I am fifty-two. The lesson of the Menai is to live your days, to walk in acceptance, not in regret. They are not your last days. They are your days. In prison I lived every day. Under the sentence of death, I finished the degrees I never could finish when I was carefree and free. I started the Menai Legacy Group. I built the Menai web. And although there were many times I thought back to that night I crossed the line with your mother in Kreektown, there was also that day in 2004 when I read your column, and his book, and I understood why the Mata says ai gbono di, gbona dabi: a curse in one language is indeed a blessing in another. So, no, I regret nothing. If I didn’t reach out to you earlier, it was that fear of destroying everything I try to fix.
I do love you both.
Tobin, son of Manan,
Father of Zanda & Humphrey,
Spawn of Menai.
MAJOR LAMIKAN
State House Squash Courts, Ubesia | 13th April, 2005
Ordinarily, it wasn’t difficult to play a game of squash with Governor Obu. He was a generous winner and a petty, vindictive loser. Playing him—at least for anyone in his service—was a matter of simulating a desperate game that the governor would win by a slim couple of points acquired by the sublime experience of an old warrior. It was the responsibility of the opponents to avoid the impression that they had thrown the match.
Unfortunately, a preliminary session with bowls of fish pepper soup had sapped the governor’s physical resources. A competent player could have dispatched him while sitting on a stool. The governor seemed incapable of the short dash that defined squash and couldn’t keep the ball under the out-of-court lines. Major Lamikan had never played worse in his life, and he had won the first game. By faking leg cramps at three critical points, he had managed to give Governor Obu the second game.
It was the third and decisive game of the match, and despite Lamikan’s efforts, the governor was already an underdog at 5–7. The governor was serving, incompetently, and Major Lamikan was watching his carefully built rapport with his boss going down the toilet. He was wondering whether he dared fake another cramp when the door into the court opened and the governor’s aide entered. He was wearing a sports outfit, and he offered his boss a mobile phone. ‘It’s important, sir.’
‘For goodness sake . . .’ exploded Governor Obu, finding a legitimate vent for his frustration.
‘Brugges, Geneva,’ said the aide, inches from his boss’s ear.
The governor’s anger drained away, and he lost interest in the game. He waved his apologies to the obsequious gallery and gave the aide his racquet. ‘I’ve a good game here. Better don’t mess it up.’
As the door closed behind the governor, Lamikan felt like hugging his saviour.
GOVERNOR OBU
State House, Ubesia | 13th April, 2005
‘Five minutes,’ Obu said to the other party and switched off the phone. He strode to the lift, which he rode to his office on the third floor. He waved away the brace of salutes and went through the darkened antechamber to his suite at the end room. He stripped quickly and showered, humming cheerfully, his squash annoyances forgotten.
He remembered his first meeting with Pierre-Verdonk Brugges. It had been three years earlier in the reception of the Abuja Hilton Hotel and Towers, soon after the Petroleum Communities Development Fund bonanza had opened. He had been walking to the lifts, on his way to a rendezvous in the privacy of an eighth-floor suite. The beefy Belgian had sprung into his path, spouting a sales pitch on banking.
Obu had brushed him off curtly, although he did accept Brugges’s complimentary card. He was already down to his undergarments in the suite under the admiring gaze of two pairs of Fulani eyes when he glanced at the back of the card and read details of his last three deposits into his Swiss accounts! He struggled into his clothes while shouting instructions to his security staff on the mobile phone. Fifteen minutes later, Pierre-Verdonk was in an impromptu interrogation room in the Sontik State liaison office in Abuja. Because of the sensitiveness of the issues, Obu was alone with the Belgian. Pierre-Verdonk was in the hot seat, but it was Obu who was sweating. ‘Talk,’ he had snapped. ‘Who are you and where did you get this information?’
‘I’m a creative banking consultant,’ the man had said, calmly. ‘The information I put on that card is what any halfway smart auditor from your country’s corruption commission can find out within twenty-four hours of arriving in Europe with the necessary authorisations from your government. The secrecy laws have changed, you see.’
‘I’m listening,’ Obu had told him.
‘I’ve worked in private banking for two decades. The goal of my team is to stay ahead of regulation.’ The man brought out another card and passed it over to Obu. ‘If you make your . . . investments through us, this is what the smartest auditors and financial investigators will be able to trace after years of hard work.’
Obu had turned the card over. ‘It’s blank,’ he had said.
‘Exactly,’ Pierre-Verdonk had said. ‘It’s a very complex process, but it’s simplified by computer technology. We work with some six hundred and fifty digitally enabled banks in tax havens all over the world. We have automated the account opening process; our computers in Berne can open thirty numerically coded FX accounts per hour. If we’re passing a million dollars through the system, for instance, I simply transfer it to our source-code account. Within sixty minutes the money has been wired through hundreds of separate accounts. Each of those fund transfers are holding accounts beneath the reporting threshold, so they’re essentially invisible. The computerised, automated transfers continue for the next four to six weeks, and every time a transfer is made, the necessary invoice/remittance paper trail will be generated. My staff follows up the paper trail. The funds will spend between forty-eight and ninety-six hours in each account, defeating trace-back regulations in each fiscal jurisdiction. By the time it reaches its final investment destination in Ireland—’
‘I hate the Irish.’
‘What do you think of Singaporeans?’
He had made an iffy gesture with his spread fingers.
‘Fine. By the time it reaches your final repository account in Singapore, the money is totally untraceable.’ Pierre-Verdonk had grinned at this point. ‘I’m talking totally untraceable.’
Pierre-Verdonk had gotten a new client that evening.
* * *
OBU WAS changing into a caftan when the phone rang.
This Belgian was time-conscious. Their hotels were something else. The governor picked it up on the fourth ring.
‘Hello.’ He listened briefly, then frowned. ‘Listen, Penaka, I can’t see you tonight. I have very urgent affairs of state on my desk!’ He ended the call with a curse. Perhaps it was time to get another private private line.
He didn’t have to wait long before the phone rang again. ‘Thank you, Obu,’ said Pierre-Verdonk. ‘The latest PCC funds are in.’
‘Good,’ Obu replied coldly. It was the first time the other man had addressed him without the title “Your Excellency”, and he did not like it. ‘What’s the balance? Ballpark.’ He had a good idea of the ballpark figure, but he never tired of hearing it.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Obu frowned. ‘What?’
‘I’m closing your account, effective now.’
Obu looked at the phone in puzzlement. ‘Pierre-Verdonk Brugges, are you drunk?’
‘You’re slow this evening, Obu,’ said Pierre-Verdonk. ‘You know all those Singaporean investment certificates I sent you?’
‘You mean my SICs?’
‘You can call them your ITPs or international toilet papers for all I care. Anyway, don’t take them near a bank, all right? I don’t want you ending up in jail and this story appearing in the press. I have a dozen political thieves like you who are still depositing.’
‘I’m flying to Singapore tomorrow! This very night!’
‘Sure. Come with your trainers. The gym that we normally redecorate into your “private
bank” will still be a gym.’
Obu realised he was on the floor; he did not know how he got there, but there he was, struggling to hold onto the phone. ‘Let’s talk about this. Is it the commission? What do you want? I’ll give you three percent, Pierre-Verdonk.’
The other man laughed. ‘Try another name. I just love this bit!’
‘Please, Pierre, okay, six percent!’
‘Nah, I can’t give you six percent of my money. That would shave a nasty six feet off the length of my new yacht. Listen, use registered banks for your loot next time. They’re not more honest than I am, but they can afford to take the long view—when you die, they usually inherit. As a natural person I’ve got to take the shorter view of things. And in the short view, you’re out of office in a few weeks, and the aspect of private banking that I hate most is the withdrawal phase.’
‘Pierre? Pierre?’
PENAKA LEE
MMI Airport, Lagos | 13th April, 2005
Penaka was waiting for his plane, his mind already enmeshed in the Congolese political economy, when his PA brought him a mobile phone and a red Post-it Note. He might have rejected the call, after Obu’s rudeness earlier, but he understood that emotions had no role in business. He took the phone immediately, walking towards the sweep of windows in the executive lounge for more privacy.
‘Your Excellency?’ he said quietly.
‘I’m ready.’
‘For what?’
‘Are you deaf?’ The rude voice on the other end had a hysterical rattle. ‘Let’s go. Now!’
Penaka Lee looked at his watch. Had the plane gone down already? That was impossible. He shook his head. ‘Are we talking about . . .’
‘Look, this is not a telephone discussion. Come in now.’
‘I’m due for a meeting in Kinshasa in—’
‘More important than our country? Are you joking with me, Mr. Lee?’
‘Ah . . . I’ll be there.’ The phone was already dead.
* * *
HE SAT down and closed his eyes. The second boarding announcement came. He blanked it out of his mind. His special gift was decision making, and he practised it like a science. Something had happened, something potentially catastrophic, to push the Great Ditherer onto the path of express action, even before the unfortunate catastrophe Penaka had prepared for him. Penaka’s instincts of personal preservation screamed for him to get on the plane. Yet he had also cultivated a special instinct of financial preservation, which counselled otherwise. Plus, he did not have all the information. Good decisions could only be made with quality information.
He speed-dialled Belinja, who was his usual cagey self until his encryption kicked in. Penaka went straight to the point. ‘Our friend just called me. He was . . . very upset. Ready to go. Do you have any information?’
‘I just spoke to Lamikan,’ Belinja replied. ‘The poor man has been conned. He’s lost his Swiss egg. Everything.’
Penaka closed his eyes as thoughts crowded in, thick and fast. By his estimates the governor had stolen half his state’s budget over the past year alone. It was criminally stupid to lose it all just like that. ‘Is that possible?’
‘He fell for the Belgian Reverse.’ Penaka had never heard sympathy in Belinja’s voice before. ‘If he retires now, it will be on his civil service pension . . . poor bastard.’
Penaka broke off the call. His PA, not daring to interrupt him even for the final boarding call, was standing three metres in front of him.
Sonia’s plane was scheduled to leave in two hours. There was still a chance to prevent some unnecessary deaths.
Penaka had no problem with hard decisions. If something had to be done, he got it done. Yet the slow governor was now ready to roll and it was unnecessary for his wife’s plane to go down. Penaka wished there was a simple way to stop the bomb, but he had structured a complex web to ensure that there was no traceback.
He used his disposable phone to make the first call. The man had come highly recommended, and Penaka knew next to nothing about him except that he used an MTN number, a BVI bank account, and a fake American twang, which became a fake Canadian accent when he spoke too fast. Today he was shouting, coming across more Yorkshire than the relevant pudding: ‘You think this is a joke?’
‘Just do it, okay? It doesn’t affect the payment.’
‘’Course it doesn’t affect the flipping payment!’ He snorted. ‘What’s the problem—did you suddenly become born-again or what?’
‘Just do it!’ Penaka snapped.
There was music, and children were laughing in the background. Was the assassin at a family barbecue?
‘I don’t know. We’re talking less than two hours, and I’m not doing it myself, you know, I subcontracted . . .’
‘Then I suggest you get off the phone and call your subcontractor. I’ll call you in ten.’
The man hung up rudely.
Penaka saw that his PA had taken a seat. The flight was gone.
He had a gift of being able to smile under most conditions. He was smiling now. The elderly woman next to him was trying to get her wooden carvings into her duty-free bag. Penaka helped her, and they chatted about the terrible traffic over the Third Mainland Bridge that morning. She was off to Kuwait to see her brother-in-law. She told him that her name was Mrs. Kafaru. Penaka did not volunteer his.
He did not like his current position. He was not sure why he was so concerned about Sonia’s fate. She had always been expendable. It must have been something about the wastefulness of it. Besides, she was a particularly nice woman, as charming as her husband was boorish. Penaka had met her a few times. She threw a terrific party. She was the only person he had told the story of his ex-wife, and six months afterwards she remembered to ask whether Christabel had returned Penaka’s Pekingese after the court judgment. (She hadn’t.) If Sonia died, it would be her blasted husband’s fault.
But Penaka would definitely be sending flowers.
While he waited, a text came in from Monica Parkerson. Her team had tracked down the professor’s London house and acquired Penaka’s bronze, which was on its way to Geneva. They’d had to take a few other things to make it look like a regular break-in. Penaka could not believe he had tears in his eyes.
Eleven minutes had passed. He pressed redial.
The man’s voice was angry. ‘It’s too late.’
‘What do you mean, “It’s too late”?’ Penaka was angry as well, even though he was still smiling. The elderly woman was looking at him. He rose and walked away. ‘You still have one and a half hours. They haven’t even boarded . . .’
‘It is over, okay? The plane left early.’
‘Scheduled flights don’t leave early. Go and check—’
‘If you are an airline that cancelled your flight from the night before, your scheduled flight can bloody well leave early.’ There was a sullen pause. ‘So what are you saying? You promised a bonus if it went without a hitch. Are you saying . . . ?’
Penaka smiled angrily. ‘You’ll get your bonus.’
There was no emotion in business.
* * *
HE PUT away the phone and reviewed his situation. The old lady dropped another carving, and he stepped over it on his way out. He was still smiling, but he had maxed out the day’s quota of courtesies to Old Women Travelling to Kuwait. His PA was hurrying alongside with his case. ‘There’s another flight for Nairobi in three hours. We can—’
‘Scrap Congo,’ Penaka told him. ‘Call ahead to Aero Contractors in the domestic wing. Charter a plane and have them file a flight plan for Ubesia.’
‘Sir?’ The PA was no fool. He had picked up Penaka’s vibes. He also seemed anxious to be anywhere but Nigeria just then.
‘You heard me.’
And that was Penaka. He made his decisions the way the stakes fell. The bigger the risk, the bigger the payoff. Obu was right: Sontik Republic was the biggest single stake he had ever played, and he would not get a bigger shot as Corus chairman. Thirty billion
barrels of oil reserves, a hundred and fifty trillion cubic feet of gas. Twenty billion dollars in annual potential income. The richest petrochemical resource on the bloody continent, politicians as crooked as fusilli, and citizens as cowardly as sheep. The game belonged to the daring, and Penaka saw himself a bloody eagle in a coven of bow-legged crows.
The fat governor had two crutches: his money and his wife. The federal murder of his wife would push him onto the highway of a revenge secession. But being broke and widowed on the same day? He might well implode. Penaka had to be in that bunker to protect his investments.
He just hoped the situation wouldn’t turn out to be 1990 all over again.
Blasted Belgians.
SLEEPCATASTROPHES
Kreektown | August/September, 2002
Namodi Geya
Bamou Geya
Salima Geya (Ma’Bamou)
Sonja Abene
Masingo Awaka
Births
Nil
Extant Menai population: 210 (NPC estimates)
HUMPHREY CHOW
London | 13th April, 2005
I shivered. The silence of the NHS hospital was mediated by the hum of medical machinery. It was not quite 3:00 a.m. I didn’t know how long I had been out, or how long I had been writing. I could not remember the period since 10:00 p.m. as a continuum. I only remembered snatches of intense, vivid colour, of memory as lush as present tense. I had lost my drip line and was fully dressed without remembering the act of dressing. I had come to the end of my new recollections, but it was not enough. I did not yet have a story. Even my old self had no idea why Bamou killed himself. I had to invent a satisfactory explanation for my readers.
I began to write.
An hour later, I found a stray wireless signal winking in the icon tray and e-mailed the story to Shaun. If he checked his mail like a good e-mail junkie, it would save him a trip to the hospital.
The Extinction of Menai Page 29
