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 WHEELS OF HOPE 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.”