Making Wolf (6 page)

The road was narrow with the occasional hole that would fling the car and all three of us off our seats and send the driver into peals of laughter. Even at this time of day the road was busy. We passed all-night coaches and bolekaja. Bolekaja were modified Mercedes Benz 911 army trucks. Local mechanics ripped away everything but the driver’s cab and engine, then replaced the back with a wooden compartment with benches designed to accommodate as many passengers as inhumanly possible. It was the cheapest form of fuel-based road transport in Alcacia, and thus, the world. The name literally meant “disembark; let us fight” because, if you had a dispute, the hard-packed space didn’t even leave room for harsh language.

There were horses, and the riders seemed to have this predilection for the middle of the road. The driver would have to lean on the horn before they majestically inched to the side so we could overtake.

Then there were the police checkpoints, which were simply two gorodom on both lanes of the road with three or so tired-looking officers who quite blatantly took bribes from passing motorists. A gorodom is like a barrel about five feet high and made of steel, effective as a barrier when filled with cement. The police asked for your “particulars,” which, in the local parlance, meant money and not your license, registration, and insurance. Everybody in Alcacia seemed able to identify who the rebels were because we were waved past every single checkpoint.

Going by the rising sun, we were headed northwest, People’s Christian Army territory.

The car slowed. There was a collection of fires on both sides of the road ahead, and other vehicles had parked. My captors started pooling their money. The fires were where women were frying akara in massive woks over wood or kerosene stoves. I had heard of the place.

They decided who had to do the buying by playing “the little mermaid” which had nothing to do with the cartoon or Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. It was closer to Rock-Paper-Scissors.

“Mamy wata kekere kan to ko sinu omi,

Mo n’so fun la t’owuro titi d’ojo ale,

‘Dide soke, nu oju re nu,

yi s’apa otun; yi s’apa osi,

Mu eni keni to ba wun e o.’”

Which meant, the little mermaid who jumped into the water, I’ve been telling her all day, “get out of the water, wipe your eyes, turn right, turn left, and choose who you want.”

It’s a child’s game, it doesn’t have to make sense.

The snoring guy to my left lost. The aroma of akara soon filled the car and they even got me some. We sliced open loaves of sweetened bread and seeded them with the akara, making a crude sandwich. I was soon licking my fingers and not resenting the loss of liberty as much as I should have.

We approached a collection of dwellings in late afternoon. It looked like a township on first glance, but there was no sign telling us the name. The buildings on the outskirts were blasted, with only agama lizards and creeper plants living in them. There were crowds of children playing here and there, all holding brown paper bags and lacking footwear. Most only had a long t-shirt on and nothing else but the patches of ringworm on their skin. Their ages ranged from about seven to eleven. I asked about the bags.

“Diesel,” said the man on my right.

“Is that a kind of drink?”

“No, it’s a kind of fuel. They pour some in a can, place that in a bag, then inhale, sit back, and get high.”

A few of the urchins were running alongside the car as we slowed. They were laughing and singing, eyes bloodshot from solvent abuse. Their Yoruba was mixed with words from Ibo, an east Nigerian language in addition to Portuguese and French. I could only understand it in a general sense. We drove through the main square where commerce reigned. It was dominated by a Russian tank from World War II, the kind they called Suka’s Organs, perhaps decommissioned because the tracks were gone and the paint job was a gaudy orange.

There was a church—St. Anselem’s Catholic, although I was willing to wager no nuns. Nuns had not been treated well during the protracted Alcacian disintegration. A bare-chested Chinese man took about forty similarly-clad soldiers through hand-to-hand techniques in the morning sun.

The people were different here than from down south. They had a more ectomorphic physique than the endomorphic stature favored in cities like Ede. Many sported deformed ears, but this was only the opinion of outsiders. Small ears were considered a sign of beauty in this part of Alcacia, and mothers chopped off bits of their babies’ ears at birth to ensure attractiveness.

We stopped in front of a two-story building with laundry lines strung on balconies and several shoddy paint layers visible. The cement had cracked in various places. They ushered me up to the top floor and opened a flat.

“Don’t try to run. There are patrols and vipers. The nearest town is miles away in any direction, and they all belong to us.”

“What am I doing here?” I asked.

They just smiled and walked out. “Tarry here for a while.” I heard their boots thump down the stairs. I was in a dilapidated but clean lounge. I checked the single room, but it was bare of even furniture. There was a phone, but no dial tone. I heard someone coming up, and I sat on the sofa, feigning relaxation.

A tall man in a bespoke gray suit came in. He had very short hair, cropped like a carpet layer on his scalp. He was not sweating despite the stifling heat. I envied him that.

“Mr. Kogi, my name is Abayomi. How d’you do?” We shook hands. “I’m very pleased you can be here. I trust your trip was satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes. I always like the thrill of a potential gunshot wound to add that extra bit of excitement and fun to all my journeys.”

He smiled. “Unfortunately some precautions are necessary in our line of business. We had no way of knowing if you would honor our invitation.”

“Invitation. Right. So, is this the PCA headquarters?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And do you, as they say, lead this rabble?”

“Do I—Oh, no. Lord, no. Mr. Kogi, I am merely a facilitator. I also dabble in the multimedia communications for the Army.”

“You’re a propaganda officer.”

“Some might call it that.”

“Why am I here?” I seemed to be asking everyone that. Soon I would sound like a Greek philosopher.

Abayomi produced a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to me. It had a coat-of-arms, which consisted of a gryphon soaring above a cross and a message that read: “From the Office of the Supreme Commander of Our Lord’s Forces”

“You wrote this?” I asked as I tore the envelope.

“I just make what they tell me legible,” he said. There was a certain weariness and self-mockery to his voice and manner. I decided I liked him.

Dear Mr. Kogi,

Thank you for your blessed attempt to solve this most heinous crime, the murder of our beloved Pa Busi.

I shall pray for your continued success most feverently.

Whatever resources you may require, rest assured that the People’s Christian Army will assist in any way. We will not rest until the true culprits are brought to swift and appropriate justice.

We are truly grateful for your impartiality in this matter. Please do not hesitate to contact me personally should you require any assistance.

I remain yours in the Lord’s service.

Field Marshall Abiodun Craig, Supreme Commander, Our Lord’s Forces in Alcacia.

Instead of a signature there was a thumbprint. Perhaps he had lost his right arm in a battle.

“Hmm,” I said.

“In English,” said Abayomi, “keep up your investigation, go through the motions, and if you must find anything concrete, make sure it’s the Front responsible for the kill. Then get the hell out.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. But you will.” He took the letter and pocketed it.

“Did I have to be here to read this letter?”

“We wanted to get a look at you, and we wanted you to get a look at us. There are certain aspects to appraisal that require a personal appearance.”

“And now that you’ve seen me?”

“Sadly, that’s for others to assess. I’m just a messenger.”

“When do I get to meet Supreme Commander Craig?”

“You don’t. I’ll take you to the canteen to eat. You can rest if you want, but a car will take you back to your hotel as soon as you’re ready.”

“I’m not being detained?”

“We are not barbarians, Mr. Kogi, regardless of what you may have heard.”

“Call me Weston,” I said. “And let’s see about that food.”

Abayomi was wrong: I did meet the Supreme Commander.

I was seated next to the esteemed propaganda officer on a long wooden bench, eating iyan and spinach soup with goat meat from beautiful china off a wooden table. We ate with our hands because it tastes better that way. My tongue was on fire because the Yoruba use the hottest chilli in the world. Forget what you’ve heard about India or the curry place in Southall where they have varying degrees of hotness. I washed the food and pepper down with goat’s milk. As soon as I finished one mound of iyan a lean, small breasted woman would replace it and cast shy glances my way.

“I think she likes you,” said Abayomi.

“I’m spoken for.”

“So is she,” he said, and laughed. “Perhaps it’s a good thing. If you taste her…iyan you probably won’t want to eat anything else for the rest of your life.”

I could do ribald, but all this talk made me think of Nana. She’d be worried about me, and I hadn’t been able to phone her. ‘A little skinny for me, thanks,” I said. I burped. “I can’t eat any more, ore.”

“That’s all right.” He got up and went to speak to the woman who did the cooking. The dining hall was not really in use but filled with tables and benches like the one we were on. There were four other patrons, all men, all young. They stole furtive glances at me, probably because my clothes made me stand out. Compay Segundo played “Chan Chan” on a loop from the most rudimentary speakers I had ever seen. On the walls, which were of corrugated tin, there were paintings of various dishes and a topless woman serving jolly patrons who all seemed to be facing the viewer and smiling. There were posters on the wall. These were yellowed and some of them dated back to the ‘70s. The largest one was of a startled white woman with large, blown-out hair in a toilet, naked but for a pair of tiny panties. The cause for alarm was a gorilla arm that reached out from the toilet bowl and pulled on the panties from behind, causing it to expose part of her buttocks and pubic hair. I burped again and got up to use the loo.

I went down a short narrow corridor experiencing an increasing odor of urine and the progressively louder buzzing of house flies. This led me there better than the hand-painted “Latrine” sign with the crude arrows pointing the way. The toilet was an avant garde affair with a door smaller than the frame. The dark interior was visible from outside. The door hung by a single hinge on one side and a latch on the other. I knocked out of habit and unhooked the latch with two fingers. To my surprise I did not gag.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling along with a pull-switch. It shone grudgingly, light wavering as if it might go off any minute. There was a bolt, and I slid it home with the same two fingers. The toilet bowl was porcelain (there was no seat), but it wasn’t a water closet. There was no water level. Instead, there was a hole with a u-bend that led to a pit. The buzzing of fly wings came from within said pit. Streaks of old feces outlined the path of shit from the bowl to the final destination. No tissue paper in sight, but to the left there was an ominous bucket of water with a ladle. The floor was made of wood, and there were outlines from previously-dried pools of fluid that had warped and eroded it over time.

I undid my belt and was about to pull my trousers down when I heard loud banging behind me.

“Open up!” said a voice.

“I’m not finished,” I said in Yoruba.

“Open up, now!”

The door crashed open and into my back. I yelped brief outrage before a black-clad figure swiped me across the face.

Which I had had fucking enough of.

I kicked out behind me, like a mule, and spun around. He was there, lean in slimming black, narrowed eyes, no wrist watch, shaved head. He came for me in a boxer’s stance, with hands raised. When he punched, I welcomed his fist into my space and grasped him at the forearm, stepped into his body, and slammed my elbow into the center of his chest. He clutched his chest and started coughing wildly, face crumpled up like a wad of toilet paper. I was wondering whether to kick him in the gonads for good measure when I heard multiple clicks of safeties flicked off.

Three men pointed pistols at me. They were dressed like the one I had just hit with similar hairstyles. I thought perhaps I should let them shoot because the way they were deployed, friendly fire was inevitable. Behind them was a man dressed in a military uniform, with epaulets, faux medals, tassels, and the like. He had a patchy beard and a haughty look, eyes that glowed with neither life nor intelligence. Not even malevolence. Only death of the kindly variety, the sort you dispense to diseased animals.

“Take him outside,” he said, “and burn him.”

This was, of course, Field Marshall Craig, and I was, of course, about to be grilled alive.

Then Abayomi was behind him, whispering into his ear urgently. A few words filtered through to me, and a sharp pas possible! from the propaganda man ended the intervention. Craig nodded. The men who I presumed were his bodyguards moved away from me.

“Mistah Kogi, you are welcome,” said Craig. “Normally, nobody touches my bodyguards and lives, but I see your MI-6 training has helped you overcome.”

“I’m not—”

“Your Excellency, I’m sure you are quite pressed to use the toilet,” said Abayomi. He came forward and pulled me by the arm. “I also still have a few things to cover with Mr. Kogi.”

“Very well. Carry on.”

Craig wore Chanel in copious amounts, and Abayomi pulled me though a cloud of it. The bodyguards shot me down several times in their heads. Back in the canteen a heavy-set man was seated in front of my plate, examining the remains of my iyan, tilting, sniffing. He wore short, unruly plaits on his head. I aimed myself for him, blood still up from the previous confrontation, but Abayomi firmly guided me away, toward the exit.