She had brought a copy of Palaver, and I found that my column was back, at least for that issue. Under my Roving Eye byline ran a strange story: I had apparently interviewed the man who was used by the government to eliminate over a hundred soldiers in a 1992 plane crash. He claimed to have been approached by an agent of the current federal government to eliminate certain ‘enemies of state’ by similar means. Since he was now born-again, he had refused and was going public with the information in the hope that the government would be shamed into shelving its plans . . . It was a bizarre plant of a story. Patrick Suenu was certainly getting his money’s worth. First, he had got the scoop on Charles Pitani’s rescue. Now this . . . the longer I thought on it, the more puzzled I grew. In all the years I had written Roving Eye for Palaver, we had never had to publish an apology or retraction. He had resurrected the column to use that reputation to plant a complete fabrication.
And it worried me.
Yet other things came to occupy my mind: Amana’s passport did not arrive for another three days, and the bad news did not let up.
CHARLES PITANI
Abuja | 6th April, 2005
I’ve got news about Badu. It is difficult, these days, to tell truth from lies, but this one looks good. The woman died saying the same thing, and people are usually too religious to take a lie to the grave. But Limbe! I don’t even know where that is on the map! That’s eight plane tickets, plus expenses! I’m not enjoying this anymore.
ZANDA ATTURK
Limbe | 7th April, 2005
We were in the backyard having a dinner of sweet potatoes when Bete arrived. He was the customs officer cousin at Douala Airport who was supposed to smooth our way through, but he was sounding flustered that evening. He had been raised in Bertoua and defaulted into French in his nervousness, rattling on and on to his bilingual cousins. When he was done, I read the fear in the faces of the usually cocksure brothers.
‘Interpol posters, all over the airport,’ Pokas said, unnecessarily; I had picked up that much.
‘Don’t worry,’ Claude responded, ‘we have people in Congo. There’s a boat leaving . . .’
‘No more boats,’ said Amana, firmly. She had not sailed well.
We all looked at Bete. ‘Unless on ninth . . .’ he suggested. ‘I have my boys on shift on ninth April.’
That gave us two days.
‘Dr. Maleek comes tomorrow,’ said Amana quietly, long after Bete had gone. There were friendly villagers around, and bottles of palm wine circulating, but we managed to feel left out. We had taken our misery to the beach.
‘Do you trust him?’
‘Of course. He thinks I’m screwed up, but I think he loved my mother . . . the way he talks—’
‘Coming all this way . . . the reward money for Badu . . .’
She considered that point, then shook her head. ‘He was bending over backwards for me, before he knew about you and Badu.’ She smiled wanly. ‘I suspect he wants to make sure you won’t butcher me some night. I rather like the sound of that: he’s coming to give you an MOT.’
‘I thought you said you never missed a father figure.’
She grinned and I saw a flash of the old Amana. ‘An MOT does not a father make.’
* * *
8th April, 2005
I met Dr. Maleek in a palm-fronted café on the Atlantic beach. The Café Noir was attached to the Hotel Obix, and as I walked slowly into the foyer, an aroma of frying green peppers filled my mouth with saliva. I followed the signage to the café. There was a theme of stained teak panelling, and he was sitting at the bar with a lonely barman.
He was dressed in a jean jacket over stone trousers. A cautious smile lurked in a lush moustache streaked with grey. He rose, and we shook hands stiffly. After I refused a drink, he picked up his coffee cup and we walked to a booth on the other side of the café. As we sat down, I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry about the punch. It’s all those boxing lessons I took as a child. Sometimes I punch before I think.’
He grinned. ‘That’s all right.’ His eyes narrowed, and he looked past me. ‘What’s that?’
I looked back. The bar was still empty. The barman was polishing a tap, and he gave me a friendly nod. There was nothing to see. I turned back—into a stinging slap. I gasped, more in shock than in hurt.
‘You’re crazy!’ I spluttered.
He took his spectacles off and blew on the lenses. ‘No, just angry. In case you were wondering, this payback was the main reason I travelled from Lagos to Limbe! Excuse me!’ He pushed back his chair and walked out of the café.
I watched him go. I knew then that Amana was wrong and the police were waiting outside, but I didn’t rise. It was a thirty-minute taxi ride to the brothers’ market stall, and I didn’t have a taxi waiting. Besides, I was tired of running.
The barman who had witnessed the ‘unprovoked’ assault was yet to close his mouth, and he brought me a pint of beer. His face was clouded with indignation and he waved away my wallet. ‘Those Nigerians are crazy!’ he marvelled.
It was difficult to convince him not to call the police on my behalf. I was halfway through the commiserative beer when Dr. Maleek returned to his coffee. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry about the slap.’
I laughed, partly in relief that he had no police escort, partly because I suddenly found it comical. He grinned widely and we shook hands; my cheek was no longer stinging and I found the handshake warmer than I expected. The barman was too far to overhear what we said, but he watched us with a deepening frown, and I wondered whether I would now get a bill for his beer.
‘There should be something illegal about a doctor slapping his patient.’
‘It’s a matter of timing. You’re not my patient, yet.’
‘What is it between you and Amana? You didn’t come all this way, either to slap me or to treat me.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘She’s a special girl.’
‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t know.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I’m not here to talk.’ He sipped his cold coffee. ‘You are. If she’s worried about you, then I am. Let’s talk about your relationship with this Badu.’
‘Is this the point at which you call the police?’
He waved his hand angrily. ‘If I was going to call the police you’d be locked up by now.’
A pause developed.
‘Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?’
I shook my head.
‘Amana says you don’t recollect everything you do as . . . Badu.’
I nodded.
‘Can I get some contribution from your tongue or something? How long has this been going on?’
‘All my life. Well, obviously not the Badu thing. But I have been . . . different for as long as I remember.’
‘Define different,’ he said.
So I did.
We talked for an hour, with him asking cerebral questions and taking close-cropped notes in a book that emerged from his jacket. Finally we went upstairs to his room. It was a large, luxurious room with a suit carrier that sat, unpacked, on the bed. It was a far cry from my present lodgings. He opened his bag, and the smell of hospitals caught up with us. He drew some blood.
‘I guarantee you I don’t do drugs.’
‘Then I guarantee you a drug-free certificate.’ He continued his examination. Eventually, he sat back. ‘Hmm.’
‘So what do you think? Am I good enough to see your daughter?’
‘My daughter?’
‘There’s no other reason why you would come out to Kreektown, and now Limbe, to see me. She doesn’t know who her father was . . .’
He was laughing. ‘. . . and that makes me her dad? Well, nice try, but that won’t make me give up my secrets.’ He laughed again. ‘Listen, give me a call when you settle somewhere. I’ll run some tests on your specimens and I’ll let you know.’
I got up.
‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ he asked abruptl
y.
‘Kill who?’
‘Pitani.’
I stared. ‘What?’
‘The hanging of that bent judge has done a lot more for that country than my forty years of medical practice,’ he said bitterly. ‘You should have hanged that bastard Pitani. We need a revolution in that country.’
I left without a word. At the end of the corridor I waited for the elevator, wondering why—if so many people wanted the man dead—they didn’t just go ahead and lynch him themselves. It wasn’t as though they didn’t know where he lived.
Then Dr. Maleek opened his door and crooked a finger at me. Back in the room, he paced the room, wiping the lenses of his spectacles with the recently liberated tail of his shirt. Finally, he turned to me. His eyes were small and deep-set. He replaced his glasses and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you love her?’
‘How is that your business? You’re not her father. You’re not even her doctor.’ We glared at each other for a season, until I shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Will you protect her with your life?’
I remembered Elue. I sighed. ‘I’m a coward. I can’t promise that.’
‘That doesn’t sound convincing, coming from Badu.’
‘This isn’t Badu speaking.’
‘Some honesty at least.’ He sighed. ‘You’ll probably keep her safer than a brave idiot. That will have to do for me. I’m going to tell you something you must promise never to tell Amana.’
I nodded without thinking.
‘She could be next in line for the throne of the Nanga.’
‘What?’
‘Her mother was Saul Bentiy’s concubine. There were problems, and she had to flee the kingdom, never to return. Unfortunately, by then, she was already pregnant with Amana.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You know, of course, that I am Sontik. Our traditional ruler is dying. In a few weeks, or months, the kingmakers will have to choose a new—’
‘No woman has ever been Nanga . . .’
‘No jailbird either, and she’s both. But the kingmakers’ current preference will be a disaster. For the Sontik, for Nigeria. I’m telling you this because I want you to keep her safe, Zanda. I didn’t like to see her out there in the creeks . . . gunshots, fires . . .’
‘You’ve just given me a little extra pressure, Dr. Maleek. If I crack again it will be on your conscience.’
‘If you do crack,’ he said, and there was no hint of a smile on his face, ‘don’t miss Pitani.’
I turned and walked out a second time. This time, I took the stairs.
* * *
10:00 p.m.
It was our last night in Limbe. All four of us were huddled in the leather store, sorting out stories and identities. The phone rang in my hand. It was Adevo. ‘She dey there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leave her side. Now.’
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as I rose to my feet.
‘Poor reception,’ I said, slipping out.
Outside, the sandy aisle was deserted. I walked several metres away and put the phone to my ear again. My heart was pounding with dread. ‘I can talk now,’ I said tightly.
‘Is about her mother,’ grunted Adevo. ‘We found her, finally-finally.’
I knew the answer to my next question, so I was silent for a while, stretching out that season of normalcy when all was well with the world. ‘Will she be fine?’
‘Yes, now. If person like Ma’Calico can’t enter heaven, they have to close the place . . .’
I flung the phone down with an oath, just as Amana hurried up.
‘What happened?’
I faked a laugh as I bent over to retrieve the pieces of the phone. ‘It fell down. Now the reception will really be fantastic! Come, let’s see Limbe for the last time.’
We walked the beach. The prospect of the trip made her more cheerful than she had been in days. My hollow laughter rang false beside hers. I could not break the news.
That night I opened the covers of my brother’s book for the first time. His address was scrawled in pencil on the first page, with a telephone number beneath. I read the blurb on the back, read the first few pages, then I closed the book slowly. I shut my eyes. It was incredible; he was even crazier than I was.
* * *
9th April, 2005
By the time we left for the airport at Douala, I had not mustered the courage to tell her. I told myself that such news would endanger our lives. After crying all night, her face would be too puffy for the passport image. Or she might refuse to travel, and where would that leave us? It sounded logical enough, and I didn’t have the nerve, anyway.
It was the smoothest boarding ever. We left it until the last minute before presenting ourselves at the check-in counter. At the last boarding announcement, we left our friends and boarded the London-bound Boeing with a stopover in Paris. My last image of Douala was a frightened Bete trying to make his shoulders broader than they could conceivably be as he stood in front of an Interpol poster of the most-wanted.
The jet was almost empty. We had a three-seater row all to ourselves. I suppose that gave me ideas. ‘Ma’Calico. Why do they call her that?’
‘She used to sell the material, back in the day. It just stuck.’ She looked at me, blinking rapidly. She whispered, ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
When I didn’t answer, she said, ‘You must never keep secrets from me, Zanda. For me, secrets are worse than infidelity.’
‘Really?’ I said, mischievously, trying to lead her as far away from Ma’Calico as possible.
‘Do be serious! That was the call you got yesterday night, wasn’t it?’
I stared at her.
She took my hand, caressed it softly. Her fingernails bore her favoured blood-red paint. ‘When my real mother died, I didn’t even shed a tear. I can take it. She’s dead, isn’t she?’
But her hands were trembling, and I was no fool. ‘I’m going to tell her how much you wanted her dead,’ I said, and that shut her up. ‘You know,’ I said, to distract her, ‘the only thing I know about your past is that you did time. And that’s a shame.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Do you have a few hours?’
We were less than an hour into our eleven-hour journey. ‘Maybe fifteen minutes,’ I said. ‘I have a dental appointment in half an hour . . .’
That time she managed a faint smile.
AMANA UDAMA
Abuja | 4th February, 2002
That morning, I arrived at my desk at DRCD in Wuse and found Dr. Ologbon’s memo waiting for me: it was the Kreektown posting we had been dreading for months. I must have dropped too heavily into my chair, because through the glass partitions I felt the communal flinch of conscience-stricken staff pretending not to be looking my way.
I am not beautiful, so I have had to be tough. I learnt that lesson from my mother’s flower patch: root out the weeds and they grew right back but step on a pretty bulb and it died right away. Pretty things always find a gardener. Survivors need to be tough. I was not feeling especially tough on that morning of the Kreektown posting. The real Amana would have confronted Dr. Ologbon right away, but in my state of mind I would have broken down in the course of any confrontation. It was the domino effect, I think—I had only been out of jail two months. And I will never start a confrontation that will leave me in tears.
Never.
It was over, then. I set my lips and started to clear my desk.
The messenger stopped by on another mail round and didn’t try to pretend ignorance, which was good for him. There were other posting slips in his mail basket, including the prized foreign assignments, but what he brought me was a clumsy attempt at consolation.
‘You’ll be fine, Amana; take it like a man.’ He gave his honking laugh, which did not come in a whisper mode, and moved on to the next cubicle.
Well, I wasn’t a man, I thought bitterly. There were a dozen so-called men in the office, and I still ended up with the mos
t dangerous posting in DRCD. Kreektown had gone from ‘most crime-free village in Nigeria’ to ‘highest incidence of gun violence per capita.’ I was busy writing up my handover notes and clearing my desk, right up till lunchtime.
The staff canteen was full of whispered conversations that tailed off when I came within eavesdropping distance. I felt as though I’d stumbled into my own funeral; I bolted my meal and left. By 1:30 p.m., my handover notes were done, and I wrote my terse resignation in time for what Dr. Ologbon supposed was a briefing on my new posting. I sealed and addressed the envelope. Then I sat back and tried to work up the anger to deliver it.
It wasn’t easy. Eight weeks earlier when I finished my jail sentence, my boss was the only one waiting at the prison gate. I wasn’t expecting anyone, not my mother, who had died during my stint in jail, and definitely not my old boyfriend, who had never visited but had sent me a wedding invitation just to make things clear. Yet Dr. Ologbon was there in his blue Mercedes, offering a lift to the Halfway Hostel.
I remembered his uncommon chattiness, which resulted in a singular circularity of speech. It had taken him two hours to spring the news that brought him to the prison gates in the first place: the missing funds that put me in jail might have been an accounting error after all. The silence in the car afterwards lasted another year or two. There were many things I could have said, but none of them would have come without tears, and above all things, I like to keep my composure. Then he mentioned how an ongoing external audit investigation would confirm it one way or the other. In the meantime, Headquarters Personnel would expect me at 9:00 a.m. the following morning to clear me provisionally, not for my last accounts job, but for the cultural desk, if I wanted it.
I still remembered his cowardice at my trial, but I was fresh out of jail, facing destitution, and it was the wrong time to rehash old grudges. Back then, I had kept the 9:00 a.m. appointment.
Just as I was going to keep this 2:00 p.m. appointment.
Until the external audit was concluded and I was cleared, I couldn’t remove the stigma of my conviction. That year-long ‘sabbatical’ was as far as most new employers would go on my CV before filing away my application in a shredder.
The Extinction of Menai Page 21