‘It is time to appoint a new nanga, Elders of Sontik.’
An involuntary sigh pulsed through the old men. ‘You have not given us much choice, Nanga Saul,’ said Elder Drosa softly, leaning against the bed.
‘Children are from God,’ replied the sick man.
‘Nanga,’ said Elder Rantan, ‘do you have a son we do not know?’ The other elders tensed at the insult. Saul Bentiy was silent, and the men looked at him, more with pity than apprehension. He shook his head, his thin smile still in place, and Elder Rantan continued dispassionately, ‘That’s a pity. It was the need to give his kingmakers a better choice that made the old emir of Antira desperate in his last days: marrying wives he couldn’t have satisfied and having sons he couldn’t have sired.’
Beside the Nanga, Justin Bentiy rose abruptly and walked out with an expressionless face, his fury apparent only from the report of the shutting door. Elder Bishop pursed his lips, and Elder Rantan wondered whether he also was offended by the insults. If so, he remained silent, too much of a pragmatist to antagonise the rising power in the kingdom. Already, Governor Obu had issued Elder Rantan with a limousine that was longer than Nanga Saul’s.
‘God has seen fit to take my sons before me,’ said the Nanga quietly.
‘Perhaps we can choose a nanga among your daughters, then,’ suggested Elder Rantan, to genial laughter.
‘There’s no nanga among my daughters,’ replied Nanga Saul. Five hundred years of Sontik history did not have the precedent of a female Nanga. They knew that none of the Nanga’s daughters had the spirit to break that tradition. Lantanya ran his business well enough, but she did not have the steel to tame the contrary Sontik.
‘Children are from God,’ snapped Elder Gomes in his reedy voice. He was the secretary of the council and a sickly man whom his fellow elders had ceased to pity, for in the fifteen years that he had sat on the Sontik Traditional Council, despite his perpetual ailments, he had buried four other elders fitter than he was. ‘We have a serious matter to hand. We are here to suggest a nanga. We have clear traditions when there is no candidate from the Nanga’s loins.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Nanga. ‘Who is the choice of your council?’
‘Rantan,’ Elder Gomes answered bluntly.
‘You know my personal wishes.’
‘We have gone this route before, Nanga,’ said Elder Gomes. ‘We are all pledged to Rantan. You know that when you join the fathers—may that day be far from us!—the kingmakers will choose anyway. It is a body in which we have great influence. Appoint a successor today and give some direction to the Sontik nation!’
The sick man closed his eyes. There was a long pause, in the course of which they feared he had fallen asleep. ‘Will you give me a pledge, Rantan, before the other elders, that you will not support secession?’
‘No,’ said Rantan. He was not beyond lying but saw no reason to.
Nanga Saul opened his eyes. ‘It is in God’s hands, then. Draw up an appointment. I will sign it.’
A sigh passed through the old men. There was a rustle from Elder Gomes as he opened up the scroll that had been prepared months previously.
The Nanga sighed. ‘You have vexed my seal bearer. Look for him; I cannot make an appointment without my seal.’
But Justin Bentiy was nowhere to be found. After twenty further minutes of milling around, the nurse returned with reinforcements: a starched sister who hailed from the Yoruba nation. In her eyes, the powerful Sontik elders were just another gaggle of old men. She drew the curtains shut and ushered them firmly out. They left the scroll unsigned on the table by the Nanga’s bed.
‘You could have done without the insults,’ grumbled Elder Drosa, as they filed out. ‘It would have been finished by now.’
‘I’ll come tomorrow and pick it up,’ said Elder Rantan, ‘I’ll sack the peacock. He knows it. That’s the first thing I’ll do as nanga.’
JUSTIN BENTIY
Ubesia | 18th March, 2005
Justin Bentiy came in from an inner room as soon as the elders were gone. Still simmering with rage, he paced the length of the room.
‘The seal,’ said the Nanga quietly. He looked exhausted from his day, but evidently he wanted to get this distasteful assignment done with.
Justin walked across to the bed, taking a rolled leather pouch from his pocket. He drew up the bedside table on which the Nanga ate all his meals. He spread out the scroll, securing the ends to hold it flat.
‘You heard everything?’
‘Yes, Nanga.’
Justin lit the candle. He raised the end of the bed so that the Nanga was almost sitting up.
‘It is unavoidable.’
‘I know, Nanga.’
He angled the taper over the document and let a gob of red wax drip onto the bottom of the parchment. He gave the seal to the Nanga, who poised it over the molten wax.
‘There will be war,’ Justin said.
‘I know.’
‘Hundreds, thousands will die. Nigeria will fracture, your life’s work . . .’
‘I know. It is in God’s hands now. It always was.’ The Nanga brought the seal downwards. Justin held his bony hand millimetres from the wax. The hand stayed flaccid and limp, but new steel entered the thin voice. ‘Justin, I’m not dead yet. Don’t ever stand between me and my office again.’
Justin knelt by the bedside. He clutched his hands. He licked his lips. He whispered, ‘Before this final office, I have a confession.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The Nanga will forgive me for reminding him of the one woman that could comfort him after his wife died.’
The old man’s eyes flicked to a wall panel with photographs. His hand opened and closed, trembling the drip line. ‘Evarina Udama . . . Why do you speak of her now? She’s almost thirty years dead.’
‘No, Nanga. She only died three and a half years ago.’
An age passed. Two rheumy eyes glistened and Justin saw in the old man’s eyes the irony of a nanga who thought he had ruled a Sontik kingdom of millions like a lion for decades, whereas he did not even, truly, rule his own household.
Nanga Saul smiled thinly. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Evarina was not a saint before she met you. There were some . . . men who tried to blackmail her with her past. They tried to use her as their snitch in your palace, and when she refused, threatened to publish, to scandalise your office . . .’
‘That was why she killed herself?’
‘That was why she tried to kill herself.’
‘The newspapers said she died . . .’
‘Indeed. Her body was never found. Many people saw her park her car and jump off the bridge, but a trucker found her down the river that evening. She was hidden in hospital in Lagos for six months, with Dr. Maleek’s help.’
‘Evarina Udama. For twenty-eight years you kept her away from me?’
‘For twenty-five years, she kept herself away. From the Nanga and from the enemies of the Nanga.’
‘You could have told me! You could have—’
‘No, Nanga. If she showed up in the palace and did not betray you, there would have been pictures in the press that would have diminished the Nanga—and forced her out of the palace, anyway. She chose a small village near Abuja and disappeared. We thought it was for the best. Forgive me, Nanga, but we did what we had to do, to protect the Nanga, to preserve his authority. For twenty-five years. And we looked out for them, for you, as best we could. Not one day while she was alive did she or your daughter hunger . . .’
‘My daughter?’
‘Yes, Nanga, you have a daughter that you do not know. Evarina was pregnant when she jumped.’
There was a long silence in the room.
‘You have proof of this?’
‘I was there when Amana was born. There is no doubt about it.’
‘. . . Amana. My mother’s name.’
‘She was named for your mother, but she has your spirit.’ From his pocket he hastily pull
ed out another envelope, this one flat and thin. He pulled out a six-by-seven photograph and held it out to the traditional ruler. The woman in the picture was looking across the camera, wearing a bored look and the hint of a scowl. It was the best of dozens Justin’s PA had taken over the years, and it was not a very flattering one.
‘She is not . . .’
‘. . . beautiful like Evarina, no. She has your spirit and charisma. And your leadership—in university she mobilised thousands of students to confront both the university administration and the Students’ Union and shut down the university! Amana’s beauty is mostly inside. She . . . she will make a better Nanga than any member of the council.’
‘There cannot be a woman Nanga.’ He sighed. ‘Rantan will rule, but I will meet my daughter. Bring her here, now.’
Justin licked his lips. He wiped his face in a nervous gesture. ‘You must understand, my Nanga. This woman has your spirit. She is the Lion of Sontik, but she loathes her father. If you must talk to her, she cannot yet know about you and her mother—’
‘Why?’
‘Your money sent her to jail.’
There was a look of utter loss on the old man’s face. ‘I think you have a lot to explain, Justin.’
‘Three decades’ worth,’ he agreed.
‘Where is she?’
‘Kreektown.’
‘Then I will see her from a distance. Take me there. Now!’
‘My Nanga . . .’
‘You have kept my daughter from me all her life. If you delay me one minute . . .’
‘Nurse!’ Justin shouted nervously. The door opened immediately. ‘Prepare the wheelchair. The Nanga is going for a drive.’
ESTELLE BAPTISTE
Treichville | 17th April, 2005
‘Oublie-le, tu ne peux plus rien pour lui maintenant.’
‘Yes Mish. Like I forgot him these past two years.’
‘We thought he was just an ordinary murderer, but no. He’s a full-fledged terrorist!’
‘He’s ill.’
‘And you don’t need that kind of sickness in your life Estelle. It’s hard enough.’
‘Can you stop for one moment? I lost my soul when I met that man. Can you understand that?’
‘I see that now. But let’s move on from there. Jesu! How can a woman be so intelligent in everything and then so stupid in one thing!’
‘Don’t you talk to your elder sister like that!’
‘Well, sorrrrry!’
‘You promised me your war compensation, Mish. I need it now.’
‘I promised it for your PhD, not for this madness.’
‘I need it now, for travel, hotel, lawyers—’
‘No!’
‘Buy me out, then.’
‘You want to throw away your whole life for this man?’
‘Okay, I’m going on holiday, all right? Just buy me out. You’ve got the money in the bank. We both agreed we can’t raise our families in the same house.’
‘Nigeria is not a holiday destination! I won’t do it!’
‘You’ll have me out of your hair.’
‘I don’t want you out of my hair. I love fighting you.’
‘Now I know you hate me. You promised me this money, but when I really want it, you won’t give it.’
‘You always wondered why he disappeared. Now you know: he was a killer, a terrorist. You saw the pictures. You heard the evidence! What can you do for him?’
‘Be there? Be his wife? It’s called unconditional love.’
‘No! Unmitigated disaster! And when he’s shot by a firing squad? What will you do then?’
‘He won’t be. I’ll get him a lawyer, I’ll—’
‘No!’
‘Fine. I’ll go to a loan shark. I’ll put down my half of the business, and when I don’t come back, you’ll have a new partner.’
‘Wait . . . I can’t do it, Estelle, and I’ll tell you why: you’re proud. When you lose everything, you’ll step in front of a bus rather than come back to sleep under my roof and admit you were wrong.’
‘You’re right, I’m proud, okay. But . . .’
‘If it doesn’t work out . . . if you lose everything, promise you’ll call. Promise you’ll come back home.’
‘So you can rub my face in it?’
‘Just promise.’
‘It will work out, but I promise.’
‘You crazy idiot.’
‘You mean bastard.’
The siblings hugged for a long minute, then she ran to pack.
LYNN CHRISTIE
London | 20th April, 2005
Although Grace and I worked out of the same building and on the same floor, for my performance review we met at Stag Bistro, six minutes from the Liverpool Street tube station and ten minutes from our office. IMX was the nutter of the agency circuit. Company policy frowned on plastic bowls with apples and sandwiches. It was naff to do Tesco sandwiches in the tea room for lunch. The working lunch was the way to go. It also meant that the pounds piled on faster. Following Grace’s lead, I ordered a wooden platter of rocket salad and ground some black pepper over it. Grace’s omnipresent diary was by her platter, open at today, as she pointed a stick of celery at me and came straight to the point.
‘Your desk is thinning out, Lynn.’ She crunched off the end of her pointer. ‘You aren’t going to like what I’m going to write.’
‘I know,’ I said shortly. But I had worked long enough at IMX to know that Grace didn’t have the authority to fire me. I went on the offensive. ‘Do you want my resignation?’
‘Hell, no. I just want to know what you plan to do about it. Any poaching in prospect?’
‘I wish I had, Grace.’
‘I know it’s confidential, but you can trust me. If you land a platinum author it changes everything, and people like you, Lynn. Is there anything you can tell me, off the record?’
‘Come on, Grace, I may have only ten writers, but they’re high-maintenance bods. I’ve got my work cut out keeping them on the wagon. Give me another quarter.’
My ten writers were another reason why I was difficult to sack. I had recruited four of them and was on very good terms with all of them. There was no settled science about it, but I liked to think I could leave with most of my slate.
We chatted through lunch and had something to sign at the end of it. It was a good location: we managed to spot and exchange cards with a writer prospect, a Guardian cartoonist, and two tabloid reviewers, so maybe it wasn’t such a barmy policy after all.
‘Well,’ she said, pulling up her handbag.
‘About you and Humphrey.’ I rolled my ring casually. ‘It’s not . . . done and dusted, is it?’
She made a face. ‘Humphrey and I are prehistoric history. As for IMX and Humphrey, now, that is done and dusted.’
‘What do you mean?’
She briskly opened her diary, which also did duty as a mobile filing system. She was the only agent in IMX who didn’t do electronic diaries. She pulled out a standard author-dumping requisition—only it had Humphrey Chow’s name on top of it. She tapped her long red fingernail on Malcolm Frisbee’s green signature dated the day before. IMX’s chairman had to approve the disengagement of any author. This was a done deal. Humphrey Chow final accounts were probably being churned out as we spoke. There wasn’t going to be an exit interview ‘lunch’ this time.
I was stunned. ‘Why? What happened?’
‘He’s been on our books this long because of me.’
‘Maybe he was, but he’s paying his way just now. His Balding Wolf contract . . .’
‘Please. Begg is anxious to pull the plug. He still feels bad you pulled that switch on him. And if Humphrey isn’t on Balding Wolf, what’s he got? Another year of maybe-someday?’ She broke off to answer her phone, and it occurred to me that I had just spent the longest phone-free, pager-free meeting with Grace Meadows ever. She spent the next three minutes talking shorthand with her secretary, scratching out and making new entries in her diary.
When she finished, she looked up at me vacantly. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Begg.’
‘Yeah, Begg. Listen, Humphrey’s gone AWOL. Shaun can’t raise him on the phone. He made the last deadline by a whisker. Frankly, this team can do without that extra aggro.’
‘All writers miss deadlines. That’s the nature of our game—and he hasn’t actually missed one yet.’
‘He will. Consider this damage limitation. Did you hear about the last sighting of Humphrey, at Waterloo Station?’
‘Well . . .’
‘He was barefoot, dragging the hoarding from a Chinese takeaway shop. It cost PR plenty in the favour bank to keep that picture out of the Mail. He’s on the way to a major breakdown, Lynn, if he’s not there yet. This is in his best interest. The pressure can’t do him any good.’
I was silent. They were hanging out Humphrey to dry. If IMX kept him on, Balding Wolf would not dare pull the plug. Plus, I had initialled three foreign language rights memos for Humphrey’s stories before passing the account to Shaun. They would all go belly-up without the Balding Wolf deal. ‘How could you?’ I said quietly.
She glared at me coldly. ‘You dumped him on Shaun yourself, didn’t you?’ It was out in the open now. ‘And don’t you dare suggest that I’m anything but professional in my dealings with our authors!’
She swung around and rose. I didn’t offer to walk to the office with her.
* * *
2:14 p.m.
Ida was working the mail cart when I got back in. The floor was still running at lunch strength, with five agents scattered over twenty-four desks. Grace Meadows was in her glass cubicle, on her telephone to Australia. I wasn’t in a mood to work, but I opened the mail anyway. Ida had passed me a Humphrey Chow letter. Our secretaries hadn’t caught up with the reassignment yet . . . I rose to take it over to Shaun, and the High Commission crest on the letter caught my eye. I hesitated, sat back down, and read the letter anyway. My heart began to race.
The Extinction of Menai Page 34
