Golden Boy (25 page)

“It's a ‘genetic condition' . . . whatever that means,” she mumbles to herself. “Oh, here's something that's nice and simple.” She looks up. “You got this from your parents.”

“But my parents are black.”

“Well, this book says that both of your parents had to have the thing that made you this way. If only one of them had it, you wouldn't be albino . . . It also says here that this means that some kids in the same family will have it and others won't.”

Davu goes on, but I'm not really listening to her anymore. I'm stuck on what she just said. Both of my parents had to be albino-makers. So my father left for no reason. It was his fault as much as Mother's. I miss her suddenly, thinking of the hollow-eyed nights she spent trying to keep the farm without him. I know I've been putting Kweli off, refusing to call home, but maybe I'll do it soon. I'd like to tell Mother what I just learned.

“Are you even paying attention?” Davu sighs. I jerk around to face her. There is a wry smile on her face.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It's a lot to think about.”

Her expression softens. “That's enough of the encyclopedia anyway,” she says, shoving it to one side. “All those big words were giving me a headache. Let's look at some more newspapers.”

She leans back from the table so I can't see the pages and flips through them quickly, her eyes darting back and forth across the page. She tosses most of them over to the far side of the table, keeping only a few. Finally, she takes the small pile and sets it in front of me.

“Here,” she says. “Read these.”

Tanzania jails “albino trafficker.”

Albino trials begin in Tanzania.

Albino killers get death penalty.

Davu makes me read the large print of the headlines, sounding out the words for me if I have trouble getting them right away. The pile she won't let me read is a lot bigger but, even so, I can't help but smile. It's been a long time since anyone has made this much of a fuss over me. In a sudden pang, I miss Asu terribly. She would love this whole library, this whole experience.

“Read this one, too,” says Davu, handing me another newspaper.

“Sawa,”
I say, and hunch over the table, sounding out the words that leap at me under the magnifying glass.

We spend another hour finding things in the book areas. Then Davu remembers something that gets her really excited.

“The computer room!” she squeaks, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside. “Just wait till you see what we can find on the Internet!”

Apparently Davu learned how to search the Internet in computer class. I think about my one-room school where we sat on the floor in my little village and cannot imagine what Davu's school must be like if they have a room set aside only for computers. It must be like this library.

Neither of us has any money, so we wait along the sides of the room and check when each person gets up. After a few tries, we find someone who still has time left on the clock. I pull up a second chair and let Davu show me what she knows about computers. She even makes the print really big so our reading lessons can continue.

On the Internet, Davu finds nice pictures of people like me that I stare at for a long time, wondering who those people are and what their story is. We also find horrible pictures about the killings that we click past quickly, but not quickly enough to stop the little voice from reminding me that Alasiri is in Dar es Salaam. We find out that Tanzania has an official Albino Society, and that there are organizations in the city that are dedicated to protecting and educating people like me. We find out that I should be wearing something called sunscreen, because I will probably get skin cancer if I don't. The pictures for that are awful and make me feel queasy again. I don't know how I'm going to afford it since it's really only sold to foreigners, but Davu assures me we'll find a way. We find more news stories about my MPs, campaigning for albino rights, insisting that the killings stop. While we're at it we find information on prison sentences for poaching elephants and trading in illegal ivory, too.

It's so much for me to take in all in one go. But Davu is frantically scribbling notes, so I know that I'll be able to think about this more later. When our time expires on the computer, Davu looks at the clock.

“Oh no!” she squeaks. “Mother's going to kill us!”

We quickly return the magnifying glass and hurry to the checkout station, where Chatha is indeed waiting for us, arms crossed tightly. We make meek apologies and then use our day memberships to check out the two simple books for me, and two other books about albinism that Davu found for us to read when we get home. We pile into the taxi, and I look over my shoulder one last time at the library.

I wonder how much a full membership costs and how many carvings I would need to sell to get one.

When we get to Davu's house, we get another surprise. There, waiting for us in the living room, are Kweli and Davu's father. Over an afternoon together and dinner, the men catch us up on all the developments in the plan. The policeman has arrived. The message has been sent. A reply has been received.

Alasiri's trap is set to be sprung tonight.

I'm shaking
as I walk with Kweli. Ahead of me the night-dark street stretches like a tunnel with no ending, and I feel like I'm a boat, cut away from the shore, floating, floating, sinking in the ocean of the city. Alasiri isn't due to arrive until after midnight, but my mind conjures him leaping from every doorway we pass. The deep shadows between buildings and the faint flicker of a streetlight off their grayed-out fronts remind me of the tall rock formations in Mwanza and how I had to duck between them, fleeing for my life. Without meaning to I start slinking along in the shadows, making myself more obvious in an attempt to disappear. When we pass under a streetlamp, my clear arm hairs shine up at me like silver.

I'm beginning to wonder whether I should have stayed at Chatha's, or at least let her husband come with us. Everyone tried to convince me to stay there and just let everything be taken care of, but I told them this matters too much to me, and Kweli said he didn't want to be fussed over anymore. If I want to sleep soundly for the rest of my life, I need to watch them take Alasiri away with my own eyes. I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.

“So, Habo, did you have a nice day without me?” Kweli's voice interrupts my frightened thoughts.

“Ndiyo, Bwana,”
I say, without thinking. Then, realizing how that might sound like a criticism, I hurry to explain. “Davu took me to the library and we found books about albinism and newspapers about the albino MPs. I saw them on the TV at Davu's house. They look just like me.”

“Hmm,” responds Kweli mildly.

“It's really interesting,
Bwana.
There's so much information out there that I never knew. Davu used the computer and showed me pictures in color. It's like a TV, but you control what you see and how long you see it for.” I pause, realizing that my comparison of a computer to a television will not be something that Kweli can understand at all. I cast around in my head for an example that would make sense to a blind man. “Looking at a television is like . . . drinking water straight from the tap. You capture a little of it, but a lot more rushes past you. Going to a book or a computer is like getting handed a glass of water. It stays put and you can sip it at your own pace.”

Kweli smiles at me. “Very nice, Habo. I'm glad you had a good time. Perhaps, when this is all done, you can read me some of these books.”

“Well . . .”

Kweli cocks his head at me quizzically. I sigh. It seems everyone's going to find out about my reading ability today.

“It may be a while before I can do that,
Bwana.
Because my eyes are so bad, I'm not very good at reading.”

“How did you manage today?”

I groan. “Davu made me hold a magnifying glass up to my face and sound things out slowly. Then she ended up reading most everything to me anyway.”

Kweli laughs. “That sounds like Davu.” We walk for a block without saying anything. Then he says, “But you said that, with the magnifying glass, you were able to read?”

“
Ndiyo.
Chatha bought me one on the way home from the library.”

“Well, that means that you can learn.”

I shrug. “Davu thinks I should get glasses.”

“Fine,” says Kweli. “Do whatever you have to, but learn to read. Believe me, Habo, it's not good to go through life as a man who cannot read.”

There is real pain in Kweli's voice. I consider for a moment, then make a decision.

“
Bwana,
I promise I'll learn to read, whatever it takes, and then I'll read you whatever books you want.”

Kweli chuckles beside me in the darkness. “
Asante,
Habo. That would be nice. Now, you go hide somewhere safe while I talk to the policeman in the house. We'll wait in the main room for our visitor and you can come out at the end after he's been arrested and see for yourself.”

I blink and look up in surprise. Our conversation has made the streets between Chatha's house and the compound melt away, and now we're in front of the metal door in Kweli's wall. Kweli turns his key and we head inside together, closing it behind us.

Chatting with Kweli has kept my mind off this evening, but now my concerns swamp me.

“Be careful,
Bwana,
” is all I can manage, and then Kweli is walking calmly into the dark house to wait for Alasiri.

Now, where's the best place to stay out of the way?
I think as I walk past the house to the backyard. I look around. The yard stretches before me, ghostly in the moonlight. I examine my options. The back table, the tree, the shed. The back table is too exposed. The tree might be safest, but it's too far away for me to hear anything. That leaves the art shed: close enough to hear what's going on in the house, but well hidden from view.

I head toward it, then hesitate. The door to the art shed yawns darkly and I feel a trickle of fear trace along my spine. I decide the tree is a better bet after all and am just turning around when I hear a soft clattering sound, as if someone has bumped into one of Kweli's statues.

I whip around, squinting into the formless dark of the shed.
It's probably just the policeman,
I tell myself.
You never told Kweli where you were going to hide. The policeman probably chose to go in the art shed for the same reasons you were going to.
I decide I'd feel much safer waiting with the policeman than sitting in the tree alone. I retrace my steps.

“Hujambo,”
I call softly into the shed.

There's a beat of silence. Then, a quiet “Who's there?” echoes out of the shed at me. The voice sounds confused.

“I'm Habo. I'm Kweli's assistant.”

I hear the scuff of feet coming toward me. The voice sounds familiar, but with the slight echo of the shed I can't quite place it. Is he the policeman from the lobby?

“Did you bring everything you need for tonight?” I say, to fill the silence.

A man steps out of the shed into the moonlight. A tall, thin, slightly handsome man. A man not wearing a policeman's uniform.

“Why yes, I have,” says Alasiri, a baffled look on his face. “But I'm wondering why on earth you, of all people, are so keen to help me.”

I freeze where I'm standing. No, this isn't right. He's not supposed to be here until after midnight. He's not supposed to be in the shed.
Where is the policeman?

I stumble backward, away from him.
What do I do?

“Don't come any closer!” I say, trying to buy myself time to think.

Obligingly, Alasiri stops about two meters away from me, hands on hips, considering me. He looks truly surprised to see me and I realize that he didn't know I was living here after all.

I force myself to think. Alasiri's here to conduct business with Kweli. But now Alasiri has seen me and knows that I can identify him to the police. He might not go through with the deal if there are witnesses. A cold sweat starts to run between my shoulder blades.

“Why are you here?” I blurt out, thinking about the shed in particular. Alasiri takes it as a more general question.

“That,” says Alasiri, “is really none of your business. A better question is, why are
you
here?” There's genuine puzzlement in his voice.

I remind myself that Alasiri doesn't know anything about me or my life here or my involvement with Kweli or the police or that, somewhere in the compound, there's a policeman. There has to be some way that I can make this all work out.
Did I tell him something that has already given the trap away?
I think quickly through what's been said so far. No, I don't think so, though he must be suspicious. I decide to try and make the trap work anyway and hope like I've never hoped before that the policeman is within earshot.

“I told you already,” I say, putting anger in my voice to cover the fear that would otherwise be there, “I work for Kweli. He said he was expecting a delivery of . . .” I pause just long enough for Alasiri to think I don't want to tell him about the ivory. “. . . carving materials tonight. I was going to the shed to make some room for it.” As I say this, the noises in the shed suddenly make sense. That must be what Alasiri was doing, putting the ivory in the shed. Or . . . was he hiding the body of the policeman, knocked out or, worse, dead? What if Alasiri got here first and there's no one here to help us? Black dots begin to dance along the edges of my vision and I feel dizzy with fright.

Alasiri's eyes have narrowed. “Interesting,” he says. “You're not running away. Why aren't you running away from me, Dhahabo?”

My heart is hammering in my chest.
Where's his knife? Does he have it with him right now?
I squint through the moonlight at him, but I can't tell if the sheath is attached to his side or not.

Alasiri sees me looking. A slow smile creeps across his face and he reaches around to his hip and pulls his knife out of his belt, the same hunting knife that has haunted my dreams.

“Ah, you remembered,” he says, and starts to walk slowly toward me.

My breathing hitches in my chest and my eyes dart around the yard as I back away from the glinting blade.

What can I use against him?
Because of Kweli's blindness I've memorized the exact locations of all the hatchets and carving tools, and I know I could find them in the dark. That's no good, though. I'm used to using a knife on wood; Alasiri is used to using it to kill and dismember. It would be no competition at all.

My heart is leaping around in my chest like a bird caught in a basket. I can't win against him on strength. I'm going to have to outsmart him somehow.
What can I use against him?
How is Alasiri weak? I think hard. He's superstitious. He's overconfident. He's greedy.

A terrible plan occurs to me. The question I asked myself only three days ago echoes at me eerily:
Is this worth dying for?
Now is the time to answer that for sure.

“What are you going to do?” I ask loudly. And now I do let the fear show in my voice along with the anger. I let the sound carry.
Surely I'm being loud enough? Kweli! Can you hear me?

“I think you know,” he says. “I'm going to finish what I started in Mwanza. I'm not going to let you report me to the police, and I like to finish what I start.”

“No,” I shout. “I wouldn't let you kill me in Mwanza, and I'm not going to let you kill me here, either.”

“Habo? What's going on?” Kweli appears at the back door of the house. This is a key part of my idea. The only way I get to stay alive is if I can make Alasiri think he can have both me and the ivory. I start yelling at Kweli, telling him things he already knows, hoping he understands I'm changing the plan.

“Kweli! This man is not Kanu! His real name is Alasiri. He's the one who tried to kill me in Mwanza!” I haven't taken my eyes off Alasiri, who has paused, knife held loosely and at the ready in his hand, looking between us.
Please don't go after Kweli.
I hope beyond hope that I haven't just doomed both of us.
Where's the policeman?
My brilliant plan is nothing but a death sentence if he's not there to save us in the end.

Since Kweli has not turned on any lamps, the moonlight is still the only thing lighting us in shades of inky blue and gray. My skin glows like a beacon.

“Kweli!” I say, filling my voice with all the fear I've been keeping bottled up. “Don't let him kill me! Don't do his carvings if he kills me!”

Please, Kweli! Please understand what I'm trying to tell you.

“Of course not!” barks Kweli. “I don't know who you are,” he says to the yard at large, “but if you hurt Habo in any way, I will absolutely not work for you.”

I hold my breath, watching Alasiri, trying to look small and vulnerable, praying he takes the bait. When I see that hateful smile stretch across his face, I know he has. I see his muscles tense up a moment before he springs at me.

It is the hardest thing I have ever done not to dodge his grab.
This matters more!
I tell myself fiercely. And, pretending to stumble in the darkness, I let myself be caught.

With a jolt, Alasiri's body hits mine. His hands wrap around me. In a moment, he has turned me around, one of his arms twisting my own up against my shoulder blade, the other holding the knife against my throat. I cry out.

“Habo?” asks Kweli worriedly. He takes a step toward the sounds, one hand outstretched.

“Don't come any closer,” says Alasiri. He puts his face down beside mine and whispers softly to me. “Go ahead, Dhahabo, tell him why he shouldn't.”

“He has a knife at my throat,” I manage to squeak. I'm on my tiptoes, trying to lessen the pressure on my twisted arm, and I don't need to fake the terror in my voice. The heat of Alasiri's body sears through my sweat-soaked shirt. His knife is a line of ice just above my collarbone.

“So,
Bwana,
” says Alasiri silkily, “I have an even better idea than our original deal. You will carve for me, free of charge, and in exchange I will not kill your assistant.”

“
Bwana,
he has me! Please, please, say yes,” I rasp. The pressure against my throat is making it hard for me to breathe.

Kweli cocks his head sideways at me, a line appearing between his eyebrows.
Don't call the policeman out, Kweli. We haven't gotten him to confess to anything yet.

“I don't like this,” says Kweli. I'm not sure whether this is addressed to me or to Alasiri, but Alasiri takes it as being addressed to him. He gives a short laugh.

“No one asked you to like it, old man. But you'll do it anyway.”

“And just what is it you expect me to do?” asks Kweli. Through the thick fog of terror wrapping around me, I feel a small glow of triumph. Kweli understood. He's playing along. That means that the policeman must be somewhere nearby.