Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “Why did you put this in here?” she shouted.

  “What? The fish?”

  “No. Not the fish. The aquarium.”

  “Boo-Boo, that is technically a floor rather than a fish tank and therefore is not covered by laws on water use in aquariums. In fact, there are no laws about how much water you can use in floors.”

  “Potential droughts mean nothing to you, do they?” Barbara chided.

  “There wouldn’t be any if the corporations hadn’t got control of our water, Blah-Blah.”

  Barbara grew worried about consorting with such a sociopath, yet at the same time, she felt protective of a creature who could be thrown into neither male nor female prison.

  Astro appeared, balancing plates laden with purple food in her honour. She realized that, despite the creature’s disorder, she was doing the best she could. Poor kid, Barbara thought. She’s running as fast as she can.

  Barbara sat down at table, smiling with gracious acceptance of Astro’s imperfections.

  “You’re beautiful when you smile, you know,” Astro said, pupils widening through the yellow. “You look like Ava Gardner, man.”

  A female hermaphrodite who was also a lesbian.

  Astro leaned towards her in a confidential manner, and Barbara tilted her head to receive whatever confession the creature wished to whisper.

  “You probably don’t know, but …” Astro hesitated, “… Ava Gardner was an actress in the—”

  “I know who Ava Gardner was. I’m older than you are, you know.” She flapped open her serviette in irritation.

  “You can say that again, man,” Astro whispered to herself—Barbara could read the lip movements. “So, why are you in such a bad mood, bud?”

  “I’m not in a bad mood, Estro,” Barbara snapped. “However, since you’re so interested in my life, I’ll tell you what my biggest problem is. Have you been watching the situation in Nigeria?”

  “I don’t have a TV. I don’t have any electronic gadgets, man. They mess with your mind. Those electromagnetic-”

  “Anyway,” Barbara cut in, having had years of experience guiding a conversation back to base, “there’s been a flood in Nigeria. It’s killed half a million people, with more expected to die. They’re afflicted with water blindness-”

  “I know.”

  “You know? How?”

  “I watch my neighbour’s TV.”

  Barbara put her head in her hands, exasperated. “Well, I’m trying to find work there, but I can’t.” She spoke in muffled tones as she massaged her face. “Water companies are trying to buy up water rights now that Nigeria is in no position to negotiate. And they’ll control all power generation.”

  “Really?” Astro popped a grape into her mouth, her face a picture of uninterest. “Why don’t you find some contacts to help you?”

  “I have.” Barbara gritted her teeth. “They haven’t led anywhere.”

  “Well, they didn’t do a very good job, did they? Try the raspberry sauce. Who’s your contact?” She swirled raspberry sauce on Barbara’s salad.

  “A woman called Dahlia.” Barbara crunched some cabbage, her misfortunes creating a sense of listlessness.

  “What-are you kidding? Aw, man!” Yellow eyes rolled heavenwards. “See how the cosmos works? She’s named after a flower. We can’t go wrong here. We should visit her this week.”

  “We? What have you got to do with this?”

  “She. Is. Named. Af. Ter. A. Flower.” Astro shook her head in disbelief. “Thus, she is my territory. Without me, what are the chances you’ll know how to cultivate your most important contact?”

  As Astro had instructed, Barbara phoned Dahlia and arranged a trip on the weekend to her farm, deep in the hilly Virginia countryside.

  When they arrived at the farmhouse, Astro sniffed the air in appreciation, then repeated her earlier instructions: “Do not leave this place until you have a promise, a timeline and an action plan.” She stared at Barbara, standing only a foot away. “Okey-dokey?” She continued staring, oblivious of the needs of personal space. “Three things. That’s all. What are they?”

  Barbara huffed, “Promise, timeline, action plan,” then added a passive-aggressive “Quite simplistically.”

  “Good job, Bimble.” Astro scrunched her mouth in pride. “And if she hesitates, don’t forget to mention the Nigerian name. I know it’s difficult. But see if you can remember it.” She searched Barbara’s face.

  Immobilized by fury, Barbara did not answer.

  “Didn’t think so. Here you go.” She handed Barbara a piece of paper, then ambled towards the turkeys.

  Barbara swivelled on her heel and rang the bell. The farmyard smelled of country air—bursting with vigour and virtue—with a hint of the sulphur of chicken manure.

  Dahlia opened the door. “Barbara!” Almost a high C. “Wonderful to see you. How are you? Do come in.”

  Barbara was caught in mid-smile as she breathed in a smell that did not belong indoors and then glimpsed two chickens darting down the hall. Dahlia led her to a large wooden kitchen full of chicken teapots, goose-shaped mugs and duck coasters.

  “Norm has resigned as director.” Dahlia cleared some papers from the kitchen table. “I don’t know if you heard.”

  “No, I hadn’t.”

  “Great pity. Anyway, did you hear back from the water groups?”

  “Just rejections.” A chicken pecked at Barbara’s toes. “Which is a great pity, as this water damage is affecting key nesting sites.” She tilted her head.

  Dahlia gasped, “Oh no.”

  Barbara had never heard such a low note from a woman.

  Annoyed by the nibbling, she dug her toes into the chicken’s belly, hoping to shove it away.

  “Who is heading up the groups in Nigeria?”

  Barbara quickly scanned for a name. Her memory failed. She secreted Astro’s paper onto her lap. “Well, um … Femi Jegede?” Regretting the note of query in her voice, she discreetly punted the chicken clear across the room. It flapped in distress.

  Dahlia scooped up her charge. “Oh, darling!” She nibbled the chicken’s warlike beak. The chicken stared at Barbara through violent orange irises.

  “So, as long as Femi manages to stay alive …” Barbara emphasized the last word.

  “Alive? Oh dear.”

  “We just need three things, Dahlia.” Barbara cleared her throat. “An action plan, a timeline and a guarantee.”

  Dahlia put down the stunned chicken, sat at the table and began writing. “Tomorrow, contact eight water advocacy programs; send list to Barbara. Follow up three days, one week, fortnight, month. Deadline-Barbara at work by April, protecting Nigerian nesting sites.”

  “That’s key,” Barbara added.

  “Absolutely. Now, the guarantee. I can only get that with a threat. What’s the threat?” She tapped a pencil to her lips. “Ah, yes. The contortionist I told you about-do you remember?”

  Barbara’s eyebrows moved involuntarily. “Vaguely.”

  “He’s now chair of the Global Environment Facility. He can make a few calls.” She paused, bosom rising and falling, lost in reminiscence.

  “Jumping through hoops for you again, hey?” Barbara suggested.

  Dahlia turned a stern eye on her.

  Barbara left the farmhouse, feeling more confident than ever. She searched for Astro and found her past rickety fences, near some large barns. She noticed that the tops of the silos had been hewn off, doubtless to collect rainwater, an illegality sited away from prying eyes.

  The clouds—whipped cream white—hung low, heavy with moisture to replenish the earth. Icy drops began to fall as Barbara and Astro approached ducks of bronze and iridescent blue, quacking in excitement, running in circles and flapping their wings as if welcoming the rain.

  Astro looked up at the sky with the glee of a five-year-old child. “Woo-hoo! Look at this, man!” Astro cried, closing her eyes, face heavenwards. “There’s nothing like the taste of rain, Babu.” />
  The ducks unfolded their wings, stretching their little necks to the sky, eyes closed, in a state of apparent bliss.

  “Can you feel it on your face? It stings.”

  Barbara looked at her, a spirit of nature freed from all of society’s constraints, the universe in its most joyful guise. Astro’s T-shirt was now soaked, but Barbara could distinguish no nipples of note.

  There was a flash of lightning in the far distance, and the ducks ran into a barn. Astro and Barbara followed them to shelter from the rain.

  “Uh-oh. I don’t think they like us being here, man. We’d better go,” Astro said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Ber-Ber, look into their eyes. We’re not supposed to be here.”

  Barbara looked down into the ducks’ eyes. Into ten pairs of disapproving eyes. A tingle of excitement fanned out from her groin. She buttered up. Defenceless against such primal forces, she unbuttoned her shirt.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” Astro asked, shivering.

  “We’re having sex.” She threw off her shirt. “Won’t take long.”

  “Who’s having sex? I’m not having sex!”

  “Look, Astro,” Barbara put her hands on Astro’s shoulders, eyes flooded with pity, underpants flooded with nutrients, “I know you’re worried what I’ll think.” She looked down at Astro in a gracious manner. “It can’t have been easy to grow up with … you know …”

  “No. I don’t. What?” Astro crossed her arms.

  “I realize you may not have fully developed organs.” She chucked Astro’s chin, an indulgent look posting itself on her face. “And I know they may not function fully.” Her voice was therapy-soft. She tilted her head to one side. “But there are ways of getting around—”

  “What?” Astro screeched. The ducks quacked in fright. “I may not have what?” She looked at a pitchfork-shock, horror, fury all fused into one facial expression. “Are you listening to this? Can you believe this woman?”

  “Don’t panic, Astro.” Barbara’s voice was soothing and empathetic. She loosened her greying bra. “I’ve been to a number of workshops, and I feel I have the experience to—”

  “My organs are not only fully developed …” yellow eyes stared directly into Barbara’s as Astro tugged at her zipper, “… they’re overdeveloped. And as for functioning …” Astro snapped, ripping off her trousers.

  Barbara surveyed an unrestricted length of penis. No stub. “Where’s the rest?” she queried. Barbara’s bra pinged off, catapulting away from its great burden, and her breasts slapped onto her chest.

  “What?”

  “That’s all there is?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a man?”

  “Of course I’m a man!” Astro shrieked. “What the hell did you think I was?”

  “A hermaphrodite.” Barbara tried to compute. She screwed up her eyes to concentrate. “What were you doing wearing a dress?” Her breasts wobbled as she spoke.

  “Well, Barbunkle, in case you didn’t know, it’s important to keep the scrotum well aerated,” Astro said, his penis jiggling, “for health reasons.”

  “Oh. I see.” She tried to hide her disappointment. With the heaviest of sighs, she turned around and wearily put on her bra. “By the way,” she said, “I don’t know why you think that’s overdeveloped. Looks pretty average to me.”

  “It extends.” Astro had a strange note in his voice.

  She turned around and there, greeting her beneath a sprig of tawny pubic hair, an erect penis. Mechanically amazing. Aesthetically perfect. Her favourite sight.

  “You’re looking pretty excited.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there. Ducks turn me on, that’s all.” Astro gazed down at his penis with a fatherly pride. “What did I tell you, Skippy?” He pointed at it with two victorious index fingers. “Fully functioning.”

  Barbara released her bra like a slingshot, and within minutes her waist-high, oversized flannel underpants plopped beside it in the hay.

  She tried to focus on all she had learned at a Dutch workshop on prolonging the orgasmic state, but despite her rigorous training, she could feel herself near climax. So they both took a short break, lay back and exchanged the details of some of the finer sex workshops they had attended.

  “I had a multiple orgasm with sixteen separate peaks,” Barbara bragged. “The facilitator said it was the longest series he’d ever—”

  “Multiples are for amateurs, bud,” Astro cut in. “Best to go for an Extreme Massive Orgasm. Now, if you’ve ever been to ‘Tantric Sexperience’” he quote-marked the air, “in Arizona-”

  “T.S.?” Barbara tutted. “Too mainstream. For weekenders. The masturbation workshop in Costa Rica is for more advanced practitioners.”

  “You’ve. Been. Abroad?” Astro almost choked in admiration, staring at her with wonder.

  Barbara stretched her toes. “We fire signs are risk-takers.” She wiggled them.

  The ducks came nearer. Barbara looked into ten pairs of shocked eyes. She pounced on Astro. As he thrust into her, she contracted her vaginal muscles, a technique she had trained in for many years. He sucked in his breath, looking as if he were about to faint. A high-intensity single orgasm rifled through her body, sending her flexing and flailing. Seconds later, Astro lost his vital nutrients.

  She knew the frenzied teenage foreplay they had engaged in was beneath both of them and certainly negated the time and expense they had dedicated to attending various workshops on the subject of sexual arousal.

  They both lay back, calculating how the session could have been improved, considering their proper responsibilities in the matter, thinking through their vast and separate training, wondering how to avoid a catastrophe of this nature again. After proper deliberation, they resumed their activities, in greater control, aiming for orgasms lasting more than just a paltry few seconds.

  After five hours, they collapsed into each other’s arms as freezing rain continued to pelt down on the barn’s tin roof. For a while, they lay there, the passion of nature and the hunger of culture, admiring each other’s singular qualities.

  “Hey, Babu. Promise you won’t leave me, man, okay?” Astro nestled between her breasts. “I don’t like change.” He looked up at her for confirmation.

  She realized that she could depend on his consistency as much as he could draw energy from her unpredictability. “I promise.” She smiled.

  She had given her word of honour. She had promised to provide the constancy he craved. Despite the fear it induced in her, she would stick to that promise. She made a mental note to place a picture of him on her shrine as a daily reminder.

  EIGHT

  Happy New Coup

  The general was a man ruled by fear. He had every reason to be. Many men of ambition could be found within the ranks of the military: a few men of strategy, but a greater number of brutality. Kolo was working on the general’s fears, kneading them like clay until he created a vessel he could use. He had to keep the general on the move, so that he could not consolidate power. A military coup could not be allowed to bungle his plans.

  “Joseph.” He used the general’s first name whenever he wished to promote intimacy. “You need to make sure you have the endorsement of the great majority of the people. You don’t want some upstart to …” he placed his hands together in a steeple; the general blinked, “… to get any ideas.”

  As usual, the general reverted to questions, deliberately unhurried. “Have you heard anything? Any rumours?”

  “Nothing of substance. Nothing that could be verified at this stage.”

  The general remained immobile, eyelids at half-mast, revealing no trace of his inner thoughts-with the exception of this immobility. Given Kolo’s greater ability to sink into an endless meditation, the general finally had to break the silence. “And you suggest securing support?”

  “No, no, no, absolutely not!” Kolo appeared scandalized. “I am merely suggesting strengthening the
backing you already have.”

  A gentle wash of suspicion overlaid the general’s temperate expression. It was now time for Kolo to deploy tactics familiar to any politician, but alien to a military man. The general, used to strict hierarchy and discipline, would naturally consider the principal leader as his main contact. Kolo understood that support could most effectively be built in the form of a pyramid, by approaching less powerful parties before moving to those at the peak. He appreciated that it was important to consult with those under siege first, then advance on those comfortable with their unqualified dominance. This prevented the alienation and resentment that inevitably led to the formation of allied opposition.

  Kolo was aware of the growing rivalry between the sultan of Sokoto, who favoured the continuance of Islamic Sharia law, and the newly appointed emir of Kano, a more moderate Muslim who favoured international commerce, human rights and the advancement of women. The emir had gained an immense power base in one of Nigeria’s giant commercial hubs, overwhelming the sultan’s waning influence.

  “My friend,” Kolo’s belly creased as he leaned in confidentially, “I strongly suggest you visit the emir of Kano as quickly as possible. The north needs to be reassured that the nation is stable, that Muslim and Christian will work together and that there will be no political backlash.” He leaned back in his armchair to rest his tautened belly.

  “You think so?” Anxiety trounced suspicion. “Maybe so. Maybe so.”

  Kolo nodded. He issued a few compliments as a parting gesture, then left the general’s compound with soft steps, as if eggshells surrounded his colleague, signifying the fragility of his continued survival.

  Kolo then flew to the fringes of the Sahara for an end run around his ally, having preplanned a visit to the less powerful sultan of Sokoto first, in the Islamic north. The sultan was the president of the Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs, reigning head of the legendary Sokoto Caliphate and one of the most powerful paramount traditional leaders in Nigeria. Radar did not assist Kolo’s flight nor landing lights his descent. The airport itself was deserted and no taxis stood outside, save for the sultan’s Rolls-Royce waiting for him.