Paul was an excellent swimmer. This was unusual for a child living in a children’s home in South Africa, but having been raised by white people, he had taken swimming lessons. It was an odd thing to the rest of the kids; not only was the concept of “raised by white people” as strange as saying “raised by wolves,” but also the notion that a person could actually learn how to swim. In fact, the children didn’t know Paul had taken swimming lessons. Only I knew, because it was obvious to me. They thought perhaps he had some magical gift. As they flopped and floundered in the pool—if they weren’t terrified to get into it in the first place—they thought maybe, just maybe, one day they could swim like Paul.

Sipho truly aspired to be like Paul. Always eager to test out his swimming skills, he promptly sunk to the bottom of the pool every time he let go of the ledge. But he was determined. He watched Paul carefully, observing his movements, trying to mimic them. But he did not have the ability that Paul had.

Besides swimming, Sipho had other fascinations in life. These ranged from saving money, unlike the other children who quickly and rashly spent theirs, to endless theoretical battles of questions phrased simply as, “Who beats who?” Put any two similar-themed nouns into each part of the equation, and Sipho would spend his time wondering—obsessing—about who would be the winner.

Fresh out of school for the day, or on a lazy weekend, it didn’t matter. Sipho had to know the answers. “Leslie,” he’d begin, “Who beats who? The lion or the tiger?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I think the lion would beat the tiger.”

Truthfully, Sipho already had the answers. Turns out his question wasn’t really an inquisitive research question, but rather an introduction to a fully formed hypothesis.

 “No, Leslie. It’s the tiger.” It didn’t matter what I guessed, I somehow always got it wrong.

“Who beats who? The pitbull or the Rottweiler?” I guessed Rottweiler, but apparently that was wrong.

 “Leslie, who beats who? John Cena or The Undertaker?”

…. The what? Who even are these people? I was not a fan of WWF, but being one of the few shows available on a TV in a South African children’s home, all the kids knew who John Cena and The Undertaker were. I didn’t stand a chance in this battle of the Whos.

It was Christmas break. Even in the children’s home, kids get to go home for Christmas, whether to an extended family member’s house, or even to their parents’. Everyone went home except for the unlucky few—Sipho included. It was a painful reminder to them that they had no one to pick them up and no one to care for them.

I thought I’d make a difference for them and take them on a road trip for part of the break. While the other kids were going to have bragging stories about their families, at least the four left behind could say they’ve been on a cool road trip. So my brother and I arranged to make it happen.

We packed up some bags and headed out, driving through Guateng Province, Limpopo, and onto Mpumalanga, our destination. We saw many natural spectacles of South Africa—but none of them compared to the night at the hotel, where Sipho’s life changed forever.

I picked this hotel because it had a pool. I knew the kids loved to be in the water, so I knew it had to be part of the trip. After a busy day of sightseeing, we checked in and got situated. And then it was pool time.

We spent all afternoon and into the evening at the pool. While we were the only ones swimming, as the evening crept up on us, we were joined by someone new. Suddenly we had to share the pool.

He was a young man—I honestly doubted he was even over 18, but to the children he was a full grown man. And he looked nothing like the physique of Michael Phelps. He was more like a rectangle that was jiggly. All fine with me; his shape barely registered in my mind at the time.

He climbed up the small, fake rockery at the deep end of the pool—a makeshift diving board of sorts. I’m not sure if it was intended to be used that way, but here we were regardless: Sipho, myself, and the 3 little girls who joined us, all hovering at the shallow end, and him at the deep end, climbing onto the rocks, preparing for his jump. I think we all had to crane our necks up to the sky to watch the climb, our jaws dropping and hearts in throat wondering what he was going to do.

Surely, I thought, he’s going to do a belly-flop. He lives for this moment. Splashing everyone around him, making the best use of his natural surface area. Sipho and the girls, however, were clueless. They didn’t even know what a belly-flop was.

 In a swift motion, it happened: like an Olympic diver, he gracefully fluttered off the makeshift diving board, arching to perfectly land with arms outstretched, hands together, head following, just like an Olympian. Nary a splash or a bubble upon breaking the water’s surface tension, just like an Olympian. He quickly, effortlessly, made his way toward us, swimming under the water for nearly the length of the pool, popping up just feet away from us. It happened in seconds.

The girls watched, but quickly lost interest and returned back to their play. But Sipho was enthralled. Captivated by the Olympic swimmer in the same pool with him, Sipho never took his eyes off him. He watched him swim back and forth, quickly and smoothly, sometimes looking like a seal, other times like a sailfish, but most of all—in the adoring eyes of Sipho—the Swimmer of All Swimmers.

He watched until the man got out of the pool, dried off, and went back to his hotel room. I watched Sipho as he processed what he had just witnessed. Staring off in the distance—I’m pretty sure in the direction of the fake rock diving board—he contemplated, considered, questioned—and hypothesized.

Slowly he turned to me. “Leslie,” he began. I impatiently waited for his words to form, as I knew whatever he was about to say would be a good one.

“Who beats who? Paul….. or The Fat Man?”

All of his observations about The Fat Man had boiled down to a single question.

I foolishly started off with my answer. “That’s a good question,” I faked weighing carefully. “I’d have to say Paul beats The Fat Man.” Even though Paul wasn’t present, I thought it would be good to always speak positively about the other children in the children’s home. But I had failed to realize that this was not a question. Like all of the Who questions, this was already a fully formed hypothesis.

“No, Leslie,” Sipho reprimanded gravely. “It’s The Fat Man.” I tried to debate that Paul could swim just as quickly, if not faster, than The Fat Man, but Sipho would hear none of it. At this point, this Who question went beyond hypothesis—it was simply irrefutable fact. Sipho had seen it with his own eyes.

It was hard to get the children out of the pool to get ready for dinner, but Sipho left with a vow that he would become like The Fat Man. Paul as his idol? Forget it. Sipho had found an even greater, more powerful role model, and he always addressed the topic of The Fat Man with reverence.

It was at dinner that I came to understand just how much Sipho’s life had changed that fateful evening, and just how much The Fat Man became his new point of inspiration. Naturally, the open air restaurant at the hotel was next to the pool. Almost arm’s length away. To Sipho, so close and yet so far.

All through dinner he eyed that pool. I could see its reflection glimmering in his eyes and he silently contemplated all that had occurred in that pool earlier in the day, dreaming of one day swimming as good as The Fat Man. I don’t know how he managed to eat his dinner, let alone the whole thing, with how much time he spent pining for that beloved swimming pool—and a hopeful glance at The Fat man one more time.

The girls had finished their dinners. With all of them being under 6, they had plenty left on their plate. As Ken and I debated what to do with the leftovers, Shipo snapped out of his dreamy longing for the pool and saw the quandary at hand.

“Leslie, I can eat their food if they aren’t going to eat it,” he offered.

“Really, Sipho? Your whole plate is cleaned and you think you can still eat another plate… or three? I’ve never seen you eat that much in your life.”

“Eyy, I want to eat it. I want to be big. Like The Fat Man. If I eat, I will be fat like The Fat Man, and then I will be a better swimmer than Paul. Look at The Fat Man and how he swims! I want to be fat like him.”

“That’s…. that’s not how it works,” I tried to comment, but I was quickly cut off.

“No! You must be fat to swim fast! Look at all of us children. We are all small and no one can swim. And Paul can swim, but not like The Fat Man. I’m going to be fat so I can swim!”

I mean, it was certainly a plausible hypothesis. Although I could point to countless Olympic swimmers who were not shaped like The Fat Man, all of that was irrelevant in the world of Sipho. It was simple: skinny people make terrible swimmers. But The Fat Man—the greatest man—the greatest Swimmer!—could beat them all. And what did he have that the rest of us didn’t? The Fat Man hadn’t earned his beloved name for no reason.

“All right then, Sipho,” I said, relinquishing a nearly untouched plate of a 3 year old. Sipho feasted on this extra plate of food, his eyes focused on the real prize: the swimming pool and the promise of one day being as great as The Fat Man.