Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  TWO

  The Qualitative Guy

  Unaware of Kainji’s struggle to hold back the waters of the Niger, a group of concerned activists from around the country congregated in Abuja, the titular capital of Nigeria. This important but isolated hub had been placed in the alleged wilderness of the country’s geographical centre, an act that had made billionaires of many government ministers.

  The group met in a crowded municipal conference room, trying to make headway with the issue of water provision in their hometowns. The heat lay heavy in the room, with one aging fan struggling to provide air for over two hundred bodies.

  Femi Jegede sat in the middle of the room, listening as one person after another tried to explain to a particularly never-plussed official the absurdity of taking water and then selling it back to the communities that originally owned it. One woman, who had spoken with the sequential logic of an elementary schoolteacher, finally sat down in defeat.

  Then Femi’s comrade Ubaldous, a robust and brilliant lawyer, took the floor for the fourth time. His voice sounded weary from debating. “Why should taxpayers subsidize big business in order to privatize our own water? We will be making these companies richer and ourselves poorer. We will not only pay higher taxes to support this initiative, but the cost of water will triple, so who will be able to afford your precious water?”

  The official, wearing shoes with the backs trodden down so that the soles of his feet could be better aired, fidgeted in his chair poised on top of a small dais. He restated his position: “Em, it costs money to make good water.”

  “But we cannot afford the water you’re selling us!”

  “Em, the government is concerned that all Nigerians can drink good water.”

  “Good water!” Ubaldous exploded. “How do you know it will be good water? Every disease you can think of sits in American water yet which idiot is going to try and sue a multinational?”

  The official giggled. “They drink water from the tap, my friend.” He shook his head, as if speaking to an imbecile.

  “And where do they get E. coli from?”

  The official tilted his head in bewilderment. “What kind of cola?”

  Ubaldous kissed his teeth for a good ten seconds. He attempted to compose himself, then inched his argument along at a more restrained pace. “The government will drain away all we have to sell to the highest bidder—and it is guaranteed,” he pointed at the official, “guaranteed that Nigeria will not be among that select group, my friend.” His hands trembled as he held on to the chair in front of him, a tactic he often used to evoke sympathy in a jury.

  “How can you move water from one country to another?” The official chuckled again, nodding with mirth into his crotch.

  Ubaldous’s eyebrows shot into their highest position, unable to believe the man’s idiocy. He stumbled onto the person seated next to him to attract the official’s attention once more. His voice grew hoarse and cracked, sounding as if he had crossed a desert free of all liquid. “Water is traded already. Have you not read of environmental degradation?”

  “No, no. That is global warming.”

  The group issued a long groan. After an hour of circular debate, they had made no progress with this coconut-for-brain official. An irate and weary Ubaldous collapsed back down onto a wooden seat.

  Femi Jegede stood up, scraping his chair so loudly that all eyes rotated to him. He waited in position for a few moments for the full effect of his presence to be felt. The official’s eyes turned to him and bulged. His left heel started to jiggle up and down.

  Here was one of the great orators in Nigeria, who could make the ears and eyes of even his most radical opponents prick up like an antelope’s. Femi possessed wit and style, backed by strong legal training, and so could make pounded yam out of the most logical argument. Added to this, his exchanges had an air of theatricality to them, his greatest prop being his ever-present agbada—a voluminous tunic that expanded his physical presence and gave weight to his authority—though certainly no item was too minor to employ.

  However, more than this, he had that one gift that makes even the listless adjust their clothing in anticipation. He was a beautiful man, with skin as soft as Guinness beer and gentle, transcendent eyes. All in all, he was a very qualitative guy.

  Femi started as usual, slowly, shuffling papers in his hands. “Does a man whose house is on fire worry whether his floor is clean?” His eyebrows raised in question.

  The official looked at him in total and unconditional incomprehension. Femi let the effect of these words sink in and then bob up again. Silence. He waited for an answer.

  “Em …”

  Femi continued, louder this time. “If our throats are on fire, can we afford to worry about whether the water is clean?” He turned to the other delegates, astonishment on his face. He hitched his agbada onto his shoulders.

  They erupted in raucous response. “Of course not!” “We would be crazy!”

  After some time, the official replied, “No man can quench his thirst with poison, sir.” Satisfaction was positioned on his face. He was barely heard above the din.

  “Does a river flow with snake venom?” Femi roared. “Do we wash our faces with hornet poison? Are we drinking scorpion stings today? Does a river not flow with water?”

  “It flows with water, of course, but this water is not clean.”

  “Exactly. So, if a man does pee-pee in my beer, why should I have to pay for another bottle? It is not for me to pay! Is it not for the man with the bladder of a field mouse to come and pay me?”

  “You are downy-stream, my friend.” The official drew out the words “downy-stream” as if no one would understand their import.

  Femi slapped his papers onto his chair with irritation. “Are you a polar bear?” Femi asked suddenly.

  “Pardon?”

  “Are. You. A. Polar. Bear?” Femi said, enunciating each word.

  “Of course not!” the official responded, perplexed once more.

  “Is anyone in this room,” Femi turned to face his audience, “a polar bear?”

  “No!” “Of course not.” “Not today, anyway.” They answered in an incoherent babble.

  “Well, that is a relief. I was mistaken in thinking we had a polar bear in this room. So I can assume that none of us is currently living at the North Pole, correct?”

  “Correct!” they shouted.

  “Thus, is it not true that we all live downstream?”

  “Correct!” they screamed, applauding.

  Having used his first weapons—an assault of Nigerian proverbs—he made his way towards the realm of legal jargon.

  “Given that we have now agreed on this point,” he adjusted his agbada to the left, “are you of the opinion that access to fresh water is a human right?”

  His body thrust itself off his heels to emphasize the point.

  “That is to say, an inalienable human right …”

  He left a giant pause, looking around the room to observe the effect of this legalese.

  “Or …

  “that water is …

  “simply a commodity?” These last words shot out like air expelled from a balloon. Femi had sat down by the time the last syllables had been uttered. He busily aired his agbada and crossed his arms, frowning at the municipal official.

  The crowd glared at the bureaucrat, some adjusting their seating to indicate a need for greater self-control. All mouths were fanning the air in noisy accord.

  With visible discomfort, the official leaned forward, closer to the microphone. It screeched. “Em. Yes, of course.”

  He leaned back and sat on his hands, eyes darting around the room.

  A few voices from the audience shouted at him, “Of course, what?” “What are you trying to say?” “Who is this idiot?”

  The official released his hands, shuffled his chair forward a bit and cleared his throat. He grasped his elbows and bent towards the microphone once more. “Em. We are all aware of the government
’s position.”

  Femi shot up again, hiking his agbada back on his shoulders. The room fell silent. “May I beg to differ, honourable sir.”

  Femi stepped back in a bow.

  The official seemed puzzled, but relief quickly washed over his face—this bow, a symbol of respect, could mean only one thing. He smiled at Femi.

  “Thank you very much,” he interjected, unknowingly. “And I, on my side, also agree to differ.”

  The room looked at the helpless official in silence. Jaws dropped. Flies entered. This man was so incompetent, so idiotic, he must be a government minister’s son.

  Femi prepared to sweep away this last speck of dust. “It seems we have reached a juncture of the highest consequence. In conclusion, for the record, let me restate the government’s position.” He cleared his throat. “The government agrees, according to your good self,” another bow, “that access to fresh water is an inalienable human right and is pathologically consolidated,” his finger stabbing the air, “in its position against water privatization, while, on our side, we claim,” hands circling back, “that water should be provided for free and not bought and sold like Coca-Cola. Is that the point we have now reached, in so many words?”

  “Em, correct. In very many words,” said the official.

  Femi paused to regroup, then continued. “It is sad to see that we can come no closer than that in our debate.” A note of defeat. “Are you of the highest certitude,” he thundered, “that you are unwilling to move from the statement I have just provided?”

  “I am afraid the government cannot and will not move from that position.”

  “Am I correct in stating that the government stands irrevocably and immutably in its position and we, on our side, support our own contention?”

  “Em, you are correct.”

  “Are there no other arguments we can bring to bear on this matter of serious national import?”

  “You have brought many debates to this meeting, but no one can be swimming against the tide of change and live to tell the tale.”

  Femi shook his head with a look of shrivelling dismay worthy of the most austere schoolmaster at his moment of greatest shock. “My friend,” he breathed in a soft voice that the back row had no trouble hearing, “a lion can eat a man, but can’t a mosquito bite a lion?” He raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

  The official twitched in discomfort.

  Femi shook his head sadly and sat down again, while journalists quickly tapped at their laptops at the front of the room. The official looked at the fan, knowing that the mosquito/lion/man cluster had a point of weakness that, for the moment, eluded him.

  The room tingled with victory.

  The great man, the human colossus, who held wisdom, craft and, most importantly, the full breadth of the English language at his fingertips, had achieved a critical victory in the debate. Within the click of one Send button, news of the government’s new position against the purchase of water would be received by stations as far as clocks tell time.

  The assembly gathered up their belongings. Femi avoided all eyes in the room, and the crowd knew that any tittering would alert the official to his blunder. The next meeting would now have to be with a more senior official, perhaps even Chief Ogbe Kolo, minister for natural resources.

  As Femi walked out, the creaking fan slowly stopped. The room tutted. Electricity was so erratic, the only constant was that blackouts were the norm.

  “Ah-ah. Light done quench.”

  The back door opened and a man quickly scuttled to the official’s side. They scurried out together, but not before Femi noted the terror now written over the face of the official.

  As the crowd bustled out of the hall and into the courtyard, Ubaldous called to Femi, “And?”

  “Aaah! Ubiquitous Ubaldous!”

  “Femi, you were vibrating today-oh!” Ubaldous smiled. “Why use shorter words when longer ones can provide better climate control? The poor official. He was too cold-oh! When you were blowing your rhetoric, he was sitting on his own hands!”

  “Me? And your own good self, nko? Were your own lips not fanning the air? Did they hire you as an air conditioner?”

  “Potato in ear,” replied Ubaldous. “I can’t hear you, my friend. Isn’t your own tongue tired? Can you swallow food today?”

  “I was just warming up. Bring me a pot of egusi and I’ll show you if I can swallow. If you don’t have egusi, just bring your potato.”

  Both men chuckled.

  “Well, I must blow. Will you branch by the office later?” Ubaldous shouted as he passed the gate.

  Femi’s eyes filled with pretend confusion. “Em, correct.”

  The two men exploded into laughter.

  “Please keep the air conditioner on.” Femi, turning to head out into the street, threw his head back in another eruption of laughter. As he came up for air, he heard a piercing scream from far away. The assembly stopped. Two people with tears streaming down their faces came running up to a woman. They spoke urgently to her. She listened and pushed out “No!” in a loud hush. They gave her more information. She put her hands over her ears, looked up to the sky and screamed. Her friends tried to pull her arms back down, but she was rigidly in position, save for a trembling of all her limbs.

  As the crowd watched in bewilderment, another scream pierced the air. Then another.

  “Na waa oh! What is the matter? Wetin?” Femi asked.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He swivelled around to see his beloved companion, Igwe, looking at him. His eyes were hidden behind his large brown glasses, but the horror in them was unmistakable. His thin frame, usually so lively, appeared to be weighed down by some unknown trouble. “Please,” he said to Femi. “Come home now. There is some news.”

  Femi looked at Igwe, frightened and puzzled. He had often seen in his partner’s eyes a flash of alarm, a stiffening of the body. It was his habit. Yet this time his body was charged with an insistence and foreboding Femi had never before seen.

  Igwe took Femi’s arm and pulled him away, struggling to talk. “A tragedy. Terrible tra-”

  As they rushed through the streets, they heard more screams. They saw one woman running without her wrapper, frantic as if she were on fire, followed by friends trying to grab her.

  “Kainji!” Igwe gasped for air. “It’s Kainji!”

  “Enh?”

  Igwe ran faster, struggling to catch two motorbike taxis while the frenzy in the streets grew. As they hopped onto the bikes, Femi hunted for clues, searching Abuja’s sterile boulevards and forbidding concrete for hints of trouble. The quiet avenues, planned before the city had even been inhabited, had become chaotic. Cars moved in all directions, at erratic speeds, their drivers frantic.

  Femi tried to push away troubling thoughts. Giant trees with flame-coloured flowers shimmered in the region’s tender heat. Blood canna lilies, towering over the heads of men, swayed in the gentle breezes. Even the elephant ears, with their emerald leaves, waggled in the sun.

  When they arrived at a dilapidated apartment building, Igwe tugged him upstairs.

  “Amos’s cell.” Igwe’s disjointed utterances continued. “No answer.”

  “It’s okay. He went to the village.”

  Igwe’s sandal slapped a concrete step as he stumbled. “No!” This hushed sound, voiced almost as a question, was followed by short vowels as if he was trying to build a sentence for which no words existed.

  He pushed Femi into the darkened room they shared. A low, unbroken wail—a thin echo, carried from an upper floor, that laced through the building—unsettled Femi.

  Without waiting for the question, Igwe said, “Kainji Dam has burst.”

  Femi slammed his papers on the desk. “Did I not tell you that a catastrophe of this enormity would befall our people?”

  “Femi, I beg …” Igwe looked down, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

  “Does the government care about the plight of the people?” Femi came closer to
Igwe’s face. “No one listens in this country unless the business community has been affected, and then,” he leaned over Igwe’s small frame, “oh, then suddenly everyone’s ears become ultrasonic like a bat’s.”

  “Light don go for the whole country,” Igwe said meekly.

  Femi stared at him, for once unable to utter a word. Finally he said, “So the whole dam has burst?”

  “Yes.” Igwe started to weep.

  Femi lurched forward, threw his arms around him and cradled him. “Which villages has it hit? Have people been killed?”

  “All the villages downstream have been wiped out. Ndadu has been wiped out. From Kainji past Jebba, it’s all gone.” Igwe started to sob and put a hand on Femi’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry-oh! Your family is gone.”

  “Ndadu?” Femi sprang up again and stared at him. “That can’t be. It’s nowhere near Kainji. Where did you get this …” He started to shout. “Why can’t we Nigerians provide accurate information? Ah-ah! Everything in this ridiculous place is rumour and gossip!”

  “Hundreds of thousands have been killed. The government has declared a state of emergency.”

  “The government is always declaring … pardon?”

  “Half a million killed.”

  “Igwe, you are my friend-oh! Why are you telling me this?” An image of the latest fashions in Congo clothing punched into Femi’s mind. Amos!

  Igwe held his head in his hands, helpless. Femi stood staring at Igwe’s limp body, a toy doll folded over itself. Slowly, very slowly, tears started to well in Femi’s eyes. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to them, pushing the sockets to keep the tears at bay, pushing to force pain into his body, pushing to keep the information away. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to avoid the truth. Screams were piercing the streets around them.

  Femi slowly moved his hands down to Igwe’s head, pulling his face to him, cradling the back of his head. He pushed his cheek onto his companion’s face, burying his nose into the crook of Igwe’s neck, eyes screwing into fierce knots. He cried, small choking sounds. His tears ran down his friend’s neck, pooling on his shirt at the shoulder. One arm moved around Igwe’s back, pulling him closer and closer, gripping furiously. His arms clasped tighter, drawing his friend in even more, as if hanging on to history, onto a present now denied him. He snatched at visions of Amos lost in a permanent childhood, unable to reclaim images of him as an adult. Femi started to tremble, his whole body convulsing with a quiet violence. His thoughts raced to his beloved parents, to the grandfather who had hidden kola nuts for him, to the grandmother who had sung to him about his ancestors as he lay in her lap. He could no longer control his weeping.