The girl ran to the river, washed herself, rushed home, and put on her aqua green dress. She felt lucky to have such a pretty one. She decided not to eat before her visit because she figured that if Sefu wanted her at his home at the dinner hour, surely he would invite her to join the family at their table. Adimu tried to distract herself by reading until it was time to leave. But every new thought offered a different reason for the unexpected invitation. Could Nkamba have appeared in his dreams? Or maybe Sefu wants to tell me that Mr. Fielding has admitted to being my real father and has asked to adopt me? That was what Adimu hoped for the most, though she tried to hold in her hope so she wouldn’t be disappointed.
For the first time since her grandmother had died, she thought about the community in Tanga. What if Sefu wants me to go there? Maybe he wants me to attend school. Maybe he wants me to be a doctor. If that’s the case, I’ll work harder than my hardest. Adimu’s imagination traveled around the world without a passport, wandering in countries where people lived their lives from one sunrise to another, on vacation and without worries.
It was finally time to go. She told herself that simply being invited to her father’s home was a step toward being accepted. She picked up her book, put it under her arm, and closed the door behind her. She paused for a moment to look at the rusted sheet metal as if she were saying goodbye to it and then skipped to the mango tree where her grandparents rested in eternal sleep. She kissed the tree’s reddish trunk and caressed the rough bark.
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back,” she said, looking at the two crosses.
Before the sky darkened, she was at Sefu’s home. In the courtyard, her father’s first wife and his daughters were tying a pile of twigs into small bundles. They stared at her from head to toe. Adimu suspected they were surprised to see her so well dressed. The almost imperceptible nod of their heads was their way of acknowledging her.
Adimu opened the door to the hut and, hesitating, stretched her head forward. Her father was seated at a square plastic table, upon which there was a plate piled high with pieces of meat. Chicken bones were scattered around the fireplace. There was no evidence of a family dinner taking place. “Come in,” Sefu grumbled. He took a bone from the plate and concentrated on gnawing at the meat. Adimu clutched her encyclopedia to her chest with crossed arms, and her eyes dashed around the room to avoid his. He lifted his gaze for an instant, just long enough to verify that before him was Adimu.
“Next rainy season you will marry Ramadani, the son of Kondo. Now you can go, and do not tell anyone,” he said as he threw the stripped bone onto the fire.
The heavy volume Adimu had brought with her slipped from her arms and fell on the earthen floor with a thud, raising a small cloud of dust. For a moment she was tempted to beg him to change his mind, but she knew it would be useless. She had been taught to obey any decision made by an adult. Yet how could the man sitting there give her away as a bride to someone she knew only by sight? What would become of her promise to Nkamba?
“You will be his first wife. A great honor for a zeru zeru. The marriage will improve the status of our family because of your birth.”
Sefu lifted his arm, and Adimu was certain he was preparing to slap her if she protested. She concentrated on keeping her eyes open. If she closed her lids, tears would pour down her cheeks like the rain that leaked through a hole in her roof. She nodded silently and left the hut, maintaining the same composure as when she had entered. As soon as she stepped over the threshold of Sefu’s hut, she ran back home, hugging her book against her chest.
I’m going to marry; I’m going to marry him; I’m going to do what Sefu requires, she repeated all the way to her mango tree where she dropped to her knees. She embraced the trunk and cried, imagining her arms wrapped around her bibi who she saw as two great branches, reaching down to pick her up and carry her away from the village and from that cruel man. He cannot be my father, she thought. He cannot.
Adimu turned her head to look in the direction of Kondo’s house and then up into the branches of the tree. To Nkamba she said, “I cannot marry a man who wants me for my skin. And if I move to Kondo’s house, I will have to leave our goats, to toss aside my dream of becoming a doctor. Surely I won’t be allowed to take my encyclopedias. Kondo and his wife and daughters will treat me like an animal. It would be better to die like one than to go there.” Adimu felt the strength of the branches of the tree. Nkamba had devoted her life to raising Adimu and to teaching her to think for herself, to see strangers for what they were. That Sefu had arranged a marriage for the “zeru zeru” before his older daughter meant only one thing. I’m no ninny. Her gaze held tight to the largest branch above her, like the rope she imagined around her neck. Two ripe fruits had fallen from the tree and were lying nearby—Bibi and Babu, she thought.
She slumped to the ground and bit into the juicy flesh of one of the mangoes. The succulent pulp was like salve, and its sweetness soothed her sore and inflamed soul by carrying her back to a time when she enjoyed happy days with her bibi. She fixed her eyes on her grandmother’s grave. She’d given Nkamba her word. I will become a doctor. It is what I want to do, and it is my duty. I must obey Nkamba and no one else, she said to herself as she opened the encyclopedia and looked at a photograph of human anatomy in the light of a waning moon. Little did she know that someone else in the village was scratching Xs with a red marker on the right arm of a drawing at that very moment.
42.
Charles and Sarah were leaning against the headboard, absorbed in their bedtime reading. Charles had a copy of Moby-Dick open on his chest, which moved up and down as he breathed. He struggled to keep his mind on the book.
The family residence in Harare. The apartment in London. The land in Tanzania, Zimbabwe, South Africa, England, and Italy. None of his holdings existed any longer. At least not for him. An evil magician had laid a black cloth over his assets and whisked them away.
“Think not, is my eleventh commandment,” was written on the page before him, but he couldn’t stop thinking. It should have been a right arm and not taken from a cadaver. Next time, I need to make sure none of the magic is frittered away. He’ll have to do the severing there at the mine.
Charles was yanked out of his reverie when Sarah asked, “Darling, did you know that in Africa, people with albinism rarely live to be over thirty?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“Forget it,” said Sarah as she turned back to her reading.
“No, really.”
Sarah lifted a finger for him to wait until she finished the paragraph. “Okay, finished.” She set the papers on her thighs “I was saying that according to this article, most Africans with albinism die from skin cancer. Can you imagine? If they’re not hunted and killed like animals, malignant tumors will get them.”
“I had no idea.” Charles set his book aside and pulled himself up higher against the headboard.
“This report by the Tanzanian Albino Society says they rarely live past thirty.” Sarah frowned.
What is the value of a life when the person’s already condemned to death? Charles asked himself. The arm of an embulamaro who is terminally ill with cancer, that’s what I need! Charles would send Thomas and his gang of headhunters to a hospital. He’d have them convince the zeru zeru to donate the limb in exchange for money. It’s a win-win! I’ll be saved, as will my employees since they won’t lose their jobs. And the zeru zeru’s family will have money. A good deed for everyone!
“I’m going to sleep,” said Sarah as she rolled over and turned out the light.
“Hmm? Oh, good night.” Charles switched off his own bedside light but remained upright, thinking.
Adimu was washing clothes in the lake. She was bent over stones with an open book, the page she was reading in shadow. Abruptly she noticed the outline of the shadow grow bigger. She lifted her eyes and saw a white man and black woman watching her, smiling.
The woman, squatting down, said, “We were told we c
ould find you here. Is your name Adimu?”
“Yes,” she said in little more than a whisper, avoiding eye contact with the two adults. She thought of her conversation with her bibi about strangers. She knew that since every villager washes clothes in the lake, the strangers might be lying. Though how did they know her name? she wondered.
“My name’s Martha, and this is my coworker Roman. We work for an association in Tanga that takes care of children with albinism. In fact, we waited for you at the dock in Mwanza. It was two rainy seasons ago.” Martha shook her head and looked at Adimu as though she were sad. “We’re here to ask if you want to come with us now.”
Finding out that the adults were there for her caused Adimu to stiffen. She continued washing the clothes.
“In our community, young people like you can play and study,” said Martha, looking at the book Adimu was reading.
Adimu scrubbed at the fabric less vigorously when she heard that. The woman’s words reawakened her hope of keeping her promise to her grandmother. Though she couldn’t understand why the strangers would come from the other side of the lake for her. Was it possible that, for them, she was so important? Are they strangers? Adimu asked herself.
“Are there girls like me there?” she asked, remembering her beloved bibi’s words: “You are different. Only another white girl like you can be your friend.”
“Of course!” both the adults said at the same time.
“Really? Are there many?” she asked, setting the wet clothes on a rock.
“About fifty,” said the man with an encouraging smile.
“Fifty? Like me?” Adimu stood up.
“Just like you. Some older and some younger,” he told her.
Adimu saw herself holding hands with a group of children just like her, all in a big circle, laughing together, like the pictures she drew on the wall, only real friends.
The man stepped to the edge of the water where the soapy laundry was piled next to the encyclopedia. He picked up the book. “Can you imagine? We have the exact same book in my office.”
Adimu squinted at him so she could see his eyes. “Really?” It had to be a much better school than the one in Murutanga, she thought. And if the children had skin like hers, the teacher would answer Adimu’s questions. When the girl thought of being forced to move to Kondo’s and to leave her encyclopedias, she smiled at the man and woman who, maybe, were there to offer her a once-in-a-lifetime chance. She wasn’t sure.
“Listen, Adimu,” said Martha, “we’re only on Ukerewe for a few hours. Come back with us to Tanga.”
“I don’t know if I can right now. My father has promised me to the village chief’s son.”
“And do you want to marry him?” she asked.
“No. My father decided.”
“Well, that’s a good reason to come with us,” Martha replied sternly.
Yes, it is, thought Adimu.
“You can travel with us, and we’ll make sure you’re safe,” added the man. “But before we get to Tanga, we need to stop to pick up another girl.”
“I’ll make the trip with a white girl like me?”
The man nodded and patted her head. “A girl with albinism, just like you. She’ll be your best friend.”
Nothing could have convinced Adimu more than the promise of meeting another girl. A best friend, Adimu told herself. More than the anguish of marriage, the promise to Nkamba, or the desire to escape from her prison, she was driven by her desire to not be alone, to be with others just like her. She would no longer be an exception. She could look into the eyes of children who shared her same plight. Adimu took Martha’s hand and held it close to her heart.
“If I come with you, can we stop to say hello to the Fieldings when we get to Mwanza? They’re my friends.”
The strangers exchanged looks and nodded. “Of course. Let’s go to the port now. You don’t want to stay here on the island forever, do you?”
“I have to go home first.”
“No, we have to go now!” Martha urged.
Adimu released Martha’s hand as if a hornet were hidden in her palm.
To reassure her, Roman pulled the little girl close. “Go ahead, but be quick. And only bring a few things with you. At the community, we’ll give you whatever clothes you need.”
In the hut, Adimu set all the volumes of her encyclopedia on the table. She carefully tore out the page with the Fielding’s dedication and took the photo of the three of them. Then she put all the books in plastic bags. If it rained enough to flood the house, at least they would stay dry. She gazed at her doll in the corner. I shouldn’t leave her behind like the other time, she said to herself. It would be bad luck, and it might bring me back here. She hugged the Adimu doll and put her in the plastic bag she’d take with her, along with her aqua green dress and the dress with flowers printed on it, the dresses given to her by the Fieldings. She dug up the money her grandmother had left and put it in her panties. There were only a few bills.
She met the couple at the ferry ticket office as they had agreed. When she noticed they were nervous, she felt a stab of anxiety in her stomach. She wondered what awaited her on the other side of the lake. Nothing, though, could be worse than the life she had led up until then. And with marriage in her future, it would only get worse. That very evening she would meet her best friend and see the Fieldings and, who knows, if they saw her leaving with Martha and Roman, they might ask her to stay. Ask her and her best friend. Her new sister.
Adimu sat at the bow of the boat. She didn’t glance back at the island she was leaving behind. She concentrated on what was awaiting her.
Roman and Martha asked about her studies and her life. Adimu told them about her grandmother’s death on the boat, and the adults touched each other with their elbows.
“It must have been difficult for you,” said Roman, caressing her hair.
Adimu saw a flash of light in the man’s eyes and felt afraid. The kind touch of his hand and the glint in his blue eyes seemed to belong to two different people. She stared at the horizon to calm herself. Big gray buildings rose from the water in the distance, crowded like stalks of corn. Adimu quickly forgot her fear and wondered how people who lived in houses so close together could go out to walk. There didn’t seem to be space for roads. She put on her glasses.
“Have we arrived?” she asked, jumping with excitement.
“Yes,” replied Roman. “This is the port of Mwanza.”
As the ferry approached, her enthusiasm was dampened by the upsetting memory of her grandmother’s death. Adimu looked at the sky and, though it was as clear and blue as on Ukerewe, the air was stained gray from the smoke and vapor that rose and seeped out of the buildings. She lowered her eyes and, suddenly, as if she were doing something prohibited, something she was ashamed of, she let her doll slip into the water. It floated for several seconds on the surface with its face upward until the foam from the boat’s propellers swallowed it. Much better to end up at the bottom of the lake than stuck on the island, she thought.
When they reached the parking lot, Roman looked at his watch. “We’re terribly late. I’m sorry, Adimu, but there’s no time to visit your friends.”
“You promised we would go see them as soon as we got here,” she found the courage to say. She couldn’t understand why the unexpected change of plans. The two adults had been aware of what time the ferry would arrive.
“It took longer to get here than we estimated,” replied the man. “We have to go get the other girl in Kigoma. I’ll take you to your friends myself next weekend.”
Adimu studied Roman’s face apprehensively, looking for an expression of betrayal.
“I’m really sorry, sweetie,” he apologized, “it’s just the way it is. The other girl is more important right now than a visit to friends.” He seemed truly sorry. “If you want to go see them, you’re free to do so. You can take a taxi to their house, but you have to know we can’t wait for you.”
The woman nodded.
“I understand,” Adimu said with a shrug. If they want to kidnap me, they wouldn’t let me decide what I want to do, she reasoned. “Can I write the Fieldings a letter? To let them know I’m going to visit soon?”
“Of course you can,” said Martha, who found a sheet of paper, a pen, and even an old magazine to write on in the glove box of the car that was waiting for them.
Neither the woman nor the man paid attention to what she was writing, and Adimu interpreted their disinterest as a good sign, which helped eliminate her fears that hadn’t totally subsided. If they have bad intentions, they’ll try to see what I’m writing, she told herself.
The three of them got out of the car when they pulled in front of the post office to buy an envelope and a stamp. Martha sealed the blue envelope in front of Adimu. “Do you want to get an ice cream while Roman sends the letter?” she asked. “Oh look, we almost forgot! Adimu, you need to put the address on it,” she said, taking the envelope back from Roman.
“I don’t have the address. But ‘Charles Fielding, Mwanza’ is enough. Everyone here knows my father,” Adimu said with pride.
Roman and Martha exchanged a furtive look. Adimu noticed it and beamed.
The ice cream—dark chocolate and creamy vanilla—tasted delicious. The last time she had some was when Mrs. Fielding bought her a cone at the grocery. The memory was still so fresh in her mind, even though it was a while back, that as soon as the ice cream was handed to her, she crammed it in her mouth, terrified it would melt, become sticky and call out to the black bugs. Adimu liked the sweetness of the frozen cream, though the cold caused her belly to clench and spasm, and she promised herself she’d never eat ice cream again.
After the ice cream, Roman joined her and Martha in the car. Adimu relaxed in the back seat, trying to calm her tummy, anticipating meeting another girl like herself. The two adults and child checked into a secluded hotel that was just outside of the city.
Then She Was Born Page 22