Accra Noir. Группа авторов

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СКАЧАТЬ stiffens and lets go of my hand. “You . . . sold it,” she repeats, choking on the words.

      I confess everything.

      How I sold what I now know to be a small fortune for a tenth of its value. How I met my buyer, Latif, at an auto-body shop that was also a warehouse for smuggled goods in transit—weapons, precious minerals, even children. How we bonded over life on the fringes. How he clucked in sympathy when I disclosed my dangerous assignment. How he suggested—casually at first, growing bolder with every unanswered probe—that perhaps I was getting a raw deal. How he promised to pay me double while eliminating any chance of incarceration.

      Zero risk. Double reward. I liked those odds. I was all in.

      Salome mulls over this revelation in pained silence, then lowers herself onto my thin mattress. I drop to my knees before her, weighed down with remorse.

      “This changes everything,” she says flatly, breaking the heavy stillness enveloping us.

      I search those dark eyes, desperate to uncover what she’s thinking, how she’s feeling. Instead, there’s a hollowness there that didn’t exist before.

      “I know what I did was wrong,” I croak. “But I can fix this. I’ll get you the money. Whatever you need. Just give me one more chance. Please. Let me make it better for you.”

      And I do.

      ⚜

      I have not kept in touch with Latif since our rushed exchange outside a mosque three years ago, but tracking him down is easy. I slip the auto-body shop’s attendant a twenty-cedi bill and walk away with Latif’s number. Once I get him on the phone, he leaps at the opportunity to purchase the kilo. We agree to meet at Club 1000 Hotel to complete the transaction.

      I patrol the entrance of the run-down hotel, kicking up clouds of copper dust and obsessing about Salome.

      Last night, she asked me to leave with her once the present threat has been extinguished. This time not as a drug mule and her handler but as soul mates taking another shot at their happily-ever-after. With Latif’s funds, we should be airborne within the next week, putting all the rancor behind us for good.

      I steal another look at my watch. Salome and Latif should have been here by now. I stick my head inside the lobby. A statuesque woman wearing a hijab sits at the reception desk, studying me suspiciously through kohl-rimmed eyes. She chews loudly on a kola nut as I shuffle toward her.

      “Good evening, madam,” I greet.

      She just glowers at me.

      “Please, I am looking for my friends, a man and a woman.”

      She snorts, the force of which sends nut-infused spittle all over the desk. “At this time of the night? Take your pick!”

      “She’s not a prostitute,” I shoot back, a bit too defensively.

      The woman shrugs. “Try room 211.”

      After stumbling along a dimly lit, seemingly endless corridor, I finally find room 211. I knock. “Salome?”

      No answer.

      “Latif?”

      Still nothing.

      I turn the handle, but the door is wedged shut from the inside. I shove it repeatedly until it swings wide open, revealing Latif’s lifeless torso. I clamp my hand over my mouth and stagger backward in horror. My heart thumps against my rib cage so aggressively that I fear it might shatter. I let out a strangled cry as someone grabs the front of my T-shirt, pulling me fully back into the room. I thrash at my assailant, but my uncoordinated jabs fail to connect.

      “Heh! Stop that!” the person hisses.

      It’s Salome, but my relief is short-lived when I digest my new surroundings. It’s a modest-sized, sparsely furnished room, unremarkable really, save a few features.

      A claw-foot bed devoid of sheets or pillows.

      A wardrobe missing a wooden panel.

      A framed portrait of Jesus in a green pasture, bearing a staff in one hand and a lamb in the other.

      And blood.

      So much blood.

      Splattered on the dirty peach walls.

      Soaking the shaggy carpet.

      Squishing under the soles of my flip-flops.

      I retch. “Salome! What happened?” I demand, in between gulps of air.

      She slams the door shut and wags a finger at me. “Why are you asking me? Don’t you remember? You did this.” She sneers.

      “Are you mad? How can you joke at a time like this?” I shriek. “Latif is dead!”

      Her face contorts into a terrifying mask. “So what?” she explodes. “Did you really think that after you guys stole from me, I would just pretend it never happened and run off into the sunset with you?”

      A chill creeps into my bones, like a bucket of iced water has been dunked on me. I back away from her slowly, shaking my head to ward off the frightening thoughts forming in my mind. “You set me up.” I gasp.

      “And I got my money back.” She motions toward a woven red, white, and blue plastic Ghana Must Go bag flung carelessly in the corner.

      Just then the door flies open and a tall, muscular man enters. He wildly surveys the room, from the man bleeding out on the floor to the two women standing before him. Nostrils flared, he roars in thick Nigerian pidgin, “Oga, wetin happen now?”

      I whirl around, expecting Oga to materialize out of thin air. But all I see is Salome. My eyes widen as the final puzzle piece locks into place.

      I bolt toward the door, but the man blocks my path, his face transformed into a menacing scowl.

      “Seize her!” Salome barks. Instantly, the Nigerian tackles me, covering my mouth with a large calloused hand and pinning my arms to my sides.

      Salome sidles up to me, eyes narrowed to slits. “You know what? You are much smarter than I ever gave you credit for. To hide right under my nose while I tore Europe apart looking for you these past three years. I always knew you had potential. That’s why I was grooming you. But this.” She laughs humorlessly, clapping slowly. “This is almost genius. You had me fooled. A whole me. The leader of the only woman-run criminal enterprise in Ghana. Maybe all of Africa. You cost me a lot. Not just money. No, worse than that. You made me a laughingstock. You already know how hard it is for women to be taken seriously in this society. How much more in the underworld? They said I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t run my own organization. That women are emotional, too unstable. Because of you I proved them right. And for what?”

      Her voice softens. “I risked it all for you.” Her voice is now scarcely above a whisper. “I thought you would do the same for me.” She leans in, so close that I can feel her hot breath against my neck.

      A sharp pain sears through my abdomen. The Nigerian’s rough СКАЧАТЬ