Bingo's Run (9 page)

What Father Matthew said did not make sense, because if Jesus was so rich he would not have been killed on the cross. Rich white people do not die; everyone knows that. Anyway, I nodded, because I knew Father Matthew wanted me to.

The priest was not done. He looked happy as he spoke about Jesus and his love. “Bingo, God is love, and love, Jesus teaches, is money.”

Father Matthew paused. I tried to hide my doubt; what he was saying was not in the Good News Bible. The priest went on, “Bingo, do you really think Christ fed five thousand people from five loaves of bread?”

I knew that was rubbish. If I took a loaf of bread from the market, me and Slo-George ate it all. I shook my head. “Na, Fatha,” I said.

Father Matthew smiled. “Precisely, Bingo. It is a parable—a story of Christ's teaching.”

I nodded.

Father Matthew went on with his teaching. “The parable of the fives loaves of bread teaches us how Christ, by investing the love of God, accrued capital and wealth. That is how Christ used five loaves and fed the five thousand—through a sound and sustained investment portfolio. You see, Bingo, it was God's will that wealth grew within his temple and that Christ, his chosen, would become his sole moneylender; for that is the love of a father for his son.”

“Keep tha business in tha family,” I said. Say-Long was a Kibera
barber, and his father had been a Kibera barber (until he got killed in a riot)—it was a family business. It sounded as if Jesus worked at the family bank.

The priest sat forward and smiled. “Exactly, Bingo. Christ's true teaching is that money is love. God's temple is an investment in the divine.” The priest watched me. Another truck rumbled by outside in the street. He repeated, “Bingo, God is love, and love is money. That is the essence of Christ's teaching on earth.”

I had heard many people talk about God. In Kibera there were nuns, preachers, and do-gooders who spoke about God as an invisible cloud that looks out for you: God the helper. At the School of Benevolent Innocence, they spoke about God the teacher. Mama made me write out the Good News Bible—two pages every day: God the writer. There was the nun who lived on the Condom Bus that went nowhere: God the driver. There was the priest at St. Lazarus Church who gave salvation to a naked, mad old hag: God the savior. But it was all rubbish; their God did nothing. I looked up at Father Matthew. He had God all worked out. Father Matthew's God had value. How else could the 147 Nothings at St. Michael's survive among the dust?

God is love, and love is money: God the banker.

“Bingo, it is most important,” Father Matthew went on, “that even after you leave St. Michael's you continue to remind Mrs. Steele of the importance of loving God”—he coughed—“specifically through helping our beloved St. Michael's. Bingo, you will find me most grateful.” I scratched my shoulder and the priest saw that I understood.

On the last night I slept at St. Michael's Orphanage, I dreamed of Mama.

Concrete blocks make the best houses. Concrete blockhouses never fall apart, and they are difficult to burn. You can put good things in a concrete blockhouse, even a wife and children. But when your mother is killed suddenly the whole house gets shaky. The house trembles in the wind. That was how it was with me—I looked strong, but deep down I was smashed-up rubbish.

I no longer thought of Mama much, but that night I did. A hundred and forty-seven children slept on the floor of St. Michael's. A hundred and forty-six slept under gray blankets. That night I slept under Mama's brown shawl.

I dreamed of the riot.

“Harambee!” the men scream.

Mama's grip wakes me up. “Baby, baby,” she says in my ear. She wraps me in her brown shawl. I hate it when she calls me Baby—I am thirteen! She says the word “Baby,” but I hear “fear.”

I say, “Mama, what?” I want her to let go. She grips so tight that
she hurts me. Even through her shawl, I smell her dirt and sweat. Mama breathes fast through her mouth.

The Kibera noise is a din; the screams are wild. Petrol bombs explode. Mama looks over my head. I can see fire in her eyeballs. She whispers, “Riot.”

Men yell and shout. Feet run. Now I clutch Mama as tight as she grips me. “Bingo, not so tight,” she says.

The noise comes closer. It grows louder. Women scream. Mama's fear changes to panic. I struggle against her arms to try to see what is happening, but she will not let me go.

“God in heaven save us,” Mama prays. I feel her words rumble against my chest.

Legs stop outside our shack. Mama stops breathing. A man enters. A hand grabs my neck and pulls me. Mama's fingers tighten; her nails rip my skin. Mama's head is hit. The man pulls hard. I am pulled from Mama and thrown onto the red-earth floor.

Black boots kick me so hard that I am lifted off the ground. But I return to it. Senior Father used to say, “It is tha destiny of all men—from tha mud, to tha mud.” I want my mouth to open and scream, but it will not. There is noise everywhere else but not in my throat. My legs will not move. “Move!” I tell them. My legs cannot hear. I tell my fists to hit, but they, too, are deaf.

The man has giant legs. Through the gap between them, I see Mama. Her teeth are clenched like a diseased dog's. Her brown shawl looks like fur. In a flash, she flies at the man. The man roars and swats her down. Mama falls at his feet and groans. Then she is still.

A girl I once plowed scolded me after I stroked her hair. “Ya know notting,” she said. “Ya's neva touch a girl's hair.” The man who stands over Mama did not know this. He grasps Mama's hair in his fist and lifts her off the ground as if her hair is a handle.
With his other hand, the man slaps Mama. I hear a crack. Mama swings like a toy doll. I want to run, but my legs are blocks. I want to crawl, but my arms are cloth.

“Sneetch,” the man shouts at Mama. “Ya whore to tha police.” He thrusts a fist at her and her head snaps back. The man lets go. Mama falls. She drops like a curse to earth.

Mama does not move. Her eyes search and find mine. My legs unlock. I run. I bite into the man's calf. He screams in pain. I taste blood and filth. He swings at me to bat me off, but I am small and he misses. He tries to swing his right leg, but I bite harder. The man screams, “Get da fookin' chil' off me.”

More legs approach. Hands grasp me and pull. I bite harder. The man shouts, “Fook.” A fist cracks my head. I cry out. He looks down at me, a thirteen-year-old boy with blood-smeared lips, and says, “So ya bleed me, ya chil' of da sneetch whore. So you'z like to bite, ya?” I am too afraid to speak. I lie on the ground staring at Mama. Mama tries to speak to me. “Bingo,” she says. The man's legs stand between us. I want to hear what Mama says.

The man's right hand hovers over his belt holster like a mother bird over her nest. The knife's white bone handle finds comfort in his grip. The knife leaps free and sweeps the air. It cannot be the hand of the man that lifts the knife; it must be the knife that raises the man's hand. If the knife did not exist, the man would never raise his hand like this over Mama. How could any man wish to harm Mama? Knife is the Trickster. It is the knife that has hypnotized the man. Says Knife, “I am power.” Man looks confused. “But you are just metal and bone,” he answers. “Try me,” says Knife. Man discovers the power of Knife. Man says, “Knife, you are right—you are power. I will serve you.” But man is a fool.

I look up. Knife grins down. Knife says, “Man is simple. He is a fool. Man has no power.”

Mama has many men visitors, even though she has not oiled
her skin for months because she does not have money. The men visitors that squeak her bed leave just enough money for Mama to feed us. Still, their dirt does not stick to her. She smells pure, of earth. But today the visitor is Knife, the Trickster.

Knife falls to Mama's neck and is upon her.

Knife touches her skin. “It is soft,” Knife says. “No oil.” Knife enters and is welcomed with blood's warmest kiss. Mama groans.

Mama looks at me. She says, “Bingo, run.” Then she is dead; blood to mud.

Wolf kneels beside Mama. A red pillow spreads under her head. Wolf cleans his bone-handled knife on her brown shawl and puts it back in his belt. He lays the shawl over her face so that she can sleep.

Outside, rain falls. I run like Mama said; there is riot all about. From down the alleyway I turn to look back at our hut. It burns, despite the raindrops. The air smells of burned rubber, petrol, and madness.

“You fine?” a man's voice asked me. The old caretaker sat next to where I slept, his knees folded, his white clay pipe hanging from his thin red lips. All the boys were asleep except Smoking Boy, who sat in the corner and smoked.

“Ya, I'z fine,” I said. It was as if rain had fallen; my face was wet. I said, “What time is it?”

The caretaker laughed a soft rumble sound. It was dark outside. He sucked on his pipe. “Boy, what your name?”

“Bingo.”

“Bingo,” he repeated. “Boy, you know the Legend of Bingo?” His breath smelled of honey.

Senior Father had told me that legend many times. I nodded. The caretaker must not have seen my nod, because he then told me the Legend of Bingo.

The first man ever made was called Fam. He was immortal.

Nzame, the Master of Everything—the All Knowing—made him that way. Nzame commanded his son, “When a cow births a red calf, you must sacrifice it to me.”

At first, Fam obeyed his father, and Nzame gave him children.

But one day a red calf was born. Fam ordered his children, “Sacrifice the red calf to me! Do not sacrifice it to Nzame.” His children quivered like field grass, because they knew that all red calves were meant for Nzame, their father's father. The children feared Lord Nzame. No one would kill the red calf.

Fam resented his children's fear and was jealous of his father. To show them his power, he led the red calf into the town square, sacrificed the animal, and ate the flesh right in front of them. “Look, I am not dead,” he shouted. “Even my father, Nzame, fears me.” The children then feared Fam.

Fam made a coat from the red calf's hide and wore it always. That way, the children would always remember to fear him. He declared himself Ruler of the Earth. He treated his children
terribly; he beat his sons and copulated with his daughters, who covered their faces from him. Fam decreed, “Anyone who hides a red calf from me shall be slain. Anyone who sacrifices to Nzame shall be killed.”

Mboya was one of Fam's children. Her mother was Great Tree, whom Fam had copulated with when he was drunk. Mboya was ugly, because her skin was made of bark and her legs looked like tree stumps. Her hands and feet looked like twigs and roots. Mboya was so hideous that the town's children would not play with her.

Mboya's job was to herd cattle. She enjoyed her work. When she was alone in the pasture, no child laughed at her. One day, deep in the Eastern Territory, one of her herd gave birth to a red calf. Mboya knew Fam's commandment to sacrifice all red calves to him, but she loved Nzame greatly. What is more, she thought, Fam will never see me here because I am many leagues from Nirwhala, the city Fam had built for himself.

Mboya built a pyre, guided the red calf onto it, and spoke softly in its ear. The calf knelt before her. Mboya released the calf's last breath to the air with one pull of her knife. Striking flints, she lit the pyre and the maroon smoke rose high to the Purple Firmament and enchanted Nzame.

The pyre burned long into the night, and Nzame, the Master of Everything, knew the joy of his children's love. But the fire and smoke caught the attention of huntsmen, who reported the burning pyre to Fam. In fury, Fam summoned Mboya before him. “Mboya,” he said, “daughter of Great Tree, are you aware of my commandment regarding red calves—that all red calves must be sacrificed to me?”

“Yes,” Mboya answered in a strong voice.

Fam asked, “So, Mboya, why did you defy me?”

She replied, “Because the red calf is Nzame's, the Master of Masters, the Father of Fathers.”

Fam roared, “Hideous daughter of the tree, if the red calf is Nzame's and you sacrificed it to him, then you must be sacrificed to me, because you are mine.” In a single movement, Fam drew his blade and cut Mboya's neck.

Nzame's rage became a roar, and his roar became a storm that destroyed earth. Nzame took the cloth of Mboya's soul to be his wife. As for Fam, Nzame pressed his thumb deep into the ball of barren mud that had once been earth and pushed his son into the hole. He covered the hole with a giant iron boulder so that Fam could not escape. He smoothed over his thumbhole until there was no trace left of Fam, his immortal son.

Nzame wished to make a wedding present for Mboya. “What is it you wish for?” he asked. “You may have anything,” he said.

“I wish for a garden,” said Mboya.

Nzame took the ball of mud that was once earth and called to Great Tree, “Great Tree, bring mud to life.”

“Nzame, Master of Everything,” said Great Tree, “I shall make the earth live, but I am thirsty.” Nzame summoned birds to bring dark clouds; rain fell, seas formed, and the tree drank.

Great Tree pushed its roots deep into the mud and called to the Moon, “Moon, send a wind so that I may bow to Nzame, my lord.” The moon sent a fierce wind, and the tree bowed. Leaves fell from the tree. Those that fell on land became animals. Those that fell into the water became fish. A living garden grew. Nzame was greatly pleased.

Nzame called Mboya to him. “Wife, look upon the garden I have made for you. See how fine it is.”

Mboya said, “My lord, my master, the garden is very good, but there are no children to sing of your greatness.”

Nzame remembered his first son, Fam, who lived in a cave deep in the mud blocked by a boulder. He said, “I will not create evil on earth. I will make no children.”