Tendrils of smoke drift
Like mist in a swamp.
Four men sit straight
Like trees
They pay no mind to the flies
Buzzing.
Three of them just focus
On winning back the money
From the Indian foreigner at the table.
The man to the right of the Indian plays
An eight of hearts.
The Indian slides out a card
And lays it on the pile.
“Oh come on,” the man sputters.
“It looks like the trick is mine, my friends,” the Indian says
Taking back his ace of clubs,
Along with the rest of the pile.
“And that makes five for me,” he adds taking in the
Small pile of money
In the same open arm gesture.
The man gets up
Having lost enough.
He tries to say goodbye politely
But it’s tricky when you’ve just lost
Fifty pounds in an hour.
The man pushes past Aki Monye who steers himself
To the table. “This seat open?”
The three men nod
Sweating from the heat.
The Indian shuffles the two decks
And deals.
Bets and calls pile
In the center.
The man to his left opens
With a king of clubs.
Plays move clockwise around the table.
There is a new tension at the table.
The men feel it but can’t name it.
Two of the men don’t realize
This game isn’t about them.
They have no chance.
This game is now
About the Indian
And Aki.
This game is a duel.
Aki watches the faces.
There is no talking during a game of wittage
But he looks for what they are telling him
All the same.
He keeps his eyes moving ahead of the cards.
Looking for reactions.
When someone has to change a strategy
There are always reactions.
He knows he’s playing against the Indian
More than any other at the table.
But he keeps his attention spread.
The Indian watches the cards.
It’s difficult to count cards in a game of wittage
But he tracks which ones are being played
All the same.
He keeps his eyes moving ahead of the faces.
Knowing their moves before they do.
His cards. Aki’s cards. The cards of the other men.
He seems frustrated.
His brows furrowed.
But he plays cards casually.
Tosses them out as soon as he can.
He’s three steps ahead.
Only near the end of a play does he seem to relax.
Aki has him against the ropes.
The score is tied between them.
The Indian is out of suit.
And Aki still has an ace in the hole.
They both know this.
He lays down the ace
And breaks his stone faced look to give the Indian
A smug smile.
The Indian relaxes.
And grins.
And lays down a trump card
A ten of diamonds.
“Where the hell did you pull that from?” Aki breaks the silence.
“Are you calling me a cheat?” the Indian demands, collecting the winnings.
“As a matter of fact…” Aki says, rising from his seat.
The other two men decide it’s a good time to leave.
They’ve lost enough. No need to get in the middle of a fight too.
Aki raises his fists.
He towers
Nearly a foot over the other man.
The Indian bursts out laughing. “You call that a boxing stance?”
Aki grins and lowers his fists, “Good enough to whip your backside.”
They embrace and move to the bar.
The brass is streaked with dirt and scuffed.
The only shine left is in the nooks
And places polished again by wear.
“Beer,” the Indian says. “And a coffee for my friend.”
As the bartender gets the drinks, the Indian lays some money on the counter and says, “What brings you to Lagos? I thought you were headed east.”
“I was,” Aki says.
“But I got a job. I want your help.”
“I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you for the last one. But, if you are going to beg.”
“There’s something odd about this one, Citta.”
And Aki explains. The woman that Winter wants.
How Winter isn’t concerned about the stolen property.
Crystals, unborn machine minds.
He explains his confusion.
Why would Winter come to him.
Ask for him by name. Come to Nigeria just for a half-hour meeting.
Instead of involving a Marshal. Or company agents.
Surely they had resources to track her down.
What did they want to keep quiet?
“A fine puzzle,” Cittavata says,
Rubbing his bearded chin. “But straight forward.
“We find the woman. Bring her to Ian. Collect a check.”
“William,” Aki corrects. “This came from the son.
“And I doubt it will be that straight forward.”
Cittavata Nichiketa drinks his beer.
Aki Monye drinks his coffee.
Together the think
In each his own way
Where in the hell
They start.
Just like the old days.
