CHILDREN OF THE GODS.

“They are as beautiful as the children of the gods. Look at those big eyes, that smooth buttery skin,” the village teacher said.
“But what about the curses they are capable of, eh!” added the store owner. Business had not been good lately and he was convinced this was because of the juju, the magic these children made.
“Eh, eh. Enough of that. I will not have disorder in my village,” the village chief spoke up.
“Yes Mister Sibale,” the crowd murmured.
A hush fell over the group. The African sun was almost setting. Tangerine and violet hues were seeping through the foliage above them. It was milder now and this seemed to cool down the villagers’ tempers. When the meeting had been called, it was still baking hot. The chief’s secretary had called out, hitting his drum to alert those sleeping in their huts or under the mango trees. Mothers with babies hanging on their backs in the brightly coloured kangas came shuffling down the path. Old men drinking the local brew out of pumpkin gourds ambled along, happy to have some entertainment.

The whole saga went back a long way. Adila, a beautiful, graceful albino had been born in the village twenty years ago amidst excitement and horror. The village had been split into two. One half wanted the child killed and the other believed she was a good omen. Only one person in the village, a former city-dweller had ever seen an albino. He convinced the villagers that there was no harm in letting the child live. In fact, two days later, rain poured down on the village and ended a drought that had almost completely destroyed the fields of cassava, maize and ruined the banana plantations. This was taken to be a sign that the birth was a good thing and the child grew up loved and respected by the locals.

On her twentieth birthday, a local farmer proposed to her and she accepted. A year later, they had twins who were as strong as he was, and as light-skinned as she was. They named the boy Julius, after President Julius Nyerere and the girl Amina, which means the peaceful one. It was then that their troubles began. Shortly after their birth, the area suffered from very heavy rains and flooding. The Asian doctor at the village clinic said it reminded him of the Monsoon rains of his childhood in India. There was no food to harvest and many huts were destroyed. People started talking about the village being cursed because of the albino twins. The witch doctor said it would be best to kill them and sacrifice them to the gods. The more educated people led by the school teacher and the clinic doctor strongly rejected this proposal. Some of the elders and others who were jealous of the moderate success the family had were keen on retribution.

It was thus, that, terrified and afraid, the family had run to the chief’s house for shelter. He was a wise old man and believed in justice and pacifism. When the rain stopped and the sun came out again, he decided to sort this out once and for all. Now that everyone was here, he could show them that these children were as precious as any others.

“You, Chizimu, what do you have against these children,” he asked.
“Well, Mister Sibale. They are not normal looking,” Chizimu stuttered.
“And doesn’t your child limp? Shall we sacrifice him as well?”
“No, no Mister,” he quickly replied, panicked by the thought.
“You, Nyondo, your daughter has a hearing problem, does she not? Isn’t that suspicious too?”
“Eh, um, it’s not the same,” Nyondo grumbled.
“Shahida, your son doesn’t speak. Do you think he is better than these children?”
“Mister Sibale, I changed my mind. They are good children,” she replied.
A murmur broke out while people digested the chief’s comments. All of them or their offspring had something wrong; poor eyesight, asthma, a missing limb perhaps.
“We are all children of the gods. These children will grow up to be as strong and graceful as their mother. It is your duty to help them. I will not hear another bad word about them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mister Sibale, yes,” the crowd answered.
The chief’s secretary began to beat out a happy traditional rhythm on his drum. The old men passed their gourds around. Some of the women stood up and danced, shaking their hips and moving their weight first from one leg to the other in the traditional way. The men soon joined them, laughing and singing. Adila and her husband and children stood next to the chief, smiling and looking at the spectacle before them. They were the children of the gods.