Free Season of Crimson Blossoms by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim Page A

let go and retreated to a corner. There had been whispers about his sexual preferences. His liaison with Obinna, who owned a provisions shop down the lane, had fuelled these. Obinna had, on occasions, been accused of luring young boys with money. And when he got close to Dan Asabe – who had been caught several times spying on the other boys in the bathroom, and had never had Rita, who everyone else had had, or even been seen with a girl – everyone made assumptions. Every time allegations were thrown at him, Dan Asabe would sneak away and try to make himself unobtrusive.
    Reza held Gattuso by the arm and led him to his room. ‘Gattuso, I have told you to keep this place in order. You know this new policeman has not been sorted out yet.’
    â€˜Guys just came, you know.’ Gattuso tugged at a yellow plastic band on his wrist.
    â€˜How much have you made?’
    â€˜We sold everything. That guy, Johnny from the university, came and bought a lot.’
    â€˜No credit, I hope.’
    Gattuso reached into his pocket and put a thick roll of money in Reza’s outstretched hand.
    â€˜Saved some for us? We need to charge up a little, you understand.’ Reza, with serious commitment, set about straightening out the notes, one after the other.
    Gattuso, looking at his friend’s face, got the impression that Reza derived some pleasure from the task. ‘Sure, trust me.’ He waited for Reza to count and tuck the money away in his pocket.‘The new policeman said he wanted to see you. He said he would be waiting.’
    â€˜What on earth for?’
    â€˜Don’t know. Corporal Bako has been here twice now. This man wants to prove stubborn, wallahi , he is playing with fire.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about him, Gattuso. I have spoken to the boss about him, you understand. I’m sure that’s why he is looking for me.’
    â€˜You spoke to the boss?’ This time, Gattuso scratched his glistening beard. His experiment with black dye on his browning, malnourished hair left it shiny and matted, jet black against his dark skin.
    â€˜Yes. He wants us to prepare some guys. We are going for some rally.’
    â€˜Elections are drawing near then?’
    â€˜Yes, very soon. So get the boys ready, I have arranged for a bus to come for us tomorrow morning, you understand?’
    Gattuso nodded, cracking his knuckles in his palm.
    â€˜Is this all the money there is?’
    â€˜ Wallahi , that’s the whole of it.’
    â€˜All right. Let me go see this idiot policeman.’
    â€˜I’ll come with you.’
    â€˜No, don’t bother. There’s nothing, no problem.’ Reza started heading out of the room.
    â€˜How much for the new shoes?’
    Reza looked down at his shoes and shrugged. ‘Not expensive.’
    â€˜What happened to the old ones?’
    â€˜Lost them.’ Reza hurried away before Gattuso could rattle his comfort with another intrusive query he would not be inclined to answer.

    Assistant Superintendent of Police Dauda Baleri was sitting behind the scratched-up table in his little office when Reza walked in, grinding his teeth. From the way the policeman was crooning into the phone, Reza knew there had to be a woman on the other end. When Baleri looked up and saw him, he frowned and said he would call back in a few minutes.
    The office smelt of fresh paint and Reza looked around to see the light glinting off the wall. There was something about police stations that he could never get used to, perhaps some intangible markers of illegality filed away in the dank air.
    â€˜New OC, new paint.’ Reza sounded unimpressed. To him and the boys, whoever was in charge, regardless of rank, was the ‘Officer Commanding’.
    â€˜Reza?’
    â€˜OC?’
    A small storm gathered on Baleri’s brow. He did not like this weed merchant who had just interrupted his talk with Christy, whom he had been trying to persuade to marry