of a bigger home, a cook, an endless supply of good food for your family. It is a well-understood fact that journalists nearly take vows of poverty. How could a widower with children resist the miracle of the fishes and the loaves?”
“There are the fishes and the loaves to consider, Your Excellency,” Yoyo said. “But there is also the eye of the needle.”
The president stood absolutely still. Keita could hear him swallow.
“Well, in my humble role as servant to the people of Zantoroland, I will not endeavour to rush you to your good senses. Enjoy your eggs, Mr. Ali. And, Mr. Ali Junior, I wish you fleet feet and a minimum of cardiovascular suffering. I’m sure that no father wishes to see his son in pain.”
The president left with his aides.
Keita and his father sat in silence, staring at their plates. They sat so long without speaking that both of them jumped when the telephone rang across the room on Yoyo’s desk.
“Yes,” Keita said too loudly into the receiver.
“Keita Ali. Anton Hamm. I’m in your neck of the woods this week and—”
“Not now, sir,” Keita said. He hung up the phone and returned to his father.
S HORTLY AFTER THE VISIT FROM THE PRESIDENT AND HIS men, Keita discovered a tiny device under a chair in the family kitchen. He showed it to his father, who explained that it was a bug for recording conversations.
Yoyo led Keita outside and walked with him to a street corner that was noisy with cars, mopeds and pedestrians.
“Aren’t you worried?” Keita asked.
“No,” Yoyo said. “What’s the point of worrying or letting them dictate your frame of mind?”
“Well, I’m worried about you, Father. And I don’t want to lose you.”
A young girl walked by, balancing a platter of plantains on her head. She was barefoot, and only ten or so, but she kept the platter perfectly balanced as she walked down Blossom Street toward the market.
“We’ve done pretty well as father and son, haven’t we?”
Keita smiled and took his father’s hand.
“Remember that, son,” Yoyo said. “We’ve had nearly a quarter of a century together, which is more than most people get to love each other.”
Keita thought about how long his parents had loved each other. About sixteen years. It was true that Keita was lucky to have had so many years with his father. But he couldn’t bear the thought of being without him. Yoyo must have sensed his thoughts.
A pack of five runners flew by them. Elite runners, out for a training session. They shouted at Keita as they went. Keita smiled and waved back.
“You’ve done very well too, son,” Yoyo said, “but now you must make wiser use of your talent.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“When you were young,” Yoyo said, “I wanted you to become an intellectual, like your sister, because I thought that the life of the mind would offer you more than a decade or two of running. But you have taken your own path, and I respect that. So now I must tell you. Use your legs to the best of your ability. Travel, and travel soon. Fly very far, and do not look back.” Yoyo Ali then hugged his son and, as they walked home, asked him to sing “I Got a Robe” with him.
I got a robe, you got a robe
All God’s children got a robe
When I get to heaven gonna put on my robe
I’m gonna shout all over God’s heaven, heaven, heaven,
Ev’rybody’s talkin’ ’bout heaven ain’t goin’ there heaven, heaven
I’m gonna shout all over God’s heaven.
When they had finished, Yoyo put his arm around his son’s shoulder and said, “The time has come. Call the marathon agent.”
It was March 2018, and those were the last words of advice that Keita received from his father.
T HE NEXT MORNING, K EITA ROSE TO FIND HIS FATHER ALREADY out for the day. He set aside yet another note from Hamm. Would you like to talk? No obligation to do business. He went for a run and returned to hear the phone ringing. A man’s voice said that Keita could save his
“There are the fishes and the loaves to consider, Your Excellency,” Yoyo said. “But there is also the eye of the needle.”
The president stood absolutely still. Keita could hear him swallow.
“Well, in my humble role as servant to the people of Zantoroland, I will not endeavour to rush you to your good senses. Enjoy your eggs, Mr. Ali. And, Mr. Ali Junior, I wish you fleet feet and a minimum of cardiovascular suffering. I’m sure that no father wishes to see his son in pain.”
The president left with his aides.
Keita and his father sat in silence, staring at their plates. They sat so long without speaking that both of them jumped when the telephone rang across the room on Yoyo’s desk.
“Yes,” Keita said too loudly into the receiver.
“Keita Ali. Anton Hamm. I’m in your neck of the woods this week and—”
“Not now, sir,” Keita said. He hung up the phone and returned to his father.
S HORTLY AFTER THE VISIT FROM THE PRESIDENT AND HIS men, Keita discovered a tiny device under a chair in the family kitchen. He showed it to his father, who explained that it was a bug for recording conversations.
Yoyo led Keita outside and walked with him to a street corner that was noisy with cars, mopeds and pedestrians.
“Aren’t you worried?” Keita asked.
“No,” Yoyo said. “What’s the point of worrying or letting them dictate your frame of mind?”
“Well, I’m worried about you, Father. And I don’t want to lose you.”
A young girl walked by, balancing a platter of plantains on her head. She was barefoot, and only ten or so, but she kept the platter perfectly balanced as she walked down Blossom Street toward the market.
“We’ve done pretty well as father and son, haven’t we?”
Keita smiled and took his father’s hand.
“Remember that, son,” Yoyo said. “We’ve had nearly a quarter of a century together, which is more than most people get to love each other.”
Keita thought about how long his parents had loved each other. About sixteen years. It was true that Keita was lucky to have had so many years with his father. But he couldn’t bear the thought of being without him. Yoyo must have sensed his thoughts.
A pack of five runners flew by them. Elite runners, out for a training session. They shouted at Keita as they went. Keita smiled and waved back.
“You’ve done very well too, son,” Yoyo said, “but now you must make wiser use of your talent.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“When you were young,” Yoyo said, “I wanted you to become an intellectual, like your sister, because I thought that the life of the mind would offer you more than a decade or two of running. But you have taken your own path, and I respect that. So now I must tell you. Use your legs to the best of your ability. Travel, and travel soon. Fly very far, and do not look back.” Yoyo Ali then hugged his son and, as they walked home, asked him to sing “I Got a Robe” with him.
I got a robe, you got a robe
All God’s children got a robe
When I get to heaven gonna put on my robe
I’m gonna shout all over God’s heaven, heaven, heaven,
Ev’rybody’s talkin’ ’bout heaven ain’t goin’ there heaven, heaven
I’m gonna shout all over God’s heaven.
When they had finished, Yoyo put his arm around his son’s shoulder and said, “The time has come. Call the marathon agent.”
It was March 2018, and those were the last words of advice that Keita received from his father.
T HE NEXT MORNING, K EITA ROSE TO FIND HIS FATHER ALREADY out for the day. He set aside yet another note from Hamm. Would you like to talk? No obligation to do business. He went for a run and returned to hear the phone ringing. A man’s voice said that Keita could save his
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