“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.
Doesn’t it?
Alasiri, thinking he’s won, takes the knife away to gesture at Kweli with it as he speaks. Though he still holds my twisted left arm, I sink down from my tiptoes, gasping with relief at the removal of the knife.
“I,” says Alasiri, “have just put twelve ivory tusks of varying sizes in your shed. You will carve these for me. The larger ones should be inlaid with animal motifs; the smaller ones can be cut and made into stand-alone statues. You have just one week to do this. Until then, Habo will stay with me. In a week’s time, you will drop the carvings off, packed in boxes, in an abandoned warehouse that I’ll tell you how to find. You will leave them there and walk away. If you bring anyone with you, or if anyone goes into that warehouse at any time in the upcoming week except you, Habo will die. I will leave the pieces for you that I have no use for.” I don’t need to fake the shiver that racks me when he says this.
“What if I refuse?” asks Kweli.
“Then I will kill you both now and take my ivory somewhere else for carving,” replies Alasiri. “There are plenty of people eager for the money. You were perfect, but there are others who can do what I need.”
“And what are you going to do with Habo for the week? No, you’ll leave him here.”
“Oh, I think not. And have you hide him away somewhere? I don’t trust you not to protect the ghost boy. I’ll be taking him with me, for safekeeping.”
There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that, if we really were to go through with his plan, Alasiri would get his ivory and kill me afterward anyway. Possibly Kweli, too. There’s no way he would leave witnesses who know his real name and can describe him to the police. What he doesn’t know is that he has just confessed to them. I hope.
Okay, I think, where is that policeman now?
“No!” shouts Kweli.
Taking this as my cue, I shove back against Alasiri, hard. My arm screams in pain because of the way he’s still holding my wrist against my shoulder blade, but my movement sends him off balance, and the two of us land in the dirt. His grip on my arm doesn’t loosen, but the impact sends his knife flying.
Alasiri growls indistinctly, trying to choke me with his free hand. But I’m no longer vulnerable, no longer weak. I writhe and scream at him like a wild animal, throwing my head hard against his face, kicking him with my legs.
I hear Kweli bellow and look up in time to see his walking stick come whistling toward us. I duck out of the way and am gratified to hear Alasiri curse when Kweli’s stick crunches into his shoulder. Instead of choking me, his other arm is now trying to fend off Kweli.
A strong white light pierces the darkness, blinding me. The click of a gun causes us all to freeze.
“Thank you both,” says a deep voice from behind the light. I blink at it, unable to see the face of the policeman holding the flashlight. “That confession will do nicely. Now, you, let go of the boy or be shot.”
About time you showed up, I think angrily.
As soon as I feel Alasiri’s grip slacken on my wrist, I twist away from him, scramble to my feet, and run to Kweli. He wraps his arms around me, and I finally let everything out by sobbing into his chest.
“You were very brave,” he whispers. His strong hands squeeze my shoulders in a hard hug. “But don’t you ever put yourself into that kind of danger again. Do you hear me?”
“Sawa,” I manage, and hug him back.
The police detective, a wide-shouldered man with a shaved head, comes up besi
de us, pushing a handcuffed Alasiri ahead of him. Kweli releases me and I turn around to face them.
“Go ahead and turn on some lights,” says the policeman. “I’m radioing the car to take him in.” He grabs Alasiri by the shoulder and starts to steer him around to the front of the house.
Alasiri glares at me through eyes that are starting to blacken with bruises and snarls, “You just wait until I get out. Spend the rest of your life afraid, looking over your shoulder. Because one day, I’ll come get you.”
I feel cold at his words but the policeman saves me the trouble of responding.
“Your lawyer will love that,” he says drily. The muscles of his arms strain against his khaki shirt as he pushes Alasiri toward the gate. “Don’t worry, boy; when you add up the sentences for poaching, smuggling, assault, attempted kidnapping, and attempted murder, there’s no way that he’ll be coming out again as long as you’re alive.”
I find myself able to relax when he says this. He listed my attempted murder as a crime along with poaching. Not everyone thinks my life is worth less than ivory.
I nod at the policeman and offer him a shaky smile.
Kweli and I follow them out to the front gate, Kweli simply to keep me company, me because I need to see this all the way to the end. I flex my sprained shoulder, touch the hairline scar fading on my forearm. Forever, I think. Forever is worth it.
I stand in the doorway with Kweli, watching them shove Alasiri roughly into the barred police wagon and drive away. I shiver and am turning away to go back inside when the headlights of the police car pick out the lone figure of a woman standing across the street, watching us. I squint in the quick flash of light, trying to make out her features. Then, for the second time tonight, I freeze.
Because there, facing me, her eyes going wide and standing so still she could be her own statue, is Asu.
26.
There is a short silence when neither of us moves. Then she’s clutching me, and my hands are fisted in the material of her khanga, trying to pull her closer.
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