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our dress code was “Be no one.” My ripped T-shirt was too “slum.” This was typical of how Wolf worked. Every detail was important. “Yes, Wolf Sa.” I ran to a stall by the main street and paid ten shillings for an orange T-shirt with “Mombassa Cement” stamped on the front. I could have lipped it, but I never stole in Kibera. Never steal from people poorer than you (Commandment No. 5).
    I ate M’bazzi stew for dinner and threaded home. Random people said “Ya” or waved. Cousin Sheila was at my place. Sheila was pretty and about a year younger than me. She was a lazy waste of space. Her father got a job at the Janssen Pharmaceutical plant and left Kibera as part of a “reclamation program.” He was reclaimed, but Sheila was not. Her mother was gone, wasted by the Virus. Sheila drifted around Kibera most of the day, showing her leg or ass and often giving it for free, or for a beer or a cigarette. I had plowed her two times before. That night was the third time. I wanted to stop Deborah from taking hold of my head. Sheila was warm and laughed under the blanket. With her wet, she washed Deborah’s voice out of my thoughts. As we lay there after, I gave her a cigarette and five shillings from my pocket. She did not sleep but went off to spend the money or be bought for some more. I fell asleep under the blanket. I thought she could do better for herself, but her fate was Kibera.

Chapter 7
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Breakfast at St. Lazarus Church
    It was the morning of the Boss Jonni run.
    Guess what? It was filthy hot.
    First thing, me and Slo-George made our visit to Krazi Hari. The lunatic was louder than normal. He shouted, “All tha counterfeit prescriptin drugs killin’ us!” and pounded the air with a blue book covered with green mold. Me and Slo-George missed him with our rocks. We left the garbage mound to the beat of Krazi Hari’s insane laughter and headed to St. Lazarus for breakfast.
    On Thursday mornings, the Salvation service was held at St. Lazarus Church. If you say you are saved, you get a free breakfast. St. Lazarus Church was about an hour’s walk away. By the time we got there, I would be ready to be saved.
    As me and Slo-George walked, I wondered how Krazi Hari had learned to read. There was a school, kind of, in Kibera, just a mabati roof on stilts staffed by nuns and do-gooders. None of the staff stuck around to teach the whole alphabet or past the seven times table, and so none of the children could spell “rat” or knew that 11 times 12 is 132. At the end of every day the children sang together, “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.” I neverwent to this school (the School of Benevolent Innocence was enough), but I often sat on the hill behind the school with Slo-George, sipped beer, smoked, and listened to the children learn and sing. The learning never did the children any good, but they seemed to like it. The song didn’t do them any good, either. It was difficult to imagine Krazi Hari as a child, let alone as a pupil. But it was no stranger that Krazi Hari could read than that Slo-George could eat himself fat. Still, if Krazi Hari could read, why did he live on a garbage mound?
    In church, we sat and listened to the Salvation service. That day, it was much better than usual. The preacher screeched through his performance. He did the Commandments, which I liked, even if they were not as good (or as many) as mine. My thirteen commandments are:
    1. Run. Do not stop. If you stop, you are nowhere.
    2. Finish every run, even if it is short.
    3. Do not steal a run from another runner. The stolen run is death.
    4. Do not steal the whitehead’s money.
    5. Do not steal from someone poorer than you.
    6. Do not kill.
    7. When you are working, work. Rest the rest.
    8. Do not spend all your money on beer and hookers.
    9. Love Mama. Forget Father.
    10. Lie whenever you can. The best lie is truth.
    11. Carry nothing. The more