Bingo's Run Page 22

  I looked at her, confused.

  “Bingo, those five little white bags magically dropped into Mr. Goerlmann’s briefcase.”

  Mrs. Steele—what a hustler! I said to her, “And Mr. Goerlmann in jail can neva charge you’z seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You think that’s why I called customs—to save seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour? Bingo, I assure you, what one lawyer does not charge me, another one will.” Mrs. Steele looked at me and shook her head; her hair was loose and wild. “No, Bingo.” Her face was straight. “Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Bingo, no one touches my son.”

  Mrs. Steele and me both looked ahead in silence as the taxi drove. I was thinking about how Ma Steele was my kind of hustler. Night traffic moved fast. I turned to Mrs. Steele. “For real, what about the Hunsa paintin’s? I know they worth millions and Americans buy them like crazy. I know you’z lyin’ when you say they rubbish.”

  She shook her head. “Bingo, I came to Kenya for a son. I got what I came for.”

  “But Hunsa a genius.”

  She looked at me. “The paintings are where they are meant to be, and I am where I am meant to be.” She kissed my head and put her arm around me. I pushed into her and felt good.

  We reached the city and drove past Uhuru Park, where I used to come every day with the St. Michael’s children. I looked up at Mrs. Steele. “But you have the Hunsa paintin’ I give you. It worth millions—just tha one picture make tha deal worth it.”

  She laughed, “Oh, Bingo, give it a break! Just having you beside me is worth it. Yes, it’s a good deal.” You see how Ma Steele turns things around? We passed a club called the D’Avinci—I had run white to the doorman a hundred times. We were close to the Livingstone.

  When the taxi stopped at a red light, I said, “Mrs. Steele, I also mus’ do what I have to do.” I ran from the taxi before she could stop me.

  I knew how long it would take Gihilihili to teach Scarface about paradise. I would get to Taifa Road long before the chief of police arrived to talk with Wolf.

  Chapter 67.

  Family

  “Family,” Wolf cried as I walked into 19B. “Meejit! Like ol’ times, maan—good to see ya’s. Family, ya.” He smiled a tooth-gone smile. His eyes dropped to my hand. In it was Boss Jonni’s briefcase, dust-covered from the elevator shaft.

  “Come in, Meejit,” Wolf said. He shut the apartment door behind me. Drink Hut was not around. The air-con was on. Wolf wore shorts and a dark blue T-shirt with “Armani” written on the front. The white on the low glass table was now just the size of a fist. Trails extended from it like wild hair, and a razor stuck out, ready to serve those in need. Wolf’s green metal gun was back where it belonged, steady in his hand.

  “Wolf Sa, Boss, I come to give ya this,” I said. I held up the briefcase. “I’z ya runna, you’z Wolf, ma boss, ya.” I smiled false and looked at his bare feet. “Sa, I’z wan’ to be you’z runna again.”

  Wolf looked at me. He did not believe me but could not work it out. The numbers on his forearm, 14362, wriggled as the grip on his gun changed. “So, you’z not gone to America?” he said. “You’z wan’ your job back. What ya doin’ here?” He laughed. “Tha American beetch leeve ya here?”

  “Ya, that beetch dump me.” I held up the briefcase for him. “Take it, sa, please Boss Sa,” I said. “When I see Boss Jonni was dead, ya, I’z saw this business case in tha bedroom and hid it.” I waited for him to understand. “But I bring tha case back and not keep it because you tha boss—always tha boss. I know tha punishment for a runna steelin’.”

  Wolf turned toward the bedroom, “Dominique, come out here an’ hear this. Tha meejit has a presen’ for tha babi.” Without expression, naked and swollen, Drink Hut walked wide-legged from the bedroom. She stood beside Wolf, and her empty eyes stared at me.

  “Check the monay in the case,” Wolf said to her, nodding toward the briefcase in my hand.

  Drink Hut took the briefcase from me and sat on the sofa. The brass catches flicked open to show the field of green inside. Wolf watched. The gun stayed steady on me.

  Drink Hut’s eyes looked up to her master’s. “Kill him,” she said.

  “He a good runna. Meejit always run for me.”

  She shook her head slowly. “What man trus’ a man that point a gun at his woman.”

  Wolf looked at me and his eyes widened.

  I shook my head. “Na,” I said to him. “Ya no kill me.”

  “Kill him,” Drink Hut pushed. The air-con clicked off. It was cold enough.

  When Wolf’s hand tightened, the numbers on his arm stood out. I saw into his eyes. There, in the cavern of his evil, sat Fam. Wolf was possessed by evil the way other men are possessed by white. I do not know if Wolf loved the evil inside him or hated it. Inside all men, self-hate and self-love balance on a beam. One light push this way makes Destiny No. 1 fall; that way, Destiny No. 2.

  Wolf said, “So, Meejit, why I not kill ya?”

  “Boss, only half the monay is there. I hid the res’.” All my life I split my money. Lifesaver!

  Wolf went over to the briefcase and looked down at the green. He knew money as I did. I said, “In the briefcase was two hundred thousan’ dollar. Only a hundred thousan’ there now.”

  Wolf looked at me and nodded. “You’z not as stupid as you look. Where the res’?”

  “Hid it,” I said. “I bring it to you tomorra. I jus’ need you’z to say I can be your runna like before, like always”—I looked at Drink Hut—“and say you not kill me.” The rest of the money was in the elevator shaft. Unless rats liked shopping, it was safe there.

  “How I know you come back tomorrow?” Wolf said.

  I grinned. “Wolf Sa. You’z everywhere. You’z tha boss, I’z ya runna. You can fin’ me anywhere. Cors’ I come back.”

  He turned to Drink Hut. She did not react.

  “You come back tonight,” Wolf said.

  “Then I be your runna again?” I opened my eyes wide, like a child.

  His nose widened, his hand relaxed, and he nodded.

  “Yes, sa!” I said. “Jus’ like ol’ times. We’z family,” I said.

  He waved the gun at the door, and I left 19B alive.

  I waited outside the Taifa Road complex for less than ten minutes before three police cars came. Gihilihili got out of the last one.

  Wolves were never meant to fly, and Wolf never even tried. He landed right in the Taifa Road construction hole. His body smashed the wooden planks he landed on. I stared down at Wolf, and I understood which of Senior Father’s fears was false: the fear of the dog for the master’s stick is false. Dogs are not afraid of wooden sticks; the dog only cowers at the stick the master beats him with. The truth is that the master is the slave of the stick; without the stick, the master cannot hurt his dog. Without the stick, the master cannot rule. I looked down at Wolf—a broken man on broken sticks. Soon he would be food for dogs. This was Wolf without his drugs, money, and gun—just dog food. My mouth tasted bitter. I stared down at Wolf and spat on him.

  My thinking was smashed by a loud crash. At first I thought Mboya had smashed her cook pots in mad thunder. But it was not that. The crash was Drink Hut landing in the construction hole. She, Wolf, and their baby would be a family forever, three stains safe under the tarmac.

  Gihilihili left the high-rise a little later through the front door with Boss Jonni’s briefcase in his hand. Wolf would never be able to tell him where the rest of the Boss Jonni money went. Do not come to Nairobi to look for it—that money is now well hidden on Never-Tell-You Street.

  Chapter 68.

  Bingo’s Run

  I watched the three police cars pull away and looked about me. Nairobi went on with its business. The construction noise went on. It never shut up. I ran.

  I ran fast up Taifa and along Moi. I got to the crossing at Kenyatta Avenue. At night the traffic moved fast, and I waited for the lights to turn red. On the
other side of the street was the Livingstone. I was close.

  The lights went red and the traffic stopped. In the far lane, a matatu scraped still. The matatu was a 16B, heading back to Kibera. It was decorated in green and rust, and on its side was painted a giant chicken—head in the clouds, feet on the ground. Red letters read CHICKEN HEAVEN—We ARE EVERYWHERE. The sign reminded me that I had not eaten since breakfast and was starving. But I stopped panting and listened to the music coming out of the matatu speakers. It was not the normal thud but a slow song sung by a man.

  In the shadow of sinners you feel no pain

  I am King of Babylon—cry in shame.

  I watch you. Yes, I watch you.

  But you forget my name!

  “How can you forget me?”

  I am your king,

  Yes,

  I am your king.

  Come and kiss me,

  Children of mine,

  A kiss of honey,

  Love divine.

  I am your king,

  Yes, yes,

  I am your king.

  The traffic light turned orange and I ran across the street. I could see the entrance to the Livingstone, where a woman paced back and forth outside, nervous style. Her white dress with black polka dots was filthy. Ma Steele was still barefoot.

  Ma Steele looked about her as though she knew I was near, and then her eyes caught me. “Bingo!” she cried. I looked back at her as if fine green silk threads connected us, and I ran.

  Gone was: Fear of the lion for the mosquito.

  Gone was: Fear of the elephant for Tnwanni gnat.

  Gone was: Fear of the scorpion for the ichneumon fly.

  Gone was: Fear of the eagle for the flycatcher.

  Gone was: Fear of Leviathan for the three-spined stickleback.

  All fear was gone.

  Mrs. Steele knelt, and I held her. Feelings poured out of me like a beer being emptied from a bottle. I emptied into her. Mrs. Steele kissed my face. She held me and I felt her empty into me. Tears, hers and mine, mixed together.

  “You’s such a hustla,” I said, and kissed her cheek.

  Mrs. Steele cut me with her razor-blade green eyes. “Bingo, did you just call me mother?” she asked.

  I thought fast. “That’s right,” I said, and she held me tight, as if I was nailed to her.

  Chapter 69.

  The Legend’s End

  The Spider Returns to Heaven

  The spider crawled into the crack between heaven and earth. He pulled on his strand of silk and drew himself back up, into the Purple Sap. There Nzame, the Master of Everything, climbed out of his spider suit. The Trickster was waiting for him, still disguised as Beauty and smoking his white clay pipe.

  “You are right,” Nzame said to the Trickster. “The Book is false. The children do not sing all day of my might, my greatness, and my magnificence.”

  The Trickster said, “You see how Mboya your wife has fooled you. How she has lied. As the Master of All, the Master of Everything, you must punish her.”

  From deep inside his cave in the middle of the earth, Fam heard these words. He was joyous. He beat his drums, drank from the Skin of Revenge, and danced. He thought, “Nzame is about to destroy the world, and I will soon be free.”

  Nzame, furious, charged into Mboya’s bedchamber. Mboya lay upon her bed made of clouds. Silken threads streamed over her wooden hands—all the colors, all the children. When she saw her angry husband, the bliss on Mboya’s face was disturbed. “My master,” she said, “what is your desire?”

  “Explain!” Nzame demanded of his wife. “Every day you read to me from the Book about how my children sing of my might, my greatness, and my magnificence. It is false. I have seen it with my own eyes. They kill, they steal, they are selfish.”

  Mboya knew this was true. “That is so, my lord,” she said.

  Nzame said, “My children are false and they are evil. I shall destroy them.”

  Fam cheered from his cave below.

  Mboya said, “My lord, come for a moment of time and look upon your children with me.”

  Nzame, the Master of Everything, came to Mboya and lay beside his love. Thunder rumbled across the Purple Sap. Mboya whispered, “Look hard.” Her husband, the Master of All Being, stared into the streams of silken threads.

  There Nzame saw an old man in a yellow shirt with short sleeves. Old, his hair white from teaching, the man sat before a class of children. The school was just a mabati roof on stilts. The children’s hands were black from searching the garbage for food to eat. “All together,” the teacher said. The children’s voices sang as one, “The Lord is my Shepherd: I shall not want.”

  Nzame and Mboya listened to the song of the children. It was exceedingly beautiful.

  Nzame looked at his wife. “How can they sing for me when they are hungry and they search the garbage for food?”

  Mboya smiled, and the Master of Everything understood.

  Nzame then called aloud, “The Assembly must come! They must understand as I do!”

  The Assembly rushed one after another into their master’s bedchamber. First came Justice. She ran like a cheetah; her shining black-dot eyes never stopped their search for wrongdoing. Le-Le entered gripping his bone-handled brush. His face bore the color of joy; he had painted much life that day. Awuretete came next, the guardian of knowledge; as always, he was the finest dressed of all the forms. Then came Apaoriawo, the diviner of Egba; his right fist held the sixteen beans of destiny. Last slithered in Gihilihili, the serpent guard to the gate of paradise. He understood how to strip man of folly. None of them noticed the entry of the Thaatima. The Thaatima was devoid of all form—not man, not woman—but from the snail shell that was its mouth hung a white clay pipe. Together, at the feet of Nzame and the Queen of Queens, the Asssembly listened to the song of the children. “Listen to how they praise me!” commanded Nazame, the Lord of Lords and Master of Everything. “They call me Shepherd.”

  The schoolchildren finished their song. Mboya spoke, “Master, look there.” She guided her master’s gaze away from the makeshift school with the mabati roof to the hill behind. On the hill lay a small man and a large man. They drank beer, smoked, and listened to the children. Mboya reached down to where Bingo lay beside Slo-George and, between her twig fingers, took the crimson thread that was Bingo’s. Mboya, the Mother of Mothers, traced her son’s silken thread from here to there, wherever the runner ran. Bingo’s thread tied this to that, him to her to them. It was a complicated thread, knotted and tangled. Eventually, the thread ended at the present moment, and Mboya said, “My master, I beg that you watch.”

  The Assembly crowded around their heavenly master and queen in order to see. There was hush across the Purple Sap. All stared down. There they saw Mrs. Steele barefoot in the street in front of the Livingstone Hotel. Her golden hair was wild and her feet were blackened. They saw Bingo run to her and watched the woman fold onto her knees before the runner. She grasped him as if her life was his. The woman cried tears that were mixed, in equal measure, from the goblets of desire, emptiness, and love. Her tears ran over the boy and dripped down through the cracks in the road. Beneath the road, under the earth, the tears of Mrs. Steele joined with the tears of all mothers in the Ocean of Boundless Love.

  Mboya smiled at the scene. Mrs. Steele had chosen this destiny over that; her son over all others. Mboya, then, before all, knotted the red silken thread of Bingo to the green thread of Mrs. Steele.

  Mboya dismissed the Assembly. When they had gone, she reached down and raised all of the silken threads as one. There were many knots that connected him to her and to them; the threads had become a blanket. Mboya drew her master close to her and laid the silken blanket over them. In the soft orange peace that followed, leaves sprinkled down on earth.

  The Last Chapter

  Mrs. Steele stepped away from me and headed toward the hotel entrance. She stopped and turned around. “Bingo, are you coming?” she asked.

  I looked
at her and we did not speak. Every second runners think, This way or that. If they go this way, they meet Destiny No. 1; that way, Destiny No. 2. Mrs. Steele was Destiny No. 1: America, high school, trucks, and free food. Destiny No. 2 was Kibera, the scam, and the run. I knew that I would be crazy not to go to America, but Nairobi was my place; here were my people. In Kibera, I was the greatest runner, and I was famous. Also, I had $100,000 hidden on Never-Tell-You Street!

  As Ma Steele watched me think, her face turned sad. Her body turned toward me but stopped. She shrugged. “Okay, Bingo, come in when you’re ready. We’re in the same rooms as before; you know where I am.” Her words sounded like fish swimming against a river of Missing.

  I looked back at Ma Steele and nodded. “Ya,” I said. “I jus’ stan’ here a bit.” Mr. Edward opened the door and through the glass I watched Ma Steele, barefoot, cross the lobby. She stopped just before the elevators and looked back at me, just a glance, and then she was gone.

  I looked out onto Kenyatta Avenue. The night air was warm. Across the road, a water pipe had burst and water shot up like a fountain. Two little boys wearing shorts and T-shirts splashed and laughed. They were soaked. The traffic was mad. People walked by, scammers looked for tourists, and hookers hunted. “Crazy, crazy,” I said to Nairobi. Nairobi answered back with construction thud.

  I had been Senior Father’s runner before Wolf’s. “Bingo!” Senior Father would shout across the field, and from under the tree’s shade I would run the water skin to him. His smile, after he drank, made his eyes sparkle like stars. I looked at the happy children across the road playing in the water and I remembered the smiles of my clients when I arrived with their packets of white or dagga. God, love, art, happiness, and lawyers; everything can be real or scam—the only truth is the run.