“No.”
Kweli runs his hands over the sculpture one more time and then hands it to me. I take it softly, sorry for my earlier treatment of it.
“It’s not pretty,” says Kweli as he puts it into my hands, “but it is good.” My eyes are dancing with exhaustion and he is slightly fuzzy in my vision, but I can see that he’s smiling. “Well, Habo, it seems you have the heart of a sculptor after all.”
When I smile, the mask of dried tears covering my face cracks in a hundred places.
19.
Later that same evening, as we’re wiping the remains of dinner out of our bowls with the still-warm ashes of the fire, Kweli surprises me by revisiting a conversation that I thought was finished.
“You say that your skin is all white?” he asks.
“Ndiyo.”
“Hmm.” He rolls the ash around and around in his bowl. I can tell, even from all the way over here, that the bowl is clean. I wait.
“The man with the knife, who was he?”
I look up at him, not sure what he’s getting at.
“He’s the hunter I told you about, the one that killed an elephant for its ivory.” I blush, remembering the half story I told Kweli that first night. “He’s also the one who tried to kill me in Mwanza. He’s the reason I ran away.” I finally get up the courage to ask the question that has been eating me out from the inside, like termites in a tree. “Bwana?”
“Yes?”
“Are people going to try to kill me here like in Mwanza?”
Kweli turns his head toward me and considers my question.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says. “We don’t do that thing here in Dar es Salaam.”
That’s the same thing that Davu told me, all those weeks ago. Maybe it’s true.
“Are you sure?” I press. “You didn’t even know what a zeruzeru was.”
“I knew the word. Just because I didn’t know everything about the term doesn’t mean I hadn’t heard it before! In Mwenge, many of the shopkeepers have radios. I’ve heard the ministers of parliament talking about how the killings up in the Lake District have to stop. But,” he adds, “that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be cautious. This is a big city, and you’re a country boy at heart. There are plenty of people who would kill you here, or rob you, or kidnap you, just like they would anyone else. Take me, for example. People try to take advantage of me because I’m blind and I have to be very careful sometimes not to let them. Even if no one is hunting you here, you still need to live thoughtfully.”
I think about that, rubbing my hands absently over my face as I do. Just because no one is looking to hurt me doesn’t mean that I won’t be hurt. I don’t know whether that’s comforting or not, but I file Kweli’s advice away. It’s good advice.
“And the people in the background? Who are they?” Kweli asks, bringing the conversation back around to my statue.
I sigh. So much for being a boy of secrets.
“My family. And some people from Arusha.”
“Why did you put them in a statue of Evil?”
Something in his tone makes me think this is important to him. I answer as truthfully as I can.
“None of my family was ever truly cruel to me,” I explain. “Except maybe for my brother Chui.” I think about all the times Chui teased me and then give a weak laugh. “Though, really, he’s just a brother.” Kweli stays quiet, waiting.
“They’re part of Evil because they’re looking away.” I tick off each one on my fingers. “Chui taught the other children to tease me, and then looked away. My father saw I was different and looked away from my whole family. I think this is what made Mother look away from me all the times she did. The men from Arusha wouldn’t help us stay in our home. My sister, Asu . . .” My voice breaks, but I force myself on. “My sister betrayed me.”
“How did she betray you?”
“Alasiri told me he found out where I was because Asu was talking about me to her friends at work.” The fear and anger of being attacked bubble up in me again, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. “None of them are evil people, but when evil things happened, they looked away and let them happen. I put them in the statue because that’s Evil, too.”
I finish speaking, and it’s so quiet that I can hear the clank of dinner dishes from the house over the wall. Have I not answered Kweli’s question? Is that why he’s not talking? I try to think of something else to say, but I can’t. So I sit in the gathering darkness and wait, knowing he’ll talk when he’s ready, or not at all.
I let my mind drift while I wait, listening to the layers of bug sounds, the soft hiss of the breeze through the tamarind tree leaves. I’m almost startled by Kweli’s voice when it does come out of the darkness.
“And is this—this turning away, this hunting—is this why you’ve refused to go with me to the market?”
I feel my cheeks redden and I’m glad that Kweli can’t see me.
“Ndiyo, Bwana.”
Kweli nods. “I thought so.”
“Bwana?”
“I knew you were ashamed to go out. I just wasn’t sure why.”
“It’s just . . .” I struggle to put words to my fears. “It’s just that everyone has seen me as less once they knew what I was. Alasiri wanted to kill me and take pieces of me to sell. I was afraid, Bwana.” I need him to understand. “I was afraid that you’d want to get rid of me. Or that I’d meet up with someone who wanted to kill me.” I pause, considering, then I take a deep breath and ask, “Do you want to get rid of me now, Bwana?”
Kweli’s laugh is a hollow, tired laugh.
“No, Habo,” he says quietly. “No. You are still welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. However!” He jabs a finger in my general direction. “There will be no more foolishness about your family. They need to know where you are and what you’re doing. You can take a few days to think of what you will say, but you will let them know that you are all right. That is my one condition.”
I can’t believe it. He knows, and he’s not throwing me out. I examine his face closely in the firelight, looking for the lie, looking for the hate. I don’t find it. I remember Davu’s story about him and Kebwe. No one should be condemned because of an accident. Now, finally, I understand what she was trying to tell me. The lump of fear that has been lodged in my heart since I met him crumbles slowly.
“Ndiyo,” I say. “Asante sana.”
“Karibu,” he replies. “And from now on, we will go into Mwenge together.”
I swallow hard. Keeping my color from Kweli is no longer an issue, but I still don’t feel comfortable parading around in public. What if they laugh at me? What if they ignore me because I’m not worth talking to? Even if no one here is going to try to kill me, there’s still no guarantee that they’ll accept me. I look up through my white eyelashes at Kweli, sitting there, saying nothing, supporting me and waiting.
I take a deep breath and make a decision. He has been nothing but good to me, and it’s time to show him that I’m grateful for his kindness in a way that matters to him.
“Sawa,” I say. “Tomorrow, we’ll go into Mwenge together.”
The next morning passes in a blur as we get ready to leave. I’m torn between wanting this whole day to be over with quickly and dreading the moment when my chores end and we’ll have to be on our way. I think about coming up with one of my excuses again—I do actually feel a headache coming on, after all, and I didn’t sleep well last night—but I stick to my decision.
I layer on my second shirt for sun protection and put on my hat with its long tail. I pick up the bag with our lunch in it and drag my feet over to where Kweli is getting ready.
“Here,” he says, and hands me a flat cardboard box filled with small sculptures padded in dried grass, old newspapers, and crumpled black plastic shopping bags. “Carry this. We’ll drop these off at the shop whe
n we go.”
Kweli picks up a small purse, puts the drawstring around his neck, and tucks it inside his shirt. I balance the flat box on top of my floppy hat the best I can and follow him out the door.
We don’t retrace the path I took when I first came from the train station. Rather, to get to Mwenge, we follow Bagamoyo Road the other way until it turns into Old Bagamoyo Road. Walking slightly behind Kweli, I wonder what it would be like to walk up Bagamoyo Road blind. I look ahead carefully and, when I’m sure there’s nothing threatening in the next stretch of sidewalk, I close my eyes and try to walk forward. Within five steps my mind has conjured all sorts of things about to hit me in the face and my eyes snap open. The road is as clear as before, and Kweli has gained distance on me, his stride not breaking as his stick skips over cracks in the cement. I can’t imagine the bravery it takes to just go through one day not being able to see. I wipe the nervous sweat off my palms and jog to catch up to him.
As we walk past shops, houses, and dala-dala stands, people do double takes when they see me. With every person we pass I can feel the muscles in my shoulders tighten, and I wish I could tuck my head down like I used to so that I can’t see them seeing me. But that would mean unbalancing my box, so I can’t. My palms are sweating again as I imagine what they must be saying about us to one another. How, despite what Kweli said, they could be talking about what my death would be worth to them. Kweli, of course, simply walks on. I reconsider my earlier conclusion. Sometimes it would be just fine to be blind.
“Hey!” a man at a small roadside restaurant calls out to us. Kweli turns his head in the direction of the sound. I fight the urge to run.
“Who’s that?” calls Kweli.
“Kweli! It’s Chane. What are you doing on the road today? It’s not your day to sell.”
A smile breaks out on Kweli’s face and he turns off the sidewalk toward the voice. I follow reluctantly, trying to stay out of sight behind him.
“Chane! Hello, old friend. How are you doing?” I fume quietly under my box, wanting to move on. I’m sure the fat lady behind the counter is staring at me.
“I’m well,” replies Chane. “And who’s this with you today?”
I wince. So much for trying to hide.
“This is Habo. He’s been helping me around the house these past few weeks.”
“Sawa,” says Chane.
“And do you see?” asks Kweli. “Can you see that he’s white?” There is real curiosity in Kweli’s voice. I feel terribly awkward, but Chane doesn’t seem bothered.
“Ndiyo, of course I can. He is quite white.”
“He’s a zeruzeru, an albino,” says Kweli. I’m ready to have the earth swallow me up whole like a fish swallows a bug, but no, it leaves me there as they talk about me.
“Is he now? That’s interesting.”
“Ndiyo. Have you ever seen one before?”
“I know of a cabdriver who is albino, and of course I’ve heard about the problems in the Lake District, but no, I’ve never met one before. Hello, boy. Habari gani?”
“Nzuri,” I mumble, embarrassed.
A bark of laughter from the other side of the restaurant interrupts our conversation. Three young men lounge by a small circular table covered in empty beer bottles. I wonder whether they’ve started drinking already or just never finished from last night.
“Hey, blind man! Look at us!”
I hear Chane grumble in anger, but Kweli just puts a hand on his arm.
“Let them be,” he says. “They sound drunk.”
The men don’t like the fact that they’re being ignored, and they start to yell out insults to Kweli. Then they see me and add in rude things about the way I look, too.
“Perhaps it would be better to talk another time,” says Kweli to Chane. “I think we’ll go to the market now.”
Chane nods vigorously. “Yes, right. Go on. I’ll make sure these idiots don’t follow you.”
“Come on, Habo,” says Kweli.
Once we’re out of earshot I explode. “How could you just stand there and let them say those things?!”
“What were my options?”
“I . . . I don’t know! But you didn’t even get mad! They were saying awful things. Why didn’t you get angry?”
“Why choose to be angry? It won’t change them, and then I’m angry, which is no fun for me.” Kweli chuckles. “Come on, let’s go to Mwenge.”
I wonder how Kweli can be so calm around rude strangers and get so angry when Chatha tries to help him. I sigh. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand him.
The Mwenge Woodcarvers’ Market is a square of buildings set off a roundabout in the busy road. I have no idea how Kweli crosses the four speeding lanes of traffic when he’s alone. Even with my eyes wide open, I’m terrified we’re going to be killed. Once we’re safely across, though, there’s no shortage of friendly voices to help guide Kweli to where he needs to go. A many-voiced chorus of Habari gani, Kweli! and What are you doing here today, old friend? and Who is that with you? greets us as we walk down a narrow alley of shops toward the dusty central rectangle of gray dirt and scraggly trees surrounded by the long, low buildings of the artists’ market.
Kweli stops many times, introducing me to the other artists in the market: wood carvers, painters, and jewelry makers mostly, based on what I can see in their shops, though there are some potters and stone carvers, too. I’m polite and say hello, but I have trouble remembering all the names and faces. This is more people than I’ve met in over a month. They’re all curious about me, but Kweli gives a quick explanation: “Habo’s an albino. He’s staying with me for now and helping me out. I hope you’ll be good to him.” And this seems to satisfy them.
“Everyone’s very friendly,” I murmur to Kweli as we head into the central square.
“Well, yes,” answers Kweli. “Though we all compete with one another to catch the eyes of tourists, we share food and tea and help one another make change for the large bills the foreigners use to pay. It’s a good community.”
We walk down the aisle of open shop doors until we get to one on the far side of the square.
“This one is mine,” says Kweli with a big smile. “Mine and some other carvers.” I wonder how he knows this one is his. He must have been counting the steps from the curb or something. Interested, I peek inside.
Just like most of the other shop cubbies in the market, Kweli’s is a small room with many shelves on the walls and a clear area in front of it. The roof is corrugated metal, and the area out front is covered by a blue plastic tarp stretched between poles. The tarp is different; most of the other shops don’t have one. When I ask about it, Kweli tells me this is important because, this way, when customers come, the room is cool and shaded and it makes them want to step in and look at the art.
“Especially Americans and Europeans,” he says. “They’re always eager to get out of the sun.”
“Like me,” I say.
Kweli pauses for a second and his smile falters.
“Ndiyo. Like you. Come on,” he says, and walks into the shop.
When I walk in for the first time, the box still balanced on my head, I’m overwhelmed by the number of carvings in the room, but once I get over my surprise I realize that the space is actually quite organized. The bigger, more expensive pieces are by the door, and the smaller, less expensive pieces are at the back. When I ask Kweli about this, he explains that this way the customer has to walk past the bigger ones to get to the small ones.
“Who knows?” He winks at me. “Maybe they’ll fall in love with a bigger one on their way to the small ones.”
Huge Makonde masks glare down at me from the middle of the room as we walk into the shadowy shop. They’re similar to the ones in the shed behind Kweli’s house, and no matter how long I look at them, they still give me the chills. Kweli told me a little bit about their m
eaning when we were cleaning up around the shed a few days ago, how the Makonde people think that actual spirits live in the masks. I told him I didn’t believe that spirits live in masks, but even so I don’t go near the masks if I’m alone, or at night. I hurry past the middle of the store and join Kweli at the very back, where he’s deep in conversation with a large woman with workman’s hands.
Sensing that I’m beside him, Kweli says, “And this is Habo, the boy I was telling you about. He’s becoming quite a carver himself.”
“Hmph,” says the woman. “Just what we need, another carver.” Then she turns to me and her tone softens. “It’s nice to meet you, Habo. I’m Zubeda, and I share this shop with Kweli and five others.”
This is a surprise to me. “So many of you?” I ask.
“Ndiyo, seven. One for each day of the week,” she answers. “That way we each take a day here, selling, and the rest of the week we can spend at home, working.”
I can see the logic in that and I say so.
“It’s a good system,” she agrees. “Which reminds me, Kweli, I sold another one of your statues today. Do you want your part of the money now or later?”
“I’ll take it now, if it’s all the same to you,” says Kweli. “And the boy has a box with some more little pieces of mine. You can put them anywhere you’d like.”
As the two of them settle up, I wander around the store again, finally not worried about bumping anything with that great box on my head. The shop is narrow, and the aisles between the statues are even narrower, so I walk carefully. I don’t want to damage anyone’s work or offend Zubeda. Within a few minutes, Kweli and Zubeda walk out to join me where I’m standing at the front of the shop.
Just then, a large group of tourists enters the market. So many white people at the same time! There must be over thirty of them. They start to flock and scatter like birds, picking through the art laid out before them. Vendors jump to their feet and start speaking to them in English, encouraging them to come in and buy from their shops. I suddenly see how rare it must be for any one shop to make a sale. With so many shops all selling the same thing . . . I look over at Kweli, understanding why he lives so simply.
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