His mind, though, was already somewhere else. In a few weeks he would finish primary one, and after that nothing was certain. His father, Francis, taught science at a primary school in Kampala and came home only on certain weekends, arriving with sweets in his pockets and stories in his mouth. Kevin’s elder brother had gone to live with him years ago and came back only at Christmas. In the village Francis was spoken of as a man who had made something of himself. This year he had made a promise. Next year Kevin would come to the city.
Kevin had built that city out of stories. In it the houses were taller than trees and the roads never slept. There were shops that sold nothing but shoes. There was a room waiting for him in the new house his father had built, with a window that looked out over the rooftops toward the hills. He wanted all of it. He was also afraid of all of it, in a way he could not have explained to anyone.
At noon his mother lit a fire between three stones and finished the beans, and they ate at the edge of the field with their plates on their knees and smoke in their eyes. Kevin thought it was the best meal of his life. This was true of any meal after four hours of work, and he knew it. Still, between mouthfuls, the city slipped in again, and with it a small cold question. Who would wake him there? Who would tell him to hurry?
Toward evening, when the light had turned the colour of weak tea, his mother sent him to the shop for cooking oil. His legs had stopped belonging to him an hour earlier. He opened his mouth to complain, and then he remembered the sermon from the week before, on honouring father and mother, and the promise the pastor said was attached to it: that your days would be long. Kevin was not certain he wanted long days if they were all going to begin like this. But he took the coins and went.
* * *
The term ended on Friday. Kevin reached school before the others and found the place smaller than he remembered, as if it already knew he was leaving. He stood in the empty yard and listened to the bell swinging a little in the wind. He would miss it. He would miss his teacher’s slow smile, and the boys who shared their cassava at break, and Kamya, who was waiting for him at the gate.
Kamya spoke English like a radio announcer. He had once told Kevin that in the city everyone did, even small children, and Kevin had turned the idea over in his mind for weeks. He wanted to speak like that. He wanted it with an intensity that embarrassed him.
At assembly the head teacher read out the names of the top performers one by one, and each child walked up through a patter of clapping. Kevin clapped with the rest. He wished, in a small mean corner of himself, that one of the names were his, and he was ashamed of the wish, and he clapped harder.
Then his own name was called, and his teacher put the report card into his hand. He found the line and read it. Ninetieth position out of one hundred and ten pupils. Beneath it, in green ink, his teacher had written: Advised to try primary two.
He read it three times. It was not a failure, exactly. It did not feel like a pass either.
He took the long way home. He stopped to watch a goat being argued with. He said goodbye to his friends three times each, in case it had not counted. By the time he reached the gate of the compound the sun was low, and he could see his mother on the doorstep with the card already in her hands.
She read it slowly. She folded it along its crease and held it against her knee. Kevin waited for the storm.
“Do you know about Dr Ben Carson?” she asked instead.