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“Well, Bingo, how about if you were to have a special project with this artist Thomas Hunsa—let us say once a week—I would greatly appreciate that. Your project would be to deliver the paints he needs.” He coughed again. “The white paint in particular.”
    â€œYes, Fatha,” I said. “I’z a good delivera.”
    The priest said, “Shall we say you will complete a white paint delivery every Thursday morning, perhaps before breakfast? This project needs to be private between us. You see, Bingo, I do not want the other boys at St. Michael’s to become jealous—avarice is a sin. I will make a call to Mr. Dog, in the Kibera store. I amcertain that he will be most helpful and will have all the white paint you need.”
    â€œYes, Father,” I said. I was not sure what “avarice” was, but I guessed it was like licorice, dark and sweet. Father Matthew smiled as best as his plastic face would let him. “I would not want to get a reputation for failing those souls in need,” he added.
    I like people who are good at what they do. Father Matthew was the best priest I could imagine. He was so crooked that he bent all the way round. Just like his God, the boss of all bosses, his business went on forever.

Chapter 15
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Thursday-Morning Deliveries to Thomas Hunsa, the Artist
    On the first Thursday morning after my meeting with Father Matthew, at 7:00 A.M ., I went into Kibera to get Hunsa’s white. It was a good time to go, before the heat got crazy. Things had changed in the Kibera store. Dog looked small on Wolf’s blue-and-gold throne. He was shorter and thinner than Wolf, and had less nose than Wolf. A small dog sat where a wolf once reigned.
    The cutters had changed, too. There were three new ones. The Ibeji twins were dark boys with fast hands, happy eyes, and clean teeth. They laughed and chattered as they worked. I forgot to breathe when I saw who the third cutter was. Slo-George sat bent over the cutting table, not saying a word. He shaved thumb-size hills of white onto plastic squares.
    The twins stopped cutting and watched as I walked up to Dog. Slo-George never stopped the cutting of his block. He did not even look up. That was Slo-George; once he started something, he stuck to it—like eating. Slo-George was a friend in the same way—he stuck. Mama and me got to Kibera when I was twelve, and soon after that Slo-George appeared like mold on mango. He was my opposite: fat, slow, and stupid. In the craziness of Kibera,he was my concrete base. When everything about me went wild, Slo-George was happy stillness. I wanted to speak to him, have a chat, but Dog’s eyes watched me.
    Dog did not say much to me; anyway, what could he say? Father Matthew, the boss of bosses, had sent me. Dog gave me seven bags of white. I ran them to Hunsa for his special delivery, and when I was done I took Dog the two hundred shillings Hunsa had paid me. Dog gave me ten (I guessed Father Matthew had told him to), and I returned to St. Michael’s.
    The routine was the same every Thursday morning: Dog gave me seven bags, Hunsa paid me two hundred, I took the money to Dog, and then Dog gave me a ten. If Slo-George was at the table (and most often he was), I would say to Dog, “Georgi come, too?” Most times Dog barked, “Na.” A few times, though, he said, “Ya,” on rare mornings when the mountain of white bags from the night before had not been cleared. On those mornings, I found Slo-George’s silence peaceful. “Like ol’ days,” I said to him on the matatu. Grunt, he responded. Slo-George sat outside Hunsa’s house while I did my business, and then we ate mangoes before I went back to St. Michael’s. When Slo-George did not come to Hastings with me, I often remembered the dark, empty field that was Deborah. Plowing nowhere gets you nothing, but I still wanted to. The Thursday-morning deliveries were a good