Pigment (2 page)

1

Giraffe

May 7

Heading west on the 10 FWY, Jalil turns his head to Aliya who is all consumed by her texting and that old-school notebook she’s always scribbling in. Her father is moping. They drive in silence but for the chimes of her phone. She looks at him, a stranger, really, more than a father, though she wouldn’t deny her curiosity or her feeling of connection with him.

Aliya turns off her phone and says, “That’s it. Nobody’s gonna interrupt my last twenty minutes with you.”

He smiles and notices the bracelet she’s wearing, the gold charm of a giraffe dangling from it. “You still have that?”

“This?”

“I sent that to you for ... what, your seventh birthday?”

“First communion. All the other kids got crosses and chalices. Why’d you send me a giraffe?”

“Truth?”

Aliya nods.

“It just fit. That and it might have been all I could find.”

“Where were you?”

“Niamey in Niger, working for a French company that had some security concerns.”

She looks at it dangling on her wrist. “You know about the giraffe?” she asks Jalil.

“I know they have long necks.”

“They do put their necks out. They accept challenges with vision and grace.”

He looks at her, a little surprised.

She says with a gentle smile, “It still fits.”

#

At LAX, Jalil helps Aliya with her bags and a couple boxes of supplies her Mama’s church donated for the camp: sunblock, hats and sunglasses. They are rushing. She is late for her flight.

Once they finish at the ticket counter and approach the line for security check, Jalil has to ask, “I saw you and Reggie on the computer. Zanzibar?”

Aliya shies away.

“You didn’t tell your Mama.”

“Would you? Maybe I’ll go to Zanzibar too.”

“You and what’s-his-name...”

“Kennen. He’s picking me up at the airport in Mwanza. We’re just friends.”

“Does he know that?”

“Mama will worry enough as it is.”

“Uhm hmm.”

“Did you tell your Mama everything?”

“Did you tell me everything?” He has an inkling more about the potential dangers she’s going to face, but not the extent of them and no, she didn’t tell him everything either.

“I’ll be fine.” As Aliya shuffles to the line on the inside of the rope and Jalil trails along on the outside, they both feel they are too fast approaching the turn where they will part ways. “You know, I wish we had more time. I feel like we’re just getting to know each other,” Aliya says to him.

Jalil nods.

She finally asks the question that’s been burning inside of her. “What made you come back?”

“What do you mean?”

“All those years away...Something must have happened for you to come back.”

He stares at her, gently touches her cheek. He pushes the bridge of her glasses up the centimeter that they slid down her nose. After a long pause, he says, “You’ve really grown into a beautiful woman, Aliya.”

“See, you’re not telling me everything either.”

“Your Mama did right by you.”

“Yes, she did.” Then half-jokingly, she says, “Who knows how I would have turned out if you stayed around?” The line backs up behind her as the space in front of her grows.

“I’m gonna say this...and I mean it.” She gives him a big warm hug and then continues, “I love you, Daddy.”

Before he can say anything, she bounds to the security checkpoint, carry-on in tow. Jalil is by the door, watching her, his hands in his pockets. She turns and finds him gazing at her T-shirt on which is boldly printed, “Skin Deep.” She waves goodbye. Tears swell in his eyes as he holds his hand out high to her.

She goes through the gate and disappears in the crowd. He wishes he were a giraffe so he could still spot her.

2

Deil!

May 9

Aliya switches planes in Kenya for the second leg. This one is smaller, and they’re packed in tight. She settles into her seat, puts in her earbuds and continues with her Swahili lessons. As the rest of the passengers board, she feels someone staring at her. Not a new feeling, though this is more intense than usual.

Aliya looks up at a plump dark woman of about sixty cautiously making her way down the very narrow aisle. The woman locks her eyes on Aliya, who pretends to ignore her and returns to her lessons.

The woman says something to her in Swahili. Aliya’s comprehension is not that good yet, and she can’t fully understand her, just a word or two.

“Msimkaribie mimi roho. Kaa mbali na Afrika yangu.” She catches: “Don’t come ______ me ______. ___ ______ my Africa.”

Aliya says to her, “Samahanini. Kiswahili yangu si nzuri.” It means: Excuse me. My Swahili is not good.

The woman is hovering over her from the row in front. Though she must be three times her size, she won’t step any closer. That row of seats is her line in the sand. Aliya gathers the woman is assigned the seat next to her, and the woman is not happy about it. She presses the call button for the attendant.

Her dialect and accent are thick, and she utters more of the same at her. “Kaa mbali na mimi.”

The flight attendant arrives and, in Swahili, asks her what she’s upset about.

A passenger in the next row opens the shade of his window, letting in more light. Aliya can see the woman’s eyes. She looks terrified, and is pointing at her with a trembling finger.

“Siwezi kuruka na roho!” The woman pushes backward to the door, still facing Aliya and bumping people out of her way with her girth. The stewardess tries to calm her and stands in her way. The woman bumps her aside like a palm leaf in the wind, and forces her way off the plane.

All the passengers who can see Aliya are staring at her, some even stretch their necks to see over the seats. Aliya thinks, “Really, they don’t see
me
at all. They see something strange that scared the woman off the plane.” She looks to the old man next to her. He is asleep, out cold. That’s a relief! She relaxes into the empty space.

“Roho.” The last word she said. What does it mean? Aliya takes out her Swahili-English dictionary and looks it up. She didn’t! She did! That woman called her a ghost. A shiver runs up and down her spine. She can think of a few things to call that woman. But she doesn’t. She’s gone. Aliya’s been called worse in English, and doesn’t know if the print translation is telling her everything. There was something about the way she said it. Aliya shakes it off and puts her focus toward the lesson plan she is putting together for the children she is going to teach.

#

Hours later, she trades seats with the man next to her, who immediately goes back to sleep. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice color or the lack of it. She wants to look out the window and doesn’t mind the extra foot between her and the looks up and down the aisle. She’s used to people gawking, but not throwing a fit, not since old man Carter.

Aliya plays Tanzanian tribal music, songs of the Wagogo Peoples and the Bagamoyo Players on her phone. She’s been listening to them for weeks, gearing up for her trip. Their drums beat the soundtrack to her journey.

As they fly over the Serengeti, it is sunrise and the deep colors rip through the sky, electric colors that only Mother Nature can conjure. She makes her own rules and breaks them. She’s full of surprises, and keeps us in awe. Aliya contemplates. For some reason, people revere albino animals, like the albino dolphin calf they stole from the waters off the coast of Japan or the Lakota White Buffalo, described by the Calf Woman who came bearing the peace pipe and medicine wheel, who foretold that a white buffalo would come and the white man would then ask the red man to teach him how to live in tune with Nature. The White Buffalo is honored. The thing about mystical creatures and things is that people either revere them or fear them. Either way they want to control them. Even in film and TV you see albino bad guys, but never good. The truth is we’re no better or worse than anyone else.

Aliya looks out the window, her forehead presses hard against the pane. The earth below looks like a rumbling, rolling surface with dust spraying out its sides like the foam of ocean waves. It’s the wildebeest herd, tens of thousands of them, rising from their slumber with the sun’s rays of light pushing through the dark night. They nudge each other, urging their mass movement, resuming their migration. They move smart like a swarm of bees. Reggie’s right, they are ugly. Up close, they look like a cross between a bull and a deer. She’s drawn to things that are different, and foreign. Common as they are in Africa, she didn’t see wildebeest in L.A. So, to her, they’re different. She likes that they take care of their babies and the old and sick. Would the herd take care of an albino wildebeest? She likes to think they would.

Out the window, she can see the wondrous expanse, beautiful, raw Africa.

She opens her worn journal, an old fashioned notebook with the black and white marble cover, it’s early pages filled with thoughts and sketches in preparation for her journey. She turns to a clean page and writes:

“Kilimanjaro -- we fly low over Lake Victoria through the clouds that hang like a veil, coming into Mwanza.

The drums play in my ears and my heart races. I’ve never been so far from home, but somehow feel like I’m coming home for the first time in my life.

Don’t tell Mama I said that.”

#

They land in the afternoon. Aliya loads her bags and boxes onto a cart and wheels them out to passenger loading. The air is so clear here compared to L.A. The street is bright and bustling, full of diversity. Kennen isn’t there to meet her, but she trusts he’ll be along soon.

As she waits, she keeps her eyes on the passersby, people being greeted, people reunited. She has that unsettling feeling again, that she’s being watched. She casually looks around. Practiced at this discretion, she takes broad sweeps, spanning the scene, assessing everyone with her eyes. She looks for something reflective to scout indirectly as she waits for Kennen.

She remembers to call home and takes her phone from her pocket and dials. The answering machine picks up. They’re all at work or school.
“Hi
Mama, Mike and Reggie! Mimi niko hapa. Mimi nina katika Afrika!” She translates, “I’m here. I’m in Africa! I miss you. I’ll call again soon.” As she hangs up the phone she is sensing an invasive energy, closing in. She can’t spot its source yet.

There’s a piece of shiny metal that braces the glass of a window, which she uses to see behind her. There he is. A distorted dark, creepy man staring at her from across the street. He looks away, trying to appear casual...or maybe Aliya is misreading him and he’s not interested in her at all. She decides she should move, just in case, and gathers her cart and belongings and goes closer to the curb. She dials another number watching all the while, her defenses up. Kennen doesn’t answer. She calls the one other contact she has in Tanzania.

“Mr. Teigen’s office.”

“Hi. Is Mr. Teigen available?

His secretary says. “He’s out in the field.”

She wants to tell her more, that there is a man, that she doesn’t feel safe, but she doesn’t want to sound like a hysterical American girl.

The secretary calls into the silence, “Miss?”

Aliya resolves that maybe she’s just tired. “Will you please tell him that Aliya Scott called for him?”

“Aliya Scott...Mr. Teigen left a message.”

She braves another glance into the metal. Creepy Man is gone. She turns, her feet planted firmly.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Teigen invites you to a party on July 6th at the Hotel Protea Cottages for Saba Saba, our independence day. We emailed you details.”

“Thank him for me. I will try to come.”

She spots Creepy Man. He’s crossed the street and is coming straight toward her. She can’t read the look in his eyes, too far away. Is it fear? Hate? There is no white in his eyes.

“Miss?” the secretary’s voice trails off as Aliya’s hand takes the phone from her ear. “Miss?”

He’s thirty feet away. She’s facing him. It is hate.

Kennen Dunnovan steps in her view, and Creepy Man steps aside into the crowd.

“There you are!”

“Kennen!” her dear Irish friend saves the day. He’s good hearted, a diehard aide worker with a genuine big smile and light green eyes that Aliya would admit to getting lost in sometimes. They hug each other, an extra long hug. They first met at a camp for people with albinism that Aliya attended for a few summers, and where he worked. They’ve been friends ever since. Although, sometimes it feels like they’re more than friends. She notices his muscles are more developed than last year. He’s manlier.

Aliya can see Creepy Man over Kennen’s shoulder still, there assessing them, gearing up to make another move.

Horns blare for Kennen to move the camp’s old, beat-up van.

“And we’re off.”

They quickly load everything and climb in, Creepy Man runs toward them. Aliya snaps his picture as he yells, “Deil, Deil!”

Kennen stares the man down as he starts the engine and pulls away.

“What does he want?” Aliya asks.

Kennen is still staring at him and doesn’t answer.

“What’s ‘deil’ mean?” she persists.

Traffic moves and they are out of visual range of Creepy Man.

“Come on, tell me.”

“He could get a lot of money for you on the black market,” Kennen answers.

“Very funny.”

“Not at all.” He isn’t joking. He doesn’t want to tell her it means devil, that she is less than human to many people here; that she scares them and should be afraid of them and their ignorance, because they are afraid of her, just as they are of the albino children they are here to help; that since he’s been here, he’s had his eyes opened wider to the reality, to the horror of it. It’s one thing being overseas in a different world, a first world, and hearing of these atrocities and wanting to help and thinking you can. It’s another thing being in this place, completely seeing how small you are compared to the third world you’ve entered, a world with its own beliefs, its own systems, its own currencies, its own ideas of right and wrong.

On the plane with that woman calling her ghost she still felt big, but this man calling her the devil and wanting to sell her, this was her first lesson in Tanzania.