“Chioma,” Nnamdi said. He wriggled his hand from his mother’s grasp. “Take this.” He shoved the tapioca tray into her arms. “Stay with my mother! Please.”
“No problem,” she said, her voice sounding nasal because she was pinching her nose. “You’re not going in there, are you?!”
“Nnamdi!” his mother snapped, trying to grab his arm again. “Where are you going?”
“I . . . I just want to go see,” he said, stepping away. He’d never been a very good liar.
“Where . . . what are you going to do?” Chioma asked.
“Just stay with my mother!” he said.
“Nnamdi!” his mother screeched in a voice that made Nnamdi cringe. “Where are you going?”
Nnamdi ran into the green fog.
* * *
He coughed and leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. Everything was stinky green haze. He could barely see three feet in front of him. However, he could hear people stumbling about and coughing.
“Bad Market,” he whispered. That was who was behind this. Nnamdi remembered his father’s description perfectly: “Bad Market is the head of a small but very crafty group of pickpockets,” Nnamdi’s father had explained to him only months before his murder. “When Bad Market finishes a job, he gets arrogant. He likes people to know they’ve been robbed; that’s part of the thrill for him. He has these balloons filled with chemicals. He throws them when he is done robbing, and when they hit the air, that creates the smelly fog he is known for.”
Nnamdi’s father had said that Bad Market was a tall man who looked like a fashion model. He was light on his feet and therefore able to outrun authorities in all the confusion.
“Light on his feet,” Nnamdi whispered. “Think. Gotta think.” Nnamdi took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. What’s my task? What’s my task? What’s my task? he thought. What do I need to do? He whispered, closing his eyes, “Find Bad Market.” There was a brief pause in which he heard a fly buzz past his ear and a car honk its horn from nearby, then he felt himself . . . shift.
A coolness settled on his shoulders. His body felt as if it moved to the left, just a tiny bit. Then his senses opened up. He felt his nostrils expand and the terrible smell grew so full that it was like an actual taste on his tongue. And he felt his ears expand and suddenly he could hear everything. People bickering about whether to run or hide, babbling in fear, or shouting angrily as they discovered that their jewelry, shopping, and money were gone. He honed in on the sound of feet. Little feet. Children running. He strained harder. There. Bigger feet.
“That’s Bad Market,” he said out loud. He gasped. His voice was so low. He opened his eyes. At first, all he saw was green. Then, as his powerful eyes adjusted, he began to see more. A woman was on her knees, feeling around for whatever she’d lost. A child to his right was standing there, crying. Nnamdi wanted to help, but he knew the best way to help was to focus. As he worked to do so, he looked down at his body. “Oh God,” he whispered. He was a piece of outer space in the shape of a man. “What is . . . Wow.” He pressed at his arm; it felt like an arm but looked like blackness blending into blackness.
Focus, he thought again. He shut his eyes. To kill the snake, you cut off its head. It was what his mother was fond of saying when she talked about how she felt one should fight Kaleria’s crime. Nnamdi had never understood it and he still didn’t. But the idea was fierce and it gave him strength. Focus. Slowly, the noise of chaos fell away and his ears pinpointed the sound of swift, nimble adult feet. Without opening his eyes, he took off in pursuit.
He was like a bat using sonar, seeing with sound. Eyes closed as he ran, all he had to do was listen. He ran past people and around corners and market stall dividers. He leapt over a dog. He didn’t lose the sound of the swift footsteps. They were running faster now but also growing louder. Bad Market was fast, but Nnamdi was faster. He was closing in. Closer. Closer . . .
Nnamdi opened his eyes just in time to see the back of Bad Market’s suit jacket and sacks full of stolen items over his shoulders. Through the stench of the green fog, Nnamdi could smell Bad Market’s designer cologne. He moved closer, reached out, and then grabbed him. They both went tumbling. The sacks of stolen naira, watches, rings, and necklaces went flying and fell onto a pile of firewood.
Bad Market tried to roll from beneath him, but Nnamdi was too big. Nnamdi snatched up Bad Market’s arms and held them together as the limber man tried to squirm from his grasp. Nnamdi was so strong that he was able to drag the kicking and twisting Bad Market and lift him off the ground.
He held Bad Market up to his face. Nnamdi remembered his father describing Bad Market as tall, about six two. However, Nnamdi was a giant, standing probably a foot taller. Bad Market flailed about for a moment, then he looked into Nnamdi’s face and screamed wildly. Then he . . . fainted. After all the thrashing and shrieking, the sudden silence was almost ridiculous to Nnamdi. He frowned and inspected Bad Market, then he dropped him with disgust. What kind of grown man faints? Nnamdi wondered. But then again, what kind of “man” did he look like?
The smelly green fog was dissipating and, though they were in a secluded section of the open-air market, Nnamdi sensed people nearby. What could he do? Tie up Bad Market, he decided, and get out of there before anyone saw him. He was looking around for something to use when Bad Market suddenly leapt up, grabbed a log of firewood, and smashed it against the side of Nnamdi’s head. “YAH!” Bad Market shouted triumphantly.
Nnamdi stumbled backward, blinking and shaking his head. Bad Market was taller than his father, but very lean. He was dressed like the men Nnamdi saw on billboards and his face was twisted as he raised the log to beat Nnamdi some more. On instinct, Nnamdi caught the other end of the log with one hand and slapped Bad Market hard across the face with his other. Bad Market flew back as fast and powerfully as a kicked football. When he landed, he didn’t move. “Oh no,” Nnamdi whispered. He crept up to Bad Market’s limp body and nudged him with his shadowy foot. Bad Market still didn’t move. He nudged harder. Nothing. Quickly, the fog was disappearing and he saw four or five people standing there, staring.
“This is Bad Market,” Nnamdi announced. He fought back the embarrassed giddiness he felt at his rich, deep voice. They don’t know, he assured himself. They just see a big shadow man. He straightened up so that he stood much taller than he felt, and looked at an old woman, who whimpered and stepped back. Three men stood there but made no move to help. Oh God, Nnamdi thought. I hope he’s not dead. He paused. Then he finally knelt down and shoved Bad Market onto his back. Bad Market rolled over, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open as it let out a loud snore. Nnamdi sighed with relief. He was just sleeping. Someone tapped Nnamdi on the arm. When he looked to the side, he saw the old woman.