THE BEDBUG

Vitamin D is what everychild needs to avoid growing up bow legged and knock kneed. It is even more shameful for a boy to be so. That is what my teacher says.

I study at K-Street Government School. My class teacher is madam Mateso. Like her name, she is a living torture commanding more fear than respect. She makes me wish many things against her; things like an impromptu transfer or illness. In fact, anything that would keep her out of school.

As a boy, my life is not easy. Not in her class. Double standards when it comes to commendation and discipline. She says the future belongs to the girl child. I try in vain to understand the meaning of the word ‘equal’; they say all children have ‘equal’ rights. However much I try, I am still too young to understand. I have to follow what she says. If I don’t, she will pinch my ear with a ball pen and cane me thoroughly. Mateso will tell the whole class how boys are stupid-especially those with their mother’s names. Madam Torture will shout how my mother sells unknown goods and services in the main street at night. I am used to it anyway. I told my mother about it one day and she calmly retorted, “You are a boy. Get over it.” Hitherto, I don’t understand the statement.

I do not like the sunshine for the vitamin but the soothing warmth after spending a long night on the cold concrete floor under my mother’s bed. My companion is an old thin mattress coated with a worn out porous blanket – items shared with my ungrateful bedbug tenants. Sometimes I complain to my mother that the cold will expose me to pneumonia. She says that I should stop complaining. I am a boy and boys aren’t supposed to complain all the time. I don’t understand why boys are so special to the negative. Maybe when I grow up I will understand.

People call me Mzungu because of my Caucasian complexion. All I know is that I am the son of Aynalem, the Ethiopian woman in K-Street. My first name is Chinese. The second one is Ethiopian but mama had to give me a third name. Unlike my friends’ at School, it’s not my father’s. I have implored her uncountable times in a bid to know why I am called by her name. She says I am a boy.I shouldn’t be bothered by petty things like names.

My life and existence are shrouded in mysterious darkness. At school my friends talk behind my back. They point fingers at me. ‘That colored boy with a woman’s name.’ They say that my mother used to cook for the Chinese workers, building the Nairobi to Mombasa Standard gauge railway. I still can’t comprehend how cooking for the Chinese brings forth a baby resembling them. I rest my case; maybe I am not supposed to understand.

I am standing a few yards away from our house in the little space between the dangerously crammed rusty tiny tin houses. Here, I can be lucky enough to get a ray of the morning sunshine. Yester night was one of those normal nights. Mama was working from the house. I don’t know exactly what kind of job she does. Whatever it is, she needs a man to do it. Sometimes I hear them talking. At times with luck I catch a glimpse of them in the morning as they leave. They stagger wearily; their clothes shriveled and guilty expressions on their faces. Some of them give me ashew as they pass by. The reward makes up for my martyrdom in the bedbug kingdom under the bed.

Most of the tenants have woken up. Plot 10 is starting to get lively. The sunshine is soothing my numb body. For a moment, I forget about the bedbug kingdom. Three girls emerge from nowhere. I am now sitting on the dirty ground. They tower over me like the statue of Zeus at Olympia. “What is a boy doing here? This is girls’ playing space. Get away or we tell on you to our mothers.” The words cut deep like lightning through dark clouds. Girls are favored far too much. Good clothes, expensive hairstyles, easy tasks, privileges and even playing space. I feel envy building up against girls, my mother and the whole world. Why are they blind to me? Like a bedbug at the flash of light, I leave in silence with tears welled up in my eyes.

The door to our single room opens with a creaking sound. My mother is out of bed. I feel the fangs of hunger biting my stomach. I take a step towards the door. The shock stops me in my tracks. Right before my eyes he too stops. His clothes look as if they were chewed on by a malnourished donkey the previous night. Pooh! I can smell the breath coming out of his mouth- Chang’aa, and rocket cigarettes.

Mr. Alibaba, our teacher and husband to madam Mateso. He tries to fake a smile.This creates an awkward moment between us. “Good morning Mr. Alibaba.” I say in a low tone. “Good morning Mzungu. You are a boy. Don’t tell anyone you saw me.” He says in a low hoarse voice, almost a whisper. I am now perplexed. He shoves his hand into his trouser pocket. My hope is that a bribe is due. I am wrong. It can’t be a bribe. If it is, then it is definitely not for me. One of those sealed ugly lubricated bad smelling balloons. They are given to adults for free at K-Street dispensary. I can’t fully register his next move. Mama calls from the doorway. I walk towards her puzzled. Why do they give those balloons to adults only? I brush it off my mind as fast as it came. I am just a boy maybe if I was a girl, I could understand.

Breakfast preparation is underway. Judging from the water simmering on the burning kerosene stove at one corner of our single roomed house doubling up as a kitchen. As usual it is black coffee or porridge. Mama says boys are not supposed to eat too much. It makes them lazy. She lifts the old low density mattress on the creaky wooden bed and takes out her purse. ‘You are a boy Mzungu. You shouldn’t be peeping in a woman’s purse.’ She turns away from me and I am forced to look away. Her lesso wrapper is a see through. The outline of her brief pink garment underneath is blurrily visible; an abomination.

Sitting on the bare concrete floor I gaze around the wall at nothing in particular. Suddenly my eyes note the dressing mirror. It is leaning against the wall next to my mother’s bed. My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets with surprise. Her purse is open. For a moment I am tempted to wish that I was a girl. She is counting money. A wad of new one thousand shillings bank notes still fastened with a rubber band. With my mouth agape, I turn my gaze away from the mirror. I churn in my mind where she could have hit a jackpot. I try to understand why money in a purse would be fastened with a rubber band! I give up on my thoughts. I am still too young to understand. Her words echo in my mind on my way to a nearby kiosk. Hurry like a boy Mzungu.

The little plastic table in the room is loaded. ‘Short tea’, buttered bread, fried eggs and ripe bananas. We eat breakfast in silence because no matter how much I ask, I can’t understand my mother.

Breakfast is over. I stand up to stretch a bit. I feel the urge for a long call. So strong it is that I rush in a zigzag motion between the houses. I jump over dirty laundry and half-filled water buckets outside neighbours’ doorsteps. Only three pit latrines for fifty households. The queue is long. The stench is strong. By virtue of majority in number, women and girls dominate the queue. I try to jostle between two girls. They stink of urine and sweat, a result of water scarcity. All the women and girls shout and heckle in unison, “Go back. You are a boy.” Turning about I head back to the house. I spread a polythene bag on the floor. Boys unlike girls don’t need too much privacy. Do they? I finish my long call and knot the polythene bag. No smell can escape. I keep it in the trash bucket. At night I will send it away flying. That is how disposal is done here. I turn and look at myself in the mirror. I need a shave. As a matter of fact, all boys do. Boys are cheap. This hair grows fast.

Jonny is the barber at plot 10. His shop is a small structure made of old chip boards. It is roofed with rusty tin sheets and painted with red, yellow and green colors. There are a handful of men outside sitting on an old small wooden bench playing a game of cards. I take a step closer. For a moment my mind is engrossed in the game. Their eyes are glued to the cards in their hands. All arranged neatly in flower like patterns. I see numbers, signs and colours, hearts, flowers and diamonds. Jonny and Rasta are sitting on a bench facing each other. The cards are picked from the space on the bench between them. Maish is sitting on an overturned empty beer crate facing the bench from the side.

Maish smacks his lips and puts on a macho man sneer. He taunts Jonny and Rasta for a diamond. They both shuffle through their cards with expressionless faces. Maish brightens up, perhaps based solely in the hope that his adversaries don’t have a diamond. Jonny intentionally drops one card to the ground. Rasta and Maish have all their attention on the game. Jonny bends to retrieve the card from the ground. He doesn’t take the same card. Instead he wittingly grabs another one hidden in between Rasta’s toes. I open my mouth as if to utter something. He winks at me and says to Maish, “Here is your diamond now. The throw is yours”. I am momentarily confused by the game.

Before I understand it, the game is over. Jonny and Rasta pick the old bank notes from the bench. They do a victory dance. Maish is left trying to unravel the mystery of the game. Before I know it, Jonny discretely pushes a twenty shillings coin in my hand and says in a whisper “You are a real boy.” I feel like Judas Iscariot. I just sold Maish for twenty pieces of silver. No! I am worse than Judas. He did it for thirty. I just did it for twenty. But no! Maish is not Jesus. Either way, it is still betrayal.

Jonny applies the surgical spirit on my cleanly shaven head. It makes contact with the slight cuts and bruises. The blades could do with some sharpening. Outside the barbershop, I am yet to draw my next action plan. A white van makes its way along the potholed rough road. It stops next to plot 10. Another car stops too. It’s black and shiny new as if it has just been unwrapped from a paper. I can read the words at the front of the bonnet: Range Rover.I swear I don’t know anything about cars. But this one doesn’t come cheap. Two men in dark suits alight with speed; stone faced and neatly shaven. They are not ordinary men. One of them steadily pulls the door open. Expensively manicured toe nails in expensive gold-coloured high heels donning short pink flowery dress. Finally, a beautiful face in dark glasses emerges. She keeps throwing her head backwards. To keep that artificial hair off her face I guess. The face rings a bell. I can’t tell who she is but I have seen the face before. Now I remember, on the television at the local eatery.

They come in hordes like a pack of hungry wolves from a cave- women and girls. The noise grows with their number: chants, songs and ululation. Through the noise I make out two words: Madam Mheshimiwa. From a distance I see her lift her right hand brandishing long red colored fingernails. The hand looks soft as it feels. The noise subsides abruptly. It is quiet all over. I bet my ears would have heard a pin dropped. She starts her address. I am less concerned. I am only a boy. In between her speech, they cheer wildly. There is momentary silence after which she goes on “Women have been trodden on their heads for so long by men. It is our time. We must rise up and take our rightful half share; gender equality. I represent women. The future belongs to the girl child……” The words trail off my mind replaced by bitterness. Madam takes out some money from her car. She gives it to one of the women.

Noises of discontent fill the air. Before I know it, the woman is wrestled to the ground. Commotion and confusion take charge. I shake my head in disgust. They don’t trust each other. Do they? Madam Mheshimiwa is whisked into her car as soon as the commotion starts. The van remains behind. Its two occupants are young women. They call all the girls and start dishing out some parcels. They look like loaves of bread. I sneak closer, managing to make it cunningly through the crowd of girls. All pushing and shoving, pleading and shouting. I am closer to the van door. I stretch my hands.

There is an abrupt silence. My eyes meet the jeering stare of the girls. They laugh sarcastically. “Look at this bedbug. These are for girls.” I continue standing there confused. Why only girls? Through my confusion I manage to make out two words on one of the packets; “With wings” Why would a loaf of bread have wings? I cannot understand. I am just a boy. I leave the scene in silence, dejected and heartbroken. I feel like a bedbug in K-street. Absent mindedly I find myself at the barbershop again. The card game is underway but different players and observers- all male. I take a step closer. I feel it- strong and thick. I am sure it’s not the smell ofordinary cigarettes because I have felt it several times in K-street. It’s sold by Rasta and Johny and is often smoked in groups; puffed and passed around. Music from the barbershop is loud with clearly comprehensible lyrics; “….a man is still a man, whether he’s black or white.The only difference is whether he is good or evil…” I get even closer, captivated by the words, I am still a man. The moment gives me peace of mind in the company of ‘my fellow’ men.

Jonny looks at me with a smile and says; “Mzungu my boy, hold this luggage for me.” It is a small school like backpack and without much a thought I hang it on my back. Jonny just stands idling about. I can’t understand why he wouldn’t hold the bag himself. They troop in steadily and leave faster on their own in twos and threes: young men and women from all over K-street. They don’t talk much. Just brief greetings and then give some money to Jonny. Every time they do, he hands something to themfrom the little bag on my back. I am less concerned to know what it is.

Suddenly, a couple of yards away three Police officers emerge from the bush like ghosts. The young men enjoying a game of cards scamper in all directions. I am left confused and too scared to run. Two of the men in blue head straight inside the barbershop where Jonny has feigned business-doing nothing in particular. One of them remains outside, maybe to look for evidence. In silence he paces around absent mindedly, before his eyes excitedlysight a handful of coins scattered on the ground which I am quite certain were left behind by the fleeing gamblers. The cop boldly picks the coins and slips them into his trouser pockets. I am watching all these from the corner of my eye with amazement of how carelessly evidence is collected and preserved. I get carried away and before I know it, I am staring at Afande straight in the eye. We both shift our gaze but not before I read something strange in his eyes: guilt. Why?

“Are you going to school boy?” The officer asks me in a rather unusual polite tone. Today is a Sunday and I am not wearing a school uniform, does the bag alone suggest that I am going to school? The man looks confused. I give him a straight “ndio Afande” (Yes sir). He dips his hand into his trouser pocket and takes out a forty shillings coin (part of the evidence I guess) which he throws towards me and says; “That’s for you boy. Study hard to become a police officer.” I catch the coin in mid air and he doesn’t wait for “thank you” which leaves me wondering about the queer generosity and whether the coins are evidence. I brush it off my mind because I am only a child. Maybe when I grow up and study hard I will understand cops. He has now joined his two colleagues and Johny outside the barbershop. They smack their lips in excitement as their ‘host’ hands them some bank notes and soon, they disappear mysteriously as they had come.

Johny walks towards me with a beamingsmile, takes my hand and shaking it vigorously with a big pat on my shoulder declares, “You are a man.” Before I ask him what he means by that, a fifty shillings note lands in my hand making me dumb. He takes the small luggage from my back and opens it before my eyes. The contents are scary: the odd smelling sticks of cigarettes he sells. I leave in haste. I pick my way around towards our house cautiously jumping over heaps of stinking garbage and openly flowing sewer. The door is ajar and as I make my way in, my eyes meet the feminine figure lying on the bed. Her eyes shift from the Smartphone in her hand towards me with a smile. It is Natasha our next door neighbor’s teenage daughter. I like playing Temple Run on smart phones and so I move closer to shake her extended hand, but she holds onto it with a wicked smile. I am now close enough to hear the sound from the gadget: moans and groans. That is not Temple Run.

She flashes the screen at me revealing embarrassing content. I turn my face away not to see more of the bad images but my captor puts the phone on the bed and hands me a can. “Drink this juice Mzungu, it will make you feel like a boy”. It is cold and smells just like fruit juice though it tastes bittersweet. I guess it will quench my thirst. I gulp it down my throat like water down a drain pipe. I am no longer thirsty but this strange sensational feeling is overcoming. I walk to the door and there she is, casting me a wicked smile. She pushes a coin in my reluctant hand; “You are a boy Mzungu. Don’t tell this to anyone.” Her voice fades off as I leave the house with eyes glistening from tears. I throw the coin in the open gutter outside our house and hate myself for being a boy.

Loud music, shouts and ear splitting noises are heard from Kanini Kaseo, a low cost bar located just a stone throw away from Plot 10 which sells third generation liquor. Doors are open to patrons long before the legally stipulated hours. Whatever goes on inside is none of my concern. At this time all I need is to get as far away from Natasha as possible. A few paces past the bar I hear a familiar male voice shouting behind me, and so I turn back. My mother joins in suddenly drawing my remaining attention.

“Give me back my money woman,” Mr. Alibaba retorts frothing at the mouth. He is visibly angry. “What Money? You didn’t even pay me,” my mother cuts in mockingly. My mind trails off back to the previous morning. Mr. Alibaba coming from our house and the wad of new bank notes fastened with a rubber band in my mother’s purse. I didn’t understand what they were transacting but whatever it was, I am too young to understand.

From my position a few meters away I see a crowd of curious onlookers has gathered to witness the drama. The crowd makes way for Kush, a policeman from K-Street police patrol base who spends most of his nights in our house. His response is fast and the situation is put under control as he walks majestically to where my mother and Mr. Alibaba are standing. One fact about this world is that you can do a million good things but no one will remember but make one mistake and a million people will remember. One day we went to school on a Monday morning only to find our school playground fenced with stone walls by an unnamed private developer. Parents, teachers and pupils tried to demonstrate but Komanda and other police officers hurled tear gas canisters at us. Rumour had it that they were paid by the grabber to stop us. That is what I remember Kush for in spite of the uncountable evenings he brings me a packet of army biscuits or a can of corned beef. These presents I have learnt are a bribe for me to offer myself to the bedbugs under the bed.

“Alibaba how many times have I warned you to keep off my woman?”

“Go to hell.” His opponent shouts back with unmatched gusto unaware that he has rattled a snake. Two loud bangs render the air. The world spins so fast before going completely dark.

The room is white as snow with a brightly lit ceiling and blue colored clean smelling bed sheets like the gown I am wearing. Connected to a machine through the nostrils, I turn my eyes slowly to see my mother holding onto my hand, emotionally sobbing uncontrollably. She brightens up when our eyes meet beckoning a man in a white dust coat who comes to me smiling. What happened? How did I get here? The doctor is talking to my mother assuring her I will be fine. “We have removed the bullet and he will be fine…” I think to myself, ‘Another stray bullet from a man who is supposed to protect me.’ I go back to sleep.

I neither know the date nor time of the day but I can guess from the breakfast on the bedside locker that it must be morning. My mother is sitting on my bed with another man perched on the only chair in the room holding onto my hand. His eyes betray deep emotions and sympathy. I take time to study him. He is short with a colored skin and small eyes; like the ones I see when I look myself in the mirror. His accent is funny.

Mother’s words open doors to a new chapter in my life “Mzungu my son, I want you to meet your father Mr. Huang Guang, a telecommunications system engineer. He has already settled all your hospital bills and has also opened a bank account for you in which he has deposited enough money for you to go to a much better school. He also brought you this laptop to assist you in your schoolwork.”

My father guides me how to turn it on and I beam with optimism. The screen turns on with a welcome message; “Welcome to the world”. With a father, mother and a laptop, the bedbug has just evolved. In a society where status is measured by what we eat, wear or own. When I get out of this hospital, I want to go to a good school and study hard. One day in life I will be a better person to help all children equally; boys and girls alike. I will become a man to tell my story; that once upon a time the boy child was a bedbug in K-street.

–END–