I dropped the gun—Wolf’s gun—and ran from 19B. At the end of the blue river was the exit. I reached the concrete stairs and sat on the top step. My body shook. I was cold. I had been cold for a long time. I wrapped my arms around my body. I opened my mouth to scream. No noise came out, but Worm flung himself through my throat and slid away.
I ran down the stairs. I did not even feel the concrete. I had come for Wolf—to show Mama. I had come for my $200,000, to show Mrs. Steele, to get Charity, to plant endless fields of yam. But, just as when I arrived, I had nothing. I had left the money in the rat-filled lift shaft. I had left Drink Hut standing beside Wolf. My finger had wanted to shoot away her concrete silence. I had wanted to take from Wolf what he had taken from me. But I hadn’t. Was it because killing is wrong, or was it because I was an ant, meant to be stood upon and not to stamp out others?
I ran out of the garage, onto Taifa Road, and into Nairobi’s night. The street was where I was meant to be. I am the runner. Every day, I start with nothing and end with nothing. That way, I run faster.
I ran without stopping until I reached the traffic lights on Kenyatta Avenue. I had to wait for the light to turn red. A matatu stopped beside me at the light. Painted on the side was a round woman dressed in bright purple clothes. The words under her read, “The Church of Eternal Salvation.” The music from the matatu sounded as if she was singing:
The day has fallen, pray to night.
The dark that fills my heart is might.
In my haste, in my flight.
Question wrong,
Question right.
It was a song for an ant. I ran across Kenyatta before the chorus came again. Mr. Edward was not at his usual place, and so I did not get a philosophy lesson as I ran into the Livingstone. Anyway, ants do not need philosophy lessons. The commandment of the ant is to follow the other ants.
I went to my room, drank six vodkas from the room bar, and felt pain deep inside. I was Ant, not Man. What man lets his mama’s shawl fall and doesn’t pick it up? Show me the man that does not serve justice to his mama’s killer? Show me the man that lets Knife kill his Mama and then runs white for his mother’s killer? I know that man. He is a coward. He is an ant. He is Bingo Mwolo. He is me!
I lay on the bed and switched on the television. The pillow made a noise at me like marching ants. Under it was a pink bag of Walkers Prawn Cocktail crisps. I opened the packet and began eating. The Nigerian soap was on again, about Disgrace, the girl from the country village. She still lived in a small hut outside the village, but her hair had started to grow back and she looked pretty. The little orphan boy who lived with her had gotten sick and Disgrace took him to see the doctor at a nearby village.
The doctor was a big, gentle man. The glasses he wore looked fake. A nurse brought Disgrace and the orphan boy into the doctor’s surgery. In a second, you could see a spark between the doctor and Disgrace. The camera focused on his smile and her happy eyes. The little boy looked up at them and coughed.
The doctor dealt kindly with the boy. He examined the boy’s mouth and listened to his chest with his ear tubes. Disgrace held the boy tight against her, and the doctor gave the boy some injections. When he was done, the doctor put his large hand on Disgrace’s shoulder. “You are a very fine mother,” he said. “What is your name?” The young woman looked down. “Grace,” she said.
Grace then looked up and said to the doctor, “Your wife is a very lucky woman.”
The doctor acted sadness. “I am afraid my wife died several years ago. I am a widower.” Grace smiled, because she knew the doctor loved her.
The camera showed the little boy’s face. He had big dark, sad eyes. I knew what he was thinking. He thought, Something better has come along and now I will be forgotten. This is the other face of Missing: knowing what you could have had and then letting it get away. I finished the crisps and fell asleep.
Senior Father came into my sleep. He did not look tall and strong like himself. Instead, he looked like a stick with a face and hands. I ran across a purple field, chased by Senior Father stick-man. While I was running, I stepped on a seed-yam Senior Father had planted and trampled it flat. I stopped running. The stick said, “If ya kill what ya eat, ya starve. Ya kill, ya die.” Then the stick hit me and I felt bad for the seed.
I ran to a tree at the edge of the purple field. Under it was a skin filled with water. I tried to help the crushed seed-yam get better with water I carried in my hands. But whenever I got close to the seed the water dripped away. With my knife, I dug up the baby seed-yam and inspected it. The thin husk was cracked. Life is just the thinnest cloak over death. I knew the seed was dead.
The stick beat me hard. “Ya kill, ya die,” it roared with Senior Father’s voice, the voice of a thousand voices. I grabbed the stick, broke it, and threw it down. The next second, it burst into flames and was soon ash. Sirens filled my head. The police were coming for me. Senior Father was dead—I had killed him. I looked across the purple field for somewhere to hide. I became little and hid inside the seed’s husk. I will be safe in here, I thought. Sirens were everywhere. Policemen stomped the field. “Find him!” a voice cried. It was the voice of Gihilihili. I huddled in the husk, but Gihilihili found me. He stamped with his peg leg and the husk shattered like an eggshell. “Paradise lost,” he roared.
Pain ripped through me and I woke up. I awoke in a field of orange. “Are you okay, sir?” Charity asked. She looked down at me. My eyes looked away from hers. “Ya, I’z fine,” I said. I was wet with sweat all over. “What you want?” I said. I wanted no one to see me like this. I felt small: an ant.
The moon and the streetlights outside made her skin look like dough. She pressed her lips together. She seemed sad.
“Why you sad?” I asked.
“Sir, I wanted to say goodbye. I heard you are going to America tomorrow.”
I shrugged. “Ya,” I said. There were no other words.
For once, Charity had no words, either. She just stood and stared down at me. I wanted her to press against me like when Drink Hut held Wolf. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to dive under her blanket of softest orange. I wanted to love Charity, but I had no words to tell her what was in my head. “There mus’ be wata leak in here,” I said.
She tried to smile. “Why is that, sir?”
I said, “Well, your face got wet.”
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I am sorry. I will miss you, sir.” The street outside was quiet. The moon lit my bed.
“Come lie with me?” I asked. She did this, and when Charity kissed my mouth a bad day became good. Her kiss opened my lips. I told her everything. As I said it, the truth sounded strange. I did not just tell her about Hunsa, Mrs. Steele, and the contract; about Gihilihili and Nyayo House. I also told her about the running, Wolf, and the shootings. I told her about St. Michael’s and all the boys Father Matthew saves for his retirement account. I told her about Mama, the riot, and how Wolf killed her for being a squeela. I told her about the village and how Senior Father and Senior Mother were killed by the gang boys. I told her about my father stealing Senior Mother’s cook pot.
Charity listened quietly. “But, after everything, you are still here,” she said when I was done. “You must be made from a special mud!” she said, and kissed my mouth shut.
I pushed my hand under the mattress and pulled out the folded-up yellow Khefa contract. On the work desk by the window was a black pen with “The Livingstone” printed on the side. As with the Mercedes, the hotel put its name on everything—it must have been afraid of everything getting lipped. Under my name, Bingo Mwolo, I wrote “and Charity,” and handed her the yellow sheet of paper. “Look afta this,” I said. “It is everything I have.” I did not tell Charity that my contract, like me, was nothing but rubbish.