Before the Law

Before the LawNote: This story appeared in Mixer as "Zeru" in

slightly different form.

Outside, as I walked over the rocky soil to mynew hut beyond the village beside the mines, Ispotted a young zeru running along a field ofcorn. His arms hugged a Zaramo guitar as heran, his ghostly pale face looked out at theworld in shock, as he knew he did not belongthere, and my mind was struck with a flash ofgenius. ‘My fortune can be made at last, zeru,and you will be my redeemer,’ I whispered, andthen he disappeared over the ridge leadingdown to the road that leads to Dar es Salaam.

Kilasa Nyalandu My mother protected me when I was young. She called me her ‘handsome white lion,’ and Iwas sheltered by her from the rest of the tribe. With her help, I learned to sing and play theZaramo guitar, and when I was eventuallychased from the village, at age 15, I had theskills that would later save my life in the big cityof Dar es Salaam. You see, among my people,being an albino is either good luck or a curse. The sad fact is that you are only good luck if youare dead. For example, today, in my Tanzania,an albino hand is selling for two millionshillings. Some fishermen believe that, if theyweave the red hair from an albino into theirnets, fish will be attracted by the goldenglimmer. Miners for gold, rubies and tanzaniteare reported to pay large sums for juju (magic)amulets, which they wear around their necks orstrapped to their arms and which are made upwith a potion mixed from albino body parts.Others are said to bury the bones of albinos inthe ground they are digging. Our blood is evendrunk by the killers, who are hired by the witchdoctors to obtain our flesh and carcass byhacking us alive, to preserve the spiritual powerof our bodies. Our souls? Perhaps we have

none. We are, after all, the zeru zeru. We arelike the god Jesus, the Christian missionariestalk about, who can bring you good fortunethrough the simple acts of eating his body anddrinking his blood. When you are alive, however, your skin cannotstand the harsh sun beating down on it, as it didwhen I was working with my family as anartisanal miner, and you often develop skincancer, as I did, and even my mother could notprotect me. My hip-hop music, and the CancerInstitute in Dar es Salaam, ultimately saved mefor this last attempt at taking back my heritageand saving my people from destruction.

* * *

Deogratios Gold West Ashanti Mines caused me and mywife to leave our village in August, 1996, as theysent the police to force us out of our nativehome and into the bush. I did not have time totake my medicines, and, later, out in theinhospitable wilderness of the jinns, ourancestors, I had to watch my wife die ofdepression. Today, however, I am the leading sangomas, orwitch doctor, in the Kahama district. But, I wasa crazy man when I came into the new goldmining headquarters that hot day following myexile. It had rained for two weeks, and myleopard skin was drenched, and my hair andbeard were as bushy as the lion’s mane. Theybrought me into their compound, and I wastaken to a dispensary, where I met with a doctorand was treated with their medicines. And then, the following day, after sleeping ontheir bed and dreaming the magic of myancestors, I was greeted by their director, a

Mister Gladden. He spoke Swahili and Arabic,and he told me he was supported by the WorldBank in their newest venture into Tanzania. Healso told me that many of my people had beenmoved, for their own good, onto reservationsoutside the new mine. He said I was appointedas their medicine man, and I would have thecomplete cooperation of the local authorities inmy practice. He smiled and asked me my name. I told him, ‘Deogratios. God’s will.’ He shookmy hand, told me to see his assistant in theouter room who would supply me with newclothes, some money and show me to my hutoutside the gold mine headquarters. He saidthe mine would be hiring some people to workfor them, although, he admitted, they alreadyhad brought in several hundred outside workersfrom other countries. ‘We are, after all,’ he said, ‘representing theworld now,’ and his white hand was brought upto his slick blonde hair, and the fingers of thathand moved through the hair the way a womanpreens herself. His fingers were those of awoman, and I did not trust him. He told metheir medicine was very weak, and they neededmy help and my strong medicine to treat themany people outside the Gold West AshantiMines. And so, I began my new life that day, and I hadmy first zeru dream inside my new sangomashut, outside the village, the wind whipping overmy body, the rain falling like knives on mythatched roof. My dream took me back to thecolonial days, the days before my birth. Wewitch doctors can travel through space andtime, and this is what we are often paid to do. Itis part of our magic. My dream told me of howwhite people have always had a magical effecton my people. When the Germans and Britishruled, we marched for them, we fought for

them, and we waited on them with silver servingtrays inside their dining rooms with their softcandlelight and their red velvet chairs andchaise lounges. Our women began to bathetheir skin with the creams the colonial rulerssold them in their company markets. Thiscream, they promised, would make your skinlighter, and the women competed with eachother to become most like their masters, thewhite Germans and British. We all wanted tobecome white, and then, like magic, our womenbegan to give birth to the white zeru zeru, theghost children. At first, we believed thesealbinos were our connection to the white rulers. We believed we could parade them in front ofour masters, and they would take them in,giving us equal status at long last. But this wasnever to be, because the zeru were sent to usfrom out of this world. Their skin and eyescould not stand the sun; their white skin did nottan the way the white foreigners’ skins did. So,instead of welcoming the birth of these ghosts,we dreaded it. We persecuted these demonsand ran them out into the rain and the bakingsun and into the wilderness. After that dream, I vowed to revenge my wifeand bring good fortune to my people. With thecooperation of the new mining officials and thelocal police, my way was made clear to profitfrom the greatest medicine known to man: thezeru zeru juju.

* * *

Kilasa Nyalandu

I began my new life in the ghetto of Kinondoni,in the Moscow sub ward. I was staying in a run-down shack with a group of three other albinos,who worked in the bars along the Biafragrounds. They cleaned tables and swept the

floors, and they also worked at stuffing sofas foran old man named Felix who owned one of thetaverns. Kinondoni is well known for the Biafragrounds where several events such as festivals,bonanzas, gospel crusades, promotions, footballmatches and many other events take place anda number of local traders, like Felix, sellfurniture. I was directed to the Ocean Road CancerInstitute by my new friends, and I found manyother albinos who were standing in the shadebetween the buildings. The all-white, two-storymain building is 19th Century German Colonialarchitecture, with two domed towers, flat tiledroofs and wards inside that accommodate just112 beds for the average yearly influx of over3,000 new patients and 10,000 follow-up cases. The staff of 200 does all this, and their work isalmost never completed, as we are experiencinga cancer crisis, with over 35,000 new cases eachyear. The Indian Ocean’s breezes reduce thetemperature, even in the summer months, by atleast 10 degrees. Even so, we zerus must stillhuddle together in the shade of the buildings’two-story walls, hoping and waiting to get ourauthorization to be treated with the nuclearradiology machines inside. It was while waitingin line for my first treatment that I met GeorgeKamindu. George donated his time to work at the OceanRoad facility. He kept order in the lines andmade certain all our paperwork was filled outcorrectly. When I saw him, I realized my sexualnature was attracted to the male of our species. I had never thought about my sexual orientationbefore that day, strange as it may sound,because I was always too worried about my

family and about my personal safety. I supposebeing an albino made me an outcast, but when Irealized I was gay, I became even more of one. When George saw me standing in line, heimmediately came up to me and showedinterest. ‘Hello there, young man,’ he said, inSwahili, ‘I see your albinism has cursed you. We can fix that. Where do you come from?’ I looked into his caramel-colored eyes, and myheart melted. He was tall, strong, and his skinwas a deep, dark chocolate brown. He had away of inquisitively raising his thick eyebrowswhen he spoke, and the dimples in his cheeksflashed at me like those of a cherub. He waswearing a powder blue suit with a flaming redtie, and this also impressed me. I was used tomy companions in the ghetto, who woreMtumba, which is Swahili slang for second-handclothes imported from Europe and the USA andsold to retailers in bales. He was indeed, I laterdiscovered, my angel of mercy. I told himwhere I was from, and I found out he was anattorney, and he wanted to talk to me laterabout a case he and a group of other lawyerswere working on. He said it concerned therecent spate of albino murders taking place inTanzania. He also said that if I could help him,he would be able to help me find a place to liveother than in the ghettos of Dar es Salaam. As it turned out, George was familiar with mebefore he met me in line that day at the cancerinstitute on Ocean Road. He was the one whohad my paperwork approved ahead of theothers, and he was the one who wanted to useme in his elaborate plan to trap the peoplebehind this string of albino murders takingplace throughout Tanzania. When I finished my skin cancer radiology

treatment, I met George in Felix Dupree’s baron the Biafra grounds. The old man camehobbling up to our table, ‘Kilasa boy, he gonnabe the next Salif,’ said Felix, putting down freedraft beers for both of us. Felix was referring,of course, to Salif Keita, the world famousalbino musician and singer from Mali. Felix alsopaid the fee for me to enter the ‘Kili MCShujaa,’ a hip-hop free styling contest in Dar esSalaam. The judges for the day were Steeve B,an experienced radio DJ a.k.a. Dj Skills,Lufunyo, a hip hop artist, producer and owner ofKinondoni-based 41 Records, and JumaMohamed Mchopanga a.k.a. Jay Mo, an all-timefamous Tanzanian ghetto hip-hop artist. ‘Theboy won! He got a recording deal with BongoRecords!’ Felix said, patting my shoulder, withpride in his rheumy brown eyes. After Felix left, George smiled and pointed afterthe old man. ‘You know, the old man has just,perhaps coincidentally, mentioned the oneperson who is spending the most money tosupport my investigation. The Golden Voice ofAfrica wants us to catch these murderers asmuch as we do. So, you have not been readingabout the case in the press, I assume?’ Georgeinquired, sipping at his beer. I confessed that I had not, but I wanted to knowmore. He told me that although there had beenat least 40 albinos murdered for their bodyparts in Tanzania during the last year, therehave been no arrests made. However, inneighboring Burundi, there are eleven brokersof albino body parts who are now on trial by thestate. But, they are not witch doctors, and theyare not clients. They are just middlemen. Thedifficulty, however, is the fact that the localpolice seem to be in league with the witchdoctors, so nobody has been named as a directconspirator in the murders. ‘That’s where I

come in,’ he said. George said he believed thatif he could get recorded proof from the agentsbehind these negotiations for albino murders,then he would be able to get convictions of theones directly involved and not just themiddlemen, as was the case in Burundi. Hewanted convictions of the witch doctors and theothers behind the gruesome carnage. And, ifpolice were part of the cover-up, then theywould be held accountable as well. ‘I want to use you as bait to get the proof Ineed,’ said George, swirling the golden brew inhis glass and rubbing the foam at the edges withhis index finger. ‘I’m going to pose as abusiness man from South Africa. I will tell thego-between I want to talk directly to a witchdoctor. I’ll tell him I already have my albinopicked out, and I just want them to kill him forthe special purpose I have in mind,’ George’seyebrows went up again. ‘Don’t you want toknow my purpose?’ he asked. ‘Sure,’ I told him, although I was gettingincreasingly frightened by his plan. ‘I have been doing some research in yourKahama district. I understand there is onespecial tool of a superstitious nature that manyartisanal miners use to this day. It is called thedowsing or divining rod and was introduced byGottlieb Immanuel Bauer, a German Jew, whowas one of the few successful farmers inGerman East Africa at the turn of the 20th

Century.’ George sipped reflectively at his beerbefore continuing. ‘He could find undergroundwater where others could not. There is also talkthat the other German colonials caught thediseases that made them eventually leavebecause of the great magic of the native witchdoctors, but this Gottlieb Bauer did not catchthe diseases because he had a special magic

that he obtained when he lived in Jerusalemyears before he came to East Africa. Bauer wasable to escape the juju sickness because he usedthe femur of an albino as a divining rod to wardoff the illness and to discover the biggest strikeof sapphires in recorded history. And I will tellthem that I want a dowsing rod just like the oneGottlieb Bauer had.’ I was impressed by George’s story, and I let himknow it. ‘Wow, that’s some fiction! But how doI come into it?’ I asked. ‘I will show them photos of you on stage doingyour hip-hop songs. I will explain that you havea special juju because of your creative abilities,and that you are the only albino I want. I expectthey will then pull their usual waiting game untilthey get the price for me. Then, after I’verecorded all this, we’ll set-up a rendezvousplace and time for them to go after you.’ ‘I see,’ I said, taking a deep drink from my beer. ‘Do you have any prospects for a witch doctor inKahama? I have been away from home for sometime now, and my family just does not keep upwith that kind of thing anymore.’ ‘Yes, there is a man named Deogratios. He isthe head witch doctor outside the Gold WestAshanti Mining camp settlements. My peoplebelieve he coordinates most of the albinohunting among the Tanzanian witch doctors,and he pays the bribes to the local police tokeep them silent about what’s going on. However, we really don’t know where he getsthe large amounts of money needed to run suchan operation.’ ‘Most people know the government is corrupt. Why can’t they be behind this?’ I asked.

‘Yes, they are corrupt, but we believe they arejust being paid-off locally to keep silent. Thereis a bigger player, however, and we hope oursting operation will uncover the party or partiesbehind the financing of this murder andmayhem.’ George drained his glass and set itback down on the table. ‘Well, Kilasa, are yougame for our little adventure?’ he asked. I cleared my throat before speaking. ‘I believeyou mentioned you could provide me with a newplace to stay outside of Moscow ghetto,’ I toldhim. ‘Indeed I did. Yes, we will see that you’removed straightaway into your new cabin on theocean front next to the Cancer Institute. Wewant a place out of the city, so we’ll have thebest chance of capturing these thugs when theycome for you. We’ll have the place completelybugged for total recording of what goes on,’ hesaid, and he stood up, shook my hand, and wehad an agreement. However, when I moved close to him to give himan embrace, I saw George pull back for amoment, but then, that same smile he gave meat our first meeting was there, and he pulled meclose. As he held me, he whispered in my ear,and I could feel his bulge beginning to growagainst my leg. ‘Meet me tomorrow at myoffice,’ he said, and he tucked a card attached toa cell phone into my tee shirt pocket. ‘I want totake you shopping for some proper hip-hop starclothing. Also, keep this cell phone on you at alltimes. We’ve distributed them to all of thealbinos we could locate in Tanzania. It’s set tospeed-dial my number. You call it if there’s anyemergency.’ I hugged him closely, and I could smell theexpensive cologne on his neck, and my heart

raced with virginal passion. ‘Kilasa, I am amarried man with a wife and two children. Iconfess, before I was married, I had manysexual relationships with young men at school,but then, when I was graduated from law schoolin Paris, my Muslim family decided it was time Ishould be married, so they arranged it for me. Iadmit I do not love my wife in the way I lovedyou when I first saw you singing in the YouTubevideos of the hip-hop contest. You have suchcreativity, such genius! And now, look what I’vegotten you into!’ ‘Don’t worry,’ George, I told him, holding hishandsome chin in my hand. ‘I won’t let youdown. Thank you for all you have done. Youwon’t regret having chosen me.’ And then Ikissed him.

* * *

Deogratios

I received word of the prospect in the usualway. One of the villagers hears that there is aperson, usually a wealthy foreigner, inquiringabout the services of a witch doctor. We getpeople from many countries who want to getsome talisman or potion to make theirenterprise fortunate. This man was obviously acity man, as his nails were manicured, hisclothes were western, and he had the intensityof someone who needed an edge on thecompetition. I always look for this gleam in theeye, a certain greed that is present in all ofthese entrepreneurs. I know that thenegotiation will go smoothly. And, so it was with this gentleman. However,there were certain ominous signs that made mea bit hesitant. A black cat followed him up the

path to my hut, and a dark cloud appeared outof nowhere and came before the sun, when hestepped across my front entrance. He was tall,quite handsome, and he told me he was fromMozambique. This was a good sign, as I hadrecently exported a shipment of six zeru skins toMozambique for quite a profit. Tanzania isbecoming the center of activity in this trade,and I am proud to believe I am becoming itslead ambassador and chief negotiator. Therefore, when he told me his story about theJew who had the good fortune with his zerufemur divining rod, I nodded, not wanting to leton that I was entirely fascinated by his tale. Ihad not thought of this line of merchandise! Certainly, we had the skin trade, the potionsmade from a variety of different parts, but usingthe strong bone of the femur to find gems—itwas a stroke of genius! I put him through the usual negotiations. I castthe juju German colonial fortune telling coinsand zeru bones to read the prospects of hisventure. I told him to come back the next day,and I would have his price. Dutifully, hereturned, bringing me a gift of beef jerky. As heexplained to me that he did not want his zeruconscious when he was harvested for the femur,I stretched my jerky and bit it off, chewingreflectively at his words. My saliva mixed withthe dried meat in a most pleasurable way. Hesaid he wanted the harvesting done on a specificdate and time, and he wanted it to be a cleanharvest, with no bloodshed, just a cleanoperation by a good doctor. Of course, I toldhim I would do it. And then, I told him myprice. Five million shillings. I explained that forme to personally do this harvest, it would costhim extra. I was quite pleased when he agreed,without any barter, and we set the date andtime, and he gave me the address of the zeru. I

told him I would perform a special offering so asto bring good fortune on our enterprise, weshook hands in the western way, and he left. This would be the most profitable harvest ever. Even though our business had picked up the lastyear, I could see my personal fortunes becomingmuch bigger than I had ever expected. My wifeshould be quite pleased, and I would speak toher during my offering. I ripped open anotherbag of jerky and stuck a long piece between myteeth. As I tore it, I pictured the harvesting ofthe divining rod femur, the ivory key toboundless wealth and fortune.

* * *Kilasa Nyalandu

I marked the date on my calendar: June 5. Wasn’t that the day the Allies invaded Europe? I found it rather appropriate that we would becapturing our own little Fascists in this stingoperation on this date. My new cabin on the Indian Ocean wasmagnificent. It was furnished with African art, anew green sofa from Biafra grounds, andwindow drapes that let in just enough sunlightto cast a golden glow over everything. WhenGeorge met me on the nights leading up to June5, we made wild, passionate love in front of theroaring fireplace. I never knew love-makingcould hold such variety and spontaneous joy! Iat last felt like I could sing and perform like thestar that George told me I was. I wanted him tobe proud of me. In the glow of the flames, as helooked down at me, he stroked my white skinand smiled. ‘You will be my fortune, little one,’he whispered, and our lips became one. It was May 31, and I had just finished arecording session in town at Bongo Records. I

was getting my first album cut, and I wasfeeling quite elated. The bus dropped me off atthe Cancer Institute, and as I walked down thepath leading to my little cabin on the beach, Isang the title song on my new hip-hop album,‘Zeru.’ It was in Swahili, but we were alsogoing to record an English, French and Germanversion. George said I would soon be goinginternational.

Black women turn pale with mercurypaste, We wait in line for radioactive waste, Zeru, Zeru, ghosts of Tanzania, How many gonna die ‘fore the world Sees us? Hell no! We’re ghosts! Nobody see us, nobody love us, But the witch doctors come, They know we precious, Juju magic, Zeru potions, First, we gotta die, ‘cause ghosts neverlive, Jus’ like the white hosts you take in themouth, How many gonna die ’fore the world Sees us? Hell no! We’re ghosts! We’re Zeru, Zeru, ghosts of Tanzania!

I decided to take a nap when I got inside. Icould hear the ocean’s roar, as the wind waspicking up, and the waves were crashing ontoshore. As I lay there, I kept thinking about mylove for George, and our future together. WhenI awoke, the black witch doctor stood at the footof my bed, smiling down at me. ‘You’ve come!’ I exclaimed, knowing this wasnot the expected date. ‘Yes, Zeru. I could not allow another to get

you. Even though I cannot get any money foryou, I will have what is most important.’ I wiped my eyes and tried to focus on his face tosee if I could recognize him. His black naturalwas wild, and his face was nobody’s I had evermet. ‘What do you mean, important?’ I asked. He walked over to a tall leather bag he hadbrought with him and extracted a longmachete. The blade reflected a beam of lightcrazily around the room from the electric lightoverhead. ‘You see, he wanted the harvest to bebloodless, without pain or screaming. He didnot know that the most powerful magic comesfrom the screams.’ His figure is a blur in my consciousness now, asI cannot picture him clearly. However, I doknow, just as he raised the blade to strike downon my thigh, I was able to push the key on mycell phone to speed dial George. This is whatsaved my life.

George Kamindu

I moved with my lover back to his village in theKahama district. I was able to imprison 72 ofthe witch doctors, including the one whoharvested Kilasa’s femur, Deogratios. However,the war against the zeru goes on in Tanzaniaand in the other adjoining countries. I musttravel many months to create other traps, othermethods of capturing these albino capitalists. Since albinos are worth more than gold nuggetsthese days, my job is getting more difficult. Ioften joke with my lover about cashing in therest of his body, one piece at a time, until hedisappears and becomes an authentic ghost, likethe ones he sings about, but he just smiles at me

as he limps around our hut. His mother lives with us, as I have left myfamily, and we often play music together atsundown. She is with her ‘white lion’ again,although he is not as popular because of hisdeformity, and his gigs are few and far betweenin Dar es Salaam. As we watch him play his Zaramo guitar, thesun is on its way down, and its orange-red glowmasks his white face in the glow of dusk. Thenotes vibrate inside our womb-like harbor, ashis lips move to their rhythms, and his false legtaps out a steady, hip-hop beat, and I lean overto give him a peck on the cheek. He suddenly turns toward me, his face twistinginto an outlandish grimace, white teeth bared,and a guttural, yet playful snarl, erupts from hisdiaphragm. His mother takes her cue, walkingslowly, like a priestess at a witches’ coven,extinguishing each of the candles, and thesmoke from their last gasp curls up into the air,joining in wisps at the center of the room, and Ican smell its spectral odor, and it sends a visionof dread deep into my brain. I look over toward the corner of the hut, wherethe white femur stands, like the sentry inKafka’s parable, “Before the Law.” My thoughtsbecome frantic, as the last bit of sunlightglances off the bone, bouncing at the speed oflight, into the minds of mad men, who areforever drunk on greed.

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