The Extinction of Menai

by Chuma Nwokolo

  ‘My name is Zanda,’ I had said nervously. ‘Listen, my paper can pay . . . private interview . . . just me, you, and nobody else . . . how much do you want?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Look, I’m serious here, just talk! How much?’

  ‘Four hundred?’

  I had taken his directions and driven the few hundred kilometres from Abuja to Kreektown, but the lips of the smuggler were now sealed for good. The disappointment of losing a Badu lead was physical, almost as strong as the shock of walking into a dead man’s tent. Now, my very presence in that isolated hermitage was a bad idea. The hands that had made the corpse could not be far away.

  I turned to the elderly horse. I had hired it from a hotelier who also ran three donkeys in neighbouring Kreektown. All I wanted to do just then was recover my deposit for the animal and return to my desk at Palaver before their Roving Eye columnist—or the money in his possession—was missed . . .

  Yet I was a journalist. Even though I could never print the story, the camera in my backpack craved a glance at the scene now imprinted on my mind forever. Reluctantly I pulled it out and raised the tent flap once again. I suppose my crisis started here with that failure of memory, that moment when I turned around to find something worse than amnesia’s blank canvas, to find instead the present contradicting the immediate past: there was a warning snarl from the dog, and from the man, a ragged snore that ended in a yawn. ‘God deliver me!’ he said, in the rusty voice I remembered from the phone conversation. He looked at his wrist. ‘Is that the time?’

  I tried to keep my balance. ‘You were . . . you are . . .’

  ‘Adevo,’ he yawned. He picked up his pristine peak cap. A joint popped and two fists strained in different directions as he stretched himself awake, large eyeballs standing out of a heavy-featured face. ‘And you must be . . . Zanda?’ He impregnated my name with a significance that eluded me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No camera, please.’ He sucked his teeth irritably. As my knees gave way and I fell into a cane chair, he said, ‘Tired, eh? You shouldn’t have walked; I thought I mentioned Ma’Calico’s donkeys.’

  ‘I hired her horse.’ I glanced furtively about me.

  He chuckled wickedly. ‘That dead bag of bones? I swear to God, you are going to have to carry her back to Kreektown, you will see.’

  There was no one else in the tent, dead or alive . . . It was just Adevo, with not a spot of blood on his old-fashioned agbada. ‘You have the eyes of a thief,’ he observed, with professional interest.

  It was just another hallucination, then. The last major episode I remembered was so far back in my childhood I’d begun to think I had outgrown the plague. The worst thing about hallucinations was how they messed with your reflexes: back in Kreektown Primary, a snake once slithered out of my locker and I had not moved a muscle, while my classmates had broken ankles and furniture on their way to the door. They thought I was pretty brave, but I’d only thought the snake a hallucination—and I’d learned the hard way what happened to people who saw strange things. All I wanted was to see what everyone else saw—not the animals that leapt out of walls to animate my science classes. Or the dreams that continued when I was wide awake.

  A woman began to laugh, and I started, but it was only a customised ring tone. He glanced at the culprit in the bank of phones on his armrest and looked away. ‘Okay,’ he said impatiently, ‘what do you want to do about Pitani? His noise is getting too much! You said you want private interview, not so? This is me here.’

  ‘What noise are we talking about?’

  I realised that the thumb he was rubbing against an index finger was a gesture for my attention. I half rose, the better to unwind the money belt from my waist, then sat back again. My publisher, Patrick Suenu, had reluctantly paid up for the promised Badu scoop, even though I had kept my lead and his location secret. My tenure at Palaver was pretty shaky just then, but a Badu scoop was easily the biggest story in the decades since Dele Giwa’s murder. If I had it in hand, I could sell it for an oba’s ransom, and he knew it.

  ‘You’re a bit yellow,’ observed Adevo in what was probably his attempt at light conversation.

  I let that go and pulled out the wads of currency. My heartbeat had slowly returned to normal, but my fingers were still shaking, so I handed over the money without counting. Adevo took them on trust as well, making them disappear into various pockets on his garment. He replaced the peak cap on his head, pulling its two flaps low over his ears. There was a beatific smile on the face he turned to me. ‘Correct man,’ he said. ‘Oya, you have one hour. Time is money.’

  The financial transaction concentrated my mind.

  Two weeks earlier, Badu had arrived on the national scene when he kidnapped Justice Omakasa, carried out a mock trial, and executed him vigilante-style. The video of the judge confessing to bribes from Trevi and a host of other litigants had ignited a firestorm on the Internet. The TV networks had it on an endless loop. A police manhunt for Badu was under way, but the judge’s salacious confessions had turned public sympathy in favour of Badu, even as face-saving investigations against people outed by the confession foot-dragged their way through the system.

  Then, a couple of days before, Charles Pitani, the inspector general of police, had also been kidnapped. The audacious abduction of Nigeria’s most senior policeman had all the hallmarks of Badu’s first strike, and an intensive security dragnet was under way. Yet Badu had gained such cult status that a Pitani video was feverishly awaited.

  Those were the stakes I was playing for, deep in creek country.

  Four hundred thousand naira was a lot of money, but not for a Badu story. The police had announced a ten-million-naira reward for information leading to the vigilante’s capture. That was a powerful suggestion that the man before me was a charlatan—except that Badu was now a folk hero. Anyone who gave him up to the police had to be careful not to be lynched.

  Badu had sent out his first video for free. I was more than happy to pay for the second. Perhaps he was becoming more of a media-savvy vigilante, using his contacts to sell news to sympathetic journalists to fund his operations.

  I hoped I was sitting before one such contact.

  I switched on my Dictaphone, rose partway, and put it on the arm of Adevo’s chair. I sat back down and chewed on a nervous fingernail. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, pocketing my Dictaphone. ‘Is it me you want to talk about, or Pitani?’

  I hesitated. There was no longer a Dictaphone beside him. Had I imagined pulling it out, or just the bit about its disappearance? ‘We’ll . . . get to Pitani and Badu,’ I said, determined to get my hour’s worth. I patted myself uncertainly. The recording machine was gone. I swallowed. I pulled out a pen and a notebook.

  He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘What do you want to know? I entered Harvard at the age of sixteen—’

  ‘Harvard?’

  ‘The university. You ’ave heard of it, not so? I graduated firs’ class. Won the prize for my year. After my PhD, I entered revotechnics . . .’

  ‘Revo-what?’ I asked, writing.

  ‘Revotechnics.’ He sighed. ‘Journalist of nowadays. So wha’s the problem? Spelling or meaning?’ I didn’t reply, and he continued. ‘By the time I was thirty I was registering patents left, right, and centre. I was chairman of UAC for ten years. Then I ran for the presidency.’

  ‘And how was your election?’ I asked caustically. I had stopped writing when he started registering patents left, right, and centre, but those shorthand squiggles that I had been silly enough to make stared up at me with pity.

  ‘Don’t mind those tribalists,’ he said. He took a bottle, shook some groundnuts into a fist, and munched away. ‘Anyway, that annoyed me so much that I retired here to my country villa.’ His groundnut hand indicated his luxurious retirement estate. He shook his legs with barely concealed irritation. ‘Any more questions?’

  I did not think my crisp currency n
otes deserved all this sarcasm, but it was also clear that the hallucination had knocked me off-balance. I had opened an interview with a smuggler with my celebrity formula. In two and a half years of print journalism it was hard to beat a sillier opener: asking a criminal for testimony that could lock him away. I had to pull things together quickly.

  Patrick’s money was on the line.

  He extended the groundnut bottle to me. I shook my head politely. ‘This Badu, is he from this area at all?’

  ‘No, he’s from Congo.’

  I stared, trying to decide if he was still being sarcastic. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  He returned my stare.

  I tried another tack. ‘About the second video, is it ready yet? I want the first copy.’

  He sneered. ‘From this money? Look, young man, I am a smuggler, not a Nollywood producer.’

  I paused again: deep breath, slow exhale. ‘Is the IG still alive at all?’

  ‘What did you think will kill him? Mosquitoes?’

  I paused to consider my options. Despite his fearsome reputation, Adevo did not look like a physical match for me. At fourteen, I had realised I was never going to make six feet and became the second member of the Kreektown Boxing Club. I had maintained the sport in Abuja while I hustled for my degree. I took every opportunity, in and out of the ring, to practise. Adevo did not look fit enough to yawn properly, but he had not left his chair so far, and his off-white robe was generous enough to conceal a small arsenal—a smuggler with his reputation would not get by on divine protection alone. This was a nonrefundable transaction, then. I tried again. ‘Can I meet Badu?’

  He stared at me.

  ‘Are you Badu?’ I asked.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ he snarled.

  The harmattan howled through the interstices of the tent, sinking its chill between my shoulder blades. Fear for my money and my life seized me. I regretted coming alone, coming at all. My dreams of journalistic fame on the wings of a Badu scoop began to fade. I leaned forward and whispered, although I could have screamed in that wilderness and not been heard, ‘Listen, we are on the same side, okay? Talk to me in confidence, eh? I’ll use a false name for you, and a false location for Badu . . .’

  He chewed his nuts quietly.

  ‘So, is Badu planning any more strikes?’

  ‘We pray.’

  I closed my notebook. ‘You want to cancel the interview?’ There was a tremor in my voice, which angered me. I ratcheted up my anger. It was preferable to fear, ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, no, the money’s good,’ he said, eating some more groundnuts. ‘The interview’s very good.’

  ‘Because I’m getting the feeling that I’m talking to a con man who has never even seen Badu.’

  ‘Is that so?’ There was mockery in his voice.

  ‘And if that’s the case, just give me back my cash. Forget about my petrol, forget about my time, just give me back my . . .’

  He smiled. ‘There’s no refund in ashawo business. You can’t just tell a prostitute it wasn’t sweet—’

  ‘Listen, my friend . . .’

  His smile drained slowly away. ‘I know who you are. You wanted to try me, not so? But I passed your test. Eh?’

  The unspoken tract of a strange language sprawled between us. My mind gridlocked and refused to mesh. Visions of a post-Palaver TV-journalism career plunged into a swirling vortex. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘My mouth is . . .’ He zipped his lips. There were bits of caked starch meal on his palm. ‘I swear to God.’

  I rose slowly. My mouth was parched. I prayed for a violent fit, but all I got was a roaring in my ears. I took a step towards him and provoked a belly laugh. A low growl issued from the dog, and a metal post with two black nozzles peered out from his robes. I froze.

  ‘I’m a honest thief. A deal is a deal.’

  ‘Our deal was for an interview. You call this an interview?’

  ‘If you also want me to finish Pitani for you, just say so.’

  ‘What do you mean, finish Pitani?’ I shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Go and ask about me,’ he boasted, getting into a clearly familiar groove. ‘I am Korba Adevo.’ He gestured at the bank of phones by his side. His voice rose and the tent began to billow with his bombastic rage: ‘There’s nothing I can’t move. Me that I have sold army helicopters from this very chair. What about boats? I have six, do you hear me? Six contraband boats! Is it crude? I have bunkered enough petrol to flood this country. Go and check! Lamborghinis, Hummers, there’s nothing that’s too big for me.’ He simmered slowly, then ignited again, his great eyes bulging. ‘Because I’m sitting in this dirty tent! This is my field office only! My house in Ubesia is two storeys! Go to Constitution Road, Aba! Half of the houses on that road are mine! I’m the one that sold the FESTAC mask to British gov’ment, you hear me? There’s nothing tha’s too big for me—’

  ‘—except the presidency . . .’ I suggested.

  ‘Leave nonsense for foolish people,’ he counselled shortly. ‘I sell silence as well, okay? That’s me.’ He picked up a phone. ‘You see this red Samsung? It has the telephone of a federal minister. You know why he does business with me?’ He drew his zipper again.

  Beneath the bombast was some truth. I had never met him before, but the name Korba Adevo had resonance amongst the dwellers of creek country. This far from civilisation a grave would not require a death certificate to dig. A funeral would not need a coroner’s report. I had lost Patrick’s money. My life was still on option.

  I opted to flee.

  I raised the flap and backed outside. The harmattan was more insistent now. The fever inside me was gone. I was uniformly cold all over as I mounted the horse. My sore, unaccustomed buttocks connected with the craggy saddle, completing my misery. I remembered my Dictaphone, which had a few untranscribed interviews. Yet I knew that if I returned for it I would either have my head blown off at the entrance or find the fat fence dead all over again. Neither prospect appealed. I turned the horse’s nose for Kreektown and urged it on.

  HUMPHREY CHOW

  Lower Largo, Scotland | 15th March, 2005

  Dalminda Roco sang “Amazing Grace” in the bathroom. When he stepped out, the smell of stale poultry had receded somewhat. Over breakfast, I fixed him with my serious stare. ‘How did you get into my room?’

  He looked at me suspiciously, like someone sensing a trick question. ‘I climbed the stairs and opened the door?’

  ‘Why? And don’t tell me you were feeling sleepy!’

  ‘Actually, I was rather hoping to get arrested. I was here years ago for a students’ beach party and I know where the housekeeper hides the spare key.’

  ‘I am renting right now; you realise you are, kind of, trespassing?’

  ‘Like I said, I was hoping to be arrested; instead I ended up with tea in bed.’ He considered the last of his egg sandwich and shook his head. ‘And a full English breakfast!’

  I counted to ten with my eyes mentally closed, and asked quietly, ‘Why?’

  He drained his tea and yawned. ‘Who . . . how . . . why . . . look at the pedestrian issues on your mind!’ He pushed his chair back. ‘Me, I’m into more earth-shaking matters.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like bombs!’ His honking laugh went very well with his macabre humour. ‘Bombs shake a lot of earth!’

  With that, he rose and slung his rucksack on carefully. He squared his shoulders into the weight of it and looked into the garden, ‘Looks like a lovely day for it,’ he grudged, scratching his beard. He was no longer laughing. ‘I might as well get on with it.’

  I edged closer to the block of kitchen knives. I was dealing with a plucky con man. Earth-shaking matters indeed. He was clearly anxious to make away with his swag. I hadn’t seen my laptop that morning, for instance, and I couldn’t afford to lose it. It had too many killer opening paragraphs with short story potential. ‘That’s not a bomb.’

  ‘It’s n
ot?’ He shrugged the rucksack onto a kitchen counter and offered me a cord. ‘D’you want to pull-test it?’

  I didn’t move.

  I was torn between pushing this lunatic and his bag outside and mining him for inspiration for my next short story. This was exactly the sort of offbeat material Lynn would swoon over. I didn’t want to die in a bomb incident, but I felt compelled to prioritise my art—for the moment at least. After all, some authors had written their best sellers from prison, writing with boot polish on toilet paper. I was in a seaside resort, on the last day of a barren writing retreat. This seemed a chance to redeem myself: a short story begging to be written. All I needed was the gumption to interview a man carrying a bomb. ‘What put you up to this?’ I asked sympathetically, as he zipped up and reslung his bag. ‘You look a decent sort. Did the MI5 kill your parents? Are you half Palestinian? What’s your particular issue?’

  ‘It’s Google’s fault.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pornography isn’t the only bad thing on the Internet,’ he explained. ‘Six months ago, my father was killed by—’

  My heart raced. I was on to something: ‘The CIA? Microsoft? Was that why . . . ?’

  He watched me warily. ‘Are you a communist or something? He was killed by a heart attack. It was right after he went bankrupt.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. We disliked each other, but at least he paid my uni fees till the end, even when I went a little off-schedule . . .’

  ‘How “off-schedule” were you?’

  ‘Let me put it this way, I was never going to graduate, all right? But I rather liked the student lifestyle—’

  ‘Do you mind if I just get the facts straight? How many extra months had you, sort of, logged?’

  He glared. ‘Five extra years. Happy now?’

  ‘Sorry, we writers sometimes have to be journalistic in our research.’

  ‘So I was really feeling depressed, you understand, when I had to pull out of uni. I had no skills, no degree, no sponsor. That afternoon in the library, I googled suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’ I blinked. ‘What skills do you need to be a waiter? Did you have terminal cancer as well?’