what Bashima is seeing. Delila joins them. Bashima’s mother is outside the camp, looking in.
Delila says quietly to Aliya, “She has no choice but to leave her daughter here. She can’t protect her at their home. It took her five days to safely smuggle Bashima to the camp, hiding in the bush all the way. She lives a long way from here on foot...longer with one leg. She has three other children -- not albino -- at home whom she must care for.”
“What about her father?” Aliya asks.
Delila shakes her head, then replies, “Women who have albino babies –- if the midwife doesn’t kill and bury the babies before the mamas even get to hold them and before anyone finds out about them –- the mamas are accused of having had sex with a white man or even a Tokolosh.” She answers the inquisitive look on Aliya’s face, “It’s a devil imp that lives under beds and sleeping mats. Like most men, Bashima’s father left when he saw his albino baby.”
“I can relate to that. My father left when I was little.”
“Some of them do worse than leave. Her father was one of the attackers.”
“What!” Aliya’s voice cracks open the quiet of their soft whisper pulling the attention of all the kids. She turns her face from them back to the window, so they put their focus back on writing their names, and softly continues, “Poor Bashima! She loses her leg, her home, everyone she knows and loves...and by her own father’s hand.”
Aliya gives Bashima a gentle hug and leads her by the shoulder outside to visit with her mother.
#
Ten miles away in Northwest Tanzania, in a sparse hut, an albino cherub of about three years old is playing in the shadows, holding up his hand to the fine light. He squints, laughs, enjoying his game and the warmth.
His Mama calls him in to go to sleep. He runs into her arms for a goodnight embrace, and she lays him gently down on a mat to sleep.
Shadows play heavy against the fire. The boy sleeps peacefully close to his mother. Stars peer through the cracks in the grasses and boards that serve as walls. Figures cross the light from outside -- three thin, desperate hunters enter the hut and drag the boy from his slumber.
His Mama wakes and shrieks in protest, “ Hakuna! Acheni! ” No! Stop!
They ignore her pleas and persist.
“Mama!” The boy wails as he is taken to the front yard, near the fire.
One of the hunters holds his Mama back while the other two shove the boy to the ground. One raises a machete, and with brute force hacks at the little colorless body. The blade is raised and plunges down numerous times until there is silence. The mother stops fighting and collapses on her knees. The hunters take the boy’s limbs and leave what’s left on the ground in a pool of blood. The boy’s face looks strangely peaceful amid the shadows and blood.
#
This same night, Bashima is in the midst of night terrors, thrashing and screaming in her sleep.
Aliya comes to her side, cradles and comforts her. She sings a song that her Mama used to sing to soothe her:
Hush-a-by,
Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
And when you wake,
You shall have cake,
And all the pretty little ponies.
As she sings, Bashima fights sleep with all her strength. When her eyelids finally get too heavy, she nearly rests but her body twitches, especially where her leg was cut-off, her phantom limb. They make ghosts of children here one piece at a time.
Paint and bay, Sorrel and gray,
All the pretty little ponies.
So hush-a-by, Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
A tear runs down Aliya’s cheek.
#
Next morning, at the camp, Kennen is working with Jengo digging a hole in the ground, about two feet long and one foot wide, and three feet deep.
Aliya comes out of her hut, spots them and goes to them. “What are you guys up to?”
Before he can answer, the sound of a woman crying is heard in the distance. They all turn to see, the Mama carrying the remains she has left of the small boy
Delila says quietly to Aliya, “She has no choice but to leave her daughter here. She can’t protect her at their home. It took her five days to safely smuggle Bashima to the camp, hiding in the bush all the way. She lives a long way from here on foot...longer with one leg. She has three other children -- not albino -- at home whom she must care for.”
“What about her father?” Aliya asks.
Delila shakes her head, then replies, “Women who have albino babies –- if the midwife doesn’t kill and bury the babies before the mamas even get to hold them and before anyone finds out about them –- the mamas are accused of having had sex with a white man or even a Tokolosh.” She answers the inquisitive look on Aliya’s face, “It’s a devil imp that lives under beds and sleeping mats. Like most men, Bashima’s father left when he saw his albino baby.”
“I can relate to that. My father left when I was little.”
“Some of them do worse than leave. Her father was one of the attackers.”
“What!” Aliya’s voice cracks open the quiet of their soft whisper pulling the attention of all the kids. She turns her face from them back to the window, so they put their focus back on writing their names, and softly continues, “Poor Bashima! She loses her leg, her home, everyone she knows and loves...and by her own father’s hand.”
Aliya gives Bashima a gentle hug and leads her by the shoulder outside to visit with her mother.
#
Ten miles away in Northwest Tanzania, in a sparse hut, an albino cherub of about three years old is playing in the shadows, holding up his hand to the fine light. He squints, laughs, enjoying his game and the warmth.
His Mama calls him in to go to sleep. He runs into her arms for a goodnight embrace, and she lays him gently down on a mat to sleep.
Shadows play heavy against the fire. The boy sleeps peacefully close to his mother. Stars peer through the cracks in the grasses and boards that serve as walls. Figures cross the light from outside -- three thin, desperate hunters enter the hut and drag the boy from his slumber.
His Mama wakes and shrieks in protest, “ Hakuna! Acheni! ” No! Stop!
They ignore her pleas and persist.
“Mama!” The boy wails as he is taken to the front yard, near the fire.
One of the hunters holds his Mama back while the other two shove the boy to the ground. One raises a machete, and with brute force hacks at the little colorless body. The blade is raised and plunges down numerous times until there is silence. The mother stops fighting and collapses on her knees. The hunters take the boy’s limbs and leave what’s left on the ground in a pool of blood. The boy’s face looks strangely peaceful amid the shadows and blood.
#
This same night, Bashima is in the midst of night terrors, thrashing and screaming in her sleep.
Aliya comes to her side, cradles and comforts her. She sings a song that her Mama used to sing to soothe her:
Hush-a-by,
Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
And when you wake,
You shall have cake,
And all the pretty little ponies.
As she sings, Bashima fights sleep with all her strength. When her eyelids finally get too heavy, she nearly rests but her body twitches, especially where her leg was cut-off, her phantom limb. They make ghosts of children here one piece at a time.
Paint and bay, Sorrel and gray,
All the pretty little ponies.
So hush-a-by, Don’t you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby.
A tear runs down Aliya’s cheek.
#
Next morning, at the camp, Kennen is working with Jengo digging a hole in the ground, about two feet long and one foot wide, and three feet deep.
Aliya comes out of her hut, spots them and goes to them. “What are you guys up to?”
Before he can answer, the sound of a woman crying is heard in the distance. They all turn to see, the Mama carrying the remains she has left of the small boy
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