Pigment (5 page)
July 15 (later)
Numerous framed pictures of Magistrate Luamke with various people of influence are hung on the walls of his office in the Geita Courthouse: one of him with the President of Tanzania, one of him shaking hands with the foreign business owners of the Geita Mines Corporation, one of him with an internationally famous Tanzanian fashion model, Manju, and one of him with Dr. Haji Hussein Maridada, Head of the office of Trade. Luamke is tall in stature with an inch of padding over his muscles, a very serious man, black as Reggie in color but much blacker in spirit. The focus of his eyes seems to float, never looking straight at anyone, more around them. “I meet so many people. Where did you say you are from?” he asks.
Under different circumstances, Jalil might like to play a hand of poker with him, for his tells are obvious. And in this instance, they tell that Luamke will be no help. Jalil goes broad in conversation, trying to glean what he can. “Los Angeles. You probably don’t meet many albino Americans here...”
“Los Angeles, we probably spoke about the Lakers.”
Jalil observes Luamke as he cleans under his fingernails with a paperclip he’s reshaped to fit into the grooves. He ignored albino and went for LA. Jalil is more direct. “Rolf said you had a more engaged conversation with my daughter,” Jalil says, with intentional irony and implication.
“The Lakers are very engaging.” He deflects with the flare of a politician. “Rolf is a good man. Knows how to live here among us natives.”
“He told me to come see you. ’Said you’d had an interesting conversation with my daughter.”
“It must be comforting to have a friend here during this difficult time.”
Jalil cuts to the chase, “I could use more friends, and less obfuscation.”
Hoping this will satiate this American enough so that he will leave his office, “Local police can better help you, Mr. Scott. I will tell you. Here people with your daughter’s condition are zeru-zeru. They are ghosts. You can’t kill a ghost. The hunters don’t believe they are killing humans.”
“How? How can there be no prosecution? No deterrent? No consequence?”
Annoyed now, he talks down, “To prosecute a crime here, you must have absolute, undeniable proof. And even then, by prosecuting those who kill albinos, you are challenging native beliefs.”
The magistrate reshapes his nail tool into a paperclip and puts it with its kind in the top drawer of his desk. He looks at his watch.
“My daughter is missing and I’m trying to understand why and how...”
Luamke cuts him off, “Now I am remembering your daughter’s persistence.” Luamke has no papers on his desk. He sits back in his chair, swiveling, as his eyes float around the room. He continues, “Imagine you are a witch doctor. You make a lot of money when you put some albino in a potion. You can put curses on people and make them do things they otherwise would not do.”
“I have experience with prime people, though I admit I don’t know Tanzania. I still don’t understand how this can be happening today...”
The magistrate looks at his watch again and stands, ending the meeting. “This is not the first religion to rule a people through ignorance and fear. Now, sir, I am due in court.”
“Will you let me know if you come across
anything
that may help me find my daughter?”
“That is for the local police to handle.”
“Again, this is of international concern...”
“You overestimate your daughter’s importance to the rest of the world and especially Tanzania.” He dismisses Jalil. “Bahati nzuri. Good luck to you.” But he doesn’t mean it.
July 15 (later)
Quick-paced Jalil passes by the Elder, who is headed in the opposite direction toward the Mukuyu Tree. The wise man pauses and watches after him. But Jalil doesn’t take notice of this old man, driven to find Aliya, fired by Akida’s antagonism.
The police station is one of the few buildings in town that has actual structure to it. Sitting atop a slab of concrete that protrudes from the earth, there is a large cement porch, a doorway -- without a door -- and a window frame facing some the pavement, that may have served as been a driveway at one time, but it is buckled and over-grown with weeds. Clean and simple, though old, with worn walls of peeling paint. There is a lone rusty chair on the porch upon which one of the locals sits and watches the street.
Inside, Jalil approaches one of the two desks, and speaks with the armed officer closest to the door. His French is solid, as is Jalil’s, and so the conversation flows unhindered by any language barrier.
“Mon nom est Scott Jalil.
My name is Jalil Scott.”
Akida, the Regional Police Commander, stands at the doorway, and answers before his man has a chance. “Jes suis commandant Akida.
I’m Commander Akida.”
Jalil approaches him. “
Je suis venu des États-Unis pour trouver ma fille, Aliya Scott
.
I’ve come from the United States to find my daughter, Aliya Scott.”
“
M. Scott. Je ne vous attendais pas.
Mr. Scott. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He extends his hand. They shake. A strong confident hand, with a welcome sense of genuineness to Jalil from which he assesses they have things in common. Both have military experience, both have seen things they can’t unsee, both have lead men to face these unseeable things. Akida leads him to the bigger desk in the corner and offers him a seat, then sits across from him behind his desk. “
Oui, nous sommes à la recherche de votre fille et le jeune homme irlandais
.
Yes, we are looking for your daughter and the young Irish man.”
His hand leaves Jalil’s to swat a fly squatting on his desk, flapping down hard on the wood. He missed.
“
Elle était pas seul
.
She wasn’t alone.”
A revelation...Of course. He’s been so consumed with Aliya’s disappearance. She was all he could think of. How could he not even think to consider if Kennen or anyone else had gone missing? He’s too far removed from the news media inundating Tamika back in LA, and his instincts aren’t as sharp as before Teheran.
“
Il est un long chemin à venir pour les jeunes amants qui se sont enfuis à jouer dans la nature
.
It’s a long way to come for young lovers who ran off to play in the wild.”
“
Il est plus que cela. Tu le sais
.
It’s more than that. You know it.”
“
Je ramasse faits.
I am gathering fact
s.” He swats at the insect, which has now brought a friend to fly by his head.
“
Alors, vous savez, ils ne sont pas les amateurs.
Then you know they weren’t lovers.”
“
Et comment voulez-vous savoir?
And how would you know this?”
“
Aliya m'a dit.
Aliya told me.”
“Quand?
When?”
“
Il y a quelques semaines.
A few weeks ago.”
“
Filles ne partagent pas toujours tout avec leurs pères.
Daughters don’t always share everything with their fathers.”
The conversation he and Aliya exchanged at the airport flashes in Jalil’s mind.
Akida continues, “
Peut-être changé leur relation.
Perhaps their relationship changed.”
“‘
Peut-être’ est pas un fait.
Perhaps’ is not a fact.”
“
Tu as raison. Mais ils voyageaient ensemble. Ce que nous savons avec certitude, M. Scott.
You are right. But they were traveling together. This we know for certain, Mr. Scott.”
Akida’s deputy peeks in. “Tayari, Mheshimiwa.”
Akida excuses himself. “J
e dois y aller. Il ya eu une tentative de vol dans les mines.
I must go. There’s been an attempted robbery at the mines.”
“
Chaque minute compte pour Aliya...
Every moment counts for Aliya...”
Jalil stands between Akida and the doorway, blocking his exit.
“
Alors vous ne devriez pas me garder de mon travail. Qui sait, les deux incidents pourraient être liés ... Ou ils pourraient sortir de leur amour cabane demain. Je souhaite que tout ce qu'il est est.
Then you shouldn’t keep me from my work. Who knows, the two incidents could be related...Or they could come out from their love hut tomorrow. I hope that is all it is.”
Jalil steps out of his way.
“
Où séjournes-tu?
Where are you staying?”
“J
e ne sais pas encore ... Savez-vous Kuchuna?
I don’t know yet...Do you know Kuchuna?”
“
Il est près de la station de bus. Il est un hôtel là-bas aussi.
It’s near the bus station. There is a hotel there too.”
He directs his deputy to tell Jalil how to get to the Kuchuna office. Then turning to Jalil, he says, “
Une autre question pour vous, monsieur Scott. Pourquoi était votre fille ici?
One more question for you, Mr. Scott. Why was your daughter here?”
“
Elle a été bénévole...
She was volunteering…”
Akida looks him dead in the eye. “
Avec Kivuli, je sais. Mais pour un albinos...venir ici...Il est comme un désir de mort.
With Kivuli, I know. But for an albino…coming here...It’s like a death wish.”
He’s not expecting an answer. Akida goes out into his vehicle, and drives off.
July 15 (later)
Having consulted a map on the wall at the precinct, Jalil walks two miles across town to the Kuchuna headquarters. Since the door is open, he walks into the office. There is no one there. Fan parts are splayed out, still in need of fixing.
He gets on the computer. The screensaver is a picture of Rhadi, Aliya and Kennen. There is no password protection. He opens to the desktop and then the Internet. The homepage for Kuchuna.org comes up. There are a few videos, commentaries and reports from different activists in the group who are reporting from various parts of the world. While Kuchuna takes action on multiple human rights issues, albinism gets the most play due to current events and the recent close case of Aliya and Kennen. The latest video player shows a still shot of Aliya.
Jalil hits the play button.
The video was shot at Camp Kivuli in the sunlight. Rhadi is interviewing Aliya. He asks her, “What’s it like being an American albino in Tanzania?”
As the frame focuses on Aliya, Jalil raises his fingers as if he could touch her face through the screen. She’s camera shy and clearly smitten. “I don’t know.” Rhadi nudges. “Sure you do...What’s it like?”
Her expression turns serious. “Well, in the U.S. it is hard being albino, but I never lost any sleep thinking someone would chop me up and make good luck charms out of me. These people here, especially the children, they are hunted. We are hunted. And the world isn’t doing enough to stop it. I have to do something. These are my people.”
Rhadi turns the camera on himself. “Well, there it is, world, what it’s like being an American albino in Tanzania, straight from Aliya Scott, a very brave woman.” Rhadi puts the focus back on Aliya. The video is cuts off, frozen on a blurry frame of her.
Rhadi is standing in the doorway and watching him. He has a metal pipe in his hand that’s aimed at the back of Jalil’s head. His voice is stern. “Kuchukua mikono yako mbali ya keyboard na kuunga polepole.”
Consumed, Jalil hadn’t seen the man approach and raises his hands in the air. “American.” He asks in French, “
Parlez-vous anglais?”
Do you speak English?
Rhadi replies in English, “Who are you? What do you want?” his grip on the pipe relaxes a bit.
“I’m looking for my daughter.”
“You’re Aliya’s father?”
Jalil turns to face him, putting his hands down. “Yes.”
Rhadi puts down the pipe. Rhadi wipes his hand on his pant leg to shake Jalil’s. “You can’t be too sure who might come in and steal your computer or sabotage your efforts. A lot of people don’t like what we post.” He introduces himself, “Rhadi.”
“Jalil.” He takes his hand and they shake, but Jalil is measuring him more than being cordial.
“Your door was open.”
“Your daughter...I’m sorry she is...”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Yes, let’s walk. It’s too hot in here. I have to fix the fan.”
Jalil agrees to walk, thinking that if Rhadi is hiding anything in here, he could certainly get back in and find it.
#
Moments later they are out walking. The streets are simple and quiet. They pass a few loose children playing soccer with an old beat up ball in the road. One of the kids with bare feet kicks it to Rhadi, chanting his name. The other kids chime in “Rhadi! Rhadi!” It’s clear the kids revere him. Rhadi takes a professional stance, lavishing in the moment and playing up to his audience, then he swoops his leg like a pro, kicking it back to the first boy who called his name. The game continues. Jalil is studying Rhadi through this. His serious expression grounds Rhadi to the real game at hand.
“They stopped here for a night on their way back from Mwanza.”
“Don’t you mean Dar Es Salaam?” Jalil knows her flight record, and is testing him.
Rhadi, doesn’t want to give too much away and chooses his words more wisely. “Yes. They flew into Mwanza from Dar and drove here, stayed for the night, then got on the road back to Kivuli the next morning.”
“Your English is good.”
“I’m from Zanzibar, originally. Studied at U. Penn -- double majored in anthropology and human studies, minored in poli. sci. Many things frustrated Aliya. She had seen the local magistrate...I wish I got that on camera.”
“Why?”
“Aliya didn’t say much about what happened, just that Rolf pulled her away from Luamke before she could get answers from him. But Kennen was furious. ’Said Rolf made a pass at her. They had all been drinking.”
Jalil clenches his fist. “Rolf?”
“Right. Aliya said he’s an old friend of yours from the military. But she didn’t go into details.”
Impossible. Jalil takes a breath and his fingers relax. “Tell me about the Irishman.”
“He’s all right. Conservative. Didn’t always agree with our tactics here at Kuchuna.”
“What do you mean?”
“He likes control. But, in this world, if you are going to have an impact, if you are going to actualize change, you have to let go of control. Let there be chaos. Make war for peace. Kennen thought change could come gently. Anyone could see he had feelings for Aliya.”
“The police think he may have had something to do with her disappearance. But you speak of him as if he’s dead.”
“I don’t know if he is alive or dead. But either way, I don’t think he had anything to do with it...Anything is possible, but...”
“He was jealous?”
“Protective. Irish tempered.”
“What do you think happened to them?”
Rhadi looks down at his feet, “I can’t say.”
Do you know anything else that may help me find them?”
“No. I don’t.”
Jalil can sense Rhadi isn’t telling him everything, that it would take time to get to the heart of it and he is eager to get to the camp. “I have to get on the road to Camp Kivuli before it’s too late in the day. I’ll see you again.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Here. In case anything…” He puts his business card on the desk. It’s blank, save for his name an international cell number and email address.
