“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.”
His words came as a jarring shock. I knew albinos were in danger, but I had assumed it was because they were picked on, bullied, ostracized, or physically assaulted. I had not conceived of anything as brutal as their cold-blooded murder for profit and greed and superstition.
Some things are better left in the dark, where they belong. Jack’s words came back to me.
It was what he had tried to shield me from. I had thought I could handle whatever it was. I was a big girl. I lived in a big world. But in that moment, in the barren compound of Baraka, in the blazing heat of the afternoon sun, I felt small and dizzy—sick at the thought of a hacked up little boy, betrayed by his own parents. I turned away from the car and stumbled to the nearest hut, thankful for the darkness of its shadow, which shielded me from the villagers.
They all knew.
The villagers. Jack. Goma. Bahati. Scholastica.
Mo had known too.
It‘s much easier when people think they’re seeing a mzungu mother and a mzungu child.
Once a month, Mo ensured safe passage for one of the kids that Gabriel had tracked down.
The words were making more sense now. Mo had taken on a dangerous mission, but she had known.
Had she retched into the ochre soil like I was doing? Had she gone limp against the wall and slumped to the ground when she’d first heard about it?
No. Mo was strong. She always kept her guard up and her knees strong. She didn’t dwell on things that broke her heart. Like boyfriends who cheated on her, or people that disappointed her, or events that shattered her illusions. She accepted, assimilated, and moved on.
The world will screw you over. It’s a given. Once you accept that, it gets easier, she’d said after a particularly rough breakup.
What happens when you want to break-up with the world, Mo? When it throws something at you that’s so unforgivable you curl up in the shadow of a mud hut and never want to see its face again?
There was no answer, just the idling of Jack’s car as he drove up to me and waited. I stared at the wheels, caked with mud and grime from our trek. I had brought extra bottles of water, a hat, sunscreen, and snacks for Juma. We’d be taking them back unused.
“How old do you think he was?” I asked, still sitting on the ground. He could have been two, or five, or ten, or twelve.
“We’ll never know,” he replied, weary and spent.
“Can’t we go to the authorities? Have them do something about it?”