Golden Boy by Tara Sullivan Page B

to think of that much power corralled by so little sanity.
    The
mganga
takes the ears, toenails, and teeth that Alasiri took from the elephant. He doesn’t give Alasiri any money, but instead spits on his head and mumbles over him. Then the old man gives Alasiri a small bag. Now it makes sense why Alasiri took the other pieces of the elephant, too, not just the ivory. He wanted luck medicine from the
mganga
and needed something to trade for it.
    Alasiri is turning away when the
mganga
tips his lantern and looks at us. When he sees me, he lets out a small cry. His hand darts out and grabs Alasiri’s arm. Deep shadows mark where the old man’s thin fingers must be digging into Alasiri’s skin, but Alasiri doesn’t make any complaint. He simply leans his head down and listens as the old man whispers in his ear. Once, just for an instant, his eyes flash up to meet mine. Then he lowers his gaze and nods. The
mganga
releases him.
    Alasiri gets in, and his smile is wider than ever. The spit glistens in his hair, and he holds up the little bag.
    â€œLuck!” he says, and starts the Jeep again. I tell myself it’s the uneven road that is making me feel like vomiting, not the fact that the old man’s eyes follow me, never blinking, until his lantern is only a dot in the distance and the dust clouds from our tires hide him from my sight.
    We get onto the road to Mwanza again and continue west. Alasiri sings along loudly with the
Bongo Flava
playing on the radio and talks to Mother. He asks her about where Auntie lives and what we will do in Mwanza. Mother is polite and answers everything he asks, but her answers are vague and give little information. Asu is also no longer flirting with him, and I’m glad that they’re both acting this way. I don’t want Alasiri to know where we’ll be. I don’t want to ever see him again. I don’t want to help him ever again. And though his Jeep eats the kilometers a hundred times faster than we could walk, I wish we were still on our own and had never met up with this luck hunter.

    It’s late when Alasiri pulls over to the side of the Sirari-Mbeya Road in the city. We’re surrounded by dark houses and closed shops. I wish we had gotten here sooner so that I could have seen a bit of what the city looks like, but I’m content to finally have finished the trip with this man.
    â€œSo, this is where we part from each other,” he says cheerfully. “All you have to do is keep walking along this road and you’ll be at the center of the city. Then you can head to where your family lives. Come on! Get down.”
    We get out of the car and pull out our bundles. Mother and Asu thank him while Chui and I stand at a respectful distance.
    Alasiri drives away, taking a hard right at the intersection. Asu helps Mother rearrange our belongings into travel packs we can balance on our heads. I know I should try to be useful, but instead I stare after Alasiri, just like the
mganga
stared after me. I stare until the red glow of his Jeep’s lights dim away in the distance. I stare until I am certain he isn’t coming back. Then I heft my bundle onto my head and join my family, walking through the dark along the final stretch of the long road to Mwanza.

6.
    It’s well past midnight by the time we arrive at Auntie’s house in the Kirumba fishing neighborhood just north of Mwanza’s center. The road is a pale stripe, crowded by the hunched shadows of the fish market. To our left Lake Victoria shines dark and wet like a dog’s eye. We turn away from the water and walk uphill, winding past houses and tall rocks that cut into the sky like broken teeth. Finally we get to a small house near the top of the hill. I can’t see much, only that the walls are some pale color that glows a little in the moonlight. The dark doorway is set into the concrete-block wall.
    â€œHodi hodi!”
Mother calls into the darkness.