Mists of the Serengeti(49)

“See you on the other side, baby girl,” he said to the rainbow across the valley.



THE VILLAGE OF Maymosi was perched by a river, in a meadow strewn with baobab trees. Bare of leaves and fruit, they arched into the sky like masses of clawing roots, looking like they’d been planted upside-down.

Maymosi was much bigger than I had imagined, with a wide road lined with modest stalls. It was muddy from the rain, but that didn’t stop everyone from squelching around in their rubber flip-flops. Women with shaved heads picked through fruits and vegetables, bargaining loudly over the price. A butcher in a red baseball cap hung slabs of glistening goat meat, surrounded by an audience of hopeful dogs. Thin smoke rose out of charcoal burners as vendors brewed milk tea and fried mandazi bread for their customers.

We parked by the river and got out. Women sat on their haunches, washing clothes and hanging them to dry on thorn trees. Children lugged buckets of water home, leaving a trail of wet splashes behind them. Herders waited in line with donkeys and cattle for their turn at the stream.

“Bongo Flava! Bongo Flava! Come see!” A procession of kids banging on pots and pans surrounded us—beautiful children with their faces dusted gray from hearth ash.

“What’s Bongo Flava?” I asked them.

They looked at me like I’d grown two heads and started laughing.

“Music!” one of the girls explained. “You will like it.”

“Thanks, but I’m not here for that.” I tried to extract myself from the tangle of arms as they started dragging me along with them. “We are looking for Sumuni. Do you know Sumuni?”

“Yes! Come to Bongo Flava!”

I shot Jack a questioning look as they tugged me past him.

“We should check it out,” he said. “Looks like all the kids are heading there.” He pointed to the circle of kids already seated before a makeshift stage. It looked like a boxing ring, with a rope strung around on four wooden posts. The orchestra entered—three kids with handmade instruments. One of them had an upside-down gourd lodged in a bucket of water. A drum, I assumed. The other one held a shoebox with rubber bands wrapped around it. I couldn’t imagine what that was for. The last kid rattled two tin cans filled with stones to get everyone’s attention.

“Nyamaza!” she said.

In the silence that followed, a short figure, wearing a hooded robe entered the ring. It was actually a blanket, tied at the waist with a floral sash that looked like it might have been swiped from a woman’s dress.

“Awright! Let’s get this party started!” he said, dropping his hood and turning to the audience, Michael Jackson style.

“Sumuni! Sumuni! Sumuni!” the other kids chanted, throwing their hands in the air for him.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Jack. “Sumuni is a motherfucking superstar.”

Sumuni bopped around the stage, a pale demi-god with flaming orange hair, rapping lyrics that were half English, half Swahili. He had no microphone, but his voice carried effortlessly, pulling in the other villagers around us. They laughed at his moves, his words, but most of all, at his over-the-top attitude. It didn’t matter that the music was off, or that the shoebox with dirty rubber bands was a valiant yet lacking substitute for a guitar.

Everyone cheered at the end of the performance. Sumuni and his band took a bow. Some of the adults dropped mangoes and oranges into a box by the stage before shuffling off.

“I should have known,” said Jack, shaking his head in amusement.

“Known what?”

“Sumuni. It means fifty cents in Swahili. I guess he’s named himself after 50 Cent, the rapper.” He pulled out a couple of bills from his wallet and handed them to Sumuni.

“Thank you.” Sumuni put the money into his hat before putting it on. “You’re tourists?”

Our presence didn’t seem to arouse much curiosity. Maymosi was obviously a place that saw its fair share of visitors.

“We’re actually here for you. To take you to Wanza,” said Jack. “Are your parents around?”

Sumuni paused and squinted at Jack. He must have been twelve or thirteen, but his eyes were those of an old soul. They were different from Scholastica’s—more pink than blue. “Yes, but there must be some kind of a mistake. We’re expecting Gabriel.”

He led us to his home and asked us to wait in the courtyard while he went to get his parents. They greeted us warmly, though they were quick to inquire about Gabriel.

“We’re not sure where he is,” I said. “I found Sumuni’s name on some notes my sister had made, and we decided to come get him.”

They nodded as I explained the situation, but I could tell they were busy assessing Jack and me.

“We are very grateful that you made the trip, but the thing is, we know nothing about you. We cannot just hand our son over to you.” Sumuni’s father spoke with a finality that left no room for argument. And yet, it was Sumuni’s mother he looked to for direction every time he spoke. She was clearly the one in charge.

“We are in no rush to send Sumuni to Wanza. It is mostly for school,” she said. “There is no high school here and he will need one soon, but we will wait for Gabriel—whenever he shows up. Sumuni’s situation is not like that of most other albino kids. He is loved and protected here. The whole village would rise up if anyone tried to hurt him.”