Bingo's Run Page 6

  “Ya,” I said, and nodded. His eyes watched mine. I stared straight back into the black of them. People look away when they lie (“I got no monay”; “I pay ya back tomorra”; “You so pretty”). Not me.

  The priest coughed. “Well, Bingo, how about if you were to have a special project with this artist Thomas Hunsa—let us say once a week—I would greatly appreciate that. Your project would be to deliver the paints he needs.” He coughed again. “The white paint in particular.”

  “Yes, Fatha,” I said. “I’z a good delivera.”

  The priest said, “Shall we say you will complete a white paint delivery every Thursday morning, perhaps before breakfast? This project needs to be private between us. You see, Bingo, I do not want the other boys at St. Michael’s to become jealous—avarice is a sin. I will make a call to Mr. Dog, in the Kibera store. I am certain that he will be most helpful and will have all the white paint you need.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said. I was not sure what “avarice” was, but I guessed it was like licorice, dark and sweet. Father Matthew smiled as best as his plastic face would let him. “I would not want to get a reputation for failing those souls in need,” he added.

  I like people who are good at what they do. Father Matthew was the best priest I could imagine. He was so crooked that he bent all the way round. Just like his God, the boss of all bosses, his business went on forever.

  Chapter 15.

  Thursday-Morning Deliveries to Thomas Hunsa, the Artist

  On the first Thursday morning after my meeting with Father Matthew, at 7:00 A.M., I went into Kibera to get Hunsa’s white. It was a good time to go, before the heat got crazy. Things had changed in the Kibera store. Dog looked small on Wolf’s blue-and-gold throne. He was shorter and thinner than Wolf, and had less nose than Wolf. A small dog sat where a wolf once reigned.

  The cutters had changed, too. There were three new ones. The Ibeji twins were dark boys with fast hands, happy eyes, and clean teeth. They laughed and chattered as they worked. I forgot to breathe when I saw who the third cutter was. Slo-George sat bent over the cutting table, not saying a word. He shaved thumb-size hills of white onto plastic squares.

  The twins stopped cutting and watched as I walked up to Dog. Slo-George never stopped the cutting of his block. He did not even look up. That was Slo-George; once he started something, he stuck to it—like eating. Slo-George was a friend in the same way—he stuck. Mama and me got to Kibera when I was twelve, and soon after that Slo-George appeared like mold on mango. He was my opposite: fat, slow, and stupid. In the craziness of Kibera, he was my concrete base. When everything about me went wild, Slo-George was happy stillness. I wanted to speak to him, have a chat, but Dog’s eyes watched me.

  Dog did not say much to me; anyway, what could he say? Father Matthew, the boss of bosses, had sent me. Dog gave me seven bags of white. I ran them to Hunsa for his special delivery, and when I was done I took Dog the two hundred shillings Hunsa had paid me. Dog gave me ten (I guessed Father Matthew had told him to), and I returned to St. Michael’s.

  The routine was the same every Thursday morning: Dog gave me seven bags, Hunsa paid me two hundred, I took the money to Dog, and then Dog gave me a ten. If Slo-George was at the table (and most often he was), I would say to Dog, “Georgi come, too?” Most times Dog barked, “Na.” A few times, though, he said, “Ya,” on rare mornings when the mountain of white bags from the night before had not been cleared. On those mornings, I found Slo-George’s silence peaceful. “Like ol’ days,” I said to him on the matatu. Grunt, he responded. Slo-George sat outside Hunsa’s house while I did my business, and then we ate mangoes before I went back to St. Michael’s. When Slo-George did not come to Hastings with me, I often remembered the dark, empty field that was Deborah. Plowing nowhere gets you nothing, but I still wanted to. The Thursday-morning deliveries were a good break from St. Michael’s. The orphanage was starting to stress me. Runners are built to run.

  I had completed eight Thursday-morning deliveries before Mrs. Steele arrived at the orphanage. The moment she came, I put an end to my retard performance. When I saw Mrs. Steele, I knew it was the beginning of my greatest run.

  Chapter 16.

  Mrs. Steele Arrives

  Mrs. Steele arrived at St. Michael’s on a Tuesday just after breakfast, in my ninth week at the orphanage.

  The previous Sunday had been like every other Sunday. The 147 boys of St. Michael’s walked to church. Smoking Boy watched me, like always. In the afternoon, a couple of boys, including Smoking Boy, had private confirmation classes with Father Matthew while the rest of us lolled around. The old gray caretaker, white pipe stuck between his thin red lips, dabbed white paint to cover the walls where the plaster had fallen off.

  But the next day, on Monday, everyone rushed about. The Nigerian cleaner stayed all day, cleaning like crazy. Father Matthew and his two hookers buzzed about to make sure that we were clean and our clothes were properly torn. Then, early on Tuesday morning, we were sprayed with a bright green chemical that made my skin burn. It was obvious that something was up.

  At breakfast, Father Matthew told us about a special guest who would soon be arriving. He said that if we were good we would get sweets. But if any boy stepped out of line, not only would we not get sweets but Sister Margaret would deal with him. Though he did not mention them, I guessed there might also be special confirmation classes with Father Matthew.

  That day, the priest wore a clean black robe and a bright white collar. Blonde and big-breasted Plain Brunette had on dresses, and Plain Brunette, as always, wore no bra. Breakfast was a double ration of cement. An hour later, we were downstairs calling out our times tables. Just as we recited, “Seven times three is twenty-one,” the door knocker banged. “She’s here,” Father Matthew shouted.

  When Mrs. Steele walked into St. Michael’s, we boys stood together in the entrance hall and sang, “Welcome, ma’am,” as Sister Margaret’s ruler had trained us to do. Father Matthew shut the heavy door behind her. The slam was strong enough to blow her fine gold hair and flutter her bright white dress with big black dots. Mrs. Steele was a good looker; with bigger breasts, she could have been in porn. She wore a white pearl necklace that was worth money. Her white face was quite old, but I liked the violent-red lipstick. But it was her eyes that made me stare; they were deep green, like a storm. When Senior Father saw that type of green in the sky, he smiled—it meant rain.

  Father Matthew stared at the black shiny handbag she held under her arm. “Welcome, welcome, Mrs. Steele,” he said, “to our home.”

  Mrs. Steele turned to us. She laughed in a stressed-out way. “Hello, everyone,” she said. She had a rich voice. “It is lovely to be here with you. I am so looking forward to meeting you all.” She turned to Father Matthew and smiled. “Every one of them is adorable.” Father Matthew smiled back, and Mrs. Steele’s grip tightened on her handbag. For the next half hour, as Father Matthew took Mrs. Steele through the orphanage, I watched her. Her walk was strong and she was used to hooker heels. She never stumbled. She wasn’t interested in the orphanage. When you go to buy a new T-shirt, who cares what the store looks like?

  Father Matthew finished the downstairs tour, then turned to us. “Mrs. Steele is going upstairs now, where she wants to meet several of you. Beth will send you up, one by one.” Beth, big-breasted Plain Brunette, stepped forward to take charge of us. Blonde, in a blue dress, walked up the stairs behind Father Matthew and Mrs. Steele. Both Mrs. Steele and Blonde had excellent legs.

  We crowded at the bottom of the stairs with Beth. After a few minutes, Blonde shouted down, “Send the first one up.” About every five minutes, one boy went up and one came down. I calculated that since there were 147 of us, if she called for us all it would take more than twelve hours. After the fourteenth boy returned, Plain Brunette called out, “Bingo.” I took a quick look into Beth’s Valley of Hope and went upstairs.

  Chapter 17.

  The Interview

  Upstairs
, Mrs. Steele and Father Matthew were in the large eating room. Blonde announced, from the door, “This is Bingo,” and I went in. The three long empty wooden tables stretched away from me. They had been cleaned with the same green liquid as we had been. The windows were open and let in the noise from the street. The room was hot. The scars on my face itched.

  Mrs. Steele sat next to the priest at the far end of the middle table. “Hello, Bingo,” Mrs. Steele said as I approached her. Her lips were crimson, and there was sweat between her breasts.

  Father Matthew said, “Bingo, Mrs. Steele is a famous art dealer from America. It is truly a miracle that she has come to St. Michael’s. It is God’s will.”

  I thought of Thomas Hunsa. “I’z an art deala, too,” I said.

  Mrs. Steele, our miracle, laughed.

  Father Matthew told me to sit. I sat opposite him and Mrs. Steele. The only thing on the table between us was her small black purse and a plastic bottle of water. I hoped no one had spit in her water. Father Matthew shuffled next to her and his eyes shot worried glances at her handbag. He looked afraid that it might run away.

  I said, “Mrs. Steele, ma’am, you’z very beautiful.” I read her dark green eyes; she liked that.

  She said, “Why thank you, Bingo, and you are very handsome.”

  “Oh, Fadda,” I said to Father Matthew. “Dis fell out of ya pockit as ya walk up tha stairs.” I reached across the table and gave Father Matthew a small folded piece of paper.

  Mrs. Steele said, “Now tell me, Bingo, how did you come to be at St. Michael’s?” The interview had started, and I was ready.

  I began my performance. “Mrs. Steele, I’z jus’ a chil’ from tha country, ya. Mize Fatha waz a poor farma in tha East. He worked hard to buy his own land. I waz with him when he battered tha stakes into tha ground when he bought tha land. Fatha, he farm every day. We was poor but Mudda, she took care of everyting.”

  Father Matthew stared at me. The sheet he held read “Divinity Class” at the top. I had torn it from his small yellow notebook; it was the page on which Boss Jonni had been crossed out and Wolf’s name written in. Father Matthew looked at me in a new way, as if I was not just a speck of dust.

  “Ya,” I said, and paused. “Mudda took care of everyting—me, mize four bruddas an’ three sistas. That was until tha day it all happen, ya.” I wiped my nose and looked at the floor.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Steele asked.

  I waited a bit.

  “Fatha was in tha field one day and while he waz workin’—mindin’ hiz own bizness—he saw tha gang boys drive up to Mista Defrio, in tha field next ta hiz. They came to get tha monay for tha drugs from Mista Defrio, but Mista Defrio have no monay; so they shot ’im … bang! Jus’ like that.”

  Mrs. Steele and Father Matthew jumped.

  I went on. “My fatha run to help ’im. But then Mista Defrio dead; he waz back in tha mud. My fatha can na’ help ’im no more so he laid in tha ground an’ hide until tha gang boys go away. Then Fatha runned back to our house, an’ to Mama an’ my bruddas and sistas. Fatha waz almos’ cryin’ an’ Fatha neva cry. He shouted at Mudda, ‘I saw dem shoot ’im—tha gang boyz shot Mista Defrio! I hide in tha field.’ Mudda grab Fatha and shouted, ‘Husban’, you tell no one, ya, or dey kill you, too!’ Tha trouble was, tha family in tha next hut heard Fatha. They told tha gang boys.”

  I coughed and stopped. I stared at my feet. They were clean, but my toenails were long.

  Mrs. Steele leaned forward. “Bingo, go on,” she said. Father Matthew looked down, maybe at his watch, or maybe at the sheet from his yellow notebook. I was not in a hurry.

  “Well, tha’ night, in tha middle of tha night, tha gang boys drove their truck straight up to our house.” I made sure my voice cracked here. “Two of dem gang boys jump out and run into our hut and start firin’. Bang! Bang! Bang!” I screamed. I showed Mrs. Steele with my hands how the gang boys fired.

  She held her face in her hands. Her nails were red like her lips. Father Matthew looked interested, but I wasn’t sure if he was interested in my story or in how I got a piece of his yellow notebook. I had taken it that first day I was at St. Michael’s, nine weeks before. He must have wondered what happened to it. Perhaps he was now interested in what I knew about the total value of his holiness.

  I went on, “Dey shot at everything. Dey kill Mama and Fatha and all mize bruddas and sistas. All them iz dead an’ tha blood iz everywhere, ya.”

  I was better than any of the actors who performed at the bus station. I began to cry real tears. The truth was that my mama had been knifed in a Kibera riot. My father was a drinker and a gambler who had disappeared when I was little with Senior Mother’s iron cook pot.

  The green of Mrs. Steele’s eyes stared into the brown of mine. Tears dripped off my face. But I hadn’t finished my performance. “I shouted at tha gang boys, ‘Kill me, kill me! You kill my whole family, kill me, too,’ I begged dem. The gang boyz, they jus’ laugh. One of tha gang boys said, ‘Meejit, you tell them in tha village what we do to squealas.’ Then tha gang boys drive away in tha truck. It was a blue truck—Ford F-150.” I added that detail to make my story sound more real. I looked straight at Mrs. Steele. “That night, ma’am, I’z run away. I’z get to Nairobi and tha Holy Fatha told me to stay at St. Michael’s.” I stopped speaking. My face was wet with tears. But then, to my surprise, I started to sob. I couldn’t stop myself. I did not sob about the made-up story, or for Mrs. Steele. I did not know why I cried.

  Mrs. Steele started to cry, too. Small tears ran over her white makeup, like raindrops down dust. Father Matthew painted sadness onto his long yellow face and placed his hand on hers. “Bingo’s story is like that of so many here,” he began. “So very, very tragic. Mrs. Steele, we are so desperately in need of your help. There are hundreds more just like him. I wish we could help them all.”

  Mrs. Steele opened her black handbag, took out a packet of paper tissues, and removed two. She offered a tissue to me and took the other for herself. She slid her hand out from under Father Matthew’s. Her red lips whispered in Father Matthew’s ear, “He is perfect.”

  I was going to America!

  On my classroom wall at the School of Benevolent Innocence hung a map of the world. There was a red pin through where Nkubu was, even though Nkubu was not on the map. Nairobi was below the pin, in Kenya. Kenya was at the center of the map, the center of the world. But on the far edge of the map, near the classroom door, was America; Canada sat on top of it, like a hat, and South America was below it, like bad-fitting trousers. Everyone knew that America had the biggest of everything: high-rises, trucks, tourists. American tourists wore the biggest belts, and had the biggest breasts and wallets. To be the greatest runner in Nairobi and Kenya was one thing, but to be the greatest in the world, I needed America—and Mrs. Steele could give it to me.

  Chapter 18.

  Packaged

  Over the two days after Mrs. Steele’s visit, I was packaged for delivery. I was made to take four showers with the green liquid, I was given an X-ray and blood tests, and I was taken on a visit to the doctor for a certificate and a photograph. Last of all, I went to the Ministry of Tourism, where I met the sub-minister, Mr. Albert Wagane. He wore a small silver cross on his left lapel, which he touched when he handed big-breasted Plain Brunette my warm passport and she, in return, handed him a brown envelope.

  On my last day at St. Michael’s, Plain Brunette said, “Bingo, before you leave Father Matthew wants to pray with you. You must go to his office.” I thought about Smoking Boy, who prayed with Father Matthew every week at his special confirmation class. It was the reason Smoking Boy smoked; whenever he left the class he had two packets of Marlboros in his pocket. Plain Brunette patted my back. “Go on,” she said.

  I went into Father Matthew’s office. His long yellow face looked across the scratched desk at me, and I felt afraid. When I was small, Senior Father taught me that there are five types of fear:

  Fear of the lion fo
r the mosquito.

  Fear of the elephant for Tnwanni gnat.

  Fear of the dog for the master’s stick.

  Fear of the scorpion for the ichneumon fly.

  Fear of the eagle for the flycatcher.

  Fear of the giant Leviathan for the three-spined stickleback.

  “That is six fears,” I said to Senior Father.

  Senior Father said, “Bingo, one fear is false,” but he never told me which. Senior Father told me that when the mosquito bit the lion the lion itched so much that he tore up his own skin and clawed himself to death. That is what Father Matthew and his religion did to you; once he got inside you, you itched like crazy and you prayed yourself to death. With Father Matthew, I had the lion’s fear of the mosquito.

  The priest wore his long black vulture robe. The large Bible, with the notebook inside it, was in front of him, and Father Matthew’s long hands lay flat on top of it. “Bingo, my child,” he said. “I want to study with you before you leave us.” A truck rumbled outside. Father Matthew paused long enough to let it pass. He watched the silence itch at me, then he asked, “Why is it, Bingo, that when Christ went to the temple he cast out the moneylenders?”

  I knew the story of Jesus and the moneylenders from when I was a child and Mama made me write out two pages of the Good News Bible every night. “Tha monaylenders iz evil,” I said.

  Father Matthew glanced down at the Bible. He pulled back his lips and his teeth—more yellow than his skin—and smiled. “Precisely. Bingo, you are a bright boy.”

  “Yes, Fatha,” I said.

  The priest’s eyes beamed. “You see, Bingo, Christ knew to cast the moneylenders out of the temple because he knew that the moneylenders were cursed. Jesus Christ knew that it was only he who was deserving of the temple’s wealth—heaven’s golden bounty. You see, Bingo, Christ knew that he alone was God’s moneylender and that God’s holy money was his. That is how God showed his son love. Because love is money.” He tilted his head. “Bingo, do you understand?”