Authors: Tara Sullivan
“So, Kweli has let me stay with him and is teaching me to carve. But when I found out that Alasiri was trying to get Kweli to carve ivory for him, we went to the police and figured out a way to trap him and send him to jail. And that's my story,” I say, picking up my bowl of stew.
“So,” Asu says, pushing a high note into her voice that tells me she's choosing to be cheerful even when she doesn't feel like it. “You ran away from home to go to the big city and became an apprentice to a great sculptor! Who would have thought it?”
I choke on my stew. The topic of formal apprenticeship is one I haven't brought up, but now Asu has said it and there's no unsaying it. I dart a glance at Kweli. His face is still and unreadable.
“Well, I'm not really Kweli's apprentice. I would have to be much better than I am nowâisn't that right,
Bwana
?”
I hope he will tell me that someday I will be good enough. That someday I can be his apprentice. But Kweli says none of these things. Instead, his smile blazes out like full sun on a still lake.
“Silly boy, you already are,” he says.
I think my face may break from smiling.
“Thank you,
Bwana,
” I manage. “I'll work hard.”
“Hmph,” he says. Then he turns to Asu. “And you, girl? What's the end of your story? You ran away from home to find your brother and you did. What will you do now?”
“I . . . don't know,” she says. “I didn't think beyond looking for Habo, I suppose. I never dreamed I'd find him.” Her eyes are soft, but she's biting her lower lip the way she does when she's feeling stressed. “Especially not to find him happy and healthy and managing just fine without me.” She gives me a smile that is slightly sad, then turns to Kweli. “I don't know what I'll do now.”
I realize that maybe I could be the one to take care of me. Asu needs someone to take care of her right now. I think of the money that I still have saved and realize that I can be the one to help her this time.
“You sound just like your brother!” Kweli sighs. “My goodness, does no one in your family plan things out ahead of time?”
I laugh sheepishly, then turn back to Asu.
“Do you want to go back to Mwanza?” I ask.
“I hate to go without you.”
“You know I can't live there.”
“No,” she agrees. “It's not safe. Mwanza is no place for an albino. But I don't know what other choices I have.” Asu looks down. Her hands, where they're resting in her lap, begin to pick at a rip in her
khanga.
“I don't have any money left, and I don't know anyone in the city.”
Kweli clears his throat. “Well, you know Habo. And now you know me. I can offer you a few options. Even paying for carving materials and school supplies, Habo will soon start earning money from his sculptures.”
“School supplies?!” I exclaim. “I don't want to go to school here!”
“If you are staying with me, that is not an option,” says Kweli. “No boy who can see will be unable to read if I have anything to say about it! When the new school year starts in January, you're going back to school. Until then, you can work on your reading.”
I scowl at him. I know I promised to learn to read, but no one ever said anything about going back to school, too.
Kweli waves away my objections with one calloused hand and continues: “As I was saying, he will start to earn money, and we can find you a job, too. Once you both have a little saved up, you can buy another train ticket if you want, or set yourself up in town here. Until then, I'm sure that my niece will pounce on the opportunity to help you.” Kweli gives a mischievous smile. “Chatha loves it when I pick up strays.”
I groan, thinking of Chatha's reaction when she first found me living with her uncle.
Kweli laughs at my response. “Besides,” he says. His smile is truly devious now. “I hear she has a spare bedroom.”
I decide to be very far away when that conversation happens between Kweli and Chatha.
“Thank you,
Bwana
!” Asu looks overwhelmed. “It would be good to have work. I wouldn't want to be an imposition.”
“Ndiyo,”
says Kweli, “it's good to be independent. I agree.”
“Asante,”
says Asu again.
“Excellent!” Kweli pushes himself to his feet, dusts off his hands, and grabs his walking stick. “That's settled, then. Now, if everyone's done, let's go home. I, for one, am so tired after tonight's excitement that I think I will sleep for a week.”
I pick up our three bowls and hand them to the restaurant lady with our thanks.
“Oh, but we have to let the rest of the family know you're safe!” exclaims Asu.
“What?”
“The rest of the family: Mother, Auntie, Chui, everyone! I didn't have enough money to call them, but there's so much to tell them! Alasiri's going to jail! You're safe!”
Kweli tips his head toward me, his brows drawn together. “Now there's a good idea,” he mutters.
I feel torn: Part of me wants nothing more than to talk to them all againâMother, to tell her it's not her fault I was born the way I am; Auntie, to apologize for taking her money and thank her for telling me about the albino MPs; Chui, because he cried for meâbut another part of me is still angry at them.
“They're probably glad I'm gone,” I grumble.
“How can you say that?” snaps Asu. “Were you there to see? Mother took a double shift at the factory while I searched for you in Mwanza. She worked eighteen hours a day, and Chui dropped out of school, all to raise money quickly so someone could come after you.”
I feel ashamed.
“I'm sorry,” I manage. “It's just . . . they always treated me so differently. It felt like I was such a burden. That everyone was always mad at me.”
“Habo.” Asu sighs. “You're family. Even if they didn't love having you around all the time, they still love
you.
”
I stare at her for a long moment, looking at her tired face, weighing the truth in her words. Could it be true that, in spite of everyone's feelings about me, they loved me somehow? I think of the times Mother held me when she thought no one was looking, and how Chui talked to me about his dreams when we were driving across the Serengeti. The tightness I've always carried around inside my ribs loosens like a coil of wire unspooling. It's a good feeling.
“Sawa,”
I say at last. “Let's go talk to them.”
“Finally,” Kweli humphs. He reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly. “I'm glad you're doing this, Habo. I had no peace thinking that your family didn't know you were safe.”
I nod, and since his hand is on the base of my neck, Kweli feels this and smiles.
“So,” he says, “one last delay.” He pulls a handful of small bills out of the pouch around his neck and hands them to Asu to count. “I don't know exactly what it costs to call Mwanza, but that should cover it. Let's go find Eshe. We'll tell her it's an emergency and give her a little extra because of the hour.”
“Ndiyo,”
I say.
“Asante.”
“Asante sana,”
echoes Asu when she sees the money in her hand.
“Karibu,”
says Kweli, and he turns, leading us to Eshe's house. After a few steps, I slip my hand into Asu's again. She smiles down at me. Her dark brown eyes sparkle from her earlier tears.
“It is hard to believe I found you,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I say. Then I look up and smile at her. “I'll have to do a new carving for Kweli called âHappiness.' But he'll have to give me a very big piece of wood first.”
Asu laughs and squeezes my hand.
We find Eshe's house and explain the call we want to make. She takes our money and helps us talk to the operator to find the number of the store up the road from Auntie's house. When it's ringing, Eshe passes the phone to me.
For a moment I hesitate, but then I remember an impossible promise I made to a little boy more than three months ago.
“Hello?” asks a stranger's voice, heavy with sleep.
“Hello,” I say, grinning. “My name is Habo. I'm calling from Dar es Salaam. I need to speak to Kito.”
A
asante
thank you
B
bibi
ma'am; respectful term for a woman
bongo flava
Tanzanian hip-hop music. Lyrics usually address social and political issues such as poverty and corruption.
bwana
mister; sir
D
dala-dala
minivan used as local bus
H
habari gani?
what's the news?
hodi hodi
“hello hello”: phrase used instead of knocking to enter a house
hujambo
“hello”: literally, “how are you?”
K
karibu
welcome/you're welcome
khanga
traditional clothing
kwaheri
good-bye
M
manyara
a region in Tanzania; type of wood used in fencing
marahaba
response to “shikamu.” Literally, “I'm delighted.”
mbili
two
mganga
witch doctor (singular)
mkunga
midwife
mmoja
one
mpingo
East African blackwood tree
mtoto
boy
N
nane
eight
ndiyo
yes
ni
to be
nne
four
nzuri
good
P
pepo
ghost
punguani
idiot
S
sabahani
excuse me
safari
journey
saba
seven
sana
very much
sawa
okay
sita
six
shikamoo
polite way to greet elders. “I hold your feet.”
T
tano
five
tatu
three
thelathini
thirty
U
ugali
thick cornmeal porridge
W
waganga
witch doctors (plural)
waganga wa jadi
users of magic and advisors to chiefs (inherited position)
waganga wa kienyeji
roadside charlatans; similar in activities to waganga wa jadi, but not a prestigious or inherited position
waganga wa tiba asili
traditional healers
Y
yeye
he
Z
zeruzeru
albino; literally, “zero-zero”
Although
Golden Boy
is a work of fiction, the situations portrayed in it are real.
The first materials that Habo and Davu read together in the library are all real. The children's book they read aloud is a real book,
True Friends: A Tale from Tanzania,
by John Kilaka. All of the newspaper headlines they read came from real newspapers. Sadly, the stories of the people with albinism in
Golden Boy
are real as well. The two members of parliament that Habo sees on TV are real people, and so was Charlie Ngeleja. He died in Mwanza the way Auntie describes to Habo's family. Charlie's is just one story, but there are too many like his.
When I came across a news story in 2009 that told about the kidnapping, mutilation, and murder of African albinos for use as good-luck talismans, I was upset that I had never heard about the tragedy before. I started looking for books on the subject and found none. The most I could find were a few articles from international newspapers and a documentary produced by Al Jazeera English:
Africa Uncovered: Murder & Myth
. This haunting documentary touched a nerve and sent me down the path of writing
Golden Boy.
Albinism, a genetic condition where the skin has no melanin, is five times as common in sub-Saharan Africa as it is in Europe, but not nearly as accepted. People with albinism suffer from poor vision and are very susceptible to skin conditions. Because of their impaired vision, it is common in Africa for people with albinism in Africa to be sent to schools for the blind, even though these schools cannot meet their needs. Even if they are allowed to attend regular school, they are frequently made to sit at the back of classrooms, where they can't see the board. This leads to the under-education of adults with albinism and a misperception in society that they are stupid or somehow less capable of higher thought than others.
Because of the lack of pigment in their skin, people with albinism burn easily and frequently in the sun. In developing countries, where sunscreen is generally priced for foreigners, mothers often have to take on a second job simply to cover the cost of sunscreen and protective clothing for a child with albinism. The average life expectancy in Tanzania for a person with albinism is between thirty-five and forty years of age, mostly as a result of skin cancer.
Today in parts of Africa, especially in northern Tanzania, people with albinism are sought out, maimed, and killed because of a belief that their body parts are lucky, or that the death of an albino will lift a curse. In certain regions, it is believed that albino hair woven into nets will catch fish; in others it is believed that albino legs will cause a mine to produce gold. Though the specifics vary, the basic belief is widespread. Under the Same Sun, a nonprofit organization that works to rescue people with albinism from attacks and help them get access to a real education, reported on June 14, 2012, that so far in Tanzania, seventy-one people with albinism have been murdered, an additional twenty-eight have survived attacks with severe mutilations, and there have been nineteen grave robberies.
Though children with albinism were always considered unlucky and frequently killed at birth, as were twins and people with deformities, the hunting of people with albinism is not some long-held tradition. Rather, the superstitions about albino body parts have only gained popularity in the last fifteen years or so. The use of human body parts for witchcraft purposes goes through cycles: At one time, the heads of bald men were seen as lucky; at another, the bodies of very old women. However, no trend has been as extensive or lethal as the current one: the targeting of albinos.
Tanzania stands at the center of this trend, both in horror and in reasons to hope. The vast majority of the killings in all of East Africa have occurred in Tanzania, predominantly in the northern districts around Lake Victoria. However, Tanzania is also leading the way in albino advocacy, including allowing people with albinism to serve in the parliament and publicize this issue. One of the albino members of parliament, Al-Shymaa Kway-Geer, was appointed to her post by the Tanzanian government. The other, Salum Khalfani Bar'wani, even more wonderfully, was elected. These brave leaders are bringing the albino crisis into the news and into political discussion. They are working with international organizations and, most importantly, are serving as role models. Their visibility and work is vital. It inspires people with albinism to become more active in lobbying for equal rights and shows those in the mainstream that if you allow a person with albinism to benefit from education, they can succeed at the highest level.
I traveled to Tanzania in the summer of 2011 to finalize research for
Golden Boy
. Not only did this allow me to do some key fact-checking (it turns out, for example, that the train leaves Mwanza at six a.m., not six p.m. like the railway website says!) but it also allowed me to meet with the staff of Under the Same Sun. UTSS moves people with albinism who have been attacked to safe houses, provides them with glasses and sun protection, and pays for their schooling. They also work on initiatives to help people understand albinism. Their informational campaigns teach that albinos are people just like anyone else, that albinism is a condition inherited from both the mother and the father, and that albinos have no magical powers and should be treated with respect and human dignity.
If you are interested in engaging with this issue, there are multiple things you can do. You can collect vision aids (glasses, magnifying glasses) and sun protection (sunscreen, wide-brimmed hats, long-sleeved sun-proof clothing) and send them to organizations that will distribute them to people with albinism in Africa. You can raise money for advocacy groups that promote the humanity of people with albinism in government circles. You can also do some of your own advocacy by writing letters to members of the government, encouraging them to pay attention to this human rights crisis. Last, but definitely not least, you can choose to always treat those who look different from you with respect and kindness. Positive changes in the attitude of the world only happen one interaction at a time, one person at a time.
Be that one person.
Tara Sullivan
AUGUST 15, 2012