Golden Boy

by Tara Sullivan

  I glance over to the corner of the yard. Kweli is sunk deep in his own work, finishing “Justice,” so I decide not to bother him now. I walk inside the house and set my statue down on my pallet. Tonight I’ll give it to him and see what he thinks.

  Realizing I’m thirsty after a morning of carving, I trot out the front of the house to get a drink of water from the tap.

  “Who are you?” a shrill voice demands.

  I freeze in my tracks, panic washing over me. I have walked out of the house without checking first and have walked straight into a woman who has come in looking for Kweli. The keys for the gate still sway from her fingers.

  “Well? Who are you? I asked you a question, boy!” The woman is holding a large basket on her head with one hand, but now she plants the other deeply into the fat of her left hip and glares at me. The keys disappear entirely. I try to answer, but nothing comes out. I feel frozen in my body, unable to control it, like when you try to scream in a nightmare and can’t. A distant part of my mind registers that Davu has just followed the woman through the door and is closing it behind her.

  The woman looks past me and bellows into the house, “Uncle! What are you up to? What on earth are you doing with a mute zeruzeru in your house?”

  And with that, I can almost hear the sound of my whole world crashing down around me. In my mind’s eye I see myself being hated again, chased again, hunted again. I see my dream of staying here and becoming a sculptor wither like a seedling planted too late in the summer. I stare at the woman in despair, but she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy bellowing out questions that are destroying my life. Behind her I see Davu wince. Then Kweli appears in the door of the house.

  “What’s wrong, Chatha? Why all the shouting?”

  “You tell me what’s wrong!” Chatha booms, loudly enough that I’m sure the neighbors two streets over can hear her. “Why is this zeruzeru boy here? Are you picking up strays again?”

  “Calling someone a stray is very unpleasant,” says Kweli coldly. His lips have thinned, and the skin on his hand is tight where he’s gripping his cane fiercely.

  Chatha huffs in exasperation. “Unpleasant or not, the question stands! Who is this boy? Where is his family? What is he doing here with you?”

  “Mother,” Davu whispers to her, “you promised you wouldn’t fight this time.”

  “Hush, Davu!” the big woman snaps, but Kweli’s face clears slightly.

  “Is that Davu?”

  “Ndiyo.” Davu darts a look to her mother, then smiles at Kweli. “Hello, Great-Uncle. Mother and I brought you some fresh bread, and I found you a jar of honey in the grocery store.”

  At the mention of such civilized things as bread and honey, Kweli seems to collect himself. “Let’s not talk in the yard like peddlers,” he says. “Come in, Chatha, and let’s have some tea while we talk. Habo, please go get some water.”

  Kweli and Chatha disappear into the house. Davu runs over to me and grabs my arm.

  “I’m so sorry!” she whispers. “Mother decided at the last minute to come with me. I had no way to warn you.”

  I look at her with glassy eyes, not quite able to focus on either her face or her words. Her fingers are warm against my skin that has suddenly gone cold. That same faraway part of my mind that noticed her in the door earlier comments quietly that this is the first time Davu has touched me.

  “Habo? The water?” Kweli’s voice from inside the house breaks the spell on me and, mind whirling, I follow his instructions. Davu follows, but I’m too stunned to talk to her. Surely Kweli heard what Chatha said; she was yelling it loudly enough. Could it be that he doesn’t know what the word zeruzeru means? No, he lives in a huge city, not on some dusty little farm like my family used to. Why didn’t he say anything?

  Maybe I should just run away now, before he has a chance to throw me out.

  But I don’t. Instead, I let Davu guide me and the bucket of water around the house. Kweli and Chatha are sitting rigidly across from each other on stools by the fire. I see that Kweli has a pot on the fire, and I pour the water from the bucket into it. The metal is already hot, and the first water to touch it instantly hisses into steam. A hot billow clouds my face, but I pour the water in smoothly until the pot is nearly full. When Kweli hears the empty thump of the bucket on the ground, he reaches forward and drops in a handful of tea leaves and spices. Chatha watches this little ritual with hard eyes. You can see that holding her words in is a strain. But she’s well-raised enough to wait for her uncle to start the conversation now that they’re sitting down.

  “So,” says Kweli finally, stirring the tea leaves in the warming water with a long wooden spoon, “how is the family?”

  “I’m well, Great-Uncle,” says Davu, rolling over an uncarved log from Kweli’s work area and sitting down on it. She pats the spot beside her for me. I sit, mechanically. “And my brothers are nothing but trouble, like always.”

  Kweli chuckles.

  “They’re fine, Uncle!” Chatha bursts out. “We’re all fine. Now tell me about this boy. Where is he from? Why is he here?”

  “Chatha, I’m surprised at you. You’ve seen me work with young people before.”

  “But always boys and girls we knew. Not mute albino strangers!”

  “I’m not mute,” I growl.

  “Oh! He speaks!” She rolls her eyes as if this is some kind of miracle, crossing her arms tightly over her orange and red khanga. She glares at me. I glare back at her.

  “He speaks,” says Kweli flatly, still stirring the tea. “Sometimes quite a bit. Do you remember Ngonepe, who worked with me a few years ago? There was a boy who hardly ever spoke. No, Habo here can be quite a talker when he is not stunned into silence by running into my niece at my door. Why, I am almost mute from the shock myself.” He gives her a thin-lipped smile. “You haven’t been by in weeks, Chatha.”

  “I was busy with getting some construction done in my house,” says Chatha, smoothing her big hands over her sweat-wrinkled khanga. “Ndiyo, it’s been a while. But now, today, I have come by to see my favorite uncle.”

  Kweli gives a dry laugh. Davu is perched nervously on the edge of her seat beside me like a bird, looking back and forth between Kweli and her mother.

  “Chatha, I’m your only uncle.”

  Chatha’s laugh transforms her face, twisting all the lines just slightly, changing them from scolding to mirth. I can suddenly see how she’s related to Davu. When she’s smiling, Chatha has a face I could almost trust. Almost. I go inside and find four cups for the tea.

  “And that’s the only reason you’re my favorite, old man! You are far too much trouble.” I hear from inside as I gather things to drink from.

  “Too much trouble? I take care of myself. I’m no trouble at all!”

  I’m back outside with the cups in time to see the happy lines leave Chatha’s face again. “That’s exactly why you’re too much trouble. You can’t keep living here alone,” she says.

  Kweli stiffens on his stool, his face hardening into an ugly mask. He pulls the pot of tea off the fire with a calloused hand.

  “The tea is ready,” he says flatly.

  “I’ll serve, Great-Uncle,” chirps Davu with false cheeriness. Pushing her sleeves up over her elbows and using the hem of her khanga to hold the edges of the pot without burning herself, she pours tea into each of our cups. Her hands shake slightly as she pours. I feel bad for her, but I’m grateful for the argument because no one is talking about me anymore.

  For a few minutes everyone sips at their tea.

  “What work have you been doing on your house, then?” asks Kweli. “A fancy new kitchen for you? A pool for the children?”

  I think this is progress in the conversation until I see Davu shrink down beside me.

  “I finished your rooms,” says Chatha, lifting her chin.

  “My what?”<
br />
  “Your rooms. The workers finished building them last week, and I painted and decorated them for you. You have a bedroom and a bathroom at my house now.”

  I’m imagining what it would be like to have a bedroom and a bathroom to myself, and wondering what Chatha’s house must look like on the inside, when Kweli answers.

  “Absolutely not.” The cold fury in Kweli’s voice can’t be mistaken.

  “Oh, Uncle!” Chatha is losing her patience. “What if you fell and hurt yourself? What if you became ill and no one was around? You can’t even see and you’ve holed yourself up in this walled compound. It’s dangerous for you to be alone!” She rubs her temples as if this whole conversation is giving her a headache. “I should make Davu talk sense into you! You listen to her better than you ever listen to me!”

  “She needn’t bother herself,” says Kweli. “Now that Habo’s here, he helps me with everything I need.”

  I look up in surprise. I didn’t know that Kweli thought so highly of my help. It makes me feel proud, but I’m not so happy to be brought into this conversation. Chatha notices, of course. I’m getting the distinct impression that she is just as shrewd as her uncle. She opens her mouth to say something and then thinks better of it.

  “Well.” She narrows her eyes. “When he moves on, I want you to let us know right away, not wait a week and a half like you did when Ngonepe left.”

  “Hmph” is Kweli’s only reply.

  “And you, boy.” Her sharp gaze swivels over to me. “Take good care of my difficult old uncle. The slightest problem at all, I want you to come get me. Is that clear? If he isn’t doing as well as he is now the next time I visit, you’ll have me to answer to.”

  The force of her gaze makes me dip my head. “I’ll try, Bibi,” I whisper.

  Chatha fans herself with her hands, then sighs and heaves herself to her feet. Davu shoots a concerned look at me, but jumps up and follows her mother.

  “Very well. I’ll leave you for today, Uncle, but please do think about what I’ve said.” Chatha looks at Kweli, and for a moment I see what she sees: a stooped old man, leaning on a cane. Blind and alone. I can understand why she’s trying to make him go live with her.

  “Is there anything else you needed, Chatha?” Kweli replies.

  Chatha sighs again and picks up the basket she came in with.

  “Here’s the bread I made you,” says Chatha, unwrapping two great round loaves from her basket and setting them on the table. “And Davu’s jar of honey. There’s butter in the little box.”

  “You’re going to make me fat,” says Kweli, smiling for the first time in a while.

  “Well, you and the boy both could use a few extra pounds. Kwaheri, Uncle.”

  “Kwaheri, Chatha. Kwaheri, Davu,” says Kweli.

  “I’ll come again soon and see you,” says Davu, but although her words are directed at Kweli, she’s looking at me as she says this. I don’t meet her eyes. Now that my secret is out, I don’t think I’ll be here when she comes back, no matter how happy Kweli is to have my help.

  “Kwaheri, Davu. Mama Chatha,” I mumble.

  “Kwaheri,” says Chatha to me, but Davu refuses to say good-bye.

  With that, they’re gone. I watch the bright print of Chatha’s receding backside sway left and right, bracing myself for the inevitable: Kweli will have to talk to me now.

  But again, he surprises me. Instead of turning to me and demanding the truth, Kweli simply rests a hand on my shoulder as we face out of the doorway together and sighs.

  “Well, well. A visit from Chatha is always an experience. Come, let’s get dinner started.”

  My mind is such a muddle, I feel like I’m moving from instinct only: building up the fire, pouring the cornmeal and water into the pot for ugali, spreading the butter and the honey on two large slabs of bread. I carry the bread out to where Kweli is sitting on his stool by the fire, tending the ugali. I hand him his slice. For a moment we both sit there, chewing. When he finishes, Kweli tilts his head toward me and asks the question I’ve been dreading.

  “So, is what Chatha said true?”

  I choke on the last bite of my honey bread. I stall.

  “About what, Bwana? She said many things.”

  “Don’t be rude, boy! I’ve had enough of that for one day.”

  I duck my head in apology, even though he can’t see it.

  “Ndiyo,” says a small voice I only partly recognize as my own. “It’s the truth. I’ll leave in the morning, if you like.”

  “No one said anything about leaving yet. You’re one of these zeruzeru?”

  “Ndiyo.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  At this, my head snaps up so quickly I bite my tongue.

  “What? You don’t know what zeruzeru means? I thought everyone knew.”

  “There’s no need to take that tone with me. What I know or don’t know isn’t the point. I’m curious to know what it means to you.”

  “Well . . .” I trail off, not sure what to say, how to start. How do you explain something like that?

  “Yes?”

  “Well. A zeruzeru is—I mean, I am—an albino. Someone with all the wrong colors. My skin is white, and my hair is yellow, and my eyes are a pale bluish color.”

  There is a pause.

  “Let me feel your face,” says Kweli. Surprised, I lean toward him and close my eyes. His sculptor’s fingers brush over my head and face. I realize, crazy as it is, that Kweli is seeing me tonight for the first time in all our weeks together. Kweli finishes touching my face and drops his hands.

  “What else?” Kweli asks.

  “Bwana?”

  “What else, boy? Your color can’t be the only thing. What else does it mean?”

  I’m not sure what he is asking, but answering Kweli’s questions has become automatic and, before I realize it, I’m talking fast.

  “It means that I burn in the sun when other people don’t, which means that I couldn’t do the farmwork or play with the boys at school. It means that people stare at me everywhere I go. Even in my own home, sometimes Mother or one of my brothers will spin toward me in surprise when they see me out of the corner of their eyes, and then turn away. My eyes shake from side to side when I get tired, and I can’t see well, and my father left us because of me, and then, in Mwanza, people tried to kill me like you’d kill an elephant for its tusks because they wanted to sell pieces of me to the waganga to make good-luck talismans!”

  I’m barely conscious of the fact that I’m on my feet, shouting at Kweli, as I continue. “I don’t know why they think being an albino is lucky! It’s awful! Normal people point at you when you arrive. They whisper when you leave. Everyone treats you differently, and you get hunted like an animal! That’s not good luck! That’s a curse! A curse! Do you want to know what I know of Evil? Do you want to see it? Here! Feel what it’s like to be an albino!”

  I realize that my voice is shrill and wild, but for the moment I’m beyond caring. I run into the house and roughly grab my statue from where I had placed it tenderly only an hour ago when it was all I cared about in the world. Now I grab it like a runaway puppy, march out to Kweli, and slam the statue into his lap.

  Then I burst into tears.

  I splay my fingers over my face and sob like a child, rocking slightly on my stool. Kweli reaches an arm out to me, but I jerk away. The anger pushes out through my eyes and runs like the lava of the Ol Doino Lengai volcano down my face, through my fingers, and into the dust of the courtyard. With each sob I feel the tearing pain of not fitting into my own village, my own family, since the day I was born. All the hard words I didn’t realize I had committed to memory hurl themselves at me again. The feeling of being a stranger in my own skin, because of my skin, wrings my heart like laundry.

  When I finish crying, my laundry heart feels wrinkled a
nd bruised, but clean.

  I grind my fists into my eyes to squeeze out the last of the tears and then look at Kweli. He’s sitting very still, holding my sculpture lightly, gently, not yet seeing it with his fingers, waiting for me to be done. It’s only when I sniffle back the mucus in my nose and say, “Okay, Bwana. I’m all right now,” that he slowly lets his fingers trace my statue.

  He starts at the bottom, running his fingers up the spikes of tall carved grass, over the bloated bulge of the dead elephant, finding the missing face, the gaping holes where the tusks should be. His fingers find the man behind the elephant, looming up, dwarfing the corpse. He feels the twisted features of the snarling face, feels the way the man is leaning forward, one hand reaching out, grasping, the other holding a massive knife.

  His fingers brush over the top of the head and the tip of the knife and find the line of people that make up the background of the statue. To Kweli’s fingers they’re just a line of people, but I know the faces on each one of them: Mother, a shadowy man who could be my father, Enzi, Chui, the three men who kicked us out of our house in Arusha, Asu. Together they form a wall behind the madman with the knife. But none of them is seeing him, because they have all turned their faces away. Kweli’s fingers still, and he raises his head to me.

  He says nothing, and I feel the need to end the silence, so I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

  “It’s not a pretty carving, Bwana.”

  “No,” he answers softly. “No, it’s not pretty. But then, I don’t think that the experiences that shaped it were pretty.”