by Renee Topper
Rolf is surprised she’s in the know, “That’s right.”
“I thought you said no work.” she smiles coily.
“For you. For me every night is about survival ...survival of the Burundians. You mingle.” He leans in to Kennen, “There’s half a bottle of Jameson behind the bar, Irish.”
“Good on ya, man.” He puts his arm round him like he would one of his lads back home.
“That’s more like it.”
Aliya, “What did he mean?”
“He means, relax.”
Aliya eyes the Magistrate as Rolf greets him with open arms. How can he be here? How can he be at Rolf’s party -- a man so dedicated to helping the Burundians? This troubles her and it makes her even more confused about what is planned for tomorrow. Maybe Luamke isn’t a bad guy after all. But she also knows that Rhadi is right. He never would have said all those things about him or made him the target for tomorrow if he didn’t deserve it even a little bit.
#
The party extends out to the pool where there is louder music and dancing. Kennen and Aliya finish their second round. Kennen leads a reluctant Aliya to the dance floor. Kennen’s really getting his disco moves on, drawing other partiers on to the dance floor to watch. He looks like he watched Saturday Night Fever twenty times too many or his gran taught him disco and it’s all he knows.
Aliya tries to enjoy it, but she doesn’t want to. She leaves the floor. Kennen watches her settle to a spot at the bar. He keeps dancing.
Aliya takes another drink. She sees the Magistrate not far away talking to the same eccentric looking middle-aged white man from the hotel yesterday, but her attention was so focused on Luamke that she doesn’t recognize him from there. She goes to introduce herself to Luamke, to feel him out for herself.
Her soft determined voice, a tone her mother reared into her, “Magistrate Luamke. Pleasure to meet you. Aliya Scott.” She presents her hand to shake his.
He seems surprised and off put to have an albino woman addressing him directly. The German stands back and ogles her. He’s an eccentric attracted to eccentricities if ever there were one. “Aliya.” he says her name, objectifying her. Aliya ignores him, pushing forward with Luamke. The German’s fingers clench the glass so hard that it should break. Luamke doesn’t take her hand.
“Where in America are you from, Aliya?”
“Los Angeles.”
“I was there last year on business. I saw the Lakers play. What brings you to Tanzania?”
“I’m volunteering at Camp Kivuli. Do you know it?”
“I’m surprised you would choose to come here with the way things are for your kind.”
“My kind? Oh, you mean cause it isn’t safe for someone like me to walk in the streets of your district, or for me to sleep in my bed. Or are you referring to the lack of justice for people who murder albinos? I might feel a little safer if you didn’t release the three men who hacked that baby boy to death in Kasulu! Why did you let them go?”
Luamke is about to stump her, “Miss...”
She doesn’t give him a beat, “Or is it true...we’re not real and maybe just don’t know it...Let me tell you Magistrate, I am very real...”
Magistrate is annoyed, but offering the practiced smiles of a politician. “You Americans come here and think you understand Africa. Think you have all the answers. But you don’t.”
She persists, “What’s the question? You don’t protect the children. Letting these criminals go is like saying you approve of them. Do you?”
Luamke responds with a hearty laugh, the white man snorts along, drooling. “How cute she is when she is angry.” Aliya now recognizes him from the hotel, his deep-set, ice blue eyes that are unsettling. Luamke laughs with him saying his name, “Herr Günther”. His hand reaches for her arm. She steps back, something is very off-putting about his energy. But she doesn’t move fast enough, the German’s greasy fingertips stroke her arm.
Rolf swoops in, interrupting, “There you are. Booze got you a little knobby, Aliya?” Rolf grabs her by the elbow and forcefully leads her out beyond the pool.
“I haven’t had too much to drink. I’ve had too much Bullshit.”
“You’re all fire like your father.” He tries to diminish her.
“You would know.” He knows him better than she does after all.
“Yes. I do.” He adds, “He hated being away from you, missing you grow up.”
“He could have come back any time.”
“I see you are the same. Like a bull seeing red and charging at it not always thinking through all the consequences before acting.”
She rolls her eyes. Then... “Maybe.”
“I’ve been at this a long time. There are those who are extremists, those bulls who see red, charge and try to force change on those who’ve been rooted in power for centuries. If you want to make lasting change you can’t be the bull. You have to work with them and convince them they want something more, enough to let the other things go, and find a way to help them get it.”
Rolf wraps his arm around her and rests his hand on her upper arm. She relaxes into his warm shoulder, a gentle embrace. She moves her head to face him, overcome with a thousand emotions. They are nose to nose. She looks at him, tears in her eyes. He leans in to kiss her lips as his hand delves down her back, not a fatherly touch at all.
This sobers Aliya and she pushes him away. “Your bull is bullshit. While you are rubbing peoples backs and suggesting they “give them something they want more,” how many people die? Sometimes force has a greater, longer lasting impression. You should know, you served in the military...”
He cuts her off in an odd parental tone, “Aliya.”
Kennen sees this exchange from the dance floor and charges head-on at Rolf. He’s about to lunge at him when Aliya grabs his arm and stops him, as only she could in that moment. “What was that?” Kennen sneers at Rolf. Aliya stands between them and pulls Kennen’s arm to lead him away from Rolf.
“Come on.” He goes with her, but not easily. The Magistrate and the white man eye Aliya as she exits with Kennen, who then leers back over his shoulder at Rolf. Rolf raises his glass to the Magistrate and they in turn raise theirs with a nod.
#
Aliya is standing looking out over the expanse of water in the moonlight. A gentle breeze blows across the water and graces her dress. She is radiant.
Kennen is captivated by her. He steps closer to her. “You sure you’re all right?”
Aliya exhales. She strokes her arm and feels a greasy residue left there by the German. It’s oily but sticky and she touches it with her fingers and smells it. It’s some kind of linseed oil, she steps out into the water up to her knees and bends over to wash it off, but it doesn’t come off. She immerses herself in the water completely, hoping the water would cool her down and clean her, the salt water at the beach at home always did this for her, rebooted her, and gave her a fresh start. She floats for a long while, while Kennen watches from the shore, holding fast to the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. He can’t fight the lull of the booze and nods off into his drink and the sand.
Sometime later, the sun is not up yet, but it hints at rising over the waters edge. He feels cool water drip onto his cheek. He opens his eyes, slowly. Aliya stands over him, the source for the cool salt water that beading onto him. She speaks in a scratchy buy subdued voice, “Let’s go.”
#
Back at their hotel, they give each other a lot of space. Kennen can’t help but be jealous. He’s in love with her, despite all she’s been doing. She can’t have slept with Rhadi, can she? The whiskey lulls his spinning mental wheels to sleep.
19
Precious Commodity
July 17
Jalil stretches and walks out of Aliya’s hut. He is watching Delila line up the children and usher them through the door to the school shack.
Jalil looks after them in a slight daze.
Delila approaches him. “Good morning, Mr. Scott. Did you sl
eep well?”
Jalil looks down at the ground.
She can tell he did not. “She is not letting you sleep.”
Jalil gives her a look of surprise in response.
“I see her sometimes too. Aliya did not have a proper burial. She cannot rest.”
Jalil doesn’t answer. Aliya is alive. He changes the subject. “You know, it wouldn’t take much to reinforce the camp perimeter. That fence, over there, needs shoring up and you might consider building a wall rather than a fence, to minimize exposure from the outside.” His military defense planning comes naturally to him, after all his years in offensive operations.
Delila seizes the opportunity, “Will you help us do this? I know now isn’t a good time, but...We are short-handed, and as you say, it wouldn’t take much. But it would take more than we have.”
Jalil shakes his head at himself. What did he just get himself into? He doesn’t answer her, but changes the subject again, “I’m leaving. I’m going to look for her.”
“You are always welcome here, Mr. Scott.” She catches herself and corrects, “Jalil. And if you do come back and will you bring us some supplies from the Kuchuna office? That would be of great help.” She’s learned to not be bashful about asking for help for these children. Were it for herself, she probably wouldn’t have asked. Then again she may have. She is attracted to him after all.
#
Mid-morning, Jalil drives past the Mukuyu tree on his way to Akida at the station. He’s drawn to it, the same way Aliya is. Drawn to the energy of something so deeply rooted. His ancestors were likely kept in chains under this tree, awaiting the auction and being transported to the land of “the free” as cargo, as slaves.
#
Back at the station, Jalil shows Akida the print out of the Creepy Man.
“Je comprends, mais je ne l'ai pas vu cet home. I understand, but I haven’t seen this man.”
“Il est le meilleur chef de file que nous avons, est -ce pas? It’s the best lead we have, isn’t it?”
“Bien. Si il n'a pas quitté le quartier, nous allons le trouver et lui poser des questions. All right. If he hasn’t left the district, we will find him and question him.”
#
Having checked into the Geita Hotel for the night, Jalil is at the café, going through some of Aliya’s papers. He comes across some handwritten notes. One section has an asterisk and describes a plan to stage a fake kidnapping. His eyes widen at the possibility.
He goes online to the Kivuli website. There he finds a link to Kennen’s blog. There are posts there of people lamenting his and Aliya’s disappearance, strangers and friends.
He types an entry: “My daughter, Aliya went missing with Kennen. If you have any information that could help us find them, please email or call the Geita Hotel, Room 7. I am in Tanzania now and there is little to go on.”
He posts it and keeps surfing.
Within moments, his phone rings. He answers, “Yeah?”
The soft voice and brogue of an Irish woman speaks, “Mr. Scott?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Fiona Dunnovan, Kennen’s sister, calling you from Dublin.”
“Oh.”
“I just saw your post. You’re there. Have you learned anything?”
“Not really. I’m trying everything. That’s why I was online.”
“I see.”
“I have to ask…Do you think this could be a stunt of some sort?”
“No, I don’t. Not at all. Kennen told me that Rhadi had some radical ideas about how to change the way things are going down there, but Kennen ’d have no part in it. What it’s done to us...Our poor Ma can’t get out of bed since we got word.”
“I’m sorry, I just...”
“No worries, dear. Kennen adored your Aliya, Mr. Scott. Honestly, I’m worried more for her being albino, than for him being white.”
“Can you think of anything else?”
She offers, “There was a post on Kennen’s wall ...Something about...There’s a high price for their sorcery. Some albinos will fetch $100,000 dollars. The poor don’t have that kind of money, Mr. Scott. There must be other people involved higher up who have more means...People who’d stand to gain.
“If they were making too many waves, do you think someone wanted to shut them up?”
“That’s what we’re afraid of. They’re gone too long with nary a word.”
“Do you have any idea who else I can reach out to or who may have been involved?”
“I’m sure I don’t. I can’t stay on the line. I’ll email you the link to Kennen’s blog. Please let us know if you hear any news and we’ll do the same. Bless you then, Mr. Scott.”
#
The Geita Mines, black and brown curvy roads and man-made crevices cut into the green scape. Miners are moving about, the human cogs in this machine that procures precious metals, from the earth.
Jalil is standing outside the main gate, which is heavily guarded by armed men in uniform.
One approaches Jalil. “Unafanya nini hapa? What are you doing here?”
Jalil just looks at him.
The guard is intimidating, pulling his gun up closer to him. “Unafanya nini hapa?”
He gets in Jalil’s face. Jalil steps back slowly raising his hands. “Kwenda mbali.” It means go away.
Jalil backs away, his hands in the air, looking at the gunman, standing with his gun pointed at him and the mine behind him. He takes a few more steps back, turns and continues on the road.
Private security. Privately owned. Jalil knows the politics of this part of the world: the power the German East India Company wielded over a century ago; the British colonization; the move to socialism and the self-reliance that it promised and the very recent re-establishment to a capitalist society in 1961. But why this hunt now? There is no prosecution, but why are albinos hunted in the first place?
20
Saba Saba
July 7
Kennen sleeps soundly in the hotel room. He looks more like a teenager than a man, thanks to his deep slumber and the soft morning light. Sand is sprinkled on his sheets from the hours spent at the beach. Horns blare and live music echoes from the street below. Kennen stirs slightly and smothers the sound with a pillow to his ears, but the bass persists. Hung-over as he is from the whiskey and little sleep, he relents and sits up. Squinting out through the strands of his pillow-hair, he sees that Aliya’s bed is empty. He takes a long piss in the john, then goes back into the room and looks out the window at the crowd and traffic below. The festival is well underway.
He takes a quick shower and dresses, eager to join the fun outside. Aliya still isn’t back. He looks closer at her bed and wonders if she slept in it at all.
He walks out into the crowded street, traffic is at a standstill so the only way to get anywhere is on foot. He makes his way through vendors and stands, buys some pineapple and continues on hoping to come upon her. He goes over to the main stadium where speakers and performers are engaging the audience.
The crowd is thick and there is a celebratory vibe about the place. Kennen weaves quietly through the crowd from the back, to the front to better see the stage. People are waving miniatures of the Tanzania flag with the green and blue triangles with black and yellow stripes running diagonally across them. People even wear shirts in the likeness of the flag.
Kennen’s eyes widen when he sees the German who was ogling Aliya at the Sea Cliff up on the platform at the podium. He is head of Drake Enterprises, a strong international import-export conglomerate, among other things. He stands tall in a custom tailored suit with a thick accent and a translator to share his promises. “Tanzania is one of the richest countries on earth. Her resources are plentiful. We at Drake will continue to work with you, the people of Tanzania, to harvest these resources and share the wealth.” He’s been coached well, uses all the tricks of nodding, eye contact smiling, touch and strong handshakes. The crowd enjoys him, but some are angered by his presence; they wave thorn tree
branches at him in protest and shout. Though, for the most part, they are reserved and peaceful. Guards are in the positions Rhadi and Aliya had gone over with their team, but there are two more that were not in their plan.
Magistrate Luamke shakes Drake’s hand at the close of his speech and thanks him for speaking. Luamke stays at the podium to offer some words of his own. “We are very happy Drake Enterprises is here with us today celebrating our country’s independence!” Luamke takes his hand and raises their arms up as if he was declaring the victor of a boxing title, then the German leaves the stage.
Drake’s mines are in Luamke’s district so it makes sense he’d be here schmoozing, Kennen would say to Aliya, were she at his side. He scours the crowd trying to spot Aliya, but doesn’t see her anywhere.
Luamke is about to start his own speech when, suddenly, there is a rush of movement through the front of the crowd to the stage. A man dressed head-to-toe in white, wearing a white scarf on his face rushes the stage and lures some of the guards to chase him. Five more people dressed in the same white attack the stage. Two of them hold back some of the guards, while three others throw white powder all over Luamke.
The crowd screams and disperses in various directions but away from the source of the hysteria. Armed security guards manage to tackle one of the people in white, but he punches the guard and manages to squirm away. The assailants escape into the crowd, each stripping off white and dropping it to the ground as they flee the scene. One guard shoots after the perpetrators and nicks one in the leg. The person falters but persists in escaping. Blood drips through the white pant leg.
Luamke is whisked away by one of his aides while he tries to wipe the powder from his eyes. They take him to the hospital for testing in case the white substance is lethal.
Kennen can’t find any high ground to better see what’s going on. The momentum of the crowd forces him out to the street at a quick pace. There is no escaping the current of the herd. Once he is a few blocks from the scene, he is able to step aside. Some members of the crowd are restless and inspired. One man throws a bin into a storefront, but it bounces off the metal gate protecting the store for the holiday.