City of Saints & Thieves(34)

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?”

I look longingly toward our destination. “Look, once you get him started, Donatien will talk. He loves to talk about conflict minerals and Congo, but he’s a little touchy, so just let me ask the questions, okay? Can we go now?”

Michael scans the harbor, where white-sailed dhows roll over the current. In the distance, a squat ferry is chugging toward the shore in a haze of blue diesel. Even from here you can see the rust on its hull and the throngs of people crowded at its rails. It’s a struggle to not shout at Michael that we’re wasting time. But finally he hefts the helmet back onto his head and starts the engine.

? ? ?

Open and noisy, smelling like fried chips and masala spice, the restaurant is a popular spot. It’s full of fishermen at cheap white plastic tables, most of whom seem well into drinking away any profit they’ve made selling their catch this morning.

“Better hitch up your skirts,” I say when I see Michael’s face. “It’s a little dirtier than what you’re used to.”

“I’ve been in places like this before. It’s fine.”

“Sure you have. Now, listen,” I say, lowering my voice, “whatever you do, don’t tell Donatien who you are, right? I don’t think he’ll recognize you. Better yet, don’t talk.”

“Great,” Michael says. “So I just sit there?”

“Do what I say, okay? This is my world, and you are now my guest.”

I lead Michael past a speaker blaring rumba. Twilight girls with short skirts and long nails cluster at one end of the bar. They flick their braids over their shoulders and watch me closely, making sure I’m not invading their turf. The smells grow denser: to the mix is added sour beer and the tang of men who sleep in fish boats.