A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Luís

**

Tumaco, Nariño—Colombia, circa 1993

I didn't meet my father until I was nine. That day was the first and last time I met with him.

Mama never talked about him. Never. Didn't even utter his name. We lived in a small house in Tumaco, a town by the sea that borders Ecuador. We made a living selling fruit, flowers and cocoa beans on the street close to the port, sharing the stand with my mother's friend, Maite. We were poor, but I didn't mind; it was just me and her. I was content.

My mother was beautiful. She had skin darker than the cocoa beans we sold and hair as thick as wool, always braided into weaving rows on her head. She always said the only things I shared with her were her eyes and her heart, but then told me that my heart was a little bigger and warmer than hers.

Tumaco is home to mostly Afro-Colombians; we belonged there. During the day when Mama was organizing the limes and the pitayas with Maite, I would play fútbol with my friends in the street. They always used to call me Mullato only because my skin was a little lighter than theirs, but aside from the jokes, we were like family. I remember the strong smell of the ocean by that fruit stand every day; eventually, the smell of the sea became a part of me.

Every evening, we would close our fruit stand and take a short walk home. Mama would always hold me tight and close to her since the streets were far from safe. At home, Mama would then make us dinner—arroz y frijoles was common, or sancocho with corn tortillas and a glass of fruit juice (milk was used in the juice if we had a good month). Sometimes, she would make coconut rice with brown sugar sprinkled on top—that one was my favorite dish.

I thought my life was normal. I didn't ask for anything and I didn't complain. I worked the fruit stand, played fútbol with my friends and spent my time watching American TV shows on our small television set (Full House was my favorite). Mama would write poems in her spare time and I would read them. They were all in Spanish; she didn't know English, but I knew some English from the TV shows I watched and from my friends on the street.

One hot morning, Mama was getting dressed for the day. I was already dressed (I slept in my day clothes that night) and was reading a poem she had written about not being able to travel the world and see what was outside of Colombia. I was in my room, barely finishing the last line when the loud knocking started. Immediately I came out of my room.

"Mama, who is that?"

She turned to me and I knew something was wrong. Mama never looked scared or worried, and it was because she kept happy for me. But that moment was when she didn't hide the fear in her eyes.

"No one, amorcito," she told me. "Go back to your room."

The knocking continued. It sounded like they were moments away from breaking the door down.

"Now, Luís!" she hissed. I knew she was serious when she said my name. She always called me amorcito or tesoro, but Luís was when she was mad or serious.

I went back into my room but kept the door cracked. They came in—three of them—with another three standing outside the door smoking cigarettes. They didn't hide the guns they had; I never saw a gun until that day.

Mama backed away slowly and stared at them filing in. The man in the middle didn't step forward until the door was closed. He wore a tunic and loafers, and his jewelry looked expensive. I stared at his face and knew who he was—the man I saw on the TV at fútbol games that even the gringos were looking for. Everyone on the street called him "Robin Hood paisa." The poor liked him because he was a hero who had a lot of money. The gringos? Los Tombos? They didn't like him.