Golden Boy

by Tara Sullivan

  “Why must you go hide, Dhahabo?” he asks. “Have you no hospitality to offer an old friend?” His use of my full name, gold, makes my skin crawl.

  “What do you want?” I ask. It’s not polite, I know, but I deeply feel the danger of talking to him like this. Every second we stand out here talking is one more chance for someone to walk by and learn my secret. Kito is tugging at my shirt, trying to pull me into the house. But I don’t want to go inside until I’ve made Alasiri go away. The last thing I want is him following me.

  “What do I want?” His voice is soft, and I have to lean forward to catch his words. He pauses for a moment, looking down at his feet. Then he looks up at me. “What I want, Golden Boy, is to know where your mother is.”

  “What do you want with Mother?” I ask. His eyes never leave mine. The small hairs between my shoulder blades are standing up.

  “I told you. I want to know where she is.” Alasiri hasn’t moved from the gate, but somehow the fact that he’s talking so softly makes it seem like he’s getting closer and closer.

  “She’s at work,” I say without thinking. “So go away. She won’t be home until later. If you want to talk to Mother, you’ll have to come then.”

  I wait for him to leave. I imagine him pushing off from the fence, dusting his hands on his pants, and walking away. I will the image to come true. But it doesn’t. Instead, Alasiri examines his long fingers.

  “Ahh, she’s at work,” he continues in that same soft, smooth voice. “She won’t be here until later. Ndiyo, I see.”

  “So you should go,” I repeat. Alasiri seems not to have heard me. He continues.

  “No doubt she’s at work at the factory where your aunt got her a job. Your auntie is at work, too, isn’t she? I watched your pretty sister arrive at Governor Msembo’s house this morning. So she, too, is at work. Your brother is at school. And your cousins are not in the house or that little one would have gone to fetch them by now, am I right?” He flicks his eyes to Kito, who ducks behind me. I can feel him shaking where his hands are fisted into the material of my shirt. I don’t like that Alasiri knows so much about my family, and I don’t answer him.

  “So it seems, Golden One, that you and I are alone with only this little boy for company. Am I right again?” His eyes start to sparkle, and I feel sickness curl through my stomach. A distant part of my brain identifies the feeling as fear. Because I’ve seen that look in Alasiri’s eyes before. It’s the look he had during the last stretch of our ride to the elephant, when he was close enough that he could see the kill.

  For a moment, neither of us moves. Then, slowly, Alasiri pushes open the gate and walks into the yard. Finally following Kito’s advice, I race away into the house, slamming and locking the door behind me, and run frantically toward my corn cave.

  Kito is pasted to my side, crying openly in terror. I stand in the middle of the kitchen floor, frozen for a moment, wondering whether I should bring Kito into my hiding place with me. I can hear Alasiri rattling the doorknob.

  I have only seconds to decide. If I leave him outside, Alasiri could make Kito tell him where I am. If I take him in with me, I don’t know if we’ll both fit. A foot sticking out would give us away. Also, if Alasiri found me, he would find both of us and could hurt Kito. No, although it terrifies me to be alone with the poacher, I decide I have to get Kito out of here. I will not be the reason he gets hurt.

  Whirling, I grab Kito by the arm, hard, and push him away from me. He cries out in alarm.

  “Kito!” I say to him in a harsh whisper. “Kito, stop crying! You have to go run and find help.”

  “No!” he practically shouts at me. “No, don’t make me! I’m scared!”

  “Shut up!” I shake him roughly. “You have to go, Kito. That man is not a nice man.” I can hear a rasping sound as Alasiri pushes a blade through the doorjamb to trip the lock. “Run down the road until you get to the fish market. There will be many people there. Tell them a man broke into your house and scared you. Try to find a man to come with you, or the police, before you come back into the house. Now, go!”

  I shove him in the direction of the front room, just as I hear the snick of the latch giving in. I dive toward the wall and burrow into my cave, pulling the little sack of millet in behind me. My one consolation, as I hear the poacher enter the kitchen, is the scuffling sound of Kito’s little feet as he runs out, slamming the front door behind him.

  With a curse, Alasiri sprints across the house. He’s beyond what I can see from the vents in my hiding place, and I hold my breath so I can hear what he’s doing.

  I hear the squeak of his shoes against the floor when he pulls up in front of the door, the protesting of the door on its hinges when he yanks it open to look after Kito. There’s a brief beat of silence when all I hear is my heart pounding loudly in my ears. Then there’s a soft thunk as the door closes gently, and the snap of the bolt being thrown. He’s locking us in, I think, and my breaths—in-out in-out—are too fast, and I realize I’m making a wheezing noise. Quiet, Habo! I scold myself. Stop it! I close my eyes and try to return my muffled gasps to their normal rhythm.

  “So, Golden Boy, you’re still in here. Somewhere.” My eyes snap open. Alasiri’s footsteps in the other room are slow and measured, like his words. Without realizing I’m doing it, I start holding my breath again.

  “Your little cousin was running as fast as his stubby little legs could go. So you know, we really don’t have much time for this,” Alasiri’s disembodied voice continues smoothly. “You should just come out from wherever you’re hiding, instead of making me come find you.” I hear a crash. He must have turned over the table in the front room.

  “You should have known there was only one way for this to end, your little hiding game, your ridiculous little life. You didn’t possibly think that you could stay hidden, did you? You couldn’t possibly have thought that you’d be safe here, in Mwanza of all places?” His voice is honey poured over hot stones. The sound of a knife slicing through Auntie’s mattress is like a scream of pain on a dark night. I pull my knees up against my chest as I lie there and try to think myself into invisibility.

  “You and your mother and your pretty sister all should have known.” His voice is closer, clearer. This is a problem with Auntie’s house. Although her family is much better off than we ever were, and her house is bigger and better built than ours was, it’s still a small house. Once he finished with the front room and the two small bedrooms, there’s only the kitchen and the yard left for him to search. The light behind my clenched eyelids flashes, and I know his shadow has passed over one of my peepholes. I gather my courage and look out.

  Alasiri is standing in the middle of the kitchen with his head up, arms held loosely at his sides. He is scanning the room leisurely, taking in possible places I could be hiding. In his right hand is a long hunting knife, the same one that he used to cut up the elephant.

  It’s that detail that finally gets my brain working again. He has a knife. A hunting knife. This is no game of hide-and-seek. This man means to kill me. He means to kill me, cut me up into pieces, take the pieces that interest him, and leave the rest of me lying on the floor to bloat in the heat, just like the elephant carcass in the bush.

  Anger bubbles up in me like boiling water. I’m furious that this man should come into Auntie’s house to try to kill me so that he can sell bits of me to that horrible mganga with the crazy eyes. I’m not a game animal. I’m not a thing. Black spots dance in front of my eyes, and without thinking, I shove myself out of my corn cave, stand up, and hurl one of the sacks at his head. Alasiri is facing away from me, kicking open the cupboards as I come out, but at the sound of my movement, he whirls around. The sack I threw hits him in the chest and he slashes at it with the knife, reflexively. Grain sprays everywhere and, in the confusion, I manage to climb over the rest of the pile and grab one of the bigger stools. I hold it out between me and
Alasiri.

  “Fine! I’m out, you stupid monster!” I have no idea what I’m saying. My anger is a haze at the edges of my vision, and I shout with all the breath in my lungs. “What are you going to do now? Kill me? Are you going to kill me? Well, I won’t let you!”

  For a brief second, Alasiri looks surprised. Then his smile is back, stretching across his face like an open sore.

  “Well, well,” he says, “so you do have some spine after all. I thought I was going to have to kill you where you hid, like a boy hunting frogs.”

  “I’m not a frog! Get out of here!”

  Alasiri starts walking slowly toward me, swinging the knife loosely in his hand.

  “Sawa, not a frog. Now you’re a snake, squirming away and bearing fangs at me. But I’m still bigger than you are, little snake, bigger and stronger. Eventually, I’ll win.”

  My anger is fading and my fear returning.

  “Get out!” I say again, but with less force this time. Alasiri moves closer and sideways, and I see he’s trying to corner me. I step quickly to the left and away from him, so that I’m lined up with the doorway to the front room. Somehow, I have to get out of this house and into the street. Surely he wouldn’t threaten me with a knife in the street. Would he?

  As if he can read my thoughts, Alasiri says, “Why are you running, Golden Boy? Do you think you’d be safer out there? Do you think that anyone in the street would stop me from killing you?” He pauses and takes an appraising look at me. “Do you even know what you’re worth?”

  If I just keep backing away, I can reach the door before him. Surely I can unlatch it and get out before he could lunge at me with the knife. Surely he’s lying. Surely.

  “Don’t think I’m lying,” he says, again reading my thoughts. “Your hands and hair alone are worth more than a year’s salary. Your skin is enough to buy a car. Your legs—ah, your legs.” He looks down and I realize that my legs have stopped moving. I force myself away from him with a lurch. He laughs and continues his slow prowl toward me. “Your legs are worth a great deal more than all the rest of you put together. Because it’s your legs, Habo, that will win Mr. Msembo this next election. Your legs will get me a position in the government, and a nice house. No more tourists for me.” He smiles, and I feel a little bit like I’m going to faint. I’m remembering how Asu told me about the cabinet of luck medicine she found while cleaning the Msembo house. I have a sudden, terrible image of Asu cleaning around a cabinet that contains bits of my dead body, never knowing it. I feel vomit climbing up my throat and I force it down.

  “You’re lying,” I manage, weakly.

  “No,” Alasiri says simply, taking another slow step forward. Then, “Did you know it was your sister who helped me get this job?”

  I stare at him with my mouth open.

  Alasiri smiles. “Oh yes,” he says. “Let me tell you a story while we dance across the room. It’s a story about a silly older sister who works in a fine house.” He takes another step toward me and I step away to match him, out of habit. My brain is no longer working.

  “One day, this silly sister tells the other maids about her little albino brother. Isn’t that sweet?” Again, we take matching steps. “And who should overhear but the mistress of the house? Now, it just so happens that this particular mistress of the house has been looking for news of an albino. She has heard of a wonderful magic made from albino legs that can guarantee an election victory for her husband and so, when she hears this silly sister talking in the kitchen, she contacts her favorite mganga and promises him any price for this medicine. Are you following along, Dhahabo?” I jerk the stool up to my chest from where it’s been slipping when he says my name. Alasiri just smiles and keeps talking in that low, singsong storyteller voice.

  “The mganga agrees and calls up his favorite hunter. He’s pleased when he learns that the hunter already knows this boy. And so it’s agreed. For a very great deal of money, in American dollars, the hunter will bring the boy to the mganga, and the Msembos will have all the luck they need.” Alasiri’s eyes muse over me once again.

  “Your family named you well when they called you Dhahabo, for you might as well be made of gold. Pure gold,” he says quietly, as if to himself. His eyes lock onto mine.

  With a start I realize that he’s much closer than he was before. I’ve let my nerves get the better of me and have frozen in place again. As he talked, he has closed the distance between us, and now he’s only just a little farther than arm’s length away. Instantly, I snap the stool out a little, shaking it at him, and take a few quick steps backward. My shoulders crash into the wall. No, not the wall. I can feel the latch handle bruising my ribs. I have managed to back up into the door.

  9.

  Once, when I was only five, I tried to get away with taking off my clothes in the middle of the day. I peeled off the long-sleeved layers Asu and Mother had put me in before they left to work in the maize fields and I ran down to the river. I flapped my arms up and down as I ran and let the breeze I made by running cool me. I got to the river and let my white, white toes sink into the dark mud of the riverbank. I smoothed the dirt up my ankles and wondered what I’d look like if my skin was the good color of the river mud instead of the color of cow bones. But my strange face peered up at me from the surface of the water until I dove in to make it scatter away.

  All that afternoon I played in the sunny pools rather than the shaded ones. It felt wonderful. The water sparkled every time I splashed it into the air, and the sun fell over my bare shoulders like a warm blanket.

  But that night, I was miserable. It was as if my skin had pulled in all the heat of the day and wouldn’t let it go. I was bright red and had a terrible headache, and my skin was tight all over, like I was being pinched by the hot hands of an angry god.

  At first both Mother and Asu gave me a terrible scolding because I had disobeyed them, but when Asu saw that I was in pain, she softened.

  “You mustn’t ever do this again, Habo,” she said. “The sun is jealous of you. If you go out, he’ll burn you again. Stay inside where it’s dark.” And Asu had held me and sung to me while she rubbed my skin with aloe and goat butter. Mother stood off to the side and told her if she missed a spot. Asu rubbed and sang, rubbed and sang, until I fell asleep. The heat from the burns dried the tears off my face, and in the morning there was nothing left but dry tracks down to my ears that crinkled when I moved.

  As I stand here, facing Alasiri, that morning comes to me with such clarity that for a moment I am blinded by the sparkle of the river. There have been many times that my differences caused me pain. But I never thought that they would be the reason for my death. Now, with Alasiri staring down at me with a mad sheen in his eyes and a hunting knife in his hand, I know I’m going to die.

  No! You’re not going to die! I yell at myself. Think! Think of a way out of this!

  But in order to reach behind me and unlatch the door, I’ll have to let go of one side of the stool. If the stool slips, will I give him the chance he needs to stab me?

  Noticing that I’ve finally hit something and can’t retreat anymore, Alasiri moves. His grip on the knife tightens. His left arm darts out and grabs a leg of the stool. He yanks it forward, slashing over the top with the knife. I have only a second to make my choice, but I know that if I don’t get out that door, I’m dead. So instead of letting go of the stool or pulling away from the blow as he expects me to, I shove forward, pushing the stool into his chest, blocking my face with my free arm. The move throws him off balance and he staggers.

  I’m not ready for the burning agony that rips from my wrist to my elbow, but fear gives me the power to reel away from him, unlock the latch, and wrench the door open. Alasiri shoves clear of the stool and it clatters against the far wall, but I’m already out the door, pulling it closed after me. Then I turn and run with all my strength, ignoring the sun burning my skin and the blood dripping dow
n my arm, downhill into Mwanza, toward people and away from the madman with the knife.

  I spend the day darting through the crazy rock formations on the hillsides around Mwanza. I run for hours from one hiding place to another, making sure the people who see me go in are not the people who see me leave so that, even if Alasiri is trying to track me, no one can point him in a straight line.

  At first I’m worried everyone who sees me will try to kill me, but most people just stare. This is probably because I’m all the wrong colors, but it might just be because I’m running. And bleeding. And crying. I don’t spend long enough in any one place to find out. But I do force myself to slow down and stop crying.

  I spend the first half of the day working my way farther and farther away from Auntie’s house, and the second half working my way back, because I don’t know where else to go. I make it as far as the edge of the fish market just down the street from Auntie’s house by midafternoon.

  By now I’m starting to burn and need a place to hide. As soon as there’s a commotion in the market to cover my movements, I sneak under one of the boats that has been pulled up onshore and turned upside down. Here, in the shade of the boat and the relative safety of the market, surrounded by people who aren’t looking for me, I wait for night to fall and try to figure out what to do.

  I’m hungry and sweating, my legs are trembling from the effort of running after all the weeks I’ve spent with no exercise, and the pain along my arm is constant. In my first hiding spot, a lean-to full of goats pushed up against a pile of boulders, I ripped off one sleeve of my shirt and tied it over the cut, which was still bleeding everywhere. I’ve been afraid to look at it since.

  I flop over and stare up at the curving wood above me, waiting for my heaving chest to settle into its usual rhythm, and try to think. Can I go to the police? It’s a tempting thought, but I throw it away. Auntie said that the police did nothing when Charlie was killed. Who knows whether they’d be on my side or not. My stomach twists. Right now I feel like I can’t trust anyone in this whole wretched district.