Golden Boy by Tara Sullivan Page A

the car. Now that the large tusk is gone, there’s much more room and it’s more comfortable. I think about what Chui has said. It is an awful lot of money for just one animal. Would I do this again, if I knew that I would keep the money and it would save my family? I don’t have an answer, and the question leaves a queasy feeling in my stomach. Then I realize something: Chui never said what he would spend the money on for himself.
    â€œChui?” I ask, staring out over the dark grassland, not looking at him.
    â€œWhat now, Habo?” He sounds tired, grown-up. The way Enzi usually sounds if you ask him a question after work.
    â€œIf you were rich, what would
you
buy?”
    For a moment, Chui considers whether or not to tell me. Finally, he says, “I’d pay the apprentice dues to be a mechanic and work on sports cars.”
    â€œA mechanic? Really?”
    â€œWhat, you think it’s stupid? Well, you’re stupid!”
    â€œNo, no! I don’t think it’s stupid. I just never thought of you as a mechanic before . . .” I trail off. I’ve never really thought about Chui as anything, really, except an annoyance. I try to think of what else Chui would be good at. Finally I find something. “I thought maybe you’d be a footballer. You’re the best goal scorer in the school.”
    There’s another pause, but this one is not as tense as the last one.
    â€œMaybe I could work on sports cars during the day and then play football at night. That would be good.”
    â€œThat would be good,” I agree.
    And when we both fall silent now, the silence is soft.

    The second time we stop, the stars stretch bright and brittle over us and it’s full night. We’ve been traveling along the Sirari-Mbeya Road for hours, and the others have started to comment on how close we’re getting to Mwanza. We twist along a dusty path until we are some way from the road and Alasiri has found what he is looking for.
    There’s not much here, just a few huts clumped together and a smear of flickering lights that might be a village in the distance. Alasiri gets out of the Jeep and calls, “
Hodi hodi!”
    An old man emerges from the largest of the mud huts and walks slowly out to where we’re waiting. At first it’s hard to see him in the waving light of the lantern he’s holding up over his head. When he gets close though, I can see what he is. The man is wearing ratty clothes and necklaces made of teeth. His hair floats out around his head, but the wildest thing about him is his eyes. I realize this man must be a
mganga,
and I slide down as far as I can.
    Waganga
control great forces of spirits and luck. Luck is very important. Good luck brings you full harvests, strong sons, and a peaceful death. Bad luck gives you sickly animals, needy relatives, and lets everyone treat you badly, even Death. Really bad luck could curse you with a ghost boy. Freakish, weak, useless. Worse than a girl.
    When any of us would get sick at home, Mother would take us to the
mganga wa tiba asili
in the village nearby. He was a not-so-old man, with a certificate from the government on the wall of his hut that allowed him to make home medicines. He would give us powders he made from plants and tell us ways to feel better. We respected him because he would use his power to help people.
    But there are other kinds of
waganga.
There are
waganga wa jadi
and
waganga wa kienyeji.
The first are born into the power and the second come into it later, but they both control magic. They use pieces of animals, and sometimes even the hair and nails of people, to make magic spells. They talk to spirits, and they can curse you as easily as cure you. Alasiri’s
mganga
does not look like a simple village healer, and I’m almost certain he is a
mganga wa jadi.
At the look in his eyes, I’m afraid. It’s like seeing a huge bull behind a twig fence. It’s terrifying