The Wolf at Number 4. Ayo Tamakloe-Garr

      “Really?”

      “It’s not my fault I have the power,” he said with a shrug.

      My hands went back onto my hips.

      He looked into my eyes. “Stop giving me that look. Are the sheep innocent just because they don’t have claws and sharp teeth?”

      I shook my head. “You’re unbelievable. There really is something wrong with you.” I started to walk away.

      He ran after me. “If it makes any difference, it was originally a Roman salute, you know.”

      “I don’t care.”

      He was alongside me now. “It used to be a Roman salute. There’s no reason to be upset.”

      I didn’t respond.

      He walked beside me in silence for a while. Then he said, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

      Of course I didn’t. But it was hard to tell that straight to a kid’s face. I sighed. “You did a bad thing.”

      He looked down at the ground. “It’s okay. A lone wolf doesn’t have friends anyway.”

      “What about your friends back there?”

      He laughed. “Friends? They are nothing more than sheep. I care nothing for them. They fear me because I manipulate and bully them. I call them my sheep and they hail me as their wolf leader. How dumb can they be?”

      “And you’re happy saying that?”

      “It’s just the truth. But I can dissolve the group if you want. It’s an experiment that has run its course.”

      “Why do you care what I want?”

      “You’re not a sheep. I can tell.”

      “Really?”

      He nodded. “You haven’t told me your name.”

      “Desire.”

      “Desire?” he repeated. “That’s an odd name.”

      “It’s not any odder than yours. Which Ghanaian is called Wolfgang?”

      “Wolf,” he said, jumping over a pothole. “My father likes Mozart. Mozart’s first name was—”

      “I know.”

      “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve dealt with sheep too long.”

      I smiled against my will. “Don’t worry,” I said, suppressing the smile. “I don’t know why I was called Desire, unfortunately.”

      He jumped over another pothole. “Ask your father, then.”

      “My father is dead.”

      “Too bad,” he said. “My mother, my real mother, is dead too.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry.”

      He shrugged. “I didn’t know her.”

      A truck appeared from behind us. We moved over to one side of the road and watched it slowly navigate the potholes. It was a dark blue color, and in the back faces squashed themselves against a wire mesh. Some of the faces watched us with curiosity. And some faces glared at us as if we were the reason they were in the back of the truck.

      Then a hand squeezed itself through the mesh and opened in our direction.

      Wolfgang ran up to the truck, reaching into his schoolbag.

      “Herh!” I cried.

      The boy pulled out his food flask and offered it to the hand, which grabbed hold of the flask by the handle. Several more hands appeared through the mesh and gasped at the flask. The truck disappeared around the bend with the hands holding the flask against the mesh.

      “Why did you do that?” I asked him. “Don’t you know they are thieves and murderers and rapists?”

      He shrugged. “It’s boiled yam and kontonmire. I hate that stuff.”

      We started walking again. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out the flask is gone,” I told him.

      “She wouldn’t dare,” he said. “No one can touch me.”

      He then ran ahead to the fork that split the road into two, one leading to my house and the other to his.

      “Come!” he cried and gestured. “Come to my house and meet my daddy.”

      Number 4, West End Ridge sat about a hundred meters opposite my house. Although the bungalows were identical in every way, this one looked considerably older than mine. The asphalt path leading up to it was weathered and potholed. The large wooden garage door had started to rot at its base, and black fungi ran down its walls, looking like mascara tears.

      In the driveway was a gray pickup truck. A big and imposing man I presumed to be his father walked around it, inspecting the wheels. He moved with the authority of a person who was aware he could beat any obstacle into submission. I felt small and awkward as I approached him.

      “Good afternoon,” I said.

      He turned around. “Afternoon.” His voice was as authoritative as his manner, and his eyes regarded me suspiciously.

      “She’s a new teacher at my school, Daddy,” explained Wolfgang. “She teaches JSS.”

      His father shot him a look that scared even me. “No one asked you, young man. Go inside and study.”

      “Goodbye, Desire,” he said, and waved. “See you tomorrow.”

      “Desire, eh?” asked his father.

      “Yes. Desire Mensah. I teach at your son’s school like he said.”

      He took my hand and shook it. “Stanley Ofori. I’m a lecturer at the university.”

      “That’s impressive. What do you teach?”

      “Metamorphic petrology. I’m a geologist.” He pointed to boxes in his pickup. “I’m just returning from the field, as you can see. Those are my samples.”

      “That’s interesting. Can I take a look?”

      He pulled out a pocket knife and cut the tape sealing one box. Inside were small, roughly fist-sized rocks. Most were dark colored, almost black. But one caught my eye. I picked it up to take a closer look. It had black and white stripes and red spots scattered all over it.

      “I had always thought of rocks as hard, dirty brown things,” I said. “So what will you do with them?”

      “Many things, petrographic studies, chemical analysis. But these are things you shouldn’t worry your head with.” He took back the rock and threw it back in the box. He then yelled “Junior!” so loud I jumped.

      A man roughly my age emerged. “Yes, Da.”

      “Come and pack these things inside.”

      He obliged. I stepped backwards to give him way.

      “This is our neighbor, Mrs. Mensah, by the way,” his father said.

      “Miss,” I corrected.

      Junior nodded at me. “Nice to meet you.”

      “You too,” I replied, but he had already turned away.

      “That’s my firstborn,” Mr. Ofori said.

      “Oh.”

      “So why aren’t you married?” he asked me.

      “Well . . .”

      “Don’t tell me you are one of those so-called feminists,” he growled. “You don’t believe in marriage, eh? You don’t want to submit yourself to a man?”

      “No, I just—”

      “Let