Free A Dancer In the Dust by Thomas H. Cook Page A

“This is a serious crime in Lubanda.”
    “Seso is not a thief,” I told him.
    The constable smiled. “I have only brought him here. I have not denied him food or water. Father Dasai does not wish any of his children harm. Negritude forbids it.”
    I recalled that the Lubanda Constitution had emphatically and repeatedly stated its faith in Negritude, the concept that no black man could do to another black man what white colonists had done, but I’d never heard the word used by a government official.
    “Surely you know this,” he added pointedly.
    “Of course I do,” I assured him. “I know Lubanda’s Constitution very well, and on the basis of that knowledge, I think it’s fair for me to ask when Seso will be released.”
    “This I cannot say, Mr. Campbell,” the constable told me. “There are certain problems.”
    “What sort of problems?”
    “Where he was when the theft occurred,” the constable answered. “He was near to the official’s car.”
    “Tumasi is a market,” I said. “I’m sure there were lots of people near the official’s car.”
    The constable didn’t answer, but we both knew the truth. Seso had been accused because of his tribal origins. It was the old, old story of guilt by association, and Lubanda was sunk as deep in that reeking mire as any other place.
    “He admits he went near the agricultural inspector’s car,” the constable said.
    “So what?”
    The constable looked at me with the motionless eyes of the seasoned interrogator he would later become as district commander for the Ministry of Internal Security.
    “I cannot say more at this time, Mr. Campbell,” he said, after which he offered a wide, Lubandan smile, all white teeth and cordiality, but in his case, with something steely in it.
    “I will come to you with any later questions,” he added, then glanced over to where Fareem stood in a corner, his hands folded in front of him, the posture of a valet.
    “Who is this?” he asked me. “One of your… servants?”
    “No,” I said. “A friend.”
    The constable appeared to find this mildly amusing. “You were in Tumasi when the theft occurred?” he asked Fareem.
    Fareem nodded.
    The constable looked at me. “He will stay.”
    “Stay?”
    “He will stay here,” the constable repeated. “To be questioned.”
    I looked at Fareem. There was a fierce supplication in his eyes: Please do not leave me with this man.
    “No,” I said. “If you need him later, let me know. I’ll bring him in myself. You have my word on that.”
    For a moment the constable stared at me with those same motionless eyes. He was obviously trying to calculate the risk, if there was any, in insisting that Fareem remain behind.
    “I will take your word, Mr. Campbell,” he said at last. “You may take your man with you.” His eyes shifted over to Fareem, and I saw in them the faint sparkle of contempt that would later shine so brightly in the eyes of Mafumi, as well as in those of all his officers and minions, his followers and hangers-on, the ululating women who danced at his rallies, the boy army that committed his outrages, a smoldering hatred so intense it was all but blinding.
    But that dreadful wave had not yet inundated the country, and so I simply nodded to this officer who had not yet transformed himself into the murderous factotum of a tyrant, glanced at the sunflower pin that winked from his cap, and said, “Good, then we can go.”
    With that I waved Fareem toward the door, then turned to leave myself. I had just reached the door when the constable called me back.
    “One moment.”
    I turned to face him. “Yes.”
    “You know that woman, yes? ” he asked.
    “That woman?”
    “The white woman. The one who has a farm at the end of Tumasi Road.”
    “Martine Aubert? Yes, I know her,” I said. “I met her my first day in Tumasi.”
    The constable stared at me evenly. “So she also is a friend of yours?”
    “Yes, she’s a friend,” I told him.
    His large eyes