The Mzungu Boy by Meja Mwangi Page A

was terrified. He bumped into me in his attempt to keep as close to me as possible, while I kept running into trees and things as I did not see too well in the dark.
    â€œIt’s scary,” Nigel finally admitted.
    â€œHold my hand,” I told him.
    When I had a good grip on his hand I said, “Now you lead and I will be with you. I can’t see in the dark.”
    â€œI can’t see in the dark either,” he told me.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your eyes?”
    â€œNothing,” he said. “I can’t see in the dark. Only animals see in the dark. Cats and dogs and such creatures.”
    I had to think carefully before asking, “Why are your eyes so like a cat’s?”
    â€œMy mother’s eyes are blue,” he told me. “My father’s are green. Like my grandfather’s.”
    â€œBut Bwana Ruin can see in the dark,” I said. “Your grandfather can see in the dark.”
    â€œNo, he can’t. His eyes are just like mine.”
    A great revelation. We stumbled on.
    â€œCan your grandfather see what I’m thinking?” I ventured.
    â€œNo.”
    I had to be certain.
    â€œThey say in the village that he can see into your head,” I told him. “See what people are thinking. Can he do that?”
    â€œHe cannot. No one can do that.”
    â€œBut can he see in your heart?” I asked next. “Can he know when you are telling a lie?”
    â€œNo one can do that,” Nigel said impatiently. “He is like other people. He can only see with his eyes.”
    An even greater revelation. I could not wait to get back to the village and pass on this information. The boys would never believe me.
    Six
    ON SUNDAYS WE went to church. Our parents never did. But we went to church on Sunday. Lesson One made sure of that with his cane.
    â€œLesson one!”
    Thwack! went the cane on the desk.
    â€œIt does not matter that your parents are traditional,” he said to us Monday mornings. “You go to church on Sunday, every Sunday, in uniform and on…?”
    â€œTime,” we yelled.
    â€œLesson one!”
    Thwack! went the cane again.
    â€œIt does not matter that your parents are Protestants, Muslims or Catholic,” he told us. “You must go to church on Sunday, in uniform and on…?”
    â€œTime,” we yelled.
    Thwack!
    â€œIt does not matter if your father is a chief, a rich man or a thief,” he told us. “You must go to church on Sunday in uniform and on…?”
    â€œTime,” we yelled until our ears rang.
    Thwack!
    So we went to church on Sundays. In the headmaster’s book there was no sin greater than missing church. The church was five miles from our village, but we went to church every Sunday, in uniform and on time.
    It was an old church, built by prison labor long before we were born. It was long and narrow and had a tall bell tower. The best boy in class was allowed to ring the bells for Easter Sunday. The church had stained-glass windows through which, when the light was right, one could see heaven, with the saints and the angels flying about. On the walls were pictures of saints and holy people.
    The church belonged to a tidy Italian priest called Father Mario. He was in charge of all the Catholic schools and was the shortest white man I had ever seen. He was also the most fearsome, after Bwana Ruin. He once beat up a teacher for being untidy in school.
    Before the service, Father Mario walked up and down the aisles where we stood — having respectfully surrendered our seats to the adults — and rapped his knuckles on every untidy head. He sent home anyone whose uniform was not fit to be in his church.
    As in the village, everything in the church went according to a hierarchy. Bwana Ruin and the white people sat in the front rows. Their benches had cushions to sit on and to kneel on, while everyone else sat and kneeled on the hard wood. Our