The Rosewater Insurrection

by Tade Thompson

  He knows he is a dying man. Lying there, he feels the unfairness of it all, but the pollen takes the sting out of even that. He is not filled with knowledge. Bewon feels his memory draining. He cannot remember the sound of his mother’s voice.

  Bewon cannot believe this is the end. He cannot believe how calm he is. No more fussing, no more struggling, no need to look for a job. Just peace in Abraham’s Bosom. He thinks perhaps he should pray. He has not prayed since… he cannot remember.

  He forgets his own name, then he forgets how to breathe, so he stops.

  He chokes as fluid drips down his throat, and he convulses as his brain craves oxygen, and then Bewon is free from his body, finished with life and the universe.

  But the universe isn’t finished with him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jacques

  The second alarm goes off and Jack Jacques, despite his wife’s spelling-skilfulness in fellatio, has not yet ejaculated.

  This is a daily ritual. Each morning, the first alarm goes off and Hannah Jacques goes to the bathroom. When she returns, she lies back with her legs spread and hanging over the edge of the bed. Jack will kneel between and lap at her until she comes. Then they swap places and Hannah fellates her husband until he climaxes in her mouth. At times he likes to kiss her and taste himself, sometimes swallow. Jack is unable to have sex any other way, at least, not with Hannah, and he is a faithful husband. This usually happens before the second alarm at 0600 hours.

  This morning he finds himself rigid with tension, but no possibility of an outlet. No tell-tale tingle to say he’s almost there. At 0605 hours he feels even more tense because the activity is eating into his schedule for the day.

  “My noble wife, let us stop,” he says.

  “What’s wrong?” says Hannah. Her hand is still on him, absently moving up and down.

  “I don’t know, but I have a busy day.” He rises, kisses his wife on the cheek—Hannah doesn’t like to kiss him after he’s been down on her.

  He goes into the shower, makes a half-hearted attempt at masturbating, then turns on the cold water tap. By the time he emerges, the erection has wilted. He dresses carefully. He uses a subtle product to soften his hair while giving a natural appearance. He moisturises his skin. He uses a non-alcoholic aftershave. He allows the water from the shower to dry, rather than wiping himself down. He trims his nails and his nose hair. He checks the lines and fade of his haircut. He inspects his physique in the full-length mirror. He resolves to add ten to his belly crunches next workout. He puts on navy blue socks, a blue shirt, a blue pair of briefs, a navy blue suit, a blue tie done in a half-Windsor, silver cufflinks. He inspects his teeth. He does not like the colour of the whites of his eyes so he uses Visine. He sprays perfume on his clothes, not his skin. Jacques imports all his cosmetics because every single one made in Rosewater claims to contain trapped alien cells or the placenta of floaters or some other impossible thing. If the manufacturers lie about that what else are they lying about? He nods at himself, picks up his office bracelet and waits as it synchronises with his ID chip.

  “Good morning, Mayor Jacques,” says Lora, his assistant.

  “What do I have?”

  “You are meeting with the president at 0905 hours. All the research is queued in your bracelet. At midday you are opening a new central library at Atewo. At 1500 hours you have a meeting with Mrs. Jacques.”

  “Why? I see her at home. I just saw her.”

  “It is in her capacity as lawyer for the Not Gone charity that she wishes to see you. She wishes to discuss the Cull.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to cancel or reschedule?”

  “Neither. No, no, that’s fine. What else?”

  “There is an appointment here for 1700 hours that had no details, no file. It just has a name: Dahun.”

  Dahun is Fadahunsi, a contractor. The earlier meeting with the president would determine how much he needs Dahun. Bedfellows.

  “All right. Thank you. Stand by, Lora, I’ll be in touch shortly.”

  Jack Jacques emerges from his suite in the mayor’s mansion, is joined by his two bodyguards, and begins his day.

  The mansion is faux baroque in its public-facing parts. It has two wings, north and south, with fake-weathered wing towers both pregnant with weapons and sensors. The walls all have asymmetrical decorations based on coral, flowers and cowries. Behind the scenes the mansion is modern, businesslike, with antiseptic corridors and silent air conditioning. Incongruously, the walkway to his office is lined with six-foot statues of Yoruba orisa, males on one side, females on the other. Yemaja has the best statue since her river nourishes Rosewater, and she is the last orisa in the series. Jack likes to take the long walk from suite to office, greeting people and looking down on the courtyard, picking out the guilty faces of cigarette smokers.

  By the time Jack arrives at his office there are two secret service men waiting. They stand, even though the door is bordered by eight empty chairs. It’s not sunny, but they have dark glasses. And they are armed.

  “Gentlemen?”

  “Sir, we are here to secure the venue.” Their mouths barely move when they talk, so Jack isn’t sure which one speaks.

  “I wasn’t aware I was meeting the president face to face.”

  “You are not. We still have to secure the venue.”

  “Mi casa, su casa.” Jack points towards the door, and indicates to his own bodyguards for them to stand back.

  The government men do some laser measurements and calculations to find the exact centre of the room, then they place a device on the spot. It is cylindrical, about a foot high. Jack has seen it before. It scans for surveillance devices and signals. It takes exactly sixty seconds to complete its task. They remove it, then turn off the air conditioner. This time one of them removes the pin from what seems to Jack a grenade. He throws it in Jack’s office and closes the door. The three of them wait in silence while Jack expects his office to explode any minute.

  “Antifungals,” says one of them after two minutes.

  Jack nods as if he knows why. When the silence becomes uncomfortable he reads briefings off his phone implant.

  The bodyguards stare at him.

  After fifteen minutes they nod at each other and go into the office. They plant two flags, both with three vertical stripes, green, white, green, the white sealed with the Nigeria coat of arms which shows a shield with symbolic rivers Niger and Benue forming a Y-confluence, a horse on either side of it, and an eagle alighting above—each three feet apart. Jack doesn’t understand the need for this. There’s a flag behind his desk, and coat of arms on the wall above it. Between the flag poles they place the hologram device. The first agent points to a spot.

  “Stand here, sir.”

  When he does both agents have their firearms out and it makes Jack think of a summary execution.

  “Guys, you do know how holograms work, right? He is not in the room with us. He can’t be killed. At least, not by this conversation.” Unless I give him information that causes a stroke or heart attack or something.

  “Legally, he is in the room, Mr. Mayor. We have to follow protocol.”

  The audio spits out the national anthem. Jack stands to attention as plasma gathers like a mist in the air above the device. The president comes into view. He’s put on weight, Jack observes.

  Jack has never liked the sitting president but he fashions his facial muscles into a smile. A sincere smile is a basic skill for a politician.

  “Your Excellency—”

  “Be quiet please.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said, shut your mouth, and I am not just talking about this conversation. I have in front of me all one hundred and sixty-two memos you sent me over the last six months on the topic of Rosewater’s autonomy.”

  “Sir, if I might just—”

  “My friend, I said be quiet, or Agent Gbadamosi will arrest you. I’m sure we can come up with a federal charge if we pool our
imaginations.”

  Jack holds his tongue.

  “Listen carefully. I can convene the House of Assemblies and revoke Rosewater’s legal status. We can bulldoze it to the ground like Maroko in Lagos. Do you remember Maroko? You don’t because it was cancelled. When Rosewater ceases to exist so will you. You can’t be mayor of nowhere, can you?”

  Jack says nothing.

  “Are you deaf?”

  “You said I should be quiet.”

  The president curses for a full twenty seconds. “Jacques, your request for a national assembly discussion of the further autonomy of Rosewater is denied. You will desist from making further such requests. You will, within six months of this conversation, hold elections for the office of mayor. Do you understand me, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “Good. You wanted to get my attention. You have it. Try to reflect on what happened to the last group who tried to become autonomous from Nigeria.” He fiddles about with something. “How do I turn this fucking thing off? What a waste of my time. What? I’m still live? How do I—”

  The image freezes, then disappears.

  An hour later, Jack is still standing at the same spot, inhaling the after-stench of antifungal fumes. He had expected the president to refuse, but more in the form of a veto of the outcome of a vote, not this… summary execution. Jack wants—needs—more time. This rush is not a position he wants to be in, but he has been here before.

  There is only one prison in Rosewater. It is in Taiwo, which is ironic to those in the know because Taiwo Prison’s first prisoner was the Taiwo after whom the prison and area is named.

  Jack is getting progressively tenser the longer he deviates from his daily plan. He likes predictability and schedules and time boxing, but he wants to see Taiwo. The warden asks if Jack wants a White Room, but he declines. He sits in the ordinary visitors’ room, which is empty. It is outside normal visiting hours. The warden asks how many guards to leave with him.

  “You’re a good woman, Warden, but Taiwo is not going to harm me,” says Jack.

  It takes twelve minutes—Jack counts. Yet when Taiwo comes in he is surprised.

  “Well, well, well. Who do I see before me? The chief, honourable Mayor Jack Jacques himself. Is that still what you’re calling yourself?”

  “Yes, Taiwo, that’s my name. Are they treating you well?”

  “It’s a prison, Jack. You let them lock me up. That wasn’t our deal.”

  Jack loosens his necktie. “You’re wrong. I kept our bargain. You’re the one who tried to kill a federal agent. I have no power over the federal government, Taiwo. I told you that, you knew that back in ’fifty-seven, and yet did it anyway. And you used a fucking robot. Evidence.”

  Taiwo snorts, sucks his teeth and gives a dismissive wave. “The thing about you rich people is you take your food in small bites.”

  “I wasn’t always rich, Taiwo.”

  Taiwo has changed very little. A guy from the early days when Rosewater was a touch-and-go shantytown in the mud and shit around the biodome. Jack still sees Taiwo and his identical twin Kehinde half-drunk on ogogoro, staring at him with their identical eyes.

  What are you going to call yourself?

  Jack Jacques.

  That’s a stupid name. Alaridin. An insult without malice.

  It’s got French in it. It’ll work.

  “I hear you got married,” says Taiwo. “A beauty queen?”

  “Hannah’s a lawyer, but, yes, she was also first runner-up for Miss Calabar.”

  “Wow. My trial lawyer, she didn’t look like—”

  “Stop.”

  “You came to me, Jack. You came to my house. What do you want?”

  Jack isn’t sure, so he doesn’t answer at first. “I needed to see a familiar face,” he says. “A face I trust to be what it says it is.”

  “And my face? Does it say ‘criminal’?”

  Taiwo has a bumpy face with knife scars and cauliflower ears. It does indeed say “criminal.” Loudly. He is smart, though. Back then, Taiwo and Kehinde thought up a scam of surgically implanting a second ID chip with easy remote switching between one and the other. Or you could use the bootleg chip to jam the legitimate during the commission of a crime, leading to a non-person. This may be why his brother has not been heard from in years.

  “When I came to Rosewater I had a particular vision. This city we live in is part of the way towards what I expected or was willing to work towards. Today, I found out the journey is to be truncated. They’re trying to get me out of office, Taiwo.”

  “‘They’?”

  “The Federal Government. The president.”

  “I didn’t vote for him.”

  “You didn’t vote for anybody. Prisoners can’t vote.”

  “A grievous injustice.” Taiwo’s eyes go around the room. “What will you do if you are not mayor?”

  “There is no life for me outside Rosewater. Jack Jacques and the city are surgically joined. If I can’t be mayor, then I cannot be.”

  “Suicide? You’d kill yourself?”

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saying there is no outcome for the city without me being in charge of it. The city and I are one, our destinies are united.”

  “Oh, the pride of you.”

  “This is nothing to do with pride. I have sunk everything physically, mentally, fiscally, philosophically, into this place. I have nothing else.”

  “Full pardon and restoration of my properties.” Taiwo leans back, satisfied.

  “What?”

  “You want my help. You don’t want to come out and ask, but you know this is going to go down hard. You know you may need to fight dirty, but over the years you’ve washed off the dirt and emerged pristine. You need an ally in the filth. My price is a full pardon plus all my confiscated properties. I’m not negotiating.”

  Jack realises this is exactly what he wants, even though he is still working out the details. He does not know what he wants Taiwo to do, or even if Taiwo can do anything at all.

  “All right. We have a deal.” He extends a hand to Taiwo who crushes it.

  “Hmm. Your hands are so soft.”

  Lotion with lanolin, lactic acid, urea, a second activating cream containing glycerine and dimethicone. Hyaluronic acid after treatment. They’d better be soft.

  “So, what next?”

  Taiwo tells him a name and a phone number. “My lawyer will arrange everything, including a contract.”

  “Contract?”

  “Yes, I want all of this in writing. You government types like to screw the criminal class over. Ano ko ni won bi mi.” I wasn’t born yesterday.

  The warden is waiting outside the visitors’ room with Jack’s bodyguards. She believes Jack is also there to inspect J-wing, and has prepared a flash tour. Jack goes along with it, using the time to work through his plans while pretending to listen to the droning architectural details. Jack does not know what J-wing is, but it seems to be a new initiative that he signed off, and is “making good progress.”

  They emerge on an elevated walkway above an open space. It is about 150 yards by 100 and the walkway cuts across it. The space is full to capacity with reanimates. They stand there, staring off into space, but facing the same direction. Their silence is disturbing to Jack.

  “Pull up all the J-wing documentation,” he says into his bracelet.

  A stench of sweat and urine rises up, although there is also disinfectant, the cheap kind you find in state hospitals. Unlike the reanimates you see on the street, these are clean. The catwalk is only five feet above their heads and Jack can see, in the eyes of the closest ones, nothingness. Jack remembers that this is one of the initiatives the Not Gone charity made him approve—or rather, Hannah did.

  He nods to the warden and leaves the ammonia-saturated place, a smile belying the turmoil in his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alyssa

  When the child is asleep, Alyssa makes her husband sit down,
then she talks.

  They are in his workspace. Across town, he shares larger studio space with some local artists. They both sit on stools, he in front of his adjustable board with natural light coming over his left shoulder. The floor is carpeted with sketches, practice runs of different body parts, of simple shapes, of cubes and spheres, of elementary drawings. He draws these before he goes to the studio every day. The work he appears to be playing with at present is a plant. It does not look like anything Alyssa has seen, so it must be something he sketched from elsewhere.

  He is looking at her now, waiting. He really is quite attractive, this husband thing.

  “Mark,” says Alyssa, “you’re going to find this hard to accept.”

  “What?” he says. Trepidation in the wobble of that single syllable. He knows not to attempt physical contact but before all this he must have been affectionate. Shame. A good mate.

  “I am not Alyssa, Mark. No, just wait. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure of it. Something has happened, I don’t know what, but Alyssa is gone and I am here.”

  Mark slips off his stool, starts to come towards her, then checks himself. He points to a picture. “Alyssa, this is you.”

  “No. I know I look like Alyssa and that this is the face in the mirror, but that’s where the resemblance ends. I definitely don’t like children, and I don’t think I’m married.”

  “Are you—is this your way of asking for a divorce? Because you are being very dramatic. And hurtful.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to harm you or your daughter.”

  “Listen to yourself—”

  “No, listen to me. I’m saying I am not the woman you married, and not metaphorically. I’m not saying Alyssa changed or wants new things. I’m saying Alyssa isn’t here. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “I don’t know that either. I just know who I’m not.”