If I made the search wider, there were five “Wallace, I.” entries and ten other uses of the surname only. By posing as a solicitor trying to locate Idris for some disability money coming to him, I was able to eliminate all but three after making hundreds of telephone calls and dozens of house calls. People in Alcacia do not like strangers telephoning them or showing up on their doorsteps is what I learned from this exercise.
“If Wallace was sitting beside Pa Busi when the bomb went off, how did he survive?” Nana asked.
“I have no idea. Apparently these things happen. He was severely injured but never on the critical list, it seems.” I thought of the twisted wreck of the jeep again and wondered.
Idris Wallace did not live at the address we were on our way to. Aaron Wallace, motor mechanic, father of five and self-professed first cousin to Idris, did. This had happened before. Once a person got a whiff of money, they tried to fake being Wallace or being related to him. I had to check each one out to be sure, though.
“This is the street,” said Nana.
“Drive through to the next one and park, then I’ll continue on foot. Stay in the car until I call you.”
She mock saluted. “You’ve become more and more sexist since arriving here, Weston.”
“I’m sorry. This country’s a bad influence. I’ll be better.” I went to see Aaron.
Aaron’s children looked like small clones of him and clustered around his chair, listening to our conversation and whispering to each other. They were all boys and seemed to be the same age, which was about seven or eight, no older than nine. He himself greeted me in a white singlet and khaki shorts. His red flip-flops slapped against the floor as he walked.
“Do you want a drink, Mr. Kogi?”
“I’ve just eaten, thank you.”
“Nonsense. Let me offer you a soft drink.” He gestured to one of the children who brought me a frosty bottle of Coke and a glass and placed it on a nested table beside my seat.
“Thank you.” I took a sip to be polite. “You say you know where Idris is?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Aaron nodded. He reached for a box folder beside him. He had spindly arms and a gaunt look with a tendency to talk and move slowly. He was about forty-five or fifty, and there was no sign of a wife. His house was barely furnished and had a smell that I didn’t like.
“I want the disability allowance,” said Aaron. “For that you can have this box.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Proof of what I will tell you after you pay me for it.”
“The money was for Idris. If he’s dead—”
“Mr. Kogi, let me be plain with you. I know you are not here peddling a disability allowance. If that were the case you would have found someone to impersonate him and split the money. I don’t even believe your real name is Kogi. Now, all I’m asking is some money for me and my boys in exchange for information on my cousin. Surely, this is fair?” His upper incisors were cracked, and I wondered how it was that they didn’t cut his tongue when he spoke in his gradual Yoruba.
“One hundred dollars. If I like what you have, another hundred afterwards.”
“No, sir. Two hundred now, two hundred afterwards, whether you like it or not. But you will like what I have to say, sure banker.” He cracked a rare smile. One of the boys scratched his own belly, showing such indolence that I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with him, neurologically.
I counted off the bills and handed them to him. He carefully verified the amount then slowly put the cash in his pocket. He gave me the box and began to speak.
“Idris was my cousin on my father’s side, first cousin, brothers like. He was the most successful member of our clan and, as a result, the one we all went to. When he went into law enforcement, everybody derided him, and his mother wondered—”
“Mr. Wallace, I don’t want a biography. I want to know what happened to him.”
“Yes,
“If Wallace was sitting beside Pa Busi when the bomb went off, how did he survive?” Nana asked.
“I have no idea. Apparently these things happen. He was severely injured but never on the critical list, it seems.” I thought of the twisted wreck of the jeep again and wondered.
Idris Wallace did not live at the address we were on our way to. Aaron Wallace, motor mechanic, father of five and self-professed first cousin to Idris, did. This had happened before. Once a person got a whiff of money, they tried to fake being Wallace or being related to him. I had to check each one out to be sure, though.
“This is the street,” said Nana.
“Drive through to the next one and park, then I’ll continue on foot. Stay in the car until I call you.”
She mock saluted. “You’ve become more and more sexist since arriving here, Weston.”
“I’m sorry. This country’s a bad influence. I’ll be better.” I went to see Aaron.
Aaron’s children looked like small clones of him and clustered around his chair, listening to our conversation and whispering to each other. They were all boys and seemed to be the same age, which was about seven or eight, no older than nine. He himself greeted me in a white singlet and khaki shorts. His red flip-flops slapped against the floor as he walked.
“Do you want a drink, Mr. Kogi?”
“I’ve just eaten, thank you.”
“Nonsense. Let me offer you a soft drink.” He gestured to one of the children who brought me a frosty bottle of Coke and a glass and placed it on a nested table beside my seat.
“Thank you.” I took a sip to be polite. “You say you know where Idris is?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Aaron nodded. He reached for a box folder beside him. He had spindly arms and a gaunt look with a tendency to talk and move slowly. He was about forty-five or fifty, and there was no sign of a wife. His house was barely furnished and had a smell that I didn’t like.
“I want the disability allowance,” said Aaron. “For that you can have this box.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Proof of what I will tell you after you pay me for it.”
“The money was for Idris. If he’s dead—”
“Mr. Kogi, let me be plain with you. I know you are not here peddling a disability allowance. If that were the case you would have found someone to impersonate him and split the money. I don’t even believe your real name is Kogi. Now, all I’m asking is some money for me and my boys in exchange for information on my cousin. Surely, this is fair?” His upper incisors were cracked, and I wondered how it was that they didn’t cut his tongue when he spoke in his gradual Yoruba.
“One hundred dollars. If I like what you have, another hundred afterwards.”
“No, sir. Two hundred now, two hundred afterwards, whether you like it or not. But you will like what I have to say, sure banker.” He cracked a rare smile. One of the boys scratched his own belly, showing such indolence that I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with him, neurologically.
I counted off the bills and handed them to him. He carefully verified the amount then slowly put the cash in his pocket. He gave me the box and began to speak.
“Idris was my cousin on my father’s side, first cousin, brothers like. He was the most successful member of our clan and, as a result, the one we all went to. When he went into law enforcement, everybody derided him, and his mother wondered—”
“Mr. Wallace, I don’t want a biography. I want to know what happened to him.”
“Yes,
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