Dirty Feet by Edem Awumey

from Comala finally discovered signs of the absent one’s passage. He thought the phantoms might have informed the young man. But Sidi cut him off: “End of story. I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. Just keep in mind that Juan Preciado is still searching for the absent one, Pedro Paramo, according to the official records. Remember that he follows him, walking, running, riding a sorrel mare, a train, a bus, a taxi, in the hope of finding him as quickly as possible.”
    â€œThe young man in the book,” Sidi explained to him another day, “is Telemac. A nice name, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you like to have it? I’ll gladly give it to you . . . Take the name and forget everything else — the roads and the search that will wear you out.”
    His waking cut short the troubled night.

20
    OLIA’S MEMORIES were the only evidence that Sidi had come through Paris. She did not see him again after their photo session in the loft. Her strange model seemed to have been sucked into the frescos showing the ancient cities of West Africa. He had entered into the world of the characters in the mural.
    Askia went back to his cab, his runs. An old woman got in at the Madeleine. Shivering all over from the cold. Crumpled by the seasons and the years. She settled into her seat and he sensed that she was uneasy. She scrutinized the interior of the car, tested the seat, brushed her small, trembling hand over it. She finally told him where she wanted to go. After making the first turn he felt that she was still uneasy.
    Two minutes later she asked if he was from Onitsha, in Nigeria. When he did not answer immediately, she continued. “I’ve just returned from Onitsha. A photograph of a man who resembles you is going around there. He wears a turban. They say he is a taxi driver. Underneath the photo it says, ‘Do not get into a taxi driven by this man.’ The man is rumoured to be a ghost who picks people up to kill them in the seedy neighbourhoods on the outskirts of Onitsha. Uh, you’re not that man, are you?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œApparently he does no favours to the people who get into his taxi. He kills them. I was lucky — I didn’t come across him. Actually, I didn’t leave the hotel very often. Didn’t mix much with the local population. That’s what you have to do — not mix. Are you from Onitsha?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œIt seems that, despite the turban, the man is a voodoo priest. He offers up his clients as sacrifices. Cuts their throats! They say he is insane and bears a curse that he can’t get rid of. The curse is that he can’t keep from moving. He was condemned by some gods, Shango and Oya Igbalé, I think. That’s what they say in Onitsha. Sentenced by the gods to travel forever. So to put an end to the curse he must sacrifice people! Well, at least he doesn’t act that way out of wickedness. It’s because of the curse. Listen, you wouldn’t be that man?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œApparently he murders them in the basement of his house, which is full of sanctuaries, little nooks filled with the presence of spirits, altars with statuettes, massive rough terracotta busts, Legba statues, which I was told he’d had sent from Ouidah. It’s said the man pours his victims’ blood on the Legbas, the pyramid-shaped altar, the white of his boubou. Hey? You aren’t from Nigeria, are you? You’re not that man?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œI suppose the malediction has not ended, because he can’t keep from slitting the throats of those poor people. He runs around making one sacrifice after another because he wants to stop running . . . Hey, are you a real taxi driver? You don’t do these runs because you want to stop running? You’re not him? You haven’t changed cities?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œThis is where I