By now I’m near the center of town, but most people just stare for a bit and then go back to whatever they were doing, like yesterday, and I start to feel a little better.
See? I tell the frightened animal in my mind. Not everyone here is trying to kill you. You’re going to be all right.
Have you forgotten Auntie’s warnings? the voice whines. Have you forgotten that yesterday you were chased with a knife?
I’m hoping against hope to run into a bus or train station without having to ask where to find it. I’m walking quickly, not really paying attention to where I’m going, arguing with the voice, when a pack of young street boys, most not much bigger than Kito, start to follow me. I notice this when they start to clap their hands, calling out “Deal! Deal!”
I wonder whether they’re saying this to get money. Do they think I’m a white person? I turn around to face them, to explain in Kiswahili that I’m Tanzanian, too, and I don’t have any money to give them, when they start to chant.
“There goes a zeruzeru,” chants the first. The others keep up a steady chant of “Deal! Deal!” in the background. His friend joins in.
“If we kill him we’d be rich!”
“Deal! Deal!”
“What’s he worth? What’s he worth?”
“Oh, you know he’s a deal!” the second boy finishes triumphantly, and the whole ratty pack of them start to circle me, laughing.
I run.
I don’t run because I’m afraid of being killed by a bunch of unarmed five- and six-year-olds. I don’t run because it is a smart way to go faster to somewhere I need to be. I run because Auntie’s comment comes back to me—Even the children know about it—and I finally understand what she meant. Albinos are killed so often in Mwanza that the children chant about it in the streets.
I dodge around central Mwanza at a blind run. The children’s jeers have faded behind me, but still I run until my lungs burn and my legs ache.
Finally, unable to run anymore, I duck behind an office building and crawl into the filthy shade between a row of large metal trash bins and the peeling concrete wall of the building. It smells terrible, but this stench in my nose is better than the sound of those children in my ears. I lean my head against the rusting metal and force myself to breathe normally again.
How am I going to get out of here? The very air in this city rubs against me like a rough cloth against a sunburn, making me feel raw all over. I have to get away.
Walking feels too slow. If a group of five-year-olds can chase me, I would be caught by a group of men. I bang my forehead gently against the bin a few times to clear it. The metal is cold and slightly slick from the waste oil that has dribbled over the top.
Maybe I could just go live in the bush like a wild man. The stupidity of that thought actually makes me laugh, a small, hollow sound. I’m not a nomad like the Maasai. My family were farmers. I’m used to living in a house, near a village, and having food close by. I could never survive on my own.
Stop banging your head and think! I sit back and wipe the sheen of oil and the flakes of rust off my forehead before they can fall into my eyes.
So. Fine. I must live in a village or a town or a city. But if I’m going to live somewhere with people, it will be far, far away from Mwanza. I refuse to live in this province. I refuse to die in this province.
I pull out the money I took from my family and count it. I have just under thirty thousand shillings. That seems like a lot of money. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember how much Auntie said Mother would need to save for the train. It was a really big number, but that was for four people. Now it’s just me. I hold the money in front of me, brushing my face over the edges of the bills like they’re a fan. This should be enough to buy just one train ticket, shouldn’t it? I don’t know how far it will take me, but at least it will get me away from here.
A bus might be cheaper, but I don’t know if there is a bus all the way to Dar es Salaam, and I remember Auntie complaining that, because most of the going and coming in Mwanza happens by boat, the bus station is eleven kilometers outside of town, beyond the military barracks. It’s a long way to walk if I’m not even sure it’ll work. Plus, buses make a lot of stops. Riding a train would make it more difficult for Alasiri to catch up to me. I hope.
Also, if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that I’ve always wanted to ride a train. I’ve been on a bus, but I’ve never been on a train. It might be fun.
Standing, I pick up my bundle of clothes and reknot the pack tightly. I push my hat down low over my eyebrows so that it’s harder to see the color of my face and hair and balance the pack on top of my head. I fist my hands up into my sleeves, take a deep breath, and step out from behind the bin.
As I march down the street, I can feel the curious glances. No one says anything to me or tries to stop me, but I find myself hurrying nonetheless. I remind myself not to walk stiffly. You’re just a normal Mwanza boy, I remind myself, out running his morning errands. You are not a zeruzeru. You are not afraid. You are not in a hurry. I repeat that over and over, hoping it changes how I seem to those around me, willing them to ignore me.
I need to ask someone where to go, but who? I look at the people around me as I walk, looking for someone to trust with my life. That man in the expensive suit? No, Alasiri told me it was the governor himself who wants my legs. I don’t trust anyone rich enough to buy me.
That shopkeeper over there? The lady selling roasted ears of corn? No, she will stay in one place all day. If Alasiri looks for me, she would be too easy to ask. Not a shopkeeper, then.
A child? I shudder as I remember the street boys. No, not a child. They’d talk about seeing me all day long. I need someone too busy to take much notice of me who won’t stay in this area for long. I stand for a moment on the street corner, frustrated, glaring into the murky early morning light and breathing in the gray dust and the diesel exhaust of every car and dala-dala passing me by, trying not to think about how good that woman’s roasted corn smells and the fact that I haven’t had any breakfast.
Finally, I see a young woman running to catch a dala-dala that she just misses. It pulls away from the corner, and she calls after it in frustration. She’s perfect. She is late and annoyed and will not stay here long, but must wait for the next dala-dala so she has a few minutes to spare.
I walk up to her.
“Sabahani,” I say. “Excuse me, could you please tell me where to find the train station?” I’m hoping she’s too busy to really pay much attention to me, and she is. As she answers she keeps scanning the street beyond me, checking for the next dala-dala.
“It’s not far,” she says. “You go past Nyamagana Stadium. At the roundabout there you can walk off Kenyatta Road onto Station Road. Then you can’t miss it.”
“Asante sana, Bibi,” I say, relieved. I remember seeing Kenyatta Road as I ran in circles earlier. I’m fairly sure I can find my way there.
“Bibi?” she asks, laughing, turning to me. “I’m too young yet for a boy your age to be calling me bibi!” She has a pretty laugh, but it fades as she actually looks at me for the first time. She sees my hunched shoulders, my tightly tied pack, my face. Her smile disappears entirely, as if it had never been.
“Ahh,” she says softly. “The train station.” Her eyes are sad. “Ndiyo, you should go. This is not a good city for you. Go to the train station, polite boy, go and be safe.”
We hold each other’s gaze for an awkward moment, and then I look down, embarrassed, and turn away.
“Asante,” I say again, because there is nothing else I can think of to say.
11.
I make it without incident across the various roads and roundabouts until I can smell hot engine oil and see the tracks stretching away to freedom. I crouch across the way and watch the station. The lack of sleep has made my sight even weaker than it usually is, and I can feel my stupid
albino eyes jiggling back and forth, making it hard to see clearly.
The train station is a small building, with people going in and out through the dark arches of the doors like ants exploring a piece of fruit on the road. I hesitate. The minute I walk up to the ticket window, people will see me and know what train I’m going on. If there’s a long time between when I buy the ticket and when the train leaves, it would be that much easier for Alasiri to find me.
For a few minutes I argue with myself, doing nothing. Finally, I tell myself that a strange albino boy staring at the train station from across the street is just as noteworthy as a strange albino boy buying a ticket, and I push myself to my feet. Slapping the dust off my pants, I resettle my bundle on my head and walk up to the ticket window. Although the window faces the street, it’s too dark for me to see if there’s anyone inside. I lace my fingers through the iron bars in front of the window and lean forward. The smell of metal worn shiny by many hands greets me.
“Hello,” I call into the darkness. “Please, could you tell me how I buy a ticket?”
“What?” a deep voice asks from beyond the bars.
“I’d like to buy a ticket, please,” I say. My hands are sweating, and I wipe them on the sides of my shirt.
“Yes?” asks the voice. “A ticket to where?”
I pause. For some reason this question makes it all come crashing down onto me. I’m leaving. I’m really leaving my family. I’m going someplace completely unknown, and I’m going to pay stolen money to this man to make it so.
“How much to Dar es Salaam?” I manage, although my voice is a little higher and tighter than it was a moment ago.
“Eighteen thousand, nine hundred shillings.” My head reels. Not only at the amount, but at the fact that I’m currently carrying enough inside my shirt that I can even have a conversation about such a number. I’m sweating into a small fortune. The man is still talking. “. . . and it will take you forty hours to get there.”
The voice in my head gasps. That long? Two whole days? I try to remain calm. I want to ask the man whether there is anywhere else I could go and be safe, but that’s not a question I can say out loud. Two days on the train! my inner voice groans.
The man is getting impatient. “Well? Do you want it or not?”
“Ndiyo,” I say, and dig in my shirt for the folded bills. “Yes, please.” The bills are plastered against the skin of my chest, but I peel off a few and hand them over. I can only hope that they’re the right amount. As tired as I am, I can’t see well enough to tell the numbers on the bills anymore. I figure he’ll tell me if I underpaid. Since he says nothing, I figure I’ve at least paid him enough, maybe overpaid. A hand pushes a ticket at me out of the darkness.
“Do I get any change?” I ask with all the calm I can muster.
He hands me a few small bills. I sigh. The change may or may not be accurate, but I have no way of knowing.
“Asante,” I say. “How long until my train leaves, please, and where do I catch it?”
A small, awkward pause follows my question.
“Boy,” says the voice, “there is only one train. There is only one track. You have twenty minutes to figure it out.” A finger jabs out of the darkness in front of me to point over my shoulder at the farthest arch. I assume that’s the entrance to the tracks.
I turn away from the window, clutching my ticket.
“Oh, and boy?” he adds. I turn around and look in the direction of the dark window. “If you miss this train, the next one isn’t until Sunday. The train only runs twice a week.”
“Asante,” I say again, blessing whatever luck brought me here on a Thursday, and I walk through the arch farthest to the left into the shadowy, crowded passageway of the Mwanza train station.
Instantly, smells and sounds take over sights for me. (Sweat. Lye soap. Fry oil. Dust. Hot machinery.) My eyes become nearly useless in the low light, and all I sense are waves of heat when somebody pushes past me. (Swishing clothing. The slap of sandals against worn heels. A woman talking loudly on a mobile phone. The bleating of a goat beyond the tracks.) I get jostled, and my bag slips off my head. I cry out and turn around, bending down to find it. (Feet. Dirt. Dog urine.) People move around me and I feel like I’m in the middle of a herd of cows that has been spooked. I’m afraid of getting crushed, but I’m even more afraid of losing all my belongings, so I stay on the floor and feel around until I find them. Just as I close my hands around my pack, two leather sandals full of dusty toes stop an inch from my face.
“You! There on the floor! What is wrong with you, huh?” Large hands grab my shoulders and pull me up to face a hulking, sweaty man in a khaki uniform. (Voice like gravel under tires. Cheap cologne. Armpit. Garlic with dinner last night.) The light from the platform beyond him makes it impossible for me to see his features, but I don’t think he’s anyone I know. I clutch my bundle to my chest.
“I’m sorry, Bwana. I dropped my bag.”
“Well? Did you have to crawl all over the floor like an animal to pick it up?”
I flush, humiliated. His voice is not quiet, and I’m sure there are people staring at us now. I’m leaving easy tracks for my hunter to follow.
“I’m sorry, Bwana,” I say again. “I don’t see well.”
“Hmph.” His grip loosens, and I step away from him. I shuffle toward the light, jerking to a stop whenever someone’s shadow passes in front of me to avoid bumping into them.
I come out of the station and stand against a chain-link fence that separates the courtyard of the station from the tracks. I squint around. People waiting for the train are clustered around a small shop painted red with Coca-Cola written all over it. Other than a thin stretch of packed earth, there isn’t a platform. The long metal rods of the train tracks are set into the dirt about ten feet to the left of where I’m standing. There aren’t any people on the far side of the tracks, so I assume that where I’m standing is the right place to catch my train. I’m glad for that, but still, until the train comes, I need to get out of sight.
I walk through the gate in the chain-link fence and look around, scanning for places to hide that would still give me a good view. There’s a small shed off to my right, away from the tracks, and I decide to walk over and check it out. Behind it a small triangle of ground is sandwiched between a large blue plastic rain barrel, the wooden north wall of the shed, and a pile of old bags of concrete, fused to rock by the humidity. It’s like a concrete version of my corn cave. It’s perfect.
The only trick will be getting into it without being seen. I loiter for a bit over near the fence, my fingers laced through the chain link, my head tipped forward so that my hat covers my face, waiting for everyone to lose interest in me. Three minutes creep by, then five. Finally, I get the chance I’ve been waiting for.
On the far side of the Coca-Cola stand, a boy playing with his brothers runs into an old lady carrying little bags of rice to sell at the market. Some of the food goes flying and lands in the dirt. The woman is furious and grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck. When everyone turns to watch the shouting and scuffling, I slip into my hidden corner without anyone seeing me.
Once I’m wedged in, I set my pack beside me and arrange myself in a sitting position that keeps all my skin covered. I inch my pants down off my hips and roll my toes into the cuffs; I make sure my hat flap overlaps my shirt collar; I tip my head forward until the tip of my nose disappears under the shade of the brim; I put my hands under my knees. Yes, perfect. I’m safe from the sun and from prying eyes, and I’m so used to hiding in the corn cave that I could stay here comfortably for hours if I need to. There’s even a crack between the wall and the side of the rain barrel that lets me see out.
I’m just settling into these happy thoughts when I catch sight of a familiar figure stepping out of the station arch. Even though I’m well-hidden and he’s nowhere near me yet, when Alasiri walks onto the d
irt platform, my heart stops.
I have to remind myself to start breathing again as I watch him walk up to the Coca-Cola stand and start talking to an elderly couple sitting there in the shade. I’m much too far away to hear what he’s saying, but I can imagine well enough. When he holds a hand out in front of his chest to indicate height, I know he’s asking about me. In an instant I’m back in the corn cave, feeling the walls close in around me. My breath comes in gasps and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to run.
I splay my fingers against the rough wood of the shed beside me and force myself to breathe only on counts of ten. My lungs tighten, telling me I’m not getting enough air, but I ignore them and keep counting. Think! I tell myself sternly. This is no time to panic! You have to think.
Run! Run! Run! chitters the small voice of fear.
I keep breathing. So, Alasiri is still following me. He’s here and I’m here. The only question is whether he’ll find me. Well, I think, now I’ll see whether this hiding place works. The calmness of the thought surprises me, but I suppose the body only has so much space in it for terror and then it just doesn’t hold any more. I must have used all mine up.
I press my face to my peephole again. The old man is pointing at the station, waving his hand. Alasiri straightens, says something over his shoulder to the old people on the bench, and walks back the way he came. He pauses for a moment at the gate in the fence that leads into the station, hands on hips, looking carefully through the crowd. I hold my breath again, willing him to go away. The space that I’m in looks too small to hide a person; the way the concrete bags are stacked makes it look like they fill the whole space. I hope that this illusion will be good enough to make Alasiri leave entirely. For a minute I think he might come over and look behind the shed, but instead he turns away and is swallowed by the dark arch of the station.
Golden Boy Page 10