Golden Boy Read Online Free

eyes at the people on the bus. Everyone would smile back.
    Just then, one of the boys sees me staring at him. He lets out a cry of surprise and grabs his friend’s arm to get his attention. I turn my head away and let the floppy brim of my hat cover me as much as it can before I can see them all start to stare at me. But I still hear them.
    â€œHey, white boy!” they call. “Hey!”
    I feel Mother stiffen beside me on the seat, but she keeps her eyes focused forward, not acknowledging them. I don’t answer, either. The boys clap their hands to get my attention and keep calling out. Asu leans out the window.
    â€œGo away,” she snaps.
    â€œWho’s that white boy?”
    â€œHe’s my brother.”
    â€œNo, he’s not!” I can hear them laughing as the heat creeps up my neck. Mother reaches over and picks up my hand. I glance up at her quickly, surprised. We rarely touch. She doesn’t look at me, so from anyone else’s point of view it would seem like she was ignoring both me and the boys, but her warm fingers curl around mine and give a little squeeze. I squeeze back and square my shoulders.
    â€œ
Ndiyo,
he is,” Asu says angrily. “What do you know? Go away!”
    â€œWhy does he look like that, if he’s your brother?”
    Asu pulls her head inside, ignoring the question.
    I hear a chorus of guesses from the boys below. “He’s sick!” “He was born in a cave!” “He’s really an animal!” “His father’s a white man!”
    I feel Mother’s fingers begin to tremble in mine, but she doesn’t let go. The boys’ voices, used to shouting bargains, carry a long way. They’ve all forgotten that they’re supposed to be selling oranges and cigarettes. I give up trying to be brave and shrink deeper into the seat, but it’s too late. The creaks of springs and the sighs of protesting plastic tell me that everyone in the bus is turning around to see the family with the white-animal son. Mother lets go of my hand and I shrink away from the eyes.
    I huddle into my long clothes and wait for the people to forget about me. Finally, over the sound of the boys outside our windows, I hear the clatter of the engine. The bus gives a great shudder, and a cloud of dark smoke pours in the rear windows. We’re on our way to Mwanza.
    As the bus travels I stare out the window, squirming to keep my exposed skin in the moving shade of the window frame. Every few kilometers, the sky is punctured by an enormous yellow Vodafone sign or red Airtel sign. I amuse myself trying to read them as we pass. Some of them have print big enough that even I can mostly read it. But after a few hours, my eyes feel grainy and my hair is crunchy under my fingers. The dust from the road gets so far into my lungs that even coughing doesn’t clear it. For all that, though, I love the bus ride. Since I always had to stay hidden away at home, I’ve never been on a bus before. I stare out the window as village after village whisks by. I see children clustered around a water pump, joking while they fill their plastic containers; children carrying babies while running errands; children minding goats. I see Maasai boys leading long strings of humpbacked cattle across the dry fields to graze. It makes me smile to see that the cows wait for the boys’ signal before they cross the road. I wonder how they trained them to do that. Our goats never listened to me.
    Some towns are well off: rows of neat concrete houses with tin roofs. Others towns are small, thatched places that look like our home. When we take the turn onto the road that runs along the ridge of the Ngorongoro crater, we see only Maasai villages with their circular huts. The air up on the crater rim is cold and misty, and I shiver in my seat until we come down the other side.
    I’m sorry when, hours later, I see the entrance to the Serengeti park because I know the ride