Coming of Age on Planet Earth

Chapter 4

I was about to try the papaya, but now I take a piece of melon instead. How does she even know what divine means?

"I want normal breakfast," Waldo says. "Like cereal or toast."

"Well this is all there is," Dad says. "Now why don't you just go away if you're only going to spoil the atmosphere? And for goodness sake, William, put on some shorts. It's far too hot for jeans."

Waldo storms back out into the hallway, and as I follow, I grab a piece of papaya.

~

He waits for me while I change into shorts in the bathroom, and when I come out he points at me and laughs. "Chicken legs!"

"Shut the fuck up," I say.

He flaps his elbows and goes cluck-cluck-cluck, then laughs again as he leads the way back out into the hallway.

Who'd have guessed I'd be spending my first morning in Africa tagging along after my dumbass brother. I should be out exploring the jungle, observing wildlife. But I can't stop thinking about that creepy man with the machete.

"It's too fucking hot," Waldo says, fanning his face with his T-shirt as we reach the end of the hallway. We enter a lounge filled with carved wooden furniture, colourful tapestries and black leather sofas. "I can't believe I'm stuck here and don't even get to watch the Stanley Cup Playoffs."

He opens one of the cabinets to reveal a large screen TV.

"Thank God," he sighs, wrapping his arms around the TV and tenderly kissing the screen, then making a sour face as he wipes the dust off his lips.

"What's wrong with this piece of shit!" he says, slapping the side of the TV after trying to turn it on.

"Is it plugged in?" I ask.

"Yes, it's fucking plugged in." He looks behind the TV to make sure it's plugged in, then slaps the other side, then looks around the lounge and shouts, "Who's in charge of this place anyway!"

As if in response, there's a clang behind a nearby closed door, and Waldo turns and storms toward it.

Behind the door, there's a narrow galley kitchen where two barefoot men are sitting crossed-legged on the floor, peeling potatoes with little knives.

"The TV's not working," Waldo says, pointing over his shoulder toward the lounge.

The older man laughs, revealing a mouthful of rotten, mostly missing teeth, then he says something in some other language and scratches the top of his balding head with the handle of his knife.

The younger man—maybe in his twenties—gets up, wipes his hands on his shorts and extends one hand toward Waldo. "My name is Abdul Francis Kamara," he says with a warm smile. "What is your name?"

Waldo looks down at Abdul's hand with unconcealed disgust. "Dude, you got stuff all over your hands."

Abdul drops his hand and his smile wavers, and I feel sorry for him, and I feel angry with Waldo for being such an asshole.

"I'm Waldo," Waldo says. "And that's my brother, Will." He flicks his chin toward me and Abdul glances my direction while I try to hide my skinny legs behind the door, and then he looks straight back at Waldo, like I don't exist.

"How come the TV doesn't work?" Waldo asks.

"Is no generator in the daytime," Abdul replies.

"Great," Waldo says. "So I guess there's no goddamn air conditioning then either, is that what you're tellin' me?"