Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “Uh, no. No, no. I, uh, I can handle it. How about this Thursday, President Kolo? I think I can get things off my plate by then.”

  “Thursday?” Kolo sounded surprised, pleasantly surprised, honoured. “Are you sure? That would be wonderful. I am busy all day, but we can meet for dinner.” Kolo closed his eyes, trying to focus on the conversation rather than on the symphony of water in his head.

  “Thursday it is, President Kolo.”

  Kolo slammed down the phone. He rifled through his memory, contemplating the various qualities of the innumerable doctors who had attended him over the years. Finally, he selected one highly competent physician of limited imagination and almost pathological introversion. His nickname had become more popular than his real name. “Get helicopter ready. Bring Dr. Sikily.”

  Once Dr. Sikily arrived, Kolo issued instructions. “You are the only man I can trust to complete this task without hiccups. There are few competent people left in this country.”

  The man’s chest pumped out at this news, but no word slipped past his lips.

  “Go to Jebba Dam area. Collect water from the most poisoned sites—places where bodies are still floating or diarrhea is there. You’re a doctor, so you’ll know. Some Western scientists want samples to test to find purification methods. The helicopter is waiting for you. Be back by tomorrow.”

  The man opened and closed his mouth as if this signified actual speech. He then bowed and departed, his white coat flapping behind him.

  Moments later, Kolo’s aide rushed in. “Pilot say helicopter don quench for petrol.”

  Kolo stared in disbelief. “Well, get petrol from civilian aircraft, you idiot!” he barked.

  The aide scuttled out again.

  The next day, despite a minor mishap, with the helicopter crash-landing a few miles short of its destination, the doctor arrived back at the presidential complex, wearing a neck brace, a plaster cast and bandages. He placed the samples gingerly in Kolo’s reception area.

  When he was gone, Kolo called Cook. “I need this water filtered, but do not boil it. Please repeat back these instructions.”

  “Filter water, but no boil.”

  “Correct. Return bottles as soon as you have finished. Throw filter away. What do you do with the filter?”

  “Throw away.”

  “Correct. The water is too dirty to use filter again. It is for presidential monitoring purposes only.”

  “Aah.” The cook’s mouth drooped with disappointment; he could not pilfer the filter for his own use. Amazing how ungrateful people are, even when you’re trying to save their families, Kolo thought.

  A few hours later, Cook returned with the filtered water.

  “I need Sparklex to purify the water. Please bring Uzonna from Sparklex.”

  “Sir.”

  Uzonna arrived panting, his forehead dripping with sweat. Suffused with veneration, he hardly dared look at the president.

  “I don’t know if you are aware, but Sparklex has sent me this water with a special request for bottling.” Kolo fluffed up his agbada to impress Uzonna further.

  Trembling with awe, Uzonna could not answer.

  “They are trying to target the Nigerian palate. Please bottle and send it back to me, but mark it on the bottom with a blue dot. It is for monitoring purposes only.”

  By the next day, Kolo had two crates full of infected water. His steward would serve them to his guest. There was no way Sinclair could survive ordinary tap water in Nigeria, let alone infected water. And with six people involved in this transaction, not even the greatest detective could trace the polluted water back to him.

  Ironic, Kolo thought. The peddler will be flushed away by his own goods.

  Kolo then buzzed his assistant.

  “Cook.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He issued specific instructions. Salty, peppered snacks should stoke Sinclair’s thirst. Salt to kill a slug. He needed to make him thirsty enough to drink at least five glasses of water—just to be sure. If he could keep Sinclair in Nigeria for one week, the water would riddle the poor man with all kinds of diseases that no manner of Western medicine could cure.

  Kolo stood up and crept to a window. He peeked from behind the curtains. He had neither dealt with the minister of finance, a violently intelligent man, nor found out why the American ambassador had supported Jegede. Yet all now seemed quiet. He looked out over the compound walls and wondered how many on the other side of its embattled heights were plotting to shorten his life. The gushing noise exploded again in his ears, this time drowning out the radio and all other surrounding sounds.

  He took sharp, shallow breaths to try to control his breathing. After a close inspection of his golden agbada for hidden snakes and scorpions, Kolo dressed in meticulous fashion for his meeting with John Sinclair. Everything had been prepared, down to the last … well, Kolo thought, as far as any Nigerian could plan. And, he mused, it had been a while since he had felt truly stretched, intellectually or dramatically.

  Sinclair arrived punctually at 8 p.m.

  “Welcome, Mr. Sinclair,” Kolo beamed, squeezing his weak hand. “How are you doing?”

  The man seemed handsome, but was dressed and coiffed in such a self-conscious fashion that it erased any beauty he might have had. He had an easy smile that appeared to be looking at a mirror no one else could see—its reflection pleased him greatly.

  “Nnnnot bad, President Kolo,” Sinclair replied. “Dangerously well.”

  Still, Kolo could see that Nigeria had already beaten some of the life out of the man. His moussed hair glistened, and some of the gel had slipped down the sides of his face to the tip of his ear. His entire face gave off a greasy glint. Even his aftershave had a slightly punchy edge to it.

  “Something to drink?” Kolo’s agbada billowed out behind him as he walked, a confident stride leading to the reception area. “Water? Sparklex? Snack?” Kolo snapped his fingers and his steward disappeared.

  “That would be wonderful, Mr. President.” Sinclair sat on the plump crème brûlée armchair offered to him. “Wonderful country, Nigeria. Delightful.” His tired eyes betrayed other sentiments.

  “Some people find it a bit trying,” Kolo said, “but I’m partial to it.” He smiled for a brief moment, until the pain from his rash caused him to disengage the muscles.

  “Absolutely.” Catchphrase number seven. “Oh, absolutely.”

  Kolo’s steward opened two bottles of water, poured them into two glasses and left snacks on their side tables. I’ll give him a week, Kolo thought. A week at max.

  Sinclair reached for his glass. He sat back with the water in his hand, its condensation dripping into his palms.

  Kolo shifted forward, muscles taut. He smiled. “Well …” Kolo lifted his glass and tinkled the ice cubes. “Cheers!”

  Sinclair tinkled back, smiled, allowed the glass to hover near his mouth and discreetly replaced it on the side table.

  Kolo froze. He hoped Sinclair did not suspect anything.

  “How refreshing!” Kolo took a long gulp and smacked his lips. “Nothing like a long, cold drink of water in this climate.”

  “Oh, absolutely, President Kolo.” Sinclair lifted the glass to his cheek to cool it down, closing his eyes for a brief moment and sighing. Then he replaced the glass on its coaster.

  Unable to believe his eyes, a desperate Kolo motioned to the steward. “Turn air conditioning off,” he whispered.

  The steward’s eyebrows rose, but he followed the president’s orders.

  “Oh no! Not again!” Kolo tutted. “Bloody power supply. Can’t be relied upon. Steward! Open windows!”

  A searing gust of burning air whooshed into the room.

  “Best to keep hydrated,” Kolo advised his guest, raising his glass again. “A toast to our partnership.”

  “A toast, President Kolo!” They clinked glasses.

  Sinclair allowed his lips to touch the rim of the glass, pretended to sip the water and then set the cryst
al back down.

  Kolo’s brain shifted into high gear. Who, in this chain of events, could have tipped Sinclair off? Only six people were involved: his aide, the doctor, the pilot, the cook, the bottler and the steward. Kolo considered the bottler: a Sparklex employee.

  As he ruminated, he caught Sinclair glancing at the glass. Not at the water, he realized, but at the ice cubes. Kolo cursed. The steward had not followed his instructions. Next time, he would have to write them down.

  “Ah, the ice cubes,” he exclaimed, as sweat trickled down his face. “I was wondering. Steward!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sparklex. No ice. Only Sparklex, okay?”

  Steward set down another glass and opened a new bottle of water. Sinclair settled back with an expression of relief and took a sip of water.

  “Do help yourself.” Kolo indicated the snacks.

  “I would love to, President Kolo. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to peanuts.”

  “Someone from your team mentioned that. We made sure to eliminate them from the kitchen.”

  “Very thoughtful, sir.” Sinclair tossed back some salted snacks.

  Kolo breathed a sigh of relief.

  Within a minute, Sinclair was gasping for air.

  “What’s the matter?” Kolo ran to his side, terrified that they had both been poisoned by the cook. “Get doctor! Get doctor!” he screamed to his steward, as he loosened Sinclair’s tie.

  Sinclair pointed to his throat. “Pea-nut! Pea-nut!” Then he pointed to his briefcase, mouthing “medicine”—an action Kolo ignored.

  “What? But … Get cook!” Kolo shrieked. “Hurry!” He could hardly believe this turn of events. If he had known the extent of Sinclair’s peanut allergy, he would not have spent so much energy getting the water.

  The cook ran in.

  “Did his assistant not tell you he could not eat peanuts?” Kolo yelped. “Did you put peanut into this snack?” He grew increasingly angry: Sinclair was outsmarting him again by dying in this manner.

  “No peanut, sir,” the cook replied, terrified. “Only groundnut oil.”

  “You idiot!” Kolo slapped the cook on the face. “Don’t you know groundnut is peanut? It’s the same thing! Where is my aide? And get American ambassador! Now!”

  Kolo could not afford another murder laid at his door. He had to ensure that this would be witnessed as an accident. Sinclair had really thrown a wrench in the works this time.

  Hubris, I know, Kolo thought, yet my plan was so perfect, so watertight, so symbolic.

  “Ep-in-eph-rine!” Sinclair rasped through an ever-swelling throat, pointing at his briefcase. His face was turning blue.

  “You have medication?” Kolo asked, his expression of concern peppered with shock. “Aha! Ms. Glass mentioned something … or was it Mr. Bates? I simply can’t remember.” At the mention of these names, Sinclair’s pupils dilated.

  Kolo rifled through Sinclair’s briefcase and found the medication, which he hid in his pocket. If I hadn’t been a politician, Kolo thought, I would have made a great actor. Same skills required. Perhaps after I leave politics, I could try the stage.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I’m afraid you might have forgotten to bring it.”

  Sinclair stared at his briefcase, his throat increasingly inflamed, forcing him to wheeze—a tremendous effort—for precious air. His face turned purple. Small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Kolo rushed to cradle him. The air filled with the racket of Sinclair desperately trying to take in oxygen, air travelling past his vocal chords, a rasp that could be heard in the kitchen and at the gates of the presidential compound, a loud, passionate clinging to life.

  “The doctor will be here soon.” Kolo patted him on his breast pocket in a consoling manner. He cursed himself for not putting more emphasis on the end of the sentence, wrench more passion from it, more gravitas perhaps.

  Sinclair opened his eyes. Kolo looked down on him, a wide grin alighting on his face. It calmed him to think that he had, after all, made some small contribution to Sinclair’s death.

  And that Sinclair now knew this fact.

  After a few minutes, the rasping deadened into short croaks. The life ebbed out of the man just as the American ambassador rushed in. Three hours later, an ambulance arrived, a veritable miracle of emergency attention by Nigerian standards.

  Although Kolo had enjoyed watching Sinclair suck in his last breaths, it had also reminded him, in the end, of his own mortality, of his brother struggling for air as his lungs filled with water. He realized with violent clarity that he was now in an untenable position, a position he would be unable to quit in any manner that would entail his survival. Here he sat, the most persecuted president in Nigerian history, a victim, unable to resign without provoking prosecution and on his heels, his aide, a man too intelligent to ski in the Alps, go yachting, or crash in a military plane. Even though Kolo knew Glass would continue to support him, any dog could back the minister of finance. And the American ambassador fit the spec. His feeble attempts to joust in Nigeria now began to unnerve Kolo. Here was a mongrel with whom the minister could do business, yet as a result of all these regrettable deaths, Kolo could not even consider the minister’s extermination for at least a year, maybe two.

  So he would have to remain the country’s leader, looking constantly over his shoulder, knowing that his enemies, and even his closest friends, would at any moment be plotting his downfall in a bloody coup d’état.

  And his most cherished of dreams—the miracle of engineering in honour of his presidency—would crumble to dust, smashed like Kainji Dam by the deluge of support for Femi Jegede, a torrent that he had managed to hold at bay only for a brief moment of time, a small blink of history.

  He hung his head and wept. He had not wanted much from life. Why, he wailed, had a man of his abilities been burdened with presiding over the most wayward of nations?

  Kolo retired to his haven to await the abatement of the storm this event would doubtless generate. Exhausted, he wove his way back to the garage, with its adjoining bathroom. He dragged himself into its tiled majesty to turn on golden taps.

  He sniffed the air and wheeled about, struck with terror. No one in sight. Yet that smell … rank, unwashed, asphyxiating. What memory?

  “Guard!” he shouted.

  “Sir!”

  “In!”

  The guard entered the garage, his aviator sunglasses still perched on his nose.

  “Did someone come into this room?”

  The guard considered for some moments, checking every minute of the day. “Yes, sir.”

  “Enh? What is your problem? Have I not told you never—never—to let enter? Did I not say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “Em, it was Innocent. He go for get car clean.”

  “Ah. Why didn’t you say? I said ‘someone,’ not ‘Innocent’! Anyone else?”

  Another long deliberation, then a memory alert. “Ah, yes, sir. He had no weapons. He came from Inspector General of Police. Same man you talk to in supply store. So garage same-same.”

  Quaking with rage, Kolo came within an inch of the guard’s face and flicked his sunglasses to the floor. Unfortunately, the man was very tall, so he still held the advantage. “First of all, broom cupboard is not supply store. We met in broom cupboard. Why would we meet in supply store? What kind of madman do you think I am?”

  “Sir, not … no, not mad at all. Never. No, sir.”

  “Second of all, in what way is my bedroom, regardless of its former function, like a supply-store-broom-cupboard-what-have-you?”

  “Sir, not … no, not same at all. Never. No, sir.”

  Kolo opened the Mercedes’ trunk, to double-check for intruders. “No more visitors to my bedroom, only cleaners. If you see this man again … which one was it?”

  “Crazy one, sir.”

  Kolo breathed a sigh of relief. At least they had not let the ugly one in, with all his sores and pustules. “If you see him
again, accompany him to the broom cupboard as before. I can meet him there.”

  “But he waited long, long time, sir.”

  “Yes, well, there was an unfortunate death to attend to.” Kolo’s index finger sailed forward, pointing towards the other side of the door.

  Another intricate turn, just as inelegant as the police’s, and the guard marched out.

  After running his bath, Kolo beached himself within it and lapped the water against his body, wondering what Ekong wanted him for.

  He submerged himself farther into its cleansing embrace, mouthing the words of John Pepper Clark’s soothing poetry: “Fear him his footfall soft light as a cat’s, his shadow far darker than forest gloom or night—”

  He sank farther down into the tub until the water reached his neck.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Marys Garden Grows

  After packing her few personal items, Mary sat back, put her feet on her desk for the last time and flipped to TV Afrique.

  She yawned. She had run out of adrenaline. She rocked her chair as news flashed by of floods in Mozambique, death squads wreaking havoc in Congo as more emerald deposits were found, a Senegalese filmmaker receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature and then a surprise item—Kolo and the American ambassador giving a joint news conference.

  Sinclair. Dead.

  The chair stopped rocking.

  This could mean only one thing.

  Promotion.

  Within hours, Corporate Communications had laid out a strategy to ensure that all blame rested squarely on Sinclair’s gelled head, isolating it on that slippery spot so that it could not besmirch any other reputation. Cheeseman, with an eye to his own tenure, protected Mary. She managed to scramble back into the corporation under the radar, to turn away from the harsh glare of publicity and to hide from all scrutiny. She recognized that it would take years for her reputation to recover outside TransAqua, but at least she would be able to keep her job.

  Cheeseman called an emergency meeting the next day. Mary had donned her best blue suit and pulled her hair back to display the acute and obtuse angles of her face. As she entered the meeting room, all eyes turned to her.