Bingo's Run (7 page)

After a while, Plain Brunette came back with a tray. On it was a metal bowl, bandages, medicine bottles, and a folded shirt. She knelt by the bed. “Take that dirty T-shirt off,” she said.

“Yes, missus.” I took off my top, lay back, and stared into her valleys of dough. She dabbed at my shoulder with cold brown liquid. It stung, but she sang about Jesus as she worked, her breasts dancing along.

“I'z tired, missus,” I said.

Plain Brunette said, “I'll leave you to take a nap.”

After she left, I waited a bit. I heard the other children leave the eating room and thud downstairs. It went quiet. I put on the new
T-shirt, gray with H
ONEYWHEAT
, B
IG
C
ORN FOR
B
IG
M
EN
on the front. Then I left the room and went farther down the corridor. Fast, I looked in each room, door by door. There were closets, a storage room, three bedrooms (one with a broken window), a bathroom, and, at the end of the corridor, the prize: Father Matthew's study.

The priest's study was empty. I went in and shut the door behind me. If I got caught, I would do my Slo-George act and cry, “I'z lost.” Until then, the priest's office was mine.

In Father Matthew's office, three of the walls were dirty, with peeling paint. The fourth wall was covered with a map of Nairobi, pinned with forty-eight thumb-size photographs. I recognized the photograph of Joe-Boy pinned on DuCane Street.

I opened the drawers, one by one, of a large, scratched-up dark wood desk. In the third drawer there was a pile of red notebooks, all full of tidy, lined-up numbers. I was quick with numbers—the gift of a gambler father. The top notebook was labeled “Generosity” in thick black pen. I went down the names and columns of numbers. They did not mean anything until I saw the name Peter Guttenberg—the name of the fat tourist I had lipped at the Maasai Market. His name was at the bottom of page 46 and was written six times, once for each credit card. It appeared that five hundred dollars was donated from each credit card to the “St. Michael's General Account.” One day later, ten percent went to Joe-Boy Smith in the “Lay Vicar” column, and the rest of the donation was entered in the “Widows Burial Account.”

I went through the other red notebooks. They were labeled “Housing,” “Development,” “Staffing,” and “Governance.” It
seemed that a lot of money slid about like mud in a storm. The last notebook was labeled “Adoption.” It contained hundreds of names that filled page after page. The names at the beginning of the notebook were crossed out. The last entry was Bingo Mwolo. I was not crossed out yet. I put the books back and wondered when I would be.

On the desk was a large Bible. Perhaps guilt made me open it, perhaps destiny. Inside the book, pages had been cut away to make a box. In the box was a small yellow notebook titled “Devotion.” The pages were worn. At the top of the first page, written in neat blue pen, were the words “Leaders of the Holy Order.” Below was a list of names and titles. Everyone on the list had two jobs; for example, Albert Wagane was the rector of the Holy Order and also a sub-minister in the Office for Tourism. The Deacon of Devotion, Roger Fletcher, worked in the Kenyan Office for Foreign Development. The Bishop of Heavenly Embrace, James Slattery, was the manager of Nairobi International Bank. Police Chief Gihilihili was also on the list; he was “Special Envoy to Paradise.” Next to each name was a number. Whether it was dollars or shillings, it was a lot.

The following six pages of the yellow notebook were taken up by names of “Spiritual Consultants.” Beside each name were workplaces and numbers (though much smaller than the numbers on the first page) and a job. Spiritual consultants worked in banks, in the police department, in the army, in shops, in various government offices, and even in museums. There were officers and privates, postmen, hairdressers, drivers, doctors, curators, accountants, and one veterinarian. It seemed that all these consultants helped St. Michael's and the orphans, and that they were well paid for their devotion.

The last three pages of the small notebook made me breathe the hardest. One sheet was labeled “Divinity Class.” The first line
read “Head Teacher.” Boss Jonni's name had been crossed out and “Wolf” written in. Below “Head Teacher” was a list of eight “Senior Teachers.” Wolf's name had been crossed out now that he was head teacher. Sinja Smith was on the list. And a new name (the ink was sharp) had been written in; even Father Matthew called Wanjiru, Dog.

The next sheet was headed “HIV Drug Program.” Next to another list of names were countries: South Africa and Sudan, for example. The far column was labeled “Kindnesses.” I assumed that the “k” after each number stood for kilos.

The last page of the notebook contained only a column of numbers labeled “Retirement Account.” Father Matthew's retirement account totaled 4,021,872. The top of the column was marked “$.”

I studied the small yellow notebook again and became lost in the tidiness of the priest's devotion. In the street below, a horn blasted. There was a crash and then shouts. It was my signal to go. I put the notebook back inside the cut-up Bible and left the office. Father Matthew was the boss of bosses.

I went downstairs into the main hall, where I had slept. The children were in there, shouting out the times tables. At the front of the room was a thin old black-robed nun who pointed a wooden ruler at the blackboard. The room shouted, “Nine times eight is seventy-two.”

Smoking Boy was not there. He returned at 7 times 11, with Father Matthew. From the look on Father Matthew's face, it seemed that Smoking Boy had won special forgiveness.

At St. Michael's, I was Bingo the Retard. I missed the freedom of Kibera, but this was better than being dead. I did well as a retard. For example, one morning, when I was at the back of the long line for toilets, I started pissing on the feet of the boy in front of me. I never waited for the toilet again.

The boys ranged in age from five to sixteen. Smoking Boy was among the oldest. He did not bother me, but he always watched me. Days were spent listening to religion, reading, or learning the times tables. Everyone got a Bible with his name written on the inside cover. The books were kept in a pile by the back door. I never told anyone that I could already read and multiply numbers. Who would believe that a retard could read? Sister Margaret, the sadist nun, taught us. She was a skeleton—no fat, all mean. Her head was so sunk in, it looked as if it could be crushed with one stamp, like a tin can. Age had folded her double. But even though her body was frail, “mean” made her strong. She used her wooden ruler with such skill that even Smoking Boy cried after he spelled “divine” wrong. The good news was that Sister Margaret viewed teaching a retard as a waste of energy.

In art class, I cut a hole inside my Bible, Father Matthew style. I hid the three bags of white and the money Wolf had given me in the hole. I had learned from Father Matthew that the Bible is an excellent place to hide things, because no one looks there. Anyway, at St. Michael's there was almost no thieving, and I saw only one act of blood, aside from my own early experience of it. One boy found another boy searching his clothes. After he pounded the thief's head on the stone floor, both boys got dressed. And that was that.

On most days we went to Uhuru Park, which was about a half-hour walk from St. Michael's. Scores got settled at the park, but since no one possessed anything of value, and there were no women to fight over, the fights and stare-downs were mainly for show. Most of the time, the children played. As a retard, I was left in peace. I started to understand Slo-George's success in life.

Runners who are not running must rest (Commandment No. 7). That way, they are ready for anything. While I was at St. Michael's, I rested—except for Thursday mornings, when Father Matthew sent me out on a special project.

A week after I arrived at St. Michael's, big-breasted Plain Brunette told me to go to Father Matthew's office. “Where that?” I said. You see, I am always thinking.

The priest, in his black clothes, looked as if he never slept; his face was light yellow and plastic-looking. He stared at me from behind his desk. “Well, Bingo,” he said, “how are you settling in at St. Michael's?”

I said, “Good, ya,” but he wasn't interested. I waited for him to get to the point.

“Bingo, now tell me, who is this Thomas Hunsa?”

“Hunsa an artist,” I said. I wondered why he asked me that.
There was no art in his office—perhaps he wanted some. Father Matthew said nothing, and his silence forced me to speak into it. I said, “Thomas Hunsa a famous artis' but he stopped his art.” I remembered what Hunsa had told me—about how he had cut up the American dealer boy and that Gihilihili wanted to find him. I added, “Cos Hunsa got old.”

The priest spoke so slowly, each word sounded like an orphan from the others. “Bingo, I received a phone call. You are the only soul Thomas Hunsa will let visit his house. Is that so?”

I said, “Yes, Father Matthew. I bring him special paint from a shop in Kibera. Ya see, he can't get tha special white paint he need.”

The priest smiled. I knew that he was the boss of bosses, but it was like at the Livingstone. At the Livingstone Hotel, you never say “white” or “dagga” or “drugs”; you say, “packages,” “special delivery,” and “presen'.” That is class. I could see that the priest understood class. “Is that so?” he said again.

“Ya,” I said, and nodded. His eyes watched mine. I stared straight back into the black of them. People look away when they lie (“I got no monay”; “I pay ya back tomorra”; “You so pretty”). Not me.

The priest coughed. “Well, Bingo, how about if you were to have a special project with this artist Thomas Hunsa—let us say once a week—I would greatly appreciate that. Your project would be to deliver the paints he needs.” He coughed again. “The white paint in particular.”

“Yes, Fatha,” I said. “I'z a good delivera.”

The priest said, “Shall we say you will complete a white paint delivery every Thursday morning, perhaps before breakfast? This project needs to be private between us. You see, Bingo, I do not want the other boys at St. Michael's to become jealous—avarice is a sin. I will make a call to Mr. Dog, in the Kibera store. I am
certain that he will be most helpful and will have all the white paint you need.”

“Yes, Father,” I said. I was not sure what “avarice” was, but I guessed it was like licorice, dark and sweet. Father Matthew smiled as best as his plastic face would let him. “I would not want to get a reputation for failing those souls in need,” he added.

I like people who are good at what they do. Father Matthew was the best priest I could imagine. He was so crooked that he bent all the way round. Just like his God, the boss of all bosses, his business went on forever.

On the first Thursday morning after my meeting with Father Matthew, at 7:00
A.M
., I went into Kibera to get Hunsa's white. It was a good time to go, before the heat got crazy. Things had changed in the Kibera store. Dog looked small on Wolf's blue-and-gold throne. He was shorter and thinner than Wolf, and had less nose than Wolf. A small dog sat where a wolf once reigned.

The cutters had changed, too. There were three new ones. The Ibeji twins were dark boys with fast hands, happy eyes, and clean teeth. They laughed and chattered as they worked. I forgot to breathe when I saw who the third cutter was. Slo-George sat bent over the cutting table, not saying a word. He shaved thumb-size hills of white onto plastic squares.

The twins stopped cutting and watched as I walked up to Dog. Slo-George never stopped the cutting of his block. He did not even look up. That was Slo-George; once he started something, he stuck to it—like eating. Slo-George was a friend in the same way—he stuck. Mama and me got to Kibera when I was twelve, and soon after that Slo-George appeared like mold on mango. He was my opposite: fat, slow, and stupid. In the craziness of Kibera,
he was my concrete base. When everything about me went wild, Slo-George was happy stillness. I wanted to speak to him, have a chat, but Dog's eyes watched me.

Dog did not say much to me; anyway, what could he say? Father Matthew, the boss of bosses, had sent me. Dog gave me seven bags of white. I ran them to Hunsa for his special delivery, and when I was done I took Dog the two hundred shillings Hunsa had paid me. Dog gave me ten (I guessed Father Matthew had told him to), and I returned to St. Michael's.

The routine was the same every Thursday morning: Dog gave me seven bags, Hunsa paid me two hundred, I took the money to Dog, and then Dog gave me a ten. If Slo-George was at the table (and most often he was), I would say to Dog, “Georgi come, too?” Most times Dog barked, “Na.” A few times, though, he said, “Ya,” on rare mornings when the mountain of white bags from the night before had not been cleared. On those mornings, I found Slo-George's silence peaceful. “Like ol' days,” I said to him on the matatu. Grunt, he responded. Slo-George sat outside Hunsa's house while I did my business, and then we ate mangoes before I went back to St. Michael's. When Slo-George did not come to Hastings with me, I often remembered the dark, empty field that was Deborah. Plowing nowhere gets you nothing, but I still wanted to. The Thursday-morning deliveries were a good break from St. Michael's. The orphanage was starting to stress me. Runners are built to run.

I had completed eight Thursday-morning deliveries before Mrs. Steele arrived at the orphanage. The moment she came, I put an end to my retard performance. When I saw Mrs. Steele, I knew it was the beginning of my greatest run.