Bingo's Run (21 page)

I said, “That a stupid story. In tha real world, that neva happin.” As soon as the words were gone, I tasted bad in my mouth, but then Charity sat on the bed beside me and kissed me silent.

Every year on my birthday in Nkubu Village I got cane juice, but on my eighth birthday I came back from school and found Mama waiting for me outside the hut. “Bingo, this is for you,” she said. There were two bottles. One bottle had cane juice in it, but the other was a bottle of mango juice. The only times I ever had
mango juice was when I stole it from the market sellers. But this mango juice was mine. The first thick, slow sip of mango filled my mouth with heavenly syrup. That was Charity's kiss, the sweetest bliss. She had kissed a person that lived under my skin. I was not sure that I knew that Bingo, but I wanted to know him better; I wanted her to kiss him more.

Charity sat next to me and waited. I shrugged. “Not a teribel story,” I said, “but, like I said, it neva happin in real life.” I thought about the black spider that lived under my bed; I was certain the spider was not a beautiful woman. I looked at Charity and felt warm in the orange of her gaze.

I tried to sit up, but the pain stopped me. Charity put her hand on my arm. “Don't move,” she said. Her lips looked as though they were covered in silk. I wanted her hand to stay on my arm, but she moved it. She put it on my belly, where Gihilihili's peg leg had been. “There is pain in here,” she said. I wanted to say, “That obvious,” but no words came out. Her hand was light like a cloud. She said, “Every person has pain inside. Pain tells a person they hurt.” Her words did not stop the pain one bit, but they made me feel better. She went on, “I am just a cleaner. I rub away at dirt. But when the dirt is gone it is possible to see what is underneath. You pretend to be this and that, a big businessman, an art dealer. But the pain you feel inside is the truth pushing out.” Charity's eyes held mine, her hand soft on my belly. “Inside, Bingo, you are so …” Her eyes fell and she shook her head slowly.
I put my hand on top of hers. She closed her eyes and it looked liked the fall of wings. I shut my eyes, too, and felt still. “Lovely,” she finished.

I thought about the mask Senior Father put on my face when I was a boy, and the nine cuts he made to let the mask in. That is what happens: the mask enters you, and then you are Man. Everyone wears masks, but take away power, money, beauty, size, and age, and what is left? A jug thirsty for love. Pain does not come from inside; all that is inside us is empty air. The pain I felt had been jammed into me by Gihilihili, the love I wanted sat beside me.

“Rubbish,” I wanted to say to Charity, but nothing came out of my mouth. Charity got up, walked around the bed, and lay on the other side. I turned my body to face her; it was worth the pain. We did not touch. There was space for a Sony Portable between us. “I am tired,” she said.

“You suppose to be cleanin' now?” I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but that was what came out.

Charity lifted her right hand. It had the duster in it. “Of course,” she said, and brushed the duster on my face. It smelled of cleaning fluids but was soft. “Tak!” I said out loud. She laughed.

She shuffled closer to me. She said, “Bingo, inside you are divine.”

I tried to move toward her, but it hurt. Now there was only room for a few cell phones between us. I reached my hand for her face. She did not move. I moved my fingertips to her cheek. It was the softest skin I had ever touched. She shut her eyes. I shivered. I put my fingertips on her lips. They closed on my touch.

I lay in Charity's sweet breath and shut my eyes. Sleep entered me in a second. I saw a cave deep inside me. In front of the cave was a giant boulder. Charity blew a breath and the boulder jiggered. Another breath and it rolled away. I staggered into the
inner black. At first I saw nothing. But when I became used to the dark I saw a small yellow flame that lit the cave. There, beside it, sat Fam, sucking on his cigarette, laughing and gay. Beside him was a skin of whiskey and another filled with chang'aa. He laughed. “Bingo, my brother,” he cried out. “At last, you come to see me.”

“Get up,” I said to Fam.

Fam stood up and brushed the cigarette ash off him. I knew his smell; I felt his power. A wind howled through the cave. “You have to leave,” I said to him. Then Fam left, just like that. All I had to do was ask him.

I stood in the cave alone. As I looked around, I understood all the darkness that was inside me. Fam—the dark, the evil—had not been put there by killers, fathers, dealers, scammers, hookers, prophets, or a God who'd forgotten me. I had simply let him enter.

I opened my eyes. Charity lay there watching me with a pink conch-shell smile. She blew her sweet breath on my face and all pain vanished. I leaned toward Charity and kissed her. Her lips tasted of salt, but her tongue was sugarcane. She and me kissed slow and soft. I could hear my breathing and her breathing. We were not breathing the same, but it was not far off. Neither of us moved as we kissed. I was no longer in the Livingstone. I was not even in Nairobi or Kenya or the world. I was in Charity. It was the best place to be. It lasted forever, as a moment can do.

And then Charity chirped. She pulled back from me and looked at a black box on her waist, from which a light flashed. “I have to go,” she said. She kissed my lips—a peck. She said, “Bingo, climb out of your skin and be who you are.”

Charity left. The door clicked shut, but it opened a second later. Charity said, “Sir, this was outside your door.” She came over and handed me a blue book. The book was called
Paradise Lost
. Inside the cover was written in blue ink:

There was a note folded into it:

I am Bingo, the greatest runner in Kibera, Nairobi, and probably the world. I finish every run. “I got to run,” I said to Charity. She leaned down and kissed me—another bird peck. “Sir, run safe,” she said, and then she left. She was definitely soft on me!

The clock on the TV read 7:27. The pain was back. I drank four vodkas from the bedroom bar, but they tasted like water and did not help. I put on my last set of new clothes: gray trousers, blue underpants, and white shirt. I pushed on my black leather shoes and headed to the Excursion Café. On the way, I wondered if the Thaatima always won. A win is different from a run. You can win and only get halfway to nowhere. The run is about the finish, win or lose.

One day in Kibera, I finished twenty-one runs. It was a world record, and after that I became a legend. How did I do it?

There had been a big government meeting in Nairobi. Government meetings were very good for business, because all people in government use white. I went to Wolf in the morning and right away he gave me eleven runs. Then his mobile went off, and before he closed it he said to the person on the other end, “I'z tell Meejit to finish his runs, then go there.” Wolf said to me, “Sinja Smith call me on tha mobile. When you'z finish my runs, go to Parklan'—Sinja Smith need more runnas.” Parklands is the No. 2 slum in Nairobi.

I took what I needed off the cutters' table for Wolf's eleven runs. But I did not do Wolf's runs. Instead, I went straight to Parklands.

Wolf and Sinja Smith were both bosses, but they were different. Wolf cut and shot people because he loved his work and wanted it done right. For Sinja Smith, killing was his happiness, like cold beer on a hot day.

Sinja Smith smiled when he saw me. He had on his red army
flat hat. It was less than an hour after he'd spoken to Wolf. “Tha Meejit,” he shouted, “you'z here to run. You'z early.”

Sinja Smith knew I had not run for Wolf yet. He knew I had disobeyed Wolf. I was supposed to finish my runs for Wolf first, then come to him. Sinja Smith knew Wolf's punishment for disobedience. It was as if someone had just handed him a cold beer.

Right away Sinja Smith gave me a list of ten runs.

Twenty-one runs in one day? It had never been done. It was impossible.

But in the middle of the afternoon I walked into Wolf's hut and said, as calm as mold, “Wolf Sa, you'z any more runs for me?”

Wolf narrowed his large eyebrows. “You'z done my runs and tha Sinja Smith runs like I told ya?”

I said, “Yes, Boss Sa, they'z all done.”

This is how I did it. Half of all my money from tips and lipping was hidden under the Condom Bus; the other half was hidden somewhere else (on Never-Tell-You Street). On the way to Parklands, I took out all the Condom Bus money. I used the money for a taxi—not a tourist taxi but a car that needed spit and stolen petrol (“spit 'n shit”) to move. No brakes make these taxis go faster. With the taxi, I got twenty-one runs done in a morning—no sweat.

It cost me all my Condom Bus money, but it was worth it. I was a legend.

Wolf said, “You done them all?”

I nodded. “Twenty-one,” I said.

Wolf smiled. “Good, ya,” he said, and rubbed my head. After that, I got two months of Boss Jonni runs and extra tips. In the end, I had more money hidden under the Condom Bus than I had before.

To become a legend, you must finish the run—every run. No matter what. That is Commandment No. 2.

I walked into the Excursion Café, my body bent like an old man.

The sun was down and strings of electric lights made the tree look lit by stars. The Thaatima sat at a table near the tree. I sat down opposite him. His light blue eyes were empty, his smile false.

“Jambo,” I said to the Thaatima.

“Hello there, Bingo. What are you having?” he said.

“I'z have a Tusker.” I fixed my mask and smiled big at him. As with yam, I would wait until he was ready to be cut down. I looked into his eyes. “Careful, Bingo,” I said to myself. “Do not like him.”

The Thaatima ordered two Tuskers, like him and me were friends. He watched me as carefully as I watched him. “Bingo, I suggest that we come to some kind of arrangement about this Thomas Hunsa contract.” He wet his lips with his tongue, snake style. “In fairness, Bingo, Mrs. Steele jumped through a lot of hoops to get you out of that orphanage, and if you are honest you'll admit that before you met her you had no idea how valuable
the Thomas Hunsa art collection is. Look, whatever happens, Bingo, you are the one coming out on top.”

I thought about Gihilihili and paradise. “You'z right,” I said.

The Thaatima smiled back. “Bingo, we can discuss any reasonable arrangement.”

I had received the message from paradise, clear as the pain that had blasted through my belly. “I'z give you'z tha Masta's paintin's, you'z give me monay for a truck—Ford F-150, built tough,” I said.

The Thaatima pretended to think. He tried to slow his voice and blunt his happiness, but he could not. “Bingo, you have a deal,” he said. “Colette gets the Hunsa paintings and you get a truck. The moment you get to Chicago, I personally will arrange it.” We shook hands, both cold from Tuskers.

The Thaatima sipped beer and looked me up and down. He smiled, and I knew what he was thinking: How can a growth retard drive?

The Thaatima reached down to his businessman case. It was not like Boss Jonni's (black with gold latches); the Thaatima's was brown and opened at the top. He reached in and pulled out a folder. His movements were calm and unhurried. I wondered if he ever felt stress. He opened the folder and took out a pile of paper thicker than a sandwich.

“Bingo,” the Thaatima said, “this is the Hunsa contract Colette has authorized.” He had it ready. I bet he wrote it when I was with Gihilihili. “It is our standard agent-to-agent transfer terms. Basically, Bingo, it is very straightforward. I wrote in it that you agree to Mrs. Steele's becoming Hunsa's agent, just like we said.” He spoke to me like I was a retard.

“Where you write about the truck?” I asked. I put a little bit of Slo-George into my voice.

The Thaatima licked his dry lips and his stone-blue eyes looked at me. “Right,” he said. He turned to the bottom of the papers, took out his gold pen, and wrote “On assignment of said contractual terms, Bingo Mwolo is to receive a truck by Ford Motors.”

I watched every letter. “F-150,” I said.

“F-150,” he wrote.

He put the gold pen on top of the contract and pushed the paper across the table to me. “Bingo, sign this contract on the last sheet and then we're done.”

I said, “Can I keep the pen?”

The Thaatima laughed, but it was not a normal laugh; it sounded like a yap. “Bingo, sure. Once both Thomas Hunsa and your signatures are on the contract, you can keep the pen, too.”

I looked up. “You need Thomas Hunsa to sign?”

The Thaatima said, “Definitely. Either he will need to come here or we need to go to him. Either way, I need Hunsa to sign the contract before we ship the pieces to the States.”

I acted cool. “No problem,” I said. But I was not cool. The Thaatima made me feel uneasy, because for him everything was too easy. The point of getting a contract is because people do not trust each other. I now had a contract with Mrs. Steele and the Thaatima, and I now trusted them less. Mrs. Steele would have the paintings. She would have the contract. She would have Hunsa. What would she want with me? Next time they sent me to Nyayo House, there would be no reason to let me leave.