Children of the Street - страница 4

“Ask them if any of them saw the dead person back there or heard anything about it,” Dawson said to Sly.

The boy obliged. His friends, intent on their task, replied briefly.

“They didn’t see anything,” Sly said. “They haven’t heard anything.”

Dawson nodded. He hadn’t expected much more than that. Fact was, if the dead person wasn’t a friend of theirs or otherwise important, it just wasn’t of that much interest to them. Someone died. So what?

“Let’s go,” Dawson said to Sly. A little farther along he put his hand on the boy’s head like he was palming a soccer ball. “Burning that stuff is dangerous. There’s poison in the smoke and you’re breathing it inside your body. You understand?”

Sly nodded, but uncertainly. Dawson wasn’t sure he really did get it. He ruffled his companion’s short, wiry hair. “You’re a good boy, Sly. Is your uncle at home?”

Sly was hesitant about something.

“You don’t like your uncle?” Darko asked.

“Yes, I like him,” Sly said.

But the changed tone of his voice, broken up like a bleat, told Dawson he wasn’t telling the truth.

“Don’t be afraid,” Dawson said. “I only want to talk to him.”

Roaming the open land bordered by the Ring Road on the west and the edge of the Odaw River on the east were a few grazing horses and a herd of placid, foraging cows, brought all the way from the northern territories by migrants who had lived as nomads. It was a bizarre mixing of rural lifestyle with the urban slum. Only in Accra, Dawson thought. Only in Accra.

Deep within Agbogbloshie, Sly walked with easy assurance, as if floating over the rocky ground. He skipped nonchalantly across gutters filled to overflowing with garbage encased in opaque, grayish black glop. He ducked under laundry hung out to dry on clotheslines crisscrossing like railway tracks. He took narrow, abruptly swerving passages between rows of rickety homes constructed of wood that just begged for a conflagration.

Life went on here with the same inevitability it does anywhere else. People worked and traded, children played, women got their nails done, men had their hair cut, and a group of shirtless teenage boys watched soccer on a communal TV.

Here and there, Dawson caught a whiff of marijuana, or “wee,” as it was popularly known. From his nasal passages, it went like a blast to a pleasure spot inside his brain. He felt that tug of desire that told him he had not yet conquered his vice. Five months completely clean. One day at a time.

People asked Sly who his companion was. He gave the same answer every time. “He’s Darko, my friend.” It was best that way. They didn’t take to policemen. If casual queries about the corpse in the lagoon yielded little to no useful information, it was still more than Dawson would get if people knew he was a detective.

They passed a small mosque that stood out as one of the few brick buildings in Agbogbloshie. A man inside was prostrate on his prayer mat.

“There is my house,” Sly said, slowing down and pointing. “Where those boys are playing.”

Four teenagers were kicking and heading a soccer ball back and forth to one another without allowing it to touch the ground. A man sat in front of a windowless, eight-foot-square wooden shack raised off the ground on short stilts.

“Is that your uncle?” Dawson asked.

“Yes.”

Sly’s uncle saw them approaching. For a moment he didn’t move, but he finally rose to his feet as they came closer. He was frowning-the puzzled kind of frown-and then he looked wary.

“Good morning?” He was average height with squinting eyes. His hair was graying at the temples and retreating from his dome forehead. He had tribal marks on both cheeks.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Darko Dawson.”

“Yessah. I’m Gamel.” His voice was like gravel.

Behind him, the door of his living quarters was ajar, and Dawson caught a glimpse of a thin foam floor mattress as holey as Swiss cheese.

“Have he do someting wrong?” Gamel asked, gesturing at Sly.

“No,” Dawson said. “This morning he reported a dead body to the police.”

“A dead body?”

Suddenly angry, Gamel began scolding Sly in Hausa. Without warning, he lunged at the boy, but Dawson blocked his move.