Page 44 of Eternally London

“What is her name?”

“We call hermtoto wa kike, which means baby girl in Swahili. We do not know her given name.”

“How old is she?”

“I guess around one year,” the doctor replies. “Would you like to see some of the other patients?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I follow the doctor over to a teenage girl who is missing one arm.

“This is Efia. She is fifteen, and she has AIDS. She was raped two years ago by a man with the disease. Many believe that, by having relations of that nature with a person with albinism, it will cure your AIDS. But, of course, that is not so.”

Shock momentarily renders me mute, and my mouth goes dry.

“Fuck me dead,” Oliver says under his breath.

I whip my head toward him, shooting a huge glare his way.

What the hell is wrong with you?I want to scream.

“Sorry,” he says with a shake of his head. “Australian expression. I meant no disrespect.”

I turn my focus back to the doctor. Remembering the vile words he just told us, I try so hard not to let my horror resonate on my face. I will my expression to appear empathetic. I know this girl cannot understand what we are saying, but she doesn’t need to see my pity.

“The man who raped her cut off her arm, too?”

“No, that was a different attack, only a month ago. She was bringing water back for her family, and a group of men stopped their truck, got out, held her down, and cut off her arm. Her family found her and brought her here.”

I’m glad we didn’t stop and get lunch prior to arriving, or mine would surely be all over Dr. Gyasi’s shoes.

I have nothing to say, so I don’t say anything as I follow the doctor to the next bed.

“This is Wambua. He is twenty-one. He just came to us yesterday. As you can see, he has skin cancer.”

Wambua has huge lesions all over his face, and a tumor the size of my fist is growing from his neck.

The doctor continues, “Only two percent of albinos live past the age of forty. The ones who are not murdered will die of skin cancer. Their light skin has no protection against the hot African sun. There is only one hospital that treats cancer in Tanzania, and it is a long drive for most people. If they get to the hospital, they will be treated for free. Yet many cannot afford the journey to the cancer center.”

“Where is it?” I ask.

“It is in Dar es Salaam.”

“That’s not too far. We just came from there this morning. Surely, he can get there,” I say.

“He came here because he does not have the money for bus fare to Dar. However, my brother is going into the city tomorrow to buy some supplies. He is going to take Wambua to the hospital. But it will be too late. His cancer has started invading his organs.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes, it is. But, for many albinos, it is reality.”

The doctor continues to tell me about his patients, and each story is as heartbreaking as the previous one. There’s so much sadness in this one space that it’s palpable, debilitating even. I have to will my feet to carry me to the next hospital bed because the truth is, my heart is begging me to run in an act of self-preservation.

“Are you ready to interview some of them?” Abdu asks me when the doctor has finished giving me the background of every patient.

“You think that’s okay? I mean, they’ve been through so much. I don’t feel right, making them talk to me about it. It seems almost cruel,” I say honestly.

“It’s not cruel,” Dr. Gyasi says. “You are giving them a voice, something that they’ve never had. Don’t think for a second that they don’t think about their experiences every single day. They do. Talking to you about their past, knowing that you care enough to tell their stories…it will give them some worth. It will help them heal.”

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