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
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
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