Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “President Kolo!” The ambassador slapped Kolo on the back. Even though the ambassador dressed with increasing formality, Kolo had noticed no accompanying increase in decorum. “Sure got yourself a mess here, huh? C’mon in and have yourself a drink.”

  Kolo deeply regretted having left behind his motorcade. So instead he made sure his agbada billowed behind him as he walked in, creating an even more dramatic presence.

  “Please sit down, Ambassador Bates.” Kolo deployed his most pronounced British accent to indicate to the ambassador that they were no longer equals.

  For a moment, the ambassador seemed disoriented, but then he smiled benignly and sat down. The scalp underneath his crewcut, however, had turned pink.

  “I’m sure you’ve read the reports on the difficulties we’re facing from the terrorists,” Kolo began.

  “Sure have. Can anything be done to get the situation under control?”

  “I have just dispatched our security forces to the area.” A white lie, but Kolo had plans for three assassins, who could do more damage than a whole army. “We will be penetrating the group—” He stopped short. He could not believe he had just given the ambassador a status report! His aides could do that. In the blink of an eye, most gently and in a most subtle manner, the ambassador had managed to gain the alpha position. Kolo changed tack.

  “We need to ensure that these terrorists are not painted sympathetically by your media, or it will put your business interests in jeopardy. I’m sure you’re on top of the situation.” He added an inflection of enquiry to the last sentence.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, of course.” The ambassador smiled uncomfortably. “We’ve been working on that.”

  “Is there anything our government can do to make your work more, um …” Kolo paused, enjoying the ambassador’s discomfort, “… successful?”

  “We’ll deal with it.” The ambassador bowed his head and scratched his ear. “I’ll call some people tonight.”

  “Do you have any project parameters? A timeline?”

  The ambassador squirmed.

  Kolo knew the word “no” was not part of the diplomatic vocabulary.

  “I just need to get hold of six key people. They sit on all the boards. We’ll get things under control by the end of the week.”

  “Perhaps link Jegede to more extremist groups? That always seems to work wonders.” Kolo crossed his ankles. “I say,” he added, “you don’t have any troops we can send to the region, do you?”

  “We’re already overdeployed in Mexico, I’m afraid. The president’s gotta consider re-election.”

  “That’s a pity. These anarchists are making it impossible for TransAqua to operate. And, of course, the unrest is bleeding to the oil sector.” Kolo sighed and looked wistfully at the ceiling.

  The ambassador cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to my people. We won’t be able to send in regulars, but, uh, maybe a private army? As long as it can’t be traced back to us.”

  Kolo widened his eyes. “Well, now-that’s a stroke of genius! I never considered that! It might be worth talking to TransAqua. Who knows? Perhaps they’d be willing to front it.” He stood, arranged his agbada and billowed away.

  Kolo felt relieved. Once the American media started to shift its sympathies away from the anarchists, the Nigerian media would follow. It was obvious that he had to take extreme measures to get rid of Jegede. A terrorist could not become a national hero when a far more competent man sat right in front of everyone’s eyes, already at the nation’s helm.

  Within a week of Kolo’s call, the northern regions swarmed with a private army that guarded TransAqua and indulged in the occasional offensive foray.

  Barbara had contacted him earlier for a “progress report.”

  Instead of admitting to his activities, he let derision get the better of him. “We’re almost ready to attack. We’re just trying on the balaclavas.”

  “You may not need them. You’re black.”

  “This is the debate we’re having. When we come to a consensus on clothing, we’ll move. Then there are just turbans to discuss.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s vital,” she replied.

  So Femi moved to areas south of the dam. On the banks of the Niger River, fishermen had returned, freed from humiliating employ in factories, as servants or beggars or thieves. Its sluices had prevented sediment from flushing out of the upstream reservoir, so water could not be purified by silt’s natural scouring. Fish had also been trapped and the logic of plant growth, fish survival and food chain had been destroyed. Despite these hard times, the dam was now unable to withhold the bounty of the water and its fruit had been released.

  The inviting odour of smoked fish wafted through all the villages Femi wound his way between shacks of women selling smoked fish, shimmering silver scales skewered in lengths across grills. He ate as much as he could, in defiance of an absent adversary who, at this very minute, probably thought he was strolling around wearing a thick black sock on his head. Usually lively and loud, the market here seemed subdued and he could hear, yet again, the distant sound of children wailing or vomiting. He squinted across the water and watched the men pulling in their nets, grunting through their labours with insistent chants. Two fishermen stood to one side, cellphones in hand, shouting commands at their small, glimmering rectangles.

  Femi headed towards the logs where the older fishermen sat. He perched on the side of a boat while the fishermen sewed their nets. Many of them looked drawn and tired, afflicted by illnesses carried in the water. A picture of Kolo was nailed to a board.

  On seeing it, Femi could not help but pontificate at volume. “Ah-that Kolo! He’s a thief! He rob his father, he rob his village, he rob the country. One day he go rob himself too.”

  A fisherman spat a homemade shuttle from his lips and shouted, “Look at him and his yellow face. Him face don match colour of gold-now.”

  The others chuckled.

  “He go build big-big dam now near Kainji,” Femi continued.

  The fishermen began a multi-vocal protestation. “Is he mad? He dey play with ghost-now. He dey play with angry ghost.”

  “Let him play,” Femi replied. “Him and him juju self no wan’ care. Him fat nyansh go dance with ghost. Even ghost make excuse, leave dance floor, leave bar, leave country even.”

  A fisherman with little remaining sight smiled to himself. “Femi Jegede. He go come save us one day. Small time, he go come, make us better.”

  Femi surveyed the old man, whose eyes were covered with light blue cataracts, like a wash of detergent over brown fabric. Deep creases were etched in the skin around his mouth, yet there were no wrinkles on his forehead. His belly protruded, not as a result of age but of malnourishment. His skin, blackened by the sun, stretched over his frame, displaying taut muscles that bore witness to a hard life of labour.

  “No government, no thug, no tyrant can ever intimidate you and this mass of sinews, Baba.”

  “Let them try,” the old man chuckled. “Me, I go kill Kolo one day. Let me jus’ smell him.”

  Now, sure of their loyalties, Femi squinted into the distance. “Dam builder need bridge. I go go blast there and there.” He pointed at two supporting buttresses.

  The old fisherman stared at Femi, then spoke in a soft voice. “I understand. You be the person we dey wait for. E better make I go. Me, I be old man. I don pass better life, like Kolo money.”

  The younger fishermen immediately protested. “Ah-ah! Why you wan’ make us shame, Baba?”

  “My pikin!” the old fisherman said. “If police dey come, they no go challenge old man like me.” With that, he turned away to his canoe.

  “Bridges now? Bridges?” Kolo yelped. “If they keep going south, they’ll soon be in Lagos or …” the thought suddenly occurred to him, “… the Presidential Palace!”

  He buzzed his aide.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Open curtains.”

  The aide entered and opened the curtains. Kolo looked outside. The s
kies had brightened up, but over the horizon clouds clustered together, conspiring to brew up another storm. He would have to run his errands, despite the ominous forecast.

  “Car.”

  Unable to trust his closest friends, Kolo no longer made appointments. He preferred to surprise associates with a presidential visit. He grabbed his new Italian leather handbag and heaved himself into the back of a darkened SUV, while a body double hopped into the back of a white Mercedes-Benz. The Mercedes and an impressive motorcade turned left out of the Presidential Palace with Kolo’s security detail. Kolo’s bottom lip trembled. He watched the motorcade with tears in his eyes and sorrow in his heart, listening to the sirens forcing the citizenry out of the way. Ten minutes later, his Nigerian-made SUV turned right.

  “Where, sir?” Innocent asked.

  “Inspector General of Police.” Kolo’s nerves were set on edge as he stated this destination.

  Nigeria’s capital city, Abuja, remained in its muffle, soundproofed and sequestered, with its plush lawns, grand hotels, grassy boulevards, luxurious mansions. Very few people littered its pavements: rather like a huge mall, it had not been designed to human scale. Cleared of all distractions, bare and in order, built from scratch and rigorously controlled to conform to plan, Abuja was Kolo’s favourite city. Innocent knew to avoid the areas, disagreeable to his employer, where the chaos of individual agency combated policy. Kolo wished to see no street markets, shacks or cattle on the road. So it took an extra forty minutes to reach the police headquarters. Once there, Innocent drove to a large barracks surrounded by white walls topped by broken glass and barbed wire. As they arrived, rain burst from the sky.

  Kolo, who had always preferred the pomp of the army to the ignominious drabness of the police, felt heartily his lowered circumstances now that his ally Abucha was dead. Some idiots in the military had appointed Wosu P. Wosu, doubtless considering him acquiescent, little knowing that a man from a persecuted ethnic group could only have reached such heights of power through talent and guile.

  He was escorted by two bedraggled police officers past walkways lined with whitewashed stones, umbrellas held aloft. Kolo hopped past puddles, handing his bag to the officers for these feats of athleticism. The officers wore rumpled shirts and walked out of step with each other in an overly languorous gait. Kolo’s anxiety increased as they neared the inspector general’s office.

  They entered a cavernous room smelling of must, decorated with little but a large Nigerian flag and an oversized gold-framed reproduction of Kolo’s face, minus the rash and multiple chins. The cement flooring had been polished red, and the hospital green paint on the walls was chipped. Hornets flew around the stationary fan.

  Kolo looked at the portrait. He smiled. In this light, he looked handsome—just as handsome, in fact, as that maniac Jegede.

  “President Kolo!” The inspector general saluted, his hand so rigid it quivered. He shook Kolo out of his reverie. “At your service, sir,” he shouted.

  “Chief,” Kolo winced. “A great honour.” His heart beat faster.

  The two sat down on black leather armchairs. Pffft! As the air was expelled from the cushions, they were lowered into their seats.

  “Scotch, sir?”

  “Maybe just a small one.”

  The inspector general nervously clicked his fingers, and his aide appeared with two glasses, dirty fingers carrying them on their inside rims. Kolo smiled, wondering if this man had already mounted a conspiracy against him.

  The aide poured two very small Scotches.

  “This is terrible news from Kainji,” the inspector general began. “Ah-ah! When are these people going to stop?”

  Kolo closed his tired eyes, stroking the leatherette chair. “They are not educated.”

  “That is very true.” The inspector general slurped back some Scotch. Kolo could hear him swishing it around his teeth like mouthwash. Once he had swallowed, he opened his mouth with a loud “Aaaah!” in appreciation.

  “They do not understand complex issues.” Kolo opened his eyes, putting down his own Scotch in disgust.

  “It’s too much for them to understand.”

  “They think in very simple ways.”

  “Very, very simple. They are very bush people, sir.” The inspector general suppressed a burp but expelled the resultant rush of air in a ffff! through his mouth.

  “I think far, far into the future. I’m an idealist.”

  “Of course, sir!” the inspector general proclaimed. “That is the job of the president!”

  “The job of the president is to manage the country,” Kolo snapped in righteous indignation, “whereas I …” he searched for the words, “… I am a visionary. It’s a gift. It’s a curse. I’m different. I can’t help it. Neither could Gandhi.” Kolo shook his head with weary resignation.

  “You’re a prophet, sir,” the inspector general agreed.

  Kolo felt himself relax in this man’s company. He sipped his Scotch and lay back in his chair, looking at his portrait. The artist had added a pleasing hint of blue to his brown eyes. His skin tone had been rendered in golden hues.

  “I need your help,” Kolo said.

  “Whatever you require, sir.” The inspector general looked at his Scotch, picked up his glass and readied it for action. Then he tossed back his head, threw the glass towards his mouth and swallowed its remaining contents.

  Kolo heard the liquid shooshing into foam around the inspector general’s teeth again. He tried to blank out the noise. “These militants are committing treason. They must be hunted down.”

  “They are common criminals, sir.” The inspector general swallowed more Scotch. “I will make personally sure that the police—”

  “Not the police.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “A policeman wants to feed his family. How much are they paid? Almost nothing. Correct?”

  “Correct!” the inspector general agreed without protest. “More Scotch?”

  “Just a touch.”

  The aide reappeared and Kolo indicated for him to continue pouring as the attendant shot worried glances at the inspector general.

  “So,” he continued, his eyes once again on his portrait, “since they are not paid enough to put themselves in harm’s way, what incentive is there for the police to catch these people? None. They can arrest anyone and call him a terrorist. Does that make the man a terrorist?”

  “Yes, of course,” the inspector general replied, gaping at Kolo.

  “No,” Kolo replied tactfully. “You’re right. It doesn’t.” He took a sip of Scotch and then set his glass on a side table.

  “Of course not!”

  “So instead of police …”

  “Yes?” The inspector general scooted forward in anticipation.

  “… we use criminals.”

  “What? Sir, what can a criminal do that a whole police officer cannot?” His face a picture of disgust, he had little understanding of the irony of his statement. Kolo had a hard time hiding his amusement.

  “Nothing!” Kolo said with finality. He set his bag aside and laced his fingers across his belly. He felt like a detective explaining a crime to the perfect foil. “So why do I want to use criminals?”

  “Em …” The inspector general looked at the ceiling, running through scenarios. After many moments, he admitted defeat. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Because the only motivation for a police officer is a bribe. Whereas the motivation for a criminal is … ?”

  “Em …” The inspector general looked into Kolo’s eyes, searching for answers. After a long pause, he again ceded victory. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Kolo smiled. “The motivation for a criminal is life.”

  “Oh, I see!” The inspector general’s eyes moved to the floor, as if digesting the information. A few moments later, it appeared that he had found a chink in the armour. “And what if he lies? What if he brings us an innocent man?”

  “He hangs.”

  The insp
ector general smiled. Something about these words appealed to him. Perhaps because they lay in the realm of his expertise.

  “Can you help me?” Kolo asked.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Three men—all willing to kill where necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kolo stroked his handbag. “Bring them to me when you have selected them.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The inspector general beamed. “You are a great genius, sir. You’re a man with big dreams for this country.”

  Kolo left, a warm glow in his heart. The skies had cleared, and he played hopscotch with the puddles. There was something about the inspector general that he liked, although he could not put his finger on exactly what it was. This had been such a refreshing experience-so different from his interviews with the police after the death of his brother.

  As he lounged in the SUV-an ugly, overconfident, unsophisticated vehicle–he took his shoes off and turned on the air conditioner with his sock. He then flicked the seat cooler on. Within a minute his ample buttocks could feel the comforting chill. Next to him lay two newspapers with Jegede’s smiling face on their front pages. He did not need to look at the articles-the photographs told the entire story. Nigeria had given birth to a saviour. One paper had positioned the presidential countenance as a mere inset! The other had the two “contestants” juxtaposed, featuring an unflattering close-up of Kolo’s rash-ridden skin and shadows highlighting his chins.

  “So, Innocent-any news of the inspector general?”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver answered. “Nothing.”

  “Pardon?” Kolo looked at his driver’s neck. “Are you sure?”

  “That is what the drivers told me. No visitors.”

  Kolo tried to lean forward, but he was stuck. He bounced against the back of the seat three times and rocked himself into an upright position just behind Innocent’s ear. “Are you telling me lies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Better not start.”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “For your own safety. And for your family.”

  The car slowed to a crawl.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kolo’s neck snapped back as Innocent reapplied pressure to the forgotten accelerator.