Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Garuba executed a practiced dive downwards to rest on one knee, head inclined, right fist raised but its elbow cupped in the left palm in the traditional deferential salute of his part of the world, and repeated the terms of his people’s traditional homage: “Ranka dede. The man is here, Your Stewardship.”

  “Go and keep him busy. We are still on emergency watch, I hope you know that. There is quite some mopping up to do.”

  “Your Stewardship, if I may…”

  “What?”

  “This is a matter for immediate attention, PS, sir. It concerns national security.”

  Sir Goddie perked up, slowly closed the file before him, and sat back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “It concerns the very man you wish to see.”

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later, still awaiting his summons, Duyole Pitan-Payne felt his patience approach the teeth-grinding phase of all who wait and hope. Belatedly, he thought—this audience was still a squeeze—that the prime ministerial primaries were just five days away and that meant the nation was beginning to shut down. Now he remembered dismissing a glimpse of The Inquest’s tubby proprietor, Chief Ubenzy Oromotaya, the acknowledged brain behind the YoY awards, leading a flock of agbada, babanriga, turbans, red chieftaincy caps, and flaring female head-wraps—the troops were gathering. Consultations could still stretch into the night—more positioning for party slots in governance after elections that were already a foregone conclusion. The visitor began to feel contrite about his tendency to liberally bestow names from the fictional world—plus original concoctions—on business, social, and even brief acquaintances. He conceded a mild feeling of guilt—not much, admittedly. Still, he chided himself for having deflected a rising umbrage from the real cause, venting his spleen on every lawfully engaged occupant of the governance hub, from the hapless adviser to the peacocks’ measured, proprietorial strut and their incongruous accompaniment of strangulated shrieks. The real Uriah Heep was none of these—the place itself was a heaving Uriah heap of oozing unctuousness. It was induced by the very nature of power. Silently he apologized to donkeys on heat. And to the unknown architect of the hypocritical propaganda designs of a cozy cohabitation between two religions which, a mere kilometre or two from that very spot, held each other by the throat to be piously squeezed or slit at little or no provocation. His problem, he decided, was a minor and personal one, and it only required a bit of practice—learning to wrap his tongue around the prime ministerial choice of a mode of address, a preparatory schooling into which his equivalent, the special adviser on alternative energy, had wasted no time in inducting him, quite unnecessarily, as he had received him at the very first, outer security gate.

  “Remember to address him as Your Excellency the People’s Steward. With or without Your Excellency. Or simply PS, with or without the ‘sir.’ It’s not yet official, but it’s already in limited use in the presidency, since last night. You’re privileged—today is the first full day of the changeover. When he hears it from you, an outsider, you’ll see, he’ll be eating out of your hand.”

  Everything came together thereafter—the culmination of months of covert mobilization of manpower and material resources, all leading up to the coming dual contests. The image-building had begun. Even so, of all the choices! Duyole indulged himself in a mild grimace. The People’s Steward! What would he not have given to obtain even a tiny snatch of the saga that had preceded its adoption, culminating in the frenzied sessions of the previous day! Opting not to strain his mind with speculations, however, he did not take long to doze off, his snores emerging in instant accompaniment despite his patronage of the latest promotion of antisnore aids that appeared to monopolize his mail cookies. It was the one bane of his existence, the engineer had long brought himself to admit—a career of stentorian emissions, sometimes even during a theatre performance, including operas, to which he equally admitted a modest addiction. The boom from his forty winks reached the receptionist’s ears just on the other side of the wall. He woke to the clicks of her high heels.

  She looked shocked. “Would you like the day’s newspapers?”

  “No, thanks. Covered them while waiting for my flight.” And then it occurred to him to check his probable waiting time. “Would this be one of the, er…prime minister’s…”

  Smiling, the woman also corrected him. “Steward. People’s Steward. It’s supposed to be in-house for now, but it would please him no end to have his guests subscribe to the new protocols.”

  “I am not a party member,” he reminded her.

  “All the better. It makes it even more exciting for Sir Goddie. It’s in the trial stage—you know. Today’s callers are all our guinea pigs, so to speak.”

  “Young Garuba already inducted me—I don’t mind. So—His Excellency the People’s Steward, right? Do I address him as Your Stewardship? No, don’t bother, let me work that out myself. I was about to ask, is this going to be another full day? Coming in, I thought I recognized a few bigwigs ahead of me.”

  She hung her head. “It’s always difficult to tell. You’re lucky your appointment was not yesterday—I wouldn’t have encouraged you to wait, quite frankly. Today is simmer-down, and I know he does wish to see you. Very much so. It’s just the…well, you know…party matters. And when you think one crisis has been solved…” She threw up her hands.

  Duyole sighed. “Wish I’d known that.”

  “With party primaries raging all over the country? Even here, it’s been more a war office. But he insisted we must bring you over today—he said you have a reputation for moving fast and suddenly, and may be off before we know it. Today—well, just the final touches to the manifesto—that’s the main agenda. The nation is in for some pleasant surprises.”

  Duyole did his best to look interested. “I’m on tenterhooks, but I won’t encourage you to spill state secrets. So now the question is, just how does that affect my engagement? Do I still expect to return to Lagos today, or shall I book a hotel room while waiting? I’ve been here over two hours already.”

  The woman bristled. “His Excellency the People’s Steward will see you. It was an appointment he made himself. He knows you’re here. I have already sent him an administrative nudge.”

  “What is that?” His innocent curiosity appeared to have a mellowing effect. She made an effort to recover her smile.

  “That’s our trade secret. Try and be patient, I know he will see you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a soft drink? We could also do tea or coffee.”

  Pitan-Payne shook his head. “No thanks. Don’t worry, I had a feeling it might be a long wait. Yesterday’s marathon meeting is all over today’s papers, but as usual no hint of what it was all about.”

  She sighed, the recollection appearing to disarm her even more. “Yes, yesterday was crisis day, round the clock, but it’s all sorted out. I’ll check the list from time to time and let you know how it’s going.” She pointed to the coffee table. “There are some recent villa publications in that pile. Not yet officially released. In fact, that top one is mint-fresh, straight from the villa’s press. You’re having a preview, free of charge, Mr. Pitan-Payne. You can’t complain we are not treating you royally.”

  “Thanks, I shall explore the privilege.”

  Off she went, disappeared into her office, and that was the last he saw of her for the rest of the day. They all seemed to take turns at appearing and disappearing, including a cleaner who appeared with a fancy feather duster, flicked off nonexistent motes around the room, grinned at him, and then melted away. He was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.

  He shrugged. It was a commitment, and he would outwait every delay. No less than his wife, Bisoye, could have extracted the concession from him—and then not even on her own. There was much that puzzled him about the government’s sudden interest in, indeed adoption of, an enthusiastic proprietary posture
towards his United Nations appointment. He was sufficiently immodest to know that he had earned it on merit; he was more than qualified to be offered a place among the UN elite family of specialists, as a consultant to its Energy Commission. The blessing of the government was totally unexpected, suspect, but not objectionable. Sir Godfrey O. Danfere—known variously as the Presence, Sir Goddie, the Chief, Leader, Mentor, Godfather (sometimes Godfadda), and now Steward—had contributed a late, superfluous, but nonetheless determined boost. The marching orders were delivered directly from the horse’s mouth to the head of the Nigerian mission to the UN, the Chief himself thundering down his mobile:

  “I don’t want to hear of any last-minute hitch, especially one created by those half-arsed so-called sister nations who still don’t know their bums from their brains. They can’t even balance their budget, yet they insist on an equal vote at the General Assembly. Or quota in UN positions. Some of them still vying with us for Africa’s slot on the Security Council. Put them in their place, do I make myself clear?”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Your Excellency.” The momentous day of the official name change was then still months away.

  “Kick arse or stuff arse, whichever or both, you got it?”

  “The brown envelopes are already stuffed for distribution.”

  There followed a sharp breath intake. His Excellency Sir Goddie was a frugal man, and his emissary’s instant acquiescence had sounded a little too enthusiastic for his liking. “Don’t overdo things. More kick than stuff. Many of them don’t deserve a cent.”

  “You may rely on this office, Your Excellency. We constantly update the sliding rule. And of course we make their secretaries sign receipts.”

  He was rewarded with a familiar sigh of relief. Sir Goddie had indeed approved—quite legitimately—a fair-sized portion of the nation’s “diplomatic offensive” budget, but he hated to see it frittered away, even mildly depleted, since its primal dedication belonged to the principal’s personal revolving imprest for foreign trips. It was crucial that the appointment was not derailed at the last moment, through either rival lobbies or mean political intrigues within the UN’s tortuous bureaucracy. Member states were notorious for throwing a spanner in the works at the last moment, simply for lack of anything substantial to report to their home governments, and sometimes simply from boredom, a bit of peevish gamesmanship just to delay the inevitable. In Pitan-Payne’s case, his government’s intervention was merely—to borrow a spicy turn of phrase from the demilord of the villa himself—pissing in the river under a heavy rainfall. In this respect, a blissfully unaware Pitan-Payne did benefit from the stout backing of the Steward’s foreign advisers. They remained averse to missing out on what in diplomatic parlance is known as “opportunity splurge.”

  In between bouts of dozing, flicking idly through the coffee-table journals, taking calls from his wife, Bisoye, who needed to ensure that he had not quit his post in any sudden fit of pique and reassure him that there was twenty-four-hour room service at his provisionally secured hotel with a guarantee of his favourite cow-leg pepper soup no matter how late, Duyole did his best to while away impatience.

  He was in the midst of his dozing intermissions when the chief of staff reentered. Beyond looking him over once again, making no pretence at disguising his mission of inspection, he offered nothing in the way of greeting, recognition, or even acknowledgement of a visitor in waiting. He made a show of looking round, however perfunctorily, as if he expected to find the reception room empty, or host to a different occupant. He vanished just as noiselessly.

  The intrusion, whatever purpose it was meant to serve, merely renewed Duyole’s sense of resentment. He resented being stuck in distant Abuja, waiting for a never-never summons, when he would rather be back in Badagry organizing his own grandfather of all sendoff parties, navigating cooking pots, beer barrels, flying corks, lamb on the spit, maybe even fresh venison from the game market…Duyole Pitan-Payne’s eyes lit up, his tonsils dilated. The engineer took extra care to ensure that the whole world knew the family motto: “The love of food is the beginning of wisdom.” The Otunba, Pitan-Payne Elder, countered that the family history had no record of any such wisdom, but his son merely responded that he read it in his genes, which perhaps leapfrogged the patriarch’s generation. In any case, would the old man please remember that Duyole’s claims were restricted to his own narrow brood, not the Elder’s family, and if he contradicted him once more, he would secede and form his own dynasty.

  Originally designated the “Bow Out Blowout Rout,” the invitation card format was yet undergoing revisions that would continue, as always, till the very final tantrums of the long-suffering printer. Even in Villa Potencia, a coffee-table monograph on the art of the Nok had provoked thoughts of an adjustment that would designate the two-faced Esu, the Yoruba god of chance, as special guest of honour. After all, it was chance, nothing but chance, that had led to his adoption of a logo that in turn had brought a Greek art enthusiast into his factory, a journey that resulted so fortuitously in his now imminent journey to the United Nations. Not a bad idea, and he began to reach for his mobile. No. Wrong step. He discarded the notion. Much as he would enjoy riling up both Christian and Muslim bigots, he was fearful it would also choke up a few throats—nobody wanted that! What was the point of dazzling his guests with his inventive culinary deftness, then putting a crimp on their gastronomic gusto? He might as well feed them dry garri and send them home! The company logo would take its usual place on the card. Nothing would be permitted to mar an event that was intended to fête, not just his joining a club of international scientific thinkers but, more crucially, his definitive severance from government consulting. Won’t be back for five whole years—try and remember that! Not for nothing was Pitan attached to the colonial name I bear. Pitan—you know the meaning? Legend! So let the blowout be one for transmission down generations. Never asked for this, not sure if it’s merited, but undeserving does not mean underserving—that’s another family motto, of course—so let’s make it one for the Guinness Book of Records. For the self-declared all-rounder, his hands-on party ethic was that of a creative general factotum, indefatigable. He applied it as meticulously to electronic designing as he did to the provisioning and micro-management even of a small-chops stop-by catering for a minor office reception.

  “Mr. Engineer Duyole!” Bisoye once exploded. “I can do my own catering.”

  “No question, no question. But catering is not the same as curating. I am merely helping out with the curating.”

  “It is my private get-together. It does not need curating.”

  “Wrong there, girl, wrong. I won’t let your guests think badly of your husband.”

  “Yes. Glad you remember that—my guests. Not yours. For my former classmates! A small get-together. Go curate for that four-headed mascot of yours, the one you think is a gallery all by itself!”

  “Isn’t it? It’s responsible for the family business.”

  “But not for my private party!”

  “Mascot. Good-luck charm. Business logo. Brand of the Land—come on, girl, that’s already four art galleries in one.”

  “Lucky for you I didn’t hear my private get-together on that list.”

  “It brought me you. One brought-together deserves—”

  “That line won’t work. This is a girls-together only.”

  “Okay, okay. Offer not appreciated, offer withdrawn. If you need anything…”

  “I don’t. Take off. And you’re not invited.”

  “What? Can’t look in just to say hallo?”

  “No!”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll ask Scoffer. If he’s free and willing.”

  “Yes, he is. I didn’t even have to check, because Jaiyesola is with us. He’s taking you out—I’ve booked a table for the two of you. It’s a newly opened place, so you can tell me all about it afterwards.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, you should have told me. Who wants to stay around you old hags anyway? Where’s this place?”

  She flounced off. “I’ll get the name and address. Don’t move.”

  A miracle of heroic sufferance, Bisoye could not wait to package him off to the United Nations. First there would be fewer opportunities for his labour-intensive social binges. Next it did not take her long to acknowledge—and fervently appreciate—that New York was a safer environment for the temperament of her partner—fewer chances of getting into squawks, becoming entangled in political and other incomprehensible intrigues, and without him being remotely aware of it. That was what scared her the most. As they sat together in their living room watching the UN delegate read out news of the unique appointment to cameras in the Foreign Affairs Briefing Room of Villa Potencia, his wife committed the fatal error of asking him how it felt. Duyole did not disappoint.

  “I have that strange feeling of…I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s like a gentle, intoxicating rush, like imagining being in the middle of organizing a party for all of the United Nations.” Bisoye gave a heartrending sigh and kicked herself.

  The wife knew when to leave him alone with his organizing mind in permanent upheaval. She could tell it was already at work sorting out the implications of their relocation. She was equally adept at choosing the right moment to insert the fly in the ointment.

  “I hope you know that you’ll have to drop in on Mr. Prime Minister.”

  His response was instinctive. “What for?”

  “Form, dear, just form.”

  “I don’t see why. He had nothing to do with this.”

  “I said form. For form’s sake. Oh, and also to reduce one’s natural quota of enemies. We still have a few weeks before we leave—at least I do—and we are returning home sooner or later.”