silence. “Who noknow, go know.” He took a deep breath. It was a popular quote from a Fela Kuti song.
O asked Jamal to stand up and he placed his gun over Jamal’s heart. Jamal’s eyes went vacant. O pulled the trigger. His gun clicked—it was empty. Jamal stood there waiting as O reloaded while Muddy and I watched, transfixed.
“Jamal, just go—walk out now,” O whispered. Jamal was shaking and crying. He grabbed his jacket, put it on, and, out of habit, straightened it out and left.
I could tell Muddy was as confused as I was by the way she was looking at O, who was now kneeling beside Mary, cradling her body in his arms.
He let out a wail. Muddy knelt down and held him. They rocked back and forth. O’s wailing was getting quieter and quieter, as if he were calling back the rage into him. Then he was still, very quiet, the kind of quiet between a lightning strike and thunder. He stood up and pulled Muddy to her feet.
“We have to bury my wife,” he said to us.
Sahara and his handlers, whoever they were, didn’t know what had just happened. They had unhinged O. The duality in which evil and good were compartmentalized in him was over. O had once told me that we were good men who did bad things. Mary had been all that kept him in our side of the world.
I didn’t know why O had let Jamal live, but this much I knew, O was going to kill Sahara or die trying. I held on to my secret, knowing there was no way of telling it—that if I’d shot the driver, we would have captured Sahara, and if we had him, we would have some answers and O could have his vengeance. I had made the wrong call trying to define myself against my friend. Then again, don’t we work with who we are? I wrestled back and forth … silently.
Mary, even though she was dead, was still bleeding from her head wound. O went to the bathroom, returned with some bandages, and carefully wrapped them around Mary’s head. I remembered him weaving her hair as he chatted away. I felt a dull knife tear into my chest and I knew that I too would go to places I had never been, to bring Sahara to justice.
Some people completely break down in a crisis while others take command of the situation. O was the latter—from the moment he pulled Muddy to her feet, he took charge. It was his way of coping, and, whether it was good or bad for him, or for us, it made things easier. In any case, had Muddy or I taken charge, we would still have been coming to him for instructions—we had never lost a loved one in Kenya.
I looked on as Muddy drew open the curtains, letting in the afternoon light and air, which took some sting out of the gunpowder, death, and pain in the room. O had called Hassan, and he was on his way with more cops and ambulances. I called Jason—three of the four white men from the security tapes were dead—we needed him here.
O motioned to the trousers filled with stuff and I piled everything on the table. He pointed at the laptop. I turned it on and as we waited, I zipped open the moneybelt—there was nothing in it but money. The laptop naturally asked for a password—we knew enough not to mess with it. I took out the battery and, when O asked me why, I said it was so that no one else could access it remotely.
We agreed to keep the laptop to ourselves, and I went into Mary’s office and left it on her worktable—best hidden in plain sight. I told O that Sahara had escaped through the next-doorapartment and we both went in to look, hoping for some clues. We heard some muffled sounds coming from the bedroom and found O’s neighbor gagged and handcuffed to the bedframe.
We set him free and he explained what had happened. He was drinking at a bar close to where O lived when the African and the four white men came in. They started talking to him and buying rounds. When they stepped outside for a cigarette at about 10:00 p.m., one of the men jammed a gun into his belly and told him they needed his place for a few hours. They gave him a
O asked Jamal to stand up and he placed his gun over Jamal’s heart. Jamal’s eyes went vacant. O pulled the trigger. His gun clicked—it was empty. Jamal stood there waiting as O reloaded while Muddy and I watched, transfixed.
“Jamal, just go—walk out now,” O whispered. Jamal was shaking and crying. He grabbed his jacket, put it on, and, out of habit, straightened it out and left.
I could tell Muddy was as confused as I was by the way she was looking at O, who was now kneeling beside Mary, cradling her body in his arms.
He let out a wail. Muddy knelt down and held him. They rocked back and forth. O’s wailing was getting quieter and quieter, as if he were calling back the rage into him. Then he was still, very quiet, the kind of quiet between a lightning strike and thunder. He stood up and pulled Muddy to her feet.
“We have to bury my wife,” he said to us.
Sahara and his handlers, whoever they were, didn’t know what had just happened. They had unhinged O. The duality in which evil and good were compartmentalized in him was over. O had once told me that we were good men who did bad things. Mary had been all that kept him in our side of the world.
I didn’t know why O had let Jamal live, but this much I knew, O was going to kill Sahara or die trying. I held on to my secret, knowing there was no way of telling it—that if I’d shot the driver, we would have captured Sahara, and if we had him, we would have some answers and O could have his vengeance. I had made the wrong call trying to define myself against my friend. Then again, don’t we work with who we are? I wrestled back and forth … silently.
Mary, even though she was dead, was still bleeding from her head wound. O went to the bathroom, returned with some bandages, and carefully wrapped them around Mary’s head. I remembered him weaving her hair as he chatted away. I felt a dull knife tear into my chest and I knew that I too would go to places I had never been, to bring Sahara to justice.
Some people completely break down in a crisis while others take command of the situation. O was the latter—from the moment he pulled Muddy to her feet, he took charge. It was his way of coping, and, whether it was good or bad for him, or for us, it made things easier. In any case, had Muddy or I taken charge, we would still have been coming to him for instructions—we had never lost a loved one in Kenya.
I looked on as Muddy drew open the curtains, letting in the afternoon light and air, which took some sting out of the gunpowder, death, and pain in the room. O had called Hassan, and he was on his way with more cops and ambulances. I called Jason—three of the four white men from the security tapes were dead—we needed him here.
O motioned to the trousers filled with stuff and I piled everything on the table. He pointed at the laptop. I turned it on and as we waited, I zipped open the moneybelt—there was nothing in it but money. The laptop naturally asked for a password—we knew enough not to mess with it. I took out the battery and, when O asked me why, I said it was so that no one else could access it remotely.
We agreed to keep the laptop to ourselves, and I went into Mary’s office and left it on her worktable—best hidden in plain sight. I told O that Sahara had escaped through the next-doorapartment and we both went in to look, hoping for some clues. We heard some muffled sounds coming from the bedroom and found O’s neighbor gagged and handcuffed to the bedframe.
We set him free and he explained what had happened. He was drinking at a bar close to where O lived when the African and the four white men came in. They started talking to him and buying rounds. When they stepped outside for a cigarette at about 10:00 p.m., one of the men jammed a gun into his belly and told him they needed his place for a few hours. They gave him a
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