Golden Boy (20 page)

The Mwenge Woodcarvers' Market is a square of buildings set off a roundabout in the busy road. I have no idea how Kweli crosses the four speeding lanes of traffic when he's alone. Even with my eyes wide open, I'm terrified we're going to be killed. Once we're safely across, though, there's no shortage of friendly voices to help guide Kweli to where he needs to go. A many-voiced chorus of
Habari gani, Kweli!
and
What are you doing here today, old friend?
and
Who is that with you?
greets us as we walk down a narrow alley of shops toward the dusty central rectangle of gray dirt and scraggly trees surrounded by the long, low buildings of the artists' market.

Kweli stops many times, introducing me to the other artists in the market: wood carvers, painters, and jewelry makers mostly, based on what I can see in their shops, though there are some potters and stone carvers, too. I'm polite and say hello, but I have trouble remembering all the names and faces. This is more people than I've met in over a month. They're all curious about me, but Kweli gives a quick explanation: “Habo's an albino. He's staying with me for now and helping me out. I hope you'll be good to him.” And this seems to satisfy them.

“Everyone's very friendly,” I murmur to Kweli as we head into the central square.

“Well, yes,” answers Kweli. “Though we all compete with one another to catch the eyes of tourists, we share food and tea and help one another make change for the large bills the foreigners use to pay. It's a good community.”

We walk down the aisle of open shop doors until we get to one on the far side of the square.

“This one is mine,” says Kweli with a big smile. “Mine and some other carvers.” I wonder how he knows this one is his. He must have been counting the steps from the curb or something. Interested, I peek inside.

Just like most of the other shop cubbies in the market, Kweli's is a small room with many shelves on the walls and a clear area in front of it. The roof is corrugated metal, and the area out front is covered by a blue plastic tarp stretched between poles. The tarp is different; most of the other shops don't have one. When I ask about it, Kweli tells me this is important because, this way, when customers come, the room is cool and shaded and it makes them want to step in and look at the art.

“Especially Americans and Europeans,” he says. “They're always eager to get out of the sun.”

“Like me,” I say.

Kweli pauses for a second and his smile falters.

“
Ndiyo.
Like you. Come on,” he says, and walks into the shop.

When I walk in for the first time, the box still balanced on my head, I'm overwhelmed by the number of carvings in the room, but once I get over my surprise I realize that the space is actually quite organized. The bigger, more expensive pieces are by the door, and the smaller, less expensive pieces are at the back. When I ask Kweli about this, he explains that this way the customer has to walk past the bigger ones to get to the small ones.

“Who knows?” He winks at me. “Maybe they'll fall in love with a bigger one on their way to the small ones.”

Huge Makonde masks glare down at me from the middle of the room as we walk into the shadowy shop. They're similar to the ones in the shed behind Kweli's house, and no matter how long I look at them, they still give me the chills. Kweli told me a little bit about their meaning when we were cleaning up around the shed a few days ago, how the Makonde people think that actual spirits live in the masks. I told him I didn't believe that spirits live in masks, but even so I don't go near the masks if I'm alone, or at night. I hurry past the middle of the store and join Kweli at the very back, where he's deep in conversation with a large woman with workman's hands.

Sensing that I'm beside him, Kweli says, “And this is Habo, the boy I was telling you about. He's becoming quite a carver himself.”

“Hmph,” says the woman. “Just what we need, another carver.” Then she turns to me and her tone softens. “It's nice to meet you, Habo. I'm Zubeda, and I share this shop with Kweli and five others.”

This is a surprise to me. “So many of you?” I ask.

“
Ndiyo,
seven. One for each day of the week,” she answers. “That way we each take a day here, selling, and the rest of the week we can spend at home, working.”

I can see the logic in that and I say so.

“It's a good system,” she agrees. “Which reminds me, Kweli, I sold another one of your statues today. Do you want your part of the money now or later?”

“I'll take it now, if it's all the same to you,” says Kweli. “And the boy has a box with some more little pieces of mine. You can put them anywhere you'd like.”

As the two of them settle up, I wander around the store again, finally not worried about bumping anything with that great box on my head. The shop is narrow, and the aisles between the statues are even narrower, so I walk carefully. I don't want to damage anyone's work or offend Zubeda. Within a few minutes, Kweli and Zubeda walk out to join me where I'm standing at the front of the shop.

Just then, a large group of tourists enters the market. So many white people at the same time! There must be over thirty of them. They start to flock and scatter like birds, picking through the art laid out before them. Vendors jump to their feet and start speaking to them in English, encouraging them to come in and buy from their shops. I suddenly see how rare it must be for any one shop to make a sale. With so many shops all selling the same thing . . . I look over at Kweli, understanding why he lives so simply.

Zubeda steps out into the central square and starts to talk to the tourists, trying to get them to come into our shop, but it doesn't work until one of them sees me.

“Oh!” he cries, and jabbers to his friends loudly over his shoulder.

About fifteen of them come over toward us in a group. I start to sweat, feeling cornered by the cluttered shop behind me.
What do they want with me?

I back into the shop. The group follows me. I put a hand out onto a five-foot-tall statue of a giraffe to steady myself. A flash of bright light momentarily blinds me. I hold my hand over my face.

Suddenly, Zubeda is at my side.

“Smile!” she hisses at me in Kiswahili. She puts one arm around my shoulders and picks up a statue of a boy in the other. I smile.

The flashing camera lights go wild. Then Zubeda shepherds me out through them, dropping me by Kweli in the entryway. She turns around and gets to work on the fifteen tourists now inside her shop. By the time she joins us ten minutes later, she has made three sales.

“I tell you, Kweli, this boy is good luck!” she crows as she waves to the tourists.

I don't know how to feel. Part of me wants to be sick all over Zubeda's feet. She's not the first to think I'm lucky, and the last time it nearly killed me.

Then again, as I see Zubeda counting out Kweli's share and handing it to him, I feel pretty good about myself. If those people hadn't been curious to see me, the shop wouldn't have made any money today. I kind of like that, instead of driving people away, my strange looks pulled people into Kweli's shop. It's a way that I, and only I, can give back to him for all the kindness he's shown me.

That said, my heart is pounding in my ears and the edges of my vision are light and fuzzy. I'm still not entirely sure I won't faint. I hate feeling trapped.

“Good,” says Kweli. “That's over. Is that enough for you on your first day out?”

I am so grateful to him for understanding how overwhelmed I feel, my voice is shaky when I reply.

“
Ndiyo.
That's a good amount for today. I'm ready to go back to your compound if you are.”

“Sawa,”
he says, and we go.

Within a week, I'm over my initial nervousness at leaving the compound and I no longer feel like I'm going to faint if people stare at me. I still don't like being cornered by a group, but now that I'm not afraid of people telling Kweli I'm an albino, I force myself to go out with him whenever he needs to run errands and when it's his day to sell at the market.
The quicker you learn to live in the city, the more likely it is that he'll let you stay with him,
I remind myself. So, day after day, I grit my teeth against the fear and walk out the big metal door in the wall with Kweli.

And, though I can't stop myself from looking over my shoulder for Alasiri or breaking into a sweat anytime I can't see at least a few ways to escape a room, I am slowly feeling more comfortable being out in the real world again. Even so, I still find ways to avoid calling my family. Having waited so long, it becomes more and more difficult to imagine what I'll say to them.

In this way, six more weeks pass and, with a roll of thunder, the short rains of November are upon us.

This morning
when I wake up with the first rays of light and start clattering around the kitchen getting breakfast together, Kweli doesn't join me right away. Oddly, he still hasn't gotten up by the time I've finished cooking our morning porridge.

“Bwana!”
I call into the house. “
Bwana,
breakfast is ready!”

“You go ahead,” answers Kweli. “I'm going to sleep a little longer today.”

I'm puzzled by this response, but I don't pass up the opportunity for a little extra breakfast. Even so, I make sure I leave enough so that Kweli's bowl doesn't look
too
small. But when I'm finished eating and Kweli still hasn't come out, I begin to get concerned. I carry his bowl inside to his bed.

“Are you feeling all right,
Bwana
?”

“I think, Habo, that I will stay in bed today.”

I set the bowl by him, in easy reach in case he wants it.

“Are you sick,
Bwana
?” I squint in the dim indoors. “Should I go for the doctor?”

“No, no,” comes the reply. “I just don't feel very well. I think it's something I ate yesterday not agreeing with me. A day of resting will be all that I need.”

Something suddenly occurs to me. “But it's Friday!”

There is a low groan from the bed as Kweli processes this information.

“You'll have to go into Mwenge without me,” he says finally. “I don't have the energy to go in myself, and it is not fair to the other artists if the shop isn't open at all. Can you do that?”

I look at him and think about saying no, but Kweli has spent so much of his time helping me that I pause.
Anyway,
I reason,
you've been out in the city for weeks and nothing worse than some awkward stares and comments has happened to you. Surely you can do this for Kweli.

“Ndiyo,”
I say, and I see Kweli relax into the pillows. I'm glad that I made this choice. “That's no problem. I'll run the shop for the day as best I can, and I'll see you tonight in time to make dinner.”

“Thank you, boy,” he says, and drifts off to sleep.

I wake him once more before I leave to make him drink some tea and show his hand where to find the extra water and food I've placed by his bed. As I walk out the door alone, I try to convince myself that we'll both be fine today.

I heft the crate of statues onto my head and follow the road into town. The early morning light is murky but the air is cool against my face. My hat is stacked on top of the crate and I have my sleeves and trouser legs rolled up because the sun isn't high yet. I like the way the dust covers my fish-meat-colored toes as I walk. I feel a twinge of unease deep in my stomach about heading into town alone, but I brush it away with the dust.

I get to Mwenge without incident, knowing the way by heart now, and I say hello to the other artists and answer their questions about why I'm coming alone and where Kweli is.

“He's taking a day to rest,” I tell them. “He wasn't feeling well this morning, but I'll mind the shop today and he'll be better tomorrow. There's nothing to worry about.” But rather than convince myself that he'll be feeling better by the time I get back, repeating that Kweli is okay over and over actually makes me afraid that, instead, he will worsen.

I open the shop with Kweli's rusty key and stretch the blue tarp between the poles. I unpack the statues from the box and put them out in front. Kweli always says to Zubeda,
Oh, put mine anywhere,
but I've noticed that the statues out front are more likely to be bought than the ones that someone has to go into the store to find. Also, the quality of what's in front is what will or will not pull someone into the store to look more. Whenever we're here alone, I always put Kweli's statues out in front.

The first day I came to the market with Kweli, I had trouble imagining that anyone would spend such a sum of money on a piece of wood, no matter how beautiful it was. But people did. Some bought Kweli's work because they fell in love with its smooth lines and deep meanings, others because they were fascinated by the idea of owning something made by a blind sculptor. When I grumbled about one customer who had said, “Oh, give me anything,” after peppering Kweli with prying questions about being blind, Kweli had just smiled at me and shown me the roll of shillings in his hand. “I carve because I love it,” he said. “I'm allowed to keep carving because I sell them, to whomever will buy. An obnoxious man's money buys me just as much food and materials as a pleasant man's. Remember, Habo, even a great artist has to eat.”

Since then I've bitten my tongue whenever I've wanted to snap at a potential buyer and tried to imagine them as a large roll of shillings, or a pot of stew, or a piece of new wood.

The morning passes slowly, and I keep myself busy dusting the statues and tidying up so I don't dwell on worrying about Kweli. I wish I'd brought my own carving with me. Kweli has me carving “Change” right now, and it's a mess of unexpected angles and climbing vines. If I had it with me it'd be complicated enough to take my mind off things, but in my worry about Kweli I forgot it this morning. I can see in my head exactly where it must be on my mat, but that just makes me more annoyed, so I try not to think about it.

Whenever I hear someone's voice turn from a normal conversation into a high-pitched sales voice, I hurry out front because that means that a potential buyer has come to the market. I stand there and use the one bit of English, Spanish, French, German, Chinese, or Japanese that Kweli has taught me to memorize:
Hello good sir/madam, please come look in my shop. We have many nice things.
The rest of the transaction can be completed with smiles and fingers and numbers written down, but the greeting, Kweli says, must be in the person's home language. Sometimes it's difficult to guess which is the right language to use, so I cycle through whichever seem likely, one after another.

Though a few people stop by to stare at me, and one even goes so far as to walk around the shop and pick things up, no one buys anything from me all morning.

I eat my packed lunch in the blue-tinted shade of our awning, sweating in the November heat, worrying about how Kweli's doing and wondering how I'm going to spend the rest of the day. It's still many hours before sunset, when I can close up without seeming like I'm not doing my job.

People wander in and out of the market, but no one comes into my shop. Is it because of me? I think about being more aggressive and talking to people, but I still have trouble calling that much attention to myself. Whenever more than a few people start to stare at me, I break into a cold sweat and want to find a place to hide. Maybe I should just go back to the compound. Kweli's an old man. Should I have gone and told Chatha right away instead of coming to the market and leaving him alone? I chew my lip and worry whether she'll think I've broken my promise to keep Kweli well.

Then suddenly there's a change in the light, and I look up to see great dark clouds rolling in from the horizon. I've never been so glad to see rainy-season storm clouds in all my life. Already the cry has gone up and everywhere people are scurrying around, packing up their wares and getting them under a roof before the storm hits.
Perfect!
If this storm is as bad as it looks, no one will think twice about my packing up. It has nothing to do with being an albino if I close the shop. It has everything to do with being a good businessman: Tourists do not shop in the rain, and only a poor seller leaves his wares out to be ruined in a downpour.

Stifling my grin of gratitude, I start bringing the statues in and lining them up inside the shop. It takes me a while because I have to be careful to leave at least enough room for the next carver to get in tomorrow morning, and by the time I'm hauling in the last big pieces by the door the rain has started to make big fat plopping sounds against the blue tarp. I look around the market. Most everyone has been able to move faster than me, and the majority of the shops are bolted up tightly. I'm tempted to leave the tarp up and just go, but that would be irresponsible. If it was ripped or blown away by a high wind, I'd never hear the end of it from Zubeda and, worse, Kweli would probably have to pay to replace it out of his earnings. I ignore the quickly emptying market and the curling, purple-gray sky and hurry to untie the tarp and bundle it inside. By the time I'm done folding it, it's raining heavily.

A crack of lightning makes me start, and I grimace ruefully. This will not be a pleasant walk home. If Kweli weren't sick, I'd stay here and wait it out, but I can't shake the feeling that he might need me, and so I lock the shop and head out into the pouring rain.

Within seconds I'm soaked to the skin. I throw the piece of cardboard I was using as an umbrella by the side of the road; it's useless. When I get to the gate, I open it and slosh my way wetly through the front yard. Ahead of me I see the lights on in the house, which is nice, but unusual. When Kweli's home alone, he doesn't waste lamp oil. Which means that someone must be visiting. I feel better at once, glad that Davu, or maybe Chatha, has spent the day with him when he wasn't feeling well.

Since no one has called out to me, the storm must have covered the noise of my coming into the compound, and I decide to sneak around back instead of going through the front door to see if they're talking about me. It's a low impulse on my part, but it saves my life. Because when I sneak inside and peek around the doorway separating the kitchen alcove from the living space, I see that the person that Kweli is having tea with is not Chatha or Davu.

It's Alasiri.

As quickly as it came, the November downpour ends. The high winds clear the last remaining clouds from the sky, and I'm trapped in the kitchen in the sudden silence left in the storm's wake.

He's here.

How is he here?

Is he here for me?

My thoughts tangle and jumble together in my dread.

Run!
screams the voice in my head, and oh, do I want to run! Images flash through my memory, tinged gray and red: Alasiri digging his knife into the elephant's head, pulling its teeth out. Alasiri staring me down, waving his knife and talking about my hair, my hands, my legs, like they weren't all attached to me. Escaping from Alasiri through the deserted streets of Mwanza. Alasiri, filling my vision as I run toward him, desperate to reach a train door that will mean my life one way or the other. The images swirl around me like a poisonous fog, and I have to shake my head to clear enough space to think.

Because I must think. I have to know why he's here, in Kweli's house. How he found me. Why Kweli, someone I've trusted completely, is calmly drinking tea with the man who is trying to kill me. I have to know these things in order to know what to do. And so, though my muscles are cramping and I'm sweating in terror, I lean forward, shielded by the counter, and listen.

“. . . so, thanks to the new demand from China, the ivory trade is alive and well again,” Alasiri is saying. “I'll provide you with the materials and arrange all of the transportation. All you would have to do is carve the pieces to the specifications from my buyers.”

“I am afraid, young man”—the voice from the other room is Kweli's now—“that my answer is final. I will not do this thing for you.”

“And I'm not sure,
Bwana,
that you understand just how much money I'm offering you. With very little effort on your part, we will both be rich very quickly.”

“Kanu,” says Kweli, “what money I do need I am happy to earn legally, even if that is the slow way.”

This comment is greeted by a chuckle from Alasiri.

“Very well.” I hear the scraping of a stool across the floor. “I can see you're decided.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then, since the rain has stopped, I will leave you to your evening plans, and I will go pursue mine. Shall I help you clear the tea things into the kitchen?”