Even here Kolo could not escape the terrible sounds of mourning—people screaming and praying, broken souls, spirits that would never again find rest. He drove through streets devoid of traffic. In the absence of petrol, the resourceful people of the north had bought donkeys, horses and camels for transportation. Wells had opened, charging exorbitant fees for small canisters of water, while farmers offered their goods at five times ordinary prices.
The Rolls entered the palace gates and parked next to the three others in the courtyard. A member of the sultan’s retinue led Kolo to a chamber. Here, the paramount leader sat on a golden throne, and had discarded his usual Western attire, Kolo noted, to underscore the historical significance of his role. He wore a white turban wound around his head, one end of which was secured from one ear to the other under his chin and over his chest, and ceremonial robes of sparkling white embroidered with gold. Together, the sultan and Kolo looked like the figure 10, the sultan the long, straight form of the 1, Kolo the round, plump shape of the O.
Kolo looked into the sultan’s eyes, an act that few of his subjects were allowed. Betrayed there were genuine distress, real grief. Kolo wondered how such events could touch this man-one of the most venerated in Nigeria.
“Minister,” the sultan said with rolling r’s and clipped tones, “welcome.”
Kolo creased into his lowest bow. “I have come here personally to ensure that the caliphate is safe in these troubled times.”
“Allah is merciful.”
With a Christian mother, Muslim father and pagan grandparents, Kolo ensured that any individual would consider him a dedicated adherent of whichever religion they practised. He had completed the Hajj to Mecca, stating, according to Muslim precepts, that Jesus was a prophet of Islam, and, within the south’s many churches, he had claimed that this prophet was God’s Son, in capital letters. Whether other sons existed, he left to the imagination. The Old Testament kept him free of problems. He occasionally worshipped the spirits of nature, as animists represented just 10 percent of the population. In this way, he had managed to sidestep the divisions of north and south.
The sultan gestured towards Kolo and the contrasting silhouettes of the duo walked towards an inner courtyard.
“How is the general?” the sultan asked.
“Very busy. Very tired. Very worried.”
“Ah. No doubt too busy to visit Sokoto.”
Kolo looked embarrassed.
“But not too busy to visit Kano, I see,” the sultan continued.
Kolo stood, head hung in shame, eyes buried in apparent humiliation at the military’s lapse, but internally ecstatic, floating. “Perhaps he is more liberal than expected?” he opined.
“Maybe he believes one day we will all worship at the feet of the dollar. I am happy to welcome you.”
The sultan posed with Kolo outside his walled palace, intricately carved and painted with arabesques. They were surrounded by brightly adorned aides, attendants and retainers. A reporter snapped a picture of a new figure, a much higher figure than a mere 10: 1107111. The 7 held the ceremonial umbrella over the sultan’s head.
Kolo was even able to read a little speech he had prepared: “Our ancestors are calling us to move forward. We will not let this mire engulf us. The great River Niger—which stretches from our north to our south, our east to our west—will be our friend once more.”
The next day, Kolo flew to see His Royal Highness, the emir of Kano. The general’s meeting there the day before would have had the added benefit of implying support for Kolo.
Each time he called on the general, Kolo donned more daring attire, a subtle message of mounting supremacy. His latest visit warranted an audacious yellow agbada, made of heavy brocade silk, a recent purchase that had to be sent abroad for dry cleaning.
“Did the meeting go well?” Kolo asked.
“Very well. The emir was very appreciative.” The general visibly relaxed in Kolo’s company.
“Ah, you had better luck than me.” Kolo brooded in mock self-recrimination. “A tactical mistake to visit the sultan first.”
“You live and learn, my friend.” The general slid down in his armchair to a more comfortable position.
“Unfortunately, if you don’t learn fast enough, you don’t live long.” A wistful thought followed this, seemingly unconnected. “Perhaps it’s time to go to Kainji. The people cannot think you might be avoiding it. You must portray yourself as a man of integrity and authority.”
The general pondered a while. “Agreed.”
“A man who cares about their fate, even while the president runs away from them.”
This emotion-caring-did not fit the general’s repertoire, and he shook his head. “The area is too dangerous to visit at the moment. There’s armed rebellion.”
“Well, some of your junior officers are taking that risk, I note.” Kolo left the thought to hang in the air.
The general softly scratched his cheek, a vehement gesture from such a discreet man.
“Meanwhile,” Kolo sighed, “I’ll visit the less affected spots downstream–just a few farmsteads. Hardly worth going to those bush areas.” He took a last few strokes of the armchair. “Call me if you need political backup.”
The general shrugged. Kolo understood the gesture. According to the general’s logic, armed force trumped diplomacy on any occasion. Kolo suppressed a grin.
“I would keep a low profile in Kainji over the next few weeks, Joseph.” Kolo stood up and moved around in silence, as one would in a funeral parlour. “The situation could become combustible. You don’t want to be associated with that. Don’t let reporters anywhere near the area.”
Thus, he sent the general to the region where rage was about to erupt into organized protest, while Kolo visited settlements too far apart for any movement of solidarity to have formed. Getting Kainji under control would take weeks, if not months.
Kolo flew from Abuja to Lagos, the bustling commercial hub of Nigeria, unharmed by the catastrophe; a city built on islands criss-crossed by lagoons and creeks, named after the Portuguese word for “lakes.”
While the general was away, Kolo courted the forgotten but powerful Christian groups, who represented almost half the population. The people flooded back to the centres of worship, as their belief in man’s primacy over nature had been thrown into serious question. Kolo made sure to visit the leader of the newest Christian sect, funded by evangelicals in the United States. These churches were an increasingly popular form of entertainment.
He left the reporters outside as he entered a crystal temple to meet its spiritual leader. The bishop was dressed immaculately in a Nehru jacket and a thick golden cross encrusted with diamonds, which matched the fine baubles on his fingers and the large ruby and sapphire watch on his wrist.
“Minister!” the preacher sparkled. “You are the answer to my prayers!”
“Your eminence. Please tell me how I can assist your people.”
The bishop’s glittering eyes lifted up to the dull ceiling and walls of his glorious oasis in the filth and squalor of Lagos. They were constructed of glass, built high, soaring into the sky, in imitation of California’s great monument-the Crystal Cathedral. Unfortunately, as with most ideas transplanted directly into Nigeria, the bishop had been unaware that no window cleaners existed to wipe their higher reaches. So the ceiling and upper walls were now covered in red dust, tree sap and bird droppings. The pride and joy of the bishop lay in a sullied state.
“Look-look at this foul dirt,” he frothed. “It is not a fitting monument to the Lord. People come here to have their spirits raised, and all we can offer them is a glass hovel.”
“Ah! You need water.”
“Yes, clean water.”
“I would be honoured to provide it.”
“Oh, Minister Kolo,” crystal tears glistened down the bishop’s translucent face, “you are truly one of the Lord’s chosen.”
Outside the cathedral, bright flashbulbs caught Kolo and the bishop,
gleaming smiles, sparkling teeth, shaking hands.
After this interlude, Kolo set about touring the seats of power: the members-only Yacht Club, the Polo Club and finally Ikoyi Club.
Built during the colonial era, Ikoyi Club stood in lush gardens, its facade white, paint-chipped and airy. It now teemed with people seeking information, all in pursuit of the benefits of its water supply and generator. Kolo had made a point of ensuring that the club was fully provisioned during these dark times. He did not wish his colleagues to go without the benefit of a swimming pool, or for its golf courses to become parched.
He donned a dashiki made of the finest Dutch lace for his meeting with his closest and most loyal business associate, the famed newspaper tycoon Alhaji Dr. Monday Ikene, LL.B., M.B.A., Ph.D. (incomplete). They sat at the nineteenth hole, fondling drinks while Kolo watched his friend’s daughter play with some of the other mixed-race children—or “oyinbo pepper”—who had sprouted after the return of Nigeria’s businessmen, intellectuals and diplomats from abroad. Their white wives sat in a huddle, trading horror stories of life in Nigeria and exchanging news of the best places to buy supplies. Some wore Western dress with flounces and flowers; others, with more adventurous spirits, sat there in bubas and wrappers, headdresses sliding down their silken hair to their eyes.
Ikene’s oyinbo pepper came to greet him and settled to play with her doll at Kolo’s feet.
“So, Dawn,” Kolo asked, wondering why her father—who called her Don—had given her a name he could not pronounce, “what do you want to be when you grow up? A businessman like your father?”
“No,” Dawn answered. “They don’t make enough money.”
“Oh really?” Kolo interlaced his fingers across his round belly. “So what do you want to be?”
“A politician.”
Her father almost swallowed his toothpick. “Don!” he shouted. “Go and play with your friends!”
The child scurried off, carrying her anatomically impressive doll with her, leaving the doll’s executive briefcase and pink SUV by Kolo’s feet.
“So, Ogbe,” Ikene rebounded quickly, “how’s life?” His long, curved fingernails scratched white lines onto his skin.
“Good, very good.” Kolo quickly checked himself. “Lucky to be alive.”
“Oh God. This country will kill us all.” Ikene snapped his fingers for some more Fanta orange with ice. “How can I run my businesses without banks, transportation, personnel? Even the newspapers—”
“The newspapers have to run,” Kolo interjected. “It’s very important that they continue to run.” He attempted to recuperate from such a rash outburst. “Tell me what else you need, my friend. I’m sure this has taken a toll on your finances. News can wait.”
Ikene turned an eye to Kolo—a vulture surveying the landscape. He stood up—perhaps the only Nigerian with hunched shoulders—and hooked his long fingers under Kolo’s arm. They glided towards the veranda.
“You do me a great favour.” Ikene could sniff out a plot years before it had hatched. He had followed the trail of Kolo’s bold imaginings and had found his breakfast there. “Is there anything I can do in return?”
“I feel it is my role, as a public servant,” Kolo sounded nonchalant, “to ensure that the people remain calm. They must be informed of the steps the government is taking to secure their future.”
“What if I sent a reporter to follow you over the next few months? Would we find this,” Ikene paused, claws digging into Kolo’s arm, “newsworthy?” Ikene’s eyes were fixated on the centre of Kolo’s dark pupils.
“I should think so,” Kolo said cautiously, knowing full well that in exchange for coverage essential to raising his profile he would be followed day and night by Ikene’s spy. “And, of course, you realize General Abucha is deploying troops in Kainji.”
“Yes, we will need a bit of, em, financial assistance.” Ikene smiled, revealing a row of long teeth. “But it will be a privilege to provide coverage of both you and the general. May I make a suggestion? Perhaps you could start with a letter to the editor. Then it would be natural for us to follow your activities.”
“I’ll write one tonight.”
Kolo left with a shiver. The “inducements” Ikene expected would only increase over time. Although one of his dearest friends, Kolo disliked the man intensely. He patted his pockets. Surely he had not left his antacid at home?
His chauffeur drove Kolo through empty streets to his Lagos home, the car’s gentle suspension rocking him into a light trance.
For the average citizen, there was no petrol for transportation; the city had ground to a halt. Litter decomposed on the roadsides and people drifted as if in a dream, dazed and without purpose. Thrown across the skies, a veil of neon brown haze turned day into permanent dusk, erasing all colour. Even through the air conditioning, Kolo could hear the screams and wails of those who had lost more than everything—their history, their heritage, their people. He asked Innocent to put on some classical music and lay back in his seat, closing his eyes, shutting out the nightmare.
At home he settled down in a comfortable chair and started to compose his letter. He dipped into a box of specially imported Quality Street chocolate and, for inspiration, selected a rosy strawberry cream—his favourite.
Letter to the Editor:
It is my privilege to serve in government, at the behest of the
people, to represent their interests and protect their well-being.
I have failed in this august duty. And for this,
He sucked loudly on his chocolate, adding an orange crème to the mélange.
I pray almighty God
He immediately crossed out “God.” Too explosive in a country with an Islamic north and a Christian south. His fat digits dived into the box for some nut centres.
the all-compassionate creator for forgiveness.
Kolo shook his hand, swearing under his breath. It ached from writing. He looked at it with concern, twisted it to the left and right. Did it look swollen? Yes, it did. It most certainly did. And it was aching. What could it be? Could it be cancer? Could he have cancer of the wrist? He reached for his high-potency multivitamins. Holding his pen at a new angle, one that made his elbow stick out across the entire width of the desk, Kolo continued writing.
The country is in mourning. We yearn for the enfolding arms of our families, the welcoming hugs of homestead, the protective caress of history, the firm embrace of heritage. But all that greets us is the cold grip of despair.
He sat back and admired his words. “This is pure poetry,” he said out loud. He envisaged his text under glass in a museum. The vision pleased him greatly.
One voice could have saved a million lives.
He scratched out the latter half of the sentence; the initial count had been lower-he would stick with that.
500,000 lives. But no voice sounded loud enough to be heard. As long as I have a tongue to speak, I will commit to ensuring that such disasters never again occur.
Perfect. Another letter in which forgiveness had been sought but little blame assumed. And the implication that duties can be resumed locked right there into the heart of the text. Beautiful.
The next day, Kolo started on a northbound reconnaissance by military plane while Innocent struggled past potholes and flooded roads in Kolo’s Mercedes, the passenger seats and trunk full of gasoline canisters. The car had to be ferried over raging rivers on makeshift bamboo rafts while a journalist followed on an aging scooter. All three met at a small airport. Kolo hopped into his car to visit a number of downstream villages, his mind filled not only with political strategy but also with future commercial ventures that would affect the region. Once again, he drew on his prodigious acting skills to garner local support, sobbing at stories too horrific to pay attention to.
While the general’s name had become unaccountably sullied by the press, associated with brutal acts of violence against an already devastated people, a more diplomatic, soothing Kolo quickly se
ized upon this unfortunate fact to increase his popularity. He travelled widely, spreading his word like the harmattan’s dust.
At the peak of Kolo’s unassailable self-confidence, the white Mercedes stopped in a small town to meet with the chief. Although plagued by contaminated water, villages had fared better in the disaster than larger settlements, having little need for electricity, petrol or oil.
Kolo’s reporter followed him as they trekked through the mud. The retainers pointed at the hut in which the chief sat.
“Where is the door?” Kolo asked in alarm.
“There, sir.” The chief’s retainer indicated a low opening barely large enough to crawl through.
“What? You can’t expect me to go through there.” Kolo’s aversion to germs competed with his horror at any form of debasement. He had no intention of entering on his knees, in submission to a mere village chief. “I’m not going in there!” he shouted, his chin a-tremble.
“Yes, sir,” an aide said. “But if you want to see the chief, he’s sitting inside.”
Kolo understood. There were few ways in which the village could protest recent events. In order to win a greater victory, Kolo had to submit to this defeat. But he had no intention of going down without a fight. “Innocent!” he called. “Handkerchiefs. Antiseptic.”
His driver saluted, charged off and ran back with six newly ironed white linen handkerchiefs and a bottle of antiseptic.
“Lay them on the ground through there.” Kolo pointed at the hole.
Innocent glowered at him until Kolo raised the back of his hand in threat. He heard the discreet click of a camera and dismissed the reporter with harsh words. Innocent started laying the handkerchiefs on the ground, crawling through the hole.
“Go in backwards,” Kolo demanded.
The driver gaped at him, stunned at his employer’s audacity, then turned around in the dust and backed into the chief’s hut, bottom first, laying the handkerchiefs sequentially in a neat row. The first sight to greet the chief would therefore be the buttocks of the driver of the minister for natural resources.
Doing Dangerously Well Page 10
