Golden Boy by Tara Sullivan Page A

will take that much longer to save up the money we need to travel to Dar es Salaam.
    Auntie has a job at the new Victoria Fish processing factory. She managed to get a job for Mother at VicFish, too, since her husband’s uncle is the floor manager’s stepfather, but she wasn’t able to extend her influence enough to get Asu a job. Mother and Auntie take a
dala-dala
out to the fish factory every morning at five, before it is fully light.
    Since she couldn’t get a factory job with them, Asu had to find something else to do. It took many days of walking around the rich neighborhoods, knocking on every door, for Asu to find something. Being a farm girl with a different accent and hard hands made it impossible for her to get work as a housemaid or a nanny, which she was hoping for, but she finally found work as a laundry girl for a few rich families. Now, every morning, Asu gets all cleaned up and takes a purple
dala-dala
over to the fancy neighborhoods of Isamilo and Nyakahoja to work.
    The first day Chui goes to school, the house is eerily silent. The two oldest cousins, Asu, Mother, and Auntie are all working out of the house. The two younger cousins and my brother are all at school. It’s just me and Kito in the house until lunchtime, when the half-day schools let out. Auntie told me to watch Kito the best I can, but to hide when anyone comes. There’s an old woman down the street who sometimes comes by to give him food and make sure he’s all right, and sometimes a neighbor or two or a child skipping school will come in and play. I always have half my attention on him and half on the door. Even though there aren’t that many people who come to visit, it still feels like I spend most of my time hiding under the sacks.
    Albino,
I whisper to myself as I lie there, staring at the ceiling of dry kernels pushing out against the sides of the bag like babies waiting to be born. I roll the word around on my tongue, tasting it. Just like the long clothing Asu always forced me into as a child, the weight of the label is uncomfortable, but it fits and I have to wear it.
Albino.
After a few weeks of practice, I decide I like it. At least, I like it better than
zeruzeru.
That name meant “nothing.” At least being an albino is something.

    Today, though, when I dive into the corn cave at the sound of the door opening, I’m surprised to hear Asu’s voice.
    â€œI’m home!” she calls.
    â€œAsu!” cries Kito.
    â€œ
Habari gani,
sweet one,” I hear her say. Then, “Habo, it’s okay. I’m by myself. You can come out.”
    I wriggle my way out gratefully.
    â€œWhy are you home so early?” I ask. Asu is standing inside the door, a huge bundle of laundry tied in a sheet beside her. Beads of sweat dot across her nose.
    â€œThe washing machine in the Njoolay house is broken.” She grins. “And the repairman cannot come until tomorrow, no matter how much Mrs. Njoolay screamed at him on the phone. So that means that today”—she waves to the pile beside her with a flourish—“I’m going to be washing the laundry here.”
    I smile. Having Asu home for the day is a rare treat.
    â€œWe’ll help, won’t we, Kito?”
    We head out to the back patio, where the fire pit is. Kito helps Asu lay the fire, and she hangs the big laundry kettle over it.
    â€œYou stay there,” says Asu, filling the kettle a bucket at a time from the tap in the side of the house. I try not to bristle at the fact that the tone she’s using is the same one I use when I’m talking to Kito.
    â€œBut I want to help you.”
    Asu shakes her head. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
    I peek around the door and calculate angles.
    â€œIf I crouch down behind the woodpile, against the wall, no one will be able to see me from the road,” I argue.
    Asu chews on her lower lip, thinking about it.
    â€œAnd I’ll still be in the