An Ordinary Man Read Free Page A

of the hill, and then down the rutted road that led to the village, where we would go to buy sweet potatoes
     or bags of corn. We walked past the houses of our neighbors, and he would greet each one with a gentle nod. Anyone who engaged
     my father in conversation was likely in for a long story. He loved to talk in proverbs. It was the way he understood the world
     and his favorite way of dispensing wisdom. Here’s an example: Somebody might tell him a story about being taxed at too high
     a rate by the mayor, and he would start talking about a lamb and a dog drinking out of the same river. The dog accused the
     lamb of dirtying his water, but the lamb pointed out that that was impossible, since the dog was upstream. The dog then said
     that the lamb must have dirtied the water yesterday, and the lamb pointed out that that was also impossible, because he had
     not been in the meadows yesterday. Then it must have been your brother !, said the dog, and he proceeded to devour the lamb. The moral of the story was that any excuse will serve a tyrant. I would
     have cause to remember that tale much later in life.
    There was not much to our village of Nkomero, then or today. There is a commune house, which is synonymous with town hall.
     There is a small Roman Catholic church. There are a few stores that sell bags of sugar, salt, and soft drinks. There is a
     tavern where men lounge and drink the potent beer made from bananas. A car or a truck coming through was a big event. Behind
     the wheel, very often, was a white man—a European missionary or a doctor. Muzungu! the children would call, a word that means “white man, ” and they would say it with relish. It was not meant as an insulting
     word, just a descriptive one, and the white people would smile back at us. We were always hoping for a toss of candy or a
     ballpoint pen, which would sometimes come and sometimes not.
    The road wound past the church and the tavern and on along the ridgetop through a grove of eucalyptus trees on the other side
     of the Ruvayaga Valley, tracing a long horseshoe shape all the way to the next village, Gitwe. I would walk these two miles
     literally thousands of times while growing up, so many times that I could practically do it blindfolded, knowing where the
     road turned just by counting the number of steps I had taken. It was an important symbol in my life, this rutted track that
     connected my home with my school. It was where I first understood that in order to make progress as a man you had to take
     a journey. There was only so much you could learn at home before you had to get out in the world and prove what you could
     do.
    It was my father who first took me down this road to the school at Gitwe when I was eight years old, and I still remember
     him handing me off to the assistant principal and saying goodbye. I suppose it should have been a troubling moment for me—it
     was the first time I was leaving my parents’ care—but I was eager to begin the adventure of learning. My father had told me
     over and over again: “If you are willing to do it, you will be successful.” I was experiencing a privilege he had never had
     and I know now that he was sending a little piece of himself with me that day.
    Perhaps it had something to do with growing up with such a large family, but I found that I could get on well with the new
     kids in my school. We played soccer, of course, and racing games to see who could run the fastest. Another game was a variation
     of capture the flag in which the idea was to venture inside enemy territory and grab one of their sticks without being caught.
    One strange game I remember in particular was called igihango, which is a word loosely translated in English as “trust.” There were no clearly defined rules to this game, and I’m not sure
     you could even call it a game in the classic sense of the word. The idea was that you made a secret agreement to be friends
     with a particular kid, only you