The old man began to cough hard. I was trying to make him rest and was putting away my notebook and pencil when he suddenly sat up and gasped.
"But the story is not over. My child . . ." His voice faded away and I could not hear the rest.
"This child of yours," I said after a moment, "was it a boy?"
He started coughing again and held his side. For a second, only the whites of his eyes showed.
"The p—poison," he panted.
"I'm sorry," was all I could say.
He lay still for a while. I tried not to do anything that might upset him. When he was calm enough to look at me again, I took courage and spoke.
"Mallam, I have heard your whole story. Would you like to hear mine? Would you be interested in a man who was trained in Dije's school at Mecca?"
He looked at me as though he was fighting to keep death away.
"I knew that woman Dije better than you can ever know her."
"No!" he shouted, half rising from his seat.
"I know her better than you did," I said. "You loved her as a husband loves his wife. But I—" The words stuck in my throat. I tried to speak, but my voice was thick and the look in his eye frightened me.
"Go on!" he urged.
I was surprised by his strength.
"Look!" I said. I opened my jacket so he could see the layers around my waist. Each one was a small square wrapped in leather and tied to a loop. "Look," I said, and I cut open one of the little squares.
He stared.
"Do you recognise it?" I asked, showing him the square of parchment covered in Arabic writing.
"No," he protested. "It is impossible. Impossible!"
I paid no attention.
"Dije gave me this. She said you were a great Mallam and that you gave it to her when the witches were troubling her."
"No!" he panted.
"She told me to always wear it. She said if I ever met you and you doubted that I was her son, I should show you this and you would know at once."
"No!" he said again.
I could see he was saying "no" only because of the shock, not because he disbelieved me.
"Will you believe me, then, when I tell you that your wife, Dije—my own mother—is waiting for me at Jos? And for you?"
"Don't . . ." he whispered.
"We will reach Jos in about an hour," I told him. "Then you can see for yourself. My mother is not as young as she was when you knew her at Mecca. But if—if you have not forgotten her . . ."
He was not coughing any more. He was not listening. His mouth hung open and his face wore an expression that seemed to challenge the truth of my words. The train took a curve and nearly threw him from his seat. I leaned over to steady him. Then I realised he was dead.
Tears filled my eyes. I covered his face with a cloth and prayed. I wished I had never shocked him with my news.
The train was moving very slowly now. I sat wrapped in my own thoughts. A man had been standing over me for some time. He had touched my shoulder three or four times, but I had not noticed. Now he pushed a card right in front of my eyes.
"Excuse me, Mallam," he said politely. "I am Inspector Kofi, C.I.D."
The words meant nothing to me at first. "I shall have to ask you to come with me when we reach Jos." The humble manner he had used earlier when he was begging me for a job had completely disappeared. In its place was the voice of authority. "I have a special interest in this case because I knew the late Usuman very well. Your late father's behaviour made me suspicious, and I have been watching him for the last six hours."
I looked up at him and said nothing.
"We won't need much from you," he said. "Just a few facts. I see you have a full record of Mallam's last words. That will be very useful to us."
My throat was dry. I wet my lips, but I had nothing to say.
When the train arrived at Jos, I handed over the notes I had written and gave him the little blue book—the passport of Mallam Alhaji Ibrahim Ilia.
The sun was shining brightly. A group of little boys stood waiting to welcome Inspector Kofi near his official car. They were laughing and happy. They knew nothing about passports, or vengeance, or any of the things that had filled our lives. Their future lay before them.
"Step inside," the inspector said very politely.
I got into the car, and the boys cheered as we drove away.