Making Wolf (4 page)

“Not that it’s small, aburo,” he said, “but it isn’t very impressive, is it? Depends, though. If your woman has never had a big one in her love tunnel? No problem. But if she has…I don’t see how you’ll satisfy her after that. There’s a certain stretch—”

“I’ve had no complaints.”

“Of course you haven’t. Girls are smart that way, don’t want you to know, don’t want to hurt your feelings, say everything’s all right, but the first chance they get they’re fucking the big dick carpenter who comes to install your cabinet.”

“Can we not discuss this?”

“Has any woman ever cheated on you? Because I bet I know why.”

I felt the sun warming my face as Church droned on. Palm trees reached over the roofs of the huts and leaned in as if struggling to reclaim the land. Pack dogs fought each other for scraps in the rapidly drying mud, each of them scarred, with the same brownish-gray, mangy-looking coats. Nobody looked at us as we worked our way through variously sized passageways. I thought of the time slipping away till my return flight. Escape seemed an impossible concept. No idea where I was, no idea how far from civilization, no expertise in stealing automobiles. I didn’t think it possible, but I hated Church a little more at that moment.

The grogginess from the alcohol or whatever drug they fed me last night was fading, and I became aware of a headache, like a hangover except without the thirst and light sensitivity. Still, it’s not my typical day when I witness a death and have a gun to my head before breakfast.

We progressed to what must have been the only concrete house in the whole compound. It also gave me the first idea of the lay of the land. The camp was located on the side of a gentle rise, with tractors and heavy equipment on the edges of the clearing, and green camouflage netting attached to a pulley system, ready for deployment. End to end the settlement was about a kilometre square, with most of the buildings a ramshackle, prefabricated nightmare of red earth, corrugated sheeting, and thatch. There were some children, mostly male, toting guns or wooden replicas.

“Child soldiers?” I asked.

“These ones? We don’t use them in combat. They’re kept for publicity only, photo shoots, to display the effort and sacrifice the great people of Alcacia have shown in the struggle to—”

“Yes, yes, I get it.”

“It impresses the white people. I can milk one photo of these kids for two NGOs. It’s like printing money.”

“I’m sure.”

We came up to the door of the house, and the two armed guards stood aside. Matching camouflage, clean boots, identical Police sunglasses, standing to actual attention, I guessed they were a better-funded brand of guerrilla, what with guarding El Jefe, and all.

The décor inside was a jumble of ostentatious shit with shiny gold leaf on banisters and filigreed picture frames. A man in his early fifties stood in the middle of the receiving area on a Persian rug. He was not in military garb and seemed mild wearing circular frame clear glass spectacles and slightly paunchy. I noticed he didn’t blink much, and I made an effort to suppress my own lids. Churchill saluted in a carefree manner, and the man just smiled.

“This is Weston Kogi, sir. Weston, this is his Excellency Comrade Osa Ali, leader of the Liberation Front of Alcacia.”

Ali stepped forward and offered a hand, which I shook, then he steered me to a plush leather chair with a hand on the small of my back.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Weston, I save my oratory abilities for speeches and rabble rousing. I have no props or special effects for you, I’m afraid. Just plain talk and some palm wine if you’ll accept my humble offering.”

“It’s a bit early for me,” I said, “and I had a recent bad experience with alcohol.”

“Ah. That was necessary. And no harm done, right?”

“Well—”

“Good. Good. Our mutual friend has been telling me about you.”

Church flashed a proprietary smile.

“Exaggerations,” I said, and they thought I was joking. If only.

“Alcacia has a problem which, for reasons that will soon become clear, you are uniquely qualified to solve. Will you do it, Weston? Will you toil in the service of the soil that spawned you?”

I thought he was saving the oratory. “What problem? And to what qualifications do you refer?”

Church nudged me hard. “Say, ‘sir’ and don’t ask stupid questions. Didn’t I warn you about stupid questions?”

“Churchill.” The Supreme Revolutionary Leader shook his head gently. That was reassuring. What wasn’t reassuring was how I felt more scared of Church than the infinitely more dangerous rebel leader in front of me.

“All I’m saying is I’d like to know more about the situation before committing to it. I wouldn’t want to agree to something I have no expertise in. Sir.”

“I have a rather delicate problem, Weston. I was hoping for your support. I was counting on your fortitude.”

Fortitude?

“How can I help?”

“I wish for you to find a killer,” he said, with a pained expression. “I wish for you to solve me a murder.”

Church offered me a cigarette and sucked his teeth when I declined. He thought I was sulking and I did nothing to change this impression. The jeep returned us to a civilization that popped out of the bush in spurts—a gas station here, a few telephone poles there, a post office, a mechanic shop—until, after two hours of hesitancy, we sank into the middle of town.

The heat and smells and voices swallowed us up. Church said something, but it was lost in the noise. He dropped me in front of the hotel.

“I’ll bring you information this evening,” he yelled as he drove off. “Change your clothes, you look like a corpse.”

“Iya e da bi oku,” I said under my breath. Your mother looks like a corpse.

When he was out of sight, I turned and walked into the hotel. The receptionist stared, but I pretended not to care about my crumpled, sun-dried clothes, my uncombed hair, and my muddy shoes.

“Three-oh-three, please,” I said.

Unperturbed, he handed me my keys. “Breakfast is over, but the bar will open in five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I walked three flights of stairs and entered my room. Thankfully the hotel was designed in such a way that the corridors precluded as much as possible seeing other guests enter or exit their rooms. Housekeeping had been, and I sucked on the pillow mint while I stripped off my clothes. When I emptied the pockets a card fell out. Nana Hastruup. I lifted the receiver beside the bed. I turned the television on absently.
The Big Sleep
was showing on a channel that specialized in old movies.

“Reception.”

“Could I have an outside line, please?” I read out the number, and, while being connected, I removed my underwear and sat naked on the bed, wondering if my shoes could be salvaged.

“Hello?” Her voice was sharp, curious.

“Nana?”

“Weston. I have a question for you: Carlos Castaneda or Kahlil Gibran?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What? Oh, sorry. I was working on a problem when you called. Weston! How are you? What time is your flight?”

Nana had a tendency toward the surreal, even back when we were dating. It just took getting used to.

“I’m okay,” I lied. “Can we meet?”

“Yes. Where and when?”

“I don’t know where. It’s your town, not mine.” I looked at my dirty fingernails. “And I’m going to need about an hour to freshen up.”

“Heavy night, eh? Did you go home with any of those bush girls at the party? They’ll give you gardnerella, you know.”

“What’s gard…never mind. I wasn’t—”

“I know. I’ll be at your hotel in ninety minutes.”

“Do—”

She hung up.

I held on to the receiver for a few minutes then went into the shower. Unlike the last time, it was functional. There must have been some rust in the pipes because for some seconds the water looked biblical, like blood rain. Then it turned orange, then clear. I stood in the stream and thought of the man I had seen killed and wept for him. Is it crying when there is water flowing down your face apart from the tears? Maybe there were no tears, and I only grieved by shaking. Maybe I wasn’t grieving at all, and I was just afraid for myself. I did keep seeing the body rent apart, the first tear being around the shoulder blades, the blood, the sudden end of the man’s screams, but that was a luxury since I had more pressing drains on my attention. What did he do to deserve that?

I was in trouble.

Slight difficulty with lying on my CV.

Not exactly a detective with the metropolitan police.

Not exactly a policeman.

I could have come clean, told them I was not what I said I was, but that would have put me in danger of playing tug-o’-war with a pickup truck. I could simply ignore them, leave on my flight like I had planned, which meant I would never be able to return to Alcacia, a thought that didn’t bother me much now that Aunt Blossom was dead. They’d kill my family, but what family?

I shampooed my hair, used the shower gel, and rinsed myself off. I stood looking at my reflection, scowling at myself.

“You’re an idiot.”

Nana was waiting at the hotel drop-off point in a maroon Mercedes 200 with the engine idling. When I emerged, the moist heat enveloped me, and I felt beads of sweat appear, forced out of my pores.

“Do you want to drive?” Nana asked, pointing to the wheel.

“Only if you want to die,” I said. “Yes, the British drive on the wrong side of the road, but that’s where I drive and my brain hadn’t been trained to switch.” The real reason was I didn’t want her to see me getting lost like I did the day before.

When I had strapped the seatbelt Nana rolled up the windows and activated the air conditioner. She looked cool, dry, and casually beautiful. As far as makeup went, she only had red lipstick on. Without the ridiculous hat of the previous night, her hair formed a black cloud around her head, like an Afro.

“When is your flight?” she asked.

My passport was in my hip pocket along with the confirmation number of my electronic ticket. “Half past eleven,” I said.

Nana smiled. “Plenty of time.”

“Where are we going?”

“The beach.”

We fell silent. Outside, we passed through Ede, the capital city. We drove along Xavier Avenue, which would take us to Woodgrain Beach. The streets were crowded with sweating, desperate people trying to make a living. Women carried their wares on their heads and children on their backs. They cackled nonstop while offering bolts of silk, oranges, yams, spinach, fish, spices, and other items that I no longer recognized. Muscular young men hired out their right arms and wheelbarrows for heavy lifting. A preacher spoke of Armageddon, hellfire, and the salvation to be found in the blood of Jesus.

“Obo iya e n shomi!” Nana screamed at a lorry that cut her off. It meant your mother’s vagina has a discharge. The lorry driver retorted by praying to Sopana, the god of smallpox, for blindness and implausible disfigurement on Nana’s family.

“Wow,” I said.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be through the market in a minute, and the traffic improves.”

She was right. The crowd thinned, and only the beggars remained in sight at the points of traffic slowing. There were traffic lights, but nobody paid attention to them. The beggars had mostly self-inflicted wounds, which some Alcacians maintained in order to avoid work. Lost limbs, infected tsetse fly bites, massive tumors, each one had commercial value that made it unwise to seek medical treatment.

We broke through to a palm tree-lined boulevard with road signs pointing us to Woodgrain.

“So, how have you been?” I asked.

“Don’t bore me, Weston. I haven’t spoken to you in years. The least you could do is not lobotomize me with mundane pap.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey!” She smacked my shoulder. “You left me. I have the moral high ground. You don’t get to give sulky apologies.”

It was all jokey and good-natured, but I could sense pain underneath it all. I didn’t say anything until we pulled into the parking space. I tipped the area boys so they wouldn’t smash the windows or let the air out of the tires.

The south Atlantic blew salt and sand in my face. It rose and fell like an upset stomach. Nana took me by the hand and marched me across the sand. She was wearing sandals, but I was struggling in my Hush Puppies, which I had worn not knowing our destination. Apart from a scattering of black families and white expatriates, the beach was relatively empty. Nana bought us cocktails and handed them to me, after which she led me to a green bamboo shack she had pre-rented. It had one sea-facing unframed window and a bench made of artfully arranged bamboo. She sat on the bench, took her drink from me, and looked out at the waves.

“Are you hung over?” she asked.

“No.”

“You seem strained, in discomfort.”

“I’m not.”

Outside, a tired-looking horse plodded by, led by an old man with sun-blackened skin and a cigarette hanging from his lips. A boy sat on the saddle, enjoying a ride and waving in our direction. Nana waved back. From where I was sitting I could see the outline of her breast through her white blouse. I imagined the curve creeping down and joining her hips in her jeans. I didn’t know how to talk to her, and she wasn’t talking to me.

“Nana, do you know who Enoch Olubusi is?”

“Was. He’s dead.” She looked at me. “You have a few hours till your flight, and you want to talk politics?”

“No.” I went to her.

She put her drink down and dropped the curtain over the window.

The sun had passed its zenith, and the light was not nearly as blinding nor the heat as stifling. I was still sweating, but that was from my…our…exertions. We were on the floor, and there was sand in the crack of my arse; but I didn’t mind. Nana was lying mostly on me and half on the blanket.

“What are you thinking?” she asked in a languid voice.

“I’m wondering what ‘consultant’ means,” I said.

She laughed. “It means I consult.”

“You’re a caterer who drives a Mercedes, Nana.”

“An old model Mercedes.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Hmm. You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking you enjoyed the sex so much that you’re wondering if my consultations don’t somehow involve money changing hands for…conjugal services.”