Golden Boy by Tara Sullivan

“They’re talking about Chui going to school.”
    I sigh. Sometimes a five-year-old’s grasp of what’s news is a little hard to take. Especially when it’s so hot. I feel like I’m roasting in an oven, and the smell of the dry, hot corn all around makes me hungry and nauseous at the same time. I hear the schoolteacher ask Mother how many school-age children she has, and I strain to hear her answer.
    â€œKito!” I whisper-shout. “Kito, what are they saying now?”
    Kito listens and then says, “Your mother said that Asu’s too old for school and Chui’s the only other child she has here. She says her other sons stayed in Arusha.”
    I wonder what it would be like if Mother’s statement were true and I had stayed with Enzi to finish out the coffee harvest season. For a small part of a second I imagine how nice it would be, just the two of us, living together and working and making money. But then I sigh and remind myself of the truth: Looking the way that I do, I would never be allowed to work in the village, and Enzi never really liked spending time with me, anyway. The silly dream unravels.
    I realize that Kito has been talking for a while without noticing that I’m not listening to him anymore.
    â€œWhat did you say, Kito? I missed that.”
    â€œThe schoolteacher’s leaving now, Habo. Your brother’s going to start school tomorrow. Is school fun, Habo?”
    I think about my old school in our little village. Every day during the midday break I would go sit under the wild mango tree at the edge of the school yard. I would close my eyes and focus on the feeling of the wind as it hissed through the grass and swept over me, and I watched the other boys playing. They ran and shouted around the sun-baked playing field. They held races. They kicked a tattered football around between two sets of goalposts. I would watch and watch, but could never join in. I hated watching.
    When I was young enough not to know any better, I went home and complained to Asu, but what could she do about the boys in the yard?
    â€œYou’re like a lion,” she told me, “golden all over. Does a lion run around playing with the little black antelopes? No. He sits on the hill and watches them. Nothing that’s golden is common, Habo. You must stay uncommonly still.” And that was that. In the six years I went to that village school, I spent my days watching the antelopes play without me.
    It’s lucky that I’m still in my corn cave so Kito can’t see the anger on my face. I keep my voice happy.
    â€œ
Ndiyo,
Kito. School is fun. You’ll like it when you’re old enough to go.”
    â€œDo you wish you could go to school with Chui?”
    â€œNo, Kito. I can’t go outside. I’m happy to stay here where it’s safe.” Again, I’m glad Kito can’t see my face as I lie.
    â€œOkay, he’s gone,” says Kito. “You can come out now.” I hear the
shush
of Kito’s backside against the sackcloth as he slides to the floor and tugs away my millet door.
    â€œAsante,”
I say, and pull myself slowly into the world of the real people.

    Up until the schoolteacher’s visit, Chui had been doing odd jobs in the neighborhood: picking up trash, running errands, shining shoes with a piece of old shirt. Everyone has been doing what they can to make money so we’re not so much of a burden on Auntie. Four more mouths is a lot to feed. Especially when one mouth spends all day hiding instead of helping. But Tanzanian law states that all children over the age of seven have to go to school, and now the schoolteacher has found us out and Chui will have to go. I wonder if Chui will have trouble catching up. It doesn’t seem like so much time has passed, but it’s mid-August now and he’s missed over three weeks of school. Now it will be just Asu and Mother who work to pay for our keep. Now it