the guy they shot forty-one times in New York.’
‘Your shield no protect you,’ he said. ‘I hear what happen in New York.’
It still made me angry to think about it. Damn it, a black undercover agent shot dead by two white cops in New York. How does one explain that?
‘But, still, I never meet her,’ Joshua continued. ‘Why killsomebody I never meet?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ishmael, let me tell you something. You say me and you niggers, but you do not know what you say. You want African and you to be nigger? You desire brotherhood of pain?’ he asked, his voice full of concern.
‘What are you talking about, Joshua?’ I asked him.
‘I show you what I mean,’ he announced, standing up and suddenly stomping his naked foot onto the broken neck of the wine bottle. He trembled in pain, then, reaching down, he pulled the neck from his foot. Blood gushed out, and he threw the bloody shard towards me.
‘You desire brotherhood of pain …? Now you do it,’ he yelled.
I stared back at him calmly. This was a test of will. I knew playing along would not earn his respect but neither would walking away.
‘Now that was foolish,’ I finally said.
‘Ishmael! Your turn!’ he commanded.
‘If you want to torture me, play me some of that African music,’ I said as calmly as I could and reached out to pour myself some more wine from the neckless bottle.
Joshua smiled. ‘I like you, Ishmael’, he said.
Hobbling over to his entertainment centre, trailing blood across the floor, Joshua pulled out a turntable and put on some reggae. ‘Alpha Blondie,’ he explained.
I didn’t wait for the first song to end before I chugged my wine. ‘No ambulances, too much press out there, just get your kit,’ I instructed the pillar of a cop as I got to the door.
‘And another bottle,’ Joshua yelled above the music.
Walking down his driveway to my car I thought there were two possibilities. Either Joshua was lying and he had killed the girl or he really didn’t know her and she was a message, a conversation between him and God knew whom. But I was convinced that he was part of the puzzle, if not the solution.
I made it back home in time for some late night TV As I sat in my lounge I wondered what it means for an African to meet an African American. Joshua was the first African I had really interacted with. Sad to say, but that was the truth – most come to Madison for school and leave as soon as they’re done. And those who stay are looking for the American dream – and part of achieving that is staying away from us.
Well, Joshua was my suspect. In another world, where the girl didn’t exist, we probably wouldn’t have met – me a struggling black cop and he an African hero. No point thinking about it, I told myself as I opened a cold Bud.
I was just about to open my second can of beer when my cellphone rang. ‘Is this Detective Ishmael?’ a voice with a heavy accent asked.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I answered and quickly looked for the caller’s number.
Unknown
. It must have been an international number.
‘If you want the truth, you must go to its source. The truth is in the past. Come to Nairobi.’ And with that the person on the other end of the line hung up.
Almost immediately the phone rang again. ‘Who is this?’ I asked hurriedly.
‘I see you got the call.’ It was Mo. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wants me to go Africa.’
‘Where?’
‘Africa, goddamn it, fucking Africa …’ I said, getting angry with Mo for no good reason.
‘You gotta go,’ she said. ‘Babe, you have to.’
I wanted to see her. I asked if I could come over but she said no.
‘Keep ’em coming, all right, baby?’ she said and then she hung up.
I opened my beer. I finally had a lead. But what the hell? Who wanted to chase this thing all the way back to Africa? Where would I even start? But thinking back over the last two days, the call was only confirming what I had known instinctively: that, somehow,
‘Your shield no protect you,’ he said. ‘I hear what happen in New York.’
It still made me angry to think about it. Damn it, a black undercover agent shot dead by two white cops in New York. How does one explain that?
‘But, still, I never meet her,’ Joshua continued. ‘Why killsomebody I never meet?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ishmael, let me tell you something. You say me and you niggers, but you do not know what you say. You want African and you to be nigger? You desire brotherhood of pain?’ he asked, his voice full of concern.
‘What are you talking about, Joshua?’ I asked him.
‘I show you what I mean,’ he announced, standing up and suddenly stomping his naked foot onto the broken neck of the wine bottle. He trembled in pain, then, reaching down, he pulled the neck from his foot. Blood gushed out, and he threw the bloody shard towards me.
‘You desire brotherhood of pain …? Now you do it,’ he yelled.
I stared back at him calmly. This was a test of will. I knew playing along would not earn his respect but neither would walking away.
‘Now that was foolish,’ I finally said.
‘Ishmael! Your turn!’ he commanded.
‘If you want to torture me, play me some of that African music,’ I said as calmly as I could and reached out to pour myself some more wine from the neckless bottle.
Joshua smiled. ‘I like you, Ishmael’, he said.
Hobbling over to his entertainment centre, trailing blood across the floor, Joshua pulled out a turntable and put on some reggae. ‘Alpha Blondie,’ he explained.
I didn’t wait for the first song to end before I chugged my wine. ‘No ambulances, too much press out there, just get your kit,’ I instructed the pillar of a cop as I got to the door.
‘And another bottle,’ Joshua yelled above the music.
Walking down his driveway to my car I thought there were two possibilities. Either Joshua was lying and he had killed the girl or he really didn’t know her and she was a message, a conversation between him and God knew whom. But I was convinced that he was part of the puzzle, if not the solution.
I made it back home in time for some late night TV As I sat in my lounge I wondered what it means for an African to meet an African American. Joshua was the first African I had really interacted with. Sad to say, but that was the truth – most come to Madison for school and leave as soon as they’re done. And those who stay are looking for the American dream – and part of achieving that is staying away from us.
Well, Joshua was my suspect. In another world, where the girl didn’t exist, we probably wouldn’t have met – me a struggling black cop and he an African hero. No point thinking about it, I told myself as I opened a cold Bud.
I was just about to open my second can of beer when my cellphone rang. ‘Is this Detective Ishmael?’ a voice with a heavy accent asked.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I answered and quickly looked for the caller’s number.
Unknown
. It must have been an international number.
‘If you want the truth, you must go to its source. The truth is in the past. Come to Nairobi.’ And with that the person on the other end of the line hung up.
Almost immediately the phone rang again. ‘Who is this?’ I asked hurriedly.
‘I see you got the call.’ It was Mo. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wants me to go Africa.’
‘Where?’
‘Africa, goddamn it, fucking Africa …’ I said, getting angry with Mo for no good reason.
‘You gotta go,’ she said. ‘Babe, you have to.’
I wanted to see her. I asked if I could come over but she said no.
‘Keep ’em coming, all right, baby?’ she said and then she hung up.
I opened my beer. I finally had a lead. But what the hell? Who wanted to chase this thing all the way back to Africa? Where would I even start? But thinking back over the last two days, the call was only confirming what I had known instinctively: that, somehow,
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