before.
Would it be worth it to kill
me
if itâs enough money to save the family, Chui?
I turn away, sickened.
âReally, Raziya,â Auntie says, âhow could you not have heard of it? More than twenty albinos were attacked just this past year. There are speeches on the radio telling the whole country how it must stop.â
âWe had to sell our radio five years ago,â Asu says, her voice hollow.
âWell,â says Auntie, ânow you know.â
Asu jerks to her feet. âWe have to leave! Mama, we have to leave now and go somewhere else. We canât stay here. We canât let them kill Habo!â
âNo,â says Mother softly. âNo, we canât.â
But I donât know if she is saying no, we cannot let them kill me, or no, we cannot leave. I feel like someone has tied a rope around my chest and is pulling it tighter, tighter. The sweat on my neck and palms feels cold even though I know the room is warm.
âWhere will we go?â asks Chui, the exhaustion plain in his voice. Iâm surprised that heâs so sure that we will all move to ensure my safety, and I feel bad for what I thought earlier. Heâs trying to protect me even when heâs so tired. Weâve been traveling for days, sleeping on roads and under trees and bushes. Iâm tired, too. Tiredness has sifted into all my joints, making them feel like they are filled with hot sand. For those few minutes before Auntie saw me, it felt like we had found a good place to stay. But, as usual, Iâve messed everything up, and now we have to move on again.
âWill we go home?â Chui asks.
Home,
I think, remembering.
Itâs early evening, the sun just sinking behind the hills, and we are all sitting together outside, waiting to eat dinner. Enzi is leaning against the wall, talking with Mother as she cooks. Theyâre both smiling. Iâm too young yet to think about going to the little village school, and Chui and Asu chat away about their day and what they learned. I sit quietly and let the othersâ talk swirl around me like smoke, watching as Mother pounds the
ugali
around and around in the battered pot, spreading it up the sides to cook, and then pushing it into a ball so it doesnât burn. A last ray of sun slices through the air around us and it looks like all the dust of the world has turned into gold. When this happens, Asu scoops me up into a hug and kisses my head before settling me in her lap and finishing her conversation with Chui. I know then that the long-shadowed light of the setting sun has reminded her of me, her golden brother. I sit there, safe in her lap, and watch the gold dust settle over us all.
âWhat would we go home to?â Motherâs voice snaps me into reality. Sheâs right, of course. âHomeâ is our little village outside of Arusha. But we didnât have enough money to stay there in the first place, and now thereâs nothing to go home to. No house, no farm, no father.
âHow much money do you have?â asks Auntie.
Mother tells her. Itâs a pitiful amount. Auntie crunches her forehead into her head scarf again and plants her hand on her hip. Her other hand swishes the tea around and around in her cup.
âYou wonât get two streets over with so little. And with three children? How did you even stay alive on your way here?â Itâs not a question that she expects to get an answer for, and none of us gives one. Auntie gets up and begins to pace. âI donât have any money to give you,â she says, answering a question we havenât asked. âWe saved for two years to pay for Adin to go to university so that he can become a manager at the VicFish factory. If you had arrived a week ago, I could have given you that money. But itâs already paid; he has already started classes. We only have enough for the food we need to eat now.â
âWhat will we do?â Mother asks in