The Extinction of Menai

by Chuma Nwokolo

  Things came to a head in January 2005, when David arrived at the institute and the head was missing from its plinth. He hurried into his secretary’s office. ‘The bronze,’ he said, ‘was it stolen overnight?’

  His secretary looked at him curiously. ‘No, David, it’s in the safe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The broker just left. Our insurance policy won’t permit art that valuable on open view.’

  He took a deep breath and considered his situation rationally. He realised that he had subconsciously hoped a twenty-first-century equivalent of Anthony Risborough would steal the bronze and take on the fifty-fifth-year death sentence. He decided he was firmly on the slippery slope after all. He then sat down to book his annual vacation and an open ticket to Nigeria.

  * * *

  Lagos | 1st February, 2005

  He told himself it was just a holiday—in the course of which he would make some enquiries into an artefact that happened to be in his collection. He did not even travel with the bronze: he left it at home and took some photographs with him. He checked into the Sheraton Hotel and Towers in Lagos, three hundred kilometres from Benin City.

  He was well-travelled, but apart from a couple of Nairobi stopovers when he had booked a Kenya Airways connection to the Far East, it was his very first trip to Africa. He was overwhelmed by the physical proximity to so many people of his skin hue, but he felt no sense of kinship. Instead he was consumed by self-loathing at the secret reason for his presence there. He did the touristy things and spent a couple of days on a golf course. After the casinos closed he sat for hours in the darkness of his room, not thinking about Conrad, Lord Risborough.

  Then he met a persuasive advert rep at the bar. Halfway through his second whiskey, David gave the rep some cash and a photograph of the bronze. A newspaper ad appeared soon after, offering to pay for information on the artefact. His first call was from Penaka Lee—who, by some crazy coincidence, was in Abuja. Because of the recent reference in Conrad’s letter, he was able to dredge up the memory of their brief introduction and the man’s cloying smile.

  ‘Are you selling?’ Penaka asked.

  ‘No, no, I’m just . . . researching a paper on the impact of tribal art on the ontology of—’

  ‘I’ll pay twenty-five percent over independent valuation.’

  ‘No. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Fifty? Sixty?’

  ‘Mr. Penaka,’ he said, sharply, ‘it’s not a matter of price.’

  ‘Can I at least hold it again? Haven’t touched that lovely bronze in twenty years! I see it in my dreams you know, most peculiar . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s in my house in London.’

  ‘You now live in London?’

  ‘’Fraid so. I work for Stroud Humanities. I’m more manager than academic, these days.’

  ‘It’s called “follow the money,” isn’t it? Oh, well, you’ll give me first option if you change your mind, won’t you?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  * * *

  Lagos | 7th February, 2005

  After Penaka, he got several calls from craftsmen wanting to sell him living room art, as well as from more-dodgy businessmen offering ‘genuine Nok’ artefacts dug up ‘last week.’ Yet the calls did snap him out of his depression. He booked a taxi and left Lagos for Benin City. Once he made that move, he threw himself fully into the enquiry.

  He found no joy at the palace, the guild of bronze workers, or the museum, where the curator was on his annual vacation. His enquiry was crippled by his inability to bring himself to ask the relevant question: excuse me, but how do I go about lifting a curse from this bloody bronze? He walked around the sleepy museum, ending up before a case of bronzes, thinking that he had seen more-impressive collections of Benin bronzes in London. He pulled out his photograph.

  ‘Interesting. May I?’

  He turned around. The man behind him was probably in his sixties, but he had not aged well. Red blotches were seared into his light skin. Bright eyes darted from behind thick, round lenses. ‘Hmm. You must be the man behind the advert.’

  ‘Yes. Professor Balsam,’ said David, taking back the picture. He offered a handshake. The other man made no move to take it.

  ‘We haven’t met, but our careers have crossed. You blighted my career, and yours, by stealing my intellectual work.’

  It was several moments before David could breathe, more still before he could turn and follow the other man. He found him about to enter an office, ‘Dr. Omaruyi!’ he called, closing the gap in a few paces but finding himself unable to say anything. Instead he followed Omaruyi into a dimly lit office with dusty metal shelves and a cluttered table. Against the far wall were stacked columns of paper wallets.

  ‘Mister Omaruyi,’ said the other man, leaning on his desk. ‘I never did finish my PhD.’

  ‘Sorry, I assumed . . . look, about that book . . .’

  ‘Aha, a personal apology after twenty-five years? This should be good.’

  ‘I just want you to know it was an accident; I never intended—’

  ‘I have a measure of respect for you, despite everything, which I will lose, if you continue along this line.’

  David took a deep breath and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There was a long pause, then Omaruyi offered his hand. They shook hands solemnly, ‘I’m not bitter,’ said Omaruyi bitterly, ‘not at all. It’s just seeing you there in the middle of another conceited crusade. You have framed your theories, haven’t you? Now you’re cherry-picking data for your next book—am I wrong? But no, I’m not bitter at all. So what brings you to my bronze gallery? Nobody needs to come here to see the best of our art. You’ve got them out there in London, in New York, in—’

  ‘Look, it’s nothing. I . . . am glad I had this opportunity to—’

  ‘Nobody advertises a photo of a Menai singate head for nothing.’

  ‘. . . A Menai singer . . . ?’

  ‘You did not really think that was a Benin artefact, surely?’

  ‘It was acquired from the palace in 1897.’

  ‘“Acquired.” Interesting choice of word. We would have received it in tribute . . . or else “acquired” it in war. The knowledge of metallurgy was not exactly encouraged outside the Oba’s court.’

  ‘Well, the carbon-dating did place it around 1200 AD—’

  ‘That would be consistent with a Menai provenance. But I won’t blame you, Professor; you have not had the privilege of seeing a wooden Menai singate, as I have. Of course, I cannot be certain, until I see this bronze. A hollow under its base for the head of a staff would be conclusive.’

  David did his best to mask his amazement, but his voice was hoarse. ‘There is a hollow in the bronze . . . that would be the casting process—’

  ‘But quite atypical, is it not, Professor? Not like other Benin bronzes?’

  ‘I’m quite prepared, of course, to pay for this information—’

  ‘To hell with your money! If I wanted your money I would have phoned the number on your advert, am I wrong? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitter, not at all! It has been twenty-five years and six months since your Genesis book appeared, has it not? A man who keeps a grudge that long is asking for a stroke. I’m not bitter. You’ve been publishing, haven’t you? Other books?’

  ‘Um, actually . . . yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  There was a small pause.

  ‘Because I know you didn’t even publish an article for ten years after—’

  ‘I’ve published four books in the past four years.’

  ‘You see? You’ve moved on finally. You’re back to your old form now. Am I wrong? But what about me? Was I even able to submit my PhD thesis? Do you see that stack? Manuscripts for articles, monographs. I have visited several psychiatrists, but have I lost my fear, my phobia, for submitting my intellectual work to peers?’

  ‘Look, this is my card. I don’t mean to patronise you, but—’

  ‘So don’t try to, David
. I am fifty: what do you imagine your institute can do for me? Let me patronise you instead. What can I do for you?’

  ‘What, if you don’t mind my asking, is a . . . singate head?’

  ‘It sits on the head of a staff. The spiritual leader of the Menai nation carries it as an emblem of authority. The singate head I have seen is a wooden replica of this. They have an oral tradition of a bronze singate, but their knowledge of bronze-working died out with their last bronze smith a hundred years ago or more.’

  ‘Where is this nation?’ David asked respectfully.

  ‘On its last legs,’ Omaruyi answered. ‘But there’s no point in looking for their spiritual leader. He never speaks English, and he doesn’t talk to strangers. You probably should see Tobin . . . Tobin Rani. If he is still alive.’

  * * *

  Ubesia | 9th March, 2005

  David finally found Tobin Rani at the offices of the Menai Legacy Group in a bungalow in Ubesia. He had waited in the reception, which was a thin wall away from the office of the director. Eventually, he was sitting opposite Tobin, who took a glance at the picture.

  ‘Omaruyi was right; that’s a singateya. We lived under the sway of Great Bini. This might have been tribute a century ago, perhaps even from Mata Nimito’s predecessor.’

  ‘Singateya?’

  ‘A singate head.’

  ‘And a singate is a staff?’

  Tobin shrugged. ‘In the same way that a throne is a chair.’ He returned the picture and waited. He seemed preoccupied, anxious to get back to his affairs.

  David was at a loss. He had not expected such nonchalance. He cleared his throat. ‘Your nation’s leader wouldn’t . . . want it back?’

  Tobin was surprised. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I . . . hear he has a wooden . . .’

  ‘Have you ever lifted that bronze?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Mata is over a century old, and right now the singate is also a walking stick. The last thing he wants is to be lugging a block like that around the place.’

  ‘And you? Your people?’

  He laughed. ‘You are welcome to it, Professor. It is not unique, and we have rather more important things on our mind than an old singateya.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry to be rude, Professor, but I’m in the middle of a crisis right now—’

  * * *

  He s at in the stationary taxi for several minutes before he returned to Tobin’s office. Tobin was back on the phone; he put an impatient hand on the receiver and raised his eyebrows. ‘Sorry,’ said David, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing: this custom truck you’ve been trying to fund for the last few minutes—’

  ‘Last few months, more like!’

  ‘Would it be used principally for the purposes of an ethnographic investigation?’

  ‘No, it is basically for—’

  ‘Perhaps I am not explaining myself properly . . . let me put it this way. The Stroud Institute for Humanities Research will be able to fund this truck if it is intended to be used principally for an ethnographic investigation. Well, will it?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Definitely.’

  ‘That brings it within the purview of my institute. I may be able to help.’

  Tobin replaced the phone abruptly. ‘Please sit down, Professor . . . sorry, what was your name again?’

  ZANDA ATTURK

  Gulf of Benin | 20th March, 2005

  The hatch opened again, and I came awake. I was still one monumental ache, but I was also hungry for food, and for life. A strange face filled the hatch. With some relief I saw that he was smiling.

  ‘Aha. You don sleep belleful. Come.’

  On the deck of the modified barge I saw a moonlit horizon in three directions and the comfort of a distant shore in the fourth. This was not the delta I had fallen asleep in. I washed my face and rinsed out my foul mouth as an impatient speedboat pulled alongside the barge. Beneath my feet a tired engine crooned. I stared, transfixed by the placid lights on the horizon several kilometres off.

  ‘Limbe,’ said the voice from behind me.

  ‘Where be that?’

  ‘Cameroon.’ He shook his head at my ignorance. He slung a waterproof handbag over my shoulder. ‘Hide dis bag like ya blokoss, o,’ he warned. ‘Oya!’

  ‘Who . . .’ I began, but the pilot of the speedboat was as short-fused as the bargeman had been easygoing. I was overboard and stinging from the flying spray before I could muster the appropriate thanks. The bag contained Humphrey Chow’s book, the sealed envelope from Tobin, and more comfortingly, some CFA francs, though not quite as precious as my genitals.

  I tried to talk to the boatman, but his engine was an angry, loud backdrop that sapped my energy just to hear it. I stared at those stiff shoulders for what seemed an eternity. Then the voice of the engine broke and we began to lose speed. Within minutes he was circling in a quiet cove, apparently waiting for some signal from the benighted shore. It came by way of a blinking flashlight. He sounded with a pole and gestured for me to jump. I did and found myself up to my neck. Holding my bag over my head, I waded ashore, feeling desperately alone and disoriented. The speedboat was now far away, but the captain’s jumpiness had been infectious.

  Two men were waiting. They emerged from the bushes. They were not uniformed, but their manner was supercilious and formal. ‘Réfugié! Où est votre passeport!’

  I gabbled incoherently for a desperate minute in a language that was not French and barely English. They badgered me till I was reduced to a stutter, then they cracked up; and I understood from the fit they were throwing on Limbe’s sandy beach that I had been the subject of a practical joke.

  My new friends were two brothers, Claude and Pokas. Bar their fiendish humour, they seemed regular enough slum kids who wanted above all else not to clean the toilets their parents cleaned for a living. They ran a smuggling sideline, and so long as I paid my keep, they did not seem too discomfited when I arrived in place of a consignment of contraband. They lived in their stall in a tourist village just outside Limbe. The sprawling market sold everything from wooden carvings to leather goods. It bustled by daytime, but after dark it resolved into three or four locales where the nightlife centred on the braziers of the open-air restaurants. I spent the next twenty days in that market. The days were passable, and I made myself useful stuffing leather pouffes for the brothers, but when night fell they made my life a misery, pumping me for intimate accounts of Badu’s adventures.

  I took a passport photograph, which I sent to Adevo via barge mail. He had broken up and sold my car, and he sent some forex to prove it. Things were getting hotter and more uncertain in creek country, but it seemed that the more dangerous things grew, the healthier the margins in his black market.

  A week passed before I received the fake passport from him. I was now the twenty-eight-year-old Nelson Kara Ogunde, a Nigerian trader with a UK visa. Claude and Pokas clicked their tongues as they looked over the passport with what appeared to be professional eyes. I pressed them anxiously on the point, and for fifty pounds of the sterling proceeds from the sale of my car, I became a Cameroonian named Nelson Ndoya with pristine visas for the US, Japan, Brazil, Canada, the UK, and the Schengen countries.

  I thought the Ogunde papers looked rather more convincing.

  * * *

  WHEN WE finally spoke on the phone, Amana’s news was not as upbeat. She could not join me until Ma’Calico was settled, and Ma’Calico was taking some settling. The hotelier had grown moody at the thought of losing her daughter and seemed to reject every opportunity that came up.

  Amana was still upset that I had punched Dr. Maleek before passing out. The punch was news to me, which seemed to mollify her somewhat. ‘So would you be happy to see him again?’

  ‘Of course!’ I lied smoothly. ‘But you know that’s impossible, I can’t possibly come—’

  ‘He’s actually anxious to see you. He’s happy to fly into Cameroon.’

  It was too late to back out then.

&nb
sp; CHARLES PITANI

  Abuja | 21st March, 2005

  The ‘mercenaries’ arrived this morning, all eight of them. Their leader calls himself Rudolf. If he’s a mercenary, then I am Chaka the Zulu.

  He is the size of two fat women, and he is always either just finishing a club sandwich or just starting a peppered chicken. Because he always has a bottle of beer in his right hand, his answer to a handshake is his left fist. He seems to think he is Twenty Cents. Is this the biggest mistake of my life?

  I met them in a quiet guesthouse in Gwagwalada. I was in the room with Rudolf, still wondering whether to waste any more money on them, when we heard a man screaming. We rushed out: a waiter had tried to keep the change of the mercenary that called himself Amit and the madman had thrown him downstairs! The money did not even amount to a hundred naira.

  I like the idea of somebody throwing Badu out of a ten- or twenty-storey building. I decided to use them, but from now I will only do business with them on the phone. These people are animals.

  * * *

  I AM beginning to enjoy this situation. I have put down my money, and it is burning like matches, but if I say I am not enjoying this, I would be lying.

  I have spread the word. And any checkpoint policeman that hears pim about Badu would be stupid to report to the station, when they could call my number and collect their pension up-front. Twenty policemen already have joined my mercenaries, with more coming every day. And why shouldn’t they take sick leave and make some good money? I am paying double, and they have families.

  The problem is these bad eggs I have to deal with every day. I have to finish this Badu business and return to my normal life.

  ZANDA ATTURK

  Limbe | 22nd March, 2005

  I got panic attacks when I considered my future prospects in any kind of detail, so I took things step by step. My next goal was London. My feelings for my twin were more than ambivalent. Our genes were probably all we had in common; our ideas about life were likely worlds apart. I thought I would engineer a street meeting. If I liked the sound of him, we would take it from there.