scrambled for his rifle as she hurried by. He hollered at her in the pidgin English that passed for a common language among those outsiders who couldn't speak Hausa or French. "Hoi! Wetin dey for?"
She kept walking. Heard him slide a round of ammunition into the chamber. A junior soldier, no doubt, given the rifle he was using. Not an AK-47 but a single bolt action, the kind her brothers had patrolled their cattle herds with.
The soldier's voice grew more frantic as she walked away.
"Wetin dey for? Get'in dis moto!"
But she kept walking. She heard grumbled voices of other soldiers complaining and then the sudden sound of a vehicle approaching, braking hard—and a gunshot. She flinched, almost dropping the jerry can. With her arms held out, she turned slowly around, hoping it was only a warning.
They had already forgotten her. A large diesel tanker truck was slowing down, grinding gears as it came to a jerky stop at the barrier. The other soldiers woke and tumbled out, wanting to make sure they got their share. Not a gunshot, an engine backfiring. And a modern form of ambush trading. She spotted the senior officer striding up to the driver's window, an AK-47 in hand, authority in every step, and she turned, hurried on.
Moments later the truck rumbled past, draping her in a chalky cloud. She was once again invisible.
CHAPTER 34
My Dear Henry,
Regarding the transfer of funds into your account.
I'm afraid there's been a problem...
CHAPTER 35
As she walked into Zaria, the traffic increased, with battered cars and wheezing buses funnelling into the city. On the outskirts, she made a hesitant foray into a motor park that was crowded under an overpass. Hawkers with wares stacked high on their heads were moving among the trucks and long-haul buses, singing out their offers, haggling with passengers.
She had to be mindful of former almajiri, the street boys who roamed the motor parks and flyovers of the north in feral packs. The youngest sons of indigent families, the almajiri began as beggars and foragers, but often grew into full-time thieves and freelance thugs. By the time they reached their teens, many of them were already part of an ad-hoc army-for-hire. Extortionists and vote-rigging politicians alike relied on them. And no sooner had the fear begun to rise inside her than she spotted several of these former
almajiri prowling the perimeter, planks with nails driven through resting casually on their shoulders. She ducked away before they noticed her, choosing the busiest crowds of people to squeeze through, fighting down the panic. Street boys were territorial, and a bustling motor park like this would be clearly demarcated, right down to specific bus stalls and taxi stands.
She needed to get deeper into the city.
The main road ran through the Sabon Gari, "the strangers' quarters," a sprawling neighbourhood that housed the city's motley assortment of outsiders and unbelievers: southern Christians and members of smaller pagan clans, Yoruba traders and Tiv day labourers.
Rumours of dark magic haunted the Sabon Gari, juju spells that could make one mad with blood lust. In the Sabon Gari, the stalls served millet wine and back-tavern gin with a brazen disregard for sha'ria strictures. Banners beside the doors advertised Gulder Beer and Star Ale with hand-painted signs above that read MERRY
YOURSELF GUEST SPOT! and REFRESH YOURSELF COOL SPOT. Codes that even she could crack. Alcohol, although banned in the sha'ria states, was tolerated in the Sabon Gari enclaves. Though she was very much a stranger, she didn't belong in the Sabon Gari, and she knew it.
It was now late afternoon, and traffic was backed up, drivers blaring their horns in impotent anger. Queen Elizabeth II Road curved past the sha'ria courthouse, and her chest tightened as she went by, fighting the urge to run.
Directly across from the courts was the raucous clatter of a
She kept walking. Heard him slide a round of ammunition into the chamber. A junior soldier, no doubt, given the rifle he was using. Not an AK-47 but a single bolt action, the kind her brothers had patrolled their cattle herds with.
The soldier's voice grew more frantic as she walked away.
"Wetin dey for? Get'in dis moto!"
But she kept walking. She heard grumbled voices of other soldiers complaining and then the sudden sound of a vehicle approaching, braking hard—and a gunshot. She flinched, almost dropping the jerry can. With her arms held out, she turned slowly around, hoping it was only a warning.
They had already forgotten her. A large diesel tanker truck was slowing down, grinding gears as it came to a jerky stop at the barrier. The other soldiers woke and tumbled out, wanting to make sure they got their share. Not a gunshot, an engine backfiring. And a modern form of ambush trading. She spotted the senior officer striding up to the driver's window, an AK-47 in hand, authority in every step, and she turned, hurried on.
Moments later the truck rumbled past, draping her in a chalky cloud. She was once again invisible.
CHAPTER 34
My Dear Henry,
Regarding the transfer of funds into your account.
I'm afraid there's been a problem...
CHAPTER 35
As she walked into Zaria, the traffic increased, with battered cars and wheezing buses funnelling into the city. On the outskirts, she made a hesitant foray into a motor park that was crowded under an overpass. Hawkers with wares stacked high on their heads were moving among the trucks and long-haul buses, singing out their offers, haggling with passengers.
She had to be mindful of former almajiri, the street boys who roamed the motor parks and flyovers of the north in feral packs. The youngest sons of indigent families, the almajiri began as beggars and foragers, but often grew into full-time thieves and freelance thugs. By the time they reached their teens, many of them were already part of an ad-hoc army-for-hire. Extortionists and vote-rigging politicians alike relied on them. And no sooner had the fear begun to rise inside her than she spotted several of these former
almajiri prowling the perimeter, planks with nails driven through resting casually on their shoulders. She ducked away before they noticed her, choosing the busiest crowds of people to squeeze through, fighting down the panic. Street boys were territorial, and a bustling motor park like this would be clearly demarcated, right down to specific bus stalls and taxi stands.
She needed to get deeper into the city.
The main road ran through the Sabon Gari, "the strangers' quarters," a sprawling neighbourhood that housed the city's motley assortment of outsiders and unbelievers: southern Christians and members of smaller pagan clans, Yoruba traders and Tiv day labourers.
Rumours of dark magic haunted the Sabon Gari, juju spells that could make one mad with blood lust. In the Sabon Gari, the stalls served millet wine and back-tavern gin with a brazen disregard for sha'ria strictures. Banners beside the doors advertised Gulder Beer and Star Ale with hand-painted signs above that read MERRY
YOURSELF GUEST SPOT! and REFRESH YOURSELF COOL SPOT. Codes that even she could crack. Alcohol, although banned in the sha'ria states, was tolerated in the Sabon Gari enclaves. Though she was very much a stranger, she didn't belong in the Sabon Gari, and she knew it.
It was now late afternoon, and traffic was backed up, drivers blaring their horns in impotent anger. Queen Elizabeth II Road curved past the sha'ria courthouse, and her chest tightened as she went by, fighting the urge to run.
Directly across from the courts was the raucous clatter of a
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