The Outlaw (3 page)

"Well, just be careful," said Kas. "And if you ever use my hair straighteners as a thimble, I'll drown you in the swimming pool."

Jake laughed. It was good to see Kas again. And there was definitely no need for geothimble here in Africa. Geothimble was about staving off boredom, and here he never got bored. Here in Africa stuff happened.

The
Chameleon sat in the shade of a baobab tree within sight of the Petagoli well. He had been waiting since sunrise, and so far there was no sign of the sheikh and his traveling party. Rumor had it that the sheikh crossed the border into Burkina Faso two days earlier and was heading for Djibo, ancient seat of the Jelgooji kings. He should be passing this way either today or tomorrow.

The Chameleon was wearing a loose cotton garment and conical hat, his shepherding disguise. He carried a crooked staff and had a water bottle slung over his shoulder.

Shortly after midafternoon prayers, his patience was rewarded. A white stallion loped into view, its golden bridle glinting in the sun. Atop the horse sat the familiar figure of the sheikh, resplendent in his purple robes and white prayer hat. His minstrel was mounted on a second horse, and five servants followed on foot.

The Chameleon ran to the well, lowered the bucket, and flicked the rope deftly to fill the bucket with water. The sheikh's traveling party drew level with the well and stopped.

"Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita of Senegal!" cried the minstrel. "Beloved of God, Friend of Djinns, Pillar of Righteousness!"

The Chameleon threw himself face-down on the ground in front of the stallion. "I am only a simple shepherd boy," he said, "but I know the name Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita. The reputation of Sheikh Ahmed wafts before him like the fragrance of heaven. Welcome to Burkina Faso, your excellency. In the name of Allah, allow me to water your horses."

"Be quick about it," snapped the sheikh. "I must be in Djibo before nightfall."

"Forgive my impudence," said the Chameleon, "but what you propose is quite impossible, unless your horses have wings, which I do not discount."

"I was told we were close."

"Close!" The Chameleon chuckled as if at a good joke. "I was born here and I know every tree in the province. From here to Djibo is one hundred ghalva as the herder bird flies, and not one ghalva less."

The sheikh turned to his navigator-minstrel and began to remonstrate with him. The minstrel shrugged and held up his hands, bewildered by this new information.

The Chameleon gave the horses water and patted their noses as they drank. So far the encounter was going according to plan.

After an urgent conference with his minstrel, Sheikh Ahmed summoned the shepherd boy. "Tell me, boy," he said. "Who is the emir in these parts?"

"My father is the emir," said the Chameleon, "and I beg you to say no more, for I understand already what you need. My father is a hospitable man. He is away on business at present, but my brothers and I would be honored to welcome you in his stead. You may stay at our humble settlement for as long as you wish."

The
day after Jake's arrival, the Knight family was invited to a banquet at the Hotel Libya—a celebration of ten years since commercial gold mining had started in the north of Burkina Faso. Jake wore a jacket and one of his dad's ties. Kas wore a black dress, her skull-bow necklace, and even more eyeliner than usual.

"It's way more than ten years since those gold mines started," said Kas in the car on the way to the hotel. "Africans have been mining gold there for hundreds of years."

"So what?" said Jake.

"So what we're actually celebrating tonight is
not
ten years since the gold mines started, but ten years since a foreign mining company bought those mines from the government and drove hundreds of indigenous workers off their ancestral land."

"You didn't have to come, you know," snapped Mrs. Knight.

"I wanted to," said Kirsty, craning her neck to smooth her already-smooth hair in the rearview mirror. "It's an excuse to get dolled up, innit?"

Sometimes Jake found it hard to tell whether or not his sister was being sarcastic.

They arrived at the Hotel Libya, parked the car, and went inside. The furnishings in the banqueting hall were eye-wateringly lavish: gold chandeliers, crisp white table linen, gold vases crammed with fire orchids, gold candlesticks—even the knives and forks were gold. Jake put his phone on video mode and stood at the doorway filming the splendid panorama.

"Solid gold," whispered Jake's mum, weighing a fork in her hand.

Kas was unimpressed. "Don't the gold barons know how many people are starving in this city? I guess they've shoved their heads so far down their own mines that they—" She broke off quickly when she saw her father's expression.

"Any more rants from you, Kirsty, and I will ground you for a month, is that clear?"

"Yes, Dad," said Kas, but she rolled her eyes as she turned away.

They soon found their names on the seating plan. Jake had Kas on one side of him and his mum on the other. Mr. Knight was farther up the table, with the mine directors. Jake held his phone under the table, uploaded the gold banquet video to Facebook, and tweeted a link to it with the simple caption
Nice.

A shadow fell across the table. A large uniformed man was taking his place opposite Jake.

"Do you know who that is?" said Jake's mum in a sibilant whisper. "It's
Haut Commissaire
François Beogo, commissioner of police for the whole country."

The commissioner made a gun shape with his hand and grinned at Kas. "Your necklace or your life," he hissed in English.

"I'll keep the necklace," said Kas. "Life is overrated."

"Kirsty, don't be morbid," said Mrs. Knight. "Commissioner, you don't have to speak English. Jake and Kirsty speak fluent French."

Kas snorted. "Or in Jake's case, fluent French with a Yorkshire accent."

"Hey!" said Jake, and the commissioner laughed.

"I am sure you both speak excellent French," he said, "but let us speak in English tonight. I need the practice."

The appetizer arrived—a seafood platter of Atlantic salmon, whitebait, meaty shrimp, and lemon segments. Mrs. Knight turned to the man on her right and began to tell him about the agony and ecstasy of beekeeping, leaving Jake and Kirsty free to talk to the police commissioner. With his twinkling eyes and ready laugh, he was a very likeable man.

"Tell me, Jake," said Commissioner Beogo, "what do you think of our country?"

"I like it," said Jake. "Reggae everywhere you go, guavas and watermelons everywhere you look, table football on every street corner. It's the best country in the world."

"Or at least in the top twenty," said Kas.

"I wish I could see our country through your eyes," said Beogo, "but my job keeps me focused on the dark underbelly of society. The underground gangs, the drug runners, the warlords. It warps your outlook, Jake."

"Is there a lot of crime?"

"So much, it would make your hair stand on end. I could tell you true crime stories that would make your skeleton wobble like
sagabo.
"

Jake laughed at the image.
Sagabo
was a local dish, a maize dumpling that quivered when you lifted it to your mouth. "Go on, then," he said. "Let's hear a few."

The main course arrived—a quarter duck so tender that it fell off the bone. As he ate, the police commissioner told stories about Burkina Faso's most notorious highwaymen, bandits, and outlaws. Jake and Kas listened agog, and they kept saying "cool" until they realized how much it annoyed him.

"Outlaws are a long way from being cool," snapped Beogo. "Outlaws are thieves and murderers, and there is not a speck of cool in any of them. Just last month an ambulance belonging to the Aribinda Hospital of Hope was hijacked in the bush by two highwaymen. An ambulance, I tell you, taking a sick old woman to the hospital!"

"What happened?" asked Jake.

"They drove the ambulance across the border into Mali and sold it as a cattle truck."

"What about the old woman?"

"We found her bones in a termite mound by the side of the road, ten miles out of Aribinda."

"Eeuw," said Kas. "So what do you do if you catch an outlaw?"

"If he is lucky," said Beogo, "we try him in a court of law."

"And if he is unlucky?"

The police commissioner held up his gold knife and drew it theatrically across his own throat.

"Are there outlaws here in Ouagadougou?" Kas wanted to know.

"Not many. Most of them operate in the desert, a couple hundred miles north of here."

"Dad has done some biking up there," said Jake. "It sounds amazing."

"It is beautiful," agreed the police commissioner, "but dangerous. My people say that the deserts of the north are a battlefield for angels and demons. As for the
desserts
of the south," he added drily, looking at the chocolate tortes that were being brought to the tables, "they are an altogether different battlefield."

Jake could not help gaping at the desserts. Each minitorte was smothered in warm chocolate fudge sauce and decorated lavishly with gold leaf.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Kas.

"Genuine twenty-four-carat gold," said Mrs. Knight, reading off the menu. "Don't worry, Kirsty, it's perfectly edible."

"Great," said Kas. "That's all right, then."

Mrs. Knight missed the sarcasm. She picked up a golden spoon, took a scoop of gold leaf and chocolate, and popped it into her mouth.

"Did anyone see that woman in the hotel parking lot tonight?" asked Kas.

"Mmmm." Mrs. Knight was loving the torte. "What did you say, darling?"

"A woman in the parking lot," said Kas. "She was carrying two babies in a sling—one on her back and one on her front. She was holding out her hands, begging for small change, and one of her hands was sort of curled up."

"Leprosy," said the police commissioner.

"It's a common enough sight," said Mrs. Knight. "The world is very hard on some people."

"Hard for us, too, of course," said Kas, her voice cracking, "what with all this bleedin' gold to digest."

"Kirsty, don't swear."

"Do you think our friend in the parking lot will swear when I tell her we've spent the whole evening stuffing ourselves with gold?"

"Kirsty Knight, pipe down. You're being completely over the top."

"I need air." Kas pushed back her chair, stood up, and walked out.

The police commissioner picked up a gold-colored napkin and wiped his mouth slowly, evidently embarrassed by the confrontation. Jake glanced along the table and saw his father scowling. Kas would have hell to pay later.

Jake finished his torte in silence. He did not like the thought of his sister's dessert going to waste, so he ate that as well. Then, holding his phone under the table, he touch-typed a tweet: Eatin gold & lovin it.

"You'd better go and find Kirsty," said Mrs. Knight. "Tell her to come back inside this minute."

Jake's mission turned out to be harder than it sounded. He expected to find Kas shuffling moodily around the parking lot or perched on the hood of the family car, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He wandered over to the east wing of the hotel, where the swimming pool was. It was deserted, apart from a bored-looking waiter over by the lounge chairs.

"
Bonsoir!
" the waiter called to Jake. "If you want to swim after dark, you must be accompanied by an adult."

"I don't want to swim," said Jake. "I'm looking for my sister."

"What does she look like?"

"White skin, black makeup, black hair," Jake said, pointing at his shoulder to indicate the length.

The waiter nodded. "Round the back."

Jake followed his directions to the back of the hotel. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out the shapes of four big black trash containers. They exuded a foul smell, which made Jake want to retch.

"Did you eat the gold?" The voice in the shadows down at Jake's feet made him jump. It was Kas, crouching on a wooden crate next to one of the bins.

"Of course," said Jake.

"I hope you choke on it." It was too dark to see Kas's eyes, but he could tell by her voice that she had been crying.

"Mum told me to find you," said Jake. "She says to come back in straightaway."

"Too bad. I'm waiting for someone."

"Who?"

"That woman with the withered hand."

"She was in the parking lot," said Jake.

"Well, she's not anymore. That waiter by the pool told me she sometimes comes round here to forage for food."

"Why do you want to see her?"

"To give her this."

Jake squinted down at the object in his sister's hand—a solid-gold fork from the banqueting hall. "You can't do that," he heard himself say. "That's stealing."

"Stealing from the rich to give to the poor," said Kas. "It's Robin Hood, innit?"

"It's still stealing," said Jake, taking the fork from her hand.

"Hypocrite," said Kas. "Talking of which, can you believe Mum called
me
OTT? That banquet was the most over-the-top thing I've ever seen in my life."

Jake heard the purr of a car engine and he looked up, shielding his eyes against the sudden glare of headlights. It was a delivery van, an orange and yellow Nissan with JUMBO written across it in huge letters. Jake remembered these vans from his previous visits to Burkina Faso. They were everywhere in Ouagadougou, zooming around the city, selling Jumbo chicken-stock cubes to small traders.

The door of the van opened and a man got out, leaving the engine running. He went around to the back of the van, opened the double doors, and started over to where Jake and Kirsty were. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses.

"
Bonsoir,
" said the man. "I have a pickup to make."

"Nothing to do with us," muttered Kas.

"
Au contraire,
" said the man, and he grabbed her by the wrists.

Hey!
" shouted Jake. "Get off her!"

The man pushed him over with one hard shove in the chest. As he fell, Jake's head hit the corner of a trash container, fracturing his world into a kaleidoscope of color. He shook his head to clear his vision and saw his sister's assailant silhouetted in the headlights. He was walking back to the van with Kas slung over his shoulder like a sack of meal.