by Leylah Attar
I averted my gaze, ashamed of myself. She was just a little girl, born without color.
“This is Gabriel’s daughter,” Anna told us. “She doesn’t speak English. Gabriel stopped sending her to school because they can’t promise her safety, so she stays home with me.”
I nodded, thinking of the kids chanting, ‘Scholastica, Scholastica!’ when they’d seen me. To them, she probably looked more like me than them. As a teacher, I was well aware of how kids could gang up and react to something they didn’t understand.
“She’s sensitive to the sun, but I can’t keep her indoors all day.” Anna touched her niece’s face. “These are scabbed-over sunburns.” Her voice quaked when she spoke again. “I want you to take her with you.”
“I’m sorry?” I leaned forward, convinced I must have heard wrong.
“Your sister helped Gabriel get albino children to the orphanage in Wanza. They have a school there, for kids like Scholastica, a place where she’ll be safe, where she doesn’t have to feel like she’s any different.”
“You want to send her away? To an orphanage?” I was astounded. “Shouldn’t you discuss this with Gabriel first?”
“Gabriel has been gone too long this time. He said we were going to move to Wanza when he got back.” Anna’s chin trembled, and she took a deep breath. “I can’t look after Scholastica alone. I have two children of my own. Gabriel took us in and rented a bigger place when my husband and I divorced. Without him, I can’t afford to pay the rent. I just received an eviction notice.” She gestured to the boxes around us. “I have to move, and once we leave this compound . . . Bahati, you understand, don’t you? Tell her to take Scholastica to the orphanage.”
At the mention of her name, Scholastica looked from her aunt to Bahati.
She has no idea what we’re talking about, I thought.
“The orphanage in Wanza—that’s the place Mo was taking all the kids?” I asked.
“Gabriel was taking them. He asked Mo to help him get them there. They had an arrangement. Gabriel offered to drive Mo anywhere she wanted to go—the national parks, lakes, lodges—for free. In return, Mo passed the kids off as her own.”
“I don’t understand. Mo passed the kids off as her own?” I asked.
“Albino children stick out in Africa. They are special. Different. There are people who would not hesitate to pick on them or harm them. When you put a big hat and the right clothes on these kids, you can fool people into thinking they are tourists—at least from a distance. It is much easier when people think they’re seeing a mzungu mother and a mzungu child, traveling with a local guide. Once a month, Mo ensured safe passage for one of the kids that Gabriel tracked down, and Gabriel returned the favor by showing her around.”
“But now he’s missing,” I said. “Have you reported it to the police?”
“Yes, but there are many men who leave for the city and never return. They think Gabriel abandoned us.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He wouldn’t just leave Scholastica like this. Her mother left after she was born. She wanted to give her away because she believed albino children are cursed, but Gabriel wouldn’t have any of it. If you could get Scholastica to Wanza, I’d feel so much better, at least until I’m more settled. When Gabriel resurfaces, he will know where to find her.”
It was all too much to absorb. I had come to Rutema on a simple mission: to find the man I thought was helping my sister. Instead, I was the one being asked for help.
“I’m sorry, but without your brother, I’m in a bind myself. I came looking for him because my sister left the names of three other children who need to get there. I can’t help them, or you, on my own.” I felt like crap. I didn’t like the shame and guilt that crawled under my skin every time Scholastica looked at me. She was sitting on the floor, by Anna’s feet, tugging on the edges of her skirt to cover her toes. I assumed it was a habit, from having to protect herself from the sun every day.
“What about you?” Anna asked Bahati. “You can’t take Miss Rodel to Wanza?”
“To get to Wanza, we’d have to cross Maasai land, and I don’t go there.”
“Why not?” Anna appraised his tall, lanky frame. “Aren’t you Maasai?”
“Yes, but my people have disowned me. I have no wish to see them.” Bahati’s jaw clamped, signaling the end of the conversation.
Anna stroked Scholastica’s hair absently. She had a faraway look in her eyes, part despair, part resignation.
“I know someone who might be able to help,” said Bahati, after a while. “He is also mzungu, but his family has lived in Tanzania for three generations. His grandfather was a British soldier, stationed here during the Second World War. Maybe Miss Rodel can convince him to get Scholastica and the other kids to Wanza.”
They looked at me expectantly—both Bahati and Anna.
“How much do you think he would charge for it?” I asked. I had limited resources. My bank account was dry after I’d made the down payment on the cottage, and the trip had drained the rest of it.
“Oh, he wouldn’t do it for the money. He has a coffee farm, one of the largest estates in the area. He’s a big man—not the kind of person anyone would want to mess with. And he has a big heart. You and the kids would be in good hands.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jack,” replied Bahati. “Jack Warden.”
The name hung suspended in the air between us, like a bridge waiting for me to cross over. I got the sense that if I did, there would be no turning back. I would be bound by whatever I decided in the next few seconds. I felt the weight of the moment as the clock on the wall ticked on steadily.
“What about Scholastica?” I asked, indicating the little girl whose head was bowed as she traced invisible patterns on the floor. “Doesn’t she have a say in any of this?”
“Gabriel promised to take her to Wanza so she could be with kids just like herself. She’s always wanted to go to. She misses her father, but if I tell her that he will meet up with her there, she will go.”
Scholastica looked up at me then. It was as if she sensed we were talking about her. I saw myself walking out into the sun, leaving her there, making patterns on the pale cement floor, with all the curtains drawn.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Bless you!” Anna clasped her hands over mine.
Bahati was not as enthusiastic. “Are you sure you want to do this?” His face was different, like he was once more that solemn statue, carved out of wood, spear in hand.
“How hard can it be? Getting a bunch of kids to Wanza?” I had promised to cross the remaining names off Mo’s notes, and that’s exactly what I was going to do. “Anna, get Scholastica’s things ready. We are going to see Jack Warden.”
BY THE TIME we reached Jack Warden’s place, it was late afternoon. Stone pillars etched with the words “Kaburi Estate” led us down a winding, bumpy road to the main building—a white-washed manor surrounded by green gorges, banana groves, and endless rows of berry-laden coffee plants. It stood like a rebel, in the shadow of the mighty Kilimanjaro, with electric blue shutters that stood out against the dark clouds now gathering in the sky.
“I thought you told me there would be no rain today, Bahati,” I said, as I got out of the car. “Looks like a storm is coming.”
“I told her to dance up a storm.” It was a man’s voice, deep and rumbling, like low thunder. But there was no sign of him.
“It’s Jack.” Bahati tilted his head toward the covered porch. “Come. I will introduce you.”
“No. You stay in the car with Scholastica. I’ll go talk to him.” I didn’t want to drag Scholastica into the situation until I had spoken to Jack myself.
Lightning split the sky as I stepped onto the veranda. “Jack Warden?” I asked the man who was sitting on a kiwi green porch swing.
He didn’t respond. It was as if he hadn’t heard me. He was holding his phone out, eyes trained on t
he horizon, recording something. The storm. The lightning. When the thunder hit, he got up and walked to the railing, still recording.
He stood tall and rawboned against the rolling expanse of the farm—square faced and square shouldered—wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and dusty work pants. He had the kind of beard I imagined would grow on a man if he hibernated all winter. It was shorter around the side and fuller on his chin. His hair was thick and tawny—darker at the roots, with ends that were bleached blond from the sun. It hung around his shoulders, wild and forgotten, like a jungle of beautiful chaos.
As the first drops of rain started falling, he tucked his phone away and braced the railing, staring up at the sky. I was about to try to get his attention again when he started laughing.
“I told her to dance up a storm,” he repeated, but he wasn’t saying it to me. He was talking to himself.
He held his hands out, letting the water slip through his fingers, and he laughed again. It was a heavy, heaving laughter with big, gasping breaths in-between, unlike anything I’d heard before. Then the gasps grew louder, longer, and I realized why it sounded so odd. I had never heard someone laughing in pain, and Jack Warden was doubled over with it, weeping and laughing in the same breath.
“Jack?” I called again. “Are you okay?”
He whipped around, seeing me for the first time. I sensed all the loose, unraveled threads of him getting reeled back into his core. It happened so quickly, I felt like I was facing a different man: detached and emotionless—every nuance, every expression locked away. The air around him crackled, as if he had just thrown up an electric fence. Against the backdrop of dark, stormy clouds, he stood like Thor, glaring at me with lightning in his eyes
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m . . .” I trailed off, knowing that I had just intruded on a very private, unguarded moment. That was the only reason he was eyeing me like that, like he was about to chew me up and spit me out. “My name is Rodel Emerson.”
“What do you want?” He kept his eyes trained on me.
Cat eyes, I recalled Mo saying, from some unbidden memory. Because cats don’t hide their utter hatred and disdain for all mankind. I had laughed then because it had been funny, but I wasn’t laughing now. I was miserable and self-conscious, wishing I’d opted for something more substantial than a gauzy top and washed out jeans.
“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“And tomorrow will be better because . . . ?”
He took a step toward me, and my first instinct was to turn and run. But this wasn’t about me. It was about Mo, Scholastica, and the other kids. Still, I hated that I needed anyone to do what I had to do, man or woman.
“I need your help getting some kids to Wanza,” I said.
“You need my help,” he said slowly, chewing on the words. He turned around and called to no one in particular, “She needs my help.” Then he started laughing. Not the gut-wrenching type of laughter like before, but mirthless, without any humor.
“Get off my property,” he said. “You’re trespassing. You’re also barking up the wrong tree. I am in no position to help you or anyone else. And more importantly, I don’t care to.”
“You’re Jack Warden, right?” I held my ground. I had promised Anna I’d get Scholastica to Wanza. I wasn’t about to crumble at the first sign of a challenge.
“I am.” He straightened to his full height, and I was tempted to take a step back. Holy crap, he was a big man.
“Then you’re the man who is going to get me to Wanza.”
“And why exactly should I give a fuck about you? Or Wanza?”
I stared at him, the schoolteacher in me wanting to reprimand him for his manners, his uncalled-for attitude. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to what I had to say.
“You hear that?” he said, cupping his hand to his ear. “That silence is exactly how many fucks I give.”
My face burned a bright red. “You know what? Whatever was tearing you up earlier, you damn well deserve it.” I pivoted on my heel and marched into the pouring rain, water running down my hot, inflamed cheeks.
“Let’s go, Bahati.” I slammed the car door shut. “I’ll have to figure out some other way.”
But Bahati was looking at the man staring into the rain. “Something is not right with his eyes, Miss Ro. That is not the Jack Warden I know.”
“Well, it’s the Jack Warden that I talked to. And he’s a . . .” I bit back the words even though Scholastica wouldn’t understand me. “Let’s just go.”
We were almost at the gates when a red jeep, going the other way nearly careened into us. Bahati slammed on the brakes and we skidded to a halt barely a few feet from it. The other driver pounded on the horn, a loud, blaring, continuous beep.
“Crazy lady,” mumbled Bahati, as he put the car in reverse. It was a one-lane road, and she was bearing down on us, giving us no choice but to back-up as she advanced.
The rain was coming down in sheets and I could barely make out the road as Bahati reversed the car to the main building. But instead of parking, the jeep kept coming at us until we were backed up in a tight corner. The driver got out and rapped on Bahati’s window.
“Where do you think you’re going in this god-awful weather, young man? Driving like a maniac on that washed-out road?” She peered into the car, raindrops trickling down her plastic hood. She must have been at least ninety, but her blue eyes shone bright and clear.
Bahati and I exchanged a look. She was the one that had come barreling at us like a bat out of hell.
“With a lady and a child, no less,” she continued, looking at Scholastica and me. I had to hand it to her. She didn’t bat a wrinkled eye at the girl’s appearance. Then again, given her age, she’d probably seen it all.
“Get out. All of you.” She clapped her hands and made for the house, leaving her car parked exactly where it was.
“That’s Goma, Jack’s grandmother,” Bahati explained. “You can’t argue with her.”
We made a beeline for the porch, our shoes squelching in the mud. I was relieved that Jack was gone. The screen door shut behind Goma as Bahati, Scholastica, and I shivered in our wet clothes, under the awning.
“Well? Are you coming in or should I send my homing pigeons to deliver an invitation?” Goma hollered from inside.
We stepped into a charming living area with large windows, plump sofas and faded pine floors. The house was as eccentric as the lady who had invited us in—a blend of colonial design and African heritage, with mismatched pieces and earthy textures.
Goma was standing in the middle of the room, trousers around her ankles, stepping out of her soggy clothes. Bahati and I averted our gazes while Scholastica watched with wide eyes.
“Brave girl,” said Goma. “Not afraid of old skin. You don’t speak English, do you?” She switched to Swahili and soon Scholastica was giggling. “Come on.” She held a hand out to her. “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”
I snuck a peek out of the corner of my eye, relieved that Goma had left her underwear on. They returned, wearing colorful muumuus—long, loose dresses that covered them from head to foot.
“I make these out of kitenge. You’ll never want to wear those jeans again,” said Goma, handing me a muumuu.
Bahati looked at her like she’d lost her mind when she gave him a green and yellow one.
“Oh, go on.” She shoved it into his hands. “You’re dripping water all over my floors.”
They faced each other for a few seconds, battling silently. Then Bahati snatched the muumuu from her.
“Bathroom’s over there.” She inclined her head and watched as he ambled towards it, his feet shuffling like he was heading off to a sacrificial altar.
“I’m Katherine Warden,” she said, turning to me. “Everyone calls me Goma.”
“Rodel Emerson.” I shook her gnarled hand. “And this is Scholastica.”
“Rodel and Scholastica,” she repeat
ed, looking at us with curious eyes. “So what brings you here?”
I explained the situation as concisely as I could.
“I’m sorry Jack was so rude to you,” she said, when I was done. “It appears you are both bound by the events of a tragic afternoon. Jack hasn’t been the same since he lost Li—” She stopped as Bahati returned, wearing the muumuu. It barely skimmed past his knees.
Goma pinched Scholastica—a quick, sharp nip on the back of her hand to stop her from giggling. Bahati in a muumuu was a very quiet man, nothing like the Bahati who rattled on and on.
“Excuse me.” I needed to get out of there before Goma pinched me too. “I think I’ll go change.”
When I came back, they were all in the kitchen—Bahati and Scholastica huddled around the table, while Goma ladled hot soup into their bowls.
“You can hang those up in the laundry,” she said, pointing to the wet bundle rolled up in my arms.
The rain was still falling hard as I made my way down the hallway to the laundry room. I found some clothes pegs and was hanging up my things when lightning illuminated the back of the house. I thought I saw Jack momentarily through the window, standing outside in the middle of a full-fledged tropical storm. I was about to chalk it up to my imagination when another flash lit him up again. He was just standing there, under a tree that looked like it was hundreds of years old, staring at the ground, while the rain whipped hell and fury all around him.
“I think Jack is still outside,” I said when I stepped into the kitchen.
Goma nodded and continued having her soup. “He does that. Sits with her whenever there’s a storm.” She pushed a bowl toward me. “Eat.”
“Sits with who?” I asked, taking the chair across from her.
“Lily. His daughter. She’s buried out there. They all are. This place sure lived up to its name.”
“Kaburi Estate?” I recalled the sign at the entrance.