Blood & Milk (26 page)

The taxi driver didn’t argue as we got out, just drove off with a smile. I tamped down my frustration. “What was wrong?” Damu asked.

“He charged me too much money,” I said. “Like in the clothes store.”

Damu frowned. The value of money was something foreign to him, and I envied him that. “Why do they not be truthful?”

“Because in their eyes, I’m a white tourist, and that makes me rich. They think I have lots of money.”

“Do you?”

“Kind of.” I breathed in deep and let it out slowly. “It doesn’t matter.” I looked at the building we’d arrived at. The Immigration Department of the Republic of Tanzania was a large, modern building, and looking at the name Susan had given me one more time, Damu and I walked inside. The man behind the reception window smiled politely at us.

“We need to see George Palangyo,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But we’re happy to wait.”

“Your names?”

I told him.

“And what is it in regards to?”

Oh nothing much, just wanting to buy a forged passport.
“I have some questions on passports and visas, and I was told he could help me.”

The man stared at me for a long moment, and I knew he knew what we were here for wasn’t strictly legal. I quickly deduced that George Palangyo was a popular man for such requests. I half expected him to call security or the police, but he didn’t. “Take a seat.”

I walked to the furthest row of chairs and sat in the last chair. Damu sat quietly beside me. My stomach was in knots and my palms were sweating. The closest thing I’d ever done to breaking the law back in Australia was a parking fine. Now, I’d paid cash for the life of another person, and I was about to ask a government official to forge legal documents, which could probably land me in some forgotten Tanzanian rat-hole jail cell forever. I let out a slow breath, trying not to think about the worst that could happen.

Instead, I wanted to concentrate on the positive. “There’s so much I want to show you when we get to Australia,” I said. “What do you want to do? Do you want to go to school? To university?”

“I can do these things?”

I smiled at his expression. “Anything you want.”

He was grinning now. “I do not know,” he said, like the possibilities were endless.

“You don’t have to decide right now.”

“I think I would like to go to school,” he said, with wide, bright eyes.

“Then that’s what you’ll do.”

He sat back in his seat, sitting taller and smiling, when our names were called.

George Palangyo was about fifty years old. His hair was cut in a short afro style and greying at the sides. He wore grey trousers and a pale green, button-down shirt. We followed him into his office and he closed the door behind us. He walked around to his side of the desk, and when Damu and I sat in the two seats across from him, he took off his reading glasses and threw them onto his desk. “So, you have questions on passports, yes?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes. Damu needs a passport, but he has no forms of identification. I was hoping you might be able to help us with that.”

“The passport or the identification?”

“Both.”

George eyeballed me for a good twenty seconds. If he was waiting for me to crumble, I wouldn’t. I held my nerve and never broke eye contact.

He spoke like he was discussing the weather. “Birth affidavits aren’t difficult. If no records of his birth exist, then someone who was present at this birth needs to verify.”

“There are no family members to verify,” I replied.

George nodded, more to himself than to us. “Maasai, see? They have no authority in this world.” He looked at Damu like he was a piece of shit. He sighed dramatically. “Passports are not as easy.”

“I’ll pay.”

His eyes gleamed. “Passports are not cheap.”

My nostrils flared. I’d had just about enough of this man as I could stand, but I couldn’t blow this. This was our one and only chance. What I wanted to do was drag this piece of shit over his desk and punch the living crap out of him. He had no clue what kind of man Damu was. His strength against adversity, the pain and torment he has endured his entire life. Always on the outside, always told he was never worthy, yet still proud of who he is. And above everything else, whether he was Maasai, a great warrior or not, he was a fucking human being. Instead, I nodded compliantly and asked, “How much are the fees?”

I was at the point where bribery neither offended nor surprised me. I had expected it when Susan had given me this guy’s name as one who was known to get documentation others couldn’t. I also expected my fees would be exponentially higher because of the colour of my skin.

“Three thousand American dollars.”

I stared at this piece of shit, my urge to break his fucking nose bubbling just under the surface. But in spending the last year with Damu and his people, learning their quiet ways and cohesiveness with their environment, I took a deep breath and smiled. “Fine.”

He smiled, surprised and victorious. If he expected to me to barter for a man’s life, he was more despicable than I first thought. “Come back tomorrow. Have money and photos for passport and proper clothing.” He shook his head at Damu like he was a disgrace. “He not go anywhere looking like that.”

I could barely contain my disgust at this self-righteous prick. “I assume that is to include a permit to get Damu’s spear and rungu through customs in Australia.”

“Oh yes,” he said, and I had the feeling he was already wondering how much he could sell them for.

“I want them registered with the Australian consulate for cultural significance and certified through the proper authorities,” I said, my tone leaving no room for doubt.

Now he nodded a little more seriously. “Tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

“We’ll be here.”

* * * *

We found a bank in the financial district where I could withdraw a large sum of money. Then after that, a store that did passport photos, and after that, we needed to get Damu some different clothes. He could wear his shuka all he liked with me. In fact, I loved it on him. It showed off his body in all the right ways, and it spoke of his culture and heritage without having to say a word.

But the arsehole at the government office was right. Damu needed to look the part, he needed to blend in and not get flagged through the whole process. A normal guy going to Australia was no big deal. A Maasai wearing a traditional shuka, holding a spear and rungu, wasn’t going to happen.

We picked out some jeans and dress pants and some button-down shirts. I couldn’t help but get him a red shirt, which I hoped would allow him to keep a little of himself. I thought getting him socks and shoes would be another challenge, but he went along with everything without argument. In fact, he was quiet and compliant the entire time.

“It’s not permanent,” I said to him. “It’s just to get the passport. When that’s all over, you can wear your shuka.”

His only response was a slight nod.

When we got back to the hotel room, I put his new clothes in the wardrobe and found him sitting on the end of the bed.

“You okay?”

He nodded, then shook his head, and ended with a shrug.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently. “Damu, if you don’t want to go ahead with this, just say. We’ll do something else. We’ll find another way.”

He frowned. “Why me?”

“Those government people don’t know you. And they fear what they don’t know. You’re a Maasai, and that strikes fear into a lot of men.”

“No,” he shook his head, like I’d misread his question. “Why me? Why you do this for me? You fight them with words, and you give money. I have no money, but you give yours.”

I knelt before him and took his left hand in mine. I swallowed hard, not having said any of this out loud to him before. “Damu, do you know what you are to me?”

He shook his head.

“You are the warmth of sunshine on my skin when all there was before you was darkness and cold. You surround me with warmth I thought I’d never feel again. You brought new life to my heart, like the rains to barren soil.”

Damu stared at me and put his injured hand over his heart. “That is what I feel here.”

I breathed out a laugh. “That is love.”

He whispered, “Love…”

I nodded, still smiling. “Damu, I want to be with you always. It doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we are together. I love you.” A slow smile spread across his lips, and his cheeks tinted pink. I leaned up and kissed him. “That is why I’m doing this. For you. I’m doing it for you, because you’re worth it. I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if the world is against us.”

He slid his left hand along my jaw and drew me in for a kiss. “You say the words like they come from my heart.”

I rested my forehead against his, but I needed to be closer. I pushed him back on the bed and crawled on top of him. I lay over him, and simply put my head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around me. It wasn’t sexual; it was intimate and lovely. He kissed the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, feeling loved and safe.

Then Damu chuckled, and the sound reverberated through my ear. I lifted my head to look at him, and he was staring at the mirrored robe door. “What’s so funny?”

“Look at us,” he said, still smiling. He turned back to the mirror. “This is why they called you Milk.”

I could see what he meant. I was ridiculously pale, especially compared to him. It was really apparent when we lay like this, him rich and dark, me pale and white. I chuckled with him. “I’m not that white.”

He put his fingers to my chin and made me look at him. “You are perfect. With your skin of milk and different coloured eyes.”

“The eyes of Kafir,” I said wistfully.

He sighed and touched my hair. “When I was a boy, Kasisi told of a dream that I would be saved by Kafir the lion. He said it make no sense, Kafir was dead.”

“He meant me?”

Damu nodded. “I think so.”

I kissed him softly. “I think your father knew. I think he saw you would be with a man, not a wife. I think he knew you would leave.” I ran my thumb over his cheekbone. “I think he gave you that spear because he knew you would be leaving soon, and he wanted you to take it with you.”

Damu searched my eyes. “Why would he do this?”

“Because you’re his son, and he loves you.”

Damu’s eyes glistened before they slowly closed. I rolled us onto our sides so I could hold him properly. I kissed the side of his head, hoping he felt as loved and as safe as he made me feel.

After a quiet few minutes, he said, “You not dream lately.”

“No. Dreamless is sometimes good.”

“You not see if we are doing the right or wrong thing?”

“Sometimes I don’t need the dreams to know.” I took his left hand and put it my chest. “I can feel it here.”

He smiled at that and sighed contentedly. “I think I dream of what will happen?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I dream of our feet in the ocean, and having watermelon to eat.”

I barked out a laugh. “Is that right?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, then,” I said, rolling off the bed. “We better make sure it happens.”

* * * *

We were sitting in George Palangyo’s office at five to ten the next day. Damu looked different in jeans, but the red shirt suited him so well. Even George seemed impressed. I handed over the passport photos, and citing Damu couldn’t write because of his hand, I filled in the forms. I didn’t want George to know Damu couldn’t write that well, but we’d practised his signature and he nailed it, even with his sore and splinted hand.

One thing we hadn’t even thought of was Damu’s date of birth.

I spoke to him in Maa, so George wasn’t privy to the conversation. “What’s your birthdate?”

“Don’t know,” he replied in Maa.

“Do you know the month?”

“No.”

Jesus. “The season? Was it hot or cold?”

“
Oltumuret
. Short rains.”

Okay, the short rains were August. “What about the first of August?”

Damu nodded, like I’d asked him if he wanted a drink of water, not pick your own birthday. I already knew he didn’t know his exact age, so I took the liberty of making him twenty-three.

I slid the completed forms across the desk, and George gave me a smarmy smile. “Money?”

I pulled the two rolls of bills from my pocket. I had no idea how this would go, but I needed to gain some kind of control in this whole shitshow. “Half now, half when we collect.”

George smiled like he accepted the challenge, or maybe he found my shaky attempt at bravery amusing. “Fine. One week.”

I stared at him. “Four days.”

He shook his head. “One week, that much I cannot change.”

“Fine,” I said, rising to my feet. I wouldn’t thank him until I had that passport in my hands, but I offered him a nod before we turned and left.