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of influence are hung on the walls of his office in the Geita Courthouse: one of him with the President of Tanzania, one of him shaking hands with the foreign business owners of the Geita Mines Corporation, one of him with an internationally famous Tanzanian fashion model, Manju, and one of him with Dr. Haji Hussein Maridada, Head of the office of Trade. Luamke is tall in stature with an inch of padding over his muscles, a very serious man, black as Reggie in color but much blacker in spirit. The focus of his eyes seems to float, never looking straight at anyone, more around them. “I meet so many people. Where did you say you are from?” he asks. 
    Under different circumstances, Jalil might like to play a hand of poker with him, for his tells are obvious. And in this instance, they tell that Luamke will be no help. Jalil goes broad in conversation, trying to glean what he can. “Los Angeles. You probably don’t meet many albino Americans here...”
    “Los Angeles, we probably spoke about the Lakers.”
    Jalil observes Luamke as he cleans under his fingernails with a paperclip he’s reshaped to fit into the grooves. He ignored albino and went for LA. Jalil is more direct. “Rolf said you had a more engaged conversation with my daughter,” Jalil says, with intentional irony and implication.
    “The Lakers are very engaging.” He deflects with the flare of a politician. “Rolf is a good man. Knows how to live here among us natives.”
    “He told me to come see you. ’Said you’d had an interesting conversation with my daughter.”
    “It must be comforting to have a friend here during this difficult time.”
    Jalil cuts to the chase, “I could use more friends, and less obfuscation.”
    Hoping this will satiate this American enough so that he will leave his office, “Local police can better help you, Mr. Scott. I will tell you. Here people with your daughter’s condition are zeru-zeru. They are ghosts. You can’t kill a ghost. The hunters don’t believe they are killing humans.”
    “How? How can there be no prosecution? No deterrent? No consequence?”
    Annoyed now, he talks down, “To prosecute a crime here, you must have absolute, undeniable proof. And even then, by prosecuting those who kill albinos, you are challenging native beliefs.”
    The magistrate reshapes his nail tool into a paperclip and puts it with its kind in the top drawer of his desk. He looks at his watch.
    “My daughter is missing and I’m trying to understand why and how...”
    Luamke cuts him off, “Now I am remembering your daughter’s persistence.” Luamke has no papers on his desk. He sits back in his chair, swiveling, as his eyes float around the room. He continues, “Imagine you are a witch doctor. You make a lot of money when you put some albino in a potion. You can put curses on people and make them do things they otherwise would not do.”
    “I have experience with prime people, though I admit I don’t know Tanzania. I still don’t understand how this can be happening today...”
    The magistrate looks at his watch again and stands, ending the meeting. “This is not the first religion to rule a people through ignorance and fear. Now, sir, I am due in court.”
    “Will you let me know if you come across anything that may help me find my daughter?”
    “That is for the local police to handle.”
    “Again, this is of international concern...”
    “You overestimate your daughter’s importance to the rest of the world and especially Tanzania.” He dismisses Jalil. “Bahati nzuri. Good luck to you.” But he doesn’t mean it.

 
    11
     
    Akida

    July 15 (later)
     
    Quick-paced Jalil passes by the Elder, who is headed in the opposite direction toward the Mukuyu Tree. The wise man pauses and watches after him. But Jalil doesn’t take notice of this old man, driven to find Aliya, fired by Akida’s antagonism.
    The police station is one of the few buildings in town that has actual structure to it. Sitting atop a slab