The bleeding boy lifted his head to look at me, and I realized he wasn't a nat — he had eyes like a chameleon — and I had an explanation for the impromptu torture. Kenyans hate and fear chameleons.
I assumed my best daddy attitude, and daddy voice, and asked in my somewhat stilted Swahili,
"Okay, now what's going on here?"
Tube Neck stepped forward, and indicated the shivering boy with a flick of a hand. "He's ugly — "
"Well, there aren't any of us who are going to win any beauty contests," I interrupted. "You're pretty damn funny looking too, Dalila."
"He is evil," lisped Snake Boy. His palate had also been warped by the virus, and it was really hard to understand him.
"To have him here will bring bad luck on all of us," Dalila added piously, and I could have slapped her. She wasn't a superstitious rustic, she had been born in Mombasa. This was just a way to reassert control over her peers.
"There's death and evil everywhere — I'm looking at a little of it right now. Now listen up, you leave this kid alone, or I'll come by and stomp your intolerant and ugly joker asses into the ground." I turned to the kid on the ground, and held out a hand. "Come on, let's do lunch."
He scrambled to his feet, ducked his head in terror, and ran. I turned back to the kids. My five were shuffling uncomfortably. "I mean it now," I said severely. "Any more of this shit, and all privileges are revoked." They looked confused. I put it in perspective by ennunciating carefully. "No more baseball."
They ducked their heads, and slithered for the trees. I decided some lessons in tolerance were definitely in order, and I also decided I had to find the chameleon-eyed kid and get him into the Irregulars. I also needed to locate his folks, and find out if he'd been immunized. He was obviously new to the village, and we didn't want anybody carrying in any diseases from outside.
His name was Daudi, which is Swahili for "Beloved One," and I think it showed a lot of class on the part of his parents to name him such, and keep him, and love him when most of their countrymen viewed him as evil and a monster.
The day after the attack I came calling. An older man was perched precariously on a step ladder, thatching the roof of the hut. There was the sharp smell of newly hewn wood, and the walls were smooth with fresh mud wattling. Each week the flow of refugees out of Ethiopia, Uganda, and Tanzania swelled our numbers. Housing was at a premium so there was nothing strange about the family building their own hut. It was the placement that was strange — huddled against the barb wire and chain link fence well away from the rest of the village. It depressed me that these people had come seeking a refuge, and as shitty as Kilango was treating them it was still obviously better than what they'd left. If it wasn't they wouldn't have stayed.
I called out in as friendly and welcoming a voice as I could muster. It didn't seem to help. The man jerked around so fast that he almost pitched off the ladder. He relaxed when he saw me, but his dark eyes were still wary as he descended to the ground.
He stood before me, his eyes on the ground between us. I thrust out my hand. "Bradley Finn."
He hesitantly shook. "Our son told us … what you did." There was another long pause. "Thank you," he finally said.
I shrugged uncomfortably. "Hey, no problem. I wanted to come by, say welcome, tell you a little about the village — activities, services, that kind of thing. I'm a sort of Peace Corps Welcome Wagon." He didn't get it, and I winced at my feeble attempt at humor.
He raised wise and knowing eyes to meet mine. "My name is Jonathan wa Phonda. You are welcome at our home, but I wish you would tell me what you really want."
I could feel myself blushing. "Okay, I was worried about your son. I wanted to invite him into the Scout Troop — " He opened his mouth to interrupt, and I forestalled him with upraised palms. "Please. This village is about not having to hide. I'll look out for him." (As I recall those pompous words all these years later I could fucking cry.)
"I also need to make certain your family has been immunized. We're getting really crowded here, and we've got to be really careful about infection."
Jonathan was back looking at the ground. "Doctors are not a thing I trust."
"I can understand that. Will you at least give me a chance?" I asked.
We were interrupted by a child's voice lifting in song. It was a beautiful boy soprano singing a hymn.
"My son," Jonathan said simply.
"Uh, wow," was my brilliant response.
"He sings for the comfort of his mother," Jonathan continued. The final notes seemed to waft away on the wind, and Jonathan suddenly indicated the door of the hut. "Won't you come in?"
"I'd love to, thanks." I started forward only to be arrested by him saying.
"My wife … well, do not be too shocked. The disease … devours her."
I thought he was being poetical. No such luck. The woman who lay upon the cot was a lovely face with a misshapen torso. No legs. No arms. And the wild card had begun its inroads on her body. It's hard to describe what was happening to her. It was as if her blood had been replaced with acid, and it was slowly eating at her from the extremities in. The pain must have been indescribable, but she still managed to smile at me. The boy looked up in surprise at my entrance.
"My son, Daudi," Jonathan said with that father's pride that I hope to feel for my own son some day.
It took five months before Dad's rubber chicken act was cleared to fly. And my pop and I looked like we were communicating with Mars from the size of his phone bills. And actually that's not true. We'd been cleared to fly three times before, but each time some new bureaucratic objection was raised. One time it was a challenge to the registration and ownership of the plane. Somebody claimed it was South African, and it took two weeks to straighten that out. Then some moron got the idea we were pawning off outdated vaccine on the long suffering natives of Africa, and Dad had to get affidavits from all the pharmaceutical companies. I forget the third crisis, but eventually all the bureaucratic drones were finished pissing in the soup, and a C-111 cargo plane was sitting on the tarmac at LAX slowly being loaded. I had wet dreams at night imagining all those cases and cases of lovely disposable needles that we could well … dispose.
In the village I continued to doctor, but I was fighting an uphill battle trying to get Daudi into the clinic for his vaccinations. He might have been only ten, but he was real mature for his age, and he kept asking me the unanswerable question — "if you can't save my mother why should I trust you?"
At first this was an ego thing with me. I was by God going to get this kid to trust me, and get him vaccinated so he would be protected. Then I grew to like him. Then love him. He adored music, and his passion for new sounds led me into creating an ad hoc music appreciation course to satisfy his cravings. I initially tried rock and roll, the music I enjoy, but I think the wild card had affected Daudi's ears, making him hyper-sensitive. He couldn't take the decibels of rock, so I begged Mom for classical music tapes. Then for my old guitar and sheet music. And it wasn't all one way; by walking this small Kenyan boy through a history of music I found an appreciation for, and an understanding of, classical music that had eluded me as a youth.
It was my wont once a month to enjoy a weekend of liberty in a suite in one of Nairobi's best hotels. One thing Africa taught me; I'm not cut out for sainthood. I'll work hard, I'll volunteer, I'll get down, and I'll get dirty, but God had seen fit to bless me with wealthy parents who loved me (despite my jokerdom), and I enjoyed, and continue to enjoy, the freedom and pleasures money can buy. I make no apologies.
This time I'd brought Daudi with me. He was going to experience his first opera, and I was going to suffer for the good of this kid's soul, and the improvement of his mind. I also sensed I was getting real close to the victory, and it made me glad that when Daudi finally did consent to be immunized I would be doing it with fresh and sharp needles. I wanted as little pain as possible for this child because it was clear that it was only a matter of days before his mother lost her battle with death.