The Extinction of Menai

by Chuma Nwokolo

  ‘My daughter says you called her prostitute.’

  My jaw dropped, and I was genuinely shocked, both at the lack of resemblance between the two women and at my own recklessness. ‘Your daughter? . . . but I didn’t know . . . I mean, I never . . .’

  ‘This is hotel, not brothel.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said earnestly.

  ‘And Amana is a graduate. And a senior DRCD civil servant.’

  ‘I . . . I know. I . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘What she said,’ she enunciated carefully, as though she addressed a retard, ‘was that you smell. We have nice hotel here where you can sleep and baf before you go. Is three thousand naira for room-and-baf. You stain my bed sheet, is another five hundred naira. Do you want or not?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘I want,’ I said, and my deposit disappeared into her brassiere. Ma’Calico seemed as tough as the fabric she was named after. She was as broad as the bole of an iroko—and just as intransigent. She made her change from the cash register of a bosom that seemed designed for commerce rather than that alien concatenation of lust and paediatric nourishment. She radiated confidence, and she gloved it with an arrogance that stemmed not just from the fact that she was the monopoly supplier of short-time and long-term beds for twenty kilometres in every direction but from the certainty that, were you the kickboxing and kung fu champion of all Nigeria, she was ready for you.

  She sneered—and at that point, it seemed a biological impossibility that she was the mother of the slip of a woman whose strangled laughter was still gurgling from the front of the yard—and said, ‘And if you touch my daughter, I kill you.’

  ‘I don’t do feckless girls, either,’ I told her horse, long after she was gone.

  MAJOR BELINJA

  Lagos | 15th March, 2005

  They met up in Lagos, at a private guest house in old Ikoyi. The house was an intricately gabled structure set in the rear half of a mandarin garden. From outside, nothing about the house distinguished it from neighbouring properties. Major Belinja’s car nosed through the leafy driveway and came to a halt beyond the carport. The muted birdcalls from an aviary filtered down to the four soldiers in mufti.

  They had spent their years at the Defence Academy jousting for the top position. In their military careers, their rivalry had not diminished, although now it was overcast by a pall of disillusionment. They were in the wrong decade, in the wrong century to be soldiers. Lamikan, for instance, had graduated with the best degree the Defence Academy had awarded in its twenty-nine-year history. He was still thirty-five, but at his age in the ’60s Yakubu Gowon had already been head of state for several years.

  They were in their prime, but the year was 2005 and the environment was no longer amenable to military governments. After the calamities of the Babangida and Abacha regimes, Nigerians were not going to cry out for military interventions, no matter what a hash civilians made of things. And they were making such a hash of things! There was a surliness in the young military, a sense of loss that only Belinja seemed to have escaped. Although he was the most junior in rank among them, he had become the most powerful, for he was a major in military intelligence. In a realm where titles were irrelevant, he had created—and controlled—the most subversive information database in Nigerian history. Even his bosses feared him, and he would have been redeployed long before but for fears—not wholly unfounded—that his most critical data were stored on private servers, and sacking him would be a licence to fully privatise the resource.

  The hallway of the guest house was similarly unexceptional. Belinja hung back from the door and disappeared into a side entrance. Tanko, Ofo, and Lamikan looked warily around as they entered the high-ceilinged lounge. A buffet table was laid out for a small feast, and a Japanese chef brought a platter of skewered meat, which he set down to complete the tempting collage of dishes. He fiddled with a tabletop heater and then disappeared discreetly, without acknowledging the presence of the soldiers.

  Belinja reappeared before his colleagues had a chance to get uncomfortable. He approached the cocktail table. ‘Gentlemen, food is served.’

  ‘And this is the meeting that will change my life?’ asked Ofo as Belinja began to fill a saucer with food.

  ‘You can start by changing your waistline.’ Belinja’s joke sounded forced, but alongside the logic of the buffet, it did get the others to join him at the table.

  ‘Who owns this place?’ Tanko asked as he poured himself a glass of iced zobo.

  ‘I do,’ said a voice from behind him. They turned around for their first sight of Penaka Lee. He was a wisp of a man, only marginally taller than Belinja, but his handshake, when it came, was almost as firm as his gaze. ‘Sorry I couldn’t receive you at the door. I spend most of my time on the phone.’ He was grinning, accentuating his vaguely Asiatic features.

  Belinja performed the introductions, but when it was all over Tanko continued to hold Penaka’s hand. ‘I usually don’t like to eat the food of someone I don’t know.’

  ‘Nigerians have peculiar customs,’ agreed Penaka Lee, tapping a finger on Tanko’s chest. He seemed comfortable with his hand in the other man’s grasp and steered Tanko easily to the drinks cabinet, where the soldier finally surrendered it.

  ‘It’s a sensible custom,’ said Lamikan. ‘Otherwise, you might finish a meal only to find that you can’t afford it.’

  Penaka Lee bowed marginally from behind the cabinet. He lined up some flutes. ‘You have my assurances that this meal is completely free.’ He raised a bottle of champagne and, when he got some nods, began to pour. He passed a glass to Lamikan. ‘I hear you are a champion squash player. What’s your next target? The world championships?’

  ‘My competition days are over; I’m thirty-five.’

  ‘Really? You’ve got young genes! Will you stay on in the force—after your commission?’

  Lamikan’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Belinja. ‘I don’t discuss my military career publicly.’

  Belinja laughed uneasily, but Penaka’s half smile did not waver. Ofo asked softly, into the strained silence, ‘Who is Penaka Lee?’

  The half smile broadened, and Penaka continued without any embarrassment. ‘That can be a complicated question. This morning, for instance, I was reviewing my property holdings. I hold . . . quite a few assets in bricks and mortar.’

  ‘I’d say that makes you a landlord,’ said Tanko.

  ‘And you’d be wrong,’ replied Penaka. He selected a glass of champagne, turned, and headed for the room at the end of the lounge. The men took their drinks and followed, Belinja bringing up the rear. They entered a larger room, furnished like a gallery. A visually overpowering skyscape filled one wall. It was an oil painting, but it didn’t seem that way at all—it seemed more like they had stepped into a room cut into a mountainside and now looked out onto a sky of incredible intensity and vividness. Penaka chuckled as he heard the intakes of breath behind him. He turned and was not disappointed by what he observed. For several seconds there was no sound in the room as the soldiers drank in the spectacle. The first dimension of its wonder was the size: the canvas was stretched over the entire wall. Then there was the sheer detail of it: one could stand close enough to inspect the feathers of the soaring kites, or stand as far back as possible, to experience the breadth of such a limitless horizon in what was, after all, a room. And then there was the magic of the colours, jumping the gap from beauty into masterpiece.

  ‘I see you like Open Heavens,’ said Penaka. ‘If I told you I owned a couple of paintings in Nigeria it would have been just a statistic, but if I showed you one such as this, you’d feel it through your pores, won’t you? It would no longer be a matter of a number on an inventory. It becomes a matter of superlatives, of scale.’ He sipped delicately. ‘My friends, I am a collector.’

  ‘You collect paintings?’ asked Ofo, stroking the rough finish of the oil on the canvas, giving the other man another cause for laughter.

  ‘Paintings!’ snorted Penaka. ‘
These are toys—houses, boats, aircraft—these are all hobbies. We—the club I lead—collect countries; that’s my real profession.’

  There was polite silence in the room. ‘Countries?’ said Tanko eventually. ‘Are we talking South Pacific island countries here? Hundred miles by hundred? Ten thousand population?’

  Penaka managed to look insulted without letting his smile slip. ‘This is not a joke, please; this is business. I’m not talking about holiday islands. I’m talking about real countries here. Argentina-Nigeria-size countries.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lamikan with the dawning of understanding. ‘You mean the old CIA style of getting some Idi Amin–type sergeant to bump off his bosses and take over government? Is that why we’re here?’

  Penaka laughed heartily and congratulated Belinja: ‘Your friend is funny!’ Then he said, stressing his point with firm jabs on Lamikan’s chest. ‘We are businessmen; we never do anything illegal. What we do is done at primitive levels all over the world. In Washington, lobbyists make careers of trying to influence lawmakers one way or the other.’ He cranked up his grin. ‘We make a success of it.’

  ‘So you are a lobbyist?’

  ‘In the sense that Open Heavens is a painting, yes. Listen, a lobbyist can deliver a senator’s vote on a particular bill. I can take a particular bill—or policy, or appointment—and deliver it. In a dozen countries at the same time. It is a matter of the level of influence my club can deliver. We take the long view. Sometimes all we do is identify people with leadership potential in a country and build with them, sometimes over a decade. And I don’t like to boast, but considering the state of our collection right now, I must say we have developed a knack for backing the right horses.’

  ‘Or mules,’ muttered Lamikan into his glass. A chill fell on the room. ‘During the Orkar coup, there was a rumour of a foreign coup plotter who escaped Nigeria in the boot of a car.’

  Penaka’s champagne hand trembled. ‘Rumours, stories, the revenge of the powerless against the powerful.’

  Tanko cleared his throat. ‘What you are talking about is like . . . developing connections.’

  ‘Not connections,’ insisted Penaka quietly. ‘Collections.’

  ‘So,’ said Ofo, gesturing at a political map of the world on the wall opposite the skyscape. ‘How many countries are in your collection right now?’

  ‘If you’re talking connections like Tanko, there’s nowhere in the world where we have none. But if you’re talking collections—’ He grinned coyly. ‘Well, like my friend Lamikan suggested, there are some things that are better not said in public.’

  ‘I see . . .’ Lamikan took a deep breath and glanced pointedly at his watch.

  ‘What’s your nationality?’ asked Tanko.

  ‘Patriotism is an outdated concept. I hold a couple of passports of convenience, speak eight languages, and pay some tax in nine jurisdictions.’

  ‘If patriotism is outdated, what have you replaced it with?’

  ‘Capitalism is inconsistent with patriotism; otherwise there’d be no such thing as a tax haven. Business transcends borders. If countries can own people, why not the other way round?’ He thumbed off a ringing phone. ‘The most patriotic thing you can do for your country is to be very rich! Taxes win wars!’

  They talked a while longer. Lamikan had fallen silent, glancing at his watch every now and then. Finally, Belinja took the hint and made their apologies. Penaka’s invitation, when it came, was almost too casual: ‘Some of my club members are in town for the week, and I’m giving them a dinner soon.’ He waved a derisory hand to indicate his pièce de résistance: ‘This painting is nothing. If they like you, you might get an invitation into the most select club in the world.’

  Tanko took Penaka’s hand in a farewell handshake and retained it once again. ‘Let me ask you a straight question, Mister Penaka: are you planning a coup?’

  ‘I’ll give you a straight answer, my friend: I’m not crazy.’

  ‘That’s not a straight answer.’

  ‘Touché.’ He nodded. ‘Look, imagine a hundred power brokers from all over the world with a hundred unique contacts each, all in one club. That gives every single power broker access to a hundred thousand quality contacts worldwide. That’s my idea of a coup. Only it’s no longer an idea. You can call up your president on the phone. Imagine that with me as a telephone exchange you have that kind of access to one hundred presidents. That’s my coup, friends. Totally legit.’

  * * *

  SOON AFTER, Penaka was on the patio, seeing off his guests. The soldiers were almost at the car, but Penaka hung back with Belinja until the rest were out of earshot. His smile was still intact as he said, ‘That Lamikan, I don’t want him back.’

  ‘He’s Obu’s security adviser,’ Belinja argued. ‘He’s critical—’

  ‘He’s out.’ Penaka pushed his finger into Belinja’s shoulder and repeated, ‘Out.’ He looked past Belinja to the soldiers talking by the car. ‘Ofo is an interesting character, though. You do take risks, don’t you? M.A. to the head of state. What more can he want?’

  ‘He thinks his boss is sleeping with his wife. Guess who put that silly idea in his head?’

  ‘Say no more, Belinja.’ Penaka Lee grinned as he walked with the major toward the car. ‘You’re a genius with your database.’

  ‘Thanks. When are you seeing the Sontik governor?’

  ‘I have a plane waiting to take me to Ubesia.’

  At the car, he looked at Ofo and said, ‘Belinja tells me you used to write poetry at the Defence Academy.’

  ‘Still do.’

  ‘Who’s your favourite American poet?’

  ‘I’d say Robert Frost.’

  ‘Give me a poem,’ said Penaka. ‘Any poem.’

  Ofo shrugged. ‘“Fire and Ice.”’

  ‘Okay. I’ll give you a treat from the mouth of the American president. He’s scheduled to address an Island Nations conference next month. Tune in to that speech on CNN; I’ll give you a practical demonstration of my skills as a presidential ventriloquist.’

  Ofo kept a polite smile on his face, but as soon as they drove through the gate, he shook his head and joined in the general laughter. Belinja alone was silent.

  HUMPHREY CHOW

  Lower Largo, Scotland | 15th March, 2005

  ‘I think I have a solution,’ I said quietly. ‘What if you refunded their money?’

  ‘I have a cash flow situation here,’ he replied.

  ‘Let’s say you refunded it; would they still come after you?’

  ‘Of course not; it’s a bloody business. Once their books balance, we’re quits.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’ll write me a ten-thousand-quid cheque?’

  I had to smile at that. The week before, Grace had cut out a job advert for a dog walker and left it on my laptop. I raised my hands. ‘Not so fast. I am a short story writer. I’m sure my agent can get me a decent advance on the basis of your story.’

  ‘You’ll do this? Just to save your banger?’

  ‘Not to talk of the innocent people you planned to kill.’

  The sarcasm washed over him. ‘How quickly can you raise it?’

  ‘You’ll have to keep running for a few more days, if that’s what you mean.’

  He looked at me suspiciously. ‘You can get an advance of up to ten thousand?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied bravely.

  He continued to look me up and down. ‘Are you any good? I never heard the name “Humphrey Chung” before.’

  ‘Chow!’ I moved in polite circles where people snapped their fingers and claimed to recognize my name whenever I introduced myself as a writer, although I was sensible enough never to ask which of my stories they had read.

  ‘Have you actually published? Never heard of a Humphrey Chan . . . of your Humphrey before.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was going to persist, so I continued, ‘But then again, nine years of grappling with law exams doesn’t leave much extra time for fiction, does it?’

  ‘But
are you any good?’ he pressed on, refusing to be insulted. ‘How fast can you write it?’

  I shrugged. ‘If I’m flowing, three to four hours.’

  He stared at me suspiciously. ‘If it was so easy to make ten thousand bucks, we’d all be writing stories, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘And passing law exams as well,’ I suggested, ‘but then you also need hard work and intelligence, talent and . . .’

  His nostrils flared as he shrugged off his rucksack. His face was flushed: I had overdone the sarcasm. I hoped it would be a punch rather than an explosion, but he was only trembling with a renewed greed for life. ‘This bomb pack costs another five hundred pounds,’ he wheedled. ‘I could destroy it. Will you pay for that as well? That would help with my train fare to Lee . . . back home . . .’

  I shrugged noncommittally.

  It was good enough for him.

  * * *

  ‘I GET the general point,’ I said, stopping him a mere half hour into the story of his life, which seemed an endless succession of drunken nights, vindictive law professors, and stinkers written to his hapless dad. I switched off my Dictaphone and switched on my laptop. We both stared at the blank Word page for several minutes. I cleared my throat. ‘Ah . . . there’s a TV upstairs. Should be more interesting . . .’

  He studied me suspiciously. He had found a comb in one of his combat pockets and was grooming his beard. ‘You write better alone, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘War correspondents manage to write well enough with bombs exploding around them . . .’

  ‘But then again, I’m not a journalist.’

  ‘You said writers were like journalists.’

  ‘In our pursuit of facts, not in our writing style. Newspapers are read for a day. My short stories will still be read a hundred years from today.’