Bingo's Run Read online

  Hunsa’s shout stopped my happy beer-think. He yelled, “Wake up, ya lazy fook.” But it was not a shout at me. I looked around him. There, on Hunsa’s grimy orange armchair, with an unfinished bowl of rice, lamb, and banana stew on his lap, slept Slo-George.

  Slo-George woke up. A few grains of rice fell from his mouth onto his green-and-dirt-stained T-shirt. A piece of lamb was stuck on his lower lip. When he saw me he grunted, and a smile grew on his face like a cake rising in the oven. The beer, paint fumes, toxic air, and my exhaustion might explain what happened next. I shrieked, “Georgi!” I pushed past Hunsa, grabbed the retard, and kissed Slo-George on the cheek. He tasted sweet, with a little spice.

  “Georgi, what ya’s doin’ here?” I said.

  Slo-George grunted and lifted up his bowl.

  I looked and understood. His groin was swollen. It was just as if I had trained him. Slo-George had Hunsa’s weekly white (all seven bags) down his jeans. With my adoption, Slo-George had become the artist’s Thursday-morning runner.

  Hunsa’s eyes followed mine and stared at Slo-George’s groin. “Fook, he happy!” the artist said.

  I smiled back. “Ya—Slo-George, he love his food.”

  Hunsa pointed his brush at Slo-George. “Wha’ tha fook he doin’ in ma chair?”

  “He eatin’, Masta,” I said.

  “I know he eatin’—wha’ the fook he doin’ in ma chair?”

  I knew the artist’s head was never mixed right. I put on a serious expression and said, “Mr. Georgi crti-i-cal. He tha Bingo Dealaship managa.”

  Hunsa laughed like a petrol bomb. “Well, if he tha managa, I sign tha contrac’ right away. If I don’ sign right now, tha’ managa eat it. Then he eat me.” Hunsa laughed more; he could not stop. That is the trick with whiteheads: to them the world is crazy, and so a bit more crazy is normal.

  I pushed my hand into my trousers, took out the folded-up contract, and handed the yellow sheet to the Masta. Hunsa unfolded the paper and stared at it. His eyes darted over it as if there was a fly there. Silence was broken only by Slo-George chewing the stew.

  “Masta,” I said, “tha contract is propa legal. Kepha Kepha wrote it. Go on! Sign it now, ya.”

  My words found their way into his brain, like food to Slo-George’s belly. Thomas Hunsa held the contract against the unfinished painting on his stand: a red turtle with a giant blue bhunna. He dipped his brush into the pot of red, and wrote, in fast strokes, “Masta,” across the bottom of the contract, just like on his paintings.

  “There,” he said. He gave the contract back to me. “Now you’z two get fooked. The Masta need to eat before your managa finish it off.”

  Slo-George got up and grains of rice fell off him. He pushed his hand down the front of his jeans and pulled out Hunsa’s seven bags of white for the week. Hunsa smiled and exchanged two paint-stained hundred shilling notes for his dose. I was impressed. Slo-George was a good runner. He finished his runs. I had trained him well.

  I stepped outside Hunsa’s house and away from the toxic smell. I breathed the Nairobi night air and stared at the contract. Slo-George followed behind me, breathing loud. All the way to the bus stop, I held the yellow contract tight—“Masta” on the front, paint stains on the back. I had done it. I was Hunsa’s dealer.

  I said to Slo-George, “So, Georgi, you’z a runna and a cutta?”

  He grunted.

  “Ya know it betta to be bes’ at jus’ one thing.”

  Grunt.

  “Dog good boss, ya?”

  Grunt.

  Conversation over. Good chat.

  When we got to the bus stop, me and Slo-George sat on the wooden deck of the drink hut and waited for a matatu. The drink hut and brothel were shut; everyone in Hastings was done paying to get somewhere they were not. I did not know what time it was or when the bus would come. The morning sky was coming alive, copper red.

  “I’z starvin’,” I said.

  Slo-George pushed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of what looked like crushed bread. He opened his hand and I picked at the pieces. I tried not to eat the bread that had touched his sweaty skin, but in the end I ate it all.

  “Ta,” I said. Slo-George was my shade from the sun. He leaned over, and before I could duck he kissed my cheek. “Fook,” I said.

  We waited for a bus and listened to the silence. Slo-George’s silence was better than Deborah’s, the way one T-shirt is softer than another. I was about to go to America. I would not see Slo-George anymore. How can the sun move without its shadow?

  Chapter 31.

  Slo-George Visits

  From the Central Bus Station I walked with Slo-George to the Livingstone. I did not ask him to follow me. He just did. It felt as natural as sunrise to daylight.

  I was too tired to plan how to get him into the hotel, and so I went with shoplifter style. The best way to shoplift is to visit the shop the day before and choose what you want. Then, when you are ready, you walk straight into the store, take what you want, and walk out. Store guards look for nervous types, but with this style I have taken six CD players, clothes, a picture of three lions (no reason, just sport), and a handful of women’s lipsticks (for a girl named Dwanneh). I once tried for a portable Sony, but the TV was bolted to the shelf. To get Slo-George into the Livingstone, I would walk straight in—not nervous. Shoplifter style.

  We stood just outside the main door of the hotel. The contract was now dry, so I folded it and put it back in my pocket. I said, “Georgi, walk behind me and do what I do.”

  Grunt.

  I pulled back my shoulders; Slo-George did the same. I breathed in all the way; Slo-George copied. I walked straight into the Livingstone and across the lobby to the elevator. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Edward’s puffed-up chest. I was not halfway across the lobby when Mr. Edward called out, “Mr. Mwolo!” I stopped. Slo-George stopped, too.

  I turned to Manager Edward. He ran his eyes over Slo-George, from his bare feet up his dirt-stained jeans, over his once-white electric-cord belt across his green T-shirt with “Wanjabi Irrigation” printed on it, up his thick neck, and onto Slo-George’s round face. “Jambo, Mr. Edward!” I said upbeat, though I was exhausted. “I met my frien’ Georgi here by chance. He come for a visit.”

  Mr. Edward breathed in—long enough for a nap. He said, “My dear Mr. Mwolo, and”—he paused—“Mr. Georgi.” He spoke loud, just like the English lord in the porn film. The stair-polishing stopped as the cleaners stood still and listened. Manager Edward said, “The Ethiopian philosopher Manley Boetus wrote a great deal about chance. Boetus once orated thus:

  Meet amid the swirling waters,

  Chance their random way may flow.

  Chance itself is reined and bitted.

  Only how, Truth doest know.”

  Manager Edward coughed, two short sounds that signaled the end of the philosophy lesson. He turned and walked back behind his counter. I finished my walk to the elevators and pressed the up button. When it arrived, Slo-George followed me in. You see how it works? We were in, shoplifter style.

  Chapter 32.

  Breakfast

  Quick knocks on my hotel-room door woke me up. I was dreaming about a knife Senior Father gave me when I was eight years old. Senior Father was tall and thin, and his back was straight when he gave it to me. One day I was in the field planting seed-yams in the mud with a stick. Senior Father came and stood over me. I felt his shade and looked up. He dropped a knife onto the ground in front of me. It landed with its blade in the mud, and he walked away.

  The knife had a metal blade; its handle was made from two pieces of wood tied around the blade with string. Senior Father had carved each piece of wood in the shape of an eye. I took the knife and dug holes for the seed-yams. From then on, I kept the knife with me everywhere I went.

  When I was at the School of Benevolent Innocence, during lunch break one day I watched the big boys playing football while I played with the knife. Three boys approached me, pus
hed me around, and took it from me. One of them, called Basu, went to the schoolroom and cut up a blanket the girls had sewn for Easter tithe. Sister Eve, our teacher, saw the cut-up blanket and asked, “Who did this?” No one said a word. Sister Eve was a young happy type, with a peaceful pink face, but when she was angry her scold was severe. She made you feel shame inside—her words were worse than a slap. She lifted the cut-up blanket to reveal my knife, which Basu had left there. “Whose is this knife?” Sister Eve asked, holding it up. The three boys snickered. I lifted my hand. Sister Eve said, “Bingo, is this your knife?”

  I said, “Yes, Sista.” I knew that if I told on the boys I was dead. The class was silent. Sister said, “Bingo, shame on you,” and I felt shame. Sister thundered on, “Hell, Bingo, is but one cut away. You are but one thread away from hell’s eternal damnation, where the Devil himself cuts flesh from your bones! Fear that, Bingo! Fear that every second of every day.” I did not know what hell was, but I knew fear.

  The elephant can walk about wherever it likes, but it knows that if it is bitten by the Tnwanni gnat it will get sick and die. The Tnwanni gnat does not bite often, but the elephant always knows, every second of its life, that one day the gnat might bite. That was the fear I had as a child. The children in the village did not like me. They often did not speak to me, and many times, even though I was half their size, they beat me. “They fear you,” Mama said, “because you are made from a special clay.” The day Basu took my knife, I understood the fear of the elephant for the Tnwanni gnat. Every second, I feared that people would bite me because I was different from them. I am made from special clay, and because of that people are afraid of me.

  “Bingo, I am confiscating this knife,” said Sister Eve.

  Soon after that day, Senior Father saw the gang boys attack his neighbor in the field next to his. Senior Father tried to help his neighbor, and that night the gang boys came to our hut in their Ford truck to shut him up. Mama and me ran away from Nkubu and I never got my knife back.

  That morning in the Livingstone, with Slo-George asleep on the floor, I dreamed that the eyes on the wooden handle of my knife were light beams that made me strong, and that the Easter blanket Basu cut up was Mama’s shawl. In the dream, I took the knife back from Sister Eve, pointed it at the three boys, and said, “They did it. They cut the shawl. They iz guilty.” In my dream, I kept the knife; it was mine. When the gang boys came in the truck for Senior Father, I stood in front of them. I showed them my knife and shouted, “Go, or I’z kill ya!” And, in my dream, the gang boys left and Senior Father was alive.

  The trouble with a dream is that you wake up, all your fears come back, and the dead are still dead.

  There were more quick knocks on the door. I ran across the room to open it and almost tripped over Slo-George asleep on the carpet. The clothes I had slept in were wet with sweat. “Ya?” I shouted through the door.

  A voice chirped, “Jambo, sir. How are you dealing this morning?” It was the cleaner Charity.

  “Good, ya,” I said. I was out of breath and did not want to open the door, but it did not matter; the door lock clicked, the door opened a crack, and Charity’s face peered round. I could smell her cleaning fluids. Her pink lips grinned. “Good morning, sir. How is the art dealing going on this morning?” She looked at me with bright eyes. “You look hot, sir,” she said. “You must have been doing your turn-downs!”

  I wanted to speak back cleverly, but she had somehow cleaned out my head. In the end I said, “How’s tha cleanin’?”

  Charity cocked her head. “Thank you for asking, sir. The cleaning last night was most excellent. I am finished for the night and will go home now.” She still had not come in; she looked at me through the wide door crack and smiled. As the silence grew, I just stood there, my head empty. It was filled only with Charity’s smile and the smell of cleaning fluid.

  Charity shoved her hand into her dress pocket. Fast, she threw a pink shiny packet through the crack in the door. The door shut, and I reached down to pick it up. It was a packet of Walkers Prawn Cocktail crisps. I ran over and opened the door. Charity was already pushing her cart down the corridor. Her brown housekeeping dress did not hide her shape. Her behind was excellent, better than the sun and the moon put together. “Ta, ya!” I shouted at her behind.

  She turned fast and threw another packet—light green, Walkers Cheese ’n Onion. “Those are for your friend on the floor,” she said. She looked at me and her eye beams hit me straight on. She laughed then, and added, “Sir, keep on going with your turn-downs,” and pushed her cart away, orange duster in hand.

  I closed the door quietly, stepped over Slo-George, lay on the bed, and ate both packets of crisps. Slo-George would never know.

  There were more knocks at the door. My lips were sharp from the salt. I licked them and waited a bit. More knocks. I smiled and went over to the door. “Ya?” I called, casual style. I wanted Charity to know I was not soft on her.

  “Good morning, Bingo.” It was Mrs. Steele. Tak!

  I opened the door just enough to put my head through. “Jambo, Mrs. Steele,” I said. “I’z sorry. I jus’ wake up from a beautiful dream about America.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Mrs. Steele. “I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast with me downstairs.”

  I said, “Jus’ a few minutes. I’z be down.” She could hustle me as much as she wanted. I had the Khefa contract, and Hunsa was mine. I shut the door, ran to the bathroom, took off my clothes from the night before, and ran water with full power into the trough. I washed quickly, dried, and pissed. The toilet had been cleaned out from the day before. Dry, I went into the bedroom, kicked Slo-George in the belly, and shouted, “Georgi, wake up.” He moaned awake. “Georgi, you’z mus do exact what I sayz,” I told him. “Exact!” I spoke quickly, but tried to slow it down. His eyes looked up at me. “Georgi, listen. Neva go out tha room, ya.” He did not grunt, but I saw that he heard. “You’z wait here till I’z get back.” I had an idea. I stepped over him and switched on the television. The program was called Business Week Africa. It was set in a different part of Africa than I was used to, because all the African businessmen looked like their parents were from China.

  “Georgi, you get clean in tha small room over there.” I pointed to the bathroom. Then you watch TV till I’z get back. I’z bring ya food, ya.”

  I put on clean clothes from the St. Michael’s suitcase and ran downstairs. I had done it all in twenty minutes.

  Mrs. Steele was already at breakfast. I walked into her perfume cloud. “Jambo, Mrs. Steele.” I grinned at her; I knew she was a hustler, but I was pleased to see her. Perhaps it was because I was a better hustler than her—and wanted to show her. Perhaps it was because she looked good. Perhaps it was because she came with a room at the Livingstone and free food. Perhaps it was because she was taking me to America. At that moment, it did not matter—I was happy.

  “Jambo, Bingo,” Mrs. Steele said back. Mrs. Steele wore jeans, hooker heels, and a white shirt and bra. Her gold hair was tied back tight, and she wore less eye makeup and lipstick than she had the day before. She had on gold earings that were so heavy they stretched her ears. She looked less hooker. “You look nice, ya,” I said.

  She laughed lightly. “Thank you, Bingo,” she said. She liked it when I said things like that.

  Breakfast was like the Kibera market without the sellers, beggars, scammers, stink, noise, dirt, rot, and rats. All the food was set out, and people took what they wanted without paying.

  Mrs. Steele drank coffee, I got crushed cane juice. I watched the hotel boy push cane sticks through the crusher and the brown sugar juice drip out. When I was little, I only drank cane juice at special times, like if Mama got paid or it was my birthday. The juice arrived and I got lost in the brown sweetness. Mrs. Steele said, “Bingo, tell me all about last night.” I almost choked on the sugar. I thought about the Khefa, Thomas Hunsa in the Warehouse, and Slo-George upstairs watching TV.

 
I said, “Last night, I eat and went to sleep. I’z so many dreams about America. So beautiful.”

  Mrs. Steele’s eyes were as light green as the melon on her plate. “Bingo, that sounds wonderful,” she replied. She raised her thin eyebrows. “Tell me more.”

  I said, “Well, firs’ I dream ’bout bein’ an art deala.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Go on, what else?” she said.

  I said, “In America, I will get a truck—a Ford F-150, built tough.” It was from a TV advert.

  She laughed and said, “Right, Bingo, built tough.” She sipped white coffee. “Now, what about school? Was that in your dream, too?”

  “Ya, school,” I said. I put some excitement into my voice. “I love that!”

  Mrs. Steele looked at me. After a bit, she said, “Bingo, if you really want to be an art dealer you will have to do well in school. Then you will have to go to college and learn history and art theory.”

  This made me angry. “I’z already an art deala,” I said.

  Mrs. Steele went red. “Oh, Bingo, I’m sorry. Of course you are. I was just thinking that in America it is good to go to college, especially if you want to be the best art dealer … and the richest.” We stopped talking and ate. Mrs. Steele’s eyes were dark as she sipped her coffee. She said, “By the way, Bingo, I like that painting you gave me.”

  I looked at her. “I know.” We drank in silence.

  I said, “How’s you an art deala? Did you do college?” I wanted to call her Colette, but it did not come out of my mouth; something blocked it.

  Mrs. Steele’s face went tight. “I did it slightly differently. When I was at art school in Los Angeles, I worked for Mr. Steele, as a part-time appraiser.” She looked down at her plate. “After he divorced his first wife, we got married and I ended up being his full-time appraiser.” She stabbed a piece of melon. “And then, after we divorced, I ended up with his two galleries in Chicago.”