Bingo's Run (10 page)

“My lord,” Mboya said. “I will mother the children and they will be fine.”

Nzame cried, “That is not good enough! My immortal son defied me.”

Mboya recited a poem:

This pleased Nzame, the Master of Everything. Mboya wrapped Nzame in her brown shawl, and their son was called Bingo.

Father Matthew stopped the transit van in the driveway of the Livingstone Hotel. “Bingo, get out,” he said. “I will park.”

I jumped out of the blue St. Michael's van with the words W
HEELS OF
H
OPE
painted on the side. Mrs. Steele was waiting in front of the hotel. She had tied her yellow hair up on top of her head and wore a loose orange business suit. She paced up and down; she looked as if she needed white. When she saw me, she smiled. I wanted to rush over to her, but instead I walked up to her slow, calm, and cool.

“Bingo,” she said. She started to open her arms but stopped and pushed out her hand, as if this was business. I shook her hand back. Her fingers were strong. Both of our palms were wet.

A boy wearing a too-big red uniform opened the door of the Livingstone for Mrs. Steele. Manager Edward stood in the entrance, as always, dressed like an English lord—the best-dressed man in Nairobi. The silver cross on his left lapel shone in the lobby lights. His smile turned to pain when he saw me walk in behind Mrs. Steele. I was no longer a runner in a ripped T-shirt and shorts who made drug deliveries to the kitchen door. Now I
wore shoes, trousers, and a clean shirt, and entered the hotel through the main doors. But legs make a runner, not his clothes.

Manager Edward kept up his smile as if it was on a scaffold. He bowed servant style. “Welcome back, Mrs. Steele. And who might this young gentleman be?”

Mrs. Steele said, “This is Bingo. He is going to be living with me in America.”

I watched Manager Edward, his smile fixed, try to understand. All he said, in the end, was “I am delighted.” Not only did he look like an English lord from porn; he spoke like one as well.

Father Matthew entered the hotel lobby carrying a brown businessman case. He smiled and said, “Why don't we all go and have some lunch?” Mrs. Steele looked down at me and added, “Bingo, you must be hungry.” I smiled back. I caught Mrs. Steele's green gaze and felt a jolt inside, as if I had tasted salt on a piece of mango. I wanted her to like me, and I worried that she didn't. The good thing about a run to whiteheads is that they always want the delivery. I hoped that Mrs. Steele still wanted her delivery.

Too much thought is stupid. It confuses you. I had just been offered lunch. Lunch at the Livingstone for free. “Ya, ma'am,” I said. “I'z very hungry.”

The restaurant at the Livingstone Hotel was clean. Half of the twenty-seven green stone-topped tables and black wooden chairs were full. Me, Mrs. Steele, and Father Matthew sat at a round table for three.

Father Matthew put his businessman case on his lap and took a thick folder out of it. Written in black ink across the top were the words “Bingo Mwolo. Steele Adoption Contract.”

As the priest shuffled papers inside the folder, Mrs. Steele asked me, “Bingo, what do you like to read?”

Porn was the first thing I thought, but I said, “The Bible, ma'am.” Father Matthew looked up and smiled at me. From my performance at the interview with Mrs. Steele, he had begun to understand how excellent I was.

Father Matthew and Mrs. Steele looked through the papers. Mrs. Steele signed her name many times. I watched her, ate pizza, and drank Fanta Orange. I wondered what Mrs. Steele wanted with me. Mrs. Steele, like all people—like me—was not what she seemed; her face was a mask. She had painted strength on the outside, but what lay beneath was delicate. I was not sure which
Mrs. Steele I belonged to. For now, either was fine; both faces were beautiful, and both bought pizza.

Mrs. Steele's nose was large for the shape of her face; it stuck out too far, but it was narrow. Her skin was the same color as potato flesh. Her eyelashes were long and curled upward, and there were spots of black makeup on them. As she talked to Father Matthew, I stared at her eyes. She said, “Bingo, I am sorry that Father Matthew and I have all this paperwork to finish. We'll talk much more later, I promise.” Her voice was like her eyes: strong outside, sad beneath.

When they were done, Father Matthew put the papers back in his businessman case and closed it. He coughed before he spoke. “Mrs. Steele, just one last thing.” He coughed again. “The adoption fee”—cough—“for St. Michael's.” The priest's face was as white as the tablecloth. “As you can see, Mrs. Steele, we have such an urgent need of these funds.”

Mrs. Steele said, “Of course, Father Matthew. Let me just call my lawyer in the States and make sure the funds have been wired.”

The priest's thin lips formed the threat of a smile. “Oh yes, that would be the Mr. Scott Goerlmann I have been corresponding with. I have found him to be most efficient.”

Mrs. Steele laughed. “He should be for what he charges.”

Father Matthew made a sound like a laugh. Lawyer charges seemed to be a good joke. Mrs. Steele pressed numbers on her mobile. “Scott,” she said. “Scott, I am here with Father Matthew in Nairobi. I want to make sure that the wire transfer to St. Michael's goes through today.” She listened and then said to Father Matthew, “He says the funds will reach your account later today.”

The priest smiled. “God bless you, Mrs. Steele. Please recall, Mrs. Steele, that the St. Michael's adoption fee is thirty thousand U.S. dollars. Rest assured that the funds are put to good use.”

Mrs. Steele smiled. “Scott, did you hear that? Thirty thousand?”

“Fook,” I said aloud. I could not stop myself. There were 146 other boys at St. Michael's. At thirty thousand per soul, they were worth almost four and a half million dollars. If I sold all the lost children in Kibera, I would be rich forever.

After the priest left, the air was easier to breathe. Mrs. Steele turned to me and said, “Bingo, do you want another Fanta?”

I actually did want a Fanta, but I said, “No. I'z good, ya.”

This time, when she looked at me, her smile was soft. “Bingo, are you all right?”

“Ya, Mrs. Steele, ma'am,” I said.

“You must stop calling me that,” Mrs. Steele said. She was not annoyed, though.

I looked at her. In her eyes I saw different grasses of many greens. Some were bright and others were dark. Different grasses move differently; in a breeze, long grasses bend more than short ones. I saw flashes of red where birds landed, and heard odd sounds. Life whorled inside Mrs. Steele. But where there is light, there is shade. I looked close at the grass, each blade as light as it was dark. It was that darkness that I could not pull myself away from, because me and Mrs. Steele shared it.

I said, “Ma'am, what shall I call you'z, then?”

Mrs. Steele lifted her carefully drawn eyebrows. She said, “Well, I can't have you call me Mother or Mom, because of your mother's terrible murder in your village.” I was caught out for a second, but quick, I remembered the story I told at my interview. I changed my face from confused to sad. She put her left hand on mine and patted it a few times. “Bingo,” she said. “Why don't you just call me Colette?”

I looked into Mrs. Steele's eyes and saw a bright field of grass lit in brilliant sun.

The door slammed shut, Mrs. Steele left, and I was in Room 349 alone. I had been in hundreds of hotel rooms, but this was special. It was mine. There was a television, gold on the walls, and a maroon bed. The bathroom had a toilet you could sit on, and a giant cattle trough and two sinks. By each sink there was soap, a plastic razor, a comb, and three bottles of liquid. Everything was lined up perfectly.

I reached over the sink and stared at my face in the mirror. It was oval; my eyes were clear brown, and my eyebrows thick. I have nine cuts on my face: three across my forehead and three down each cheek. Senior Father cut them there at my mask ceremony when I was ten. A full planting season before the ceremony, Senior Father and me had traveled for nine days to the Carver. The Carver took three days to cut my mask. When the Carver was done, he gave Senior Father my mask wrapped in a skin. I did not see it until the ceremony.

At the ceremony, Senior Father held me. The Diviner threw the sixteen beans and cast Ifa to see the shape of my future. People drank, drummed, and danced. Herbs were burned on the fire
and the Diviner unwrapped my mask. The mask was dark wood and oval, just larger than my face. The Carver had cut nine lines into the wood, three across the forehead and three down each cheek. The wood cuts were painted pale blue. I breathed smoke from the fire, and Senior Father used the ceremony knife to cut my mask onto my face—the same nine lines—three across the forehead and three down each cheek. My skin opened on the blade and blood dripped down my face, nine streams let from the river of my soul. Senior Father said to me, “All men wear a mask,” and kissed my mouth. “Bingo, now you are man,” he said. Man lay upon me where Boy had been before.

Now Man, I was destined for America. “All men wear a mask,” I mumbled to my face in the bathroom mirror. I washed my face with cold clean water from the sink and went into the bedroom. I jumped up and down on the bed and tried to touch the ceiling. After ten minutes, I was tired and turned on the television. There were afternoon soaps, a film, and news. No porn. I switched off the TV. I opened the glass doors and stepped onto a platform above Kenyatta Avenue. I could hear the hammers, honks, and the hustle of afternoon traffic. I looked down at the men in work clothes, the women dressed in bright colors, the beggars with blankets on their heads, and the scammers on the hunt for tourists. I felt like God. I looked down at them and thought, What a load of hustlers.

When I went back into the room, I heard slow pounds on the door. I hoped it was Mrs. Steele. I opened the door, but it was the old caretaker from St. Michael's. The caretaker's skin was crumpled. He had his white clay pipe in his mouth, but no smoke came out. He held a red suitcase, his fingers thick and spotted with white paint. He said to the air above my head, “I have your case.” He had on brown work-worn shoes and walked as if the ground did not matter. The caretaker's breath still smelled of honey. I
guessed he sucked sweets to hide drink, the way my father used to. The old man puffed on his smokeless pipe, put the case on the bed, and left.

A few minutes later, I opened the door to check that he was gone; there was something about him that did not fit. It was as if the air he breathed was different from mine. But the suitcase was mine! Before I had left St. Michael's, Big Breasted Brunette had helped me pack it. I unzipped the bag and opened it. Inside were clothes and my Bible from St. Michael's, with “Bingo” written on the inside. I had tied string around the book just in case it fell open. But before I could touch anything a spider the size of a fist crawled out of the case. I jumped back and grabbed the Bible to try to smash it, but the spider was too fast. It crawled across the sheets, and in a second it was on the floor and under the bed. I pulled off the string and opened my Bible; my three bags of white were still there.

I now owned four sets of new clothes, a red suitcase, three bags of white, and a Bible with its inside cut out. The spider Kenya could keep.

I switched on the television again and went through all sixteen channels. In the end, I watched a soap called
Bloodlust
. It was shot in Lagos, about an innocent country girl who comes to the city. She marries an ordinary office worker, but a rich drug dealer wearing a white suit and a large gold cross seduces her. He gives her money and hooker clothes. Her workingman husband discovers her cheating and throws her out onto the street. The country girl moves in with the drug dealer.

Later, the girl, the drug dealer, and his friends are at a party when the police raid the house and the girl ends up in prison. Her hooker clothes get ripped up and her makeup spreads over her face. The girl's mother comes to the city from the village to beg the workingman husband to get her out of prison and take her back. The husband says no and tells the mother what the daughter did. “She is filth, she is sinful,” he says. The mother screams and cries, but the workingman husband will not listen. The mother goes back to the village without her daughter and misses her. That is the evil of missing. When you miss someone, you
think all the time about how you should have got it right the first time, so you would not have to miss them.

It was not a rubbish soap, except that they had the price of white too high.

As the program finished, the telephone by the bed rang. It was Mrs. Steele. “Hi, Bingo,” she said. “It's Colette. I was wondering if you're hungry?”

It was only a few hours after lunch, but I am always hungry. “A bit,” I said.

“When you're ready, why don't you come down the corridor—I'm in the Tate Suite—and we'll go and get an early dinner.

I put on some of my new clothes: black pants and a light blue shirt. I was about to go right away but stopped; I didn't want Mrs. Steele to think I missed her too much. I watched TV for a half hour more and then went down the corridor. The sign on the door read T
ATE
S
UITE
in black letters on a gold plate. The sign looked worth lipping. I knocked, and Mrs. Steele opened the door.