Isoke

By Siddhi Kamble

"Isoke, a native African with white skin and golden hair, is a resilient teenager who encounters immense adversities which are essentially the corollaries of her skin condition. The abyss is dark, but she sees light in the form of an extraordinary power - the ability to rid people of their torment.
Her life takes a whole new course when two gruesome murders leave village Mauho in a state o

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Feb 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9789389759563

Siddhi Kamble

"Siddhi Kamble is a teenager who lives in Mumbai and has always found herself engrossed in writing - be it poems, articles, essays or short stories. Her other interests include Kathak and sketching. She is a proud student of one of India's most reputed colleges.Her love for the English language inspired her to write a full-length novel. Having won prizes for her written works, she considered taking a step further and eventually ended up completing her first-ever novel at the age of 16. Being a student of both psychology and sociology helped in adding value to her words, as she takes a keen interest in societal problems and individual reactions to them. Driven by curiosity about different cultures and traditions practised all over the world, she conducted thorough research on the Kenyan ways of living in the course of writing this novel.An admirer of classic novels and movies as well, they happened to have influenced her imagination. An ambivert by nature, she believes in embracing the beautiful being that one already is - and the novel deals with the very same concept. In order to convey the message of being comfortable in one’s own skin, she couldn't think of a better way than writing a book on the same."

Book preview

Encrypted Camaraderie

Dried leaves covered the African town of Malava. A blanket of sweat beads ornamented the streets. A whiff of perspiration proliferated in the air - the kind of air you can’t live without, yet it ends up suffocating you. Clouds were elements that could only be fantasized about and the sun played the devil’s role by penetrating through their wishful thinking. A faint wind blew, and that was the only element that the people of Malava could rejoice about. Nothing was in their favour otherwise - not the weather, nor the supply of sufficient water to quench their thirst. At times, electricity sloped off as well. Afraid that the sun’s wrath would reduce them to ashes, the locals were reluctant to leave their homes. Amidst this sweltering African summer, a shroud of thoughts occupied Mr. Arjana Mogaro. I wonder why Bob’s bent on keeping our friendship a secret.

Arjana Mogaro was the kind of man who would offer you his seat or the guy you’d meet in the bus and have a satisfying, healthy conversation with. However, his strong built suggested otherwise. You’d mistake him to be the rough, arrogant man who only seems to care about himself, but his wide, sparkling smile would put away all such assumptions. His large, rough hands were enough to denote his occupation - carpentry. He worked in the famous WoodWorks factory under his ever-caring, friendly boss - Bob.

Bob had the thickest brows in town. They almost looked like a grapevine twirled above his mysterious, dark eyes. Maybe it was the shadow of his brows that made his eyes look darker, or maybe he really did have dark eyes. A funny nose and a smile that would reveal all thirty-two teeth were features that made him easily discernible. His hands had created for themselves a place where they would rest on at all times - his bulging midriff. He was the kind of man who would poke his own belly at 2 A.M. and laugh. Fun-loving, but usually spoke about business. He’d be mad at you for breaking a teacup one day and buy you an extravagant present the next. A little too eccentric for a regular friend.

After spending quality time with his family in Mauho, Mr. Mogaro had returned to the town. He paused; perplexity had overshadowed his delight for having seen Bob at the bus stop. Why would my boss come to pick up his two penny-half penny labourer at the bus stop? Maybe our bonds are stronger than I thought they were. He quickly made way towards the factory manager with a wide smile and his eyebrows pulled together, exhibiting his inextricable confusion.

Bob jumped to embrace him as he greeted, Karibu tena, Arjana! Welcome back! It feels like it’s been years since we last met!

Arjana replied, "Jambo! What brings you here?"

Bob looked puzzled at first which was soon replaced by a hearty laugh. Why, I’ve come to pick you up buddy!

Mr. Mogaro was evidently flummoxed, as he stroked his chin and looked vacantly at Bob’s brooch. I was right, but why’d he do this for me?

Leisurely, they walked towards Bob’s Vintage 1949 Bentley. A silver beast with a royal bumper and a long, supreme snout; Bob proudly patted the top of his first-rate possession. Still inspecting every nook and corner of the car, Mr. Mogaro’s mouth remained agape. He let his expressions change from confusion to those of awe. He felt utterly privileged to have gotten the chance to sit and experience the interiors of the Vintage. Bob noticed the expression of amazement on his friend’s face.

He informed, It’s a 1949 Bentley Mark VI. I’ve got it restored. Worry not, this isn’t the first and last time you’re getting an opportunity to ride in it. There’s more to come, pal. And who knows, you might as well own one of these one fine day! Mr. Mogaro didn’t say a word; he was still recovering from the cartload of bafflement that Bob had brought along. Bob continued, I have two more of such vintages in this town. I own half a dozen more, but they’re safely parked back at my hometown. I’ll show them to you one day.

You own such beauties, Mr. Mogaro finally spoke as his palms examined the superior quality of the leather in a slow pace. I’d love to see ’em all. I’ve always loved cars, especially the vintages. They sure amaze me!

In the course of the conversation, he discovered that Bob loved driving, indeed a valid reason as to why a man so wealthy hadn’t employed a driver at his service. Well, you won’t believe it, but I’ve even considered taking up racing as a career, but it was too much of a risk, like my uncle thought. Bob took him over to a local restaurant on the way.

So Arjana, how do you find the factory? Is it a good place to work? Bob seemed to have asked with much curiosity. Truth was: he didn’t care.

Of course it is! After all, you supervise us. You make for an amazing manager! he replied, half indulged in eating fish curry.

Bob laughed almost like he had expected, or rather asked for the compliment. He further flattered himself. I’ve had many tell me that I’m good at handling businesses!

Mr. Mogaro was quick at scrutinizing the plural form of the much appealing word. Businesses? he looked up, perplexed. His eyes gleamed like that of a puppy expecting something from his master.

Oh yes! Businesses. I have my own business back in my hometown, Downtown Mariona. Bob got up as he finished his plate of fish curry and rice. He continued, I’ll tell you about it later. C’mon.

As they got back into the vintage, Mr. Mogaro started again, So Bob, you were telling me about your business back in er… Downtown Masiona?

Downtown Mariona, Bob corrected.

Yeah, that. Mariona. What business do you have there, eh?

Bob laughed and playfully struck him with his elbow while he kept driving and said, You seem very interested, Arjana?

Mr. Mogaro faked a smile. Thoughts of changing his occupation occupied him. Maybe I can land a better job with Bob’s help. I was just wondering. You never happened to tell me about this before. What is it ‘bout?

Bob took a long pause. He hesitated to speak at first and pretended to have turned deaf all of a sudden. Realizing that his eyes had betrayed his falsification, he spoke, About that, you’ll know soon. There pervaded an awkward silence in the Vintage for the course of the remaining journey.

As they reached, they got down and walked towards a grotty building where Arjana shared an apartment with three others.

Did they like my gifts? Bob asked to break the silence. He never enjoyed this topic, that of someone’s family - their likes, dislikes, problems, etcetera, etcetera - but here, he saw no other way out of the ungainly situation.

Oh! They loved em’. My wife, Abena, couldn’t get her hands off the gown and the kilemba. She kept feeling the material over and over. Mr. Mogaro continued with even more enthusiasm, Mama loved the slippers, and Isoke was so happy to have the toys and the new clothes. You could make it out from her smile!

Glad to hear that! But...erm...you didn’t tell them who sent them, did you? Bob asked, with a pinch of nervousness in his voice.

Oh! No, no! I’d never break my word. I told them that I bought them. Oh! Those lovely gifts!

Bob chuckled. You constantly try to please me, don’t you? I know those gifts weren’t as exceptional. My wife chose ‘em. I don’t really like her choice, but then again, I happened to be one of her choices, so I can’t complain, can I?

With that, they both laughed to their hearts’ content as the sun set towards the west and the darkness of the evening sky started sweeping in.

The Sacrifice

The evening breeze in Africa swung like the merciless axe of a woodcutter. In and out. Rough, but at least it saved them from the brutal weather. It unveiled its own charm, providing just the kind of endearment the villagers of Mauho asked for. It ran from the open window panes, spreading its wings, showering a hundred different colours of hope and positivity, and playfully made way into the semi-wrecked split-house that needed major restoration. The window panes created a racket upstairs, yet went completely unheard in the rooms below.

Evenings at the Mogaros’ meant serenity. With old Mama Mogaro lying on the mattress with her back aching and knees swollen, Mrs. Mogaro set the table for dinner. The duo shared a relationship like that of mother and daughter - no secrets, only pure love. The house was aglow with the aroma of a humble dinner consisting of Ugali, stew and some homemade pickle. When all seemed to be going well, a loud thud at the door broke the smoothness of the quietude.

A bony figure draped in an amber frock, with the lace at the edge of her drooping sleeves, hastily made her way upstairs. Her sparkling, blanched blue eyes welled up and her cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment. Yet again she was compelled to stand the ugly, spiteful remarks of her classmates. The same old day with the same old routine; a routine where she had been determined to change the world’s view about people like her - a rather noble thought for a girl as young as she - but would always come home disappointed and disheartened.

Isoke was drowning deep in a tenebrous cloud of dread. Without friends, school was like a hostile piece of land, mushroomed with mockers and bullies. On African soil, what made Isoke different from her mates was her skin - white as a dove with hints of pink patches.

In Kenya, dark was the standard skin complexion of the locals. In a world where the skin colour of an individual matters a great deal, Isoke’s skin stood out in a way she hated. Her faded golden hair looked like unprocessed wool with a dash of sunshine. The foggy mirror wouldn’t praise her white skin and her yellow hair. She stood in front of it all day, still searching for that little patch of dark skin that she believed would soon expand, proliferate perpetually, until she would eventually appear like the rest. That patch was nowhere to be seen, and she believed it lay on the back of her neck, or somewhere on the rear side of her scrawny body. She earnestly hoped to be surprised to see her body turn dark one fine morning. Needless to say, that never happened. The goddess of darkness abandoned her, and that troubled her. Her nose was soft and curved like a sand dune you’d spot in the Sahara Desert. Her lips, with undefined peaks, were a shade darker than the rest of her skin, and her chin, like her mother’s, was a beautifully pointed one.

Mama, her youthful grandmother, would remind Isoke of what her name meant - ‘A wonderful gift from God’ - but she convinced herself that she was a curse to her family and Mauho alike, like her schoolmates would say. Her nose grew red at the thought of the many sickening comments she was forced to contend with. Her family had been her only source of approbation but she now craved approval from society. She saw in societal validation the panacea of all worldly problems; unmindful of the fact that this very belief was what made the girl she saw before her in the mirror, her biggest adversary.

Kenya didn’t greet albinism with warmth and love; it was, in fact, greeted with a mountain-load of problems and several threats. Her miseries lay stagnant -rotting her will to live troubled and sore, her routine consisted of crying herself to sleep.

. . .

At school, the nest of the pied crows on the African Olive tree, that stood right out of the window, served her with the simple entertainment which she required the most. She watched the little greenish-blue eggs with freckle-like brown spots, crack-open a new generation of the pied crows. With every passing day, the efforts of the mother crow at teaching her little ones to spread their wings open and take over the skies were seemingly successful. They would fly away soon. They would be free. No restrains. No one would judge, she thought as she examined her pale, white palms.

Looking around, she now felt comfortable having an entire bench to her name. Carved on her bench were all the demeaning names that her classmates would call her, and hence, she preferred sitting in a teacher-less class without her glasses. The classroom echoed with the same repugnant names – baya roho, white witch, and white maggot. They even called her mzungu, which means ‘someone with white skin’ in Swahili. Her classmates believed that they would turn white if they rubbed their skin against hers. No one dared to share a bench with her - since, like their parents warned, they would be struck with a series of unfortunate events if they dared to do so. Unfortunate minds bear unfortunate perceptions, Isoke thought.

She fancied weeding her life of all the abnormalities she possessed like how you’d weed a flower bed. Isoke recalled the lady doctor’s words when she had been diagnosed with astigmatism - a vision condition that commonly affected albinos. She had been handed over a pair of spectacles not only for her vision problem, but also to get a clearer picture of the world; for not all beings, who surrounded her were angels with good intentions. She was also given information that she was better-off without - information about the many loathsome events albinos come across in Africa.

Albinos have no skin protection. They lack melanin. Melanin provides our skin with the very necessary protection from the sun’s UV rays. These UV rays are known to cause cancer. As a result, albinos have a much higher chance of suffering from skin cancer. It has been seen that most albinos survive till the age of 40, she continued while she slowly sipped onto some water after having dropped the first bombshell, Moreover, albinos in our country, and in other parts of Africa, are under serious threat. The limbs of albinos are dismembered, since there is a popular belief that their limbs are lucky charms, and they might bring the owner great wealth and success. Ironically, while their limbs are known to bring prosperity, albinos are believed to be the carriers of bad luck. We’ve seen a sharp rise in the murders of albinos in the recent times.

So as to mitigate the sizeable impact her words might have had on Isoke and her very alarmed parents, the doctor added, I don’t mean to scare you. But this is it. This is the society we live in, and we’ve gotta save our own skin. Have faith in your abilities, little blessed one, for you too can achieve great things.

Ever since the visit to the doctor, Mama, Isoke’s benevolent grandmother with beautiful, wrinkled skin and fog grey hair, hated the sight of the sun. Dropping Isoke to school was a task that she now detested; the very idea of the sun being above their heads almost all day caused Mama a major, major annoyance. She looked at the sun with utter disgust. She felt the soaring heat in its rays, and she looked at how the rays fell on Isoke. The image of the mischievous rays penetrating through her granddaughter’s skin, celebrating on finding no trace of melanin, haunted Mama. She sighed. The Sun God knows how to give life, she thought, and how to take life as well.

To Mrs. Mogaro, Isoke’s compassionate mother, education came first. She was aware of the fact that being a victim of constant bullying at school had turned Isoke into a nervous wreck. She had witnessed how her tongue would stiffen with rage and anxiety while she would wipe her tears with her shaky hands. Isoke’s mouth would pucker. The fact that physical appearance played the devil’s role and commited the crime of wiping out her daughter’s spark tormented her, but at the same time, she was confident about her capabilities. You shall win the battle and set new standards of beauty. We’ll soon measure the beauty of one’s heart, and not of their skin, she would whisper to Isoke every night when she’d think her daughter was fast asleep. Under her azure, threadbare blanket, little Isoke’s silent sobbing would intensify; thoughts of how hopeless she was kept her occupied past midnight.

Her daily dose of troubles had forced her family to think of a solution that would comfort her soul to some extent. Mrs. Mogaro insisted, Why not give Isoke a companion? Maybe a pet or a sibling, eh? An added ‘eh’ conveyed her daughter-in-law’s nervousness.

Mama tossed a coy smile at her, "Oh Abena! Your uberous womb longs for a child, it can wait no longer. Besides that, it is no secret that Isoke has always loved the animals of Mauho as well, so why don’t we get her both?

Mrs. Mogaro’s face lit up. She called out to her husband, who was completely immersed in applying his carpentry skills at repairing the chair with a broken leg. Her pitched voice startled him. He quickly paced to the room downstairs.

What happened?

Mama giggled. Oh! Nothing happened, son. We’ve just decided to get Isoke a companion. Maybe a pet…and, if you’re fine with it, a sibling as well, Mama chirped.

Just what we needed, Mr. Mogaro thought as he grinned from ear to ear and nodded in approval.

. . .

They found for her just the right puppy - faded brown with a white heart-shaped patch on his forehead. He was perfect. Mr. Mogaro found him abandoned next to a dump of garbage. The puppy, who was feasting on a leftover banana peel in the pile, looked frail. With no second thought, Mr. Mogaro brought him home.

The ladies were glad to see the pup. They noticed that the pup had been left to starve. Its ribs had almost surfaced his thin, light skin. They washed and then fed him bread. On spotting the new member, Isoke squealed with delight and excitement. It had been long since she last looked so happy. She held the pup close to her heart and caressed him. She named him Duma. Mrs. Mogaro shed a tear of happiness at the sight. She too caressed the dog with compassion. One wish fulfilled. One to go.

In weeks, Isoke and Duma grew inseparable. The day would start with Duma in her hands, and end with him sleeping right beside her. Duma would grow restless when Isoke would attend school, and would jump with joy and pounce on her whenever she’d get back home. He served as a cozy playmate and that succored Isoke in ways unimaginable.

. . .

The sun shone bright and the weather boasted just the right amount of warmth. Amidst such a favourable climate, Mrs. Mogaro retched and spewed. Isoke was not so delighted to see Ma’s face grow so pale, but Mama had a wide smile on her face.

Ma needs to see a doctor. She doesn’t look too well, Isoke suggested.

Oh! She doesn’t need one. She’ll be fine, Mama assured.

Mr. Mogaro contributed, It’s you who needs a sibling, sweetie, and that’s what Ma is getting for you!

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, her impatience had exceeded to immeasurable levels. Months passed. The wait was over. It was a boy. Isoke held the baby with utmost care as Mama handed him over to her. His throbbing head and overly delicate dark skin left her gaping. Wrapped in a clean white cloth with a golden border, he looked like he had been dropped straight from the Lord’s arms. Steadily, his little hand curled around her thumb, and the joy she derived from it had no bounds. His curled fingers tightened against her thumb and she felt his heart beat in her little fingers. His grip was firm. Her thumb felt like a placenta that connected them, and their heartbeats synced at that moment. With his petal-like eyelids fluttering, she was thrilled to have her baby brother sleeping in her arms; until Mama whispered something in her little ear.

Turned out, not everything was going according to their plans. What does she mean Ma isn’t coming back? Grief-stricken and teary-eyed, she wondered. She rubbed her eyes, frustrated. Only dust, she tried to convince herself, no tears. Papa wouldn’t like it if I cry. She blamed her horrid, wretched self. They’re right. I am indeed damned. My skin bears the seeds of catastrophe and unfortunately, they’re sowed in the lives of those I love. Isoke believed her life was ravaged beyond repair. Her heart, now a shade darker than leaden hued sorrow, bled.

An Unwelcomed Surprise

The traditional religious notions about death among most African natives are uniquely powerful. To them, death doesn’t mean the end of life. It is, in fact, a continuation of life in another world; a world where one attains ancestorship. This is the stage that comes after the physical death of a person, and the role of the spirit is to protect the living world from harm. This form of life in another world is regarded as far more superior, considering that all worldly problems become undisputedly non-existent.

Their beliefs did very little to help Mama and Mr. Mogaro recover from their trauma; it had happened all of a sudden – no one foresaw and no one warned. Life, Mama thought, is a synonym of the unexpected. Isoke refused to talk to anyone. She would sit in a corner and stroke Duma on her lap. The breadwinner of the family, Mr. Mogaro, had no choice but to leave for the town, two weeks after they performed the last rites of his deceased beloved. To meet the expenses of feeding an additional mouth and covering up the cost of the funeral, he was compelled to continue working with a troubled mind.

Faith was what kept Mama going through these hard times. She believed that God had plans and that He only aimed for betterment, and that led to naming the baby boy Adom, which meant God’s blessing

Seven-year old Isoke looked out of the window, mumbled a few words and sat beside Mama.

What was it that you whispered to the sky? Mama inquired.

I was telling Ma that I would take care of Adom and myself, Isoke said softly, her eyes sparkled like her brother’s. The smile that followed was enough to calm a hundred raging oceans. Her Ma was right. She possesses an impressive panoply of solicitude. This girl shall soon set new standards of beauty, and I am sure about that.

. . .

Mama had grown weak. At such an age, digesting loss was hard, and coping up with it was even harder. Taking care of two kids was not something a woman of her age would ask for. She’d do it without complaining if age favoured her. We need to do something, she decided.

Mr. Mogaro’s return had brought out a possible solution to Mama’s difficulty. They sat outside on the steps at the entrance of the house and discussed, This is the only way things can work out, Arjana.

But, what about Abena? Her spirit wouldn’t approve of this, Mr. Mogaro asserted.

Mama replied as she looked towards the sky, Oh no! She’ll be proud that you’ve taken a big step for the sake of your motherless children.

Arjana was in no mood to oppose her. In his heart he knew that he’d never love anyone like he loved Abena; but, he had to take the big step for his motherless children. Besides, he even witnessed Mama grow weaker each day. I’ll have to do this to calm my frenzied heart; it’s burdened with the unhappy sight of Mama and my babies.

But, who’d marry a widower? Arjana questioned, hoping with all his heart that Mama wouldn’t have an answer.

Mama, with her eyes arched and her sunken cheeks revived, smiled. I know who.

Mama had recently befriended a woman from the neighbouring village who called herself a widow. Zoya was a