Golden Boy

by Tara Sullivan

  “Habo!” she’s saying, over and over, touching my hair, touching my face.

  “Asu!”

  For a few moments there is nothing more to say than that.

  Then she pushes my shoulders away and looks me in the eyes.

  “What are you doing here? How could you think of leaving us like that? Why haven’t you contacted us to tell us you’re okay?” She grabs my arms and shakes me. Tears stream down her face, but she’s no longer sad. She’s angry. “Do you know what we thought when we came home and Kito was hysterical about a man with a knife and your blood was all over the floor? Did you even think about what that would do to us? How worried we would be?”

  I’m shocked. Asu has never yelled at me like this before. And now I’m angry, too. I’ve had an awful night. I’ve just escaped a horrible death at the hands of a criminal and I’m no longer a toddler that she can shake for misbehaving. I jerk out of her grasp and yell right back.

  “Well, what did you want me to do? Just go home and pretend like nothing had happened? Just walk into that little corn-cave trap again that Alasiri found me in the first time?” I point toward the retreating red lights of the police car. “That same one that you told him where to find me in?”

  The color drains out of her face as I shout those words. Immediately I regret them.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “You think I told him where to find you?” Her voice is a whisper.

  “He said you did. He said you told your friends at work about me, and Mrs. Msembo overheard you and called him.”

  “Oh my god,” she whispers. She steps away to arm’s length and covers her mouth with her hands, making it hard to hear her. “I did tell them about you. Once. Only once. Halima and Aisha . . . We were comparing our brothers and sisters . . . I . . .” She seems to struggle for a minute, then changes what she was going to say. “He found you because of me?”

  Her question hangs between us. In the silence, my eyes adjust to the low light of the streetlamp and register the details of her appearance that tell me more about the hardships she has suffered than she will ever tell me. Her cheeks have sunk in: She hasn’t been eating. There are new lines beside her eyes and dark circles under them: She hasn’t been sleeping either. Her khanga is dusty and stained along the hem: She has traveled a lot, probably sleeping on the streets to save money.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. I say it just to make her feel better, but once the words have left my mouth, I realize they’re true. I don’t know if it’s Asu’s fault. Yes, she may have talked about me at work, but Alasiri had a good idea where we were staying from having dropped us off in town. Back when Mother thought he might be a good match for Asu, she was telling him all kinds of things about us. It would have been a short search for him to ask around the Kirumba fish market for people who had family visiting from Arusha. And I remember the interest the crazy mganga showed in me before we even got to Mwanza. Alasiri knew too much about me long before Asu ever said anything to her friends over lunch in Mrs. Msembo’s house.

  I hear Davu’s words again: No one should be condemned because of an accident.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Is that why you didn’t come wake me when you came to get your clothes?” She hugs her arms around herself as if she’s cold. “You must hate me now.”

  I reach out and grab her hand.

  “No! No, that’s not it at all. I . . . I knew that if I stayed, or if any of you came with me, you’d be in danger because of me. I couldn’t let that happen. I’m sorry you were sad, Asu. I hoped . . .” I trail off, remembering what I had hoped. “I hoped that you’d think I was dead and forget about me. Then you wouldn’t need to be worried anymore.”

  There are tears streaming down Asu’s face again, and she reaches up her free hand to me.

  “Punguani . . . How was I going to think you were dead when you came back to get your clothes and the money?” she asks, shaking her head. I realize how silly it is that I swore Kito to secrecy. She’s right: It must have been pretty obvious I was alive. Asu goes on: “And how could you ever think that I’d be happier if you were dead? I wouldn’t trade all the worry in the world for your death.”

  “I won’t forget again,” I say, and finally she smiles.

  “Boy, are you going to introduce me properly to this sister of yours or just keep talking in the middle of the street?”

  In the shock of finding Asu, I’ve completely forgotten Kweli for a moment. I smile and turn around to introduce them.

  “Asu, meet Kweli. He’s a wonderful sculptor who is teaching me to carve. Just don’t ever try to steal his dinner!”

  Kweli barks a laugh. Asu steps forward and bows her head.

  “Shikamoo, Bwana.”

  “Marahaba, Habo’s sister.” He smiles. “I am very old, girl,” says Kweli, “and very wise.” Asu looks confused by this little speech, but I start to laugh quietly. I know Kweli well enough now to see the moods behind his odd words. “And one of the things I have learned in all this time is the five secrets to a happy life. The first is: No stories without food.”

  My laugh is no longer so quiet. Asu looks puzzled, but she’s smiling now, too.

  “What are the other four, Bwana?” I ask. I have a feeling that Kweli is making this up on the spot.

  “That is the only one that matters just now.” Kweli scowls. Now I’m nearly positive he’s making this up. “Come, let’s go get something to eat. There is a little restaurant just up the road that’s open until midnight and does a lovely fried green banana stew.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind . . .” starts Asu, but I grab her hand and smile, squeezing her fingers to tell her it’s all right.

  “That sounds fine, Bwana,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We walk to the restaurant through the dark streets together, all three of us holding hands like family, and I ask Asu how she knew where to look for me in Dar es Salaam.

  “I didn’t! When you disappeared, we searched and searched in Mwanza, but couldn’t find you. They remembered you at the train station, so we knew you had left the city but we had no idea where you were going.” Her voice is sad now, but she goes on, squeezing my hand tightly. “I felt so terrible, I couldn’t do anything. I sat around the house, unable to work, unable to care about anything but the feeling that we’d lost you. And then little Kito finally came and told me not to be sad, that you were going to Dar es Salaam.”

  She glares at me when she says this and I feel a twinge of guilt about not telling my family where I was going and swearing Kito to secrecy.

  “But even then we didn’t know how far you’d gotten, whether you’d even made it and, if you had, how to find you in the city.” She shakes her head, remembering. “We were sick with worry. We worked extra jobs for months trying to raise enough money to follow you.” She looks away. “I was supposed to wait for Uncle Adin to come with me, but it was taking too long. I was afraid you’d get hurt, or killed. Afraid you’d run out of money and have to beg in a city where you didn’t know anyone. A few days ago, when there was finally enough money for one with a little left over, I snuck off alone.”

  I’m shocked to hear this, since Asu was the one who had made such a fuss about us traveling to Mwanza in the first place without Enzi for protection. But looking at her, I can see that she wasn’t thinking about herself when she made this decision. I feel small for yelling at her and I slip my arm around her and give her a little hug. She squeezes me back.

  “Once I got here,” she continues, “I felt lost. The city is so big!”

  I nod. I had felt exactly the same way when I stepped off the train. Asu squares her shoulders.

  “I knew right away that I would get lost if I just ran out into the city; I needed a plan. So I sat down to think. We had figured out how much food and money
you had taken and I realized that you’d run out of food pretty quickly. So, instead of asking around the guesthouses, I started going in circles around the train station, asking everywhere that sold food if they had seen an albino boy.”

  I’m impressed by Asu’s plan. But I didn’t stop anywhere to buy food, so I’m still not sure how she found me.

  “I’ve never been so glad before that you were different,” she says, laughing a little. “No one had sold you food, but a few people remembered seeing you, even though it was months ago. I walked in circles all day, asking everyone I met. A few people knew about albinos, but when I found who they were talking about, none of them were you. By the end of yesterday I hadn’t gotten anywhere.

  “I found somewhere to sleep and then got up the next day and kept going. The city was so big I started to give up hope that I would ever see you again,” she says softly. “Then, this morning, I was talking to a bunch of food stall vendors in a central square of the city and they told me there was an organization that helped people like you. They told me where to go to find it. I thought maybe you would have gone there, so I went looking for them.”

  I wish I had thought of that. I had no idea there would be an organization that would help me just because I’m albino. But then, I think to myself, if you’d gone there first, you would never have met Kweli. I decide I’m okay with the way things turned out. But I also want to find out more about this organization.

  “As I worked north through the city, on my way to the organization’s headquarters, I kept asking along the way if anyone had seen an albino. It slowed me down and I wasn’t really expecting them to say yes anymore, but then, out of nowhere, a candy vendor in Mwenge told me he had seen an albino boy working at the wood carvers’ market. I decided to go there first, just in case.”

  Asu’s smile widens. “And I’m so glad I did. I walked into the market and asked my question and suddenly, everyone was talking at once! Yes, they said, they knew an albino. Yes, he was a boy about thirteen years old, about so tall. Yes, he had arrived only recently.”

  There are tears standing in her eyes. “It hurt to hope, but I asked them where I could find you. They told me you were living with a blind sculptor and told me the address. I got a little lost,” she admits, “but then finally, I found the house.

  “Suddenly, I’m terrified again, because there are police cars in front of the house with their lights on and all I can think is, No! Don’t have him be hurt just when I’ve found him!” Asu looks down at me hollowly, caught up in the fear. “And then my heart stops because I see them leading Alasiri out of the gate.”

  She closes her eyes, as if it’s painful to talk. I wince, imagining how that must have looked, how she must have felt.

  “I thought he had found you first and killed you. I stood there in shock as they put him in the car and drove away, terrified to ask the policemen if he had murdered you. And then, I look up, and there you are, standing right in front of me, healthy and whole.”

  Her voice breaks as she says this, and she pulls me into a tight hug. I hug her back, overwhelmed.

  A giant voice startles us.

  “Kweli! You crazy old man! What are you doing out this late?”

  “Coming to see you, of course, my beautiful Uzuri,” says Kweli with a smile, and he steers us toward a counter with stools in front of it and a large woman in an electric yellow khanga behind it, laughing at Kweli.

  Asu and I sit on the stools in front of the serving counter and let Kweli take the lead in ordering our late dinner. He and I have come here twice before, on days when we have sold lots of statues, and Kweli always flirts with the big woman who cooks here. She laughs him off every time, but I’ve noticed there are always more pieces of meat or vegetables in his bowl than there are in mine. Perhaps that’s another one of his five secrets to a happy life: Always flirt with women who serve food. I grin. I’ll ask him later.

  Kweli puts on his usual show. Asu looks embarrassed, but I pay close attention to his technique. I can learn more than sculpting from this cranky old man, that’s for sure. We pay and then hunch happily at the counter with our bowls.

  “Ai!” Kweli suddenly exclaims. “My stew is too hot to eat! Girl, will you switch with me?”

  “Of course, Bwana.” Asu hands her bowl over. For a moment I’m confused, because I can see the sheets of steam rising off the new bowl that Kweli is happily sipping from. But then I look over and see Asu lift a large piece of fried green banana into her mouth with her skinny fingers and I smile. Yes, there is a great deal more than sculpting I can learn from him.

  “So,” says Kweli between sips of stew. “Now that we have food, it’s a better time for stories. Go ahead, Habo.”

  I set my bowl on the counter, and tell Asu all about how I ran away, and took the train, and wandered through the streets of Dar es Salaam until I got so hungry I tried to sneak away with an old man’s dinner. Kweli interjects annoyingly with reminders not to skimp on the description of how cleverly he caught me, how handily he beat me. I scowl at him even though he can’t see it. Asu covers her mouth with her hand, amused by our bickering. I continue my story, telling her about learning to carve.

  “I carved you, you know,” I tell her.

  “Really?” she asks, her eyes shiny with curiosity. “I’d like to see that!”

  “You can when we get home.” I smile at her. “You look great in it.”

  For a moment she looks at me blankly. I realize I used the word home to describe Kweli’s compound instead of anywhere that Asu considers home. When I think about it, it may be the first time I’ve said it out loud around Kweli, too. I wince and race on, hoping to cover the awkward silence.

  “So, Kweli has let me stay with him and is teaching me to carve. But when I found out that Alasiri was trying to get Kweli to carve ivory for him, we went to the police and figured out a way to trap him and send him to jail. And that’s my story,” I say, picking up my bowl of stew.

  “So,” Asu says, pushing a high note into her voice that tells me she’s choosing to be cheerful even when she doesn’t feel like it. “You ran away from home to go to the big city and became an apprentice to a great sculptor! Who would have thought it?”

  I choke on my stew. The topic of formal apprenticeship is one I haven’t brought up, but now Asu has said it and there’s no unsaying it. I dart a glance at Kweli. His face is still and unreadable.

  “Well, I’m not really Kweli’s apprentice. I would have to be much better than I am now—isn’t that right, Bwana?”

  I hope he will tell me that someday I will be good enough. That someday I can be his apprentice. But Kweli says none of these things. Instead, his smile blazes out like full sun on a still lake.

  “Silly boy, you already are,” he says.

  I think my face may break from smiling.

  “Thank you, Bwana,” I manage. “I’ll work hard.”

  “Hmph,” he says. Then he turns to Asu. “And you, girl? What’s the end of your story? You ran away from home to find your brother and you did. What will you do now?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t think beyond looking for Habo, I suppose. I never dreamed I’d find him.” Her eyes are soft, but she’s biting her lower lip the way she does when she’s feeling stressed. “Especially not to find him happy and healthy and managing just fine without me.” She gives me a smile that is slightly sad, then turns to Kweli. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

  I realize that maybe I could be the one to take care of me. Asu needs someone to take care of her right now. I think of the money that I still have saved and realize that I can be the one to help her this time.

  “You sound just like your brother!” Kweli sighs. “My goodness, does no one in your family plan things out ahead of time?”

  I laugh sheepishly, then turn back to Asu.

  “Do you want to go back to Mwan
za?” I ask.

  “I hate to go without you.”

  “You know I can’t live there.”

  “No,” she agrees. “It’s not safe. Mwanza is no place for an albino. But I don’t know what other choices I have.” Asu looks down. Her hands, where they’re resting in her lap, begin to pick at a rip in her khanga. “I don’t have any money left, and I don’t know anyone in the city.”

  Kweli clears his throat. “Well, you know Habo. And now you know me. I can offer you a few options. Even paying for carving materials and school supplies, Habo will soon start earning money from his sculptures.”

  “School supplies?!” I exclaim. “I don’t want to go to school here!”

  “If you are staying with me, that is not an option,” says Kweli. “No boy who can see will be unable to read if I have anything to say about it! When the new school year starts in January, you’re going back to school. Until then, you can work on your reading.”

  I scowl at him. I know I promised to learn to read, but no one ever said anything about going back to school, too.

  Kweli waves away my objections with one calloused hand and continues: “As I was saying, he will start to earn money, and we can find you a job, too. Once you both have a little saved up, you can buy another train ticket if you want, or set yourself up in town here. Until then, I’m sure that my niece will pounce on the opportunity to help you.” Kweli gives a mischievous smile. “Chatha loves it when I pick up strays.”

  I groan, thinking of Chatha’s reaction when she first found me living with her uncle.

  Kweli laughs at my response. “Besides,” he says. His smile is truly devious now. “I hear she has a spare bedroom.”

  I decide to be very far away when that conversation happens between Kweli and Chatha.

  “Thank you, Bwana!” Asu looks overwhelmed. “It would be good to have work. I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

  “Ndiyo,” says Kweli, “it’s good to be independent. I agree.”

  “Asante,” says Asu again.

  “Excellent!” Kweli pushes himself to his feet, dusts off his hands, and grabs his walking stick. “That’s settled, then. Now, if everyone’s done, let’s go home. I, for one, am so tired after tonight’s excitement that I think I will sleep for a week.”