition of thousands of people?” she asked angrily. “If humans left things as they’ve always been, we would still be in the Stone Age. We can make a difference. You just have to believe,” she said, reaching across the table to touch her husband’s hand, wanting to connect with him, if only physically.

  “The encyclopedia is the most I can do for now. I’m sure the village school doesn’t have one,” he added, shaking his head. “Adimu would be the only one on the island to possess such a precious object! It would help her, even on a social level, because students would want to consult it. You’ll see how happy it makes her.”

  “If you think so,” Sarah sighed. “And by the way, give her glasses so she’s able to read the damn books.”

  “Is she nearsighted? Of course I’ll give her a pair. Otherwise, the encyclopedia would be like giving her a brand-new car without tires.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  * * *

  “I wanted you to see what a nice gift we’re giving Adimu before Jackob takes them to her,” said Charles, tapping his hand on the set of encyclopedias that sat on a table in the foyer of White House.

  “Let’s personalize it with a dedication signed by both of us,” Sarah pleaded.

  “Oh, all right. What do you think of ‘All the best, Charles and Sarah’?”

  “What a jumble of formality,” said Sarah with a half frown. She opened the first volume and quickly wrote, “For Adimu, we wish you all the best. We care deeply about you, like a daughter. Charles and Sarah.”

  “Why did you write that? You need to take out the ‘We care deeply about you, like a daughter’ part.”

  “Too late, it’s done. Those words will mean more to her than the entire encyclopedia. Her grandmother just died. The poor girl feels all alone. Adimu is no ninny. She’ll understand that we want to show her affection so that she doesn’t feel alone,” concluded Sarah.

  Wanting to have the last word, without Sarah knowing, Charles told Jackob to tear out the first pages of the volume before delivering the books to the girl.

  That evening, at his home, Charles’s assistant extracted the pages, according to his understanding of his boss’s instructions. With surgical precision, he eliminated all the pages for the letter A until after the definition of the word “albinism.” He believed that his employer did not want the zeru zeru to read the meaning of her condition, and each volume opened with a dictionary. He said, tear out the first pages. And that’s what Jackob did.

  Jackob drove to the hut where the girl lived, the volumes spread over the back seat of his car.

  “A gift for me, from the Fieldings? Are you sure?” Adimu asked. After carrying the volumes inside, she set them carefully on a plastic sheet as if they were precious puppies. Then she latched the door and opened the first of the series. She read the dedication. She read it a second time. And she read it again and again as if the words were a secret promise from the Fieldings that she would one day be their daughter. Beaming, she turned to the beginning of the book to look in the dictionary part of the encyclopedia for the word “albino” and, not finding it, she thought about the order of letters in the alphabet, turning the pages back and forth, starting from the beginning, starting from the back, and flipping the pages in reverse more quickly. The first word that appeared in the volume was “allegory.” Where had the other words gone, the ones that came before? “Abandon,” “affection,” “adoption,” “adequate,” “accident,” “abuse,” “abnormal.” Her disappointment lasted only a few moments as she realized there were lots of other words to read and lots of things to learn. What difference does it make if there are a few words missing, ones I already know anyway? But that one word—the Word—why?

  Night came and Adimu fell asleep
curled up with the books on her pallet. The first volume—the one with the dedication—was her pillow.

  Sarah was right about the dedication. Adimu read the dedication so frequently that the words became a mantra. The treasured gift quickly became a substitute for the figures she’d drawn on the walls of the hut. With Nkamba gone, she no longer had time to redraw them; she was busy all day in the service of her sisters and sister-in-law and reading the encyclopedia. The books became her friends. She covered them every night, fearing the humidity could harm them, and she uncovered them at sunrise. “Good morning!” She greeted them with a smile. The light blue fabric bindings were like a piece of the sky inside her hut, and they had her grandmother’s spirit.

  The eyeglasses the Fieldings gave her were an incredible discovery. Her world took on different shapes and colors when she wore them. The contours of leaves were sharp, not smudges of greens; whitecaps on the lake were shapely; flowers and fruits were not indistinct splotches but shimmering luscious shades; the sky and the earth met in a precise point on the horizon; and the clouds, what fanciful characters they were! Adimu was afraid of using up the glasses, terrified that the lenses might wear out like the sole of a sandal, so she saved them for only when they were indispensable.

  It did not take long for Adimu to grasp the value of the encyclopedia. Through these magical books, she would be able to fulfill her promise to Bibi and get an education. The books were her shield against brutality, and her symbol of hope. She carried a volume with her wherever she went. Before long, Adimu noticed villagers staring at her, not because of the color of her skin but because of the precious book in her arms.

  While she scrubbed laundry, a book lay open next to the basin. She did her best to read when working, drying the page with her elbow if water splashed on it. Then she’d continue where she’d left off. At home she read too. The stack of encyclopedias was the tree upon which her knowledge grew.

  Before she had glasses, she’d put her face next to her reading material and closed one eye to bring the words into focus, which made her lift her upper lip. With her glasses, her smile was no longer a grimace but an expression of satisfaction.

  Every morning, she took the animals to graze. Nkamba’s goats stayed close, but the animals that belonged to her stepsisters and sister-in-law, the ones that hadn’t been trained by her, often ran away, scampering into cultivated fields. Eventually, Adimu discovered she could tie each animal to a bush to form a semicircle, and she’d sit in the shade between the animals with her open book on her crossed legs. After glancing at the herd occasionally to make sure none of the animals had gotten away, she’d resume her reading.

  38.

  Another rainy season—Adimu’s eleventh—abandoned the land and its people to the relentless sun. Although Adimu rarely had time to attend school, on that day she awoke before sunrise to graze the goats. She would be at school and on time: it was the day of the class photo. A most special day. Adimu didn’t have a picture of herself and badly wanted one.

  The teacher told the students to form three rows. Adimu’s classmates kept pushing her aside as she tried to stand near them, insulting and laughing at her. The teacher lamely reprimanded the boys and girls. She couldn’t force them to make room for an isope. She knew that she, herself, wouldn’t have. “You can be in the photo next year,” the teacher sighed. “Just wait.”

  On the way home, Adimu thought about how she was always expected to postpone her dreams. “In the future, people will accept you.” That’s what Nkamba had said; in the future she would become a doctor; in the future she would be in the photo.

  That evening she concentrated on the last volume of the encyclopedia, the Swahili/English/French dictionary. There, she found the word “albino.” It was the same in English and nearly identical in French, “albinos.” She liked pronouncing words in other languages and imagined the faces of those who might use them. For hours she flew on the wings of foreign words, fantasizing about distant worlds until she fell asleep, the book open to the translation for the word “future.” Nkamba came to her in a dream that night, her rough hands overflowing with ripe mangoes, and Adimu taught her the new words she’d learned from the dictionary while stroking Bibi’s dear skinny, wrinkled arms.

  * * *

  After Nkamba’s death, Adimu had stopped going to Mass. Father Andrew remembered a conversation he had had with the old woman about how to integrate Adimu into village life, and he remembered Nkamba’s reaction.

  “On this island, my mjukuu has learned to live with very little,” the old woman had said. “Only far from Ukerewe can she have a normal life. Have you forgotten the way your people think? When you’re here on the few Sundays a month, the faithful wear their best clothes, eat their best food, and rest at home with their families—like Christians. The other days, they obey the ancient laws of the Spirits of the Lake.”

  The religious man lifted his shoulders. Despite Nkamba’s love for the child, she held the same prejudices as the rest of the community. However, now that she had passed on to a better life, Father Andrew believed it was time for him to help Adimu the way he thought best. He spoke to his elderly father who was against the idea. Mosi decided to move forward with his plan all the same. His God demanded that he do good, care for the meek. If Adimu played a vital role during Mass, a strong, clear message would be heard that she was accepted and loved by the Creator.

  Adimu held reverential fear of the priest and did what he requested, even though she thought better of it. Thus, one oppressively hot Sunday, she became the first female altar boy in the history of Ukerewe. She clumsily and bashfully carried out each task under the shocked eyes of the parishioners. Adimu helped Father Andrew with his vestments, she turned the pages of the Bible, she handed him the wine, and held the bronze tray under the chins of the few who came forward to receive Communion. No one outwardly displayed their aversion to Adimu’s direct contact with the Father and, therefore, with God, but the following Sunday fewer people attended the service. Father Andrew appeared not to notice. As weeks passed, the decline in the number of congregants seemed unstoppable and impossible to ignore.

  One Sunday, Father Andrew found the shade of the baobab so crowded it barely covered the participants. His enthusiasm lasted only as long as a deep breath. At the end of Mass, after the blessing, a group of men approached.

  “Why let a zeru zeru help when there are other more-deserving children?” demanded a young father.

  “Because it is what God wishes.”

  “The Spirits of the Lake tell us of their wishes in other ways,” responded the man.

  Adimu tried to make herself as small as possible as she hid behind Father Andrew. She wanted to disappear.

  “The word of the Lord is the one and only,” said the priest, looking straight at the man.

  “Your God and our Spirits are not so different,” said the man. “They hold power over everything. Sometimes it’s best to listen to your God, sometimes to the Spirits. Often they are both right. But about the zeru zeru, the Spirits of the Lake are right. It has always been so, and it will continue to be so.”

  Adimu drew even closer to the priest’s tunic. He put his arm around her shoulders as he said, “God is the only one who decides the destiny of a person.”

  “You’re wrong,” said an old fisherman who stepped away from the crowd. “We decide whether we listen to a suggestion from your God or the demands of our Spirits. The Spirits of the Lake have been here for much longer than your God.” He gestured to the group to go.

  Father Andrew was alone with Adimu in the empty space under the great tree. “You’ll see, they’ll understand.”

  Adimu nodded, though kept her eyes lowered. The midmorning sun bore down ferociously.

  * * *

  Thomas and his companions unearthed the body of an albino man who had died some days before. “Good thing we found it before it vanished. Maybe the weight of the dirt on top of the grave kept it imprisoned.” The four hunters waited impatientl
y for the moon to set before delivering the body wrapped in a plastic sheet to Zuberi.

  In his workshop, the gaslight discharged a blue glow, and the skin, where it was not putrid, seemed even paler than it was. Zuberi examined it like a mother gazes at her newborn. His eyes were ecstatic, and he fantasized about the future. “The miraculous talismans I am about to prepare will change my people’s destiny. And mine too,” he said to Jane as he lifted the monkey, “especially mine.”

  Mr. Fielding was the first client to be informed of the cadaver, and an appointment at the mine was scheduled for the following night.

  On the day that the zeru zeru ritual was to take place, Charles had to remind himself repeatedly to stay calm. In the middle of the afternoon he called Sarah to let her know he would be out all evening for work. Of course he wasn’t lying, though he was ashamed to imagine what she’d think if she ever found out what he was doing.

  The healer took the last ferry to Mwanza. He watched his island float on the sunset like a giant cloud as he glided away from it, and then he sat down on a wooden bench, taciturn, staring at the bow of the vessel. None of the passengers thought much of him being on board, nor did they pay attention to the burlap sack he carried over his shoulder, not even to its rotten odor.

  Charles, Zuberi, and Jackob met at the mine shortly before midnight. The three men huddled in a circle. The witch doctor rummaged in the sack and pulled out an object wrapped in plastic. He untied the string that held the plastic in place. A white arm. The left one.

  Charles looked away, struggling to hold back an urge to vomit. Sweat dripped from his corpulent body. Zuberi walked across the tract of land holding the human arm. “I brought this left one because the other was in a bad state,” he explained. He counted thirty paces exactly, which took him to the center of a flat area, and he began to chant in the local dialect. Charles did not understand the words. As his eyes centered on the witch doctor, his disgust was shattering him from the inside out. With every ounce of energy focused on controlling his repulsion, he lost track of the ceremonial rite that was being conducted by the shaman.