Golden Boy by Tara Sullivan

I hear the
snick
of the latch giving in. I dive toward the wall and burrow into my cave, pulling the little sack of millet in behind me. My one consolation, as I hear the poacher enter the kitchen, is the scuffling sound of Kito’s little feet as he runs out, slamming the front door behind him.
    With a curse, Alasiri sprints across the house. He’s beyond what I can see from the vents in my hiding place, and I hold my breath so I can hear what he’s doing.
    I hear the squeak of his shoes against the floor when he pulls up in front of the door, the protesting of the door on its hinges when he yanks it open to look after Kito. There’s a brief beat of silence when all I hear is my heart pounding loudly in my ears. Then there’s a soft
thunk
as the door closes gently, and the snap of the bolt being thrown.
He’s locking us in,
I think, and my breaths—in-out in-out—are too fast, and I realize I’m making a wheezing noise.
Quiet, Habo!
I scold myself.
Stop it!
I close my eyes and try to return my muffled gasps to their normal rhythm.
    â€œSo, Golden Boy, you’re still in here. Somewhere.” My eyes snap open. Alasiri’s footsteps in the other room are slow and measured, like his words. Without realizing I’m doing it, I start holding my breath again.
    â€œYour little cousin was running as fast as his stubby little legs could go. So you know, we really don’t have much time for this,” Alasiri’s disembodied voice continues smoothly. “You should just come out from wherever you’re hiding, instead of making me come find you.” I hear a crash. He must have turned over the table in the front room.
    â€œYou should have known there was only one way for this to end, your little hiding game, your ridiculous little life. You didn’t possibly think that you could stay hidden, did you? You couldn’t possibly have thought that you’d be safe here, in Mwanza of all places?” His voice is honey poured over hot stones. The sound of a knife slicing through Auntie’s mattress is like a scream of pain on a dark night. I pull my knees up against my chest as I lie there and try to think myself into invisibility.
    â€œYou and your mother and your pretty sister all should have known.” His voice is closer, clearer. This is a problem with Auntie’s house. Although her family is much better off than we ever were, and her house is bigger and better built than ours was, it’s still a small house. Once he finished with the front room and the two small bedrooms, there’s only the kitchen and the yard left for him to search. The light behind my clenched eyelids flashes, and I know his shadow has passed over one of my peepholes. I gather my courage and look out.
    Alasiri is standing in the middle of the kitchen with his head up, arms held loosely at his sides. He is scanning the room leisurely, taking in possible places I could be hiding. In his right hand is a long hunting knife, the same one that he used to cut up the elephant.
    It’s that detail that finally gets my brain working again. He has a knife. A hunting knife. This is no game of hide-and-seek. This man means to kill me. He means to kill me, cut me up into pieces, take the pieces that interest him, and leave the rest of me lying on the floor to bloat in the heat, just like the elephant carcass in the bush.
    Anger bubbles up in me like boiling water. I’m furious that this man should come into Auntie’s house to try to kill me so that he can sell bits of me to that horrible
mganga
with the crazy eyes. I’m not a game animal. I’m not a thing. Black spots dance in front of my eyes, and without thinking, I shove myself out of my corn cave, stand up, and hurl one of the sacks at his head. Alasiri is facing away from me, kicking open the cupboards as I come out, but at the sound of my movement, he whirls around. The sack I threw hits him in the chest and he slashes