Mists of the Serengeti(10)

“Lucky for you, there is only one Gabriel in the village with a mzungu lady 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, local kitenge fabric 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.”

“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.