Page 45 of Eternally London

“Okay.” I nod.

I didn’t think of it that way. But it makes sense. The least I can do is give these people a voice.

With Abdu as my translator, I begin talking to the wounded within this building. They tell me their stories in painstaking detail.

I listen. I hold their hand. I tell them I care. I tell them that others in the world will care, too. I tell them they’re brave. And then I tell them good-bye.

Two percent make it beyond the age of forty. Two percent.

Before we leave the hospital, I stop by to see the angel baby who first stole my heart. She’s dropped her plastic water bottle, and instead, she clutches her new bracelets tight to her chest.

“I have to go, baby girl.”

I hold out my arms, and she allows me to pick her up. I squeeze her against my chest, resting my face on her puffy hair. I feel her soft skin against my palms as I run my hand up and down her arm.

I hold her back from me, so I can look into her blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll be in the two percent, okay?” My voice cracks. “Promise me.”

She shakes the bracelets in my face with a giggle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I smile down at her. “I’ll always carry you in my heart.”

I place my hand to my chest. She does the same, placing her hand against her own chest.

“Heart,” I say again.

I place her back down on her bed. Before I go, I lean down and give her a kiss on her cheek. Then, I rub the spot where I kissed her.

“Remember, in the two percent, okay?” I smile sadly, get up, and leave the hospital.

Abdu, Oliver, and I get checked in to a motel in Lindi, near the Indian Ocean. We eat dinner at the neighboring restaurant, but I don’t remember most of it. I’ve been zoned out since leaving the hospital, afraid to feel. If I had to process the gravity of emotions running through me, I’d crumble.

Abdu and Oliver order a round of beer, and I excuse myself from the table. I walk out to the ocean. Removing my sandals, I walk through the part where the ocean meets the land. My feet squish in the soft sand, leaving fleeting footprints that last for just a moment until the next wave of water washes them away. After a few minutes, I take a step back and sit in the warm sand. The ocean is a light shade of blue at this time of day, almost the color of the baby girl’s eyes.

With that thought, the tears come, and I let them. I cry for every single person I met today and the many others that I’ll never meet. I cry for the ones who have been abandoned by their parents. I cry for the ones who have or will endure more trauma than any person should ever have to experience. I cry for those who go through life without the love of a family because they’re seen as the devil. I cry for the ones who will be offered up for slaughter by a father or an uncle—all for money.

How can a human life be worth so little?Their poverty doesn’t justify their actions. A living, breathing, loving person is worth more than any dollar amount.

My task here is daunting. How will my retelling of their stories change anything if some here can’t grasp the simple fact that life is worth more than money?

It all feels so hopeless, and I feel so empty.

London

“There is a lot of ugliness in the world, but I have to remember to not let it blind me from the beautiful.”

—London Berkeley

We’ve been traveling around Tanzania for a couple of weeks. I’ve interviewed albino people from the cities and those hiding in the rural areas. I’ve heard more stories of nighttime attacks where limbs were cut off with machetes than I could possibly need to hear in a lifetime. I’ve taken more interviews and gathered so much information that I could write a year’s worth of daily articles. After I write the articles for the magazine, I think I’m going to write a novel about my experience. I want more people in first-world countries to know what these people go through. Before this trip, I didn’t have a clue.

I lie awake beneath my mosquito net. The reasons I can’t sleep are numerous and include the fact that I can hear rats scurrying around on the floor beneath the bed. I’m sleeping in a small bunk bed with a mattress that has no sheet and more lumps than my mom’s mashed potatoes.

Everything around me is dirty and gross, and I just want to be home in my bed, wrapped in Loïc’s arms. I haven’t showered in days and have resorted to cleaning myself with wet wipes, which are almost gone. Had I known the way this trip would go, I would have packed differently. I swear, I will never complain about anything else in my life ever again.

How can I complain about this sleeping arrangement when every child in this boarding school lives like this for years?For most, this will be the best they have. It’s hard for people with albinism to get work once they leave here. At least the metal gates surrounding this camp give the kids some peace of mind while they’re here.

Despite my sleeping arrangements, I’m afraid to close my eyes at night because, when I do, I see them. All of them. I see their faces and their injuries. I see their stories. I see their rapes and attacks. It’s horrifying. And I see her, the baby girl with the blue eyes. I worry she’ll be raped someday. I fear she’ll lose her limbs or her life.How long will she survive?

Finally, dawn comes.

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