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| Susan Mwape; left and Susan Phiri; right. Location: Chunga, current home. |
Susan Phiri, age four, as she recalls, came running through the front door. Distraught, school bag hanging low at waist level, the straps between the folds of her elbows. It was one of those school days — kids can be mean, kids can be needlessly blunt, and they were just that.
Into her father's arms, she would run, spilling the gist of her upset. In their compact home, amid the shanty thronged low income community of John Leigh, Susan was daddy’s girl. Ever so often she sought out his comfort. "They laugh at me, they don't want to play with me," she muttered with the coherence of a toddler, at least something of this sort. Like many times before, Susan's father would say to her: “That's because you look just like God himself”.
A calm presided over Susan instantly, every single time.
Susan Phiri shares the same condition with her older sister Naomi: albinism. She would say time and time again that her parents were trained to raise and love someone of her kind, long before she was ever conceived. Susan would say, emphatically so, that her father was her hero.
Life as she would come to know it, changed drastically following his death.
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A fairly large modern house, overlooking the allure of the farmland greenery on the outskirts of the Zambian capital, was once home to Susan Mwape. It was a tranquil atmosphere in a relatively safe community. Susan's only memories of some form of chaos – she calls it segregation – came from within the walls of her own home. She might have been 16, but the pain of her father leaving her in the care of her stepmother following their divorce, still lingers.
He had done this before: leaving. ”I can never have a child of this kind,” he said to Susan Mwape's biological mother, subsequent to Susan's birth. Little Susan was alien to him– her skin delicate, pale as white. Her hair was close to a bleached blonde, the kind locals would liken to that of a 'kah dolly', (local dialect for a small Barbie doll). He feared ridicule. His support was withdrawn at the end of a pregnancy, and the genesis of a life.
Susan’s father would see her again when she was age four. Her mother abandoned her unannounced outside his home, where he lived with his family; Susan's stepmother and step siblings.
I always felt so unwanted, like no one cared about me, like even God didn't care about me.
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| Susan Mwape. Location: Chunga, current home. |
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Susan Phiri detests the word Malaria, or the sound of it thereof. When she speaks of this disease, the one that robbed her of her father, it rolls off her tongue with perceptible difficulty. One would believe the word is bitter. But Susan’s recollection of losing her father is often followed by that of her mother’s words: “ …I do not want you guys to grow up without a father”.
A nurse at the University Teaching Hospital, Susan’s mother would now spend several days on end with her boyfriend away from home. She would leave her three children — all girls, the oldest being Naomi at 11— to fend for themselves. The youngest would eventually fall sick and die following a short illness. At this time, Susan’s grandmother had intervened by taking all three into her home. It was too late.
Susan Phiri’s mother, upon marrying her boyfriend, saw it fit to bring her two daughters into her new matrimonial home, and so, she attempted to. “To be honest, I don't really remember anything about my little sister, I was really young when it happened, all I remember is the feeling of sadness all around me,” says Susan.
To be honest, I don't really remember anything about my little sister, I was really young when it happened, all I remember is the feeling of sadness all around me.
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| Susan Phiri at her residence in Chunga. |
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At first, Susan Mwape’s father would send monthly child support to her stepmother following his departure and their finalized divorce — this didn't last.
During their marriage, her father, a court magistrate, would support the family. Preferential treatment towards her non albino siblings was quite evident, “anyone could see it,” Susan was emphatic. She went to public schools while her siblings were afforded the privilege of attending prestigious private institutions. Susan walked home; her younger brother was driven to and fro by the family driver. There was a car presumably on the far right side of the road, for Susan of myopic sight, it seemed far enough for a safe crossing. She was struck on a Friday afternoon on her way back from school.
Miraculously unscathed, Susan was moved to a private institution by her father.
But now, her stepmother had reached her breaking point; the divorce was tough, but catering to her four children, plus Susan, was tougher. The essence of toughness though, that of difficulty, was eerily familiar to Susan in this home. Even when her father was still around, hostility was the bread of the day, served with a side of discrimination. “I had my own cup, my own cutlery, I even ate separately from everyone, they treated me as if my condition was contagious,” says Susan.
One instance will stay with Susan Mwape forever: falling off a chair and twisting her ankle. At age six, she was assigned the duty of clearing up the dishes after meals, among other house chores. Susan was just about the height of a regular child that age, when she had to grab a stool to tower over the kitchen sink sufficiently.
Susan Mwape, would eventually run away from home. The streets, though unpredictable, and needless to mention unsafe, seemed to be a better option.
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| Susan Mwape at her residence in Chunga. |
If you bear and raise a child with an albino, you will carry a curse for life. -Zambian Myth
Now years had gone by since Susan Phiri had left the confines of her grandmother's home to reside with her mother and stepfather. Naomi had wed; for the first time Susan would be without her elder sister. It was lonely. She didn't like that she was the only child of her skin tone in this home. She didn't like that circumstance would have her stepfather now receive her mother's monthly pay. She didn't like that her school fees ceased to be cleared several months before he would eventually say to her: "Look, your mother took out a loan from the bank, I am barely receiving any money from her office." Susan was indifferent to it all, but what she had to have hated most, was seeing her mother ill, deteriorating quite rapidly. So, she opted to stay home and tend to her. The once little Susan felt the void of being without her hero. Since she could no longer run into the loving arms of her father, comfort in any shape or form was sought elsewhere.
At age 15, Susan Phiri would fall pregnant.
Her boyfriend; the father of her child, had heard it said before: 'if you bear children with an albino, you will wound up being cursed for life.’ But the repetitive and aggressive manner his friends would come to utter these words, had finally cultivated in him an aversion towards Susan. He left her during her pregnancy. He said he did not wish to be cursed.
Out of all the things Susan had endured and come to fear, the thought of bearing a child of her likeness, one with albinism, gave her the most sleepless nights. Susan says: “I would never want to have a child with albinism, I don't want my child to go through what I have been through because of my condition.”
“I would never want to have a child with albinism, I don't want my child to go through what I have been through because of my condition.”
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| Susan Phiri. Location: Chunga, current home. |
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“It was the type of cold that chills your bones”, Susan Mwape recalls. Reliving that moment, her teeth gnash as if she were there again. She spent seven nights on the streets subsequent to leaving home.
A congregant from her church took her in before her uncle did — her father’s younger brother. Susan speaks of the woman who gave her shelter, Ms Mariah, so fondly. She felt at home in a home that was not hers, a place she could not stay for long. She cherishes her time there.
Ms Mariah and her husband did not have children of their own, so in the few months that Susan stayed, she was theirs. Susan Mwape would know the turmoil of grief and all its counterparts when Ms Mariah, the woman she would come to call mom, died. Not long after, she would lose her stepmother too. The two had both succumbed to illnesses.
There were some changes in the relationship between Susan and her stepmother before her untimely passing. The two had come to cultivate a connection that would have seen growth. Apologies were passed and forgiveness rendered. At the time, Susan Mwape had moved back in to care for her stepmother.
Susan and Susan, made light of this between giggles, stating that even in the grimness of instances, their lives mirrored each other.
Having to move in with her father, in his new compact make-shift looking home, was never part of Susan Mwape’s plans, and quite evidently, his too. But it had come to this. “In my old age, how could my own biological father know nothing about my condition?" Susan aired her frustrations, bringing forth the ridicule she faced at the hands of her father. He often asked why her skin looked that way or why her hair was that pale, so light. He asked Susan why she couldn’t come out to work in the maize field with him midday, right under the scorching Zambian sun. He called her lazy. Other times, hinting that it was best she left, that she was too grown.
"Most albinos, like myself, have problems with sight. We are extremely short sighted, it is very difficult for us to see in the sun, the sun itself is particularly bad for our skin."
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If you take the bones of an albino, wealth will follow you for the rest of your life. -Zambian Myth
Now, Susan Mwape and Susan Phiri would find themselves living together in a safehouse, in Kuomboka, a popular high density area in Lusaka, Zambia. Here, the two would share the home with Naomi; Susan Phiri’s older sister, and a young woman named Merriam, aged 19. They joked about the fact that they were all albinos and called their place the White House. Naomi and Merriam were nursing wounds; Naomi was recently divorced, and Merriam? She had had her arm chopped off — the girls were all in hiding here.
“Even falling in love is dangerous for people with albinism; you can't trust anyone,” Susan Phiri said, displaying absolute disgust before recounting Merriam's story. Merriam was pregnant when she lost her arm. Her boyfriend had his friends carry out the act in his home. He would face life imprisonment.
In Zambia, and some other parts of Africa, there are people who believe the bones of a person with albinism can make one wealthy, or bring some sort of supernatural luck. Conspiracy has it that this credence is held by some civilians, and politicians alike. They say, during election periods, predominantly in the past, the number of missing persons with albinism increased rapidly. Satanic rituals were performed for good tidings, for the win.
The Albinism Foundation of Zambia (AFZ), did its part by offering protection and support to the albinism community. The house the girls were living in was sponsored by the organization. Susan and Susan first met at an AFZ albinism advocacy rally. They would come to work under the Albinism Foundation of Zambia, in the same office. Sitting at adjacent desks, Susan Phiri is secretary and Mwape the financial manager.
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| Susan Phiri working on her computer at the Albinism Foundation of Zambia. |
Susan Phiri is naturally outgoing, you would agree with her best friend who says her quiet nature is balanced out by Phiri's sometimes larger than life attitude. It makes working next to one another more fulfilling, Susan Mwape let on.
”I am a star in the making,” Phiri says vehemently. For as long as she can remember, she has aspired to be an actress, a model and predominantly; a singer. She is convinced she has the makings of a star; that she was made for show business. Thus far, the girls have been fortunate enough to be cast in support roles, yet to be televised. Susan concludes her short, sweet gospel melody to demonstrate how gifted a singer she is, and shortly after, she makes it known what her core purpose is.
"I really want to establish my own orphanage for unwanted children with albinism, no child has to suffer like we did", she explains. Susan Mwape affirms this, the best friends share this vision.
Their jobs at the organization are voluntary with only occasional pay. So to survive, the girls take up modeling gigs when the opportunity arises. Sometimes, they model for fashion designers unveiling new collections in catalogs, but for the most part, Susan and Susan pose as the faces of albinism campaigns for various NGOs.
Susan Mwape, speaks of her passion for agricultural science. She was fortunate enough to acquire a certificate in the field whilst living with her stepmother. Mwape dreams of purchasing land on the outskirts, where it feels like the home she should have once had. Here, she aspires to run her own plantation.
Rarities happen, sometimes you meet someone like you, someone similar. But coming across a person who is practically you, meeting yourself? It is almost unheard of. Susan and Susan felt this way about their first encounter. They carry these sentiments till this very day. Several years down the line, the two still live and work together; they are inseparable. They settled for a home on the outskirts of the capital city.
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| Front door of Susan and Susan's home in Chunga. |
Under their roof there is love. Under their roof there is acceptance. Under their roof there is understanding. Here, under this roof, you feel all of these things two fold. You have a glimpse of what it means to be Susan, to be of their likeness.
Their world finally makes sense under this roof.
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