Wizard of the Crow (59 page)

“Thank you. You have straightened me out,” Tajirika said.

“No need for
thanks, this or that.
I am only doing what comes naturally to me. Besides, this is a very serious matter, and the security of the land is the collective responsibility of all who love the Buler and his works. Tajirika, I will personally let the Buler know that he is very fortunate to have exemplary citizens like you. Now, Titus, listen very carefully. Just now you talked about my straightening you out. Whose summary is this? Does it represent exactly what you want to confess before the authorized government witnesses?”

“Of course,” said Tajirika. “What is in the summary are my exact words.”

“Did I induce you with threats of violence or any other form of coercion or seduction, like drinks?”

“Oh, no, although just now I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

“In a while, Titus. Business first. Celebration afterward. Now, I want you to remember everything in the summary. You will make two confessions. The first will deal with the question of queuing and Machokali’s connection with its origin and development. If I were
you I would leave out the stuff about the Wizard of the Crow coming to your office and looking for work, because there is no evidence linking Machokali and the sorcerer. What you should stress mostly is Machokali’s insistence on your pretending to be ill to give the queues a chance to spread. This particular confession will go to the chairman of the Commission of Inquiry into the Queuing Mania. The other confession will deal with the connection between Machokali’s ambition and your malady, how in fact your malady embodied his lust for the highest office in the land, confirmed by his instructions to you to set up his own intelligence network. This confession will be
top secret, a state secret,
reserved only for the eyes of the Ruler—well, and mine, too.”

Tajirika was most pleased that his confession would be a
top secret,
a
state secret.
His face brightened and his eyes were radiant.

“One more thing. I will not be with you when you make these confessions. I don’t want you to ever say that I had somehow coerced you into making them. But know that as soon as you have made and signed your statements, you will be free to go. And I assure you that if your confessions conform to the summary, the Ruler will never forget the work you have done for the State. Your future is secure, Mr. Tajirika. He might even consider you for a ministerial post. Maybe not a full cabinet post, but a junior rank.”

“Me, a minister? A good joke, but thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Tajirika said with a touch of emotion in his voice.

“Don’t mention it,” Sikiokuu said. “The pleasure is mine. As to your confessions, my men, Njoya and Kahiga, are at your disposal. You can trust them. They are professional editors and witnesses.”

A few hours later, Tajirika’s extraordinary admissions were locked in a security safe in Sikiokuu’s office. Sikiokuu stroked his earlobes, looking at the safe, savoring his victory over his nemesis. In there, he had more than enough dirt on Machokali.

Tajirika was brought to him and Sikiokuu escorted him back to the inner chamber. He poured scotch into two glasses.

“Titus.
A toast. To your health. Cheers.”

“Cheers
and thanks a million, Silver,” said Tajirika, his face aglow, excited at the company.

They drank like the best of social friends, chatting a thousand irrelevancies.

“Can I guess the first thing you are going to do once you get home?” Sikiokuu said. “Jump on your wife. I can only imagine how much you must have missed
it.
That’s what you are thinking about.
Admit it,
Titus.”

“You are right. I am thinking of jumping on her, but not in the way you are imagining.”

“Titus, are there that many ways of jumping on a woman?” said Sikiokuu, laughing. “Maybe I am too conservative. I have three wives, not to mention several
mistresses,
and believe me, I have never departed from the MR”

“MP?” Tajirika asked, wondering what being a member of Parliament had to do with wives and mistresses.

“Missionary position,” Sikiokuu said, laughing.

“Oh, I did not even have that in mind. I was thinking of lashes on her body”

“Why would you want to do that on the very first hour of your homecoming?”

“Because of her involvement with the women,” he said.

“Women? Is your wife that kind? I thought you said …”

“If it was just a matter of tumbling into bed with another woman,” Tajirika said, “I would call it a private act, her own business. But sitting there in public while those women danced for her? That’s a different matter. Had you not been so kind as to bring me those pictures, I might never have known the truth.”

Lost in his victories, Sikiokuu had forgotten all about the pictures. But now he recalled them with alarm. If Tajirika beat Vinjinia or even quarreled with her about them, the truth might come out before the confessions had played their assigned role.

“By the way, Titus, I am glad that you have mentioned those pictures, because you have reminded me of something I was going to tell you before you leave for home, but I might as well tell you now. When
you get home, don’t say a word about those pictures or even about the women dancers. I want you to listen to Vinjinia’s story, or rather to her lies. But you must not touch her before we have investigated every aspect of this affair.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I cannot beat my wife without your permission?” Tajirika asked defiantly.

“I am not asking you to retire from wife beating. How can I ask you to give up what defines modern Aburirian manhood?”

“Okay a temporary truce, but …” said Tajirika.

“I will tell you what. Let’s establish a hotline. Anytime you feel the urge to beat your wife, please call me and I will tell you if the time is ripe.”

“Okay!” said Tajirika, pleased with the idea of a hotline.

Early in the evening of the same day, Sikiokuu sent Njoya and Kahiga for the Wizard of the Crow. He had just had one success—why not go for a second? Strike while the iron is hot, he said to himself, whistling a tune of satisfaction and expectation.

What hit the Wizard of the Crow, on entering Sikiokuu’s office, was a strong odor of decomposing flesh. He was reminded of Tajirika and his bucket of shit. Tajirika must have been here, he thought, and hence the scent of prison all around the chamber. He felt a little dizzy as he tried to fight the stench and steady himself by looking around the room, resting his glance, for a moment, on the photographic portrait of the Ruler on the table. Why a towel on the picture, he wondered idly. Then he saw some spots on the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth of the image, and for a few seconds he had a strange sensation of seeing, or thinking that he saw, a thick darkish liquid oozing out of them. Sikiokuu saw what he was looking at.

“A little intimidating, isn’t it,” Sikiokuu said as he casually picked up the portrait, glanced at it ever so briefly, then dusted it fondly, almost tenderly, with the towel before placing it on top of a drawer
at the corner. “Even when he goes away, he leaves a bit of his power behind, and you can feel it even in his pictures. A kind of stigmata,” he added with a smile that took in the Wizard of the Crow and the two escorts, Njoya and Kahiga, who stood by the door. “Please leave us alone,” he said to his two loyal lieutenants. “I want to have a private conversation with,
well,
my guest,” he added, gesturing for the Wizard of the Crow to sit down.

An awkward silence followed the departure of Njoya and Kahiga. The two men sized each other up. Sikiokuu then leaned forward, lowered his voice a little, and tried to strike a note of intimacy.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had an emergency on my hands. Ah! The burden we ministers have to carry! Your fame has reached the ears of the government. Or, more accurately, me. But let me confess. When I heard of the Wizard of the Crow, I thought of an old man, of seventy years or more, supporting himself with a walking stick, a fly whisk in hand, a tobacco pouch hanging from his neck. And now, behold! A young man in a designer suit. A
modern sorcerer, eh? Or is it postmodern?”

“Postcolonial,”
the Wizard of the Crow added.

“A
postcolonial
witch doctor?” Sikiokuu added, laughing out loud. “A sorcerer with a sense of humor, too? They tell me that there is no manual for sorcery you have not devoured. By the way, do you know what most attracted me about you? Your caution. When I heard that you did not want your clients and neighbors to know that you might be involved in a criminal investigation and you wanted to approach our cooperation with the utmost secrecy, I sat back and said to myself: Now here is a man who knows what is what in this world, and the moment word gets around that he is helping us catch criminals, he would cease to be of much use to us because possible suspects would shy away from him and his shrine. That’s why, to bring you here, I sent my lieutenants in civilian clothes and in a Mercedes-Benz. Have you ever heard of any other sorcerer treated with this kind of consideration by a cabinet minister? Nothing but respect for you. I wanted us to do business last night but, alas, I was caught up in some important matters of State. Believe me when I say that a beggar in the streets has more peace of mind than a cabinet minister …”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown?”

“Precisely,” said Sikiokuu. “Sometimes we don’t even sleep. But
do not let me burden you with our problems. Let me tell you what I am thinking about our agenda for the night, eh? As soon as you finish what you are here to do, we will whisk you back to your shrine under the cover of darkness. None of your neighbors will be the wiser; it will be as if you had never left—you have my word that the matter will remain within my trusted circle of us three. This does not mean that the State will ever forget you. Oh, no. The government has many ways of showing its gratitude to people like you. The most important thing is for you to do your work well and help us apprehend the criminal, Nyawlra.”

“I don’t quite get what you are asking me to do,” the Wizard of the Crow admitted.

“We have looked high and low for Nyawlra, all over the country, and have not come up with the tiniest trace of her shadow. We want you to use your power of divination, of prophecy, whatever, all your powers of sorcery to tell us two things. Is Nyawlra alive or dead? If she is dead, where is she buried? If she is alive, where is her lair?”

“Excuse me,” the Wizard of the Crow said. “It seems as if your men failed to understand what I told them. I thought I’d been clear, but I was wrong. I told your people that my task is to capture daemons that afflict the mind or body; theirs is to capture felons.”

“Don’t take the police for fools. They know when one is serious and when one is not. They know that words have surface and deeper meanings. The habit of taking bribes has taught them the language of parables. When a policeman wants a bribe he does not say, Give me a bribe; he says, It is very cold today, even if it is as hot as hell. And you are supposed to say, Why don’t you take this Burl note for tea? So, although you did not say yes directly, the police knew that your
no
was a kind of
yes.
You see, they recognized that you knew what they know: that even walls can have ears.
You are a very cautious person, Mr. Witch Doctor,
a wise man. Haste is the mother of failure. But while caution is good, too much of it can court danger. Believe me, my friend, whatever you tell me, it will stay within these walls. Nobody will ever know that you or any witch doctor helped us capture Nyawlra.”

“Mr. Minister,” cried out the Wizard of the Crow. “Let us try this again: my powers are for protecting the laws that govern the body and
the soul, and yours are to protect the laws that govern society. I look not for those that break the law of society but those that destroy the law of life. I fight illnesses; you fight criminals.”

Sikiokuu felt his hope fall and his anger mount and, with a tremendous effort of will, prevented himself from screaming abuses at the audacious fellow.

“Mr. Wizard of the Crow, you may be the greatest sorcerer in the world, but you are not above the law. The law says that every citizen, be he a sorcerer or a priest or whatever, must help the State in apprehending criminals. If one sees a person committing a crime and one does not report the person to the authorities, then one is also committing the crime.”

“What I’m telling you is the truth. I don’t have the power that you are ascribing to me,” the Wizard of the Crow said, his raised voice hinting at defiance.

Sikiokuu stood up abruptly and walked about, occasionally pulling and pinching his ears nervously, as if he could not believe that he, a senior cabinet minister in the government of the Ruler, now in charge of the country, could be sitting in his office at night arguing with a sorcerer about the use of witchcraft. He calmed himself and sat down, intent again on achieving what he had set out to get.

“Okay, let’s accept that there was indeed a
misunderstanding.
So what? Let’s forget the past. What’s done is done. No sense crying over spilled milk. Isn’t that the saying? I need to ask you a question or two just to clarify the situation. You are not refusing to help the government, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay just as I thought. You are a power to reckon with, but you also know how to reckon with power. Now look into your mirror and tell me what you see in there.”

“I did not bring my mirror,” said the Wizard of the Crow.

“Why the hell did you come here?” exploded Sikiokuu, no longer trying to cover up his chagrin. “To waste my time, or what? My instructions that you bring your mirror were loud and clear.”

The Wizard of the Crow was about to remind the minister that his presence here had been forced, but he thought the better of it. Nyawlra’s life, after all, hung in the balance. If the minister were to keep sending his men to the shrine every other day, Nyawlra would
continually be in danger. So instead of open defiance, he employed a different tactic.