“He’s a fucking bouncer! He’s not paid to think.” Ahmed reached for his phone and started scrolling through his contacts. “Fuck! I have to call Okinosho.”
“I already spoke to him and conveyed your apologies. He was joking about it, said it’s fine, that there’s always a useless somebody at these parties. As long as it never happens again.”
Ahmed snorted. “That man is a petty lying snake. Do you believe him?”
“I believe he’s not holding you responsible, which is a small miracle, by the way.”
There was a weight in whatever Thursday wasn’t saying, and Ahmed put his phone down, staring into his second’s face through the mirror. “What’s the problem then?”
Thursday grimaced. “There are rumors that he’s put a hit out on Kalu.”
The air around Ahmed screamed with silence. He couldn’t form words, and Thursday glanced back at him with concern.
“Relax, boss. It’s just rumors. I’m seeing if I can get them confirmed. We started hearing it early this morning, just back-channel things, but it’s sounding like it could be serious money.”
Ahmed groaned and dropped his head back on the seat. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Thursday shrugged. “Okinosho’s a powerful man. He can’t allow anyone to treat him like that and get away with it.”
“Jesus, it’s not as if his fucking reputation is on the line. Who would know about it?”
Thursday gave him a don’t-be-stupid look. “Everyone else who was in that room. And even if they weren’t there, he himself would know. That’s all that matters to him.”
“Shit. Shit.” Ahmed tried to think, but his mind was too scattered. “Have you told Kalu?”
“There’s no need, not until we can confirm it.”
“Good. Don’t say anything. We have to think of how to handle this.”
“If it’s true, I’m not sure we can stop it. Do you know how many people will be looking for Kalu?”
“Fuck. I hope it’s not true.” Even as he said it, Ahmed could taste the futility of the statement. Outsourcing Kalu’s killing sounded like just the kind of thing a man like Okinosho would do to salvage his thrown pride. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Try and get a confirmation as soon as you can.”
Thursday nodded as they pulled into Ahmed’s compound.
“What did you do with the bouncer?” Ahmed hated loose ends and bad employees with almost equal fervor.
“Broke his jaw,” Thursday replied. “By the time it heals, maybe he’ll learn how to open his fucking mouth when he should.”
Ahmed nodded in approval as they stepped out of the car. He placed a hand on Thursday’s shoulder and squeezed in gratitude. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“It’s not in this lifetime that you’ll find out,” Thursday replied, opening the front door and following Ahmed into the kitchen. Ahmed could feel the other man’s loyalty like a warm cloud pressed against his skin.
It had been like this ever since Ahmed had driven past a car accident eight years ago and jumped out of his car to help an elderly woman who was wandering by the crash with blood soaking her headscarf. He’d taken her to the hospital and paid her bills, visited her every day because something kept commanding him not to leave her alone, and three days later, when the man with the milky eye had shown up searching for his mother, wild with fear and grief, Ahmed had been the one to take him by the shoulders and tell him she was fine, that she was safe. Thursday had looked through him, and for one of the very few times in his life, Ahmed had felt a frisson of fear skirt the edge of his mind as he realized he was looking into a darkness that could mirror his. Thursday had become his second only because the man had no desire to be first, to be up front and shiny when he could be the whispering terror in the dark instead. It suited both of them well.
Thursday opened the fridge. “I’ll make some food. Will you eat?”
Ahmed started heading upstairs as the stove clicked on. “Yeah, thanks. And some coffee.” His house was much like his office, large windows and stretches of white space he’d tried to build into a calming emptiness. Outside, he was always being buffeted by the volume other people created, their loud wants, their colors, their noise. Ahmed wanted to come home to clarity, something stark and clean, somewhere he could think. Nothingness echoed through his rooms and he found it peaceful. He started running a shower, then took off his trousers, tossing them into a laundry hamper. His phone chimed and he glanced at the screen. A WhatsApp message.
You’re taking me out to lunch. You can choose the place. 2PM. The Signature.
Ahmed frowned and read the message again, then clicked on the person’s profile picture to see who it was. He recognized the girl immediately. Souraya. His chest caught. Souraya was a person from another world, another time line. He would’ve doubted the profile picture, but it was impossible to forget the chilling symmetry of her face—as if it wasn’t real, as if she herself wasn’t real. It was impossible to forget anything about her; Ahmed had spent years trying.
He blinked and looked at the picture again just to make sure. He’d never thought she’d show up outside of Johannesburg—that he’d ever see her again, in fact. Not after the promises that were made. What was she doing here? How long had she been around? His memory wanted to peel back to those weeks in Joburg, to all that had happened, but he fought it. There was too much else going on now and he couldn’t afford to sink into the past. Yet, as much as he tried, Ahmed couldn’t help but remember how her hand had felt in his, how low her voice ran.
He read the text message again. So, she was in town. A thin thrill went through him, the simple cut of an almost forgotten desire. A small alarm was ringing in the back of his head, warning him that there were only so many places he could run. Timi. Seun. Now this? He ignored it.
I’ll be there, he texted back.
The first time he’d met her at some braai in an acquaintance’s backyard, Ahmed had stared at her mouth as Souraya introduced herself, at the slow parting of her lips as she listened, the flicker of tongue inside. Her skin…Jesus Christ, her skin, like liquid sunlight. Then and even now, there was nothing wholesome in his wanting to see her, he could admit this much to himself. One of his friends had walked up to him after she’d left.
“Stop looking at her like that,” he’d said to Ahmed with an amused laugh. “They say she’s not only exclusive but she’s also bloody expensive.”
Ahmed had stared at her ass under the silk sundress she was wearing. “What does she do?”
His friend laughed again. “She’s a…personal stylist.”
Ahmed heard him. “I can afford her,” he answered, as if it was nothing—because it was.
His friend acquiesced with a tilt of his head. “You have the money, yes. But she has other criteria for clients, and no one understands what the fuck they are exactly.”
“Sounds complicated.” Ahmed had looked over at his friend. “You tried, didn’t you?” He watched the man’s reaction, the brief angry bitterness that he quickly covered with a casual grin.
“All the best of us try,” he said, raising his glass to Ahmed. “It’s the most we can do.”
“Preach.”
They’d clinked glasses and didn’t mention her again. She’d refused to give Ahmed her number when he’d asked but told him he could find her on Facebook. He did, but her profile was sparse; she clearly didn’t use it much if at all. He’d left her alone at first—complicated wasn’t something he had time for—but then other things had happened and they both had to leave Joburg, and it had taken him forever to stop thinking about her.
