Bingo's Run (14 page)

The crowd danced. People laughed. Kissers kissed. Thomas Hunsa and the children painted as if they had lipped happiness from heaven and poured it onto their pictures. Hunsa spotted me. “Meejit!” he screamed. A huge broken-toothed smile filled his face. “Come paint with me,” he shouted.

Hunsa threw his arms apart, and in his excitement his bathrobe fell open. My breathing stopped. I expected a massive python to uncurl. But Hunsa wore paint-stained jeans cut off at the knees. I went to him, and his arms folded around my back and he pressed my face to his belly.

I dreaded the thought of lice and the stench of Hunsa. But, pressed against his belly, I smelled the world. I smelled a man whose art was life and whose paintings were his children. Hunsa had worked it out: life is color, and he was the Masta.

Hunsa handed me a brush and a piece of wood and, together, me and Thomas Hunsa splashed paint onto wood.

It was maybe five or six in the morning. There was not much street noise. Mboya, the mother of all life, had begun to lift her giant copper pot for the day, and the red sun had started to go up. Hunsa walked straight, but I stumbled left and right as we walked back to his house on Salome Road. He was better at beer than me. “So, Bingo, you want to be tha Masta's deala?”

“Yes, Masta Sa,” I said.

We walked on. “I thought you'z a drug runna.”

“That in tha past,” I said. “I got promotion. Now I'z an art deala.”

Hunsa said, “I see. So you stop running tha drugs about?”

I stumbled on a broken brick. “Almos',” I said. Being the Masta's dealer meant I also might have to be his runner. “Thomas Hunsa, I'z have a contract for you'z to sign, ya. Propa legal. Kepha Kepha wrote it.”

Hunsa stopped and looked down at me. “You'z a contrac'?”

“Yes, Masta,” I said.

His eyes narrowed, and we did not speak for the rest of the walk back to his house. I stared at the ground; it was the only
thing that did not spin. When we were in view of the house, Hunsa interrupted the quiet. “What tha fook?”

The electric in Hunsa's house was on. A trail of pots, pans, and plates of food curled out of his house. Closer, I saw that the dishes were all the colors of hunger: meats, stews, salads, cakes, biscuits, and fruit. The door was covered with purple flowers.

Hunsa turned to me. “Deala, you did this for me?”

I was silent only for a second; then I smiled. “Of course, Masta,” I said. “I'z your deala.” Hunsa's jaw jutted forward and his nostrils spread. He stared down into me. Magic swirled inside his eyes. He said, “Let me see tha' contrac'.”

I followed him through the food path into the house. Behind him, I pushed past paintings of blues, greens, purples, and yellows; earth, trees, and children. Pictures entered my head and I forgot everything. Without his paint, canvas, wood, and cardboard, Thomas Hunsa was just another man. But with his bone-handled brush and colors he was the Masta, put here to make the world better.

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?

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:

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.

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, pushed 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.