Dump Star

In the wake of the tenth decade, a child lay at a trodden dumpster aware of the world that lit above, buzzing flies big as corn seeds and small as pin heads. The drool that felt its way into an unpacked yogurt did but add a glitter in its river-like meander. Down it went from the small pink lips to chubby cheeks, away from a fragile neck to the well jumbled discard. The comfort provided was a shawl able to be traced to a Jenn-Fib line of fabric, best industry in damask and wool curtains.

“If they throw a comely bear like you, who should be sane?” asked a madman. He looked at his hands, disgusted for a minute by the dirt which had layered itself as a pair of gloves with patched holes of pale palms. In a thorough attempt of tidiness, he dabbed them at his heavy jacket but looking into the beautiful black eyes of the child, he pulled out a tin of spirit and cleansed his arms from the elbow.

“See,” he said showing the child his arms, “I’m all clean, for you.”

The child nodded, more to the rank of flies settled on one side of the drool than to the mellow bloke. Without a hint of thought, peekaboo elevated the scene from a garbage treat to a playground and, oh, how laughter soothed the tepid and fetid stench around. A pigeon cooed by some gutters, a scouting marabou at ease beside the madman; the audience of goodwill.

Hardly had the child been lifted from the pile of peels and cartons than cute series of sneezes erupted.

“Bless you, my bear. You will not have to eat as I do, or wear heavy jackets. I barely know which color it bore before. Hihihi. See?” the man muttered as he whirled the child to view his modelling skills. Only a sneeze remarked.

Quickly, a trolley that lay near was pulled closer with a foot and in it went the infant. Now it sat on proper cartons, cartons that once held two-dozen packets of yogurt. The man then went ahead to wrap a thin blanket around the infant.

“Are you a he or a she?” he queried with his hands pushing the trolley away from the greater putrid air of the environs. “Maybe we should take your shawl too… Hihihi… Well, in case your parents visit you and demand it back.”

______

Ten years elapsed from the schedule of Habari making one of its own a playful youngster with two limbs ready to race cats and dogs through any street, visible teeth with room for wisdom, and a hair similar to a haphazard plantation of dark cabbages.

“Bahati, come take your tea.” Musa called from a pile of magazines, stacked high on a small chess stool, waiting for particular leaves to etch in agony of guesses and probable words –complex crossword.

“A minute dad, I think I saw a millipede the size of my finger,” answered Bahati in joy.

“One day I’ll take you to the coast to see millipedes the size of my finger.”

“It has coiled itself again.” Bahati whispered in a crouched posture. He poked the insect once more with his finger and seeing that the millipede with too many legs preferred not to walk, he ran to the balcony. Musa held the door for him awhile. The boy was inside in a dash leaving a tall figure still staring at a spectrum of colors in car-forms parked by the street.

Bahati was very observant making it a habit to wash his hands every minute he was called for drinks and meals. Ivy, Musa’s wife, was a nutritionist by profession which made health a mandatory lifestyle for the family (before the madman visited them, they were just a couple.) Musa had had to explain a trillion times how Bahati had ended up in a dumpster and into their hands. It had been difficult. Every word he uttered broke a fair patch on the forehead to folding escarpments, made squinting eyes bulge in astonishment, and two quick hands cup frowning jelly cheeks. Ivy was ever sure to hold such conversations only when their new-found son took off to wild street chases.

Having drank the golden contents, Bahati went to the kitchen to wash his cup but found a pile of the previous night’s dishes. Thus, he remembered which day of the week it was; a Saturday. He fetched water from a white pail pouring a half-filled jug into a green basin in the sink. This was the normal trend. He had to do the dishes if he wanted to spend hours perusing Dandy and Beano toons.

On one particular weekend, he chose to join his friends rather than read his father’s prized comics. He would try mischief and see if any hero would emerge (to give him a candy). He shut the door and ran up-slope where an iron barricade stood lightly. Even as he approached it, Bahati wondered how it was supposed to provide security for three homesteads if he could see right through the blue railings. After shutting the gate, he crossed the curved tarmac road. He had sung “left, right and left again” long enough to know how many vehicles passed this particular road; on Saturday, few in the morning, seven to twelve at noon.

“Where do we go today?” a tall girl in a dungarees asked upon resting eyes on an approaching Bahati.

“See, I caught something,” said the boy his hand held fist-tight before the girl. Normally, they would greet on school days. Any other time, mostly play rendezvous, had no time for ‘howdy’.

“What is that?”

A dramatic pause.

“Waaiiii!” shouted the girl. “Never show me caterpillars hidden in arms…Never ever! I can see them when I wan’ to…have you heard me?”

“I thought so. You said you were brave. You failed the test”

On continued a line of arguments too long and tiresome to narrate.

For the kids, it was necessary to grow their communication skills. They spoke alright, till a resolution was made to visit a supermarket. It was a good revelation brought up by twins who joined them just as the arguing pals moved along the road. One of the set had a coin worth two huge jaw breaker. If they continued walking, the other suggested, they would find a coin worth two other jaw breakers. If not, who knew what sharing would look like or sound like?

They walked on and on along the tarmac heading to the centre of the town, unaware of barber shops and timber yards and furniture dealers, and small printing shops on either side of the road. The tall girl had stopped momentarily to admire another girl being braided in a purple and pink faced salon.

Ten minutes passed without a glimmer of hope. Therefore, the troop headed for Lakeside Supermarket. They were about to reach a dreaded cross-junction but turned left to a street rarely utilized by Habarians. Stones flew down-slope from a hit or two bouncing off sneakers and slippers which shuffled over cobbles in unmatched harmony.

They were enclosed by side faces of shops and back walls other bazaars, ever pale, without emotion, and devoid of any colour. To the end of the lifeless street they had chosen was a dumpster. The children had been fond of it for the mere sight of pigeons aligning the supermarket's rear. They could bear the stench if they settled with weak binoculars at a marked distant. Yet, at this feared street, they had formed connections with street children, most of them approximately their age but for a few adults and teenagers.

If sincerity had a say, Bahati would be ranked the most sociable folk in the gang of four, that is, the most appreciated by the ‘urchins’ of the town. He neither mind playing cards with them, nor sharing a cap if he had one and as a result, his seat was always maintained in hallowed care.

The children trudged on, till they passed the marked distance. They would head straight down, turn left, climb a raised pavement, and walk past four shops till they reached the end, Lakeside Supermarket. That is not what happened though, on this particular day.

They had just crossed the mark when Bahati’s eyes met a madman. The tall girl looked at her play mate and sensed what was about to transpire. As they watched the queer figure ahead, they could notice his lips move. On further scrutiny, they all agreed the madman was not talking to a human being. His lips were moving. Words failed their ears to hear.

The madman was quizzing a huge mouse at the top of a broken bin, “I can see you are nibbling at an apple. I don’t know if you notice you are at the core of it. Now, let me ask…” the mouse rested of its hind legs to sniff the madman’s nose, “…if I give you an apple and you had one apple, how many apples will you have?”

The mouse with its pointy nose knocked the core sideways and snipped at its center to make two pieces. Satisfied, it turned to the madman its eyes clear and black as if no veil existed in them.

“Let me tell you. I know Math, I know Science, I know English, and you are wrong.” the vermin raised a foot to interject. “Hold on. Let me explain…you are a mouse and if I give you an apple you will forget the one you had, right? So you will end up with the one I give you, right? So it makes…” The mouse quickly kicked one snip of the core out of the can.

“Good. We live now. How you say that in mouse-tongue, I don’t know, but we live…in the present…”

In the meantime,

“That is a madman. I know you play with the scamps, but I will not be your friend if you speak to the madman.” Bahati’s tall friend said. Her eyes tore through Bahati’s with contempt and blazed with a deadening ‘dare me’. All the twins did was to nod in agreement but the madman beckoned the boy to himself. His legs gave way.

He parted his clique, in fear and hesitation, repeatedly looking back to his friends as if begging them to join in. ‘Moral support,’ called a marabou almost lifeless in its spot next to the madman. Not one of his allies moved. They all stood hurdled together to witness stories for Monday to Friday. Their portraits would win over any painter’s brush: a tall girl in a French braid leaning her weight on her left leg, the twins in pink pajamas patterned with an array of fruits, hands intertwined and dangling below puffy breasts and heads rhyming from ears, eyes, nose and mouth to short and tidy hair. They all stood quiet in raised brows, mouths agape.

“Young bear, you grow strong and fast every day.” the madman said. Bahati who was a metre late never knew whether to smile or reply. He blushed.

“I know you don’t know me, I’m not a madman.... I'm... ”

Thoughts were traversing the boys mind, mending and repairing vocabulary.

“Never said my name twice a year. This is the first time. The other time was when an officer stopped me to check my hair for lice. Hihihi.” Bahati could not help laughing at the joke. His eyes went to the madman’s head. Yes, certainly so. The head was piled with peaked terrains of dark hair. Its peaks had a strange color of dirt, almost brown in color. “See? Just see it, and I shaved last week with a nail cutter.” continued the madman as he fluffed his hair with one hand.

Bahati had now relaxed enough to listen to his new acquaintance. His mind still debated whether his feet were in the multitude of sins or in the presence of a fool. His religious study was seeping out every inch he stood there.

“I want to tell you something…” begun the madman, “you should be grateful for Musa. I know a woman who says up above is a Father to the fatherless. Once, one of these kids here went to beg her a piece of donut. She went ahead to buy her twins cotton ice cream bigger than their heads and gave the kid a mint sweet from the balance. You know, when they beg for food, they need it, they don’t need a sweet to wrap the day. No, bear, they don’t need fresh breath… pastes are thrown here daily, and this supermarket throws expired toothbrushes to us. Hihihi. See my teeth.”

The madman paused to model his teeth to Bahati. To impute a sparkle to their glow would be an understatement.

“See the girl comes to pick you, but remember you are a gift not to a barren pair.”

As Bahati departed, his mind had gobbled more than was necessary. Hearty laughter had boiled away any fear he had possessed of the fellow. He did not even mind the crumb he had for a jaw breaker – the reason given was enough to convince any child that talking to madmen would eventually alienate them, from shared jaw breakers.

More and more, Bahati made visits to the ‘marabou stall’ as he termed it. Once, he had wondered why his parents had not noticed but, he didn’t know they had handed the madman a list of things not to do, say or show their sole child. Musa, of course, took the list made by his wife. To say the least, they were greatly indebted to the madman.

Years on, Bahati‘s eyes were captivated by the magazines his father piled at the chess table. His soul drank of pillars and walls, Gothic windowsills and Medieval arch doorways, geometric pyramids and modern stadiums. He became an architect, like Musa.

A brief period, in his teenage hood to be precise, roared a tumult of revelations. The twins had moved to a different part of town, and when they met Bahati at school they could drop numerous hints of his origin. They had learnt from their mother who had learnt from a police officer. Connections were strong.

The last time he met the madman was during this season. He had beckoned him as Bahati went to shop for groceries, greeted him with a silly joke and sat him down to a tale of shawls and peekaboo.

Build a home for me,

And comb my hair.

Then will you be-

My father, bear.

These words he inscribed in every foundation he erected in the cities he visited.

But this story would not end well if the madman was not named. He is…