“How many doctors have you seen?” asked Sarah.
“Oh, lots. Two in Murutanga, the doctors at the clinic on Ukerewe…” Adimu’s face became somber, “and the doctors here.”
“There are millions more people in the world who don’t live on Ukerewe, love. People with one arm, like you, are normal, just like everyone else. And like everyone else, you can become whatever you want to be. It’s up to you. Do you believe me?”
Adimu puckered her mouth and nodded her head.
“Do you want to become a doctor?”
“Yes. It’s the most important thing. I promised my bibi.”
Sarah turned her head to hide her moist eyes.
“My father, mother, and siblings…Do you have news about them?”
Sarah was silent. She did not want to tell her that none in her family had shown any interest in what had happened. “If you want, from now on I can be your mother,” she said, looking into Adimu’s eyes.
Adimu looked to the foot of her bed and nodded just a little.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” replied Adimu. “And will Mr. Fielding be my father?”
“Do you want him to be?” Sarah asked.
Adimu said nothing and tilted her head. “I always wanted a family. A mother.” She took a few deep breaths before continuing, “And father,” she said in a softer voice. “And I want to go back to Murutanga and tell my sisters and my brother it’s not my fault I’m this color. I’m not a white shadow, and I’m not a phantom, and I’m not even sick. The lady doctor who vaccinated me said so, and Ramadani told me in the forest, and I read it in the encyclopedia too. Don’t let me die now. I want to tell everyone I’m normal. And maybe I want Mr. Fielding. I always thought he’d be the perfect father. Would he be?”
Sarah didn’t know what to say about Charles. How could she shred Adimu’s little hope in human decency and tell her what he’d done?
“I promise you. You’re not going to die, and everyone will know that you are a girl just like all the others.”
It was Sunday, and Ukerewe shone under golden rays of sunlight like a giant emerald rising from the indigo waters of Lake Victoria. Much rain had fallen the previous days, and the villagers awakened to crisp air that painted the island with a vibrant palette. The old people rested outside their huts, the young women did their hair, and the children ran along the road, playing made-up games. The mothers nursed their babies in the shade of lush trees, and the men enjoyed their Sunday rest on mats. The aroma of food wafted from every hut in the village of Murutanga.
Jackob’s wife stirred the chicken soup. She believed she was pregnant, though wouldn’t mention it to her husband until receiving positive results from the Fielding clinic so as not to raise his hopes. If she was, after the birth, she would follow the woman doctor’s recommendations to avoid getting pregnant again. Better to have four children and send them to a good school than bring more into the world without being able to give them an adequate education. The world was changing rapidly, and she understood that. She peeked into the bedroom and saw little Charles, who was combing his hair in front of the mirror. He was wearing his best clothes for Mass. Jackob came in the back door, urging his son to hurry. Otherwise they would be late.
“What did you call me?” asked the boy as his father stepped into the bedroom.
“Your real name, Amri,” replied Jackob, smiling.
The boy smiled back, took his father’s hand, and they set off down the path.
Father Francis had been ordained little more than a month earlier and was sent to Ukerewe as Father Andrew’s replacement. At the end of his first Mass on the island, he had stepped away from the makeshift altar under the baobab and mingled with the faithful. They gathered around him. Francis opened his arms with his palms turned toward the sky and said, “God is in every human being. The life of a human is worth as much as the life of all humanity[25]. If we offend a person, we insult God.”
The worshippers looked at each other. An elderly woman opened her mouth. “Father Francis…”
The priest interrupted the woman with a gesture of his hand. “Think about what I have said. Remain with God, and He will remain with you.”
The woman insisted. The priest interrupted her again. “Go in peace.” He paused for several seconds while he searched with his eyes among those present. “And let there be peace,” he added. He returned to the altar and removed his vestments.
The inhabitants of Ukerewe did not know why Mosi no longer celebrated Mass. When he found out what had happened to Adimu at the mine, he locked himself away for a life of solitude. He sat on an old straw chair, immobile, in a darkened room without the light of a lantern to dispel the gloom.
Sarah parked the Rolls in front of the brown brick prison. She warned Adimu that inside those cheerless walls, behind the iron bars, they’d find Mr. Fielding. Adimu thought of when she and Shida were captives at the compound in the forest, and she felt a pang of pity for the man. Sarah had told her that Charles confessed to a crime that he hadn’t committed, and he’d be out of jail once his lawyer cleared up the misunderstanding. Adimu took note that Sarah hadn’t mentioned what crime Mr. Fielding confessed to, nor did she ask. A funny feeling swam around the pit of the girl’s stomach, and it wasn’t a good funny feeling. There were snakes there, and slime. Something was very wrong; she was unable, though, to bring herself to look it in its face. She supposed what was wrong had to do with Mr. Fielding’s mine. Had to do with that night. She remembered him cradling her; she remembered he mumbled lots of words, the sounds, in Swahili and English, bursting out of his mouth like thunder and lightning when the dark skies would break open; she remembered the machete. Screams. Crying stars. Milky moon and crisp, crisp bone. Howls and screeching: they might have come from her. They might have come from the night itself. Smells—the warm, wet earth, rusty blood. Kerosene. Popobawa [26]. Senses glued together, and she was unable to pull them apart, to sound them out like something difficult that she tried to read and understand, though try as she might, she couldn’t. Her mind and eyes wouldn’t let her. The terror of that black fabric of a sky had frayed into fragments.
Sarah helped Adimu out of the Rolls Royce. The woman patted the pleats of the girl’s new pink dress. The shiny black shoes squeezed Adimu’s toes. She felt she looked pretty, and Sarah looked pretty, too, with her glossy red lips. They were dressed better than if they were going to Mass.
“Ready?” Sarah said, gripping Adimu’s hand, and she turned toward the jailhouse.
Adimu dug her heels into the sidewalk. She wasn’t sure if she was more scared of the jail or the man inside of it. She thought of her bibi and the word “stranger.”
Sarah turned back to the little girl and saw her trembling. Adimu scrutinized her shoes to avoid Sarah’s gaze. She was ashamed of a deep-seated fear that she didn’t understand. Sarah squatted to be level with Adimu and waited several moments for the girl to look her in the face.
When they were eye to eye, Sarah said, “I understand you’re afraid, darling,” caressing the girl’s cheek. “To tell the truth, I’m a little afraid too. But…I do know that Charles loves you, and he loves me, and I know he would never intentionally do anything to hurt us. And he asked us to visit him before we leave Tanzania, so I believe we should. It will do us both good. And you and I are strong together.” Sarah hugged Adimu tightly.
“Your family is here,” the prison guard called to Charles as he brought him to the cramped waiting room where Sarah and Adimu were sitting on a wooden bench. Woman and girl heard the guard’s words and flinched. Both hearts leaped. Charles’s heart leaped too. He had rehearsed for this moment all night, had been made hopeful when Sarah agreed to visit. Now the most important business meeting of his life was here. He thought of how his universal solution to all problems had been reaching into his safe for American dollars. What offer might he make Sarah and Adimu that they wouldn’t be able to refuse? he wondered.
Cautiously Charles kissed Sar
ah’s cheek and Adimu’s head. He observed the place where the girl’s arm was no more, and he began to shed tears the way a tired old tree sheds leaves at the end of its season.
“Thank you for visiting me,” he finally managed. “I want you to be happy. Whatever it takes. When I get out of here, if you want, you’ll never see me again. But if you’d rather, if you would allow it, I’ll dedicate the rest of my days to making you happy.”
Charles noticed Sarah reach for Adimu’s hand, and Adimu clasped her palm.
He knelt, bringing him face to face with Adimu. He could see her fear.
“I want to send you to a private school in Harare where the three of us will live as a family, if you’ll allow that. You’ll study like any other girl, and you’ll be able to be anything you want when you grow up.” Looking up at Sarah, Charles said, “And I will be open and honest about everything in my life, always. And we’ll be a family.”
As though continuing his vows, Sarah said, “And my eyes will be open. No more living in denial. No more obeying you without question. No more following you as your shadow.”
Adimu started crying.
“What’s wrong, darling?” both Sarah and Charles asked. They quickly glanced at one another, realizing this was their first moment as parents.
“Something in my stomach is telling me this is bad. What were you doing at the mine?” she asked Mr. Fielding.
Charles and Sarah exchanged another glance, their second as parents. Charles bit his lip, unable to lie.
After some time, Sarah said, “Adimu, Baba went to save you, to bring you back to me safe and sound. But he got there too late. We will never forgive ourselves for getting to you late. Now we all must forgive each other. Because that’s what families do.”
Charles’s gaze locked onto his wife’s. He wept.
Sarah fell to her knees, and the three of them hugged and cried and trembled and prayed and dreamed that one day this monstrous, lightless nightmare might possibly pass, like ancient fables filled with harm, like the seasons of long, hard rains.
THE END
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cristiano Gentili is an author and a civil servant, from the Italian region of Tuscany. He is married and has a child.
Since his graduation, where he obtained a BA in political science, a MAs in humanitarian assistance and a PhD in social science, Cristiano's work has taken him to some of the most challenging locations around the world, often dealing with the after effects of war and natural disasters. He currently works in Ukraine, in the hazardous border area with Russia.
In 2011, he went on a personal fact-finding trip to Tanzania, to assess the living conditions of Africans with albinism. From that experience his goal became to raise awareness of the living conditions of African albinos through the #HelpAfricanAlbinos campaign. His novel, Then She Was Born, is the English translation of his book, originally written in Italian.
Cristiano has met with eleven Nobel Peace Laureates, the Dalai Lama and Pope Francis, who have each read a part of his novel and have leant their considerable support to the campaign.
In the case of Pope Francis, Cristiano was invited to an international symposium on Africa at the Vatican, to speak about Africans with albinism. He stayed in the Pope's residence for four days and had a private meeting with him during that time. As a result, the #HelpAfricanAlbinos campaign is now endorsed by Pope Francis as an universal and interreligious message of peace and brotherhood.
Cristiano's next target is to get celebrities to record video messages, just as the Nobel peace laureates and the Pope did, and spread them on social media to increase awareness of the living conditions of Africans with albinism, the last among all others.
The official campaign website is www.HelpAfricanAlbinos.com
#HelpAfricanAlbinos
ENDNOTES
[1] Swahili for a person with albinism, meaning “phantom.”
[2] Swahili for granddaughter.
[3] Another Swahili term used to indicate a person with albinism, the prefix embu- is used to indicate animals.
[4] Some names used in Swahili to indicate God.
[5] A dish similar to Italian polenta made of cassava flour and generally served with meat, fish, or vegetables.
[6] Adimu means “rare” or “special” in Swahili.
[7] Tanzania gained independence in the years 1961-1963.
[8] White men in Swahili (plural form of the word mzungu).
[9] White man in Swahili.
[10] A sort of unleavened bread eaten commonly throughout Tanzania.
[11] Sun in Swahili.
[12] A dish made of cassava leaves.
[13] Polite address for an older woman in Swahili.
[14] Another word in Swahili to indicate a person with albinism.
[15] To be circumcised.
[16] Nangoli’s speech as taken from the book No More Lies About Africa by Chief Musamaali Nangoli, A. H. Publisher, USA, pgs 47-57.
[17] This English word is used locally to indicate in a derogatory manner a person with albinism.
[18] Patriotic Force for the Liberation of the Congo.
[19] A person with albinism.
[20] Brother in Swahili.
[21] Welcome in Swahili.
[22] Traditional legend from South Africa.
[23] Payment on the part of the groom’s family of an agreed upon number of livestock or money in exchange for the bride. The custom is widespread among many ethnicities in Africa.
[24] The capital of Tanzania is Dodoma, not Dar es Salaam.
[25] In the original Italian text, the author had written…life of the community. However, when His Holiness Pope Francis read this sentence, among others of the book, to lend his voice to the social audiobook project, he read it as…life of all humanity and the author decided to adopt his modification.
[26] An evil spirit, a shapeshifter.
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