Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “Yes?” Mother paused, her eyes on her daughter, though her fork continued its circuit from plate to mouth.

  Father put down his glass-an indication of deep interest.

  “I’m going to buy,” Mary continued, “the Niger River.”

  Both parents gasped, one with crimson teeth, the other with a mouth full of food.

  “Oh, spirits of nature!” Barbara exploded. “Does this ego know no bounds?”

  The hair on Mary’s forearms stood on end, making her skin look like plucked chicken. “TransAqua will be the pioneers of this type of deal. It’s a perfect time to negotiate, now that the country’s in such a weak position. Once one country accepts it, it’ll be much easier to replicate the deal with other developing markets.”

  “Well, well!” A smile danced upon Father’s lips. “My own daughter buying the Niger River. Who knows? Maybe one day it’ll be known as the Glass River. Certainly has a ring to it, doesn’t it, dear?” He looked at his wife for signs of interest. None forthcoming. He turned back to Mary. “Glass River. Very appropriate. Very appropriate indeed.”

  “You’re planning to own the Niger River?” Barbara folded her arms over her outrage. “Look at you!—some minor functionary who thinks she’s David Livingstone!”

  Mary’s face turned ashen. Barbara noticed her sister’s body rise and fall ever so slightly as she engaged and released the muscles of her rectum, a habit she had picked up in childhood. It calmed her in the most stressful situations. Barbara’s system tingled with victory, and she set to eating again.

  Mary’s pellet eyes stared unflinchingly into Barbara’s. “A minor functionary?”

  “You’re just a salesguy. So what?” Barbara ran a turnip through her gravy, thrilled to have unbalanced Mary’s equilibrium with such ease. She threw the turnip into her mouth and chewed philosophically.

  “You consider the Associate Director of Sales a ‘minor fiinctionary’?”

  “How can you get excited about making money from so many deaths?”

  “Oh dear! It takes all types, doesn’t it? Every family has one,” said Mother, in obvious reference to Barbara.

  “Whoever gets this project,” Mary slowed down the tempo of her voice, “will be a shoe-in for VP.” She stared at Barbara for confirmation that she had understood.

  “VP? Oh, how wonderful!” Mother beamed at Mary. “That’s my girl. Keep it to yourself and don’t let anyone get in your way.” She tucked into the bloodbath once again.

  “Have you actually bothered to read any newspapers at all?” Barbara exploded. “You’ve got civil war in over twenty countries, all fighting over rising water prices …”

  “Civil war?” Mary tinkled. “That’s hilarious. Everyone else calls it terrorism, Barbie calls it civil war.” Mary snickered out some small sneezes, her knife-edge shoulders shaking with mirth as she looked with pity at her parents. “Where, Barbie? What civil wars?”

  “It’s all over the place,” Barbara replied, her mind crowded with a hundred instances, but no particular one rising to the surface. “Africa. The Middle East. South America.”

  “Really?” Mary collapsed into pinprick titters. “Just a few spots, then? Glad to see it’s pretty localized. I’m impressed. We’ve got a world war on our hands and no one told me.”

  Father exploded into a laugh, dribbling some wine onto his tie. Mother’s face crinkled up into her eyes as she set forth on a high tremuloso screech, passed to a grating vibrato in random notes and ended on prolonged retches.

  Barbara rolled her eyes and whispered to herself, wanting to smash into her sister’s brittle body and fracture each calcium-deficient bone. She felt outrage for herself, as a victim of Mary’s contempt, as well as for those other victims, the people of the Niger River.

  “As usual,” Mother pointed at Barbara with her fork, “you’re talking absolute nonsense. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s terrorism, plain and simple. They’re lucky to get water. So,” she picked more peas off her skirt, “let’s have none of your ridiculous political posturing in this house, young lady.” She turned to her husband. “Bit of skin with that, dear? Lovely bit of skin?”

  “Here we are, helping the rest of humanity, with not a word of thanks in return,” Father sighed to himself, then nodded for skin.

  The sky grew overcast, and obstreperous grey clouds unfurled their black cloaks over a submissive sun. Mother turned the lights on. A simple chandelier, with many years of silent service, hung over their heads. It had presided over moments of heartache and indifference, treachery and damnation, retribution and ruin, shining brightly through all the seasons of the family’s relations.

  “Lucky to have companies like TransAqua,” Father continued. “Remember Thailand, dear? One week on the toilet. One week, absolute minimum.” He heaped some carbs onto his protein.

  “I told you not to have ice,” Mother sang. “But would you listen?” She smiled to herself. “I’m only your wife, after all. What do I know?”

  For the next ten minutes, the family focused on feeding, mixing its carbs, proteins and trans fatty acids with reckless abandon. All that could be heard was the clatter of cutlery on crockery.

  “Well, Barbie,” Father said at last, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters. “How is your uh-what is it exactly that you do again?”

  Three pairs of eyes triangulated on Barbara.

  “Conflict management.”

  “Aaaah! Ah-ha. Conflict management. Sounds very important, doesn’t it, Mother?”

  “‘Conflict management’?” Mary butted in, unwilling to relinquish the bright lights. “Oh, they think up words for everything these days. Do you know what they call garbage collectors? ‘Refuse management.’ Can you believe it?” She smirked and shook her head in disbelief.

  Barbara’s temper started to flare, but something held her back, a small tool learnt through four years of teaching. “I hear what you’re saying,” she said through clenched teeth. “However, I feel denigrated and invalidated when you belittle my chosen profession. I’d welcome your support in this matter. How does that sound to you?” Small smile.

  All three looked up again from their food. The clock ticked a few seconds off the day.

  “Well-well-well-well-well,” said Father. “They certainly have taught you some long words, haven’t they? Very, veeeery impressive.”

  “I feel … de-validated, was it?” It was Mary again, bringing the attention back to its centre.

  “No, in-validated, my dear,” said Mother, chucking a piece of corpse into her mouth. “She feels in-validated.”

  “And de-what?” asked Father, truly perplexed.

  “You still haven’t told us what conflict management is, Barbie.”

  “Is the pay any good?” asked Mary.

  “Yes,” Barbara replied, looking down at her plate.

  “Yes? Really? Aren’t you self-employed?”

  Mother and Father froze in horror.

  “Yes. No. So what? I get a base rate.”

  “Well, you don’t get health benefits, insurance, stocks.”

  “But I choose my own hours.”

  “What’s your rate, by the way?” Mary was relentless.

  Barbara’s parents were unable to continue chewing until this question had been answered.

  Barbara smiled. “A dollar. I get a dollar an hour. But I’m also collecting welfare on the side. I spend it all on crack.”

  Silence reigned. An unwelcome guest had arrived, a guest that seldom entered the flattened ionic columns that framed this austere structure. And Sarcasm was its name.

  “Barbie,” Father leaned forward on his elbows, attempting to prevail as the voice of reason. “Have you ever thought of asking Mary to get you a position in her company? I’m sure she would be able to find something a bit more stable for you—a secretary, anything!”

  Mary coughed on some carrot as Barbara’s soul shrank in humiliation. “The pace is pretty fast at TransAqua. I’m not sure Barbara could cope. It’s
very task-oriented.”

  “Ah, yes.” Both parents nodded their heads. “Of course.”

  A bulb in the chandelier burnt out.

  Barbara looked around the table, as if viewing her family in slow motion, a frame-by-frame report of their dynamics. Their beliefs flowed together in effortless constancy, a wellspring of certitude. She could not understand how she had drifted such a distance from it.

  FOUR

  The Quantitative Man

  Two days after the disaster, a white Mercedes-Benz pulled up outside the house of General Abucha, the head of the Nigerian armed forces. Out stepped the short, plump form of Ogbe Kolo, enfolded in a gold agbada. He immediately opened his Chinese parasol for the twenty-yard trip to the front door. There, he waited for his driver to press the bell. After this formality, he handed his driver the parasol and exchanged it for his briefcase. They both stood at attention and looked straight ahead at the door.

  A steward in a white uniform, small cap and bare feet answered the door and ushered them in. He left them in the cavernous sitting room. Soft white leather armchairs with gold accents surrounded a glass table encased in gold tubing. To the side stood two gold and pink flamingo lamp stands atop a pink carpet peppered with orange flowers. Presiding over this splendour was the rainbow delight of a multi-layered chandelier hanging low over the table like a wedding cake turned upside down. Its heady clusters of bulbs were kept alight by one of the few operating generators in the capital, Abuja.

  A few minutes later, a jovial General Abucha appeared, wearing a casual Malaysian cotton shirt and trousers.

  “Minister Kolo,” he beamed. “An honour.”

  “General,” Kolo bowed. “Always a pleasure.”

  Kolo waved away his driver, who backed out of the room, and the two sat down.

  “Something to drink?” the general asked.

  “Well-maybe some Scotch.”

  “On ice?”

  “Dry.”

  The general called out for his steward and asked for two Scotches.

  “How is your daughter?” Kolo asked.

  “She’s doing well, thank you.”

  “What a girl! Does she still want to be president?”

  “Yes, but now she wants dual nationality,” the general sighed with feigned indifference, “so she can be president of Nigeria and prime minister of Britain at the same time.”

  “Oh well.” A smile lit behind Kolo’s rash, caused by an excess of skin whitener. “How hard can it be to govern the UK? It’s a rich country. They all have food to eat and water to drink. They have hospitals, schools. What more could they want? It would be more of a hobby for her.”

  “After Nigeria-true.”

  Both men chuckled.

  The steward brought in a tray, poured the Scotch into two European crystal glasses and padded away again. Kolo stole a glance at the general. They had known each other since childhood, but not closely: Kolo had been shunned by other children, whose parents had considered him cursed. Nevertheless, ties of heritage were strong, so they had offered each other clandestine support as they rose in the corridors of power. He had always found the general unusually difficult to read, and the general was a cautious man. As the minister for natural resources, Kolo had to distance himself from the Kainji ordeal. He wondered if he could rely on the general’s support over the coming months.

  “Well,” Kolo ventured, “I fear for the government. There is so much unrest in the country. I hear the president has as much as barricaded himself at Aso Rock. Which is a pity. I love neoclassical buildings.” He grew bolder. “I pray they don’t get damaged.”

  The general halted the progress of the crystal to his mouth. He peered at Kolo through heavy eyelids, remaining silent. One thing Kolo had learned in his journey through life was to wait for a reaction, no matter how long that wait took. With the general, this could represent a formidable length of time.

  Kolo eased forward for his Scotch, swirled it around, sniffed it, held it to the light and very slowly took a tentative sip. He closed his eyes as if he were in a trance, lulled into that sweet state by the gentle wonder of the “water of life.” Finally, he opened them.

  The general leaned towards him. “So—you have heard news?” he asked.

  Kolo was not one to be outwitted by a question. He pondered awhile, then gave a noncommittal shrug and reached for the Scotch again.

  The general finally buckled. “There have been rumblings in the army.”

  “Rumblings?”

  “Perhaps looking for a change in leadership.”

  Kolo’s eyes flickered in anticipation.

  “I have ensured, of course,” the general rushed to explain, “that all dissidence, any hint of discontent, is quashed at its onset.”

  “Of course!” replied a shocked Kolo. “The government needs the full support of its armed forces at this tragic juncture.”

  “Which I am in every way committed to providing on an ongoing basis in this hour of our country’s greatest need.”

  They both sipped their Scotch.

  “Yet,” the general proposed, “the people are suffering.”

  “There’s no doubt that that is so.”

  “And I wonder …” The general paused, eyes boring into Kolo’s.

  Kolo stopped blinking. He now knew that he had the general’s support for any change that might make his position more secure. He lay back in the pampering leather and closed his eyes again. “You still have the best Scotch in Abuja.” A smile surfaced behind Kolo’s yellow skin.

  “Reserved only for the best company.”

  Both men paused, lost in their separate thoughts.

  “Tell me-how can I help my countryman?” Kolo asked at last.

  “Maybe some information. Are there any new …” the general paused, “… initiatives, any changes, perhaps changes of personnel, that I should be aware of?”

  The general swallowed the rest of his Scotch. Kolo recognized that the general must be under considerable strain and chided himself for not having approached him sooner.

  “The British and the Americans want to see a new …” Kolo flicked a small silk thread from his agbada, “grid of power-by power,” he hastened to add, “I am referring, of course, to electricity—”

  “Of course,” the general quickly rejoined.

  “And it is about that initiative that I wish to talk to you today. Can I count on your support for such an enterprise?”

  “So you’re in touch with the Americans and the British?”

  “On an informal level.” Kolo stared directly at the general.

  “Aha.” The general considered for a moment, then responded. “The army will provide whatever support is necessary for the good of the country.” He looked at his glass. “More Scotch?”

  “Thank you.” Kolo drained his drink. The general refilled their glasses.

  Kolo raised his. “Cheers!”

  Kolo was accompanied to his car by his driver, who carried his parasol aloft. Once enveloped in the leather seating, Kolo lay back, exhausted. He took out a small pot of Oil of Olay and applied it to his face.

  “So, Innocent,” he asked. “What news of the general?” The car passed crowds of people carrying jerry cans on their heads, water spilling from some of them.

  “The general’s driver said the president has visited him twice this week at home.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected. Anyone else?”

  “Yes—the minister for the environment two days ago. The general’s driver had to drive the minister back to his office.” Innocent scowled in disapproval.

  Kolo looked at him through the rear-view mirror and smiled in appreciation of the relative importance of resource consumption over protection. “Well, the minister has no driver of his own.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver replied, still irate.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. Madam is no longer in town. She left with the general’s mother.”

  “Really? And wher
e is she?”

  “His driver took them to the airport last night.”

  “International?”

  “Domestic.”

  “How much luggage did they have?”

  “Five big suitcases, television, new oven.”

  Kolo smiled, the rash making the expression quite painful. “Back to the village. Ah well, at least they’ll be safe there.”

  Kolo saw that whatever the minister for the environment had proposed, it had not allayed the general’s fears.

  “Good work, Innocent.”

  They arrived at the residence of the British High Commissioner. The flag flew at half-mast. Kolo wondered whether flags in the rest of the former empire also lay at half-mast, or whether this was merely a local courtesy.

  The architecture was colonial, but the entrance door bore the imprint of the Nigerian artisan. The great sculpting lineage of the Fakeye family had carved the history of contact between Nigeria and Britain on the door, panels that chronicled the benefits of trade, minus the delicate issue of exploitation. They depicted the arrival of the queen, skirting the thorny issue of British rule; they celebrated the bucolic idyll, without reference to rural unemployment. The door had been a bold commission by an adventurous and self-confident High Commissioner, His Excellency the Honourable Sir Peter Wigglesworth-Lyle.

  A steward in a white uniform with shiny brass buttons and white plimsolls ushered Kolo in. The High Commissioner, an icon of punctuality, was waiting for him under a portrait of an aging queen.

  “Ogbe, how do you do?”

  “Peter, how are you?”

  As per tradition, neither question needed answering and Kolo had slipped easily into his British public school accent. They were old school chums; formalities could be discarded.

  “Pray, do sit down. Beastly weather today, isn’t it? So very hot.”

  Not, however, the formality of the weather exchange.

  “Abso-bloody-lutely. Thank Christ for air conditioning.”

  “Ah—your generator’s still working, is it?”

  “On its last legs,” Kolo said apologetically. “Forsan miseros meliora sequentur.” *

  “Bloody right,” the HC sighed. “Can’t argue with that. Now—can I get you something? Dry Scotch, isn’t it?”