Taj was a cameraman. No one knew his surname. No one had surnames in Arts and Culture. Mike next to him was the only Nigerian sound technician in the BBC, a distinction he had been unaware of until his programs editor asked if he would like to travel home for a few days. Tito, hair and makeup, was from Essex but she was black, undeniably so.
The plane had just been buffeted through a section of turbulence, awaking the faithful to prayer.
“Obara Jesus.”
“I shall not die but live.”
“No weapon,” Tito’s neighbor said. “No weapon, no weapon, no weapon.”
“No weapon what?” Tito asked, woken from her shallow sleep.
“No weapon fashioned against us will prosper. My sister, will you join me in prayer?”
“Sorry, I’m not religious.”
Mike was sitting upright in his chair, flicking through their information pack for a summary.
“Have you read this?” he asked Tito.
“Don’t need to. Parents are Nigerian.”
“But your name—”
“Tito. Bọlatito.”
The prayers in the cabin were beginning to die down. Taj sat still with his eyes closed, wishing for benzodiazepine. He was still smarting from the woman behind him. The band holding his dreads had snapped, spilling one lock over the back of his seat. “Dada, don’t put lice in my food,” she said, flinging the strand over his headrest and into his eye. The cabin swayed and he gripped both armrests, one of which Mike had long surrendered all claim to.
At the front of the plane, West had given up on Nigeria and moved to the pack on Rẹmi Sandayọ. His researchers had returned to their senses and were writing in full sentences again. Sandayọ had presided over what seemed to be a disastrous year for education. One national strike organized by university staff over pay. One regional protest organized by students over facilities. He moved on to “Personal Life.” A widower with a son from his first and only marriage. The son was a doctor in America. Married with children. No activity in Nigeria.
“Corruption Allegations. Ten million US dollars missing from the Basic Education Fund, set up to improve reading and writing at primary school level.” David West highlighted this paragraph.
Some colleagues called West Presents a talk show because he opened with inquiries into childhood memories and musical tastes, moving in a constricting gyre until he landed on the single question that upset his subject’s equilibrium. A Middle Eastern dictator once said it was like discovering the passenger was the one driving. He had given lectures to young journalists all over the world on what he called backseat control.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has asked me to inform you that we will shortly begin our descent into Lagos.”
West stared out of his porthole to catch his first glimpse of Lagos. A rash of electricity spread over the city, an eczema of twinkling lights and streetlamps, but mostly the skin of Lagos was a thick sable black. No constant power after decades of independence. No constant water supply. No constant health care. A rich African state but, essentially, a failed one. He put his papers away as the plane floated down.
At the tail, once the wheels touched the ground, seat belts began to ping in release. An air hostess said, “Please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign is turned off.” At the head, they gathered their things slowly, sluggish from their deep sleep and certain they would alight first. West was forced to queue. Usually, when he visited the Third World, he was met at the plane door but this trip was anonymous.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” the man at immigration asked.
“I’m here on business.”
“Of what nature?”
“Social business.”
“Welcome to Nigeria, sir. Hope your trip is fruitful.”
The arrival hall was a cramped space with no air-conditioning, more staff than passengers milling around, the African problem of excess manpower apparent. The carousel rotated slowly, passengers thronging around it, jostling for suitcases bloated with foreign junk. He was glad he had no luggage, a small overnight wheeler adequate for the trip. He walked towards the customs officials by the exit.
“Anything to declare?”
“No.”
“Anything for us?”
“I don’t have any local currency.”
“We take pounds, dollars, euros.”
The ten-pound note, the smallest he had, caused the man to salaam almost to the floor, his hands hovering above his toes in an exercise pose. He stepped out into the morning air, moist as a damp glove pressed over your face. An arc of African faces peered at him. He was mzungu in Nairobi, obroni in Accra, but he did not know what these people called him.
“You wan’ a taxi?”
“No, thank you,” West said.
“You wanna make phone call?”
“No.”
“You wanna trolley?”
He ignored the tout and looked through the signs held up like stone tablets. The novelty of seeing his name on a placard in a strange capital never wore off.
“That’s me,” he said, walking up to the man dressed in brown-and-orange print, the bright colors making him seem cheerful for this hour.
“Welcome, sir.”
He let the driver take his bag and fell in step behind him.
The crew would meet him at the hotel.
52
THE JOURNALIST’S FIRST VISIT and his impending return filled the flat with expectancy. No one wanted to leave for fear the film crew would arrive and they would be shut out till the interview was over, a calamity that would occasion much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Chike was increasingly skeptical of this one-man media campaign against the government. Nigerians would not rise up over anything Sandayọ said. The scandal that could rouse people into action did not yet exist. There would be uproar and then things would die down, as they always did.
He could force Chief Sandayọ to call things off. Chief was still in their power, comfortable as he had grown with them. Yet a part of Chike, the part in every human that stopped to gape at crushed automobiles, wanted to watch events unfold. The cameras had been flown from England. The drama must run its course. They would come with their equipment and capture Sandayọ’s self-destruction. For, whether now or in a decade, the Chief would pay for granting this interview. Till then, the people in England would have their evening entertainment and the Chief would score a few points, both sides pleased with the results.
“What will I serve them?” Chief Sandayọ asked, growing giddier as his hour approached.
“There are some soft drinks in the fridge,” Oma said.
“But who will serve them? I can’t serve them myself and neither can my right-hand man. Oma, will you do it?”
“I don’t want to show on film.”
“Isoken, how about you?”
She looked at Chike.
“I’m the one asking you. What are you looking at him for?”
“How will we explain her being here?” Chike said.
“The maid, of course.”
“But she wasn’t here last time. They might ask her questions.”
“I won’t answer,” Isoken said. “They can’t force me. Please?”
“All right. But don’t speak at all.”
TWO HOURS BEFORE THEY arrived, Chief Sandayọ began to grow fractious. He asked Oma to sweep the carpet a third time, bending himself to pick invisible specks with his hands. He swapped the positions of two of his paintings and then swapped them back.
“What do you think? They should see this waterfront scene when they enter, shouldn’t they? Yes, that’s right.”
When the others had retired to the inner rooms, they remained in the parlor in their new roles, minister, bodyguard, and maid, until Chike’s phone began to buzz in tinny song.
“Don’t let me hear any flushing during my interview,” Chief Sandayọ shouted.
WHO DID THE BLIGHTER think he wa
s, West wondered as Richard Brown stepped into the stairwell before him. Brown’s impudence had begun that afternoon at the hotel, when he had shown up half an hour before their scheduled meeting time. West had refused to come down until the appointed hour, and when he reached the hotel sunroom, he found the correspondent already briefing his crew. They were sitting by a window that looked out on the ocean, their armchairs drawn close in an insubordinate huddle.
“I hope you don’t mind that we started without you,” the man said, rising. “I’m Richard Brown. I’ve been the correspondent in Lagos for a year.”
“West,” he said, taking the man’s hand indifferently.
“A real honor to meet you. I’ve listened to you lecture on backseat control.”
“Well, Mr. Brown, thank you for looking after my crew. Perhaps if you could sit a little way from us while we discuss things. I hear Caucasians draw attention in this place.”
It was the first inkling the crew received of why they had been thus assembled. On the trip to the hotel, they had wondered why a makeup artist from CBBC, an Arts and Culture cameraman, and a sound guy for a pilot sitcom should have been drafted into this hurried visit to Nigeria.
“Not here. Look around. It’s out there that’s an issue.”
There were other white men, now that West did look around. Shorts-and-sandals types in a room full of ties. There were Chinese, too, buttoned up in collared shirts and black suits, their professionalism matching the dark wood flooring. A waiter walked past, balancing a tray on his fingertips. A yacht cut slowly through the water, a sleek white triangle at least fifty feet from bow to stern. Richard Brown resumed his seat in a comfortable armchair and left the high rattan stool with its low back for West.
“As I was saying about lighting—”
“Before we get into that, I want to meet the crew,” West said.
“Pardon me. I thought you flew down together.”
“He flew first class,” Tito summarized, straining the atmosphere as finely as the orange juice sitting pip-free in her glass.
“BBC policy,” West mumbled.
“Taj,” the dreadlocked man said, placing his hand on his chest, an acquired and now unconscious gesture he made every time he said his name. “I’m the cameraman.”
“Mike. Sound and lighting.”
“Tito. Makeup.”
“Very nice to meet you all. I’m David West. So,” he said, turning to Richard, “any new developments in the story?”
“Did you listen to the pre-interview I sent to London?”
“I prefer to approach a subject with fresh eyes.”
“Well, Chief Sandayọ is a typical ‘big man’ around here. Never answers a direct question. Your material may need a little rephrasing if you want to get the most out of him. He made some serious accusations two days ago.”
“I think we’ll find my material will be fine.”
“The apartment is quite spacious, so there’ll be many angles for you to work on, Taj. We’re hoping there’ll be electricity when we arrive. If not, we’ll have to wait it out.”
And so on until it was time to leave and West had made little input into this exclusive edition of his show. Brown insisted on driving the news van, adamant the local driver could not be trusted.
“Do you have to beep at every car we pass on the road?”
“I swear they can’t see you if you don’t.”
“Yeah, these Lagosian drivers are mad,” the sound technician said from the backseat as they ran a red light.
West abandoned his notes and looked out the window at Nigeria. The country had had its share of dictators but none had captured the Western imagination, no cannibals in their ranks. The architecture was Third World concrete, of a style he had seen from Bangladesh to Burundi, square heavyset buildings, made for colder climates, hot as coffins inside. Waste spread around them, like Lagos was one giant trash can, filled with empty Coca-Cola bottles and cellophane wrappings. There was a bustle and a buzz but not in the purposeful manner of New York or Tokyo. This was the aimless energy of a crowd, static electricity flowing nowhere, sparks rising from too many bodies jostling in too little space. He wrote down “static electricity” under Ojodo, their destination. It sounded exotic, not to be found in the midst of this squalid city.
Perhaps I should retire after this. It was a thought that came to him before each interview. It was reassuring that despite Brown’s manic driving, his mind was calm enough to produce it.
“We’re here.”
A tall, imposing man let them into the compound and led them to the derelict building. The light was too dim to see his features.
“Evening. It’s better if we don’t talk until we get inside. Just in case.”
In case of what? He had no idea what the Nigerian government would do if they were caught. Not much, he expected. Not to a man of his profile. They entered the flat, Brown intolerably preceding him, his subject awaiting like a fat cloud.
53
CHIEF SANDAYỌ SAT RESPLENDENT in a white agbada, a squat cylindrical cap perched on his head, and resting on his lap, of all things, a fly whisk.
“Rẹmi, I presume,” West said, pushing past Richard. The Chief did not rise.
“Who is this?”
“Evening, sir,” Richard said. “This is David West from the BBC, flown in specially for this interview.”
“All right, welcome. Sit down, all of you. Would you like something to drink? There’s some juice and soft drinks.”
“We were hoping to get started as soon as possible,” West said.
“It won’t take time. Bring some drinks, Isoken,” Chief Sandayọ said.
“Isoken,” Taj murmured. “I’ll just start setting up the camera,” he said softly when she returned with the tray. No one saw the blinking light as the lens began to capture her movement.
With the exception of Taj, they all drank the sweet apple juice. Tito and Mike sat on a single sofa with their knees touching. West and Richard sat on another, as far from each other as the space would allow.
“Did you all fly down from England?”
“Yes,” West said.
“The BBC must think this is a big story.”
“There is some excitement at headquarters. If we could start soon—”
“What’s the hurry? I’m not going anywhere. Enjoy your drinks.”
“Power might go at any moment,” Richard said.
“That’s true. Isoken, clear these tables.”
“Makeup.”
Hollows brimming with oil soaked up Tito’s first layer of powder to Chief Sandayọ’s nose.
“So much? Do you want me to look like a masquerade?”
“Your skin is quite oily. You should try an exfoliating face scrub.”
When Mike switched on his equipment, the lights in the room trembled and grew dim.
“Power can’t carry everything.”
In the end, neither was adequately lit. He dipped the boom mike, a furry pill-shaped creature, floating in the space between their foreheads.
“Are we ready?”
“Don’t call me Rẹmi in the interview. Either Chief Sandayọ or Minister.”
“Action,” Richard said.
“From his secret hideout, Chief Rẹmi Sandayọ, former minister of education, is threatening to bring down the Nigerian government. Two months ago, he was removed from his position after corruption charges were leveled against him by Nigeria’s Economic and Financial Crimes Commission. Many expected him to keep a low profile and disappear. Instead, he granted an interview to the editor of the Nigerian Journal, in which he accused the First Lady and popular Senator Okpara, among many others, of crimes including corruption, drug trafficking, and murder. The same day the article was published, the office of the Nigerian Journal was burned down, leaving many wondering if the allegations were true.
“Is Chief Rẹmi Nigeria’s first high-profile whistleblower or one of its most corrupt officials yet? I join him in his hideout to find out.
“Good evening, Chief Sandayọ, and welcome to West Presents.”
“Thank you, David.”
“You’ve made some very strong accusations, but before we go into that, let’s cast our mind to the late forties when you were born. What was it like growing up in colonial Nigeria?”
“Of what relevance is that question?”
“Cut.”
“I want to ease you into the interview.”
“I’m at ease. This is my house.”
“Let’s try that again. Please try and answer the questions, Chief,” Richard said. “Take two, action.”
“Welcome.”
“Thank you, David.”
“You studied literature at the University of Ibadan, started your own printing press at thirty-two, and were a successful businessman before being appointed the minister of education. How did you make that leap?”
“Your colleague did not ask me any of this.”
“Cut.”
Tito rushed forward to spread powder on Chief Sandayọ’s forehead, which was beginning to glow.
“Chief,” Richard said, “if we stop, we have to start all over again, so please, no matter how seemingly trivial, answer West’s questions.”
West drew a line through his notes. There was a school that believed driving a subject to refutation was the only way to conduct an interview. It was a kind of hard talking he recoiled from, but he had gained some proficiency in the style before discovering backseat control.
“Take three. Action.”
“Welcome, Rẹmi. The government has called you a thief. One newspaper report describes you as ‘Nigeria’s most clueless public official,’ but we want to know what you say. Who is Rẹmi Sandayọ?”
The Chief visibly swelled under this assault, rising like dough.
“Chief Olurẹmi Sandayọ, the Jagunmolu of Gbongan, is first and foremost a patriot. I have not called you here to carry out a smear campaign. I’ve called you because I want to speak out against a corrupt government that is destroying this country.”
“But some will ask: why wait until you were sacked to speak out?”
Welcome to Lagos Page 19
