Diamond Boy

The Wife glared at the contents of the suitcase. “And what are we supposed to do with all this money? Eat it? Do you want me to make soup from this? What do you think this will buy us, Joseph? Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing,” she shouted, digging her hands into the suitcase and throwing the stacks of money at my father. “This is not worth more than two American dollars. Three months of back pay and they give you this? And you are mad enough to gratefully accept it?”

“Who were those poor people?” I asked.

“Those boys wanted to be men. It is the way here. When you have worked the mines, you are no longer a boy. If you make it into the eye, you are seen as a man.”

“And they did not make it?” my father asked.

“No, their luck ran out. They were found camping in the valley near the diamond fields, waiting for a chance to fill their sacks with soil. It was as close as they could get to the fields.”

“Think what a stone like this could mean to your family, Patson?”

I didn’t understand why he was asking me that question. He seemed to be testing me but all I could see was the sparkling white light of the stone, which he twirled lovingly between his thumb and index finger.

“This stone you cannot hold. You have to find your own, Patson, and it will define your future.”

I was vaguely aware of my father clearing his throat. He called my name, softly, as if he was reminding me of something. I ignored him, even though I knew it was wrong to do so. Had I been an obedient son, I would have listened to him.

What is wrong with having plenty of money? Money makes things happen; money makes you feel good about yourself. It can buy you knowledge and respect; it can inspire you to do good things for others. When I leave the mines, I’m going to be rich and I will show my father that I can be a man.

“Joseph, your children are a credit to you,” he said to my father. “They are a finer treasure than any stone you will find in the diamond field.”

“You’re right, Boubacar. That’s a good thing to remember.”

At that moment I wanted to tell my father everything, about the gwejana and the ngodas, even about my girazi. But looking at him as he stared at his hands, shaking his head, I didn’t have the heart. I had hoped that my success with the gwejana would cheer him up, but all I saw was despair in his eyes. It was enough that we now had food for the month and that I had brought them gifts.

I had never challenged my father so directly. He studied me silently and then laid his hand on my shoulder. “You remember what happened to the man who found the first diamonds in Marange?”

“Yes, he drove into a tree and killed himself.”

“He lost control of his life, Patson.”

“But that’s not going to happen to me,” I insisted.

“I hope not, son, I hope not.”

And that was the end of our conversation. I had thought my discovery would have pleased my father. However, he seemed unaffected by my news, which left me feeling deflated. I had wanted to hear his praises, not his anxiety. I wanted him to be excited, but instead, we arrived at the door of our shed in silence, my father deep in thought.

I turned away so Arves would not see my tears. My girazis meant nothing to me now without my father. Searching the soil for stones had been for him, to prove that I could do a man’s work, and help look after our family. My diamonds had meant my father could be a teacher again, and fulfill his dream of seeing Grace and me back in school. Now there was no purpose to any of it and I no longer had anyone to prove anything to.

Sitting there alone, I realized that a friend and a father were not that different from each other. Both of them had loved me, wanted only what was best for me, and, more than that, I thought with tears streaming down my face, they had wanted and encouraged what was best inside me.

I drove into a tree, Baba. You were right. I lost control of my life, just like that man who found the first diamonds in Marange. [...] Forgive me, Baba, forgive me.

Now is the time for you to be strong, son.

“Come on Patson. I’ll help you.” Innocent’s gentle voice reached through the pain and haze of my confusion.

I felt hands lifting me onto Boubacar’s back and the rhythm of his running return. Deo and Innocent ran on either side of Boubacar, helping him, holding me on his back. I wept at their kindness, at the strength of Boubacar’s will to keep on running, and the voice of my father urging me on.

Be strong, son.

“Leave me, Daddy, leave me,” I whispered.

Boubacar ran on, gripping me more tightly.

“One day you will tell this story to your own children, Patson. Think what a fine day that will be. And you must always remember, the story you tell makes you who you are.”

“That part of our life is over, Grace. We will not be going back to the sheds,” I said. “You will never be alone like that again.”

She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. I could feel her body tremble against mine, and when she pulled away she was crying. “You sounded just like Baba then, Patson. All serious and kind.”

And so I have told you everything now, Baba, and the story I’ve told is who I am today. But when I finally came to this page—the very last page of the diary you gave me back in the tobacco shed—I found a message, words scribbled in the bottom right-hand corner, waiting for me to find them. It seems only right that they be the final words of my story:

Yah, Half Prince, I know you are going to make it. Even though it looks bad now, you’re going to be all right. Did I ever lie to you? No, so believe, Patson! And it will be good again, because the Geez are in the Knees. That’s all I’m saying and somebody as “bright” as you should know what I’m talking about. You’re my best friend, Patson, always will be, till the day I die. ARVES!