“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.”
“We understand,” I said, even though it felt like an anti-climax, having come all this way, only to be turned away. “It’s totally your call.”
“And if Gabriel doesn’t show anytime soon?” Jack interjected.
“Then no school for me!” Sumuni fist pumped. “I get to be a Bongo Flava star.”
“We’ll see about that,” his mother said, hushing him. “If Gabriel doesn’t show, we’ll just have to save up for a train ride to Wanza, by private coach. Taking Sumuni there by bus is too risky. You never know who you’re traveling with.”
“We hope it hasn’t been too much trouble coming this way.” Sumuni’s father shifted in his chair. “Where are you headed next?”
“To Magesa, but we have a couple of days before we’re expected there. Or rather, before Gabriel is expected there.”
“Why don’t you stay for supper?” Sumuni’s mother asked. “We planned a big meal. We thought it would be Sumuni’s last night with us before he left for Wanza with Gabriel. We’ve invited some of our friends and family too. Consider it a token of gratitude, a little something for coming out this way. We would be honored if you ate with us.”
A LITTLE SOMETHING’ turned out to be a major feast. Half the village gathered under a tall baobab tree. Pots filled with stewed chicken, and peas in coconut, simmered in the fire. Potatoes baked on hot coals, and the aroma of milk tea drifted late into the night.
Sumuni and his little band put on another show for everyone. His father watched proudly, a wad of tobacco tucked behind his ear, while his mother threaded beads on long strands of fiber from the baobab.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jack. “It feels like you’re somewhere else.”
We were sitting shoulder to shoulder by a warm spot near the fire.
“I’m just . . . I feel like I’m failing Mo. I’m not getting anywhere with these kids. We got to Juma too late, and now . . .”
“Now what?” He turned to study my face.
When Jack looked at me, it didn’t matter where I was, or what I was thinking. I came right back to the present. To his eyes. To his voice. I could be drowning in torment, and all he had to do was look at me, just like he was doing then.
“You see that?” He tilted his head toward Sumuni. “Look at him. Look at his parents. That’s love. That’s happiness. They’re glowing with it. How can that ever make you feel like you failed Mo? Besides, it’s not like she entrusted you with anything. You took it on yourself. Your decision. Your mission.”