Season of Anomy

by Wole Soyinka

  Womb of nectar—oh, joyous paeans

  Dear Muses, let this fount your songs inspire.

  If one didn’t know, yes, most sophisticated, very very. Eminently suited to this gathering. Fortunately the guests don’t understand…sounds straightforward enough, just like our local praise-singers, though come to think of it, never heard them wax so lyrical over the cocoa-pod. Palm wine yes, or pounded yam, but never cash-crops like the cocoa…yes, he knows his stuff all right. Knows how to bite the hand that feeds him too…oh, best smile on now. Betray nothing.

  Zaccheus had finished his saxophone solo so he took the chance to slip down from the platform to pay his respects to the Chairman. He met the bandleader with expanded arms. “Allow me to complement you Zaccheus, your band sounds better and better every time I hear them.”

  “That’s kind of you Mr. Chairman.”

  “And that song you’re playing now….”

  “You like it sir?”

  “Beautiful, beautiful. We must have it made into a record.”

  “I’m glad you do. We thought there wasn’t a fitter place to launch it than at your party.”

  “But that is so kind of you Zaccheus, so very kind. Did you write it yourself?”

  “No Sir! I put the sauce on it afterwards but you have to thank Ofeyi for the bone and marrow. We kind of share the meat so to speak….”

  The Chairman looked bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t….”

  Zaccheus laughed, apologetic. “Forgot you aren’t quite in on the verbs sir. What I mean is Ofeyi does the main thing and I help in on the arrangements. Words and music all his sir and quite a dishy combination it is.”

  “Oh yes indeed, very dishy Zaccheus, very dishy. I couldn’t agree with you more. By the way I hope your band is well looked after.”

  “Sure Mr. Chairman. We don’t lack for juice.”

  “Good, good good. Just remember the house is yours. Feel at home.”

  “Thank you sir, we sure will. Gotta get back on the…”

  “Of course of course. Don’t let me delay you.”

  But though it gave the immortals a new complexion

  As though gold rust had stained them

  And celestial banquets flowed with the new concoction

  When they looked below and there was Man

  With glowing skin and cocoa tan

  They longed oh how they longed for a mortal infection.

  Stumped, the Chairman scratched his head. In spite of serious tutoring packed with samples by his I.Q.—the Intellectual Quota on the Directors’ Board—until he grew confident in his own ability to spot the most subtly disguised insult or subversiveness in the campaign lyrics, a phrase or two did manage to stump him. But the code was broken—as he begged humbly to inform the Cartel—and he had gradually become convinced that there was no word, no symbol, no picture, nothing whatever which had ever put up for the campaign—at prodigious expense from our profits gentlemen!—which did not contain a hidden dose of anarchy.

  Just then he spied his I.Q. battling his way through the melee of wigs and medals and champagne glasses. Just the man! Perhaps he had listened to the last verse. But I.Q. did not even give him a chance to put his question. In his hand he held a flapping rectangle of paper and the Director sighed as he saw that it was another of those posters. The man came up panting:

  “Have you seen this Sir? It was stuck right against the pillars of your driveway. One on each side.”

  The Chairman examined it, raced his mind to uncover the message before his analyst identified it for him. A picture of an opulent glutton with a mouth wide open to cram into it a mammoth-sized slice of the cocoa-pod. Beneath it the legend read: the golden slice. With ill-disguised irritation he heard I.Q. explain, quite unnecessarily:

  “After that loud-mouthed Jekú leader who boasted he would have his golden slice of the national cake.”

  “Yes yes I can tell that is the meaning. What I want to know is how it got stuck outside my gates. I have two of my own watchmen and both the police and the army are here in force. As you know we are expecting…”

  “Oh yes I heard that. Is it true?”

  “Yes indeed it is. How embarrassing if he had had this to welcome him to the party.”

  “Oh I don’t think the reference would have struck him. Even so Mr. Chairman, they are getting very bold.”

  The big man crushed the poster between his hands and I.Q. hurried to take it from him and hand it to a steward then passing through with a tray of refreshments.

  “It does not matter” the Chairman said at last. “We will take the necessary decisions and act on them.”

  He moved away to attend to the comfort of his guests, indifferent to the dripping of a new nectar and ambrosia verse…

  The sweet-toothed ones alas lacked all moderation

  No man-made laws restrained them

  They milked the cocoa-tree in a mass operation

  They drained the nectar, peeled the gold

  The trees were bled prematurely old

  Nor green nor gold remained for the next generation

  Ta-ra-ra-ra. ta-. ta--ta---. I.Q. collared a brandy from a passing waiter and reflected what Ofeyi’s facile explanations would consist of this time. Surely the reference was undeniable. He would hardly call it a cautionary tale against over-planting the land….

  Threading a practised route through gloves and guffaws the Chairman recited the table of ranks through his head: One pip make one captain, two pips make one major, three pips make…oh dear, got it all wrong…one pip, one lieutenant, two pips make one captain, three…when do the crowns begin and wasn’t there supposed to be a bar somewhere? And where do the blasted sergeant-majors come in anyway! Mind you they can always be separated in appearance…ox-like and ready to salute at the slightest provocation…one crown make one…damn! Chief Biga! Pity spoilers like Chief Biga could never be kept out completely. How did such a creature acquire such power—actually one of the Cartel? The Muscle Quota no doubt. Was he Batoki’s tool or was Batoki his fool? The one’s deviousness complemented the other’s crassness. Biga enjoyed his hatchetman reputation. Crude as a pig’s bladder…one, two crowns—but are they crowns? At the most a Lieutenant-Colonel, just call him Colonel….

  “Ha-lloooooo my dear Brigadier, how kind of you to come.”

  “No, it was a great honour for me to be invited.”

  “Not at all not at all. You people are so busy running the affairs of the state, piloting the awkward ship of the state, trying to get the country ship-shape oh dear I could go on forever. But that is because we know what you are doing and we are proud of your achievements.”

  “You flatter us Chairman. We are just simple soldiers, all the work is done by people just like you. You are the backbone of the country….”

  “Dar-ling!”

  “Do excuse me Colonel I think my wife needs me over there. Now promise me you will not hesitate to ask for anything you need, anything at all. I insist that you enjoy yourself in my house Colonel.”

  “I promise.”

  The Madame had called him but she did not interrupt her chatter until she was out of breath and then she could not remember what detail of her lecture she had called him over to confirm. Or to remind her of. So he half-turned aside to survey the huge lounge with a half-smile on his face beamed on the sector which was politely dedicated to his wife’s circle. The lounge was filling up fast. The Chairman spotted Spyhole the muck-raker just coming in through the swing-doors and grimaced. An irreverent journalist but useful. He knew just what terms Spyhole would use to describe the occasion—A Glittering Gathering. And God knows what else. And out of spite he would ignore the formal opening of his marble fountain and his speech, the climax of the entire proceedings. Some smarty-pants tiny reference as an afterthought, he’d probably lie t
hat he left early but discovered later that the Chairman’s new fountain was declared open by Brigadier So-so-so whereas everyone knew that holier-than-thou Spyhole never left a party until shaming light of day shone on the last empty bottle. Envy! In a way he pitied them. There he goes….

  Spyhole encountered Zaccheus in a comparatively bare spot on the floor, dead-heat in a race to stop a loaded waiter from disappearing among the crowd for stripping.

  “Spyhole!”

  “Zaccheus man how’s it going?”

  “B-Sharp dead-on.”

  “Any tips?”

  “Deadwood.”

  “Nobody got slapped yet?”

  “Too much gold fluff man. You won’t see a wig pulled tonight.”

  “I thought not. Corruscated scene of starch.”

  “And Madames and madamns and damnacadamns off their normal beat. All on their best behaviour.”

  “Ah well. You’ve got the vantage point up there. If you see anything…”

  “Sure I’ll signal. So long Spy.”

  Spyhole looked around, strolled towards the verandah. Fresh breeze from the lagoon. Big slice of state-reclaimed land. Across the garden he saw what must be the boathouse. What did the man want with a motor-boat since he didn’t trust himself to anything smaller than an ocean-liner. Certainly had nothing but contempt for remotely dangerous relaxations. A tarpaulin-covered mound rose in the middle of the garden, concealing the glories of the fountain whose fame had monopolized all thought and conversation country-wide for the past month. The Chairman did not believe in hiding his light under the bushel. Spyhole strode around the mound, was surprised to see how much of the ground it filled, then recalled that it was a fountain-fishpond combination. The garden itself, high-walled, sloped sharply down towards the lagoon. It gave him the sensation, suddenly, of being trapped in an eroded pyramid fallen on its side, apex already sunk in the sand-marsh. Across the verandah, figures twisted in and out of the general congealment trapped in vestments richer than the wildest dreams of Tutankhamun—Skyros the Lebanese owned three-quarters of this clientele, Skyros with his grand boutique that gleamed full of smuggled gold…Christ, why should these powdered mummies be resuscitated!

  Iriyise entered, bitched to the eyes and bitchy as hell. Yes, she muttered, turn all and stare! Men, dribble. Women, turn to stone; I hate your guts and you envy mine. Shrink back into your padded bras and putty brains, it’s me—Celestial! And that goes for you wart-lip Lady K, cross-eyed chairbag of the Ladies’ Sunday Club. Shall I tell you where the Sir spends his Wednesday evenings when he claims to be at the Rotary Club? Not with Iridescent mind you, not though he lay his knighthood at my feet. But he makes do with the consolation prize I found him and he doesn’t really mind. Anything will do after you, you…!

  “Relax,” Ofeyi hissed in her ear.

  “I feel bitchy.”

  “Relax I said.”

  “They are all in debt to Skyros anyway.”

  “What is it to do with you?”

  “Why did we have to come?”

  “You know damned well. It’s part of your duties.”

  “I won’t perform I warn you. If the Chairman himself comes and begs me on his knees…”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Come on…oh, here he comes. Behave yourself now.”

  “Welcome welcome welcome. The Brains and the Beauty of a successful campaign. Now the party is really complete.”

  “Thank you sir. It looks like a very good party.”

  “With the Cocoa princess herself here it will be remembered as the party of the year. Come over here and let me introduce you to the Brigadier. I’d better warn you Princess, most of the men here are hoping like mad for one of your famous Personal Appearances….”

  “I hope you haven’t been building up their hopes, Chief” she hissed, wincing as Ofeyi dug his fingers in her arm. Mystified, she protested the moment the Chairman deserted them to trap a loaded tray. “But you don’t want me to perform at his private party surely? Do you?”

  Ofeyi murmured, “I’m not sure.”

  “You should have warned me then.”

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know yet.”

  He sounded distracted, so Iriyise sank into her own mental rehearsals. There were no more surprises. Suddenly Ofeyi had stopped adding to the repertoire, stopped springing new ideas on her just before a scheduled “personal appearance,” choreographing her till the last possible moment. It was only a question of getting in the studied mood, composing face and body for the moment of public exposure. Zaccheus had learnt to tour the troupe with all the props and costumes. The worry was never hers, she merely submitted soul and body to his fantasies. The mammoth pod split open lengthways, or across its girth, top half opening like a lid. Iriyise rose from a bed of simulated giant beans as from sleep, stretched her arms. The orchestra played and Zaccheus, dressed in tails, handed her a cup of cocoa, bent on one knee and she stepped out on his back. And the multitude of headgears, neither wig nor shrub—Ofeyi called them seasonals—they came in green, gold, brown, amber, cream and blends of other colours. On the better equipped stage, the pod might rise through the trap-door, Iriyise sealed within it.

  A strange feeling on the recreation ground at Shage Dam, a “gala night” arranged by the workers on a holiday. Ofeyi had urged her by telephone to be nothing but superlative, for Shage was the Cross-river outpost of the new idea. The workers were mostly men of Aiyéró. All day they worked to fabricate a trap-door, converting leverage power from one of the numerous earth-moving equipment idling on the site. It worked. Then came the short-circuiting, so Iriyise lay within the giant shell in darkness, forever and forever as it seemed to her. No speck of light filtered through the airholes, no sensation except one of being buried alive. But peacefully, without panic. Tingling for the moment of light and life. Then the moment of rising through the soil, light coming at last through the air-holes, little dancing peppermints. The pod lifted slowly, guided by unseen forces and emerged prow first, splitting lengthwise along its ridges into thin orange wedges. Iriyise, already floated out on a layer of palm oil under her skin stepped onto an earth-covered stage and, into a thunderstorm of applause. Then came her dance of the young shoot and in that open space surrounded by virginal trees from which the arc-lamps had been strung, top-laden also with workers from the site and the Cross-river villagers of Shage, all seeking the best vantage spots—but Iriyise saw nothing of the thousand eyes, only the feel of night or her limbs and that prolonged sensation of climbing out of her skin into a rainstorm, sprouting leaves and fresh buds from neck and fingers, shaking her hair free of dead leaves and earth and absorbing light and air through every pore. Deaf to every cue that came from Zaccheus’ reed she danced, the green scrolls in her wig flew outwards into the night and showered the watchers. Palm oil ran freely in her veins until, exhausted, she gathered herself for the final leap, amazed that she landed centre of the small platform that still held the thin canoes wedge radiating from the trap. They closed to a loud sigh from the engineer that was audible to the furthest reaches of the amphitheatre. Back within her shell, lathered, she felt, not in sweat but in rich black oil she waited again to be freed….

  She heard Ofeyi’s voice at her ear. “What do we have tonight? Duality of the Iridescent Smile—glass splinters for the ladies, love barbs for the men?”

  Her tone a silky menace she enquired, “Did I look as if I was smiling?”

  “It was difficult to tell.”

  “Well I wasn’t. And I will never forgive you for not being there when I did my dance at Shage.”

  “Ah yes. Zaccheus said you were never more marvellous.”

  Her frustration only seemed to increase. “You would miss it. You have never seen me at my best. That’s why you think I’m only good for”—her lip curled in self-contempt—“Personal Appearances at the homes of fat
Corporation swine!”

  “Keep your voice down and…”

  “Yes I know. Relax. I can’t. I have never satisfied you, that’s why you don’t make anything new. Your cocoa-pod is falling to pieces. It already opens about twenty different ways and one of these days it will open all ways at once and then you will get rid of me at last. And good luck to your next Cocoa Tits!”

  Ofeyi gave his attention to the men who had delayed the Chairman in his hunt for the drinks tray. One of them he recognized as the Commandant’s right-hand man; publicly he served as a Trouble-shooter for the Cartel. Young, full of power and the glory like the rest of them, only far more so. He was intensely busy at the Chairman’s ear. Was it true then, that the Commandant himself would cut the tape on the fishpond with his own gloved hands? Not bad, not bad, even it was only a regional commandant. Ofeyi slewed his eyes sharply back to Iriyise as he sensed, rightly, that Chairman and Trouble-shooter were about to glance in his direction yet again. For some reason he felt a great unease.

  “You didn’t listen to anything I said did you?” Iriyise accused him.

  “I heard you. When will you learn to cope with company like this? You still let them upset you.”

  “I don’t.”

  “They are nothing; I thought I had proved that to you a hundred times.”

  “Then why should you make me perform for them?”

  “I haven’t said I will. But it may be necessary, They shouldn’t think no one knows what they are planning next!”

  She frowned. “Ofeyi, what are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” His manner became decisive. “Go and get ready. Tonight you will do the Pandora’s Box. Go and tell Zaccheus.” And he vanished into the crowd.

  * * *

  —

  “This is not,” beamed the proud host, “simply an occasion in the home of a private citizen. Oh no, I assure you ladies and gentlemen and Distinguished Personalities you would not be here to join me in the unveiling of this er…this…to be present at this wonderful occasion if it were simply so. Nor would such a busy man as the Brigadier himself be here to do us the honour of the unveiling. Yes, it is a symbolical event as you will see for yourself. This country owes its prosperity to the industry of one significant plant. It lies in its little farm, not making noise, just minding its business, not causing trouble, it is not he he he—an agitator shall I say?” He continued after his audience had duly rewarded him with approving laughter—“it is indeed the little lily of the farm but one that toileth in silence and feeds the multimillion mouths of the nation.”