Serafim
I UNDO MY BELT and pour myself a Scotch. I should call reception to collect my laundry. It all needs to be washed for tomorrow. Everything I possess can fit in one bag. Travelling light and owning little has always given me the freedom to pick up and leave.
I kick off my shoes and press the heels of my bare feet against the balcony’s railing. The last story I wrote was for a national magazine—“Untouched by Civilization: The Hidden Peoples of the Amazon.” I spent months in a remote part of the Brazilian jungle getting closer to what I was certain was a previously unidentified tribe. The story and photos went viral. Anthropologists were horrified that I had dared to chronicle these people they had never heard about. They wanted answers, coordinates, confirmation. I needed to get away, take some time and consider how to live with what I had done—bringing these untouched tribes to a hungry world that couldn’t get enough. I got too close, exposed them to disease, and opened unprotected lands to illegal gold mining. All for the story.
I take off my shirt, knot one of the sleeves to the balcony railing. I light a cigarette, top off my drink, and take a swig, feel the burn.
Shortly after I checked into the Hotel Tivoli, I dragged a chair and table out onto the fourth-floor balcony of my corner room, arranging them so that I could see bits of the ocean to my left and the fragile buildings of this poor city to my right. The shouts from shop vendors and street brawls that spilled from bars onto dirt roads, the smell of smoke from outdoor kitchen fires, all reminded me of the favela where I was raised. Like Serrinha and surrounding Florianópolis, there’s nothing beautiful about this city; nothing about its architecture inspires me, except at dusk when lights twinkle from apartments or the glow from open storefronts floods the streets, and I think of quieter times.
The first week with Pó was filled with her graphic accounts of the many who had come to the Grande Hotel to see her, to share their stories of survival. Interviews with PWAs—persons with albinism—were granted. Pó was always in the room to interpret my questions, to offer short bursts of detail to clarify stories of fear and torture. When I interviewed Winfrida Mbiti, it was Pó who recounted her story. The young woman sat in her chair, her face turned to the side; she would not look at me. Winfrida had been lured away by an uncle and cousin. They took her into the bush to help them look for stray goats. There they hacked at her arm. Her ear had been cut off. Much later, during a church service, her cousin broke down and told the pastor everything: his role, how he held her down as his father mutilated her. They were both sent to trial, but were set free. When Winfrida healed, she ran away. When I asked Pó why Winfrida would not look at me, did I frighten her, Pó said that the only way she could hear me was by turning her good ear toward me.
Pó provided me with the names of people who had been attacked, murdered, and even those whose graves had been robbed. But it is the unwillingness of the police or government authorities to address the atrocities that takes so much out of her. The fight is draining her and she looks frail. I am committed to reporting her story as she tells it. I have been detached, an observer who keeps one eye open and the other eye, the passionate eye, shut.
No more. From now on, both eyes wide open.
The small recorder rests next to my drink. I take another sip and light another cigarette. The smoke curls up toward the half-lit sky. I conjure Pó in my mind—her long frame standing on the balcony, the curve of her back turned to me, her shuka clinging to her body. I let the shape of her take form. I press Play.
“When did you realize you were—”
“Different?”
“Yes.”
“If I think hard and close my eyes until there is only darkness, I can hear my mother’s heartbeat still. You may not believe me when I say I can remember the smell of my birth, of dried grass and earth and smoke and the sticky stench of blood.”
“Are you sure you do remember? Might it be that these details were told to you by Simu or others in the village?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m sorry. Please continue.”
“I was not meant to survive. I was born in my mother’s hut. My aunt Simu recalled how that night the roof leaked with the drip-drip of rain. She looked after my mother, soothing her with stories that the raindrops were tears of joy from the gods to greet me. My father saw it differently. He stayed nearby, with the other men, waiting. The rain under a fat moon was the sign he had been looking for. He would have a strong son, worthy of a great warrior. My mother pushed me out into a warm evening, where I took my first breath. I was told this story countless times by Simu. I never tired of it. The moment I slipped out from my mother I was greeted by the moonlight that crept into the mouth of our mud hut. My pale body dragged across my mother’s belly and to her breast. My skin, white as bone. A curse. A moon child, the men muttered, before running away. Simu remained to soothe the concern in her sister’s eyes.
“I did not cry, but my hungry breaths took up too much air. Simu poured some milk between my mother’s lips, and my mother spat it on the ground. She then pinched milk from her own breast and sprinkled it on the ground as well—a gift for Olapa, goddess of the moon and wife to Enkai, god of the sun. Simu would often recount the story of how Olapa had once wounded Enkai. To cover up his wound, he took to shining so bright that no one could look straight at him and see his shame. To punish Olapa, Enkai plucked out one of her eyes. You can still see her missing eye.”
“And your father’s reaction?”
“My father thrust himself into the entrance. Simu pressed her back to the mud wall. She said he was a handsome man of graceful bearing. That night, when he saw me feeding, he turned ugly. He reached down for me with one hand and with his other hand raised his warrior sticks.
“‘You know we must rid ourselves of this curse,’ he said.
“‘This is your child,’ my mother told him. ‘If you do not claim her then she will be mine—mine to me. She will not be killed. She will live to walk and be free.’”
“He relented.”
“My father knew she would fight to the death. He backed out of the hut and tore at the marriage necklace my mother had made for him. Blue-black beads showered down on us. Villagers had called on Tonkei, our oloiboni, who arrived before the sun.”
“I’m sorry, what’s an oloiboni?”
“Our healer. A dried twig of a man, he wrapped himself in a lion’s hide and wore a headdress of ostrich feathers that made him appear bigger and more powerful than he was. Simu did not want him there, but word had spread. Tonkei said he was a descendant of Enkai made in two forms—the black god, who was benevolent, and the red god, who was vengeful. Simu saw only the red god in Tonkei, all cunning and mischief. He told prophecies to collect money or food, sold amulets and necklaces in exchange for his protection or potions. When displeased or angered, he cursed the rains to stay away or he ordered the cows’ udders to dry and crack.
“Early that morning, Tonkei called up to the gods. He shook stones from a gourd, looked at how they had fallen. The answer was clear to him. The gods would decide my fate. It was no sign. For hundreds of years milk-skinned children like me had faced the same test.
“Tonkei crept into the hut while my mother slept and took me from her. ‘It is the colour of a dead tooth,’ he said.
“Upon hearing his words, my mother shook herself clear of the hides and shukas that entangled her legs, dragged herself with what little strength she had to the opening of our hut. People had gathered around the fire. Brightness washed over them under a hunter’s moon. My father stood in the distance. Tonkei placed me naked on the ground, and I squirmed in front of the thorn-brush kraal. Simu remembered the rain pouring down, but I did not cry. The latch was unhinged and the gate flung wide. The herd pounded their shadows until the earth stopped trembling and the world grew quiet once again.
“The villagers were content that Enkai had made a wise decision. My mother sobbed into her hands. My father’s howl faded behind the trail of cattle dust. In that moment, the instant when the moon gives way to the break of dawn, the shrill cry of a newborn pierced the stillness.”
“It is a remarkable story.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Do you?”