Making Wolf (22 page)

“Dayo, it’s okay. These men are here for me.” I said this looking at the taller of the two. I aimed my gaze in the general direction of his eyes, but you could never tell with sunglasses. “I need to reach for my wallet to pay this man. I am not armed. Is that all right with you?”

After I paid Dayo they took me away. A small crowd gathered to watch.

Detention was a scary concept to me, but so far I thought I was coping well enough. They left me in an interview room after a short drive to police headquarters. The room bothered me because there was one seat and nothing else but white tiles on the floor, ceiling, and walls except for the door and the flush halogen light bulbs. In one corner there was a drain. The chair was not bolted down. The room was designed to be easily washed, like a bathroom or an abattoir.

They took my belt and shirt so that I would be unable to hang myself. They also took my shoes and socks. I had a singlet and my trousers, which, if I stood, I had to clutch or they would fall. They told me if I wanted to piss, I could do it in the corner, near the drain. I was allowed to open the tap to wash the urine away when finished.

The room was expertly soundproofed. Either that or nothing was happening outside. There was no guard, but there didn’t need to be. I had seen on the way in that the station was a fort. If I attempted to run, I would be leaving in several bullet-ridden pieces. The people who brought me in didn’t even condescend to threats.

A man came in without knocking.

He closed the door and stood leaning on it with his legs crossed.

“People die here,” he said. “We start to question them…they fall apart. They bleed and they die. I think it is the burden of guilt.” He paused. “People die here.”

I didn’t say anything. I waited for introductions.

“We’ve seen everything here. Everybody. Heads of state, prominent lawyers, captains of industry, musicians, coup plotters, fashion models, and people we just don’t like. Administrations come and go, but we remain the same. We abide. I’m telling you this so that you won’t waste time telling me how influential your friends are or how much money or political influence you have. It means as much and offers as much protection as the cum dripping from Lady Macbeth’s cunt. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He took two steps forward and stood with his feet shoulder width apart. He wore a black suit like the two who arrested me, but without a tie. The first two buttons of his white shirt were undone, and black curls of hair reached up toward his neck. He had a flat immobile face, a total absence of emotion. A face that gave nothing away. It was a bony face, skin pulled taut over every contour, veins crawling up his temple toward his hairline.

“Am I under arrest?”

“It would be better if you let me ask the questions.”

“I’m a British citizen.”

“Ki lo kan mi? Did you not hear me when I said your political influence was irrelevant here? Does it look to you like this is the kind of place that cares about the color of your passport? Or the number of your household gods?”

“Sorry.”

He reached inside his jacket and showed me a photograph of Church. “Do you know this man?”

They already knew I did if they’d been following me.

“Yes, his name is Churchill Okuta.”

“What is your connection with him?”

“We went to school together. He made my life hell in boarding school.”

“Which school?”

“Bishop Ajayi Crowther Secondary School.”

“Fee paying?”

“Yes.”

“And Okuta was in your class?”

“No, he was in form five when I was in form one. He was my senior.”

“How did you meet?”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been to boarding school, but form one students are fair game. The seniors more or less wait for you to arrive in the hostel. They grab you, and that means you’re ‘assigned’ to them. From that point on you’re like indentured or something until they get their GCEs or leave school. Such a senior becomes your School Father. It’s a warped version of the buddy system.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“So Okuta was your School Father?”

“Yes.”

“What was that like?”

“He flogged me with a belt for any reason that caught his fancy.”

“What kind of reasons?”

“Not making sure his water was warm enough before he took a bath in the morning, not cleaning up his corner in the dormitory to his satisfaction, not getting to the refectory on time to fetch his meal, not pressing his clothes, not sharing my confectionaries with him, anything really.”

“Why did you not report him?”

“You’ve obviously never lived in a boys’ hostel.”

“Answer the question.”

“If you report anyone to the teachers, you get labeled as a snitch. The rest of your life in school will be hell. My life was bad enough.”

“What do you know about Okuta’s parents?”

“His father was the vice chairman of a political party, I forget which. I don’t know anything about his mother.”

“Did your parents know each other?”

“I don’t know. I never saw them together and…well, I didn’t see much of my father. My aunt sent me to Crowther after my mother died.”

“What was he like, Okuta. As a boy?”

“Pretty much the same as he is now. Vicious, unrepentant, hard. The reason he left school is he took a boy called Ibitoye Omole into the latrines and beat him into unconsciousness. The boy caught pneumonia. Because he damaged Ibitoye’s larynx, the boy had to have a tracheotomy and talked funny for the rest of the time I knew him. Ibitoye said Churchill laughed all the way through.”

“So he was expelled?”

“Yes. From what I found out while cleaning his clothes Church’s father got him out of most trouble, but the Ibitoye affair was too serious. He almost died. I heard he had to go to remand school after that, but it was a rumor. The other rumor was that he went to prison.”

“Did he ever talk about politics?”

“Just the standard things that everybody used to talk about back then. Black September, Beirut, Regan bombing the Libyans, Patty Hearst, things like that. I didn’t understand most of that stuff because my interests ran to comics and cartoons and the girl next door.”

“Did you feel relief when he was expelled?”

“I did not have the time. Soon afterwards, the university strikes began, and Crowther was closed because of the violence in the city. I was soon shipped out of the country by my aunt.”

“And you recently returned.”

“Yes. I came into town originally for my aunt’s funeral.”

“This would be Blossom Kogi?”

“Yes. He was there. I saw him at the party. We caught up. I’ve met him a few times since.”

The man took another step forward. He was now within striking distance. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or pissed off.

“Do you know that he is wanted for treason?”

“No.” The truth. I didn’t know, but I was not surprised.

“Do you know he belongs to the Liberation Front?”

“Yes.”

“Do you belong to the Liberation Front?”

“No.”

“Do you belong to the Christian Army?”

“No.”

“What is your political affiliation?”

“I have none.”

“If you help one side or the other, if you assist anyone against the federal government, you have political affiliation.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Yes, you are. Your documents were signed by George Elemo, a man who was subsequently murdered. This happened soon after your main rival, also a known associate of Elemo, was gunned down in the bus terminus shootout. It seems you are a dangerous man to know. You are lucky the police have not made these connections and don’t even care to check. And that this chain of events does not interest us at this time.”

I swallowed.

“Do you own a gun?” he asked.

“No.”

He turned his head to one side but kept his eyes on me in a gesture that would be cute on a five year-old.

“You lie. Okuro. Liar.”

I said nothing. There was obviously very little this man did not know. Some of it must have been conjecture, and anything I said might have just filled in the blank spots for him. Better to shut the fuck up. Keep the brain empty to minimize body language revelations. Think of snow. Of static on TV.

“What little we don’t know is not important,” he said. “There is no point in lying to me. None.”

I noticed his upper lip had been repaired surgically. A slim scar traced his philtrum to the base of his nose. Cleft lip. Harelip. He might still feel deformed.

“I know who you work for,” he said. He leaned close to my ear. “I know and I do not care. Do you know what I care about?” I shook my head. His breath was stale and reeked of neglect and alcohol. “I care about information. Useful information. The kind of information that prevents market fires. Information you would be privy to as the anointed P.I. of two insurgent organizations. It might even earn you a stipend.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.” But I did.

He carefully replaced Churchill’s photo, and his hand came out of his pocket with a calling card. Telephone numbers. Two. One mobile, one satphone. No name.

“You call me when something interesting comes up.”

“Who are you?”

He straightened up. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

He walked toward the door and opened it.

He said, “For black eyes use a cold compress, although it should sort itself out in a few days.”

“I’m sorry, what? Why are you telling me this?”

He left the room and two other men came in.

They escorted me into hell.

They took me to the cells where I was beaten carefully by other prisoners for what seemed like hours. That kind of beating, you have to go to a mystical place to survive with your mind intact. The earth also was corrupt before God and the earth was filled with violence. Genesis chapter six, verse eleven. This verse kept playing in a recursive loop in my mind. Just playing over and over again. The earth was filled with violence. The blows no longer hurt. I was getting too many of them. I imagine my nervous system decided I wasn’t taking care of business and wanted a divorce.

The earth was filled with violence. My lungs were filled with blood.

I hoped I would not piss blood. I got enough kicks in the kidneys to make it likely.

Thirty-six babies had to die for me to be released from detention.

How it happened was, a brand of baby milk sold in Alcacia became contaminated with an exotic chemical—I forget which one. Within twenty-four hours seven babies had died. By day three the count rose to thirty, and the authorities swung into action and identified the culprit as Sweet Mother brand. Pressure from the head of state galvanized the secret police and they swooped down upon the board of directors of Carnacot PLC, the company responsible for producing the baby milk. They had more suspects than they could cram into the cells, and they released me and a few others without charge.

I spent forty-eight hours in detention. Despite my very expensive haircut, I looked like untreated sewage.

A few things that the potential victim of beatings should bear in mind: the most painful moments were the first few seconds after the beating started and twenty-four hours after the last blow landed home. It was not magic. Once the punches began, the body pumped the blood full of adrenalin and endorphins so that it could fight back and not feel pain. And run without getting tired or feeling muscle fatigue. A day later the healing process had begun. Any movement would dislodge newly-knitted body tissue with dolorous results.

With this in mind, I took a higher than recommended dose of codeine phosphate and paracetamol. I was in a haze of euphoria and terminal constipation when I checked my messages. Diane had called many times. Church. Abayomi three times. Someone who did not leave a message and from a withheld number. Abayomi again. Nothing from Nana. I was angry at her for…whatever. Why did she leave? What was she playing at? Whatever the fuck or wherever the fuck she was.

I had not been cleaning. The house was filthy, disorganized, and uninviting. No clean dishes in the kitchen, the bed unmade for days, a layer of dust over every surface. I felt and moved like an old man; no way was I cleaning anything.

I called Diane.

“You are a bad man,” said Diane. “You do not return telephone calls. I should not even be talking to you.”

“Send a car for me,” I mumbled.

“What? Why do you—”

“Just send the car, all right?”

The doctor Diane press-ganged was thorough. He came to her house with his own diagnostic equipment and invited me back to his private hospital for a little MRI or CT scan action, but I declined. He checked my vision, probed my skull, looked at my teeth, ultrasounded my abdomen, bent my limbs into strange shapes for the purpose of confirming or ruling out dislocations or fractures. He even stuck an uncomfortable cold finger into my rectum.

He made notes in tiny, illegible script on a pad. All the while Diane stood by the side of the bed, concern in the slight wrinkle on her brow.

“You like me,” I said.

“Not as much as you think,” she retorted, but she stroked my head where it wasn’t bumpy.

The doctor ignored us both. He received the results of tests from his assistant and nodded.

“There is no permanent damage done. You have a few malaria parasites in your blood, but that’s normal for the environment. You are a bit anemic, but it looks like this has been there for a while and is not due to the blood loss from physical trauma.”

I hadn’t been taking my proguanil pills. In all the excitement I kept forgetting. It was a wonder I didn’t have malaria.

“Take the pills. Get bed rest. You’ll be fine.” With that he was gone, paying scant attention to Diane’s effusive gratitude.

She closed the door to her room and locked it.

“Now, you,” she said.

“What?”

“Let me see how much I can ride you in this state without breaking you.”

“I knew him, you know,” said Diane.

We were talking about Abayomi Abayomi. She was lying face down on the bed, naked. Even after sex, after everything, the smoothness of her skin made me want to lick her all over. To lick her base, unsavory parts, the soles of her feet, between her toes, to lick between each caramel buttock.