Bingo's Run Page 5

  He said, “What is your name, son?” Though his voice was low and soft, it was not kind.

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “Your full name?” he asked.

  “Bingo Mwolo,” I said to his big feet.

  The priest said, “Bingo Mwolo, I sense a troubled soul. Pray, tell me what transpired tonight so that I may pray for you.” His fingers relaxed on my shoulders.

  I kept my eyes down. I knew what to say. “I witness the Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”

  “Is that so?” said the priest.

  I nodded.

  “Mr. Mwolo, tell me precisely what you saw.”

  I told the priest that I had gone to Boss Jonni’s high-rise to bring him a present from Wolf. I told him that when I got there I found Boss Jonni shot. I told him about the three Manabí boys I’d seen outside the high-rise. I told him I was sick two times. I said, “Wolf want ta keep me safe because tha Manabí boyz is evil. Wolf sent me here because tha Manabí boys kill Boss Jonni.”

  “Evil,” said Father Matthew. He reminded me of one of the vultures that flew over Krazi Hari’s dump. Then the priest said, “Bingo, I have another question for you. It is an important question.” His fingers tightened on my shoulders.

  I nodded.

  “Did you see a black briefcase in Boss Jonni’s apartment? Bingo, it is important.” The vulture’s voice got louder. “You see, the briefcase contains important medicines for many of the boys I care for.” The priest stared down at me God style. He showed me with his hands: “It is about this big.” His long naked arms looked like vulture wings.

  I looked up at him Slo-George style and shook my head.

  “Bingo, do you believe in right and wrong?”

  I do not believe in wrong, but I nodded anyway.

  The priest said louder, “Bingo, did you see that black briefcase?”

  I shook my head. “No, Fatha. I neva see no briefcase.” I know how liars lie. I kept my eyes sunk in his eyes, two lagoons of tar.

  The priest breathed two slow breaths. He continued to look at me, but my eyes did not move from his. Inside him I saw his darkness. I was scared of him, but not sure if I was scared of his right or his wrong.

  The priest’s neck softened and he took his hands off me. “Bingo, son, you are safe here. Go in there and find somewhere to sleep.” He waved a wing at a door to his left, turned, and walked up the stone stairs. I did not give him the three bags of white; I’d forgotten about them, with all the talk of the briefcase. When his shadow had gone, I opened the door. It opened onto a large room lit by one electric bulb. The walls were brick, there were three windows, and there was a small door at the far end of the room. The floor was a carpet of gray—children asleep under gray blankets. A couple of them looked up at me; the dim light reflected in their eyes. Several shuffled back to sleep. One boy sat against the left wall, smoking.

  I stepped over a few bodies, lay down in an empty space, and became part of the gray carpet.

  Chapter 12.

  The Fight

  A bell woke me. I was still at St. Michael’s Orphanage. I grabbed my groin; that was where I’d pushed the three bags of white and my money. I could not remember my dream. Around me boys stretched from sleep and some scampered around. No one asked me who I was or told me to do anything. I felt invisible, which was an unusual feeling for a growth retard.

  Some boys had formed a line at the back door. I stepped over some still-asleep children and joined the line.

  “What tha line for?” I asked a boy about seven years old in front of me.

  “Piss ’ole,” he said.

  That was all we said. Since runners are not talkers, I immediately loved the place.

  It took a quarter of an hour for me to reach the “piss ’ole” room. To the right were six slots separated by low walls. In each space, a boy toileted over a hole in the floor. The smell was nothing compared to a Kibera ditch. To the left was an open room with nine naked boys who cleaned themselves with water shot from the wall.

  I went into a slot and pissed. I was about to wash in the water wall, but I was worried that the three bags of white and the money in my trouser pockets would be lipped, so I went back to the main sleep room. The room was almost empty; all the gray blankets had been pushed against the wall in piles. Boys, in line, were walking out of the sleep room and up the stairs. I followed them. The boy ahead of me was about my age but a foot taller. We grunted. That was all. Good conversation.

  At the top of the stairs, a hall to the left led to a corridor of shut doors. On the right was a room as large as the main room below. I followed the tall boy in. Children of different sizes sat at three long tables. At the far end of the room, boys walked past a short table; on it were piles of metal bowls, a box of spoons, and two giant steel pots. Two white women, one blond and one brunette, stood on the other side of the table scooping yellow cement into metal bowls the boys held out. Father Matthew stood behind the women. He had more life in him than the night before. He wore a black priest’s robe with a dirty white collar, and his waist was tied with a black belt. I guessed that the two women were his hookers.

  I joined the line, collected a bowl and spoon, and waited for my scoop. Father Matthew saw me and smiled close-lipped. He whispered in the ear of the blond hooker. She was pretty—good hips. She looked at me and gave me food. It was hot Uji.

  It took a while for everyone to get served. I sat beside a boy halfway down the third table under the window. No one ate. Steam rose from the plates like columns of cigarette smoke at a bar. A few children whispered, but none spoke out loud or laughed. Once everyone was sitting, Father Matthew spoke, his voice slow and deep. He got us to thank Jesus. I mumbled “Amen” with the others. Then the spoons hit the bowls like a storm on metal roofs. Free food, a preacher—I thought of Slo-George.

  Eating was fast, fierce, and silent. The boy across the table had a diseased eye the same color as the food. He stared at me the whole time with his good eye. I looked around, but never at him. At different times, boys went and got water from a steel pot on a small square table by the door. Next to the pot was a pile of plastic cups. Boys filled a cup, drank standing, and put the cup back on the table. I got fed up with the one-eyed boy’s stare and went to get water.

  The water tasted clean. I wanted beer, but I could not see any. An older boy came up. It was the boy who had been smoking when I arrived the night before. He stared at me and said, “Where ya from?” His accent was thick.

  “Da feels,” I said. I made my voice thicker.

  “Na,” he said, and shook his head. “Da bool-sheet. Ya com’ in da night. Tha Fadda neva open da door at night.” Smoking Boy went on, “Who da fook is ya?”

  I tilted my head and gave Smoking Boy a Slo-George-style half-brain retard grin. I slowed up my words and said, “I’z like ya shirt, so pretty.” I reached out my hand and stroked it down Smoking Boy’s filth-patterned shirt. I grinned at him some more.

  Smoking Boy leaped back and slapped my hand down. His back hit the water table. The cups fell and bounced on the stone floor. Then the water pot toppled. Crash! My feet were wet with spilled water. I titled my head and reached for his shirt again. “Soft shirt,” I said, stroking his chest. Smoking Boy hit me across the head with an open hand and pushed me back. I fell onto the table behind me. I let myself crumple down. But Smoking Boy wasn’t done. He kicked me. “Ya head-fooked liar!” he shouted.

  Father Matthew and the plain brunette ran over. Father Matthew grabbed Smoking Boy from behind, tight around his chest. A quick pleasure stroked the priest’s face like a puff of cigarette smoke. But Smoking Boy didn’t stop kicking me. Father Matthew swung him away, lifting his legs right off the floor.

  Smoking Boy shouted, “Ya lying fook-brain.”

  Plain Brunette knelt over me. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts hung heavily, as if riot-police sandbags were strapped onto her.

  I stared up at her and said, “I’z hurt. My body hurtin’.” I was in pain, but nothin
g too bad. She leaned over with pity. “Where are you hurt? Is it your shoulder?” I was surprised to see that blood had come through my T-shirt.

  I said, “I cannot move it, missus. I’z really hurt.” I gripped my left shoulder and began to scream. “I need my mudda,” I cried. “Agony. I’z in agony. Where’s my mudda?”

  Father Matthew and the two hookers lifted me and carried me out of the eating room, down the corridor, and into one of the rooms there. I was placed on a bed and covered with a brown blanket. On the table opposite the bed was a necklace with a silver cross the size of my hand. It was worth at least two hundred shillings, and when everyone left I was tempted to lip it but I resisted.

  After a while, Plain Brunette came back with a tray. On it was a metal bowl, bandages, medicine bottles, and a folded shirt. She knelt by the bed. “Take that dirty T-shirt off,” she said.

  “Yes, missus.” I took off my top, lay back, and stared into her valleys of dough. She dabbed at my shoulder with cold brown liquid. It stung, but she sang about Jesus as she worked, her breasts dancing along.

  “I’z tired, missus,” I said.

  Plain Brunette said, “I’ll leave you to take a nap.”

  After she left, I waited a bit. I heard the other children leave the eating room and thud downstairs. It went quiet. I put on the new T-shirt, gray with HONEYWHEAT, BIG CORN FOR BIG MEN on the front. Then I left the room and went farther down the corridor. Fast, I looked in each room, door by door. There were closets, a storage room, three bedrooms (one with a broken window), a bathroom, and, at the end of the corridor, the prize: Father Matthew’s study.

  The priest’s study was empty. I went in and shut the door behind me. If I got caught, I would do my Slo-George act and cry, “I’z lost.” Until then, the priest’s office was mine.

  Chapter 13.

  The Holy Office

  In Father Matthew’s office, three of the walls were dirty, with peeling paint. The fourth wall was covered with a map of Nairobi, pinned with forty-eight thumb-size photographs. I recognized the photograph of Joe-Boy pinned on DuCane Street.

  I opened the drawers, one by one, of a large, scratched-up dark wood desk. In the third drawer there was a pile of red notebooks, all full of tidy, lined-up numbers. I was quick with numbers—the gift of a gambler father. The top notebook was labeled “Generosity” in thick black pen. I went down the names and columns of numbers. They did not mean anything until I saw the name Peter Guttenberg—the name of the fat tourist I had lipped at the Maasai Market. His name was at the bottom of page 46 and was written six times, once for each credit card. It appeared that five hundred dollars was donated from each credit card to the “St. Michael’s General Account.” One day later, ten percent went to Joe-Boy Smith in the “Lay Vicar” column, and the rest of the donation was entered in the “Widows Burial Account.”

  I went through the other red notebooks. They were labeled “Housing,” “Development,” “Staffing,” and “Governance.” It seemed that a lot of money slid about like mud in a storm. The last notebook was labeled “Adoption.” It contained hundreds of names that filled page after page. The names at the beginning of the notebook were crossed out. The last entry was Bingo Mwolo. I was not crossed out yet. I put the books back and wondered when I would be.

  On the desk was a large Bible. Perhaps guilt made me open it, perhaps destiny. Inside the book, pages had been cut away to make a box. In the box was a small yellow notebook titled “Devotion.” The pages were worn. At the top of the first page, written in neat blue pen, were the words “Leaders of the Holy Order.” Below was a list of names and titles. Everyone on the list had two jobs; for example, Albert Wagane was the rector of the Holy Order and also a sub-minister in the Office for Tourism. The Deacon of Devotion, Roger Fletcher, worked in the Kenyan Office for Foreign Development. The Bishop of Heavenly Embrace, James Slattery, was the manager of Nairobi International Bank. Police Chief Gihilihili was also on the list; he was “Special Envoy to Paradise.” Next to each name was a number. Whether it was dollars or shillings, it was a lot.

  The following six pages of the yellow notebook were taken up by names of “Spiritual Consultants.” Beside each name were workplaces and numbers (though much smaller than the numbers on the first page) and a job. Spiritual consultants worked in banks, in the police department, in the army, in shops, in various government offices, and even in museums. There were officers and privates, postmen, hairdressers, drivers, doctors, curators, accountants, and one veterinarian. It seemed that all these consultants helped St. Michael’s and the orphans, and that they were well paid for their devotion.

  The last three pages of the small notebook made me breathe the hardest. One sheet was labeled “Divinity Class.” The first line read “Head Teacher.” Boss Jonni’s name had been crossed out and “Wolf” written in. Below “Head Teacher” was a list of eight “Senior Teachers.” Wolf’s name had been crossed out now that he was head teacher. Sinja Smith was on the list. And a new name (the ink was sharp) had been written in; even Father Matthew called Wanjiru, Dog.

  The next sheet was headed “HIV Drug Program.” Next to another list of names were countries: South Africa and Sudan, for example. The far column was labeled “Kindnesses.” I assumed that the “k” after each number stood for kilos.

  The last page of the notebook contained only a column of numbers labeled “Retirement Account.” Father Matthew’s retirement account totaled 4,021,872. The top of the column was marked “$.”

  I studied the small yellow notebook again and became lost in the tidiness of the priest’s devotion. In the street below, a horn blasted. There was a crash and then shouts. It was my signal to go. I put the notebook back inside the cut-up Bible and left the office. Father Matthew was the boss of bosses.

  I went downstairs into the main hall, where I had slept. The children were in there, shouting out the times tables. At the front of the room was a thin old black-robed nun who pointed a wooden ruler at the blackboard. The room shouted, “Nine times eight is seventy-two.”

  Smoking Boy was not there. He returned at 7 times 11, with Father Matthew. From the look on Father Matthew’s face, it seemed that Smoking Boy had won special forgiveness.

  Chapter 14.

  Father Matthew Asks Bingo for a Favor

  At St. Michael’s, I was Bingo the Retard. I missed the freedom of Kibera, but this was better than being dead. I did well as a retard. For example, one morning, when I was at the back of the long line for toilets, I started pissing on the feet of the boy in front of me. I never waited for the toilet again.

  The boys ranged in age from five to sixteen. Smoking Boy was among the oldest. He did not bother me, but he always watched me. Days were spent listening to religion, reading, or learning the times tables. Everyone got a Bible with his name written on the inside cover. The books were kept in a pile by the back door. I never told anyone that I could already read and multiply numbers. Who would believe that a retard could read? Sister Margaret, the sadist nun, taught us. She was a skeleton—no fat, all mean. Her head was so sunk in, it looked as if it could be crushed with one stamp, like a tin can. Age had folded her double. But even though her body was frail, “mean” made her strong. She used her wooden ruler with such skill that even Smoking Boy cried after he spelled “divine” wrong. The good news was that Sister Margaret viewed teaching a retard as a waste of energy.

  In art class, I cut a hole inside my Bible, Father Matthew style. I hid the three bags of white and the money Wolf had given me in the hole. I had learned from Father Matthew that the Bible is an excellent place to hide things, because no one looks there. Anyway, at St. Michael’s there was almost no thieving, and I saw only one act of blood, aside from my own early experience of it. One boy found another boy searching his clothes. After he pounded the thief’s head on the stone floor, both boys got dressed. And that was that.

  On most days we went to Uhuru Park, which was about a half-hour walk from St. Michael’s. Scores got settled at the park
, but since no one possessed anything of value, and there were no women to fight over, the fights and stare-downs were mainly for show. Most of the time, the children played. As a retard, I was left in peace. I started to understand Slo-George’s success in life.

  Runners who are not running must rest (Commandment No. 7). That way, they are ready for anything. While I was at St. Michael’s, I rested—except for Thursday mornings, when Father Matthew sent me out on a special project.

  A week after I arrived at St. Michael’s, big-breasted Plain Brunette told me to go to Father Matthew’s office. “Where that?” I said. You see, I am always thinking.

  The priest, in his black clothes, looked as if he never slept; his face was light yellow and plastic-looking. He stared at me from behind his desk. “Well, Bingo,” he said, “how are you settling in at St. Michael’s?”

  I said, “Good, ya,” but he wasn’t interested. I waited for him to get to the point.

  “Bingo, now tell me, who is this Thomas Hunsa?”

  “Hunsa an artist,” I said. I wondered why he asked me that. There was no art in his office—perhaps he wanted some. Father Matthew said nothing, and his silence forced me to speak into it. I said, “Thomas Hunsa a famous artis’ but he stopped his art.” I remembered what Hunsa had told me—about how he had cut up the American dealer boy and that Gihilihili wanted to find him. I added, “Cos Hunsa got old.”

  The priest spoke so slowly, each word sounded like an orphan from the others. “Bingo, I received a phone call. You are the only soul Thomas Hunsa will let visit his house. Is that so?”

  I said, “Yes, Father Matthew. I bring him special paint from a shop in Kibera. Ya see, he can’t get tha special white paint he need.”

  The priest smiled. I knew that he was the boss of bosses, but it was like at the Livingstone. At the Livingstone Hotel, you never say “white” or “dagga” or “drugs”; you say, “packages,” “special delivery,” and “presen’.” That is class. I could see that the priest understood class. “Is that so?” he said again.