Golden Boy

by Tara Sullivan

  Zubeda steps out into the central square and starts to talk to the tourists, trying to get them to come into our shop, but it doesn’t work until one of them sees me.

  “Oh!” he cries, and jabbers to his friends loudly over his shoulder.

  About fifteen of them come over toward us in a group. I start to sweat, feeling cornered by the cluttered shop behind me. What do they want with me?

  I back into the shop. The group follows me. I put a hand out onto a five-foot-tall statue of a giraffe to steady myself. A flash of bright light momentarily blinds me. I hold my hand over my face.

  Suddenly, Zubeda is at my side.

  “Smile!” she hisses at me in Kiswahili. She puts one arm around my shoulders and picks up a statue of a boy in the other. I smile.

  The flashing camera lights go wild. Then Zubeda shepherds me out through them, dropping me by Kweli in the entryway. She turns around and gets to work on the fifteen tourists now inside her shop. By the time she joins us ten minutes later, she has made three sales.

  “I tell you, Kweli, this boy is good luck!” she crows as she waves to the tourists.

  I don’t know how to feel. Part of me wants to be sick all over Zubeda’s feet. She’s not the first to think I’m lucky, and the last time it nearly killed me.

  Then again, as I see Zubeda counting out Kweli’s share and handing it to him, I feel pretty good about myself. If those people hadn’t been curious to see me, the shop wouldn’t have made any money today. I kind of like that, instead of driving people away, my strange looks pulled people into Kweli’s shop. It’s a way that I, and only I, can give back to him for all the kindness he’s shown me.

  That said, my heart is pounding in my ears and the edges of my vision are light and fuzzy. I’m still not entirely sure I won’t faint. I hate feeling trapped.

  “Good,” says Kweli. “That’s over. Is that enough for you on your first day out?”

  I am so grateful to him for understanding how overwhelmed I feel, my voice is shaky when I reply.

  “Ndiyo. That’s a good amount for today. I’m ready to go back to your compound if you are.”

  “Sawa,” he says, and we go.

  Within a week, I’m over my initial nervousness at leaving the compound and I no longer feel like I’m going to faint if people stare at me. I still don’t like being cornered by a group, but now that I’m not afraid of people telling Kweli I’m an albino, I force myself to go out with him whenever he needs to run errands and when it’s his day to sell at the market. The quicker you learn to live in the city, the more likely it is that he’ll let you stay with him, I remind myself. So, day after day, I grit my teeth against the fear and walk out the big metal door in the wall with Kweli.

  And, though I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder for Alasiri or breaking into a sweat anytime I can’t see at least a few ways to escape a room, I am slowly feeling more comfortable being out in the real world again. Even so, I still find ways to avoid calling my family. Having waited so long, it becomes more and more difficult to imagine what I’ll say to them.

  In this way, six more weeks pass and, with a roll of thunder, the short rains of November are upon us.

  20.

  This morning when I wake up with the first rays of light and start clattering around the kitchen getting breakfast together, Kweli doesn’t join me right away. Oddly, he still hasn’t gotten up by the time I’ve finished cooking our morning porridge.

  “Bwana!” I call into the house. “Bwana, breakfast is ready!”

  “You go ahead,” answers Kweli. “I’m going to sleep a little longer today.”

  I’m puzzled by this response, but I don’t pass up the opportunity for a little extra breakfast. Even so, I make sure I leave enough so that Kweli’s bowl doesn’t look too small. But when I’m finished eating and Kweli still hasn’t come out, I begin to get concerned. I carry his bowl inside to his bed.

  “Are you feeling all right, Bwana?”

  “I think, Habo, that I will stay in bed today.”

  I set the bowl by him, in easy reach in case he wants it.

  “Are you sick, Bwana?” I squint in the dim indoors. “Should I go for the doctor?”

  “No, no,” comes the reply. “I just don’t feel very well. I think it’s something I ate yesterday not agreeing with me. A day of resting will be all that I need.”

  Something suddenly occurs to me. “But it’s Friday!”

  There is a low groan from the bed as Kweli processes this information.

  “You’ll have to go into Mwenge without me,” he says finally. “I don’t have the energy to go in myself, and it is not fair to the other artists if the shop isn’t open at all. Can you do that?”

  I look at him and think about saying no, but Kweli has spent so much of his time helping me that I pause. Anyway, I reason, you’ve been out in the city for weeks and nothing worse than some awkward stares and comments has happened to you. Surely you can do this for Kweli.

  “Ndiyo,” I say, and I see Kweli relax into the pillows. I’m glad that I made this choice. “That’s no problem. I’ll run the shop for the day as best I can, and I’ll see you tonight in time to make dinner.”

  “Thank you, boy,” he says, and drifts off to sleep.

  I wake him once more before I leave to make him drink some tea and show his hand where to find the extra water and food I’ve placed by his bed. As I walk out the door alone, I try to convince myself that we’ll both be fine today.

  I heft the crate of statues onto my head and follow the road into town. The early morning light is murky but the air is cool against my face. My hat is stacked on top of the crate and I have my sleeves and trouser legs rolled up because the sun isn’t high yet. I like the way the dust covers my fish-meat-colored toes as I walk. I feel a twinge of unease deep in my stomach about heading into town alone, but I brush it away with the dust.

  I get to Mwenge without incident, knowing the way by heart now, and I say hello to the other artists and answer their questions about why I’m coming alone and where Kweli is.

  “He’s taking a day to rest,” I tell them. “He wasn’t feeling well this morning, but I’ll mind the shop today and he’ll be better tomorrow. There’s nothing to worry about.” But rather than convince myself that he’ll be feeling better by the time I get back, repeating that Kweli is okay over and over actually makes me afraid that, instead, he will worsen.

  I open the shop with Kweli’s rusty key and stretch the blue tarp between the poles. I unpack the statues from the box and put them out in front. Kweli always says to Zubeda, Oh, put mine anywhere, but I’ve noticed that the statues out front are more likely to be bought than the ones that someone has to go into the store to find. Also, the quality of what’s in front is what will or will not pull someone into the store to look more. Whenever we’re here alone, I always put Kweli’s statues out in front.

  The first day I came to the market with Kweli, I had trouble imagining that anyone would spend such a sum of money on a piece of wood, no matter how beautiful it was. But people did. Some bought Kweli’s work because they fell in love with its smooth lines and deep meanings, others because they were fascinated by the idea of owning something made by a blind sculptor. When I grumbled about one customer who had said, “Oh, give me anything,” after peppering Kweli with prying questions about being blind, Kweli had just smiled at me and shown me the roll of shillings in his hand. “I carve because I love it,” he said. “I’m allowed to keep carving because I sell them, to whomever will buy. An obnoxious man’s money buys me just as much food and materials as a pleasant man’s. Remember, Habo, even a great artist has to eat.”

  Since then I’ve bitten my tongue whenever I’ve wanted to snap at a potential buyer and tried to imagine them as a large roll of shillings, or a pot of stew, or a piece of new wood.

  The morning passes slowly, and
I keep myself busy dusting the statues and tidying up so I don’t dwell on worrying about Kweli. I wish I’d brought my own carving with me. Kweli has me carving “Change” right now, and it’s a mess of unexpected angles and climbing vines. If I had it with me it’d be complicated enough to take my mind off things, but in my worry about Kweli I forgot it this morning. I can see in my head exactly where it must be on my mat, but that just makes me more annoyed, so I try not to think about it.

  Whenever I hear someone’s voice turn from a normal conversation into a high-pitched sales voice, I hurry out front because that means that a potential buyer has come to the market. I stand there and use the one bit of English, Spanish, French, German, Chinese, or Japanese that Kweli has taught me to memorize: Hello good sir/madam, please come look in my shop. We have many nice things. The rest of the transaction can be completed with smiles and fingers and numbers written down, but the greeting, Kweli says, must be in the person’s home language. Sometimes it’s difficult to guess which is the right language to use, so I cycle through whichever seem likely, one after another.

  Though a few people stop by to stare at me, and one even goes so far as to walk around the shop and pick things up, no one buys anything from me all morning.

  I eat my packed lunch in the blue-tinted shade of our awning, sweating in the November heat, worrying about how Kweli’s doing and wondering how I’m going to spend the rest of the day. It’s still many hours before sunset, when I can close up without seeming like I’m not doing my job.

  People wander in and out of the market, but no one comes into my shop. Is it because of me? I think about being more aggressive and talking to people, but I still have trouble calling that much attention to myself. Whenever more than a few people start to stare at me, I break into a cold sweat and want to find a place to hide. Maybe I should just go back to the compound. Kweli’s an old man. Should I have gone and told Chatha right away instead of coming to the market and leaving him alone? I chew my lip and worry whether she’ll think I’ve broken my promise to keep Kweli well.

  Then suddenly there’s a change in the light, and I look up to see great dark clouds rolling in from the horizon. I’ve never been so glad to see rainy-season storm clouds in all my life. Already the cry has gone up and everywhere people are scurrying around, packing up their wares and getting them under a roof before the storm hits. Perfect! If this storm is as bad as it looks, no one will think twice about my packing up. It has nothing to do with being an albino if I close the shop. It has everything to do with being a good businessman: Tourists do not shop in the rain, and only a poor seller leaves his wares out to be ruined in a downpour.

  Stifling my grin of gratitude, I start bringing the statues in and lining them up inside the shop. It takes me a while because I have to be careful to leave at least enough room for the next carver to get in tomorrow morning, and by the time I’m hauling in the last big pieces by the door the rain has started to make big fat plopping sounds against the blue tarp. I look around the market. Most everyone has been able to move faster than me, and the majority of the shops are bolted up tightly. I’m tempted to leave the tarp up and just go, but that would be irresponsible. If it was ripped or blown away by a high wind, I’d never hear the end of it from Zubeda and, worse, Kweli would probably have to pay to replace it out of his earnings. I ignore the quickly emptying market and the curling, purple-gray sky and hurry to untie the tarp and bundle it inside. By the time I’m done folding it, it’s raining heavily.

  A crack of lightning makes me start, and I grimace ruefully. This will not be a pleasant walk home. If Kweli weren’t sick, I’d stay here and wait it out, but I can’t shake the feeling that he might need me, and so I lock the shop and head out into the pouring rain.

  Within seconds I’m soaked to the skin. I throw the piece of cardboard I was using as an umbrella by the side of the road; it’s useless. When I get to the gate, I open it and slosh my way wetly through the front yard. Ahead of me I see the lights on in the house, which is nice, but unusual. When Kweli’s home alone, he doesn’t waste lamp oil. Which means that someone must be visiting. I feel better at once, glad that Davu, or maybe Chatha, has spent the day with him when he wasn’t feeling well.

  Since no one has called out to me, the storm must have covered the noise of my coming into the compound, and I decide to sneak around back instead of going through the front door to see if they’re talking about me. It’s a low impulse on my part, but it saves my life. Because when I sneak inside and peek around the doorway separating the kitchen alcove from the living space, I see that the person that Kweli is having tea with is not Chatha or Davu.

  It’s Alasiri.

  As quickly as it came, the November downpour ends. The high winds clear the last remaining clouds from the sky, and I’m trapped in the kitchen in the sudden silence left in the storm’s wake.

  He’s here.

  How is he here?

  Is he here for me?

  My thoughts tangle and jumble together in my dread.

  Run! screams the voice in my head, and oh, do I want to run! Images flash through my memory, tinged gray and red: Alasiri digging his knife into the elephant’s head, pulling its teeth out. Alasiri staring me down, waving his knife and talking about my hair, my hands, my legs, like they weren’t all attached to me. Escaping from Alasiri through the deserted streets of Mwanza. Alasiri, filling my vision as I run toward him, desperate to reach a train door that will mean my life one way or the other. The images swirl around me like a poisonous fog, and I have to shake my head to clear enough space to think.

  Because I must think. I have to know why he’s here, in Kweli’s house. How he found me. Why Kweli, someone I’ve trusted completely, is calmly drinking tea with the man who is trying to kill me. I have to know these things in order to know what to do. And so, though my muscles are cramping and I’m sweating in terror, I lean forward, shielded by the counter, and listen.

  “. . . so, thanks to the new demand from China, the ivory trade is alive and well again,” Alasiri is saying. “I’ll provide you with the materials and arrange all of the transportation. All you would have to do is carve the pieces to the specifications from my buyers.”

  “I am afraid, young man”—the voice from the other room is Kweli’s now—“that my answer is final. I will not do this thing for you.”

  “And I’m not sure, Bwana, that you understand just how much money I’m offering you. With very little effort on your part, we will both be rich very quickly.”

  “Kanu,” says Kweli, “what money I do need I am happy to earn legally, even if that is the slow way.”

  This comment is greeted by a chuckle from Alasiri.

  “Very well.” I hear the scraping of a stool across the floor. “I can see you’re decided.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then, since the rain has stopped, I will leave you to your evening plans, and I will go pursue mine. Shall I help you clear the tea things into the kitchen?”

  My mind races. I’m completely exposed. There’s no way that Alasiri wouldn’t see me if he came into the kitchen. Please, Kweli, I beg in my mind, please be too polite to let him clean up his own dishes!

  “No, no,” I hear Kweli’s voice say from the other room. “Just leave them there. I’ll finish up my tea and put them away when I’m done. My assistant should be back soon anyway, and perhaps he would also like some. Go ahead and leave everything where it is.”

  “Very well,” says Alasiri. “I’ll just put down my cup.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses as I hear his footfalls cross the few steps between the table and the kitchen. My brilliant hiding place doesn’t seem so brilliant anymore. I’m positive that he’s going to see me and finish the job he started months ago, halfway across the country.

  I look up and see a long-fingered hand with an expensive wristwatch and a finely tailored cuff reach over the half wall and
set a tin cup down on the counter over my head. I wonder what—or who—had to die so that he could afford clothes like that.

  I stop breathing and wait, the way a hare watches a hyena crouch when it’s not yet sure if it has been seen. The hand pulls away, and I hear Alasiri’s voice get fainter as he heads back toward Kweli.

  “If you ever change your mind, Bwana, you can reach me by leaving a message for Kanu at Azize’s guesthouse in Mikocheni. I’ll get the message and come again.”

  Mikocheni! That’s only one neighborhood over from Mwenge, where I was standing outside all day long, by myself, selling statues. Sweat is running down my forehead into my eyes even though the evening isn’t hot, and it wraps me in the sticky-sweet smell of fear.

  I hear the scrape of Kweli’s stool and the tap of his cane finding the floor. Their voices get fainter as they both head out the front door toward the gate.

  “Thank you, young man, but I do not think that is likely to happen. I wish you a good day.”

  “Kwaheri, then.”

  “Kwaheri.”

  I slide to the floor in relief that I haven’t been seen, my legs no longer able to support me. In the distance I hear the clanging of the metal door, and I allow myself to breathe again. But my breath comes in short, tight gasps.

  Alasiri has again found my home. The wonderfully safe feeling I’ve treasured inside the high walls of Kweli’s compound is gone, replaced by a feeling as narrow as the corn cave, pressing in on me. Whether or not it’s to do business with Kweli, I’m sure that at some point Alasiri will return to try to make quick money with my death.

  What do I do now?

  He’s here, in the city. He has developed a taste for fancy clothes. No matter what way I turn this about in my head, I can come to only one conclusion. Someday soon, Alasiri will come hunting me. Again.

  When Kweli gets in from closing the gate, it’s the sound of my panicked, gasping breaths that leads him to find me, curled in a ball on his kitchen floor.