43

“You have a gift.” From behind his desk, the police commissioner was giving me a weary look.

“Thank you, sir.”

“A gift for attracting trouble! You’re like a lightning rod in a shit storm of problems.”

“You know how unaffected I am by compliments, but now you’re starting to embarrass me, sir.”

He banged on the desk, making his papers fly and a jar of pens and pencils spill over. “That’s enough sarcasm!”

I stayed quiet while Kansaye looked at me with rage.

“And enough with the ‘sirs,’” he said, not quite as loud. “Do you know how many hassles you create for me?”

“I have a vague idea.”

“A vague idea, eh?”

He got up and began pacing.

“Just this morning, the prime minister’s chief of staff called me into his office. He bombarded me with questions about you.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“What do you think? Your little trip to the North upset a lot of people in Bamako. Powerful people. They’re holding me accountable.”

“So things have gotten to that point in this country.”

“Don’t be naïve,” he said, sitting down again. “Your white side still overpowers your black side. You don’t understand yet that countries can be bought. They’ve already bought Bissau and Conakry. It won’t be long before they take Bamako and Dakar too. Everything’s for sale here. And they’ve got a lot of money.”

“I’ve got pictures—a cargo plane delivering several tons of cocaine.”

“Who does that concern?”

“You, perhaps?”

He pretended to ignore the insinuation.

“You’re deluding yourself, Warakalan. I am sitting on an ejection seat. One serious threat, and they’ll heave me out of here. And you’ll lose your last supporter in this damned country.”

We were silent for several seconds.

“Want some tea?” he suddenly asked.

I nodded. The commissioner made a call on his intercom.

“The minister of the interior wants us to resolve your nationality problem,” he said while we waited.

“My nationality problem? I don’t understand.” Actually, I understood perfectly.

“Stop playing dumb! If suspicion arises over your Malian citizenship, he could—”

“Send me back to France.”

“Where you’d spend the rest of your life behind bars,” Kansaye said. “That would relieve a lot of people in Bamako.”

“Are those people actually that powerful?” I asked.

“Even more than that.”

We drank our tea in silence, both of us immersed in our anxious thoughts.

Disheartened, I left Kansaye’s office. I had rebuilt the semblance of a life here, but now I was facing the possibility of having to abandon it. I could leave Mali—I was sure of that—with no regrets. But there was no way I’d rot in some French prison, sharing a tiny cell with two other guys with stinky feet and stupid faces. Just picturing myself searching desperately for a corner of gray sky through a window with bars was enough to make me pack my bags and flee to another country where I’d never be found. I’ve always been allergic to prisons. When I was a cop working narcotics, I’d sometimes have to question an inmate. Every time, I’d try to get out of going, but I couldn’t always find someone else to fill in for me. As soon as the guards closed the iron doors behind me, my stomach would start churning. All I wanted to do was claw my way out of there. No, I definitely wouldn’t be going to the slammer. I’d die first.