21
As I neared my house, I saw a young man sitting outside my gate. When he spotted my Toyota limping along the road, he dashed to open the gate and let me pass. I parked in the bougainvillea-covered driveway while the kid closed it again. With a wide smile, he hurried to greet me.
“Hey, boss!”
He gave me a worried look.
“Are you all right? Did you get into an accident?”
I looked at my soaked and torn clothes and touched the painful bump on my forehead. I shrugged and turned my attention back to the kid. He was twenty at the most. He was wearing a filthy pair of jeans and a ripped T-shirt. But over his shoulder he was sporting a stylish gym bag—the kind that was popular with kids in Europe and the United States.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Modibo Touré. My uncle suggested that I come to see you.”
“Who’s your uncle?”
“He’s in charge of the morgue at Point G Hospital.”
“Ah!”
We were standing on a thick bed of bougainvillea petals. The storm had ripped the flowers off the vines.
“I remember him,” I said after a long pause. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“Well…” he replied, rubbing his chin. “He told me you were looking for a caretaker.”
“I don’t need anyone. Get out of here.”
The young man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can cook too.”
“Scram,” I told him.
The kid lowered his head and turned to walk away. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on him, but I had just lost Drissa. I knew it wasn’t the kid’s fault. In Africa, one man’s death is a living man’s opportunity. The gate creaked, and he was about to leave.
“Hey, Modibo!”
The boy froze and turned around.
“Can you read and write?”
“Yes, boss,” he said proudly, “I love books and—”
“Get the broom and sweep the driveway, please,” I said in a weary voice.
He flashed an enormous smile.
I went inside to take a piping-hot shower while Modibo swept with great delight. When I finished, my cell started vibrating on the living room bureau. Still drying my hair, I checked the screen.
Hamidou Kansaye.
I couldn’t possibly guess what the police commissioner wanted from me. I hesitated, then picked up.
“Tell me it wasn’t you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
He sighed.
“There are two bodies at Kalaban Koura. A couple of musclemen who were done up real bad.”
“What makes you think it was me?”
“I don’t know—the style. Plus some witnesses saw a vehicle at the scene that sounded a lot like yours. So please don’t bullshit me.”
I threw down the towel and lit a cigarillo.
“It was me,” I said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
There was a long silence at the other end.
“I would have liked the bullshit better.”
“You need to make up your mind.”
“What the hell am I going to do with you?”
“Stick me in jail, I guess.”
“Why’d you kill ’em?”
“I was driving along, minding my own business, and these guys got right on my ass. I’ve never been a fan of tailgaters.”
“Don’t fucking mess with me!”
“Those were the guys who chopped off Drissa’s hand.”
Kansaye was speechless for several seconds.
“So it’s over then? You got ’em?”
“Those men were only tools. They were no more important than the machete that sliced Drissa’s wrist. I want the decision men, the ones who killed Bahia Tebessi. I’m going to clean house and stop at nothing, unless you decide to arrest me.”
After a long silence I realized that Kansaye had ended the call. I shrugged and put the cell back on the bureau.