Pó
THE CHILDREN’S PLAYROOM was chosen because the door has a lock, and it is not as damaged as the other rooms. The plaster on most walls has been torn down to get at copper pipes. Much of the hotel was stripped of wires, and wooden floors have been ripped up for firewood. All that remains is a shell.
Ophelia watches over the children. She is patient with them, gentle with their needs. She understands what it is to grow up an albino at the Grande Hotel. It is her home now. Lately, she has been bold enough to slip away from the hotel at night. It worries me. She is sixteen, and I know that she sneaks out to visit with men at the bars and the billiards in Beira. She pencils in her eyebrows and dyes her hair black. I understand her reasons; all a girl wants at her age is to fit in, the freedom to feel there is only one way things can go. She takes risks, lost in the idea that there is nothing beyond her own experience. The men give her money. I do not judge her, I simply worry.
There are seven albino children in the playroom. The youngest is five, the oldest, twelve. A few of them sit colouring or practising their letters. An NGO from the capital visits twice a year to supply them with eyeglasses, but still their faces press up close to their books. The NGO uses the term persons with albinism or PWAs when referring to people like me. I appreciate the growing resistance to the word albino, and part of me is sensitive to the change, but I tell them I am of a different generation and am not wounded by it.
Ophelia stands at attention by the beds as four other children hop from one mattress to the next. They wrap themselves in the mosquito netting and swing from cot to cot. They land and a small cloud of dust lifts and sparkles in the shafts of sunlight that stream through the shutters. Amalia plays with the children. She is the only dark-skinned child her age here in Block B. She reaches into her pocket and draws out an elephant carving. It is one of the gifts Ezequiel gave me. I have given it to Amalia. The story that inspired it is her favourite. She holds the carving in her hand, her arm straight and raised. One of the boys grabs for it. Two other children reach up and clamour to hold it. The boy elbows the other children away, toppling them off the cot onto the floor. He is left standing alone with Amalia, his fingers crawling up her wrist. She stretches, holds her treasure high in the air.
I am tired. As I climb the curved staircase on the way back to my room, my hand is guided by the iron railing that was once there. It was torn out long ago and sold, like everything else in this once grand hotel. My mind still sees it there, at the top of the stairs. I remove my eyeglasses and the staircase is unclear. My mind fills in the blanks.
Using the walls for support, I walk down the dark hall to my room. I ignore the squatters cooking their food and smoking in the hallway. They reach out to me, try to grab the hem of my shuka or dare to touch my feet. I have learned to keep walking. My room will be cool and my bed soft. I will be alone. Down the dark hall I make out the shape of a figure smoking. The man sees me approaching and his posture stiffens. The man bows slightly as I near and I know it is Serafim.
“Bom dia,” he says.
“You are early,” I say, putting on my eyeglasses. I walk into my room feeling good about the pink sari draping around my neck that once belonged to Fatima. Serafim knocks on the inside wall before he enters. I do not turn to greet him right away.
I catch him placing a jar on the table next to the chair.
“I hope you don’t mind. I brought some cream for you.” He raises his hand to his neck. He digs into his bag and pulls out a chocolate wrapped in colourful foil. “And a chocolate for Amalia.”
I give Serafim a sly smile. “That child’s affections cannot be bought. Sit, please,” I say, gesturing to the chair.
I lean my shoulder against the window frame, looking out. By the sound of it he has dragged the chair closer to the table before sitting. There is the snap of an elastic band, which most likely holds his notebook closed. He leafs through some sheets and I hear the scratch of pencil on paper—he is writing the date next to the word NOTES. I have seen it before. I inhale and close my eyes, the familiar sounds taking me back to before he’d lie down to sleep—my soldier writing on his own scraps of paper.
“When did you first know you were good with words?”
“It’s the one thing I’ve always done well.” Serafim nibbles at the arm of his eyeglasses. He waits a few seconds. “After my grandmother died, I did not speak. For months I tried, but the sounds never took shape. It was my teacher who encouraged me to write things down instead.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s how those words and first phrases presented themselves, on paper. And I felt free.”
“Have you ever tried to write your story down?”
Serafim wets his lips and I think he looks like a hungry man.
I tap my head to make it clear I hold everything inside of me. “When words are written,” I say, “they can’t be changed. If those same words swim in my head, I can always make them do what I ask.”
I take in the shape of him, sitting comfortably in the chair. He wears a linen shirt that remains dry. He is not shaven, but his hair is greased and parted on the side. As he readies himself, his expression is soft, an invitation that draws me in. I want to tell him everything, but I am not a young girl, and I know what it is to hold back.
One night, when I was thirteen, Simu nudged me awake. Koinet and Lebo were sleeping on the raised platform, under their skins, while Majuto slept on his back, his head on his wooden pillow.
“Get up, Liloe,” Simu said, rolling me over onto my back.
Outside, the warmth of the rain struck me. The moon was out, and strange shadows were cast across the ground. Simu’s ankles were covered in mud. Her shuka clung to her body. She held out a sack.
“Simu?”
“You must leave tonight, Liloe,” she said, grabbing me and holding me tight. “I have watched over you with love and care. But the others will harm you and I cannot protect you from them. You are no longer safe here. I will not let you stay.” She cupped my face in her hands. “You will go to the place your mother knew well. I am sending you to the city, to a great friend of your mother’s. Your mother followed the river to the city a few times to sell jewellery to this woman. She trusted her. You will be safe there. There is a letter in this bag. I do not understand the words, but once you arrive, you must show the paper to someone there. There are coins and food in the bag as well.” Simu turned over a large gourd covered by hide. Underneath were my mother’s beaded collars and earrings.
“You must go, but wear your mother’s things proudly. Use them wisely.”
I preferred to travel in the dark. The moonlight guided me and comforted me. It was also safer to do so. The animals were not hungry, people were more easily avoided, and the sun did not beat down on my skin. I was heading to the large city near the sea.
When I grew hungry, I trapped a few small fish in my shuka and swallowed them whole. They swam down my throat. The worms I dug up from the riverbed tasted of mud. They too were slippery when I swallowed. I held my stomach and sang the song to the fishes swimming and the worms wriggling in my belly. When I noticed the signs that a village was close, I moved away. I listened for predators and kept my distance from lions—remained calm, never turned my back, and never ran. With other animals, like baboons, I made myself appear bigger by raising my arms over my head and making noise. The thoughts of food and water and animals and shelter crowded out thoughts of Simu and my home.
From a distance I saw a large stone where I knew I could find shade. As I drew nearer, I could see it was not a rock but a truck. It must have swerved into a huge baobab. A shrub had grown through the floor into the front seats. I scanned the plain. It was rough and dusty—a dull brown landscape—and everything seemed to have faded away. The people in this truck had been lost, stuck in the middle of nowhere under a burning sun. From the condition of the truck’s metal, it may have been there for years. As a child, I had seen a few of these machines from a distance, kicking up a long trail of dust. They never came close.
I needed rest. I crawled into the back seat. The shade from the roof felt good. I closed my eyes and slept.
I found a bag tucked under the seat. Inside were some men’s clothes—long-sleeved shirts and trousers. I could use these to cover my head and neck. Underneath the clothes were some papers, held together in packets with wire. I couldn’t read the scribbles written in these books and pages, but I thought the paper would start a strong fire. My fingers touched something smooth and cool in the bag—a pair of men’s boots. I did not hesitate—the soles of my feet were cracking. I slipped on the boots. They were big, but my toes felt like they were dipping into a cold stream. I held back my tears. Do not be afraid, I heard in my head, and I knew that Simu and my mother were with me.
I had counted over thirty moons since I had left my village, and I feared there would be more moons than I could count before I reached the city. There were days when I felt I was no closer, as if I was walking in circles, but I pushed ahead. I ate berries. I no longer had the strength to dig for roots.
My feet began to vibrate with the ground. I climbed up to the first branch of the nearest tree. It was high enough to see the train coming. Steam and black smoke breathed from its head. I slipped down and ran through the trees and shrubs, I ran to the edge of the bush. Peeking through the shadows, I could see the train speeding along the plain. I could see people riding its roof or sitting in open parts of its cars, their legs dangling out over the edge. I was too hungry to be fearful. I ran towards the serpent that would take me to the great city by the sea.
In the distance, the train slowed down. A small herd of elephants crossed the tracks. I was thankful that I did not have time to think. I ran fast, my boots kicking the back of my heels. I threw my bag into one of the cars just as it jolted forward. I grabbed hold of a metal bar and swung my wobbly legs and body up onto the wooden floor. I dragged myself to crouch between large, ropy squares. The train’s movement travelled up my back to my neck and head. With every gentle turn I tilted onto my side. It was dark inside the car, except for the lines of light that squeezed between the wooden walls. I sank back and pressed my hands against the bales of sisal to steady myself. The train gained speed. After a while, my heart did not beat so fast and my breathing steadied.
It took me quite a while to grow accustomed to the sounds and the movement. I could not look down because the grasses blurred, but if I looked across, out into the plain, it was as if all trees and mountains were standing still. Everything had a shape to it, even when sand grains rose in the wind, dulling the sun. I crossed through low scrub that stretched far away into the distance where the purple thumbprints of mountains smudged the edge of the sky.
With my eyes half-closed, I passed patches of green where wild dogs chased the train. It was only when I neared the coast, and my trance began to obscure the shoreline, that I had no energy left for excitement. I let sleep take hold of me.
The train pulled up by a long house. A pair of man’s legs dangled from the roof of the train. The man threw his bag to the ground, then jumped down and ran off. I stepped out onto the slanted concrete platform. A woman balancing a shapeless bundle on her head stacked a basket of chickens on top of a sack of dried fish. A man in uniform began to shake his arms and raise his voice at her. I looked away. I had seen hunters but never men dressed in uniforms with guns across their backs. All the jittering and knocking during my travels had made my stomach weak, but all was forgotten when I saw the city houses, square and tall, with windows going up three high. Their fronts were painted a brilliant white, and I thought if I pressed up against their walls I would disappear like a chameleon.
“But you were only thirteen,” Serafim says. “You must have felt so alone in the big city. Were you scared?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What went through your mind when you arrived?”
“I didn’t know what to expect and it was all new to me. I was tired, but I do remember feeling there was a place for me in that city.”
“What made you feel that way?”
“Simu’s words. She knew I could find peace in that place, the way my mother had.”
“Did you?”
I take a deep breath, fill up my lungs until they ache. I exhale, slowly.
I allowed all the people to stream around me. Through the high fence I saw two-wheeled vehicles everywhere, trundling slowly past. Women’s dresses and headscarves fluttered, orange and violet and blue. Other people had stepped off the train and pushed me further into the city in a swell. They carried with them parcels and baskets on their heads. Words were spoken, some shouted and yelled. Not in Maa, my language, but in Swahili, a language I had heard when travelling hunters or neighbouring tribes passed through our village. I also heard people speaking in English, or what I thought was English, words Simu had used, words my mother had taught her after travelling to the city. Night was dropping and I saw the faint moon full. My shuka was stiff with sweat and dust. It cracked when I moved.
I reached for the small slip of paper Simu had given me. I unfolded it. I could not read it and needed help. But who could I trust? I walked along one of the streets, keeping close to the walls of the large homes. I did not notice if they saw me differently. They did not point or stare at my difference. They did not cross the road to avoid brushing against me. The people seemed so busy moving from one place to the next. I wanted to find a tree to sleep under, but short walls of concrete surrounded the trees. I would not feel safe sleeping out in the open in the middle of this city I did not know. Perhaps if I breathed softly, and just picked a direction, I would find my way.
“You are lost,” a deep voice said, in Maa.
He stepped out from the shadow of an entranceway. Oh, he was tall and elegant, dressed as a lion warrior, his red-checked shuka draped across his ebony shoulders. His hair was the same red as his shuka.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, leaning against his staff. I could see his white teeth as he spoke. He was not much older than me.
I offered the note with Simu’s scribbles to him. “Can you help me?”
“Oh, the crazy Goan?” he said, and urged me to follow him.
“You know this woman?”
“Everyone knows Fatima.”
I could not tear my eyes away from the way he walked, balancing his stride with his hunting staff. Even in the false light that glowed from the houses, there was something gracious in the way his body moved.
“We are here,” he said, handing back the slip of paper. He smiled. “Would you like me to stay near?”
I wanted him to stay, but I shook my head, releasing him. He disappeared around one of the jagged corners.
The house had grilled windows, balconies, and an Arab door painted the colour of sorghum berries. I slapped at it. I did it again, and then slipped down to the ground, exhausted.
I heard a click. A woman said something I did not understand. Her straight black hair fell over her shoulders. Streaks of silver framed her face. She was trying to hit me with a broom handle, shouting words I could not understand.
I was untethered and there was no way of attaching myself to anything. I was ready to give up, leave, when I remembered what Simu had said. I opened my bag and pulled out my mother’s necklace. I flattened the beaded necklace against my neck and chest.
The woman pointed her red fingernail at my necklace. “Namunyak,” she whispered, before covering her mouth with her trembling fist.
“My mother,” I said.
The woman caressed the intricate beadwork, traced her fingers along it. “E-silá?” she said, the Maa word for daughter. She opened her door wide.
As Serafim records my words and scribbles his notes, he is quiet. I look down at my bare feet. They are whiter than the rest of me—my soles smooth as beach stones. For most of my life I have protected them with boots; always men’s boots because they are made better. I no longer run, or even walk long distances. My hands do all the work. Amalia often says, “Your hands are not as pretty as your feet, Alma.” She calls me the Portuguese word for soul, and it pleases me. But a poor soul I am—two of my fingernails were crushed pounding corn for ugali, and they never grew back. The skin around my fingers is hard and yellow. Bleach no longer reddens my hands or makes them itch. I am immune to its bite. This is not true for other parts of my skin, which are covered in lesions from the sun. This condition is shared by many of us who live in this hotel. Often these marks do not go away but change, becoming darker and more sinister. I cover these markings so that others like me are not alarmed. Amalia is the only one who sees my open sores, and she ministers to them as if playing a game. I love her for it. And after I tell Amalia the stories of my life, I remind her that I am also grateful that I can still lay my hands on children’s heads and feel their hair. I spend my days soothing their blistered skin.
Serafim slips his pencil behind his ear, buries it in his hair. He sets the recorder atop the small table, next to his ashtray, trapping my words inside the metal box.
“I followed the river,” I whisper to myself, turning my back to the grounds and the whale breaching beyond the muddy waters of the Buzi River.
“And was she crazy?”
I am annoyed by the question. “The city could have swallowed me up, but Fatima gave me a home.”
“How long did you stay with her?” Serafim sits on the edge of his seat, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands are held together as if in prayer. I have given him only bare facts. I want to say, I held her for her last breath.
“Almost two years in Dar es Salaam. At first it was difficult to speak to her. I only spoke Maa, but she had come from Goa and spoke Portuguese and Konkani. She came to Dar es Salaam to marry a merchant, who himself was Goan and Catholic. But he drank and put her to work like a servant in his shop. She learned Swahili. The few words she knew in Maa she had learned from my mother. Fatima said it was best to teach me one language—Portuguese. She said it was the only language God understood and it would serve me well no Jardim do Éden, she used to say. No one would bother us there. ‘It is high on a mountain, a place where the four rivers meet.’”
“Was that Mount Gorongosa?” Serafim asks.
I close my eyes and nod. “The city turned ugly. Soldiers in Dar were getting ready for their turn to cross the border and liberate themselves from colonial power. Fatima said to keep my distance. Their war was not with us.”
“Is that why you left?”
“Fatima was tired. Diabetes. ‘Only one place can protect us,’ she said. ‘Together, we will find God’s garden.’” I cover a small yawn.
“I understand. We’ve had a long day.” Yet Serafim makes no move to leave. Stretching my back, I lean against the window frame. Serafim is up and takes a few steps closer. I do not put my eyeglasses on—the shape of him allows me to imagine Zeca in his place. I feel faint, and when I open my eyes Serafim is by my side, holding my hand and my elbow to steady me. The ocean breezes are still.
“Every morning, with the call to prayer, Fatima and I walked to her fancy goods shop. She sat on her high stool behind her shop counter and read the newspaper in the morning, awaiting her first customers. I organized the colourful khangas and kitenges into their piles. Along one side of the shop were shelves displaying carvings, baskets, and gently used books. Below the shelves was a board covered in soft black fabric. Small pins held beautiful jewellery from tribes across Africa. She told me that nothing she sold there compared with the beauty of my mother’s necklaces and earrings.
I cleaned the house for Fatima and minded the shop. She liked to send me to the market or to other vendors with notes, but she encouraged me to use my words. Lunch was always from KT Shop because she was friendly with the owner, who made real kabobs. Along its narrow roads, the city was always filled with market-goers. Radios droned, truck engines coughed and sputtered.”
“And you felt safe by yourself? You were never lost?” Serafim stood close enough now that his breath warmed my neck.
“If I kept my eye on the grey-spired cathedral that was by the harbour, I knew where to turn and how to find my way back.”
“How did people react to you?”
“As I said, the streets were packed with many kinds of people. They looked at me, but they were far too busy to stare. This was the big city and I could easily disappear there. I was a chameleon.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“I wanted to stay. I learned Portuguese and a few words in English, a little Swahili. People did not mind me. Shop owners smiled and offered me blessings. They would call out to me, ‘Pó,’ and I liked the sound—the way my name lifted through the air.”
“But why did you leave?”
I hear Amalia whistling before I see her skipping into the room. When she sees Serafim she freezes. I twist my body towards her and lose my balance and my knees buckle.
Serafim catches me before I hit the floor. “Amalia, pull back the covers. I need to get Pó into bed.”
Amalia rushes at us, her face coming into focus. She kicks Serafim in the shin and wedges her body between us as Serafim stumbles back. Amalia guides me to the edge of my bed. I search for my eyeglasses on my head and lower them onto the bridge of my nose. I look to Serafim gathering his notebooks and pencils, his recorder and bag. He stuffs everything inside his satchel and swings it over his head and onto his shoulder.
“She is a fine protector. I can see you are in good hands,” he says, raising his hand to wish us a good day.
“Filha, you can’t do that to my friend.”
Amalia removes the boots from my feet. My voice is caving in, losing most of its conviction. She senses it and throws her arms around my neck to hug me. Her fingers scolding open wounds. I fall back onto my pillow. I manage to turn onto my stomach, my cheek pressing into the pillow. The cancer is eating away at me. There is a constant burning weakness in my bones; the morsels of food I eat taste like metal. Every morning is a gift, but as the day passes I am reminded of precious time.
When I open my eyes, Amalia is holding a ripe mango and some rice in a tin. She peels the mango and with her juice-covered fingers places a small piece of the fruit between my lips.