Making Wolf (17 page)

Despite the cavalier attitude, Abayomi was tired. A day’s growth of beard, a rim of spidery blood-vessels around his iris all pointed to near exhaustion.

“Should I get out of your hair, then?” I asked. “Give you my report?”

Abayomi nodded at his body guards, and they stepped back. “In Yoruba.”

Using my halting command of the language, I outlined what I had learned so far and gave him my description of the killer.

“You’ve gone far,” said Abayomi.

“Still far to go,” I said.

“One would almost think you didn’t care about your retainer.”

Now, why would he say that?

“I like the retainer very much,” I said. “Can you point me in any directions?”

“That kind of assassin would be expensive. Most likely there were initial tentative approaches to other top players in the field. I’ll give you a name; you ask if he or anyone he knows was offered the contract.”

“And the secret police guys?”

“I’ll ask around. Leave that to me.”

“One more thing. Should I…would you be bothered if I took minor assignments from others?”

“No. You’ve exceeded my expectations already. If you have opportunities go for them.”

We talked some more, but nothing of significance. So I left just as the Somali interpreter started to get antsy. I watched every single rasta who walked past me. This was ridiculous. It wasn’t even paranoia. It was more of a morbid curiousity or something undefinable. I stopped a street vendor and bought fried yams, plantain, and sun-dried fish. An enterprising young Igbo boy brought me a bottle of Coke, so I bought that, too. People went by. The cars raised hell with their horns, but nobody could clear Ede streets in the middle of a working day. I sat on an empty stall and ate my lunch. I felt like pouring the coke over my head, but instead I drank some and placed the cool bottle on my forehead. I was pretending to think, but I knew what I really wanted.

I called the Widow Busi.

I hadn’t seen the Oduduwa Wall in many years. It was about forty years old. The mad idea behind it was some pseudo-scientist woke up one day and said there was a rapid decline in the amount of sand on the beach. This, he said, had to do with erosion and wash-off by the sea. The solution he proposed was to build a sea wall, a twenty-mile long construction which would keep the sand in and the sea out. He was able to convince the government of the day, and they built all of two miles before funding ran out or civil war started in Nigeria or the architect was the victim of cholera or witchcraft. The project lay dormant and time passed. Then, over the years, graffiti artists began work. The quality varied from crude to amazing, but every inch of the land side of the wall (which tended to be leeward in most wind conditions) was covered in writing or paintings. The subject matter varied, but it chronicled a simplified and condensed version of mostly western popular culture. I loved walking there and was delighted when the widow suggested this as a place to meet.

There were few people walking along the wall. The insurgent activity tended to limit tourist activity. I drifted westward. She said she’d find me, the widow did. A teenager ambled up to me and tried to sell me a wood chip from the One True Cross. This was because Joseph of Arimathea, who donated his tomb for the interment of Jesus’ body, found bits of wood there. He is said to have removed wooden splinters of the cross that became embedded in Christ’s body while dragging it to Golgotha. This particular splinter had found its way to Alcacia by way of the Ethiopian eunuch converted by Saint Philip. It was an interesting tale, and the boy tried to add value by saying the wood had healing properties, but I waved him on.

There was an eleha ahead of me. Eleha were married Muslim women in shapeless black garb similar to a burkha covering their entire body from head to toe. Even the face was covered by netting that resembled a fencing mask. The material was bulbous so that you could not see the figure of the woman beneath. The alternative is for married women to never leave the house. When I was a boy they scared me more than Darth Vader. I faced the wall. I tried to get lost in the graffiti. It was easy. I walked past a black-and-white rendering of King Kong holding Fay Wray while climbing the Empire State Building. Biplanes crudely circled his head. Sean Connery as James Bond. A color painting of Muhammmed Ali, one hand aloft in a victory salute, one leg on a red demon labeled as George Foreman with the caption “ALI, BOMA YE” repeated six times in blue. A pyramid showing Elizabeth Taylor atop it, sporting unnaturally huge breasts and big green eyes. Bugs Bunny. An Aston Martin. 50 Cent.
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
. A crude American flag. An ode to Kingsway Stores. Casablanca. Ed Wood. Spiderman in mid-swing. James Coburn as
Our Man Flint
. Challenger space shuttle. Many different drawings and paintings of Rambo. Chuck D. Christopher Reeve. Albert Einstein. And on it went.

The eleha was near me now, and she smelled pretty nice, like expensive perfume, not the incense I had known them to use previously. Then she was talking to me.

“Do you not wish this place did not stink of urine?’ It was the widow.

I recovered quickly. “A wall is a wall, I guess. No wall is immune to being pissed against.”

“I wonder if anyone does this to the Great Wall of China.”

“Of course they must. All walls are pissed on.” I faced her. “Mrs. Olubusi. A pleasure to see you again.”

“All mine, I assure you. Forgive me for not shaking hands. It would look odd to observers.”

“I didn’t know you were a Muslim.”

“I am not.”

“Oh…”

“Are you feeling better? The other day—”

“I’m fantastic. Do you wish for us to stand still or walk while we talk?”

“Let us walk along the wall and you can ask me what it is you want to know.” She paused at a drawing of a slim white man with a Viking hat, a red singlet, and a mustache, but holding a microphone. “Who is this supposed to be?”

“That’s Freddie Mercury,” I said. “From Queen.”

“Ah. I see.” She was like an old woman in the black enveloping material, but I sensed or imagined her thighs moving within. “Do you like the theater, Mr. Kogi?” she asked.

“No, and before you start I do not want to go either. This is not going to be one of those scenarios where you save the underclasses by introducing them to culture.”

“I think you are far from representative of the underclasses.”

“Oh, I’m not like the others, yes? I’m a good nigger.”

“You are being rude, Mr. Kogi. Why?” She stopped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Apologies do not interest me. I asked why you were being like that.”

I scratched my head and looked out at some dunes. “I’m not sure. I’m intimidated by you, I guess. I was trying to even things out by being crude. I really am sorry.”

She appeared to consider this. It was difficult to emote to a person whose face was completely hidden.

“What would you like to know?” she asked at length.

“Tell me about your relationship with Pa Busi.”

“We were married.”

“I know that.”

“That should tell you everything.”

“Not really. It tells me he paid your bride price, met your family, and probably had lawful carnal knowledge of you.”

“As you say.”

“Were you in love?”

“Please.”

“Did you get along?”

“Are you married, Mr. Kogi?”

“No.”

“Pity. I do know some fine single women who would find you an acceptable match. At any rate, if you were married, you would know that all husbands and wives exist in a state of truce most of the time with conflict and ecstasy constantly pulling and pushing against each other.”

“In your relationship with your husband, did conflict dominate?”

“No.” She sighed. “I was his second wife, and there were quite a few years between us. He treated me like a silly little girl whenever I had issue with his behavior, and this was not always a bad thing. He could be quite indulgent. He would walk away rather than argue and concede as many points as were within reason. I confess, I did push the boundaries of reason at times.”

“How did you meet?”

“We met in Italy. At Sorrento. I had just won the trip from participating in a minor beauty pageant—”

“Did you win?”

“First runner-up The chief judge requested…unlawful carnal knowledge of me. I refused. The winner did not.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“I was looking at the cliffs and the Bay of Naples, considering whether to take speed boats to Capri, making notes and sketches, when I heard Yoruba spoken behind me. I recognized him immediately.”

“Did he notice you?”

“With all humility, Mr. Kogi, everyone notices me, and they will continue to do so until gravity and time finally win the battle we commenced at puberty.

“He asked if he could use the viewer after me, and I said we could share. His entourage faded away, and we pointed things out to each other in turn. He kept feeding coins, and that is how we started talking.”

“Were you attracted to him?”

“Not at first, but it did happen over the next few hours”

“Hard to believe, given the age gap.”

“You learn to look past the obvious after some time. All sorts of men ask me out till this very day. They either tell me I’m beautiful or they begin the primate display of virility by showing off their achievements. I do not mean literally—”

“I know what you’re referring to. They tell you precisely what makes them a superior choice of mate.”

“Yes. He did not do that. Instead, we talked about shellfish. Or jellyfish. Some marine organism. He was very well-spoken, very articulate. I was entranced. Mr. Kogi, people, men especially, do not know or understand the value of good conversation, of erudition. This man did.”

“This might sound rude, but it’s not meant to be. Did his financial status have anything to do with how articulate you found him? With your relationship?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve alluded to not loving him, but you were attracted to him. That’s not necessarily contradictory, but, when an ayounge like you is involved with an arugbo like him, finance is usually involved.”

“Some women just prefer older men.”

“I’m sure they do.” I wiped my damp brow with the back of my hand. “Are you one of them?”

“No.”

“But you weren’t dating him for the money.”

“I did not need the money. My family is high Yoruba originating from Ife in Nigeria. We are moneyed folk. Of old.”

“But you did inherit a lot after his death.”

“You think I killed him for his money?”

“Did you?”

“Be reasonable, Mr. Kogi. If I had done, I would not tell you. If I had not, I would simply say so, but it would change none of your suspicions.”

“True. Why’d you ask me if I liked the theater? Do I look like a Philistine?”

“Ask me again in a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“I have to make up my mind about you.”

“Fine. Did your husband have life insurance?”

“He did. Paid out, investigated thoroughly by claims departments, all above board.”

“Which company?”

“Gentian Alliance.”

“Value?”

“Sixteen million dollars.”

“U.S?”

“Yes.”

I swallowed.

“Mrs. Olubusi, who would want your husband dead?”

“Not a soul. He had no enemies.”

“You do realize that’s not helpful.”

“It’s the truth. It could have been a random rebel attack. He was in rebel territory. Mistaken identity.”

“Possible.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

“Yes, do I not?”

Her fingers traced a sunken-relief lettering of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. “Is that a detecting technique? Eternal skepticism?” She asked this in a low voice.

“I have no techniques,” I answered truthfully. “Did you have a lover while he was alive?”

She didn’t answer, and I didn’t push it. She walked toward the dunes after dropping a greeting card from the folds of her cloth. Inside was a theater ticket.

On the way back I phoned Nana and left voicemail.

“Getting a bit worried now. If you can’t phone send a text to say you’re okay, Nana. I love you. Bye.”

Back home I stripped off, wiped my armpits and genitals with a damp cloth, and put on fresh boxer shorts. I had a small rash along the waist where the money belt made contact, and the skin there looked like the underbelly of a fish. I used some of Nana’s talcum powder and strapped the belt back on. I quartered a papaya and ate it minus the rind. I wrote in my journal for an hour to get everything straight in my head.

Officially, Pa Busi’s murder remained unsolved. Jeep blown up, no survivors. No known enemies. No autopsy, fast track embalment and state burial.

I had uncovered two survivors, one in an insane asylum, the other suicided. From my conversation with the mortician and the surviving bodyguard, Pa Busi was shot at least twice before the jeep blew up and dragged out of it, probably to make it seem like he lived for some minutes after the blast. It stank of conspiracy. The non-insane bodyguard, Wallace, makes furtive contact with someone, becomes intensely paranoid, shoots himself, even though his cousin doesn’t believe suicide.