Pigment

by Renee Topper

  Her dialect and accent are thick, and she utters more of the same at her. “Kaa mbali na mimi.”

  The flight attendant arrives and, in Swahili, asks her what she’s upset about.

  A passenger in the next row opens the shade of his window, letting in more light. Aliya can see the woman’s eyes. She looks terrified, and is pointing at her with a trembling finger.

  “Siwezi kuruka na roho!” The woman pushes backward to the door, still facing Aliya and bumping people out of her way with her girth. The stewardess tries to calm her and stands in her way. The woman bumps her aside like a palm leaf in the wind, and forces her way off the plane.

  All the passengers who can see Aliya are staring at her, some even stretch their necks to see over the seats. Aliya thinks, “Really, they don’t see me at all. They see something strange that scared the woman off the plane.” She looks to the old man next to her. He is asleep, out cold. That’s a relief! She relaxes into the empty space.

  “Roho.” The last word she said. What does it mean? Aliya takes out her Swahili-English dictionary and looks it up. She didn’t! She did! That woman called her a ghost. A shiver runs up and down her spine. She can think of a few things to call that woman. But she doesn’t. She’s gone. Aliya’s been called worse in English, and doesn’t know if the print translation is telling her everything. There was something about the way she said it. Aliya shakes it off and puts her focus toward the lesson plan she is putting together for the children she is going to teach.

  #

  Hours later, she trades seats with the man next to her, who immediately goes back to sleep. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice color or the lack of it. She wants to look out the window and doesn’t mind the extra foot between her and the looks up and down the aisle. She’s used to people gawking, but not throwing a fit, not since old man Carter.

  Aliya plays Tanzanian tribal music, songs of the Wagogo Peoples and the Bagamoyo Players on her phone. She’s been listening to them for weeks, gearing up for her trip. Their drums beat the soundtrack to her journey.

  As they fly over the Serengeti, it is sunrise and the deep colors rip through the sky, electric colors that only Mother Nature can conjure. She makes her own rules and breaks them. She’s full of surprises, and keeps us in awe. Aliya contemplates. For some reason, people revere albino animals, like the albino dolphin calf they stole from the waters off the coast of Japan or the Lakota White Buffalo, described by the Calf Woman who came bearing the peace pipe and medicine wheel, who foretold that a white buffalo would come and the white man would then ask the red man to teach him how to live in tune with Nature. The White Buffalo is honored. The thing about mystical creatures and things is that people either revere them or fear them. Either way they want to control them. Even in film and TV you see albino bad guys, but never good. The truth is we’re no better or worse than anyone else.

  Aliya looks out the window, her forehead presses hard against the pane. The earth below looks like a rumbling, rolling surface with dust spraying out its sides like the foam of ocean waves. It’s the wildebeest herd, tens of thousands of them, rising from their slumber with the sun’s rays of light pushing through the dark night. They nudge each other, urging their mass movement, resuming their migration. They move smart like a swarm of bees. Reggie’s right, they are ugly. Up close, they look like a cross between a bull and a deer. She’s drawn to things that are different, and foreign. Common as they are in Africa, she didn’t see wildebeest in L.A. So, to her, they’re different. She likes that they take care of their babies and the old and sick. Would the herd take care of an albino wildebeest? She likes to think they would.

  Out the window, she can see the wondrous expanse, beautiful, raw Africa.

  She opens her worn journal, an old fashioned notebook with the black and white marble cover, it’s early pages filled with thoughts and sketches in preparation for her journey. She turns to a clean page and writes:

  “Kilimanjaro -- we fly low over Lake Victoria through the clouds that hang like a veil, coming into Mwanza.

  The drums play in my ears and my heart races. I’ve never been so far from home, but somehow feel like I’m coming home for the first time in my life.

  Don’t tell Mama I said that.”

  #

  They land in the afternoon. Aliya loads her bags and boxes onto a cart and wheels them out to passenger loading. The air is so clear here compared to L.A. The street is bright and bustling, full of diversity. Kennen isn’t there to meet her, but she trusts he’ll be along soon.

  As she waits, she keeps her eyes on the passersby, people being greeted, people reunited. She has that unsettling feeling again, that she’s being watched. She casually looks around. Practiced at this discretion, she takes broad sweeps, spanning the scene, assessing everyone with her eyes. She looks for something reflective to scout indirectly as she waits for Kennen.

  She remembers to call home and takes her phone from her pocket and dials. The answering machine picks up. They’re all at work or school. “Hi Mama, Mike and Reggie! Mimi niko hapa. Mimi nina katika Afrika!” She translates, “I’m here. I’m in Africa! I miss you. I’ll call again soon.” As she hangs up the phone she is sensing an invasive energy, closing in. She can’t spot its source yet.

  There’s a piece of shiny metal that braces the glass of a window, which she uses to see behind her. There he is. A distorted dark, creepy man staring at her from across the street. He looks away, trying to appear casual...or maybe Aliya is misreading him and he’s not interested in her at all. She decides she should move, just in case, and gathers her cart and belongings and goes closer to the curb. She dials another number watching all the while, her defenses up. Kennen doesn’t answer. She calls the one other contact she has in Tanzania.

  “Mr. Teigen’s office.”

  “Hi. Is Mr. Teigen available?

  His secretary says. “He’s out in the field.”

  She wants to tell her more, that there is a man, that she doesn’t feel safe, but she doesn’t want to sound like a hysterical American girl.

  The secretary calls into the silence, “Miss?”

  Aliya resolves that maybe she’s just tired. “Will you please tell him that Aliya Scott called for him?”

  “Aliya Scott...Mr. Teigen left a message.”

  She braves another glance into the metal. Creepy Man is gone. She turns, her feet planted firmly.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Teigen invites you to a party on July 6th at the Hotel Protea Cottages for Saba Saba, our independence day. We emailed you details.”

  “Thank him for me. I will try to come.”

  She spots Creepy Man. He’s crossed the street and is coming straight toward her. She can’t read the look in his eyes, too far away. Is it fear? Hate? There is no white in his eyes.

  “Miss?” the secretary’s voice trails off as Aliya’s hand takes the phone from her ear. “Miss?”

  He’s thirty feet away. She’s facing him. It is hate.

  Kennen Dunnovan steps in her view, and Creepy Man steps aside into the crowd.

  “There you are!”

  “Kennen!” her dear Irish friend saves the day. He’s good hearted, a diehard aide worker with a genuine big smile and light green eyes that Aliya would admit to getting lost in sometimes. They hug each other, an extra long hug. They first met at a camp for people with albinism that Aliya attended for a few summers, and where he worked. They’ve been friends ever since. Although, sometimes it feels like they’re more than friends. She notices his muscles are more developed than last year. He’s manlier.

  Aliya can see Creepy Man over Kennen’s shoulder still, there assessing them, gearing up to make another move.

  Horns blare for Kennen to move the camp’s old, beat-up van.

  “And we’re off.”

  They quickly load everything and climb in, Creepy Man runs toward them. Aliya snaps his picture as he yells, “Deil, Deil!”

  Kennen stares the man down as he starts
the engine and pulls away.

  “What does he want?” Aliya asks.

  Kennen is still staring at him and doesn’t answer.

  “What’s ‘deil’ mean?” she persists.

  Traffic moves and they are out of visual range of Creepy Man.

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “He could get a lot of money for you on the black market,” Kennen answers.

  “Very funny.”

  “Not at all.” He isn’t joking. He doesn’t want to tell her it means devil, that she is less than human to many people here; that she scares them and should be afraid of them and their ignorance, because they are afraid of her, just as they are of the albino children they are here to help; that since he’s been here, he’s had his eyes opened wider to the reality, to the horror of it. It’s one thing being overseas in a different world, a first world, and hearing of these atrocities and wanting to help and thinking you can. It’s another thing being in this place, completely seeing how small you are compared to the third world you’ve entered, a world with its own beliefs, its own systems, its own currencies, its own ideas of right and wrong.

  On the plane with that woman calling her ghost she still felt big, but this man calling her the devil and wanting to sell her, this was her first lesson in Tanzania.

  3

  Jalil

  July 13

  The haze over Los Angeles is thicker than usual. When you’re sitting still, in a suit, on leather seats, and the AC is broken, bumper-humping on the 101, it feels like a sauna. It’s just wrong being in the new Audi without any air. Car costs too damn much money to have the AC give out like that.

  The city barrels in his open windows, heavy with stagnation and the Mariachi tunes from the gardener’s truck to the left.

  Jalil is a man of action, not built for sitting in traffic. The silver that frosts his tightly cut hair doesn’t make him any more patient. He finishes reviewing a proposal on his tablet and puts it down on the passenger seat. He loosens his tie and reminisces about driving Aliya to the airport. What is it now?...Two months gone by already? He looks to his right at the empty seat and shakes his head. His phone rings. It’s an international number. He answers, “Yeah.”

  The voice on the line belongs to Rolf Teigen, a tall fifty-year-old Norwegian with a deep voice and heavy Oslo accent. He hasn’t seen Rolf in ten years, but they have strong history. Soldiers who serve in private wars make friends for life. Knowing that Rolf was in Tanzania, Jalil had sent him an email, introducing Aliya and letting him know she was coming to his part of the world -- an unspoken ask to look out for one of their own. “Jalil…” He sounds older than he had when they last spoke. There is tension in Rolf’s voice and the connection is full of static and breaks in and out. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “What is it?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She is missing. Your daughter is gone.” The connection trails off with an echo.

  “What do you mean gone? When?”

  “Three days or so. Jalil...”

  He cuts him off. “I’m on my way.”

  “It’s too late...”

  He barely hears Rolf’s last words as the line washes out with a roar of static. “Rolf?” There’s no human response, only more static. He tries again, “Rolf?” Nothing. He hangs up the phone. Three days. Three days is too long. She’s gone. Gone where? Did someone take her? Three days is a desert. He has to get there...If there is any hope. The trail is three days cold. He looks at the hopeless expanse of stopped cars in front of him and behind him. He pulls his passport out of the glove box as he nudges and honks his way to the shoulder, then speeds along the barrier. He exits onto the 10, and it has a solid herd of vehicles at a standstill. He ducks down at the next off-ramp and takes Venice across town. He looks again to the empty seat next to him, then back at the road.

  4

  In Her Footsteps

  July 13 (later)

  “Reggie, put your Mama on the phone.”

  “I got a new video game, Jalil. You have to come play!”

  “Put her on now.” His voice is stern. Jalil, in the last seat in business class, sees the flight attendant preparing for takeoff.

  He hadn’t had time to phone Tamika and make his flight. Okay, he probably could have, but how could he tell the mother of their child this? How could he tell her, after all he’s put her through?

  The stewardess catches him on the phone. “Sir, please turn off your cell phone.”

  He nods.

  She continues her lap to check that devices are off and that all seatbelts are fastened.

  “Jalil?” Tamika’s voice sounds concerned. Jalil never calls her. He can’t answer. “Hello?”... “Jalil?”

  “Tamika…Something happened. I’m on a plane.”

  Tamika braces herself against the new granite kitchen counter she and Mike got for their anniversary last month; her hand rises to cover her mouth. She senses the blow coming.

  “I’m flying to Mwanza through Nairobi.”

  “Why Mwanza? She’s in Zanzibar...”

  “I thought by now she’d have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “There are added challenges for people like her over there, for people with her condition. It’s not safe.” He’s using his military voice to keep emotion at bay. It’s normal for him, in situations like this, situations where he is trying to keep control. “Aliya went down there to fight for people like her, to make the system prosecute people who hunt albinos.”

  In a whisper, “Hunt? I don’t understand. She was there to teach the children...”

  Emotion breaks through and he is at a loss for words. He can’t speak.

  Tamika melts against the cabinet where she keeps the pots and pans, sliding down onto the cold tile floor that she mopped an hour ago. They listen to each other breathing, the weight striking their eardrums through to their souls.

  The flight attendant sees Jalil and repeats. “Sir, this is the last time I will tell you to turn off your device.”

  Jalil says into the phone, “I have to hang up or they’ll put me off the plane. I’ll find her.”

  The phone disconnects.

  Tamika is frozen in shock. Her eyes shoot around the room, matching the pace of her desperate mind as tears pump down her face with each shutter of her eyelids. An idea washes over her and she pulls herself up and goes to the computer in Aliya’s room. She types into the search engine: “Tanzania albino...” she pauses before she types the third word, then types “hunt” and presses enter. The screen fills up with stories and images of albino children missing limbs and mutilated remains of albino children. She holds her hand out at the screen as if she could stop seeing the images now in her head, images of the place where her daughter went. She stands up to walk away from it, but when she turns, she is faced with Reggie. He’d been looking over her shoulder from the doorway. If this boy ever looked pale, it’s now. She squats to block his gaze. She embraces him. He looks over her shoulder at the bloody corpse of an albino baby on the monitor.

  #

  A few hours into the flight, Jalil gazes out the window, into blackness. He can’t see the moon or the stars, just black. He looks at his cell phone to a picture of Aliya smiling brightly. Her voice echoes, “What made you come back?” Then he peers back into the night and his mind takes him to its darkest corner.

  #

  Seven months ago. Teheran. Jalil is driving a private securities firm military-style truck on the desert road heading back to camp, through the dusty poverty stricken streets. It’s a hot day, sweat streams down his face.

  He drives cautiously; it’s essential to study everything and everyone, to watch, to be alert and ready for possible land mines, anything off.

  Up the road is a man wearing a big coat. He is carrying something underneath and walking in the direction of the truck.

  Jalil stops and turns off the engine. He gets out and stands
at the side of the vehicle with his rifle drawn. He shouts at him in Arabic, ordering him to show his hands and open his jacket.

  The man does not reply, but keeps coming.

  Jalil shouts again for him to open his jacket, but he won’t do it.

  Jalil takes the safety off his gun. “Stop! Don’t come any closer or I will shoot!” Jalil aims his gun at the man, who stops. “Show me your hands!”

  The man can’t speak. He looks as though he is in shock. He turns around and starts walking slowly back the way he came.

  “Stop!” Jalil commands.

  The man moves one of his hands and it looks like he might be trying to press an ignition trigger on a bomb strapped to his chest.

  Jalil shoots. The bullets hit the man in the back. Blood and flesh bound from the hit. He falls face forward, his arms losing their grip. He lands on the dirt road, not moving.

  Jalil cautiously approaches the body, his gun still aimed at the man.

  Jalil pushes the dead man’s body over with his foot. If it were a bomb, it would have gone off, but he’s still cautious.

  There, cradled in one of the man’s arms is a frail little girl, three years old, looking at her dead dad. She looks at Jalil. There is a calmness and old soul way about her, very similar to Aliya’s. She holds her hand out toward Jalil, who falls to his knees and starts to check her vitals. There’s so much blood. Was she hit? Jalil desperately searches her for wounds. He finds punctures to her abdomen, gnarled insides on the outside, father and daughter hit by the same bullets. His bullets. Blood is gushing out of her. He tries to hold it in with his hand.

  She stops breathing and the light in her eyes fades away.

  Tears swell in his eyes as he cradles her lifeless body.

  #

  Jalil shakes off the memory, wanting to focus on Aliya. He needs a clear mind. This is what brought him back to his daughter. And now she is gone. Gone what? Gone missing? Gone gone?