She shuffled around the airport terminal under the unlikely weight of her costume, as a Masai woman she wore the traditional heavy broad necklace, a good twelve inches of metal. In her tight red and gold Kanga she took small, deliberate steps and flung her hand out with automaton repetitiveness at every passing traveller,or airport worker, or other beggar. She had been gaunt even before the AIDS. This skeletal woman, whose black skin shone less and less by the day, begged at this airport every day for a living. Flights from Europe were the best as the Europeans weren’t used to seeing the deathly sick walking around smiling in bright costume. In Europe the sick are usually hidden away and told to keep quiet. But today was the day of the big televised game, and she was busy earning her stake, her bet on the game. She had to win for the baby.
The baby had been on his own for twelve hours in the tarpaulin “house”, lying on the carpet tiles that she had bought from the proceeds of her last trick. His breathing had been wracked and tiring for the last week. She was three quarters of the way to getting the money for the treatment that would return him to a healthy babyhood and drive the AIDS from his blood. Today she would bet on the opening sequence of cards, relayed through the television in the smoking lounge at the airport. Today she would get the money for the witch doctor, and he will send the AIDS from her son. She had decided already, red, black, red, red would be the colour sequence of every third card turned over from the pack. That would be her bet. That would pay the witch doctor. That would save her baby.
No comments:
Post a Comment