Bingo's Run (6 page)

Everyone was talking. Wolf shouted, “Sha,” and everyone got quiet. “Meejit!” he called, and I came forward. Wolf said, “Meejit, you was there, what ya see?” The room was silent.

“I did tha run to Boss Jonni tonight,” I said. Wolf stared as if his eyes were putting words in my head.

Sinja Smith, who always wore a red army flat hat (it had come off a soldier's head) said, “Meejit, tell me what you see there?”

I said to him, “I did tha run. Boss Jonni all shot up. Blood everywheres.” I threw my arms up.

Sinja Smith said, “You see who done it?” He looked at me as if he knew.

I shook my head. “Nah. But I run right out the high-rise. Outside there iz three boys, ya. Jus' around.” The best way to lie is to tell the truth (Commandment No. 10).

Sinja Smith said, “What they look like?”

“They all big,” I said. To me, all boys are big.

“What else?” Sinja said.

I was ready. “Don' know,” I said. I looked down at the floor. Then I looked up, “They all got Tiger ink.” It was dark, and I had been busy with my vomit. It was possible they had Tiger inked on their arms, Manabí style. It was possible.

Wolf said, “Fookin' Manabí.” His eyes shone, but he tried to contain his happiness.

The room filled with murmurs. Dog's eyes stared at me. He tried to add everything up, but it was too much for him.

Sinja Smith added, “Manabí, we will fookin' kill 'em.”

The crowd groaned, “Kill 'em.” There had not been a good riot for months.

After a while everyone left. Wolf shouted, “Meejit—wait!”

When the hut was empty (even Dog was told, “Go”), Wolf bent his finger at me. “Come,” he said.

I went and stood in front of him. I waited for a slap, but Wolf rubbed the top of my head. He spoke, each word slow and careful. “You tha witness, Meejit. Them fookin' Manabí kill Boss Jonni. Ya tha witness tha' Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”

I nodded. “Ya, Wolf Sa. Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”

Wolf went on, “Meejit. Right away, I'z need to keep ya safe—very safe.”

I nodded.

He said, “In case tha fookin' Manabí come after ya.”

There were bosses above Wolf, and even above Boss Jonni. I was Wolf's witness that the Manabí—and not Wolf—had killed Boss Jonni. This witness had to live.

I said, “Wolf Sa, where you want me to go?”

Wolf said right away, “Meejit, you'z go tha orphanage on Haile Selassie. It called St. Michael's. Tell tha priest Wolf sent ya. I call him on tha mobile. You tell him you tha witness. You tell 'im the Manabí did it.”

I said, “Yes, Wolf Sa. Manabí did it.” I was quiet for a second. “I'z go in tha morning.”

Wolf shouted, “Meejit, you'z fookin' go right this minit—else I slit ya myself!” He slapped my face and I fell. I whimpered for good show. I knew he'd slap me. I knew it made him feel good.

He went to the cutters' table and gave me three bags of white. “Give tha pries' these, ya.” He slid his hand in his pocket and gave me a roll of shillings. “This for ya's,” Wolf said. “Rememba, you'z tha witness. Tha Manabí did tha kill.”

That night I got paid more than any actor at the bus station.

I ran from Wolf's hut, out of Kibera. But once I was out on the main street, I went slow. Wolf had told me where to go, but I was not in a hurry. In the night, as I walked across Nairobi, I missed Deborah's dark. It was the place I wanted to be, but work is work, money is money, and living is staying alive.

The dark wooden door at St. Michael's Orphanage was large, with two rusted steel hoops for knockers. The streetlights were mostly out, but I could still make out the sign above the door, S
T
. M
ICHAEL
'
S
O
RPHANAGE
, and below it, W
HERE HOPE DREAMS
. There was no bell, so I slapped one of the iron hoops. No answer. I threw a rock at the first-floor window. The window smashed; throwing rocks at Krazi Hari had paid off.

A window opened beside the one that had broken. The man who looked out was clearly a whitehead—life had been pulled out of him. He was a white man with a long yellow face and messed-up straw hair. Sure it was two in the morning, but a whitehead is a whitehead anytime. He had no clothes on his thin upper body. I thought he would look good nailed on a cross. “Boy,” he shouted through the open window, “stop throwing rocks.”

I called up, “Wolf sent me. Where tha priest?”

“I am the priest,” the man said. His voice was deep and slow. “I am Father Matthew.” He was English. I knew that from porn. He said, “I was expecting you. Wait there,” and the window shut.

A minute went by. Father Matthew opened the wooden doors.
The entrance hall was lit with electric. The priest was long and bent. His chest and arms were still naked. He wore shorts, as if he was about to play soccer. I went inside and he shut the door behind me.

The priest put his long hands on my shoulders, looked down at me, and gripped tight. “Son, welcome,” he said. “I am Father Matthew, the priest of St. Michael's.” I looked up at him in the entrance's darkness; he was a shadow of a shadow. He continued speaking in a slow, deep voice. “I understand that you have had a most traumatic evening.”

I nodded and looked down at his large white feet. He wore leather sandals like the ones from the Maasai Market.

He said, “What is your name, son?” Though his voice was low and soft, it was not kind.

“Bingo,” I said.

“Your full name?” he asked.

“Bingo Mwolo,” I said to his big feet.

The priest said, “Bingo Mwolo, I sense a troubled soul. Pray, tell me what transpired tonight so that I may pray for you.” His fingers relaxed on my shoulders.

I kept my eyes down. I knew what to say. “I witness the Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”

“Is that so?” said the priest.

I nodded.

“Mr. Mwolo, tell me precisely what you saw.”

I told the priest that I had gone to Boss Jonni's high-rise to bring him a present from Wolf. I told him that when I got there I found Boss Jonni shot. I told him about the three Manabí boys I'd seen outside the high-rise. I told him I was sick two times. I said, “Wolf want ta keep me safe because tha Manabí boyz is evil. Wolf sent me here because tha Manabí boys kill Boss Jonni.”

“Evil,” said Father Matthew. He reminded me of one of the vultures that flew over Krazi Hari's dump. Then the priest said, “Bingo, I have another question for you. It is an important question.” His fingers tightened on my shoulders.

I nodded.

“Did you see a black briefcase in Boss Jonni's apartment? Bingo, it is important.” The vulture's voice got louder. “You see, the briefcase contains important medicines for many of the boys I care for.” The priest stared down at me God style. He showed me with his hands: “It is about this big.” His long naked arms looked like vulture wings.

I looked up at him Slo-George style and shook my head.

“Bingo, do you believe in right and wrong?”

I do not believe in wrong, but I nodded anyway.

The priest said louder, “Bingo, did you see that black briefcase?”

I shook my head. “No, Fatha. I neva see no briefcase.” I know how liars lie. I kept my eyes sunk in his eyes, two lagoons of tar.

The priest breathed two slow breaths. He continued to look at me, but my eyes did not move from his. Inside him I saw his darkness. I was scared of him, but not sure if I was scared of his right or his wrong.

The priest's neck softened and he took his hands off me. “Bingo, son, you are safe here. Go in there and find somewhere to sleep.” He waved a wing at a door to his left, turned, and walked up the stone stairs. I did not give him the three bags of white; I'd forgotten about them, with all the talk of the briefcase. When his shadow had gone, I opened the door. It opened onto a large room lit by one electric bulb. The walls were brick, there were three windows, and there was a small door at the far end of the room. The floor was a carpet of gray—children asleep under gray blankets.
A couple of them looked up at me; the dim light reflected in their eyes. Several shuffled back to sleep. One boy sat against the left wall, smoking.

I stepped over a few bodies, lay down in an empty space, and became part of the gray carpet.

A bell woke me. I was still at St. Michael's Orphanage. I grabbed my groin; that was where I'd pushed the three bags of white and my money. I could not remember my dream. Around me boys stretched from sleep and some scampered around. No one asked me who I was or told me to do anything. I felt invisible, which was an unusual feeling for a growth retard.

Some boys had formed a line at the back door. I stepped over some still-asleep children and joined the line.

“What tha line for?” I asked a boy about seven years old in front of me.

“Piss 'ole,” he said.

That was all we said. Since runners are not talkers, I immediately loved the place.

It took a quarter of an hour for me to reach the “piss 'ole” room. To the right were six slots separated by low walls. In each space, a boy toileted over a hole in the floor. The smell was nothing compared to a Kibera ditch. To the left was an open room with nine naked boys who cleaned themselves with water shot from the wall.

I went into a slot and pissed. I was about to wash in the water wall, but I was worried that the three bags of white and the money in my trouser pockets would be lipped, so I went back to the main sleep room. The room was almost empty; all the gray blankets had been pushed against the wall in piles. Boys, in line, were walking out of the sleep room and up the stairs. I followed them. The boy ahead of me was about my age but a foot taller. We grunted. That was all. Good conversation.

At the top of the stairs, a hall to the left led to a corridor of shut doors. On the right was a room as large as the main room below. I followed the tall boy in. Children of different sizes sat at three long tables. At the far end of the room, boys walked past a short table; on it were piles of metal bowls, a box of spoons, and two giant steel pots. Two white women, one blond and one brunette, stood on the other side of the table scooping yellow cement into metal bowls the boys held out. Father Matthew stood behind the women. He had more life in him than the night before. He wore a black priest's robe with a dirty white collar, and his waist was tied with a black belt. I guessed that the two women were his hookers.

I joined the line, collected a bowl and spoon, and waited for my scoop. Father Matthew saw me and smiled close-lipped. He whispered in the ear of the blond hooker. She was pretty—good hips. She looked at me and gave me food. It was hot Uji.

It took a while for everyone to get served. I sat beside a boy halfway down the third table under the window. No one ate. Steam rose from the plates like columns of cigarette smoke at a bar. A few children whispered, but none spoke out loud or laughed. Once everyone was sitting, Father Matthew spoke, his voice slow and deep. He got us to thank Jesus. I mumbled “Amen” with the others. Then the spoons hit the bowls like a storm on metal roofs. Free food, a preacher—I thought of Slo-George.

Eating was fast, fierce, and silent. The boy across the table had a diseased eye the same color as the food. He stared at me the whole time with his good eye. I looked around, but never at him. At different times, boys went and got water from a steel pot on a small square table by the door. Next to the pot was a pile of plastic cups. Boys filled a cup, drank standing, and put the cup back on the table. I got fed up with the one-eyed boy's stare and went to get water.

The water tasted clean. I wanted beer, but I could not see any. An older boy came up. It was the boy who had been smoking when I arrived the night before. He stared at me and said, “Where ya from?” His accent was thick.

“Da feels,” I said. I made my voice thicker.

“Na,” he said, and shook his head. “Da bool-sheet. Ya com' in da night. Tha Fadda neva open da door at night.” Smoking Boy went on, “Who da fook is ya?”

I tilted my head and gave Smoking Boy a Slo-George-style half-brain retard grin. I slowed up my words and said, “I'z like ya shirt, so pretty.” I reached out my hand and stroked it down Smoking Boy's filth-patterned shirt. I grinned at him some more.

Smoking Boy leaped back and slapped my hand down. His back hit the water table. The cups fell and bounced on the stone floor. Then the water pot toppled. Crash! My feet were wet with spilled water. I titled my head and reached for his shirt again. “Soft shirt,” I said, stroking his chest. Smoking Boy hit me across the head with an open hand and pushed me back. I fell onto the table behind me. I let myself crumple down. But Smoking Boy wasn't done. He kicked me. “Ya head-fooked liar!” he shouted.

Father Matthew and the plain brunette ran over. Father Matthew grabbed Smoking Boy from behind, tight around his chest. A quick pleasure stroked the priest's face like a puff of cigarette
smoke. But Smoking Boy didn't stop kicking me. Father Matthew swung him away, lifting his legs right off the floor.

Smoking Boy shouted, “Ya lying fook-brain.”

Plain Brunette knelt over me. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her breasts hung heavily, as if riot-police sandbags were strapped onto her.

I stared up at her and said, “I'z hurt. My body hurtin'.” I was in pain, but nothing too bad. She leaned over with pity. “Where are you hurt? Is it your shoulder?” I was surprised to see that blood had come through my T-shirt.

I said, “I cannot move it, missus. I'z really hurt.” I gripped my left shoulder and began to scream. “I need my mudda,” I cried. “Agony. I'z in agony. Where's my mudda?”

Father Matthew and the two hookers lifted me and carried me out of the eating room, down the corridor, and into one of the rooms there. I was placed on a bed and covered with a brown blanket. On the table opposite the bed was a necklace with a silver cross the size of my hand. It was worth at least two hundred shillings, and when everyone left I was tempted to lip it but I resisted.