by Renee Topper
The plane flies through the night over the dim expanse of the Serengeti. He flies over the same swarm of wildebeest that Aliya saw, though now they are farther down their path and stationary for the night.
5
News
July 14
The next morning in LA, Tamika is sitting on the sofa, peeling sweet potatoes. Soon as she finishes one, she adds it to the pile in a pot on the floor and takes another from the bag at her side. She long ago developed the habit of cooking when faced with major challenges in life...when Jalil left, when her mama died, and she cooked a lot when Aliya was born. Something about doing the motions of simple everyday things, it helped her keep from drowning. She can’t do anything else. She cooks nonstop. She can’t eat any of the delicious food, but she cooks all the same. She’ll serve one of the sweet potato pies to Minister Jeffries and Abby from the rectory when they come over to sit with her. The can take the other one with them.
The TV is on and the local news station, KTLA, is replaying the story they broke this morning about Aliya. News travels slowly from Africa. She wonders how did Jalil know first? Those “security” contacts of his. They show a collegiate photograph of her, smiling, conservative, her glasses off. That’s her picture from when she was on the school newspaper. They must have gotten that from her school. Tamika half hears the reporter: “American college student and aide worker, Aliya Scott, is missing in Tanzania...Miss Scott is said to have been traveling with another aide worker from Ireland...”
She peels some skin off her finger with the stroke of the peeler and blood drips on the orange potato in the bowl. She doesn’t notice she cut herself or the blood. She’s too in awe of the fact that her daughter is on the news, not for all the wonderful things she means to her mother, but because she is missing. She can’t fathom how her daughter could be a missing person on the news? But here she is.
Mike enters the room. He gazes at Aliya on the TV screen. He goes to put a hand on her upper back, to comfort her when he sees the blood.
She pushes him away.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yes, I am.”
She thinks he means metaphorically. She weeps as if her tears are made of blood. She feels the pressure in her body, the fluids and cramping in her womb. Aliya was her first born and she bled through her birth.
“You cut yourself.”
Tamika sees the sizable gash on her finger though can’t seem to move. Mike puts a potato on the wound, helps her up by the elbow and leads her toward the kitchen for first aid. He steps to turn off the TV and pauses when he finds Reggie, asleep in his hiding place on the side of the sofa -- where he thinks they don’t see him -- his spot when he should be in bed. He doesn’t want to miss any news, especially now. He stays close. Mike turns the TV off. Tamika comes and turns it back on.
The news resumes, “Last seen at a Saba Saba celebration hosted by a fellow aide worker at the Hotel Protea in Dar es Salaam. Saba Saba is Tanzania’s Independence Day...”
She stands there holding the bowl of half peeled sweet potatoes, with one on her freshly skinned finger. Mike leaves her to scoop up Reggie and put him in bed.
6
Rolf
July 15
Jalil leaves the Mwanza airport and stands on the street. It’s hot. He’s sweating feverishly. Ironically, almost as if something or someone were guiding him -- some internal or external force -- he stops on the same spot Aliya had been when calling her Mama. Children swarm and beg him for money, food, anything he might have to give them. He hails a cab and rides to the Legal and Human Rights Center. It’s a busy, well-established office with brightly painted walls and a staff that’s dedicated to life saving initiatives across the globe. They do much work for refugees in particular.
Jalil finds his old friend Rolf writing him a note at the main desk. His blonde hair has turned gray. He may have shrunk an inch, but when one had been six foot four for 40 years, losing an inch hardly makes a difference to those shorter. Despite their difference in height, Jalil never felt small next to him until today. “Rolf.”
“Jalil.” Rolf, still holding his pen, turns and embraces his old friend. The outlook is grave. Rolf told him not to come. That it was too late. But the line went dead. And even if he heard Rolf, Jalil was going to do what he was going to do. There’s no stopping him. No way to spare him. He is here now and Rolf will do what he can for him. “I thought I’d miss you entirely. ‘Was writing you a note in case. I just landed from another emergency East African Community Head of State Summit in Dar. I’m heading back to Kasulu. A few months ago, I had plenty of Burundi refugees to worry about. Since the coup attempt, I’ve got 5 times as many and the cholera epidemic that came with it. It’s a nightmare. It’s been a nightmare. You’re in a nightmare. Did you contact the embassy?”
“There’s no time for that.” Jalil thinks, what a strange question for Rolf to ask. Rolf knows that in situations like this, time is of the essence and the odds of a bureaucracy being of help are minimal, more hindrance than help.
“Of course.”
“Thanks for calling me.”
“I had to.”
“Did you find anything else out?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.” Rolf leads him outside onto the van. “’Can take you to Geita. Camp Kivuli is some distance in another direction from where I’ve got to go. ‘Plenty of time to talk, and sweat, on the way. I’ll never get used to this heat.” Rolf wipes his brow with a balled-up T-shirt.
They sit across from each other. Jalil studies his friend’s face. The years have not been kind enough to let him age gracefully. Life’s lines are carved deep into his skin, especially at his forehead and around his eyes.
The driver starts the engine of the van and they pull out.
Something is off. These men are like brothers and at a time of personal crisis like this, Rolf was going to leave him a note? Of all the times Jalil saved his ass...Jalil catches himself and redirects his thought spiral. He’s not slept, he’s stressed and Rolf looks like he’s been fighting wars non-stop his whole life.
They ride through the crowded streets and out of the city.
7
Mukuyu
May 10
Theirs is the sole Geita-bound vehicle on the paved road, and there are few people in sight.
The sun is high and floods the windows of the van. Aliya rubs sunblock into her skin, on her face, neck, shoulders and where her sandals don’t cover her feet and toes. Kennen, at the wheel, gazes at her with wanting eyes.
Aliya notices the way he’s looking at her and she’s not having it. “Oh no.”
Kennen veers his eyes back onto the road.
“This isn’t gonna be a problem is it? We talked about this.”
Kennen answers, “I know. I know. We’re just friends.” But what’s a man to do when he’s in the presence of such sensual beauty? “I looked and now I’m looking at the road. I appreciate the curves of it, but you’re much easier on the eyes.” She tries not too, but the corners of her mouth curve up into a smile. “There you are.” Kennen, “Welcome to Tanzania, Aliya Scott.”
The terrain is flat for miles; save for the few simple scrap metal and wood structures they pass along the way. The land is vast and dry; it must be so plush after the rains. In the distance there is a tree demanding attention. It is a Mukuyu tree at the crossroads. The tallest tree for miles, it has no competition reaching the sky. The branches are ash brown in color, the thin bark and ochre green leaves remind of the Sycamore tree in the yard back home. But the shape of the leaves is oval.
Kennen drives closer to the tree and at about ten yards, he pulls over, cuts the engine and bounds out of the van with a granola bar. “Come on.” His enthusiasm is contagious. Aliya smiles at how child-like he can be, full of wonder and adventure and follows.
“This is the majestic Mukuyu tree. It holds a lot of history and meaning for the people here.” He’s teaching class now and Aliya is his student.
&nbs
p; “How so?” Aliya asks.
“It’s like the tree of life. Its roots are the ancestors of the people and its limbs the offspring of generations.” As they arrive at the base of the tree, he takes her hand and puts it on a low hanging branch that extends parallel to the ground. “Do you feel that?”
Aliya is skeptical at first, and then she relaxes her hand and senses the vibration of it. A big smile lights up her face. “Yeah.”
Kennen continues, “This branch here is where many people were hung. Not long ago, during the slave trade, thousands of people were held here begging its shade before they were auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
“That’s awful.” Her smile turns stern.
“I know, but it’s part of the history. We have to understand what these people and this country have been through in order to understand how to help. Tanzania only got its independence in the 60s. Socialism led to capitalism and that only worked for a select few. The fishermen and the miners in Lake Victoria and Geita were promised riches and rewards for all their hard work. Now they are lucky if they can afford fish heads for dinner.”
“What are you on about, Kennen?”
“These are people just trying to survive. And these are people who believe in witchcraft. It’s not some mystical thing. It’s real.”
“You sound like you feel sorry for the hunters!”
“Compassion more than pity, or maybe just understanding. Me own Gran used to blame things on fairies. It was something that was very real to her. It somehow was in the fabric of her experience. Fairies were powerful strong during the so called famine in Ireland.”
Kennen goes over to the Elder on the other side of the tree and gives him the granola bar. The old man smiles at him, with his few remaining teeth, peels back the skin and takes a bite.
Aliya circles the tree, stroking the trunk with her hand. A gentle breeze blows and the leaves shake like countless faces in a crowd. She closes her eyes and feels the energy as the wind blows across her skin and through her loose reddish-blonde afro.
When she opens her pale eyes, the Elder is standing in front of her, close, too close for her comfort. He isn’t smiling now, just studying her.
“He likes you.” Kennen breaks the intensity of Elder’s stare. Aliya moves out of the shade of the tree with a polite smile for the odd old man. Kennen pats him on the back. “See you around, Man.”
Elder squats at the trunk, and catches Aliya’s gaze through the window as Kennen and she drive away.
8
Kuchuna
May 10 (later) - 11
The converted large shack, which houses the Kuchuna office is makeshift. There’s a solitary, old computer on a desk, a couple of chairs, and the rumble of a generator outside the back wall. On a poster that hangs without a frame is an image of the earth and people of diverse ethnicities. The text reads, “Kuchuna: The smaller the world gets, the more we are all accountable.”
A dark black, handsome man in his late twenties is sitting at his desk, trying to fix the fan. He looks up as Aliya rounds the corner. There is no denying their mutual instant attraction.
He says hello. “Hujambo.”
Aliya nearly stutters for the first time in her life, surprising herself. “Hi. Mimi ni pamoja...”
Kennen appears in the doorway.
“Kennen, brother.” Rhadi rises to greet him and shake his hand.
“Hey. What’s going on, man?”
“This beautiful malaika just walked into my office.” He translates the compliment for Aliya. “‘Malaika’ means angel.”
“Oh.”
Aliya and Rhadi can’t take their eyes off each other.
“I like your shirt.”
Aliya blushes girlishly. She’s still sporting the “Skin Deep” T-shirt.
Kennen is put off by the obvious spark he is witnessing.
“I’ve been trying to fix this fan to get some air moving in here. Take a look at it while I show Aliya what we’re working on.”
He hands Kennen the fan. Kennen sort of looks at it, though not really.
Rhadi leads Aliya to his computer and pulls up the Kuchuna website.
“I’ve been to your site.”
“Then you know what we do?”
“Yes, but Kennen told me you do more than what’s online.”
Kennen puts down the fan and positions himself between them, a little too close to Aliya. “I told her about the Internet campaign with Amnesty International. How you could have been more honest.”
“Yes,” he concedes, “The son of the jailed journalist did not receive threatening letters, as we alluded.”
“Amnesty wasn’t happy to learn you lied.” Kennen chides. It’s clear he’s disapproving of this tactic.
“But it did get the journalist and his father the media attention needed to get him released and both of them to safety.” Rhadi defends with no regrets.
Kennen insists, “Right, but it cost Kuchuna the trust of Amnesty.”
#
Later, having had dinner, Kennen is passed out on the floor. Rhadi and Aliya are talking softly.
“They need us. They can’t make the extreme moves that we can. They are too big. We must do what we do to get things done. There is no one else who will do it. Our current mission may directly involve you, Aliya. As you know, we need to have an impact; we are trying to find bolder ways to show the world what is happening to albinos here. They are too few and too small a casualty for the larger organizations to pay attention. Will you help us?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she answers.
Rhadi and Aliya are staring into each other’s eyes. Aliya is blushing. Kennen coughs to interrupt them. He had awoken and been watching them.
“Of course,” she blurts out eagerly.
#
Next morning, the van is loaded with supplies. Kennen’s frustration is clear by how hard he slams the cargo door.
Rhadi resists saying goodbye to Aliya. “See you in two weeks. We have much work to do.”
“Yes.”
Kennen doesn’t return Rhadi’s wave goodbye. They drive down the road.
“He’s really cool,” Aliya says.
“He’s all right, I guess,” unimpressed. “What’s in two weeks?”
“He’s coming out to the camp so we can put an action plan together.”
“To do what?”
“Nothing in particular, yet.”
“Watch yourself with him. He can be reckless. The lies on that case could have backfired. He doesn’t always lay out the best plans.”
“Have you met me? My eyes are wide open. You’re just jealous.”
Kennen swallows this hard and in complete denial. “How could I be jealous of that guy? We’re just friends, Aliya.”
She daydreams, gazing out the window at the wonder of this new world before her.
#
About an hour further along on their journey to Camp Kivuli, they approach some mean-looking guys who are parked on the side of the long dirt road. It is midday and the sun is high and hot.
Kennen puts Aliya’s hat on her head.
She takes it off, thinking he’s being playful and flirting.
Kennen warns, “Put it on for now.”
“I put on sunblock.”
He puts it back on her head.
She takes it off.
“What? Are we gonna have to have this talk again? I told you I...”
“No. It’s not that.”
As they pass the parked car, the rough guys, looking through their window, set their eyes on Aliya. Aliya finally sees them.
“It’s them.”
“Seriously?”
The drawn look on Kennen’s face assures her how very serious he is.
“You want me to hide my skin? You are out of your effing mind.”
“Bandits on this road pulled three cars over the other day. Killed everyone in them. And they weren’t even albino. I hate to think what they’d do to you.”
She cle
nches her hat in her hand as she stares back at the men and deflects, “Who says ‘bandits’ any more?”
9
She Knew
July 15
Jalil is on the same road to Geita that Aliya traveled some weeks earlier. They’ve picked up more aides so it’s much tighter in the van. Rolf and Jalil now share a double seat, which is too small for them. It keeps them awkwardly close, but these men have smelled each other up close in bunkers for days at a stretch. They haven’t grown too soft to take this now.
“Old friend, I must be honest with you. There is very little hope that Aliya is alive. And there is little I can offer to help find her.”
Jalil glares at him with surprise.
“I’m trying to save the lives of 138,000 Burundians. Can’t turn my back on them to try to find your daughter. You can’t ask me to.” Rolf takes out the paper he had been writing on when Jalil had walked into his office and hands it to him. “Here. Go see the District Magistrate Luamke. Aliya made quite an impression on him at a party I had. It was the one time I saw her.”
“How did she make an impression?”
“Called him out on a recent ‘trial,’ if you can call it that. Three men killed an albino boy and were released without a trial.”
“Released?”
“No one will prosecute them. They don’t want the bush knife coming down on them.”
“Even the magistrate?”
“Bureaucracy, politics, call it what you will. I wrote down Luamke’s address and that of the head of the regional police, Akida. I don’t know him.”
“Who else was at your party? Will you give me a list?”
“I’ll have my secretary get it to you, but I doubt anyone there had anything to do with it. You know me well enough to know that all my friends aren’t saints, but this would be well outside what I’d expect of anyone I’d invite in.”