Golden Boy (24 page)

She walks over to the TV and starts turning the dial to get different channels. I'm fascinated in spite of myself. I've seen TVs in shops and through the glass windows of wealthy houses before, but I've never actually known someone who's owned one. I lean forward, watching the sound and color blink from one topic to another. There are funny moving drawings in very bright colors with squeaky voices, shows where people are winning prizes and money, shows with people sitting around talking, news, and—

“Wait!” I say, reaching out toward the TV. “What was that?”

“What?” asks Davu.

“What was that? What was on the channel you just switched from?”

Davu clicks back and makes a face. “Politics? You want to watch a report on parliament?”

“Wait,” I mumble. “Leave it there for a minute.”

Davu makes a disgusted noise but leaves the TV on the channel I asked for. I'm leaning off the very edge of my seat, tense, eager.

“Really, Habo! This is so boring. Why are we watching this?”

“Just wait . . . There!”

I jump off the couch and touch my finger to the screen. The camera obediently zooms in on the member of parliament I was pointing to as it's her turn to talk. And there she is, her face filling my screen: the lady albino MP that Auntie told me about.

“Oh!” is all I hear behind me from Davu, but I don't turn around because I'm so absorbed in staring at this woman on TV, looking at her features, hearing her voice. She is wrapped in a tan and red
khanga,
with a head scarf of the same fabric. She's wearing glasses. Her face looks like mine. Her eyes look like mine.

“Look,” I whisper to Davu. “Look.”

“She's just like you,” murmurs Davu.

My heart explodes with happiness.

When Chatha comes downstairs, Davu pounces on her.

“Mama! Mama! We found a woman on TV, in the parliament, who's just like Habo. Come see!” And she pulls her over to where we were both crouching on the floor with our faces close to the screen.

“Get away from there!” says Chatha crossly. “You'll ruin your eyes.”

Too late,
I think, but I obediently scuttle backward onto the couch.

“She's not on right now,” I say to Chatha, “because someone else is talking. Oh, and there's another one, too: a man. I just saw him when Davu was talking to you.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Chatha, and I'm afraid she'll leave. For some reason it's really important to me that everyone see them. And then the woman is on the screen again, and Chatha leans forward and squints at her.
“Ndiyo,”
she says. And my heart soars.

Yes
means this is real.

It's too late to go anywhere that evening, but Chatha promises Davu and me, as she forces us to go to bed, that tomorrow she'll take us to the National Central Library, where we can find out more about my MPs.

I lie on the soft bed in the room Chatha built for Kweli. It's small and clean and has its own bathroom, and is so new it still smells like wet paint. I can understand why Kweli won't give up his freedom, even for all this luxury, but tonight I'm happy to enjoy it in his place. I sigh, contentedly, and stare at the ceiling.

I am a Tanzanian,
I think.
I am an albino. I could work in parliament if I wanted to.

And with these happy thoughts chasing one another around in my head, I fall asleep.

The next morning
I'm awake at first light. I get up and use the shiny tiled bathroom with the hot and cold water taps on the sink, and then sit down in the kitchen to wait for everybody else to wake up. I'm alive with excitement. Today, Chatha promised, we're going to the library to find out more. I have never in my life wanted so much to know more than I do.

I kick the leg of the kitchen table with my bare foot softly, impatient. I'm also slightly embarrassed, because when we go to the library it will become very clear to everyone that I'm no good at reading. But I want to know so badly that I hardly even care about this. I'll blame my bad eyes, like always, and I'll get someone to read the important things to me.

How will you know what's important if you can't read it?
asks an ugly voice in my head, but I ignore it.

I'm saved from thinking any more by a commotion from upstairs. Within minutes Davu and her brothers come rampaging into the kitchen. The seven-year-old and Davu pour cold cereal into bowls for all of us. The two youngest, four-year-old twins, come running at me. They remind me of Kito and I hug them tightly. I had originally expected the children to be afraid of me, but like their parents, sister, and great-uncle, they treated me normally.

The cold cereal tastes strange to me. It's very sweet and sits in a big puddle of milk. It doesn't fill your insides the way hot porridge or
ugali
does. But I don't want to complain. I eat the rich-people's breakfast and wash out my bowl in the sink with the wet detergent again, like the others.

It's a day off school, so it takes a while to get all the children dressed and out the door and over to a neighbor who is willing to watch them, but then Chatha, Davu, and I are on our way.

We don't take a
dala-dala,
but instead the three of us pile into a private taxi. I run my hands over the black plastic seats, hardly able to believe all the new things I'm getting to do in just two days.

Enjoy it while you can,
whispers that same ugly voice in my head.
This may be the last time you go anywhere. Remember, Alasiri is in the city, hunting you.

I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat and sink down lower in my seat, farther from the window.

“National Central Library, Bibi Titi Mohamed Road,” says Chatha, and the taxi weaves off into the Dar es Salaam traffic, taking me to my answers.

We pull up outside a soaring white building that looks like it was built in layers. We climb the many steps to the front door and walk inside. For a moment, I'm not sure what to make of the space. There are study tables and large open spaces, and people crowding both. The hurricane-glass windows are open to allow a breeze to come through the building, and there are electric fans and bright lights hanging from the white ceilings high above, making it easy to see. And everywhere: books! Shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. So many books. I had no idea there were this many books in all Tanzania, let alone in one library in Dar es Salaam. I turn in slow circles, taking it all in.

“Habo!” Davu's voice breaks my spell. I see that she and Chatha are across the foyer, in front of the membership registration desk. I hurry to catch up with them. I get there just in time to see Chatha hand over some money.

“What's she doing?” I whisper to Davu.

“She's paying for us to have a day membership.”

“How much does that cost?”

“One thousand shillings each,” she answers. “Why are we whispering?”

Just then, Chatha turns around. In her pudgy fingers she holds two slips of paper.

“Now,” says Chatha. “I have to run a few errands. Here are your day passes.” She hands them to us. “Stay in the building, don't go anywhere with strangers, and I'll be back in four hours. Okay?”

“Sawa,”
says Davu, snatching her pass and twirling it around in her fingers. I look up at Chatha, up the mountain of well-fed, well-dressed woman to her round face. I look past the scowl and meet her eyes, wide-set and kind no matter how hard she tries to mask it, and think about how she has taken time out of her day, paid for a taxi, and now paid for two day memberships at the library, just because she knows it's important to me to find out more about something.

“Asante sana,”
I say, still whispering out of habit.

Chatha smiles at me in a way that scrunches up her entire face. “
Karibu sana,
Habo. Go on.”

“
Kwaheri,
Mama!” Davu waves and then grabs my hand and leads me away into the middle of the library.

We spend the first few hours of our time talking to people in reference, finding books about albinism and newspaper articles about my members of parliament. When Davu discovers how bad I am at reading, she can't believe it.

“How did you not learn to read? Didn't you go to school?”

“I went to school,” I mumble, looking away from her.

“And they didn't teach you to read?” she asks.

“They taught us to read,” I say. “But they made me sit at the back and I couldn't see, so I never learned very well.”

Davu is quiet for a moment. I sneak a glance at her face. Her eyes are clear, considering. Her mouth is a serious line across her face. I look away, ashamed.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Davu huffs. She stuffs the newspapers and a large book we found under her arm, grabs my elbow, and hauls me toward one of the reference desks. “Excuse me!” she calls to the man working there. “I need a magnifying glass. Can you get me one, please?”

The man blinks at her in surprise for a moment and then smiles, promising to look for one for her. Davu and I stand there, waiting for him, Davu muttering to herself under her breath the whole time. I'm no longer entirely sure who or what she's angry at, so I just keep my head down and try to think about how to get away from Davu and the man at the desk. I had thought it might be awkward for Chatha and Davu to know that I can't really read, but I had no idea Davu would make such a big deal out of it. No one else has ever cared that I'm no good at reading. I scuff my feet against the floor.

“Can we go now?” I ask.

“No,” says Davu, still looking after where the man has gone. She holds out the mess of newspapers to me. “Here, do something with these.”

So I do. I carefully refold the newspapers and make them into an easy-to-carry packet while we wait. I tuck them into the large book.

Finally, the man shows up again, holding a square of plastic with a bulge in the middle.

“Here you go,” he says, handing it to her.

“Asante,”
says Davu. “I'll bring it back soon.” And grabbing me by the arm again, she scoops up the big book with our newspapers in it and marches off in a new direction.

After a short walk, we arrive in a section of the library that looks different. The walls are painted a light green, all the furniture is low to the ground, and all the books are slim and brightly colored.

“This,” says Davu, “is the children's room.”

I flush bright red. I'm not a child! Why did Davu bring me here? Just because my reading isn't good doesn't mean that I'm stupid.

“I don't want to read anything in here,” I say.

“We don't have to stay long,” Davu says over her shoulder, already scanning the shelves. “I'm just looking for a simple book to see if you can read it using this.” She waves the magnifying glass at me. I cross my arms and stand by the wall, wishing I could disappear. All the little kids in the room are staring at me. I pretend to be very interested in the shelf in front of me.

“Now.” Davu is suddenly at my elbow. “Come over to a table and let's have a look at these.”

I sigh and follow her. Maybe if I'm really nice and do everything she wants, she'll lose interest quickly in this project and we can go read the books we found about albinos. I sit in one of the small chairs at the table. Davu plops down beside me, a pile of thin books in her arms. She sets the big book off to one side and hands me one of the thin books and the square of plastic.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask.

“Hold it in front of the book and see if that makes it easier for you to see.”

Scowling, I hold the square of plastic over one of the colorful children's books Davu has brought me. To my great surprise, the tiny text on the page leaps toward me, becoming as easy to see as the Vodafone and Airtel signs on the bus ride from Arusha.

I must have gasped because Davu giggles beside me. “Better?” she asks.

“I can see,” I say, squinting at the page. “I can see the words.”

“I thought so,” Davu crows. “You just need glasses! Some of the boys in my class have glasses, you know. They're smart. You'll look good in glasses.”

I pick at my fingers, not sure what to make of all this attention and the talk of glasses. Shyly, I hold the square of plastic up to my face and bend over the children's book again, trying to quietly sound out the sentence in my mind. A brown finger, magnified to the size of a sausage, pushes onto the page in front of me. I jump, surprised, but Davu is reading the words to me, moving her finger with the sounds. I put the plastic back up to my eye and follow along with her giant sausage finger.

“Rat was the only one who knew how to make fire.” I read shakily, with bumps and stops, like a handcart pushed over a rutted road, but I don't stop. “Rat liked all the animals, but Elephant was his best friend.”

Even though Elephant first steals Rat's food, he learns the true value of friendship in the end. I look at Davu, bending over the table, completely unashamed at reading a children's picture book.
I have a friend,
I think. This makes me very happy. Together, we finish the story.

“Hooray, you did it!” she says, way too loudly. “Let's pick out another few for you to take home.”

“We can take them home?”

“Ndiyo,”
says Davu. “Our day passes allow us each to take out two books for two weeks. We'll have to return the magnifying glass, of course, but I'll ask Mother to buy you one on the way home. That way you can practice your reading while you wait for it to be safe to go to Kweli's.”

That reminds me why I'm here. I suddenly feel queasy and the room sways slightly around me. I grip the little table in front of me to steady myself and take a few deep breaths.

There's no other way,
I tell myself.
You have to either face the danger of setting a trap for the lion or be hunted by him for the rest of your life.

“Can we go look at the newspapers now?” I ask.

“Of course.” Davu shoves all the little kid books onto a cart in the corner. Then, taking two skinny books from the shelf at random, she grabs my hand and we head out into the main library. Davu is practically skipping as we walk. Her eyes are bright, and her braids bounce around her face. I follow her quietly, gripping the heavy books and the folded newspapers under my free arm, the magnifying glass safe in my pocket.

We find a free table in a corner and spread the newspapers out around us. Slowly, Davu and I wade through them. There are some talking about the inauguration of the albino MPs we saw on the television. The woman was appointed, but the man was elected. Both of them have received death threats. The woman MP has adopted two albino girls who were attacked with machetes near Mwanza. I shiver. And then there's no escaping the horror.

Albino girl killed for body parts.

Africans with albinism hunted; limbs sold on black market.

Tanzania's first elected albino MP fears for life.

Seven new albino killings in Tanzania and Burundi.

Life of fear for Tanzania's albinos.

Article after article tell about mutilations and murders.

You're next,
the hideous little voice whispers in my head.
Tomorrow these headlines could be about you.

I stare at the newspapers spread out on the table in front of me. Names, dates, descriptions, pictures. I feel cold and numb. A warm hand on my arm pulls me back into reality.

I look over at Davu and see tears streaming down her face. She squeezes my arm softly.

“Let's read this for a while instead,” she says, and pushes the
A
volume of the encyclopedia she found over the open newspapers in front of us.

“Sawa,”
I manage, and open the book.

We look up
albino
together, though Davu does most of the reading because the print is so small.

“I think this basically means that you're white because your skin doesn't have any color,” she says, frowning to figure out the big words.

“That's a stupid book,” I say, because really, even I could figure that out.

“If you're going to be difficult, I just won't read to you anymore.” Davu scowls at me.

“No, no, sorry!” I say. “Please, keep reading.” Her braids whisk forward, covering her face as she bends over the page.