His father and the infamous Chief of Chiefs had sat down in the police station to discuss a compromise. Even the press was invited to witness this. The resulting news article was titled “The Meeting of Two Chiefs.” During this meeting, the Chief of Chiefs promised to turn his energy toward combating the growing crime and corruption in Kaleria instead of fueling it. “You cannot build a palace in a ghetto,” the Chief of Chiefs had been quoted saying. There was even a photo of the two men grinning and shaking hands. Two nights later, his father was murdered.
Father would want to spit at all these stupid people, Nnamdi thought. Everyone in the compound was staring at the Chief of Chiefs and his entourage. They breathed through their mouths and stood or sat frozen, as if they’d forgotten who they were. Idiots! Nnamdi thought. Such a disgrace to stare like this. He frowned when he realized he, too, was staring. He closed his mouth. Nearby, one of his uncle’s wives was carrying her newborn and the child screeched. The sound made Nnamdi’s heart jump; it reminded him of his mother’s bloodcurdling scream when the police had told her his father had been killed. But first there was the bloody letter on the night of his father’s murder. Nnamdi shuddered.
* * *
It was a Friday night, around eight o’clock, the time when his father usually came home. There was a loud knock on the door. Odd, Nnamdi thought. His father had his own keys, of course. When Nnamdi opened the door, he saw a letter on the ground. His name was printed on the envelope, so he picked it up and tore it open. He found a piece of paper, which he unfolded. His entire body went numb. The writing on the paper was brown red, not black or blue. Nnamdi blinked. He knew exactly what he was seeing, but it took several moments to fully register. The letter was written in blood and he wanted to drop it like a poisonous spider. Nothing written in blood could be good, especially when you were the son of the chief of police. He read:
When you dine with the Devil, bring a long spoon. Tell your mother that your father’s spoon was too short.
Sincerely,
The Chief of Chiefs
Nnamdi stood there, reading the letter over and over. As he read, his night grew darker, a shadow descending over him. He quickly looked up, breathing hard, sure someone was there. But he was alone. His father had told him before that the Chief of Chiefs was dangerous, powerful, and clever. When Nnamdi asked for more details about him, his father always looked very sad, shook his head, and said, “Someday, but not today.” And now this super-dangerous man not only knew who Nnamdi was, but he’d written him a letter? He remembered looking out into the night, wondering if the Chief of Chiefs was hiding out there, too small to spot, deadly like the most venomous snake.
“What is that?” his mother had asked, coming up behind him and taking the letter.
As she read it, Mr. Oke, their lanky old gateman, came running from his post accompanied by Constable Ukoro. “I’m so sorry, Ma,” Ukoro said, his beret clutched to his chest. “Your husband has been shot. He is dead.” That was when Nnamdi’s mother had screamed the terrible scream that still haunted his nightmares. According to lab test results, the letter had been written in goat’s blood.
The next day, his father’s death was front-page news in the Kaleria Sun. Nnamdi and his mother were appalled to see that the newsletter printed the Chief of Chiefs’ words, even including a photo of the actual letter. To add insult to injury, Nnamdi was quoted in the article: “‘I’m terrified!’ the eleven-year-old son of murdered Police Chief Egbuche Icheteka said.”
Nnamdi was so mortified that he’d broken out into a cold sweat after reading it and had then hidden in his room that entire day. Police officers and investigators had come to their house the night of the shooting to ask questions. A man in jeans and a T-shirt had asked Nnamdi how he felt about the letter from the Chief of Chiefs. How was Nnamdi supposed to know the guy was a reporter?!
Now Nnamdi watched as the Chief of Chiefs chatted with the guests at his father’s burial. His entourage of criminals was like a cackle of hyenas come to laugh at the corpse of a fallen lion. I can’t believe this, Nnamdi thought, fire burning in his chest.
After a few minutes, the Chief of Chiefs approached Nnamdi and his mother. Nnamdi forced himself to move from behind to stand beside her. Every nerve in his body tensed and he felt sweat trickling down his face into his collar. He clenched his stomach muscles and hands to try to stop shaking, but it was no use.
The Chief of Chiefs was dressed in an immaculate flowing white agbada that made him look like a rolling snowball, and white trousers with golden cuffs. On his feet he wore white designer slippers that looked like they were made from clouds. If it weren’t for his long, well-oiled black goatee and gold-rimmed glasses, he could have passed for an overdressed child. Nnamdi blinked. The man’s short stature had blinded his perception for a moment. The Chief of Chiefs was no stylish child, he reminded himself. And that was when his eyes fell on the Chief of Chiefs’ right hand. On his wrist he wore a white-gold watch, but on his right index finger . . . Nnamdi’s heart jumped, unable to tear his eyes from the heavy gold ring.
Horror descended on him as he felt warm wetness in his pants. Oh my God, he thought. But he couldn’t stop it from happening. He’d urinated on himself. He wanted to run into the house, but instead, he froze. Thankfully, he was wearing a long black caftan and black pants.
Nnamdi knew the ring was heavy because he’d held it before. It was solid gold and in the shape of a dragon eating its tail. An Ouroboros. He knew all this because it was his father’s ring. His father had had that ring since starting as a police officer twenty-five years ago. Nnamdi had asked his father about it and had even tried it on a few times. It had his father’s name engraved on the inside. Nnamdi frowned, his face hot and his wet pants itchy and cold. He glanced at where his father lay, but he couldn’t bring himself to go and see if the ring was still on his finger.
“We’ve come to pay our utmost respects to Chief Egbuche Icheteka,” the Chief of Chiefs said to Nnamdi’s mother. The man spoke with the clarity of a professor. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
He held out a fat envelope to Nnamdi’s mother. She glanced at it with a pinched face and flared nostrils. Nnamdi held his breath. He only saw this look when his mother was about to lose her temper. Nnamdi’s auntie Ugochi quickly reached forward and took the envelope. She opened it and glanced inside. Nnamdi leaned forward to see. The envelope was packed with money! Nnamdi shivered and became more aware of the wetness making his legs itchier. In a few minutes, he’d start to stink. I have to get out of here, he thought.
“Thank you,” Auntie Ugochi quickly said, placing a hand firmly on Nnamdi’s mother’s shoulder. His mother softly hissed, biting her lip. “My sister is too distraught to speak.”
“That is understandable,” the Chief of Chiefs said. “Such a great man . . . shot down in the prime of his life. What will become of our Kaleria?”