Pigment

by Renee Topper

  39

  Otherworldly

  August 1

  After a while on the road, Jalil recognizes a turn-off.

  Rhadi explains, “Fahuma is the one who found you unconscious on the road. She brought me to you at her hut.” Jalil now recalls why it looks so familiar. He turns onto the dirtier road, to Fahuma’s hut.

  “How did she know where to find me?” Jalil asks.

  “She’s a witch.” He answers matter-of-factly.

  “Really? That’s all you’ve got? She must have found me near Bui Bui’s. You don’t think she knows more?”

  “If it weren’t for her, you’d be dead.” Rhadi’s not defending her, but letting Jalil know that if she wanted anything from him or wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have saved him or gotten Rhadi to help.

  Jalil responds, “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know more. Why did she save me? She was scared shitless of me before.”

  Rhadi takes the safe response, “Let’s ask her.”

  Jalil nods, now Rhadi is getting it.

  They approach her hut. The air is smoky and stale, oddly still. Jalil senses something isn’t right. He signals Rhadi to slow his step, to proceed with caution. They feel like they are being watched in sharp contrast to the hut. The energy within is thick and heavy. The air is even hard to breath. Rhadi watches outside as Jalil enters.

  In the corner of its one room, seated on the floor, a shard of sunlight pierces through the sheet metal roof and cuts the shadows covering the rest of her. Her eyes are fully white, with no pupils or irises. She is frozen, otherworldly looking, squatting in the corner, her back to the wall, knees to chest, half-naked. He puts his hand under her nose. There is no breath. Rhadi steps into the hut just in time, “Don’t touch her.” He warns sternly.

  Jalil moves his hand away, controlled. “She’s not breathing.”

  Rhadi explains, “Leave her be.”

  They step outside. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Rhadi explains, “She is traveling in the spirit world. You can’t disturb her. If you do she might be trapped there.”

  Jalil can see the gravity of this belief, although he does not believe in it himself. He asks “She does this alone?”

  Just then, the boy comes from around the corner of the hut. The one who gave him back his cell phone the first time he met Fahuma. He has a bundle of wood he’s collected to build a fire. He’s not surprised to see them, a quiet wide-eyed boy, with a touch of the spirit in him. He encourages them to sit by the fire.

  Rhadi, “They’ve been expecting us.”

  Rhadi asks him how he got here with Fahuma. The boy shares as he builds and lights the fire. His grandfather had a heart attack and died. The boy was accused of being a witch and putting a curse on his grandfather and with that he had been disowned by his family two years ago. The boy was five years old at the time. Fahuma took him in when no one else would have him.

  They squat then sit by the fire and wait. The sun sets. They sleep.

  In the dead of night, wild sounds emerge from the darkness, one would think from the plains. But the animal sounds are from within the hut. Jalil gets up to go into the hut. The boy steps from the shadows into the doorway and raises his hand to stop Jalil from entering.

  Jalil respects this little hand and doesn’t enter. He stands at the entrance, and glimpses the phenomenal sights inside. Fahuma is transforming into animals, shapes, unspeakable things, things beyond words.

  #

  In the morning, Jalil wakes, unsure if he dreamt what he saw in the dead of night or not. No one else is around...He goes to what is left of the stream for water, the drought has sucked it almost dry.

  He doesn’t believe in things like this. But he can’t deny what he’s seen. He’s been sick. He brushes it off. Brushes them off as “dreams.”

  He sees Fahamu bathing all but for the white on her hair and face. She is reborn -- pure, gentle, older, yet refreshed -- A very different creature than he witnessed the night before -- More human and yet otherworldly at the same time. He quietly watches her reverse transformation into the person he met over a week ago. She moves slowly, exhausted, seemingly stoned. He leaves her in peace. She needs time to recover from whatever she went through last night. Whatever it was, Jalil is still unsure, but somehow, he feels responsible for what she underwent. A feeling he can’t shake and which makes no sense to him.

  #

  Jalil goes for a long walk. When he returns, the fire is spent. Rhadi is there talking with her. He summarizes all they exchanged for Jalil. “Your daughter is not here in Africa. On her journey, she saw the beast that hired Bui Bui, the white haired blue-eyed dragon. He is not African. He is European. He is of the darkest evil.”

  “A dragon?” He still doesn’t believe in magic. Though he has seen enough strange things, vibration, energy, science can explain almost all of this. But dragons, evil spirits from other dimensions, that’s not something he could fathom believing in. So he doesn’t. He turns from Rhadi to ask her questions. But she is gone from their sides. He catches a last glimpse of her heel as the dark mysteries inside the hut envelope her.

  “She needs to go rest. She absorbed the poison from you.”

  “What poison?”

  “The vial of bone you took form Bui Bui was tainted.”

  So, I was responsible, Jalil thinks quietly to himself. With these fantastical insights from Fahuma and Effion, which Rhadi clearly does not question, Jalil takes the notion that, perhaps, there could be something to what the witch said. It pushes him to want another conversation with Rolf.

  As Jalil and Rhadi approach the refugee camp, a new boatload of refugees from Lake Tanganyika is finishing the last 20 miles on foot, more Burundians more women and children, more hunger, thirst, fear, sickness and mourning. For some of them it is their third time fleeing unrest in Burundi. Somehow what they face in their homeland isn’t as bad as here, despite the school and market having been burned to the ground, despite the countless rapes of women and girls endured before. Somehow here is better, for Hutu-Tutsi mixed breeds who would be slaughtered were they to go to Burundi. This threat almost dissipated up until six months ago, when the attempted coup showed that the lion was not dead, but sleeping. Now that lion is very much awake and very angry. They are back. They are more in numbers, 100,000 on top of the 38 thousand who were already here. Resources are stretched to say the least.

  The structures are now being rebuilt out of necessity. Native Tanzanians are at risk from the Cholera outbreak that came with the Burunidans, some even died. Rhadi asks a young mother with an infant in a sling on her back, giving water bottles to the new arrivals, where the medical center is. She points to the East, the way that she buried all those she lost through the slaughter, genocide, rapes, murders, mothers, brothers, sisters, babies. She was born in this camp. But she has never known another safer existence. The reality of calling a refugee camp home is hers and not hers alone. Some armed camp guards approach and her focus looks to the ground, her demeanor lowers, she is clearly afraid of them. She practically runs away as the soldiers reach the strangers in the camp.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” One of the men asks pointedly in French. Jalil responds, letting them know they are meeting Rolf regarding supplies. The guard waves them along to the East, a direction with different meaning for this guard than the young mother.

  As they drive slowly through the camp, it is clear, that this is no safe haven. Rolf picked one of the toughest battles to join. Jalil and Rhadi find the head doctor, a late twenties Aussie, Nate Jerome, working on an old jeep engine, on the other side of the medical tents. He informs them they just missed Rolf, who left that morning to take care of some business and barter for more supplies and medicines. Rolf is still fighting in wars, Jalil thinks.

  Nate adds, “He left in a hurry, been working too hard...Some people have been trying to force-close the camp and he’s doing everything he can to stop it.” He pulls out the spent carburetor and it falls into
pieces in his hands. “You haven’t got an extra carburetor with you, have you?”

  Plane engines are heard coming in from the East and pull their attention to the sky. Jalil, “Did Rolf say where he was headed?”

  “Dar. ’Said something about catching someone before he left the country.” A small Canadair Prop plane approaches overhead and has a rough landing on the cleared road near them. “Good, some supplies, surely not enough, but some. Help unload?”

  Jalil and Rhadi nod and follow him to the plane. As all aide workers in the field know, if you get one “yes,” you have to try for more. Nate does just that, “It’d be an even greater help if you could lend us your car to go pick up some sick folks a few miles outside of camp.”

  Jalil doesn’t miss a beat, he walks away from Nate and Rhadi, their hands quickly unloading the scant supplies onboard. Jalil asks the pilot, “Where are you headed next?”

  Soon as the pilot answers “Dar,” Jalil tosses the keys to the young doctor. “It’s got half a tank. Keep it.” Rhadi looks at him like he’s crazy. Jalil prompts Rhadi, “This is the fastest way. We’ve got to take it.”

  Nate and Rhadi are lost for words. Rhadi is about to protest. Jalil assures him, “We’ll get another one. Come on.” Jalil climbs into the cargo hold and pats the pilot on the shoulder. Rhadi follows, but stops before boarding. Jalil has a quick word with the pilot then turns to see Rhadi on the ground next to the door. “What?”

  Rhadi, “I can’t go. It’s too soon, since Saba Saba.”

  Jalil, “You’re the only one who knows where she was in Dar. You have to come.” Jalil reaches his hand out to help him board. On the climb into the plane, Rhadi tears open his wound on a jagged edge of metal. It had been healing quite well despite the rugged traveling they’ve been doing.

  Nate watches them, then looks at the keys in his hand... “Cheers, mates.” Before the plane even takes off, Nate grabs his doctor kit from his immobile truck and tosses it in the new donation, hales a nurse who gets in the truck with him and speeds off.

  The plane lifts off. It’s not the most confidence instilling plane. Rhadi and Jalil are sitting on the cargo belly floor holding on to straps attached to the shell. On ascent the engine sputters and seems to stop, not unlike Fahuma’s breathing the night before. Rhadi isn’t a good flyer, it’s clear. He’s never looked so pale. Jalil’d been on countless such flights and the engine did level off once they reached altitude, not the ideal altitude but high enough to get over the terrain and trees. Yes, this is right, to go to Dar, Jalil thinks. This is where it all may have started after all.

  Fresh blood bleeds through Rhadi’s pant leg. Rhadi’s knuckles are white from his tight grip on the wall strap. His other hand applies pressure to the cut but he has nothing to clean or wrap it with. Jalil watches him. His limp will be back in full force, and draw attention. For his own sake, Rhadi shouldn’t go to Dar. The Saba Saba incident was still an open investigation. But for Aliya’s sake, he must come, he must risk being spotted or identified. Blood or the limp won’t help either of them. Jalil tears off the bottom of his t-shirt and hands it to Rhadi who ties it round the wound. “You should sauder it.”

  #

  Rolf is getting into an airport taxi outside of the Protea Hotel as Rhadi and Jalil look on from inside in a cab across the street. They trail him to the Sea Cliff Hotel, the same hotel where Rhadi, Aliya and the Kuchuna crew met on the eve of Saba Saba. There is some formal affair underway the 50th Anniversary gala of a local mine, but Rolf, dressed in field attire, goes in anyway.

  Jalil and Rhadi follow him, at a safe distance. There are a lot of people, so they split up to cover more ground. A concierge clocks them upon entry and is after Jalil for his unkempt fervor, but Jalil loses him in the crowd. Rhadi is slowed by his leg and pauses at the bar. The room is full of eclectic upper echelon guests, it’s challenging to spot even a very tall Swede. Jalil longs again for that giraffe neck. Rhadi gets eyes on him with Luamke and signals to Jalil. Luamke leads Rolf out of the banquet hall and into a private room off the lounge. Jalil follows and stands behind a palm, observing their conversation, trying hard to go unnoticed. Rolf is seemingly having a good time, he can be so charming and suave, his diplomatic skills enhanced from years of getting and negotiating for things, for people, is topped only by his many stories of worldly experiences. As he watches, Jalil recalls how Rolf is always trying but never succeeding at being the hero in life and his stories reflect this. Perhaps this is his humility, his constant tragic quest to someday be the hero.

  The conversation turns a bit more serious. Luamke tells him something he doesn’t want to hear. Jalil knows this because Rolf presents his other poker tell, he rubs the base of the back of his neck when things don’t go his way. If it weren’t for this tell, all would look fine and dandy at this meeting. Rolf is furious, with no recourse he leaves Luamke. Jalil has never seen Rolf this upset. Rolf’s blood rises to his cheeks as his adrenaline escalates. He’s even sweating. The air of him deflates as he storms from the room and rushes out of the hotel.

  Jalil follows, but he looks around for his partner. That same concierge recognized Rhadi from the sketch in the news and is detaining him in the lobby. Hotel Security is asking Luamke to come and identify Rhadi. Rhadi has to move soon or he’ll be arrested. If taken in for questioning or even into custody, he’ll be no hope or help. Jalil throws a red herring to draw attention, he trips the security alarm in the gift shop by slipping a tagged bracelet in the purse of a British tourist’s satchel. Rhadi breaks for it and runs out the back door toward the pool. Both on the run, they go their separate ways.

  Rolf is gone by the time Jalil gets outside. He hops a cab and circles back to the Protea. As Jalil arrives, Rolf has been in and is on his way out, this time with a travel bag. He hales a taxi and pulls out. Jalil follows.

  They arrive at the airport. Jalil considers how he might follow him. He’ll be flagged if he gets his own ticket or swipes his passport. The authorities will know he’s been in the country. To Jalil’s relief, Rolf’s taxi drives to a private plane hangar.

  Rolf boards a Kotas Air private plane, Kotas is a subdivision of Drake Enterprises. “Bridging worlds” is the slogan branded on the tail of the plane. The irony of which is not lost on Jalil, who is spying on Rolf at a safe distance. Then Jalil stealthily makes his way to the cargo hold, rolls himself up in one of the rugs, so he is hidden from export customs agents and stows away.

  Jalil hates traveling like this, but he’s been in worse conditions for longer periods of time. He doesn’t know the destination, only that it’s an international flight. He has no provisions. It’s been awhile and he’s gonna hate it -- he’s gotten a little soft stateside -- but he can do it. Rolf, whatever he’s up to, has information about Aliya. Information he’s not revealed to him.

  Jalil gauges from the position of the sunlight filtering in through a crack in the hold, and from how the plane is moving and handling wind resistance, that the plane is flying northeast over the Indian Ocean… to Europe.

  40

  The Dragon

  August 3

  How dare Jalil imply she didn’t do enough to bring those responsible for Kennen and Aliya to justice. Who did he think he was? After all her work with nonprofits as a child, all the volunteering with the youth group for the Catholic Charities…she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. Oh but Jalil was sad, angry and confused and aching for answers, not excuses from her. When her Da passed, she’d had to transmute those efforts for the greater good and focus on winning bread for the family. Eldest of five siblings and with Ma’s health giving over to Alzheimer’s, she’d no choice.

  She hadn’t thought about what he said much, since she’d gone back to Cork. Her priorities were clear: Bring her baby brother home and bury him; then grieve with the family and friends, heal, much as one can, and move on. She went back to work right after the burial, ‘had to. No one else was going to do it for her or the family.

  Fiona had been working in
corporate law for years, mostly overseeing contracts -- some she couldn’t believe she had had a hand in, but business was business and she couldn’t rock the fragile metaphorical barge the family was floating on. That was a luxury she didn’t have. The idea of a change was welcome, especially a change for good. She’d heard of the International Human Rights Initiative, but knowing no one affiliated with this non-profit, she was surprised to receive a call three weeks ago from the head of their Human Resources Department’s Mr. Hill. She knew they worked on third world issues, fighting the good fight, usually for indigenous populations who’d not had a voice nor the means to protect themselves and their resources -- by reputation, a quality organization, up there with Legal Aid and Human Rights Watch in terms of notoriety and in having had a positive impact in many cases as far as international law would allow. She took the job.

  Once there, it took her a week to find out the source of her good fortune. She didn’t know him, but wanted to know his reasons for seeking her out and hiring her. Sure she’d faith in the ways of her Lord and even the mysterious. But she also loves solving puzzles and understanding how things work. She sourced his name through some creative dialogue and hobnobbing with Mr. Hill’s assistant, Leila. Nothing a few happy hour pints couldn’t extract or whittle out. “Mr. Hill had received a direct order from Mr. Mitchell, the head of IHRI, telling him to hire you…Whatever it took…It was at the request of an old friend of his he owed a favor, but couldn’t say who it was. How obtuse to have to keep his identity secret. Odd. Don’t you think?” Leila gossiped. “A Mr. Tiger, no Teigen it was. Mr. Rolf Teigen. Do you know him?” she asked fighting the onset of hiccups. “He is always at the holiday fundraiser in Kingston, a big advocate and donor.”

  Fiona had never heard of him, but through some Googling, she found a picture of a Mr. Rolf Teigen. A Canadian Doctor had taken a shot of Rolf handing out supplies to some Burundi refugees at a field clinic in the bush in Tanzania three months prior and posted it on his blog. This hit her like a sucker punch in the stomach. This man must have known Kennen, but Fiona knew in her core it was more than that. Now she wants those answers.