Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “Tremendous.”

  Kolo was offered a silk armchair in muted gold to rest his weary frame. He scrutinized the painting of the queen, slightly envious that he had not been born into a safe haven like Peter. Who could a Nigerian hang in his parlour? The president, that representative of folly and greed? No. The oba of Lagos? The sultan of Sokoto? They could hardly be considered a uniting force for an Islamic north and a Christian south. Where was the Nelson Mandela, the Mahatma Gandhi, of Nigeria? None existed—the country had been collated out of too many nation groups. No one had yet managed to integrate the interests of the Hausa north, Igbo east and Yoruba west.

  Still, did the British royal family represent the British people? Were they also not a divisive force between the English and the Welsh, Scottish and Irish, between south and north, between the ruling elite and the working classes? No, few countries had figureheads truly representative of the country’s struggle for identity.

  Kolo, reflecting, suspected he would have to fulfil that role in Nigeria, that his was the face that would grace the walls of Nigerian embassies for forthcoming centuries, even though others might note his great reluctance at receiving such attentions.

  “So, how can I help?” Peter asked, always one to get straight to the point.

  Kolo was not to be rushed. “Very little, actually. I merely thought I’d avail myself of the benefits of one of the few active generators in Abuja.”

  The HC smiled briefly.

  “Any news of Henry?” Kolo asked.

  “Left the Foreign Office. Joined UNHCR. Deputy Executive Director.”

  Kolo’s skin crawled. Peter’s bullet points had always irked him. He spoke as if his innate superiority released him from the momentous effort of replying in whole sentences.

  “UN?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “My god.”

  They both shook their heads in disbelief. The HC sipped his Scotch with a grimace and a shiver. “Bloody strong stuff, must say.”

  The generator shut off.

  “Blast!” exclaimed Kolo. “Time to visit the French ambassador.”

  The HC laughed, displaying a row of crowded and yellowing teeth. “Kolo, old boy, you’re hiding something.” He ushered his guest to the privacy of the veranda. “What’s up your sleeve? Always so obtuse. Something’s up.”

  Kolo felt he should reward Peter for the exertion of having formed a couple of almost complete sentences. He looked down the compound to the blood red hibiscus, a luscious flower with no inhibitions, petals splayed wide, opening its most private parts to the sun. Now was not the time for discretion. “I thought you should know that General Abucha doesn’t know how much longer he can hold the army together. Major unrest. He approached me today to ask if I would be willing to assume leadership should anything happen to the president.” He rotated his face to witness the HC’s reaction.

  “General Abucha? Really?”

  “He already has the support of the Americans.”

  “The Americans?”

  “The Americans.”

  “Interesting.” Peter’s mouth tightened. “Profits, of course, with them. Self-interest only. After the oil, no doubt.” His lips threatened to disappear altogether. “And the water. Worship of the almighty dollar.”

  “Utmost discretion is necessary, of course, for the safety of all involved.”

  “Absolutely,” the HC hurried to respond.

  After a few casual courtesies, Kolo called his driver and walked back to his car under the parasol. A guard opened the geometric gates and Kolo’s Mercedes slid away.

  “So, Innocent, did you get any petrol?”

  “The driver sold me five gallons, that’s all. The embassy is watching petrol too closely.” He looked in the rear-view mirror with apology. “Where now, sir?”

  “American Embassy.”

  Kolo had a natural disdain for Americans, whom he considered politically naive, socially dislocated and self-idolizing. He disliked these people with no history and no culture who had, nonetheless, exported their desultory offerings—fast food, simplistic films and evangelical economics—erasing the history, culture and identity of others. More tragic still, they had succeeded.

  The embassy compound was designed and built by American architects and landscape gardeners. The grass was razed, the garden clear, so that the windows looked out onto a magnificent view of the compound’s concrete walls.

  The car parked next to an eggshell white Cadillac SUV with tinted windows—the ambassador’s official car—and a van carrying water from Nevada Springs.

  Treated like a market trader, Kolo negotiated passage through a series of security stations before gaining entry to the ambassador’s office, a vast monstrosity of rectilinear rigour sporting three giant American flags.

  “Your Excellency,” Kolo adopted his deepest Nigerian accent, “thank you so much for seeing me, sir.”

  The ambassador put down his dumbbells. “Mr. Cole. C’mon in! Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. Some whiskey, perhaps.”

  The ambassador poured himself and Kolo a glass, then drained his in one gulp. Kolo’s sip looked prim in comparison.

  The ambassador stood up to get another shot. “We’ve been worried about the oil supply. Is there any way to get it pumping again?” He wandered over to stand underneath a large painting of a rodeo.

  “We will be producing again by Thursday. However, I thought you would like to know,” Kolo took a larger sip of whiskey, “it appears there might be a change in leadership. Had you heard?”

  “I’ve had no intelligence of that nature.” The ambassador looked like a child who had not been invited to a party.

  “There has been an uprising in the army.”

  “A military coup?”

  “Almost, sir, almost. But I have managed to persuade General Abucha to maintain civilian rule.” Kolo thought he could detect some disappointment in the ambassador’s eyes. “It appears the president is planning to adopt protectionist measures during the period of reconstruction.” Kolo deliberately reverted to his British accent.

  “What?” The ambassador sounded alarmed. “He’s never mentioned that!”

  “It came up behind closed doors.”

  “Closed doors? What closed doors?” There was the childhood look again.

  “Of government, I’m afraid,” replied Kolo, bemused by the ease at which he was able to deploy quite rudimentary tactics to accomplish his goals. “The British have approached me to assume leadership during this interim period.”

  “The British have backed this?” The tips of His Excellency’s ears went pink. “So they’re allowed behind closed doors, right? Goddam colonial rulers. Haven’t let go of the reins, I see.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand me,” Kolo added, enjoying every moment of the interchange. “They have very specifically insisted that I gain the sanction of the US government in the first instance. They simply could not make any decision without it.”

  “Ah, sanction—yes, I see.”

  “It may cause some embarrassment for them if you mention it. A bit humiliating for a former colonial power. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Well,” the ambassador finally grunted, “thanks for keeping me updated.” He patted Kolo on the back, happy that he had now been invited to the party.

  Having laid the groundwork for a change of government, Kolo dropped in at the glittering offices that housed his numerous business enterprises, built in the shape of four droplets of water—an unfortunate choice, as these contours could only be seen in aerial view. Otherwise, the building looked like so many others in Abuja: large and mirrored.

  Kolo visualized how the financial jigsaw would fit together, but kept each transaction separate, his commercial interests managed in discrete entities independent of each other.

  “Sir! This is a great privilege.” The vice-president of Northwest Water came to attention immediately, knocking over his
coffee in his haste to rise from his chair.

  Kolo puffed with fatigue and collapsed into a leather couch. “I need you to acquire rights to the northern Benue River in case it is needed for fresh water. It is of prime national interest. We cannot afford for Nigerian water to fall into the hands of foreign powers.”

  “Foreign?”

  “TransAqua International, along with the French and British, will bid for the rights. We need to be in a position to …” he paused to consider phrasing, “… to decide if the country should sell them.”

  The vice-president bowed. “Of course, sir!”

  “Obviously you will be entitled to a percentage.” He surveyed his subordinate. “However, I expect you to keep this highly confidential, because you don’t want other businesses,” he slowed down to let the implication of internal rivalry sink in, “to get hold of this information. Someone else might decide to take over the portfolio.”

  The vice-president gripped the side of his desk to steady himself. “You can put your full trust in me, sir,” he whispered. He took Kolo’s hand and shook it in both of his, not stopping for a full minute.

  After this ordeal, Kolo flicked his wrist with concern and, as he did so, caught sight of his fingernails. The stresses of his life were exhibited there, despite his fastidious nature. His nails had been chewed into uneven lengths, their cuticles frayed, their beds miniature. In disgust, he hid his hands underneath his agbada.

  Next, he wended his way around the serpentine corridors of the curved edifice to visit the team headed by the vice-president of Mideast Water. This ritual continued, albeit with hands firmly in his pockets, as he visited the head of each geographical division.

  Finally he got to the centre that connected all four droplets of his personal panopticon. There, he kicked closed the door to his own office, he settled back in a chair of emerald velvet and applied moisturizer to his fingernails. He wondered if a manicurist would be able to help him. Picking up the phone, he ordered his stockbroker to buy shares in TransAqua International, the company he had already decided would partner with him in reconstruction. He planned not only to profit from TransAqua’s future stranglehold on water supply via the Niger River in the west—which would be contaminated with bodies and bacteria from the flood—but also to compete with his own supplies, which would come from uninfected groundwater, aquifers and other fresh-water sources near the mighty Benue River in the east. In this way, he would own almost all of the fresh water in Nigeria.

  After securing military and diplomatic support, as well as his own business interests, it was time for Kolo to address the formalities expected by a grieving populace. He toured the devastated areas with the eyes of a politician and the sight of a man of commerce. As he drove west to the banks of the Niger in his Mercedes, now soiled by mud, he heard the screams of horror through his bulletproof windows. He could sense the panic of those who had witnessed the hunger of the water, devouring all that stood in its path. He knew no aid would reach them, that they would rot with their kin in the stinking mire.

  Everything around him was razed—factories, farms, drains, village centres, even cities. Electricity poles lay like fallen giants, telephone lines like broken matchsticks, mighty buildings like sand castles after the tide. Lead clouds, black sky, metal sun, heavy with mist and dust.

  Kolo saw one man hanging upside down, with his leg caught on a window grille, the other leg like a third arm flopping over his head, a human tripod. The aerial on a roof displayed human remains like a clothesline, a banner testifying to the horror of the dam’s wrath. More images from the darkest realms of human imagining: bodies like torn plastic, slung high on tree-tops, dead and rotting; others folded over balconies in garish poses or washed up into piles around the corners of buildings.

  Most areas were inaccessible by road, so he toured the banks of the Niger by helicopter. Always fearful of that which he could not control, he would look out of the helicopter, every muscle straining in fear.

  “Don’t bank so far,” he commanded the pilot. “Are you in an air show?”

  The pilot gently levelled out. Kolo’s short nails continued to grip the handles of his white leather seat.

  “Okay. We need to go round this area,” he instructed. “But my drink must remain level. Circle gently. You’re not a Hollywood stunt man today-oh.”

  Kolo looked down and saw that which no human should ever behold—horizons of horror, as far as the eye could see. Where buildings once stood, a raging river thundered; what once contained the to and fro of human activity now held the current of an almighty sea, its waters flowing with human flesh.

  Where the flood allowed, the tops of houses could be seen. Occasionally, Kolo would spot someone waving a shirt from a roof or tree, begging for him to save them. He left them there, knowing that they would die before any help could reach them. He would be the last witness to their existence, his eyes the last to turn away from their despair.

  With these damning images as bait, he then made his way through meetings across the country, consoling the lost and forlorn, expressing his heartfelt sympathies to community leaders and pronouncing his disgust and shock to the international press.

  In the north, he quoted the Qur’an; in the south, the Bible. In rural areas, he invoked the spirits. With ordinary people, he listened to stories, shook his head, shed some tears; with politicians, he discussed how best to save their jobs; with analysts, he offered statistical details of the tragedy; with journalists, he painted colourful pictures of horrific deaths; with the international community, he pointed the finger of blame; with his voters, he promoted restitution; with the business community, he talked about reconstruction.

  Kolo read the papers daily as he flew from meeting to meeting. The news delighted him. Many politicians could plead, beg and cajole. Very few could weep. But Kolo enjoyed performing; it challenged him. He had collapsed on the arm of a local leader. All the papers ran the story. On the inside pages, in smaller print, they reported on the president’s meeting with European ministers.

  After an exhausting fortnight spent with community leaders, politicians and the international community, Kolo finally went home. He was sitting in the back of his famed white Mercedes-Benz, deep in thought, airing himself softly with an exquisitely decorated Spanish fan.

  “Joh. Turn left here. There’s too much traffic ahead,” he said wearily to Innocent. He lay back on plump seats and stroked the rare wood. His hands—as always, too dry—made swishing sounds on the surfaces. He turned the air conditioner to high. As others believe in gods or sons of gods, Kolo believed in consumption, and he practised his belief.

  The car came to a halt outside a bright white compound protected by wrought-iron gates in beautiful filigree shapes: on the left, “O”; on the right, “K.” Ogbe Kolo. O.K. The tops of the surrounding walls were studded with broken glass.

  A guard peered into the car and immediately set to opening the gates. Kolo looked at him from the corner of his eye. As a night guard, he was above average. However, Kolo knew that, if any harm were to come to him, any threat to his person, any potential for violence or mischief, the guard would disappear as quickly into the night as he had appeared from its depths.

  And Kolo had reason to fear. He was now on the verge of his boldest move.

  *“For those in misery perhaps better things will follow.”

  FIVE

  It Takes a Corporation …

  On a hill within the moonscape that overlooked Santa Fe’s warren of adobe houses rose a mighty building, out of harmony with its surroundings, an oasis within a thirsty desert. Its mirrored facade assumed the features of a mirage, a veil to hide the extent of its dominion. While obscuring the activity behind its walls, it offered unobstructed views for those within of that which lay outside. Despite the implied transparency of this glassed giant, the outside world would not be let in, nor the corporate world out.

  Mary Glass sat in her crystal office, looping a pen through her fingers, afloat one of the
largest multinational corporations on the planet, TransAqua International. Its subdivision, Sparklex, was the foremost American provider of bottled and fresh water. Monstrous fortunes were made through corporate control of this finite natural resource, once considered, like air, as “commons.” A trillion-dollar industry had emerged almost overnight, profiting from a recent global obsession for water privatization.

  However, the most profitable sector of TransAqua, the division that hired those with the most robust ambitions (“bold, creative, energetic people”), that is to say the leviathan to which Mary had tethered her future, focused on the acquisition of water rights in a highly competitive market. To own water was to own life.

  Except for those in close proximity, colleagues considered Mary one-dimensional. The character was her own creation. She ensured that no hint of her competitive, ambitious personality rose to the surface—and she often succeeded. Her desk was almost bare; her room devoid of any personal touches; her face expressionless. She rarely referred to her personal life. She wished to provide only a mirror to those who interacted with her, so that no threat presented itself to them.

  The rapid competition for water rights in Nigeria had intensified pressure within TransAqua, and Mary had to work quickly. Thus, this silent, camouflaged creature had slipped through the corridors to her office. She clicked her door closed, sat down and speed-dialled her father. Days had passed since the dam broke, and she had not been able to contact the government complex at Aso Rock.

  “Hello, Dadsie. How are you?” she said, scrolling through her emails.

  “Spectacular. And you, petal?”

  “Wonderful.” She started typing a response. “Your little girl needs your help.”

  “Anything for my … It’s Mary!” he screamed, a hand over the receiver. “No, Mary—your daughter!” He took his hand away. “Your mother says hello. She hasn’t got those flowers yet.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot.” Mary scribbled a note. “I’ll send them. Now—can you help me?”