KIZA AND THE GIFT OF HEAVEN

For Kiza, everything was a game. From the streaks of water droplets racing down the windscreen of his dad’s Toyota Sienna to the layers of cumulus cloud trotting in the night sky, Kiza was dreaming contests, wagering bets and winning them all. Even now as he pumped the pedals of his BMX bike, he could feel the giddy rush of his eventual triumph.

He stole a glanced at his challenger who was just ahead. The boy’s thin springy legs seemed to work like a wind-up, but Kiza was not bothered. This was his turf. He knew what to do and where to outmaneuver his opponent. It was only a matter of time. They leveled up as they cycled round the ancient tree and headed for the alley. The alley was narrow and could take only one rider at a time. He surged forward into it with his rival hard on his heels. The estimated time of completion according to the umpire was ten minutes, but it felt to Kiza like they’d only spent two minutes. His heart began to pump fast, as fast as his feet; they were approaching the spot where he would pull his ultimate stunt and leave his opponent in the dust.

As they ascended the slight slope on Febi James Avenue that led back to Folohunwa street and the finish line, Kiza sucked in breath. He lowered his torso parallel to the bars, tucked in his elbows and felt the effects kick in instantly. The turn at the bottom of the slope was sharp, and as always, he planned to make it with as little brakes as possible to avoid losing speed. It was the second part of his trick, only that his speed needed to be just right. He applied as much brakes as needed and was exhaling when he felt a jolt. It took him a moment to realise that something had bumped him from behind. He tried to keep from being distracted as he wondered if he’d lost his brakes or something. By the time he collected himself, he was hurtling too fast to make the turn. He applied some brake in hopes of meeting his designed calculation, but the turn was deficient and he went hurtling into an uncompleted brick fence on the side of the road, his body slamming into it with a thud and his bike flopping off.

Kiza watched in agony and through droopy eyelids as his rival accelerated and hit the finish line a moment later. Then his sight went blank.

*

On the streets of Solomade Estate, Kiza Anandjue was king of bike racing. He had such swift strokes, some said, that his feet made a blur when he pumped the pedals. Others simply said he was a wonderkid. In the end, it was the enigmatic admiration of what made Usain Bolt’s feet the swiftest that prevailed. Kiza had won races against older folks on larger bicycles. He kept being the spotlight until news sifted around the estate that a new bike wizard had emerged — the springy-legged son of the new imam. None had ever met or seen the other. So, when Fortune came bounding into the sitting room that afternoon, Kiza knew something was up.

“Kiza! The boy is outside.”

“What boy?”

Peace, Fortune’s twin, came bounding in after his brother,

“We really should settle this once and for all, you know.” He said.

“Settle what?” Kiza asked, not looking up from his game of Bike blast.

They told him. His highly spoken of rival was out there, spoiling to finish him off. Other boys were out there, rooting for him. He certainly couldn’t disagree.

Kiza smirked and looked in the direction of the store where the bicycle was kept. He wondered if a few minutes of racing would count. He weighed his championship title against his dad’s orders. Then rose reluctantly and figured he could be out and back before anyone knew it. Moments later was wheeling his BMX out of the compound.

Other lads his age had gathered outside. Kiza did not see the champion they spoke of.

“You said he was outside?” He said, turning to Peace and Fortune.

“Err…”

His eye caught the shiny glint of steel under the Guava tree yards away, the figure however seemed to blend in with the tree, and Kiza found it both confusing and annoying. Was that the person they spoke of? Was he trying to play funny? The boy took a full moment before wheeling his bicycle coolly towards them. He was slightly taller, much darker and had the shortest pair of trousers Kiza had ever seen, matched with an ill-fitting brown Jalabiya, a white crocheted prayer cap and solid yellow Tesbih hanging off his left hand which was counting off mechanically. There was a vicious sneer on his face, which at the same time seemed like his natural disposition. Kiza blinked as he realized he’d been staring.

As they inspected their bicycles and listened to Umpire Peace give the rules of the contest, Kiza could sense the boy’s hateful glare. The boy did not like him, neither did he. It was another reason he had to win this race.

They were to race down Folohunwa street, circle round the ancient ginormous tree in the midst of the road, go in through the tiny alleyway into Messrs street, past the road bumps and the rotting parked tractor into Febi James avenue, and finally make a beeline for the finish line at the head of Folohunwa street. There were to be no short cuts, no cursing and no body contact. First to cross the line won.

Fortune began to protest. Racing down Folohunwa street was enough. Why take it to other parts of the estate. What about the vehicles on the road? And the bridge?

Peace reiterated to the contenders. “Do we have an understanding, boys?”

They nodded.

Kiza’s eyes were narrow slits as he rolled out his bicycle to the starting line.

One of the boys poked Fortune, “Relax dude. It would only take a few minutes.”

The race began. Minutes later, Kiza laid in a crumpled heap yards from the finish line.