* * *
“But you were only thirteen,” Serafim says. “You must have felt so alone in the big city. Were you scared?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What went through your mind when you arrived?”
“I didn’t know what to expect and it was all new to me. I was tired, but I do remember feeling there was a place for me in that city.”
“What made you feel that way?”
“Simu’s words. She knew I could find peace in that place, the way my mother had.”
“Did you?”
I take a deep breath, fill up my lungs until they ache. I exhale, slowly.
* * *
I allowed all the people to stream around me. Through the high fence I saw two-wheeled vehicles everywhere, trundling slowly past. Women’s dresses and headscarves fluttered, orange and violet and blue. Other people had stepped off the train and pushed me further into the city in a swell. They carried with them parcels and baskets on their heads. Words were spoken, some shouted and yelled. Not in Maa, my language, but in Swahili, a language I had heard when travelling hunters or neighbouring tribes passed through our village. I also heard people speaking in English, or what I thought was English, words Simu had used, words my mother had taught her after travelling to the city. Night was dropping and I saw the faint moon full. My shuka was stiff with sweat and dust. It cracked when I moved.
I reached for the small slip of paper Simu had given me. I unfolded it. I could not read it and needed help. But who could I trust? I walked along one of the streets, keeping close to the walls of the large homes. I did not notice if they saw me differently. They did not point or stare at my difference. They did not cross the road to avoid brushing against me. The people seemed so busy moving from one place to the next. I wanted to find a tree to sleep under, but short walls of concrete surrounded the trees. I would not feel safe sleeping out in the open in the middle of this city I did not know. Perhaps if I breathed softly, and just picked a direction, I would find my way.
“You are lost,” a deep voice said, in Maa.
He stepped out from the shadow of an entranceway. Oh, he was tall and elegant, dressed as a lion warrior, his red-checked shuka draped across his ebony shoulders. His hair was the same red as his shuka.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, leaning against his staff. I could see his white teeth as he spoke. He was not much older than me.
I offered the note with Simu’s scribbles to him. “Can you help me?”
“Oh, the crazy Goan?” he said, and urged me to follow him.
“You know this woman?”
“Everyone knows Fatima.”
I could not tear my eyes away from the way he walked, balancing his stride with his hunting staff. Even in the false light that glowed from the houses, there was something gracious in the way his body moved.
“We are here,” he said, handing back the slip of paper. He smiled. “Would you like me to stay near?”
I wanted him to stay, but I shook my head, releasing him. He disappeared around one of the jagged corners.
The house had grilled windows, balconies, and an Arab door painted the colour of sorghum berries. I slapped at it. I did it again, and then slipped down to the ground, exhausted.
I heard a click. A woman said something I did not understand. Her straight black hair fell over her shoulders. Streaks of silver framed her face. She was trying to hit me with a broom handle, shouting words I could not understand.
I was untethered and there was no way of attaching myself to anything. I was ready to give up, leave, when I remembered what Simu had said. I opened my bag and pulled out my mother’s necklace. I flattened the beaded necklace against my neck and chest.
The woman pointed her red fingernail at my necklace. “Namunyak,” she whispered, before covering her mouth with her trembling fist.
“My mother,” I said.
The woman caressed the intricate beadwork, traced her fingers along it. “E-silá?” she said, the Maa word for daughter. She opened her door wide.
* * *
As Serafim records my words and scribbles his notes, he is quiet. I look down at my bare feet. They are whiter than the rest of me—my soles smooth as beach stones. For most of my life I have protected them with boots; always men’s boots because they are made better. I no longer run, or even walk long distances. My hands do all the work. Amalia often says, “Your hands are not as pretty as your feet, Alma.” She calls me the Portuguese word for soul, and it pleases me. But a poor soul I am—two of my fingernails were crushed pounding corn for ugali, and they never grew back. The skin around my fingers is hard and yellow. Bleach no longer reddens my hands or makes them itch. I am immune to its bite. This is not true for other parts of my skin, which are covered in lesions from the sun. This condition is shared by many of us who live in this hotel. Often these marks do not go away but change, becoming darker and more sinister. I cover these markings so that others like me are not alarmed. Amalia is the only one who sees my open sores, and she ministers to them as if playing a game. I love her for it. And after I tell Amalia the stories of my life, I remind her that I am also grateful that I can still lay my hands on children’s heads and feel their hair. I spend my days soothing their blistered skin.
Serafim slips his pencil behind his ear, buries it in his hair. He sets the recorder atop the small table, next to his ashtray, trapping my words inside the metal box.
“I followed the river,” I whisper to myself, turning my back to the grounds and the whale breaching beyond the muddy waters of the Buzi River.
“And was she crazy?”
I am annoyed by the question. “The city could have swallowed me up, but Fatima gave me a home.”
“How long did you stay with her?” Serafim sits on the edge of his seat, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands are held together as if in prayer. I have given him only bare facts. I want to say, I held her for her last breath.
“Almost two years in Dar es Salaam. At first it was difficult to speak to her. I only spoke Maa, but she had come from Goa and spoke Portuguese and Konkani. She came to Dar es Salaam to marry a merchant, who himself was Goan and Catholic. But he drank and put her to work like a servant in his shop. She learned Swahili. The few words she knew in Maa she had learned from my mother. Fatima said it was best to teach me one language—Portuguese. She said it was the only language God understood and it would serve me well no Jardim do Éden, she used to say. No one would bother us there. ‘It is high on a mountain, a place where the four rivers meet.’”
“Was that Mount Gorongosa?” Serafim asks.
I close my eyes and nod. “The city turned ugly. Soldiers in Dar were getting ready for their turn to cross the border and liberate themselves from colonial power. Fatima said to keep my distance. Their war was not with us.”
“Is that why you left?”
“Fatima was tired. Diabetes. ‘Only one place can protect us,’ she said. ‘Together, we will find God’s garden.’” I cover a small yawn.
“I understand. We’ve had a long day.” Yet Serafim makes no move to leave. Stretching my back, I lean against the window frame. Serafim is up and takes a few steps closer. I do not put my eyeglasses on—the shape of him allows me to imagine Zeca in his place. I feel faint, and when I open my eyes Serafim is by my side, holding my hand and my elbow to steady me. The ocean breezes are still.
“Every morning, with the call to prayer, Fatima and I walked to her fancy goods shop. She sat on her high stool behind her shop counter and read the newspaper in the morning, awaiting her first customers. I organized the colourful khangas and kitenges into their piles. Along one side of the shop were shelves displaying carvings, baskets, and gently used books. Below the shelves was a board covered in soft black fabric. Small pins held beautiful jewellery from tribes across Africa. She told me that nothing she sold there compared with the beauty of my mother’s necklaces and earrings.
I cleaned the house for Fatima and minded the shop. She
liked to send me to the market or to other vendors with notes, but she encouraged me to use my words. Lunch was always from KT Shop because she was friendly with the owner, who made real kabobs. Along its narrow roads, the city was always filled with market-goers. Radios droned, truck engines coughed and sputtered.”
“And you felt safe by yourself? You were never lost?” Serafim stood close enough now that his breath warmed my neck.
“If I kept my eye on the grey-spired cathedral that was by the harbour, I knew where to turn and how to find my way back.”
“How did people react to you?”
“As I said, the streets were packed with many kinds of people. They looked at me, but they were far too busy to stare. This was the big city and I could easily disappear there. I was a chameleon.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“I wanted to stay. I learned Portuguese and a few words in English, a little Swahili. People did not mind me. Shop owners smiled and offered me blessings. They would call out to me, ‘Pó,’ and I liked the sound—the way my name lifted through the air.”
“But why did you leave?”
I hear Amalia whistling before I see her skipping into the room. When she sees Serafim she freezes. I twist my body towards her and lose my balance and my knees buckle.
Serafim catches me before I hit the floor. “Amalia, pull back the covers. I need to get Pó into bed.”
Amalia rushes at us, her face coming into focus. She kicks Serafim in the shin and wedges her body between us as Serafim stumbles back. Amalia guides me to the edge of my bed. I search for my eyeglasses on my head and lower them onto the bridge of my nose. I look to Serafim gathering his notebooks and pencils, his recorder and bag. He stuffs everything inside his satchel and swings it over his head and onto his shoulder.
“She is a fine protector. I can see you are in good hands,” he says, raising his hand to wish us a good day.
“Filha, you can’t do that to my friend.”
Amalia removes the boots from my feet. My voice is caving in, losing most of its conviction. She senses it and throws her arms around my neck to hug me. Her fingers scolding open wounds. I fall back onto my pillow. I manage to turn onto my stomach, my cheek pressing into the pillow. The cancer is eating away at me. There is a constant burning weakness in my bones; the morsels of food I eat taste like metal. Every morning is a gift, but as the day passes I am reminded of precious time.
When I open my eyes, Amalia is holding a ripe mango and some rice in a tin. She peels the mango and with her juice-covered fingers places a small piece of the fruit between my lips.
Serafim
THE DECISION WAS MADE in an instant. A visit from Fatima’s friend Graça De Melo and her only daughter, Celestina, forced us to leave.
It was Christmas Eve. Fatima sat at the kitchen table across from Graça. Her daughter sat on the long bench against the wall. The table was covered with small dishes of treats: dates, lupino beans, figs, cashews, and small dishes of salted fish and berries.
When I served them tea, Senhora De Melo’s body turned away. I stood close by, ready to fill their cups. They would not look at me.
“There is no other way to say this, but there is much talk in the city,” Senhora De Melo said.
“There always is.” Fatima smiled. “I have been here long enough to weather a monsoon or two, remember.”
“They say…”
Celestina rose from the bench. “What my mother is trying to say.” She kept crumpling a handkerchief, passing it from one hand to the other. “There are many people, shop owners, and others from rural areas, who are looking for people like her.”
“Like Pó?”
“Surely you have heard, Fatima.”
“What do they want from Pó?”
“She is an…”
I can still see Fatima’s eyebrows far up her forehead, so high they brushed her head wrap. “She is a child of God. People will do almost anything to change their fortunes. They visit their healers and ask them for spells and charms.”
“What does that have to do with Pó?” Fatima asked.
Celestina said, “There are some who believe albinos bring good luck, even wealth.”
I had caught whispers amongst customers, had heard a group of soldiers shout the word from across the street, but had never attached the word to me—albino. I hadn’t known what to call myself. I remember repeating the word in my head, to get used to the sound of it.
“There are many out there, and their numbers are growing, who believe albino medicine is lucky.” Senhora De Melo spat the words like watermelon seeds.
“You think I have not heard all these stories before?” Fatima kept twisting a corner of her sari. “I have heard there are many albinos in the Lake District. They kill them, butcher them. They believe that if you bury the limbs of an albino at the entrance of a gold mine, that mine will produce great wealth. Or if you tie an albino’s hair into your nets you’ll always catch a fish. The hands and skin are for luck in business. I know. I am a businesswoman. But these are silly stories.” The end of her sari was now a ball in her fist.
I tried to pretend that I could not feel their eyes on me.
“I thought you might help,” Celestina said.
“What is it you want?”
“Senhora Fatima,” Celestina began. “Please. I have been married for five years, and for those years my husband waits patiently, but I cannot hold a child to term. I have seen every doctor and I have gone outside of the city. There are men that the natives trust and believe. I was— We were hoping that Pó might be willing to offer us some of her hair.”
I reached up to cover my head. All the women turned to me now.
“You are one of my dearest friends, Fatima. All I ask is a bit of its hair and—”
“It! Her name is Pó,” Fatima said, getting up from the table. “And you are not welcome here.”
The door closed behind them.
Fatima lit a cigarette, sat quietly in her chair looking out her window. “We must get you out of here,” she finally said, covering my hand with hers.
“I do not want to leave. Where will I go?” The idea of being pushed away again made it hard for me to swallow.
“We’ll go to the mountain that God set upon the earth for his animals and his children,” she said, sounding like her priest.
We. I would not be alone.
* * *
I press Stop. I remove my earbuds and begin to jot down my notes. I scan the restaurant. It is still too early for people to gather. A few men sit at a table playing cards, smoking. A young woman sits alone, sipping on a drink, one long leg crossed over the other. She catches me looking at her and smiles. I look down to write.
* * *
—
NOTES: Sunday, Oct. 16, 2016. Restaurante Kanimambo
— Seemed preoccupied. Not looking well. Ophelia staying out all night. Pó fears for the girl’s safety.
— Clear signs Pó is growing frailer each day. Her mind wanders or she forgets, not quite sure. Struggles to get up from bed. Speech often slurred or turns to an inaudible whisper.
— Steps/breathing have slowed. Looks tired—exhausted. Actually left her room to check up on children’s schooling downstairs. Admitted she hasn’t done that in quite a while.
— A growing urgency for her to finish her story. Seems she is compelled to do so, even when she feels unwell. I must admit feeling anxious—selfish on my part—for her to tell me everything she has gone through.
— Brought her some lotion. Not sure it will help to soothe pain from lesions around neck and shoulders. Skin CANCER likely. What stage? Spread to lymph nodes? [most likely] Red/purple patches ulcerating. Very self-conscious. Covers up. I look away.
— Clear that educating albino children very important to her. She sees this as key to successful futures—learning to navigate their world with confidence. Education = survival. Perhaps why recording her story is imperative; something to leave behind.
— Continues to Also believes play is important—social integration. Was an outsider herself and doesn’t want these children to be confronted with same barriers.
— Caught! Conflicting ideas, though. Essentially TRAPPED—Wants them to connect to a bigger world but fears for their well-being. Concerned they will be taken and killed. VERY REAL concern in current political climate.
— In Tanzania, some 75 PWAs were reported killed between 2000 and 2016. There are MORE since many cases go unreported, i.e., Fathers and mothers often urged to get rid of their infant, afraid their child with supernatural powers will bring misfortune to the family.
— Amnesty International: Albino body parts bring wealth, power or sexual conquest, and that having sex with a person living with albinism cures HIV and AIDS. Attackers sell albino body parts to witch doctors healers for thousands of dollars.
— Threats to albinos’ lives are compounded by exclusion, stigmatization. Some are denied the basic right to an education and health.
— Time is a concern. May not have long. Pó’s story will go unfinished?
* * *
—
I sense someone hovering over my shoulder. I lower my pencil, thinking my order of spicy prawns has arrived.
“Are you alone?” A quick scan and the table where the young woman had been sitting is empty. I look over my shoulder to see her standing close, her head bent toward me.
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