“She is like me,” I say, my voice unsteady.
Captain Magassela lowers his hand over my fist and squeezes. “We will find her.”
* * *
—
I find the strength to turn away and walk out the door. I hear Captain Magassela offering me a ride home, but I am overwhelmed by his concern and don’t dare take more than he has already offered. The streets are crowded with revellers. I sit outside the police station to gather my strength and catch my breath. I have not covered my head and face.
The roads are scarred with potholes. Halfway home, I take an uneven step into a divot and stumble. My knees and the heels of my palms burn, scraped red and embedded with gravel and dirt.
I cannot get up. I drag myself over to sit at the curb. One of my boots lies on its side where I fell.
A young girl of six or seven, half-naked in underwear, picks up my boot. She walks over to me and drops it within my reach. I have nothing to offer her in thanks. She swings from side to side, biting her thumbnail.
I unlace my other boot, slip it off my foot, and raise it to her. This beautiful child sits beside me and slips on both of my boots. She dances on the spot, gets a feel for their weight. Then she tries to run and trips. She does it again, and I cannot help but smile. May the children greet her knees. May she grow to be lucky. Be oretiti tree with the spread-out roots. I give voice to the words, sing them out loud. I get up and try to walk again. I fall twice more. I rest awhile before digging deep, finding the strength to stand and continue my way back.
When I reach the grounds of the Grande Hotel, the pulsing red light of the Coca-Cola machine hisses. I do not have the strength to climb the stairs to my room. I sit on the steps leading down to the pool to catch my breath. Aunt Simu used to say the dark sky speaks to those who look and listen to it.
I long to feel the concrete pressing against the soles of my feet.
I hear the rumble in the night air, the flash of lightning. The first drops begin. My eyes travel up towards the crumbling balconies. I see no one. Never have I felt so alone. A sharp pain cuts across my chest. My breath is gone.
Remember your name. I hear the faint words of a spirit and know it is Fatima. Lie here by me, the voice says, and I can smell cinnamon and clove.
“Pó,” I whisper. I spread my fingers over my knees, open my mouth to drink the rain that is now falling heavily.
Remember your name.
“Simu? Is that you?” I say out loud, as a thousand thorns of rain prick at my skin. The fat drops make holes in the dust. The mud splashes on my feet. The rust-stained water begins to drain into the pool. I can smell the wet clay of Simu’s skin, hear the tinkling of her jewellery in the breeze. “I have missed you, Simu.”
What is your name, child?
“You named me Liloe. You said I was never to call out the name I was given at birth until I was ready to be taken back to the place I came from.”
You have your power. Follow the river.
“Where are you, Simu?” I whisper, tears rising.
I look up at the hotel. All the shattered windows, the bushes that grow from cracks in its walls. Amalia inside. She is young, and there is still so much to teach her.
Call out your name. I hear the voice of my mother. I mourned the child that had lived inside me. But he survived in my mind, bright-eyed, his arms reaching out to me. We could have known such joy.
My mother’s heartbeat has come back for me—grown strong and loud just as mine falters. Dried grass, earth, smoke, her polished skin, the drip-drip of rain…You are my child, mine to me.
My head grows heavy. My shuka is soaked to my skin. My body will not stop shaking. The place I came from will be covered with darkness.
“Kibo,” I whisper.
The rain is coming down in sheets and the ground drinks hungrily. What it cannot take spills into the pool. Staring up at one square of yellow, my third-floor balcony, I spot Amalia in her white linen shuka. With the heavy rain and from this distance I cannot see clearly, but it looks like she is wearing my beaded collar. She holds a lantern over her head. She has fixed my soldier’s music box.
The lament raises a lump in my throat. Together, the spirits call out to me. Ezequiel’s song lifts and soars above the hotel.
Your name. What is your name, precious child of mine?
I want to smile. Amalia needs to know that everything will be fine. My beautiful child, slim and long-limbed, her skin the colour of night. Some residents appear at their windows and balconies. They are drawn by the unexpected song.
Your name, child?
Amalia will grow strong, good, and true. The story will continue in her. I do not know how to say goodbye. The rain comes down. I press the back of my head on the rim of the pool and look up. It is time to let the darkness cover me.
“Kibo.”
I am no longer afraid. I repeat my name again, quiet but resolute.
“Kibo. My name is Kibo.”
Acknowledgements
* * *
—
I am forever grateful for the encouragement and wisdom of my brilliant editor, Martha Kanya-Forstner. She knows how to make everything better. To my tireless publicist, Scott Sellers, thank you. Special thanks to Amy Black, Susan Burns, Kristin Cochrane, Zoë Maslow, Shaun Oakey, Terri Nimmo and Ward Hawkes. A special thanks to Paige Sisley. I also owe much to my incredible agent, Dean Cooke.
This book would not be in your hands if it were not for my trusted early readers. I want to thank them for their friendship and support: Susan Mockler, the late Bernie Grzyb, James Papoutsis, Rekha Lakra, Susan Shuter, Sheila Murray, and Hendrika Haasen.
I would like to thank my uncles and the many veterans I interviewed who relived their experiences with me. A special thanks to Gilberto Do Rego Sousa and his wife, Connie Almeida Sousa.
I am indebted to the staff of both the Canadian and Tanzanian branches of Under the Same Sun, an NGO committed to supporting and educating people with albinism in Tanzania. Special thanks to Peter Ash, founder and CEO of UTSS, for agreeing to have me shadow him on a visit to Tanzania. I want to thank Don Sawatzky for keeping me informed. Special thanks to Vicky Ntetema, a remarkable woman who works tirelessly to educate and protect the human rights of people with albinism. To all the unforgettable people, many of them children, who shared their stories of living with albinism. To find out more, including how you can help people with albinism, please visit www.underthesamesun.com
Deep gratitude to Gregory Carr, an American entrepreneur and philanthropist committed to the restoration of Mozambique’s Gorongosa National Park. Working alongside him is the passionate Vasco Galante, Director of Communications. What they shared with me became essential to the writing of this book. A special thanks to everyone who made my visit to Gorongosa unforgettable: Barbara Matadinho, Leonardo Mandevo, Moutinho Nhongo, and Yannik Bindert. To learn more about the important work these individuals do, please visit http://www.gorongosa.org. In Beira, a special thanks to Graem White and Carrie Davies. I am also grateful to Mário Pinto, who did the unthinkable and managed to secure access to the Grande Hotel to walk its halls and meet with many of its residents.
And finally, as ever, thanks and love to my sons, Julian, Oliver, Simon, who always make me want to do better, be better. And to my wife, Stephanie, to whose love this book is dedicated.
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