The Mzungu Boy by Meja Mwangi Page B

teachers sat behind the white people, with no cushions to sit on or to kneel on. The rest sat where they could — men on the right and women on the left side of the church. Girls could sit with their mothers. Boys could not sit at all. Boys had no more rights here than they had in the village.
    No one ever complained. It seemed only natural that the white people, close cousins of the angels and the saints, should receive special privileges here as elsewhere in our lives.
    What we boys never understood was that our headmaster, whom we all knew to be God’s authority on earth, was not allowed to sit in the front row with other important people.
    The Sunday I saw Nigel sitting up in front with his grandparents I was genuinely proud to be his friend. But when I tried to find out just how close he was to the saints, he had no idea what I was talking about.
    Was it true, I asked, that they were all close cousins of Jesus?
    â€œDon’t be foolish,” he said. “Where do you get such stupid ideas from?”
    â€œFrom school.”
    I must have frightened him sometimes with the level of my ignorance. But my head was filled with masses of information, gathered from the village boys and from everyone else with whom I had ever had contact, that I had to verify before I could have peace.
    Was it true that all mzungus were rich and had big farms and many cars? Was it true that they did not eat anything that was not sugared and sweet? Was it true that they could not lie and did not steal? Was it true that they did not bleed even if you cut them? Was it true that they were the only true people of God? Was it true that witchcraft could not kill them? Was it true that if they died they went straight to heaven?
    I had so many questions, they wore Nigel out.
    I learned later, from Father Mario no less, that we were all children of the same God. Not just the village boys, not just the village children, but all the children and all the people of all the world. Including Bwana Ruin and our schoolmaster, Lesson One.
    But that knowledge came later.
    In the meantime, Nigel fell madly in love with hunting. He wanted to go hunting every minute of every day. He came to the village three or four times a day and begged me to take him hunting. But it was the potato and bean harvesting season, and my mother kept a close rein on me.
    â€œI’m bored,” Nigel told me.
    He had no one to play with.
    â€œGo play with Salt and Pepper,” I said.
    But his grandfather’s dogs were tired of playing fetch. He wanted to go hunting again.
    â€œI must finish harvesting the beans,” I told him.
    He tried to help me finish the harvest quickly. He came by my house every chance he could and helped me with the harvest.
    He was not very good at it, but he was good company as I labored and made the work seem lighter. My mother grumbled about him trampling all over her beans, but she did not know what to do with him. She did not ask him to go away. I think she liked him a little, though she did not understand a word he said. We must have harvested a whole granary together that season.
    Nigel gave up his suits and started wearing khaki shorts and shirts. He took off his shoes when he was with me, and walked barefoot like me to see how it felt. I put on his shoes and walked in them to see how it felt.
    In the time it took to bring in the harvest, Nigel became a regular feature around my mother’s hut. The village children soon tired of following him about chanting
bwana kidogo
, little master. No one but me, it seemed, knew the white boy’s name. Everyone called him simply
ka-mzungu
, little white man.
    The day he ate ugali at my mother’s hut was a historical event in our village. Nigel liked it and asked how it was made.
    â€œWith maize flour and water,” I told him.
    How did it harden? he wanted to know. It just hardened, I told him. Did she bake it in the oven? We had no oven to speak