watered as I remembered my own experience of the savory snack. “Thirteen thirty-two exactly? Not thirty-one or thirty-four.”
“Thirteen thirty-two. I checked.”
“I see. Did Pa Busi…the subject, did he seem tense? Fearful?”
“Negative. He was calm, cheerful, looking forward to engaging the rebel leadership in dialogue. He started a discussion with Wallace, but the rest of us remained silent as per protocol.”
“What did they discuss?”
“Philosophy. Marcus Aurelius’
The Meditations
. Bertrand Russell. Others whom I cannot remember.”
“Was it a heated discussion?”
“Negative. There was a lot of laughter. Special Agent Wallace was diplomatic and obsequious.”
Which he seemed not to approve of. I wondered what else he thought of Wallace.
“Had you known Special Agent Wallace for long?”
“Negative. I met him for the first time three days prior. He was involved in selecting the personnel for the assignment.”
“Did he mention why he selected you?”
“Negative.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He was a competent—”
“Personally. What did you think of him personally?”
His face crumpled up, and he appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy. Maybe he didn’t want to break discipline and speak against a superior officer.
“Disregard the question. What happened next on the way to the PCA camp?”
“At sixteen hundred hours Agent Alao lost control of the vehicle and veered off the road into a ditch.”
“Sixteen hundred hours on the dot?”
“Affirmative.”
There was no mention of that in the official report which, to me, was now taking on the appearance of a whitewash. “Continue.”
“There were two gun reports. One high-velocity rifle, one handgun. The handgun was inside the vehicle, but I did not observe who fired because of the explosion. I can tell you that the subject was hit on the trunk. This ends the report.”
“No, it does not end the report. What—”
“Why are you lawyering me?”
“What?”
“I am barely ready for the outside world. There is nothing left of me.”
“Afolabi, are you saying your people returned fire when you heard the shot?”
“Negative. I am saying one of the persons inside the jeep shot the subject.”
Nana was sitting in the car, leg on the dashboard but otherwise pretty much how I left her. Her face was neutral, but that meant nothing.
“You all right there?”
“I’m fine.”
“Were you bored?”
“Hardly. I made up a one-act play and populated the set with well-known thespians after vigorous casting couch sex. It was diverting.”
“I’m happy for you. Shall we go?”
Chapter Twelve
The car in front had a strange trailer. The boot was open and a man sat inside. His arms and half of his upper torso extended out of the boot of the car and held on to the two arms of a dark green wheelbarrow. Inside the wheelbarrow sat three children, all facing me. They stared with expressionless faces. The man in the boot stared as well, sweating, muscles straining with the undulations of the road. The car itself was sardine-packed with people and rode low with the excess weight. I thought the tires would give out any minute, but they didn’t. Given the surfacing of the road, the barrow was surprisingly stable.
Nana drove in silence this time, but not because of any tense argument situation. This was one of those companionable silences that follow a long conversation in which all participants agree. It was a basking silence.
The second man to survive the bombing of Enoch Olubusi was Idris Wallace.
His address was listed in the files handed to me, but, when I called the number, it had been disconnected and the current occupants of his house had never heard of him. They had moved in a year after Pa Busi died. Just to be sure I spent two weeks outside the property watching the comings and goings. Nothing. I looked for him the old-fashioned way.
There were seventeen “Idris Wallace” entries in the Ede telephone book.
“Thirteen thirty-two. I checked.”
“I see. Did Pa Busi…the subject, did he seem tense? Fearful?”
“Negative. He was calm, cheerful, looking forward to engaging the rebel leadership in dialogue. He started a discussion with Wallace, but the rest of us remained silent as per protocol.”
“What did they discuss?”
“Philosophy. Marcus Aurelius’
The Meditations
. Bertrand Russell. Others whom I cannot remember.”
“Was it a heated discussion?”
“Negative. There was a lot of laughter. Special Agent Wallace was diplomatic and obsequious.”
Which he seemed not to approve of. I wondered what else he thought of Wallace.
“Had you known Special Agent Wallace for long?”
“Negative. I met him for the first time three days prior. He was involved in selecting the personnel for the assignment.”
“Did he mention why he selected you?”
“Negative.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He was a competent—”
“Personally. What did you think of him personally?”
His face crumpled up, and he appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy. Maybe he didn’t want to break discipline and speak against a superior officer.
“Disregard the question. What happened next on the way to the PCA camp?”
“At sixteen hundred hours Agent Alao lost control of the vehicle and veered off the road into a ditch.”
“Sixteen hundred hours on the dot?”
“Affirmative.”
There was no mention of that in the official report which, to me, was now taking on the appearance of a whitewash. “Continue.”
“There were two gun reports. One high-velocity rifle, one handgun. The handgun was inside the vehicle, but I did not observe who fired because of the explosion. I can tell you that the subject was hit on the trunk. This ends the report.”
“No, it does not end the report. What—”
“Why are you lawyering me?”
“What?”
“I am barely ready for the outside world. There is nothing left of me.”
“Afolabi, are you saying your people returned fire when you heard the shot?”
“Negative. I am saying one of the persons inside the jeep shot the subject.”
Nana was sitting in the car, leg on the dashboard but otherwise pretty much how I left her. Her face was neutral, but that meant nothing.
“You all right there?”
“I’m fine.”
“Were you bored?”
“Hardly. I made up a one-act play and populated the set with well-known thespians after vigorous casting couch sex. It was diverting.”
“I’m happy for you. Shall we go?”
Chapter Twelve
The car in front had a strange trailer. The boot was open and a man sat inside. His arms and half of his upper torso extended out of the boot of the car and held on to the two arms of a dark green wheelbarrow. Inside the wheelbarrow sat three children, all facing me. They stared with expressionless faces. The man in the boot stared as well, sweating, muscles straining with the undulations of the road. The car itself was sardine-packed with people and rode low with the excess weight. I thought the tires would give out any minute, but they didn’t. Given the surfacing of the road, the barrow was surprisingly stable.
Nana drove in silence this time, but not because of any tense argument situation. This was one of those companionable silences that follow a long conversation in which all participants agree. It was a basking silence.
The second man to survive the bombing of Enoch Olubusi was Idris Wallace.
His address was listed in the files handed to me, but, when I called the number, it had been disconnected and the current occupants of his house had never heard of him. They had moved in a year after Pa Busi died. Just to be sure I spent two weeks outside the property watching the comings and goings. Nothing. I looked for him the old-fashioned way.
There were seventeen “Idris Wallace” entries in the Ede telephone book.
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