Making Wolf Read Free

in a noncommittal way.
    “What are you doing these days? I heard you went to America.”
    “London.”
    “Yes, London. All is one to us. Away is away.”
    “True.”
    “So what do you do?”
    “I’m in the police force. I’m a homicide detective with the Metropolitan Police.”
    “Police. Yes.” Which was meaningless. I started to feel the familiar panic because back in school, when Church wanted to catch you out in a lie, he would make a meaningless statement, one which would coax you into embellishment and which always indicated he knew you were lying. As you talked, stammered, and expatiated, painting yourself into that proverbial corner, he would start unbuckling his belt.
    And I was lying, but only a little, and only because I wanted him to veer away from my orbit. What I should have remembered is he had always been like Superman without his two greatest weaknesses: Kryptonite and a moral compass. Church did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, with consequences being a strange and abstract concept, the understanding of which he left to others.
    Some Area Boys walked by, paying loud respect to Church by shouting his name. He waved to them and shrugged at me, as if to say, what can I do? Area Boys are like multi-purpose thugs. We inherited them from Nigeria. They are both for hire and private entrepreneurs. They don’t have equivalents in western culture, but you might say they’re similar to street gangs. They have to be paid in cash, food, and drinks if you’re to have a peaceful party. During elections politicians hire them to disrupt the opposition’s campaign. Since the opposition would have hired their own cadre of area boys, the result is usually a magnificent street fight or a whole carnival of drive-bys. Occasionally, they go on street rampages in which they loot, rape, and kill, apparently at random. Their dress varies, but this bunch had an American street clothing theme. Imagine five men wearing Beanies and puffers in average temperatures of a hundred and two Fahrenheit and minimal wind chill. That’s how absurd they were, but I didn’t dare laugh.
    “Are you going to the after-party?” Church asked.
    “Yes, Auntie Blossom was—”
    “Okay, see you there.” He moved off. “Bye! Nice to meet you again.”
    Before I could say anything he was fingering his mobile phone and making his way to the exit. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased.
    I turned my eyes and mind away from Church and back to the ceremony. Now that the preacher was finished, pall bearers lowered the coffin. There were four old men with talking drums beating away in sweet rhythms interspersed with traditional Yoruba verse, some of it the antithesis of the Christian service.
    O d’oju ala. I will see you in dreams.
    The family edged closer. Well, the immediate family, because every Yoruba is related and the definition of family is broad. Up until now I had lurked at the edge of the crowd, but I started to push my way through. I became tense. I shamed Auntie Blossom because I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking of the tall man wearing a massive agbada pouring dirt into the grave. My father, but not my dad. He must have felt something because he looked up just then and saw me. He showed no reaction except allowing his eyes to linger for half a minute. I saw that he had been crying. This made me sad in spite of myself. Back when I was a child the man never cried or showed any emotion. He associated tears with womanly behavior and discouraged my brother Simon and me with violence.
    Beside him, with a clump of dirt in her hand and trailing a gang of children was his new wife, name escaped me, the one he married after my mother. This woman looked insipid and, judging from her hips and progeny, was just a brood mare for the old man. I did not feel fraternal toward her children.
    There was a loud bang, and I lost my hearing for a while. I was next to one of the drums, and they’d started a new song just as I passed. The songs all