Mists of the Serengeti(20)

I sat down after he left and watched Aristurtle take little bites of lettuce from his feeding dish. Shafts of sunlight fell on the dark shelves around me. It was only then that I realized I was surrounded by books. Yet not one of them had clamored for my attention while Jack had been in the room.





I RUBBED MO’S note between my fingers as we left the farm. Dewdrops were still glistening on the leaves, like morning diamonds scattered in the field.

July 17—Juma (Baraka), it said.

It was the first of Mo’s Post-its that had not been crossed out, and though it was now August, we were headed for the place she was supposed to have picked up a kid named Juma. It took us half the day to get there, on dirt roads that meandered through tall, yellow grass.

Baraka was a collection of thatched-roof huts surrounded by thorn bushes and footpaths that led to small fields of corn and potatoes. The villagers pointed us in the direction of Juma’s family’s hut and then huddled outside, listening in.

I tried to follow the conversation between Jack and the woman who was squatting by the fire, but they were speaking in quick, short bursts of Swahili.

She had a baby tied to her back, and was cooking something that looked like thick porridge. Chickens pecked around her feet, while another toddler slept in the corner.

The conversation was getting heated. Jack sat next to me on a wooden stool, his earlier cordiality gone. He was hunched over, trying to fold his frame into the small, smoky space. The woman, Juma’s mother, seemed to be deflecting his questions and ignoring us. Gabriel’s name was thrown around. The woman shrugged, shook her head, and kept her back to us.

“Has Gabriel already been here?” I asked.

“Apparently, he never showed,” replied Jack.

“And Juma? Where is he?”

Jack gave the woman a black, layered look. “She says she doesn’t know.”

Just then, a man walked in and started talking to us, his voice raised, arms waving wildly.

“What’s going on?” I looked from him to Jack.

“It’s Juma’s father. He wants us to leave.” But Jack showed no sign of getting up. “Not until they tell us where Juma is.”

The villagers outside peeked in, as the conversation got louder. Jack’s hard-nosed tenacity fueled the other man’s rage. Juma’s mother started wailing, startling the sleeping toddler. His cries mingled with hers, as the men continued arguing. The dark hut turned into a madhouse of clucking chickens, and weeping, and yelling.

“Stop!” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Everyone, just stop!”

The outcry was met with stunned silence. I guess they had all forgotten I was still in the room.

“Please.” I got up and clasped the woman’s hands. “We’re just here for Juma. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s why Gabriel and Mo arranged to stop by. To take him to Wanza. If you’ve changed your mind, just tell us and we’ll leave.”

She didn’t know what I was saying, but as she stared at our hands, joined together, big, fat tears started splashing down on them.

“Juma,” she said, her throat convulsing around his name. Then she was talking as if she’d bottled up the words for so long, she couldn’t stop them from tumbling out. She held my hands tightly when she was done and sobbed. And sobbed.

“Jack?”

His eyes held a tortured dullness as they met mine.

“Let’s go.” He pulled me away from her, clamping his fingers around my wrist. “There’s nothing for us here.” He led me through the door, past the crowd gathered outside, and toward the car.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“Get in.” He was already starting the car.

“Not until you explain what just happened in that hut.”

“Get in the car, Rodel,” he growled. His jaw was ticking, and he stared straight ahead, not looking at me. This was the Jack I had met on the porch that first time—harsh, detached, unyielding.

“I’m not going anywhere until you answer me.”

“You really want to know? Fine.” He slammed the steering wheel with both hands. “They sold him, Rodel. They sold Juma. They were going to hand him over to Gabriel in exchange for some necessities, but when Gabriel and Mo didn’t show, they sold him to someone else. Juma is gone.”

“Gone where? What do you mean they sold him?”

“I mean that his parents sold him because they have too many mouths to feed. Two little ones in there, and three more out in the fields. They sacrificed one kid so the others could live. They got seeds for their farm, a bunch of chickens, and enough food to get them through for a while.”

“I get it,” I said, even though it shook me. I had seen a lot of things on my father’s foreign assignments. The good and the bad. “It’s awful that his parents felt compelled to do something like that, but Juma is with a good family, right? I mean, they must really want him if they came all the way here to get him.”

“Juma is an albino kid.” Jack was still furious. Not angry-furious, but a heartbroken, choked-up furious. He chewed out the words like he couldn’t stand them. “He’s worth more dead than alive. Albinos here are hunted for their body parts because people believe they hold magical powers. Witchdoctors make talismans out of them: teeth, eyes, internal organs. Fishermen weave albino hair into fishing nets because they think it will lure more fish. Politicians hire albino-hunters to get their limbs and blood so they can win elections. Wealthy buyers pay big money for them. Three thousand dollars for an arm or leg. Fifty thousand for the whole body, maybe more.” Jack looked at me for the first time since he’d dragged me out of the hut. “So, no. Juma is not with a good family because Juma is dead.”