Bahati seemed to share my sense of awe. For a few moments, there was a lull in his commentary. He had no words to share with me, no litany of facts to impress me. We gazed at the surreal giant that loomed in the distance, towering majestically over the golden plains of the African Savannah.
“Why do you want to visit Rutema?” asked Bahati, once we were back on the road. “It is just a bunch of local homes and a few shops.”
“I’m looking for a friend of my sister’s.” I explained what had brought me to Amosha, and why I needed Gabriel’s help.
“I am sorry to hear about your sister. It was a terrible thing,” he said. “This man—Gabriel—you don’t know his last name?”
“No. Just that he and my sister worked together.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Rodel. We will find him.”
It was a simple reassurance, but I was grateful for it.
As we entered Rutema, barefoot children raced behind us on the dusty street, chanting, “Mzungu! Mzungu!”
“What are they saying?” I asked Bahati.
“Mzungumeans a white person. They are not used to seeing many tourists around here.” He parked the jeep under a ficus tree. A group of grease-stained men were working on a tractor beneath it, muttering like surgeons around a patient. “I will ask them if they know Gabriel.”
The kids encircled our car as Bahati talked to the men. They gawked and giggled. “Scholastica, Scholastica!” they shouted, pointing at me.
I had no idea what that meant, but they disappeared when Bahati returned and shooed them away.
“Lucky for you, there is only one Gabriel in the village with amzungulady friend. But he travels a lot, and they haven’t seen him for a while. His family lives over there.” He motioned to a large compound. It seemed out of place amongst the row of small huts. A perimeter of walls with sharp, broken glass, set into the mortar at the top, surrounded it.
My heart sank. I had not considered the possibility that Gabriel might not be around. “Can we go ask when he’ll be back?”
We honked at the gate and waited. The men stopped working on the tractor and watched us with curiosity. A woman wearing a dress made of colorful, localkitengefabric came out to greet us. She spoke to Bahati in Swahili, through the metal bars, but her eyes kept drifting back to me.
“You are Mo’s sister?” she asked.
“Yes. My name is Rodel.”
“I’m happy to see you.Karibu.Welcome,” she said, unlocking the gate. “I am Gabriel’s sister, Anna.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes held ghosts. She was beautiful in the quiet way that people with broken hearts are. She led us into a courtyard with fruit trees and a small play area for kids. An empty swing creaked, still swaying, as if it had been hastily abandoned.
Inside, the curtains were drawn—a shame, because it was such a beautiful, sunny day. Boxes lay scattered on the floor, some empty, some taped shut.
“I am sorry to hear about your sister,” said Anna, after we were seated.
“Thank you,” I replied. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get a hold of your brother.”
“I wish I knew,” she said, staring down at her hands. “I haven’t heard from him in a while. He’s never been gone this long. I’m afraid he’s not coming back. Or worse, that something bad has happened to him.”
“Something bad?” I looked from her to Bahati, but he was staring over my shoulder at something behind me.
I turned and saw a girl standing by the back entrance. Her dark silhouette was outlined against the light streaming in through the open door. She seemed around six or seven years old, but her posture was stiff and wary, as if she was unsure whether she should come in.
“It’s okay, Scholastica,” said Anna. She switched to Swahili and coaxed the child to come inside.
When the girl stepped into the light, I flinched. It might have been the unexpectedness of it, the shock of seeing a pale ghost appear out of the shadows in broad daylight. Her skin was a strange shade of white, with patches of pink where the sun had touched it. She looked at us through otherworldly eyes—milky and blue. Her hair was shorn close to the scalp, a muted shade of blonde, but without the softness or delicacy. The absence of color was jarring, like a painting robbed of pigment. I had seen people with albinism before, but this girl had scabs all over her lips and face, like little black flies feasting on her. I couldn’t help the shudder that ran through me, though it was Scholastica who visibly shrank away from me, from the knee-jerk response that she was no doubt familiar with. Disgust. Horror. Revulsion.
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.”
