At seven, James and Chol appeared with their old basketball. Three more boys arrived with theirs. The five became rebounders and feeders as they retrieved Samuel’s shots and fed the ball back to him.
Ball high, elbow aimed, shoulders squared, an easy jump. Samuel repeated Coach Lam’s instructions before each shot. And for some reason he counted. After 200 he began to tire. At 300, it was time for school.
He’d read that Kobe took 500 shots a day when he was a teenager. He’d also read that Steph Curry once hit 77-straight three-point shots in practice. He liked those numbers.
* * *
·?·?·
At the end of May, Samuel finished his final year of secondary studies and was given a certificate in an outdoor graduation ceremony. There were ten others in his class, all boys, and their principal reminded them of how lucky they were to complete their studies. Across their young and troubled nation, only a third of all boys got a certificate. One in ten for the girls, and those graduates were found only in the cities.
Samuel had applied to the University of Juba and been accepted. He planned to enroll there in the fall, though he did not have enough money for the meager tuition and expenses. If things didn’t work out in the U.S., he would return home, move to Juba, find part-time work, hustle for student aid, and somehow get by as another starving college boy. He had seen the bright lights, was about to see even brighter ones, and vowed to seek a better life away from the poverty and violence of the bush.
Those thoughts, though, were rather remote as he proudly held his certificate and listened to the principal go on and on about the country’s need for younger leadership. He tried to listen but his thoughts were on July and the trip of a lifetime, the incredible opportunity to play in front of college scouts. He did not want to spend the next year studying economics or medicine at the University of Juba.
* * *
·?·?·
The send-off was not what the neighbors wanted. They fancied another block party with music and dancing late into the night. Beatrice and Ayak were grateful but felt otherwise. They wanted their son to go to bed early, get plenty of sleep, and make a quick getaway.
The family breakfast was quiet. They ate eggs and pastries and drank tamarind fruit juice, coffee for the adults. Angelina, James, and Chol were torn between the excitement of their brother’s big adventure, and the sadness, even fear, of him leaving home. The family had always been together, and the thought of Samuel going away, now or next month for university, was unsettling.
He joked with his siblings and promised to send postcards, though mail service in rural South Sudan was virtually nonexistent. He promised to call whenever he could. Coach Lam, of course, had a cell phone and had promised to devise a method of calling home, though it seemed unlikely the family would get a call so far from Juba.
When it was time to go he grabbed his carefully packed gym bag and stepped outside where a dozen neighbors loitered in the front yard to say goodbye. He thanked them, hugged a few, then hugged his siblings. Angelina was wiping tears. Beatrice gave him a small cardboard box filled with food for the bus ride, and he hugged his mother for a long time.
For the occasion, a cousin who owned one of the few pickup trucks in the village had washed the dirt and mud off and parked it in front of the house. The tailgate was down. He took Samuel’s gym bag, tossed it in, and patted a cushion on the tailgate. A throne for the guest of honor. As the crowd inched closer, Ayak pulled a small envelope out of his pocket and gave it to his son.
“What is it?” Samuel asked.
“It’s money, cash. From all of your friends. They collected a few coins from everyone and the bank converted them to pounds. About ten.”
“Ten pounds?” Samuel asked in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“That’s far too much money, Father.”
“I know. But you can’t give it back, can you?”
Samuel wiped his eyes and stuffed the envelope into a front pocket of his only pair of pants. He looked into the faces of his friends and neighbors and softly said, “Thank you, thank you.”
His cousin said, “We’re going to miss the bus.” He got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and started the engine.
Ayak stepped forward and embraced Samuel. “Make us proud,” he said.
“I will. I promise.” Samuel took his place on the cushioned tailgate, his long legs dangling almost to the dirt street. He waved at Beatrice and his siblings, nodded again at his father as the truck moved away.
Ayak stood there, waving goodbye as only a proud father can do.