Golden Boy Read Online Free Page B

foot.”
    â€œAnd hitch a ride if we can,” adds Chui, nothing but a voice from the middle of a big purple mess.
    I’m glad we’re not going to stay here and try to earn bus fare, but this plan doesn’t make sense to me.
    â€œWhy do we need new clothes to do that?”
    Mother turns to me, that light I don’t recognize in her eyes again. She clutches the red-checked cloth so tightly in her fingers, I can see her knucklebones popping out against her skin.
    â€œWe’re disguising ourselves as Maasai,” she says. Her voice is higher pitched and fuller than normal. “That way we can make it across the parklands without paying entry fees or being stopped by rangers.” A smile darts across her face like an animal crossing a road: quickly, unsure of itself.
    I finally puzzle out her tone. My mother is having fun. I layer on the unfamiliar clothes without another word.
    Soon we’re walking along the Serengeti road, a slightly too short Maasai family of four with all their worldly belongings balanced on their heads.

    Mother, Asu, Chui, and I walk late into the night, heading north. We stay on the road for safety and so that we don’t get lost, but even after dark Mother insists we leave our Maasai robes on. I feel silly dressed up as something I’m not, but the extra layer of cloth does keep me a little warmer in the dark. Only when we’re all stumbling from exhaustion does Mother lead us off the road a little to sleep under a tree. We take turns staying awake, holding a big stick, just in case any wild animals show up.
    This seems like a great idea when it’s my turn to sleep. But when it’s my turn to sit there, squinting into the darkness with my bad eyes, holding nothing but a piece of wood and looking for animals with giant teeth and claws, I think it’s really, really stupid.
    Dawn finds us stiff and cranky. Since we didn’t unpack last night, we just get on our feet and keep walking north, in the direction of my mother’s people, away from Enzi and home.
    By midday my throat is parched and the sun is blazing down on us. Even though it’s the dry season, it still gets hot in the middle of the day. The land is grassy all around us now, with few trees. By the time we find one to shelter under during the hottest part of the day, I’m feeling dizzy from the heat. The backs of my hands and the tops of my sandaled feet are burnt, and even my face is pink under my hat. We all collapse in the shade, and soon the others have fallen asleep. But I can’t sleep. I’m hot and miserable and there’s nothing quite as lonely as being the only one left awake. When I can’t stand it any longer, I lean over my sister and whisper her name.
    â€œAsu!”
    She stirs on the ground.
    â€œWhat is it, Habo?”
    â€œWill you tell me the story of when I was born?” I ask.
    â€œOh, Habo, not now! Go to sleep,” she grouses.
    â€œI can’t sleep. I’m burned.”
    For a moment Asu is quiet, scowling sleepily up at me. The light and shadows of the leaves flicker over her high cheekbones and highlight her dark brown eyes. I’m afraid she’ll say no again. But instead, she pushes herself up on her elbows and opens her pack. She takes out a little gourd full of aloe and takes my burnt hands in hers.
    â€œFine,” she grumbles, rubbing the sticky stuff into the angry red welts over my knuckles as she talks. “You were born on a hot, cloudy day, right before the long rains. Mother was inside the house with the
mkunga,
the midwife, and Father stood outside with us, waiting. Then that
mkunga
screamed so loudly that we all poured in through the door of our house to see what was the matter. I was only six at the time, but I remember it. You should have heard her, Habo—she shrieked like a baboon!”
    I smile. The
mkunga
in our village is a cranky old lady, dried out like a banana skin left in the sun.