The Paper House

by Lois Peterson

  Even if it was just for one day a week.

  Safiyah stepped into the lane to look back at her shack. “I’m going to put these pictures on the walls,” she told Pendo “That was my idea!”

  “I’m going to put them outside,” Safiyah said. “So everyone can see.”

  Pendo stood beside Safiyah and studied the shack. “How?”

  “I need scissors,” Safiyah told her. “To cut out the best pictures. Can you get some from school?”

  “Maybe,” said Pendo.

  “Can you get paste too?”

  “We have big jars of it.” As Pendo nodded, her tiny braids danced up and down. “Mr. Littlejohn will give me some if I tell him it is for an art project. He says everyone needs to be creative.” She held up the picture of the swimming pool. “Can I keep this one?” She folded it up and put it in her pocket before Safiyah could answer. “Where did you get all the pictures anyway?” she asked.

  “From the dump,” Safiyah told her. “Guess who was there?”

  “Who?” asked Pendo.

  “Blade. That big boy with the yellow pants and the marks down his face.”

  Pendo frowned. “He and his gang strut around like they are the bosses of Kibera.” She shuddered. “You better stay away from him.”

  “He broke up the fight between me and another kid.”

  “Did he hurt you?” asked Pendo.

  “He told me to go home,” Safiyah told her. “He knows about Cucu.” “How do you know?”

  “He told me to hurry home to her,” Safiyah said.

  Pendo shrugged. “That was just a good guess. Lots of kids live with their grandmothers.” She folded another picture and stuffed it her pocket. “Don’t go near him again, Saffy. I’ve heard awful things about his gang.”

  The alley was filling with shadows. Smoke from the neighbors’ supper fires drifted between the shacks. Through some doorways, Safiyah could see people eating their meals in pools of flickering light. Others shared a cot while they played cards or mancala.

  Soon after they had arrived, Mr. Zuma had told Cucu and Safiyah that about half a million people lived in Kibera. Even though her own neighborhood was crammed with people, half a million was more than she could imagine in one place!

  “I have to go,” Pendo said. She handed the stack of pictures back to Safiyah. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget to ask about the scissors and paste,” Safiyah told her.

  “I won’t.”

  Safiyah watched her friend trot home. How nice it must be to go home to a warm house where your parents and brother waited for you, perhaps with a nice supper, steaming hot, smelling lovely. Neither she nor Cucu had eaten since morning. But there was only enough soup for one meal. They would share it for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  Safiyah took her pictures indoors where Cucu coughed in her sleep. She dipped her cup into their water bucket. As she drank, making a face at the smell, she imagined colorful pictures covering the outside of her house. And how warm and cozy it would be inside, once all the cracks in the walls were filled.

  Chapter Five

  Safiyah was kept awake much of the night by Cucu’s cough. Next morning she was groggy and thick-headed.

  She took her pictures outside and sat on Cucu’s bench. She watched Mr. Lukomo push his barrow of old clothes toward the market. Mrs. Simon herded her three small children along, with a huge bundle of washing balanced on her head. A man with a broken bicycle slung across his back hurried past, his sandals flapping. A row of birds chattered on the power lines above the railroad tracks.

  Safiyah wanted to remind Pendo to ask Mr. Littlejohn for scissors and paste. But when schoolchildren with bulging backpacks passed in a noisy huddle, Pendo was not among them.

  Pendo had told her that her teacher lived on the Nairobi side of the railroad tracks. He had come to Kenya to help set up Pendo’s school, which had been started with money from other countries. At first none of the teachers were African. Then all the Americans went home except Mr. Littlejohn.

  Pendo boasted about the motorcycle he drove into the countryside on the weekends. She described his smart clothes and made Safiyah giggle by imitating his drawly American accent.

  Pendo said that one day she might marry Mr. Littlejohn.

  He was so pasty and white, he reminded Safiyah of a bowl of porridge. She planned to marry a smart African man who wore a shiny gray suit and drove a big car. One who lived in a mansion behind gates that someone opened and closed for him. Or perhaps she would marry a tall tribal leader with scars on his cheeks and the proud bearing of a warrior.

  She found herself thinking about the boy called Blade. Maybe he was dangerous. But he was as tall as a warrior and very beautiful in his yellow pants, pulled high above his waist with a thick belt.

  “What are you going to do with those?”

  Startled, Safiyah stood up. “What do you want?” She had just been thinking about him and here he was!

  “Don’t you remember me?” Blade asked.

  She held her pictures behind her back.

  He stepped toward her.

  A shriek escaped Safiyah’s mouth.

  “Saffy?” Cucu hobbled out, leaning on her stick. She grabbed Safiyah’s arm and pulled her tightly against her side. “What are you doing here?” she asked Blade.

  “Good morning, grandmother.” He smiled and bowed.

  “Don’t you grandmother me,” said Cucu. “I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good.”

  He shrugged. “I was just passing. I met your granddaughter yesterday.”

  Cucu turned on Safiyah. “Where did you meet this boy?” she asked.

  “At the water vendor’s,” Safiyah lied. If she admitted she had met him at the dump, he might mention the fight with the little boy.

  He winked at Safiyah over Cucu’s head. “There was a long lineup.”

  Safiyah avoided looking at her grandmother, who prodded the boy’s chest with her stick. “I know all about you,” she told him.

  “I doubt it.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “How dare you speak back to me!” Cucu screeched. “Do you know how old I am, to be spoken to like that!”

  “As old as the hills, Granny. And the waters of the Gulf of Guinea that lap our shores. As old as the sky that keeps watch over us…”

  “Cheeky boy!” Cucu looked flustered. She flapped one hand in the air. “Get out of here.” She rapped his arm with her stick.

  Blade stuck his hands in his pockets. He bowed lightly to Cucu, then to Safiyah. “You need more pictures?” he said. “You tell me, and I’ll send someone to get them for you.” He jumped over two dogs wrestling in the dirt, then stalked down the alley. Two women hurried indoors as he passed.

  “How do you know him?” Safiyah asked her grandmother, who sat panting on the bench with her stick across her lap.

  “Word gets around about boys like him. The Blade. Rasul. Whatever he calls himself.” Cucu glared up at Safiyah. “If you go near him again, my stick will find a nice home across your backside.” She held her bunched rag to her mouth and spat into it. “I’ve heard he has big ideas, that boy,” she said. “And none of them any good. But you know what they say: ‘The hyena cannot smell its own stench.’”

  Hyenas used to lurk around the edge of the village with their mean smiles. Not at all like this tall, proud boy, thought Safiyah. “Why is he called Blade if his real name is Rasul?” she asked.

  “I shudder to think,” said Cucu. “Although I can guess.” She peered hard at Safiyah. “What pictures was he talking about?”

  “The ones I showed you yesterday,” said Safiyah. “I’m going to put them on the walls. On the outside, where everyone can see them.”

  Cucu picked up the stack of paper from the bench. “Make do with these then.” She shoved them into Safiyah’s hand. “I won’t have you getting pictures—or anything else—from that boy. You stay away from him.” She put one hand to her chest and slumped onto her bench with her eyes
closed.

  Safiyah stood looking down at her grandmother.

  She was going to have to tell someone soon about the blood that floated around the bowl she emptied into the gutter every morning. And the streaks of red on the rag Cucu stuffed into her pocket so quickly after her coughing fits.

  Safiyah sat down heavily next to her grandmother. Even though she squeezed her eyes shut, a tear leaked out. It crept down her cheek and dropped onto her neck. When she felt her grandmother’s hand cover hers, Safiyah held on tight, wishing that was enough to keep them both safe.

  Chapter Six

  After school Pendo brought two pairs of scissors and a big jar of paste. “I told you Mr. Littlejohn would lend them to us,” she told Safiyah. “He told me it’s called a collage when you put bits of paper together to make a picture. When you put a collage on a wall, it’s a mural.”

  Lucky Pendo, learning so many things at school, thought Safiyah.

  Between taking care of Cucu and doing chores, it took Safiyah three days to finish stuffing paper into all the cracks indoors before she could paste her pictures on the wall around the doorway outside. First she cut out just the right pieces. Then she spread them across the dirt floor of the shack to plan how to put them together.

  “Cucu!” she protested each time her grandmother stepped on them. “You’re leaving footprints.” Cucu was often in a hurry to relieve herself in the ditch, and then too weary to respond as she hauled herself back to bed. When Safiyah asked if she should put a blue picture next to a green or a brown one, her grandmother hardly looked at them. “You’re the artful one,” she said. “You decide.”

  As the mural started to grow, more and more people stopped to look at it. One day two small boys sat in the dirt to watch Safiyah work. When their friend came along, they made him stop and look too. Mrs. Simon peered at one of the fashion pictures. She ran her finger down the model’s red dress while her two little girls giggled shyly behind her. An old man carrying a can of water on his shoulder muttered, “What nonsense is this?” before he trudged away.

  The sun was hot on Safiyah’s back as she used up the last picture. Squinting at the glossy paper all day had given her a headache.

  Cucu had felt well enough today to play mancala with their neighbor, Mrs. Okella. All morning Safiyah had heard them gossiping and laughing. The game was one of the few things Cucu had brought with her from the village. Each dip in the wooden board was shiny from use. The bag of stones always lived in her pocket. Each time Cucu tucked the mancala board back under the bed, she talked about playing with Safiyah’s mother outside their village hut in the evening while baby Safiyah rocked in a tree hammock overhead.

  Sometimes Safiyah loved hearing stories about life before they came to Kibera. At other times, it hurt to be reminded of all the people and things they had left behind and how everything had changed.

  The only special thing Safiyah still had from those happier times was a braided bracelet. It was twisted and thin now, mended with string she had found at the garbage dump. She remembered her mother making the bracelet for her as the sun went down and the chickens pecked around her feet.

  Maybe it wasn’t a real memory but just what Cucu called “wishful thinking.”

  Safiyah fingered her bracelet as she walked slowly along the wall. She peeled away one picture. She slathered more paste on the back and stuck it back in a different spot. The mural did not even cover one wall yet. She needed more pictures if she was going to paper the whole house.

  Cucu could be hours with Mrs. Okella. Once they got together, the two old ladies forgot everything except their game.

  Safiyah tucked the paste jar under Cucu’s bench. Then, with a quick glance at the neighbor’s house, she headed down the street toward the garbage dump.

  Chapter Seven

  Near the railroad tracks, Safiyah dodged around a tangle of writhing and snapping dogs. Up the bank, a crowd of boys chased a train, waving and jeering at the passengers who stared down from the windows. The grinding wheels blew garbage and smelly fumes into the air.

  When she caught sight of the little boy who had tried to steal her magazines, Safiyah turned away. But she was not quick enough.

  “Hey, girl.” He pranced in front of her. “Are you going back for more pictures?”

  Safiyah tried to dodge around him. She was glad to see that his friends had not noticed her.

  The boy darted to the side so quickly, he was right in front of her again. He had no front teeth. The blue T-shirt that hung down almost to his bare feet had white writing scrawled across it. “Is that your team?” Safiyah asked. Lots of kids had the names of soccer teams on their shirts. Whenever a big game was playing, the roar of the crowds on the radio and the cheers and taunts of Kibera soccer fans echoed through the alleys.

  The boy peered down at himself. “I borrowed it from my cousin.” He giggled. “He doesn’t mind.” He danced around her. “Are you going up the garbage hill again? What did you do with the pictures?”

  She stuck her chin in the air and kept walking.

  “My name’s Chidi. What’s yours?” The boy did not bother to wait for an answer. “If you find pictures of cars, can I have them? Or if I help, will you pay me?”

  Chidi was like a pesky mosquito, buzzing around and around, but never landing, Safiyah thought. He walked backward ahead of her until he tripped over. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed her arm. “We can get much more if we look together.”

  She shook him off. “You are a noisy brat.”

  The dump rose far above Safiyah. From down here, it reminded her of a dead dog she’d once seen in an alley, crawling with maggots and bugs. Hordes of people and birds rooted through the garbage. Adults and children dug with sticks and held things up to look at before throwing them back down or stuffing them in their pockets. Today, the man who roamed the alleys collecting tins was pulling his loaded cart along behind him. A tin rolled off and stopped at Safiyah’s feet. When she bent to pick it up, the man grabbed it. “That’s mine,” he said. “What’s yours is yours and what’s mine is mine.” His eyes flashed as he laughed.

  Chidi giggled. “That’s what Rasul says,” he told Safiyah. “But he says that what’s mine is his, and what’s his is his too.” He plucked at his shirt. “But I got this off him, didn’t I?” He giggled.

  “Is he your cousin? Blade?” asked Safiyah. “Are you in his gang?”

  “He says I’m too small.” Chidi pulled himself up straight and tucked his chin into his chest. “I’m not small, am I?”

  “You’re quite big,” she said. She knew that even runty things like Chidi did not like to think of themselves as little.

  “I’m not allowed to call my cousin that name,” Chidi told her “I live with him and my uncle and aunt. He had a sister but she died.” He wiped his thin wrist across his dripping nose.

  Safiyah could not bear to hear about anyone else dying: first her father, when she was just a baby, and then her mother so soon after they arrived in Kibera. Now this little boy’s cousin. Safiyah scrambled onto the garbage dump and away from the little boy as fast as she could.

  “Wait for me!” called Chidi.

  Safiyah did not stop or slow down. But Chidi stuck close as she headed for the place where she had found the magazines yesterday. She tried to ignore the gusts of stinking wind as she climbed higher and higher. Although Chidi kept up an endless stream of chatter, Safiyah did not bother trying to make him go away. She knew he would come buzzing back again just like a mosquito.

  A flock of birds soared and screeched above her head. At each step, something crunched under her feet or rolled away. The stench of rotting garbage stuck in the back of her throat. The hazy air made her eyes sting as she headed for a bright patch of red. But it was just an old cloth, torn and ragged and stinking of smoke. Nearby lay a wad of sopping wet newspaper, the print all smudged. It might do for stuffing into the holes in the walls, but today she wanted pictures for her mural.

  Safiyah yanked a met
al bar out of the garbage. She used it to help her climb across gullies of swampy water and oil, over heaps of tangled old clothes.

  Only the tiniest children were up this high. They raked through the garbage, calling back and forth to each other whenever they found something. Their voices sounded like the birds gathered on the power lines along the train tracks, and in the branches that hung over her house in the village.

  Safiyah stared into the distance. If she looked hard enough perhaps she could see all the way to her village. If she were a bird, how easy it would be to fly home again.

  But she wasn’t a bird. And between here and the home she missed so much were the crowded shacks of the slum and the endless maze of buildings and alleys of Nairobi. Beyond Nairobi were roads that ran in all directions, like dark snakes.

  “How about this?” Chidi held up a magazine cover with TIME written in big white letters across a man’s forehead. “That’s Mr. President of America,” Chidi told Safiyah as he handed it to her. He bent down to pull another handful from under a broken box.

  After lots of digging and sorting, Chidi and Safiyah had as many old magazines as they could carry. As the sun glared overhead, they clambered back down, each holding armfuls of paper.

  Safiyah was very thirsty. She looked around, but there was nowhere to buy water, even if she could pay for it. A big square can stood outside a hut. She dunked one hand in to scoop up some water but before she could bring it to her mouth, her hand was knocked aside. “Hey!” Water splashed onto her legs and made dark marks as it landed on the dirt.

  Blade glared down at her. His face shone with sweat and his eyes flashed.

  Chapter Eight

  “Why did you do that?” asked Safiyah. “I’m thirsty.”

  “You should know not to drink water unless you know it’s clean, you stupid girl.”