Boyboy looks at me and I sigh. “Go ahead.”
He pulls the handwritten list of names and numbers up on his computer and shows it to Michael.
“What is this?” he asks, eyes flashing. “And when exactly were you planning on sharing it with me?”
“I’m showing it to you now, aren’t I?” I say. “Besides, we don’t know what it is either. It’s just names and numbers.”
Michael points at the screen. “Mobile Interests. Do you know what that is?”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms.
He scowls. “Well, if you’d shown it to me, I could have told you.”
“What is it?” I ask eagerly.
Michael just stares at me, incredulous. He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but then just shakes his head. “It was the trucking company Extracta worked with,” he says. “They transported ore to Sangui City until Dad found out they were stealing from him.”
“How do you know all that?” I ask.
“It was this whole big blowup at home because Mom’s family owned part of the company.” His face is still clenched in anger.
I lean back. “Okay, that’s good information.”
“You can’t keep stuff like this from me, Tina.”
“Don’t be a baby,” I say, standing up again. “I don’t have to share everything with you.”
“You do if you want my help figuring out who killed your mom!”
I poke a finger in his face. “I’m still betting your dad killed my mom, so why would I want to share this with you?”
“Okay, children, okay,” Boyboy says, coming between us. “That’s enough fun for one night. I think we’ve all been in a banana lorry too long, and it’s time to get our beauty sleep. You two can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I say. I grab a lantern and stalk out. I can hear Michael and Boyboy continue to talk behind me, and I slam the door to my room. Who does Michael think he is? He shouldn’t even be here. I could have done this all by myself.
You still don’t know where Mwika is.
Well, myself and Boyboy, then. I flop onto my cot and stare at the ceiling, feeling my anger pulse through me like a fever.
In the quiet, I realize how loud the insects and frogs are outside. Rain starts to clatter on the tin roof like thousands of tiny stones. In the dim of the lantern I pull the photo of my mother and her prayer card out of my pocket. I look at the card, then the photo, as if something in the back of my mind is telling me they’re connected. But I can’t see how. The photo is getting crunched up from being carried around in my pocket, but Mama’s face and eyes are as sharp as ever. The face of the girl beside her pulls at some thread of recognition, but it’s like trying to grab spiderwebs. She melts away under my touch. Once, she meant something to my mother. They were obviously close. I feel a tug of anger again. Shouldn’t I know who this woman is? Why did Mama never say anything about her?
The hugeness of what I don’t know about my mother and her life here feels like a weight on my chest, crushing me. I’m doing all this for her, but she never even bothered to tell me about before. Did she not think I would want to know? I mean, this is my history too, and it sort of feels like she kept it all to herself. Not just the bad, but the good stuff too. Her friends, her family. My family. For the first time in a long time I think about my father. Who was he? Maybe he’s here too, in this very town. I could have already walked by him on the street.