Making Wolf (16 page)

Not in a clearing. More like improvised trenches. I felt a descent as the ground dipped. It was denuded of grass. There were people around wearing helmets with grass all over. Frontline troops. Stinking of shit and urine and desperation. They stared at us with mistrust. The three of us sat and caught our wind, drinking water and chewing on bush meat—smoked antelope dried out till there was an almost wooden consistency to it. You chewed till your teeth ached and your jaws were on fire. There was a hint of putrefaction to the taste, but I was so hungry that it did not matter. False dawn was upon us, and the frontliners faded away. Crickets seemed louder, but already the night had lost its mystical glamor. I wondered where Nana was or what the Widow Busi was up to.

“Five minutes,” said D’Jango.

The frontliners had left a pit that was five feet in depth. Here they had slept and cooked. You could light a fire and, through a complex system of bellows and ducts, direct the smoke elsewhere. They had coal for this purpose. We buried our clothes and changed into variously colored khakis. Church gave D’Jango and me Red Cross arm bands. “It makes soldiers hesitate, and sometimes that’s all you need.”

He allowed us to use our phones while he radioed for transport. I sent a text message to my Nana but did not bother retrieving my voicemail.

Soon a jeep arrived, and we were ferried to the ambush point.

It did not look like the photographs. The season was different, and the road had been resurfaced a number of times; but there was enough similarity to convince me this was the place. D’Jango had not hesitated as he steered us there. Impressed me in spite of myself. The only hairy moment had been when we burst into a clearing and found seven rusty and ruptured hazardous chemical cylinders with Cyrillic writing on them. The vegetation had grown around them so we figured whatever toxic waste they had contained was long gone. Hopefully.

Church and D’Jango stepped away from me as if I were a mystic trying to divine truths magically. I had no idea what I was looking for.

“Which direction would Pa Busi’s jeep have been facing on that day?” I asked. They pointed.

The ambush was well-planned. There was a curve to the road at the precise point that would offer some protection from curious eyes. As it was, no cars passed us, which didn’t really mean much because traffic patterns could have changed over the years. The spot was in a depression as well, lower ground. A person with a sniper’s perch in the trees could take his time as the car slowed into the curve. Especially if one of the occupants shoots as well. The trees were mostly palms, some of which had calabashes for sap collection, which would later be used to make emu or oguro.

Which meant…

“Is there a village close by?” I asked.

“A hamlet, more like,” said D’Jango. “Ekuro. They are basket weavers. It is a small place.”

“Take me there,” I said.

Ekuro was a pathetic place. Not a single tarred road. No post office. All the houses were made from blocks of baked red clay, and only a few had tin roofs. Meat hung from hooks for curing, and dry tobacco leaves left an intoxicating smell to the air. Livestock roamed free and did not fear us. A she-goat shat right in front of me. My curses did not impress her.

“She likes you,” said Church.

“Funny,” I said. Why did everybody keep saying that?

“What are we looking for?” D’Jango asked.

“The palm wine tapper. Or tappers. I need to speak to every palm wine tapper in the village.”

There were three, and the interviews were short because what I needed was there. We had a problem with their dialect, but the fact is everybody speaks violence, sex, and money. I used money.

“Well?” said Church. He had a gourd of palm wine halfway to his lips, and there was some dribble from the left angle of his mouth.

“I know what the assassin looks like,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

I caught up with my voicemail.

Beep.

“Boy. Where are you? Said you’d call when you got there. I miss you.” Nana.

Beep.

“Mr. Weston Kogi, I am just calling to find out when you will call so we can talk about my husband. Please call me back soon. Thank you. Oh, and money is not a problem. Thank you, sir. Bye.” Strange woman looking for help with missing husband. Blegh.

Beep.

“Weston, I saw a missed call from you. Get in touch.” Abayomi Abayomi.

Beep.

“Mr. Kogi, this is Diane Olubusi. I am not pleased at how we parted. It looked like you were sick. I feel awful about it and wish you would call. Just so I can see that you are all right. And so that I can answer the questions that you put to me. The number is—”

Beep.

“Loverman, what a g’wan witcha? Why are ya late? Come to me, loverman. Come fill me up, loverman. I need you now.” Nana, singing the lyrics of a popular reggae song.

Beep.

“Is this Sheun’s number? Sheun, don’t forget to pick up the amplifier and get a gorodom for the ice. And be fast because the ice is melting already.” What the fuck?

Beep.

“…(breathing)…(breathing)…”

Beep.

“Boy. I’m worried about you. I know you’ll turn up, but I’m tired. Call me when you can.” Nana.

Beep.

“End of messages.”

Back to civilization. In a few minutes Church would drop me bang in the middle of Ede.

“I still don’t understand what we just did,” said D’Jango.

“Okay, listen: Pa Busi wasn’t just blown up. He was shot with a high-powered rifle. The palm wine tappers would have the best vantage points from their palm trees. I was looking for any witnesses on the day of the assassination. Did they see anyone in the trees who was new? That sort of thing. What we got was even better. Our guy said one of the tappers was taken by the forest on the exact date Pa Busi died. They also saw a stranger lurking around days before. I’m betting that’s our man.”

“What’s he look like?” asked Church.

“That information is…more modest. Tall man, hunched, dreadlocks. Complexion uncertain. We’re a step closer, though.”

“Ore, for all we know he could be a mercenary imported from Nigeria for that very purpose. And he probably went back to Nigeria immediately after. Then what? You gonna go to Nigeria and find him? Hmm?”

“One hundred and seventy million Nigerians in Nigeria alone, man. Not counting the ones spread far and wide like gypsum seeds.”

“Hang on, do you guys find the description familiar? Are you trying to tell me something? Is this where I’m supposed to follow another line of inquiry?”

Church and D’Jango looked at each other and guffawed.

“Wankers,” I said.

Home.

I was bothered that Nana wasn’t there. I didn’t think she had received any of my messages. She didn’t know I had no way of calling her back during Churchill’s communication blackout. Maybe she was out looking for me somewhere. I called her, but it went to voicemail.

“Hey, baby. I’m back. Listen, I didn’t know I’d be out overnight. Church never told me beforehand. I wasn’t able to phone either. I’ve missed you. Call me back.”

It seemed inadequate. I felt like calling again, leaving a fluffier message, say I loved her, but I didn’t bother. I planned to buy her an expensive dinner later to make up for it, maybe go to a club.

I put the phone in the power cradle, stripped off, and showered. My skin was full of insect bites and scratches, and my bones felt old. If this job didn’t kill me, it would definitely take years off my life. I sliced up a papaya and ate it while making notes on the dining table. Knowing a vague description of the assassin wasn’t much. It did not tell me, for example, who paid the piper, which was more important. Why would a rasta even kill Pa Busi or anyone at all for that matter? Dreads are too distinctive. You’d think a rasta would take enough time to disguise themselves, pack the hair in a special way. Except if the person was not a true rasta in the first place and put on a dreadlock wig to avoid detection. The permutations were maddening. So, really, all I had was tall black male. Hunched was neither here nor there, and hairstyle was unreliable. Still, I thought I had caught a scent, and that would have to do.

I called up Abayomi.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Weston. How goes everything?” he said. He was outside, and, though the connection was good, there seemed to be a multitude around him that made him difficult to hear.

“Managing. Surviving. Listen, should we meet for an update and a beer?”

“Not an easy thing to manage, mon frère. I’m negotiating a deal that will take a lot of time. If you can come over here, I’m sure I can squeeze some time.”

“Sure. Tell me where you are. Wait. I forgot something. Listen, there are some secret police guys sniffing about, trying to pick up my trail. I might lead them to you. We’d meet, and you’d get a dose of head lice.”

“I’m not worried about those clowns, Weston. Get over here if you can.”

“Where are you?”

“The docks.”

“That cesspit? I was there yesterday. Nothing but shit and sinners. Pass.”

“No, I’m on a nice ship. Tell me when you arrive, and I’ll send a skiff for you.”

“Define ‘nice.’”

“Women with huge cup sizes and the skins of angels are feeding me grapes and dripping honey in my mouth.”

“Liar.”

“Give me at least one hour to sort something out. See you soon.”

A speedboat makes any large body of water seem romantic. Cutting through the Atlantic from the docks to a luxury liner where Abayomi Abayomi waited. I had to restrain myself from opening my mouth to the spray. That way lies hepatitis A.

The liner was called “The Bernice” and it was crawling with thin, tall men carrying AK-47s and RPGs. Oh, fuck. Of course. They were fucking Somali pirates. What were they doing docking in Alcacia? And what did Abayomi have to do with them?

He was waiting for me at the end of the gangplank, arms spread out like a party host and flanked by his own armed guards, who were definitely Alcacian.

“Weston! Omo nla! Welcome. What would you like to drink?”

He led me to a starboard deck chair, and I had an iced ginger ale while he sipped a shitty-looking cocktail. He sighed after the cool liquid went down his throat, then he looked at me.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘What’s he doing with Somalians.’ That is what you’re thinking, right?”

I nodded.

“I won’t lie to you. Ten percent of a couple million dollars is a large number, and the revolution is always hungry for cash.”

‘So you’re doing it for the money?”

“Money is the reason the pirates exist.”

“The wrath of the nations will be poured out on them, Abayomi. NATO and their Third World puppets don’t like their oil tankers and pleasure yachts molested.”

“Who do you think is responsible for—oh, sit and listen, little one, for I am wise and shall tutor you well.”

“Heh. Speak.”

“Somalia hasn’t had a proper central government for years. A bunch of sun-toughened warlords rule with the gun and machete, and the UN turns its back. Why? Because of money. Somalia has nothing to export except beautiful women with high foreheads. They have no oil, or what they have is not even worth speculating over under the current conditions. They have no diamonds. America made an excursion, lost two Black Hawk helicopters, and ran crying to their mamas. The world turned away. It’s a tough, brutal place. Let them kill each other. One less nigger nation.”

“They grant those who need asylum a place to go, at least in the UK.”

“Pennies. They did not tackle the root cause. Sorting out the lack of organized government in Somalia would have prevented or at least alleviated the emergence of pirates. Do not forget that the pirates started out as fishermen. The lack of government meant no coast guard, meaning trawler fishers from western nations could come to their seas unmolested and unregulated. This was their livelihood. Since they couldn’t fish, they armed themselves and started attacking ships first to protect their fishing grounds, then to rob, then to demand ransom.”

“It seems to me like you consider them patriots.”

Abayomi paused, thought for a few seconds and shrugged. “The outcome of their actions is attention focused on their tortured country. Some do that by writing articles, some by fighting, others by piracy. The end result is the same: Somalia moves closer to democracy.”

“Or a few pirates get blown into atoms by a frigate sent by the French or British.”

“Acceptable risk, acceptable outcome.”

“Jesus, you are a lawyer.”

“Every day of the week, baby. Look, I know. These are just thugs, and they would steal no matter what the status quo was. Working with them is mad. The ring leaders are half psychotic on khat most of the time.”

Khat was a stimulant chewed by Somalians similar in effect to amphetamines.

Abayomi looked fit and prosperous. The revolution worked well for mouthpieces, it seemed. Never had to lift a gun. Again he was in a suit, brown, with beautiful brown leather court shoes. A gold chain glittered on his neck, but it was tucked in and most of it was hidden by the white shirt he had on. He looked cool, untouched by the heat. I envied him that. Me, I felt like I’d been on a slow roast since arrival at Alcacia International.

“Now that they have a taste for it, getting them to stop will be difficult. The oil companies pay the ransom for their jacked ships because it’s cheaper to pay two million in exchange for a two hundred million cargo. That’s just good business sense, but only in the short term. It gets the freighters back, but rewards and, hence, encourages further piracy.

“Can you believe these fuckheads wanted to shoot a music video on board? No, really. I had to tell them that piracy is a crime and Interpol would find them because the video would qualify as photographic evidence. Don’t ask me. Someone’s cousin is a musician. Rapper. Wants a place to have bling and big bottoms and merlot and weed, all mixing to the beat of his bassline. Guns, too.”

“How did they manage to take this vessel?”

“Audacity and deadly weapons. This boat has no big guns—it’s a pleasure craft. Passengers are locked in cabins. All the crew had by way of defense was a water hose. Crew tried to blow the pirates off as they tried to board with grappling hooks. I imagine it was both comical and frightening at the same time.”