pair of university students who sip sweet, creamed tea and eat samosas in a dimly lit teahouse. I smell him in the
cigarette smoke of the businessman who covers one ear and shouts into a pay phone; in the sweat of the day laborer
who loads gravel into a wheelbarrow, his face and bare chest covered with dust. The Old Man’s here, I think, although
he doesn’t say anything to me. He’s here, asking me to understand.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
B ERNARD RANG THE DOORBELL at ten o’clock sharp. He wore faded blue shorts and a T-shirt several sizes too
small; in his hands was a bald orange basketball, held out like an offering.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Almost. Give me a second to put on my shoes.”
He followed me into the apartment and stepped over to the desk where I had been working. “You’ve been reading
again, Barry,” he said, shaking his head. “Your woman will get bored with you, always spending time with books.”
I sat down to tie my sneakers. “I’ve been told.”
He tossed the ball into the air. “Me, I’m not so interested in books. I’m a man of action. Like Rambo.”
I smiled. “Okay, Rambo,” I said, standing up and opening the door. “Let’s see how you do running down to the
courts.”
Bernard looked at me doubtfully. “The courts are far away. Where’s the car?”
“Auma took it to work.” I went out onto the veranda and started stretching. “Anyway, she told me it’s just a mile.
Good for warming up those young legs of yours.”
He followed me halfheartedly through a few stretching exercises before we started up the graveled driveway onto the
main road. It was a perfect day, the sun cut with a steady breeze, the road empty except for a distant woman, walking
with a basket of kindling on top of her head. After less than a quarter of a mile, Bernard stopped dead in his tracks,
beads of sweat forming on his high, smooth forehead.
“I’m warmed up, Barry,” he said, gulping for air. “I think now we should walk.”
The University of Nairobi campus took up a couple of acres near the center of town. The courts were above the
athletic field on a slight rise, their pebbled asphalt cracked with weeds. I watched Bernard as we took turns shooting,
and thought about what a generous and easy companion he’d been these last few days, taking it upon himself to guide
me through the city while Auma was busy grading exams. He would clutch my hand protectively as we made our way
through the crowded streets, infinitely patient whenever I stopped to look at a building or read a sign that he passed by
every day, amused by my odd ways but with none of the elaborate gestures of boredom or resistance that I would have
shown at his age.
That sweetness, the lack of guile, made him seem much younger than his seventeen years. But he was seventeen, I
reminded myself, an age where a little more independence, a sharper edge to his character, wouldn’t be such a bad
thing. I realized that he had time for me partly because he had nothing better to do. He was patient because he had no