We have to slow down once we get into town, and I immediately start to sweat under the helmet. I hadn’t really realized how much cooler it is up in the Ring. And down here it’s a lot less fun trying to push our way through the traffic and potholes and dust. The closer we get to the harbor, the more crowded it gets. There are bicycles and chickens and children and goats, and lots of people who just stop to gape at the motorcycle, like it’s a herald of the second coming.
I give directions, and Michael threads through the busy streets. We have to go practically to the other side of Sangui City, over the bridge and back into the winding, narrow streets of Old Town. We drive down Biashara Street and even pass Kiki’s school. I can hear the girls shouting and laughing in the yard, and I crane my neck but don’t see Kiki as we drive past the front gates. Of course, what would I say to her if I did? Hi, sis! Remember your half brother, Michael? His dad killed our mom. ’Kay, bye!
Right. She’s not going to know anything about all this. Ever.
From the back of the bike, Old Town’s grit fades away into the vignettes I imagine the tourists see: rambling warrens of pale limestone buildings and waving palm trees; market stalls with perfect pyramids of yellow and red mangoes, frilly bunches of greens, bananas, and peppers hung like garlands. There are serious-faced men in long white kanzus and women wrapped in rainbow kanga prints or head-to-toe buibuis that billow like black sails. There is clear blue sky above, and below, electric blue water. From here, it looks just like paradise.
We’re almost to the fish market when Michael clears his throat. “So are you going to tell me who it is we’re meeting?”
We pass the big green mosque at the center of Old Town, and the hawkers who ply their wares to tourists outside the Swahili Museum: cheap Rasta necklaces and sarongs; wooden elephants and impala that stand in military lines on Masai blankets. Michael nudges the bike around an ancient man with a donkey cart piled with charcoal. Neither the man nor the donkey seems in much hurry to get anywhere.
“Turn left up here.”
Instead Michael pulls the bike over to a quiet spot overlooking the harbor and stops.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He takes his helmet off and turns around in the seat.
“Fine,” I say, pulling my helmet off too. “His name is Donatien.”
“But who is he? Is he a Goonda? I don’t like going in blind like this.”
I almost laugh. “No, he’s not a Goonda. He’s just a guy who knew my mom. Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“How did he know your mom?”
I chew my lip. “You can’t say anything, okay? He’ll kill me if he knows I told you about him.”
“Okay . . .”
“And if you do anything to him—if anything happens to him, I’ll know about it.”
“You think I’m going to have him fed to the sharks or something? Look, you may not believe it, but I haven’t had anyone killed yet, and I promise I won’t start today.”
I fiddle with the helmet straps. “He’s a reporter.”
“A reporter?!” Michael yelps. “Are you giving him the stuff off Dad’s computer?”
“No!” Not yet, anyway, I add silently. I make sure I don’t break eye contact, which is a dead giveaway someone is lying. “He doesn’t report on stuff like that anymore. He got . . . in trouble.”
But I bet a story on Michael’s dad is going to get him back in good graces.
Donatien doesn’t know that I’m about to drop pay dirt in his lap, but I have no doubt that he’ll leap at the chance to expose Extracta and its East African Big Man. He’s been obsessed with taking them down ever since Greyhill ruined his career. But he always says he needs proof. Real proof, not just theories. Theories and speculation were what got him in trouble in the first place.
I tracked him down two years ago after I found a story he ran in Sangui’s biggest newspaper right after Mama’s death. He dared ask why her murder wasn’t investigated, insinuating that the police covered for Mr. G, the most likely killer. It got Donatien demoted, and he’s positive Greyhill, with all his connections, was behind it.
I would have gone looking for Donatien because of the article regardless, but what really made me curious was the way he wrote about Mama. He sounded angry. Almost as if he knew her.
Which it turns out he did.
I can still feel Michael’s tension and try to scoot away. I think about hopping off the bike, but that might delay us even more.
“And he knows your mom how?”
“He was doing a story on Extracta in Congo,” I say reluctantly. “On how they were buying gold from militias instead of digging it. She was a source.”
It took me a while, but you can wear anyone down if you just sit outside their house and office and favorite bars for long enough. Donatien finally gave up and agreed to talk to me. I think maybe he was even a little lonely. Once I convinced him that I was really Mama’s daughter, he opened up. He told me that he’d met Mama in Kasisi, our hometown, eleven years ago, and that she had wanted to help him with his story.
Michael’s eyes narrow. “A source? What did she tell him, exactly?”