The Boy Who Called Me Wolfman

The boy just stood there, all weak and helpless, like no one cared for him. Dirt smudges decorated his brown sugar-colored skin while nothing but a loincloth hung from his neck to his skinny ankles. I looked with confusion and wonder as the boy’s eyes shone with hope, his fat red lips still and his dirty, scabbed hands holding an empty bowl with a wooden spoon and a couple of rice and lettuce leftovers in it.

I smiled a little at him, wishing I had food. Then I invited the poor kid to follow me into the woods behind us—maybe the wolves will distract him from this pitiful truth.

A wolf’s howl caused the boy to jolt. He dropped the bowl, dashing away towards the village’s main square. Bursting through the door, the boy aroused the mayor, who stood up. A kind smile spread across his large face. He tried coaxing the boy away from the bookshelf, but he cowered in the corner, ravenous eyes bulging at the large man. The mayor looked out the window. He called me over, and we whispered loudly.

After telling me the boy was a starving kid without, I assumed, any family, I wanted to take him in—sort of like an adopter. But the boy wouldn’t want some white, English-speaking man to wrap his arms around his sore, blistered flesh and call him father. I let him be, trekking out the small office, heading back towards the forest. Pretty quickly, the boy followed.      

He stayed close by me, howling back after the wolves as if actually talking to them. He observed the way the trees rose so high, protecting him, he said. Or at least that must be what he was saying. I didn’t speak Swahili. I knew two words from The Lion King: Hakuna Matata. But that was the extent of my bilingualism.  

“Wolf. Wolfman!”

I smirked and turned around, waiting for the weird boy to catch up with me.

Spewing native words, he caught up to me and then looked around, probably wondering where the wolves were—they weren’t howling anymore. At least he knew the words wolf and wolfman. But, like me, his English only went so far. So far as to know the name of the animal in this forest and create my new nickname.

But I’ll teach him. And I’ll pick up some Swahili.

I tried gesturing that he needed to know English first before I spoke Swahili. He only gawked at the intimidatingly tall trees as we crunched through huge leaves and stepped over large fallen logs and branches I cracked with my big mountain boots. I asked him some things. He responded in Swahili. I told him to look right. He followed my lead towards a big but gorgeous grey and white wolf standing not so far away. His middle was behind a thick tree. His front half, head and strong white legs stuck out. His backside was seen; his tail down. But I warned the boy not to go near the animal—he could have rabies. Or snarl and then bolt from fear.

Either way, we were threats.

“Is that your favorite wolf?” He pointed and looked at me.

“Uh…”

Now was the time to use a translator. I gestured I needed to return to the village so someone could communicate between us. I started hiking back, but he followed me. When I ran into someone, we talked. He pointed, telling me in a thick African accent we could go to the other village across town to hire a translator. I asked why not here?

“Fifteen miles by car.”

I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. He clapped me on the shoulder, laughing. Then he walked away, wishing me the best.

I looked at the boy. He clutched his growling stomach and stared at me with those hungry eyes. Maybe I’ll find someone to give him more than just a pouch of rice. I looked around me, yawned, stretched and scratched my eyes—bed sounded terrific right now.

But first, the boy would have his breakfast. I continued. Neck and head hunched, he trekked behind me. I turned halfway around and swung an arm around him, bringing him beside me. He also needed clothes. He needed a family.

Spooning out some salad, I lay it on the wooden café table and then dug out a bagel with cream cheese. The boy stared at the food. He must’ve only known rice, and maybe beans, all his life. Where were his relatives? I pushed the little feast towards him. He scarfed down the bagel, put two thumbs up and nodded, smiling, cream cheese around his lips like it was lip gloss. I laughed and returned the thumb gesture. He mimicked me, smiled and then nodded. He pointed at my grocery bag, greedy for more.

I agreed. I could tell his grin meant something more than just a delicious meal. I told him to be quick.  

After eating four bagels with cream cheese and butter as well as five salads each dressed with dressing, I told the boy we needed to return to the forest; I needed to keep studying the wolves, as I was a Wolf Biologist. He nodded slowly. I hoped he would learn English. I hoped we could communicate. I thought about teaching him myself as I packed up. He rejoined at my side.

I thought as we walked back to the forest. Maybe the translator would prevent us from being friends. I didn’t want someone else talking half the time. I wanted this boy to live a life full of possibilities and opportunities he could only want right now.

Later that day, after packing some Rice Krispy treats and a water bottle for me, the boy stared at my knapsack. I told him I’d get more snacks. He nodded, drooling. I’d teach him more than food.

As we trekked to the forest, I talked of wolves and my research on them. He had fortunately wiped the saliva hanging from his mouth. He blinked at me and then studied the thick trees standing around every few feet. One time, the boy tugged on my short sleeve shirt, pointed but then jerked back when a stick cracked below him. He yelped a little and ran around me. But I assured him—the wolves would protect him. He stared at some coming forth from behind a couple of trees and then got up slowly, fists ready, scowl at large. I warned him to stay back and knelt down, pulling out my camera, notepad and pencil. As I hung my camera around my neck, put it to an eye and then sat down, the boy motioned to me after tapping my hand with the pencil in it. I nodded, but he needed to speak to me. I started clicking the camera.

As I sketched and wrote, I warned him to stay away so he wouldn’t photobomb my pictures. As cute as he was, he just couldn’t interrupt. Chatting in Swahili, the boy laughed and clapped his hands, singing some song. I let him be as I conducted my work. He moved away but kept up his celebrations. I hoped he didn’t scare off the wolves.   

As I photographed the beautiful creatures, they just chilled, their tongues hanging out and their bodies relaxed. But the oblivious boy was acting like a delicious meal! Suddenly, I heard growling. The huge black male, most likely the alpha, along with his mate, the alpha female, leered at the boy. But he hollered at them! He even took some steps towards them. As he challenged them, I scribbled notes as fast as I could. This was an adventure!      

Some pups emerged from behind and beside their defensive parents. Some boldly walked up to the boy. He reached out, and they sniffed. The alpha male’s eyes blazed, but he stood there, probably for the pups’ sake. I got the whole thing with my camera, grinning excitedly. This little story would surely promote me!   

While the pups and the boy bonded, I watched the parents study the boy’s hands as they flew all around, grabbing the pups and tossing them up into the air, catching them gently. And then put them in his stick-skinny arms and then rock them, singing to them. They all snuggled right up to him, and then the alpha male growled low. Some pups listened, running over to him while some others stayed with the boy. The father walked off with the obedient ones, but the mother barked, and the remaining wolves dashed over to her. They left, sniffling and whining, but I couldn’t help but comfort the lonely kid as he lamented his stolen fun. At least that’s what I gathered from his pitiful cries. I made a fire and dug out some of my food. But he ripped it from my hands and threw it all at the coals.

“How dare you throw your food away!” I ordered him to demonstrate some gratitude. He bared his teeth and drew back balled hands. Demanding I keep my distance (I guess), he jumped up and ran off. I called after him but just heard the leaves and sticks crunching and breaking as his feet scurried farther and farther from our campfire.

I sighed and rubbed a grubby hand through my hair. No S’mores tonight. I put all my materials away, hitched my backpack onto me and trekked after him, praying we’d be together again. Calling his name, I saw something shaking in the moonlight. Thankfully, it was bright enough to reveal a pair of brown legs covered by the stupid cloak-like garment. Or whatever the villagers called it. Anyway, I found him!

“Come on.”

I hoped he wouldn’t cower or bolt. He did neither, but he didn’t come, either. It was going to be a long night. “Look,” I persisted, “I don’t speak Swahili, and you don’t speak English. But we can work this out, right?”

“No.”

I stared. He looked up at me, his eyes shining. “No. Wolfman.”

I thrust my backpack off, scaring him a little. I didn’t care. My name might be Wolfman, but we can become friends. I beckoned to him, and he got up, me telling him I wasn’t going to sign to him forever. He nodded, but those small, blinking eyes told me he wasn’t didn’t want to learn English.

“So you know English. At least ‘no.’ Am I right?”

“No.”

“Come on!” I bumped him on the shoulder with a fist. He grinned meanly. I kept to myself. Who lies about a language?

I spoke English as I pulled out some marsh mellows and piled together some sticks and leaves. Stealing from the puny pile, the boy pushed the stick through the marsh mellow and then roasted it, sitting back from the soon blazing heat. I told him I was from America. He just watched the flames wiggle into the air and then disappear.

“I am that.”

I sat next to him, crossing my legs. He looked up at me, firelight dancing in those soft brown eyes.

“I am just a spark, disappearing to nowhere.”

I threw an arm around him. He put his head on my shoulder, and I blinked, pursing my lips tight so as not to cry. This precious little kid probably had no family yet he trusted a stranger! I blinked and then told him he knew English. He smiled for real, nodding jubilantly. I learned he kept secrets.

I blinked at the early morning light. I shook the boy awake, and he bounced right up, having flashed open his eyes. He grinned, pointing at something. “There. The dance academy.”

I saw a small building with a finely dressed woman inside a window moving her body fluidly to some loud music sung by a couple of colorfully dressed women banging decorated drums while sitting together on a wooden bench.

“You want to go there?”

His head shook like it was going to pop off. “I’ve seen them dance a long time. My parents…they couldn’t take me.” He tugged at my shirt. “But you can!”

“So now’s your chance.” I gathered my stuff and headed over there, the boy sprinting, his hands fists of excitement. I waited for the woman to finish and told the boy to wait, too. He did—barely. I was about to hush the boy’s singing when she eventually came out. We talked. She looked at the boy, who was jumping up and down, eyes aglow with anticipation. She looked at me.

“This boy is not dressed. Get him some clothes, and I’ll be thinking about accepting him.”

I nodded. “Can he be a student?”

“I will only have him dance for practice. No acceptance for class until he can pay his way.” The woman turned around abruptly, and I looked at the boy. I bent down to see his face, as he was standing perfectly still. His eyes bulged, and he whispered hoarsely, “Wolfman, I cannot go! I cannot dance.”

“Buddy, I can help you. Let’s get some clothes, and then we’ll get you a job.”

It was way easier said than done.

The boy and I traveled far and wide to get the money lenders assumed we’d have. I didn’t have any Kenyan Shillings, and I tried in vain to negotiate with the banker about transferring American dollars into this African currency. After getting five men to sign for me (none of whom I understood), I thanked them, and caught a van. I talked to a local about work. She suggested farm animals. I looked outside at a farm—sheep shearing wasn’t my forte. I discussed working at the mayor’s office. But the boy jabbed the window, and I relented, getting off at the first stop. The boy followed eagerly, but I just rubbed the back of my neck, my research distracting me.

Five weeks of feeding, washing, shearing, selling and making clothes out of the lambs’ and sheep’s wool. I not only counted cute little lambs jumping over the fence before bed but also endured butchering the cute but necessarily edible animals I caressed to sleep and loved watching eat out of the giggly boy’s hand.     

The final week, tears streamed down our cheeks from having mandatorily killed our animal friends. We took the sack of money from the farmer, giving it to the instructor who smilingly called the boy one of her new practice students.

The new job had kept me here in Africa way longer than I expected. I apologized to my superiors for having been here a little over a month.

They wanted my research. The boy would have to dance and find work by himself.

After slowly pulling the phone from my ear, I inhaled and bent down, putting a firm hand on his thin shoulder. He looked up at me and grinned.

“Come dance with me?” He invited, beckoning.

I blinked, shaking my head. After swallowing hard, I told him I had to return to America. He looked at me like I just told him he couldn’t join the dance academy.

“I have to. It’s my job.”

He looked at me. “I’ll remember you, Wolfman.”

“Dance for me. Okay?”

He nodded, a tear dripping off his face. I tore away, blinking back tears. I hugged him fiercely, and he squeezed my sides, whispering, “Wolfman, come back.”

A year later, I gazed out the plane window, excitement swelling in my chest. I checked into my hotel and then snuck up to the dance academy, watching the boy hop and twirl. His face lit up every time he was called on, and he even told his instructor Wolfman would enjoy every move of his. She beamed at his performances, encouraging him to practice for his parents. He nodded stiffly, and I just knew: he struggled not to say he didn’t have parents to return to because he was, I found out, an orphan. But I wanted more for this boy—I think becoming his father would instill some love.  

I knocked on the wooden door, and the instructor quieted everyone. Her footsteps came to the door. After she saw me, I went inside. Suddenly, I got the wind knocked out of me. The boy didn’t let go until I pried him off. His cheeks were wet with joyous tears and his grin stretched from ear to ear.

“Wolfman, wolfman!” He introduced me to the other children. They all smiled shyly and then continued dancing as the instructor returned to directing them.   

I enjoyed every minute of his practice routine.

I researched a few months while he sheared sheep. After I relocated to Africa, I adopted the boy. He was speechless with elation. One day, he told me he stopped working. I encouraged him to continue. He shrugged. I pursed my lips, wishing he’d listen.  

A few months later, he announced he wasn’t good enough to become a student. He said the instructor paid for his education if he promised to work.    

He sheared sheep on weekends for little pay, eventually earning a raise. But the boy quit, saying he’d just practice. Being denied this, the boy cleaned the mayor’s building and the dance academy. The instructor was proud, but he still couldn’t become a student. The boy ran away.   

She said he’d return—he always does.  

After finishing school, he graduated from University of Nigeria, having practiced—and worked—on weekends. He now trained his own students.      

One day, the instructor saw a performance. She said she couldn’t have seen a better group of dancers. She also complimented his teaching.

“To see another dance teacher would be an honor!”

He beamed at her.

“Wolfman.”

He came up to me before tonight’s big show, the biggest grin on his face.    

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He hugged me tightly, and I returned the gesture. “For being my family.”

“You’re welcome, son.”