Watching him from the summer hut under which we grilled meat and prepared drinks to be served to customers reminded me of spy movies I watched a long time ago. He looked like a spy. Or maybe he was one.
One could never be sure.
We could predict when he’ll come, the things he was likely to do and what he ordered.
Fridays for instance, he stayed a bit longer, chatting with some local girl. Chicken was for Fridays, beef on Thursdays and Mondays, pork on Wednesdays. Tuesdays and Saturdays, he was away, so we never saw him at the bar.
Amina told me he usually traveled outside town on Saturdays for some work. Unlike many foreigners in this area, Mr. Griffiths never smoked. He preferred wine to beer, although every Friday, beer was what he ordered.
We always wondered if he had a family. We naturally assumed that a man in his fifties must have a wife and kids back home.
Sometimes we wondered what made some people leave a place everyone was eager to go to come to a place like our town. Europe and America were places many of my town folks would pay anything to go, sometimes risking their lives and reputation. Yet here in this town were many foreign nationals.
My cousin Ali said that there were many opportunities here we were too blind to see. I think he was right because I know many people in this town that became millionaires through hard work, without travelling.
Well, when I mentioned “hard work”, I was only quoting from the horses own mouths. It’s what they attributed their wealth to, although some people doubted.
There are rumors that a lot of the rich people here deal in coccaine and other illegal drugs, and when they make it in life, they say God blessed them, or they sold some petty items in the streets and rose through hardwork to where they’re now.
Rumours and open secrets will kill this little town of ours.
My grandfather could not pronounce Mr. Griffiths’ name. And he was not alone, many locals cannot pronounce his name. Sometimes they called him “Glisis” and that was enough to make my day whenever I hear that. But Mr. Griffiths was never bothered that his name could not be pronounced.
What amazed us was Mr. Griffiths’ ability to pronounce many local names accurately. Perhaps he was a linguist. Or, maybe he was good at retaining new names whenever they were mentioned to him.
There he is, at his usual place, with his newspaper and hat, occasionally looking out to the mountains across the river. To be honest, there was something suspicious about his routines in our town, but meeting him in person dispelled every fibre of suspicion because he was so friendly and jovial, and he liked to help those in need.
Tijani told me he’s been following Mr. Griffiths secretly for some months now and that I wouldn’t believe what Mr. Griffiths leaves town every Saturday to do.
I’m expecting Tijani at 2pm. It’s a few minutes to 2, and I can hear the familiar sounds of Tijani’s motorbike from a distance. My heart is beating. What has he found, this nosy Tijani of ours?
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