by Wole Soyinka
The prime minister barked, “Sit down.”
Instantly the adviser slammed himself into the seat. Had he gone too far?
The People’s Steward looked him up and down, his scorn increasing with every word. “You know, I sometimes wonder what report to make to your father about you. Because sometimes you can be stupid. Very, very stupid. You don’t even know when to do something in your own interest. All you know how to do is to keep complaining, whining, complaining, whining and complaining.”
The adviser shrank even tighter into his kaftan, wishing he had never accepted the brief from his colleagues. “PS, sir, we lack your wisdom. You have to be patient with your children.”
“You are slow learners, all of you! That is your problem. I have to do everything myself, look after all of you. Including the too-knows of the party. Those who think they know it all. And sometimes it leaves me with no time for my own interests. Or even for governing the country.”
“Ah, Allah forbid, People’s Steward. Allah forbid anyone here should become responsible for such a crime against the nation, sir!”
“Allah forbid this, God forbid that. Has no one ever told you the story of ‘Ah, Father, is that you?’ ”
“Never, sir. Never heard of it.”
“No? The story of the Reverend Father, the sexton, and the communion wine?”
Shekere Garuba grinned. It was a full-fledged grin that celebrated redemption, relief that he had not misjudged. The People’s Steward was indeed in a post-crisis mood, which meant expansiveness, which meant there was even room for other matters on his private shopping list, which meant there was a story not only for instruction but to regale to others as proof of a special intimacy. The protégé’s eager-listener posture was food and drink to Sir Goddie, who now rocked himself back in his chair, let his agbada overflow the armrests. He chuckled, his face as radiant as that of a loving father who took delight in the learning zeal of his adopted son.
“All right. Pay close attention. Pass me that kola nut bowl.”
The adviser quickly leant over and lifted the crystal bowl that housed an assortment of kola nuts, orogbo, and alligator pepper as well as wrapped toffees and mini-cookies, all testimony to the minister’s solicitude for the plurality of visitors’ tastes and cultural preferences. His fingers hovered between the kola nuts and orogbo, decided on the former, took one out, split it neatly along its faultlines, dug his fingernail into one wedge to cut off a piece. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he tossed it up, tilted his head backwards at the same time, caught it neatly in his mouth, and commenced a slow, relaxed chewing. The young adviser was delirious. This was going to be a drawn-out session, and he promptly consigned his waiting equivalent to whenever. The hospitality imprest would cover his hotel bill, if needed.
“So listen carefully. There was this priest, and he noticed that each time he prepared to celebrate communion, the level in the wine bottle had decreased since he last celebrated Mass. He did everything to solve the mystery, but it all came to nothing. He strongly suspected it was one of the choirboys—in fact, he was sure it had to be one of them—but there was no way he could catch the culprit, so he decided to recruit outside/inside help. An outsider, but one who knew the insides. Most important.
“The choice for that mission fell on the sexton. Very conveniently, the fellow lived near the church, so the Reverend Father charged him to drop into the vestry in and out of his working hours, and most especially in the evenings when there was a choir practice. He rightly suspected that it was during the choir practice that the potential alcoholic member slipped into the vestry to lubricate his throat. Makes sense, right?”
“Oh yes, PS, sir, absolutely.”
“And he was right. Before long the culprit was caught in flagrante. In fact, it was none other than the head choirboy. You know that age—teenager heading towards manhood. The sexton followed instructions. The moment he caught anyone sneaking in, he was to switch on the light and give a shout, so there would be no escape, no cover-up. That’s how they caught the head choirboy, exposed and disgraced. Are you following?”
“Oh yes, sir. Very much.”
“The young man was punished, of course, and that was the end of the matter. All returned to normal. Everyone forgot about it, except one. The sexton himself. As far as he was concerned, it was an assignment for life. So whenever he had nothing better to do, he still went and hid in the vestry, hoping to catch any other culprit. It had become an addiction. No one knew they now had an addict on their hands—no different from a drug addict. Sometimes he even fell asleep in the vestry—his wife would go round looking for him. Sometimes he would not wake up till the following morning when the cleaners came to work. That’s how bad it was.
“Well, it turned out he was also right. It was not only that choirboy who had developed a taste for the communion wine—there were others. So one evening this overzealous sexton found his way again to the vestry during choir practice for his fix. He took up his accustomed position by the switch and waited. He heard steps. He followed his routine, waited until the intruder had actually picked up the bottle, poured out a good tot, and was tossing it down. Gbaram! Sexton switched on the light and gave a loud shout. The choir broke off in the midst of a cantata and rushed into the vestry. The poor sexton was transfixed, appalled. All he could do was gasp, ‘Ah, Father, is that you?’
“You can picture the scene yourself. In that vestry, all the hubbub died instantly. No one knew in what direction to look. Yes, there was the Father, bottle and silver goblet in hand, the wine leaving a red splash down the front of his dress while the sexton remained there, finger pointing, unable to utter another word.”
The People’s Steward bit into another piece of the kola nut, took his time in measuring out the pregnant pause that had made him a much-sought-after raconteur.
“But you know,” he resumed, “they don’t become reverend fathers for nothing. You know I belong to the church myself, and I can tell you this—don’t mess with our reverend fathers; they will trounce you any day. They learn how to recover fast from bad situations. So the father drew himself straight up, furious, and pronounced something in Latin, maybe a curse. Anyway, he followed it up in the language everyone understood. ‘Of course it’s me, idiot! And you’ve brought down the wrath of God on your head by spilling the blood of Christ!’ ”
“Wayo man!”
“Ah yes, you could say that. Wayo man indeed. Those rev fathers? They think fast. They think on their feet. He dashed off some more Latin, made the sign of the cross, upbraided them all for desecrating the most solemn moment of priestly duties when he must finish off leftover wine and swallow the remaining communion wafers with only Christ as witness! Did they know that? Did they think they were worthy to share that moment with him? Had they been confessed in the past twenty-four hours? Hmm. I can just see him standing there, with that wet red stain on his shirtfront, intimidating everyone in Latin. Of course all the young choristers were fooled, but not the grown-ups, like the choirmaster and the organist. You see what burden the priest had to carry for the rest of his life?”
“Yes, PS. That’s a terrible burden of conscience.”
The Presence lost his cool, hit the table with his fist. “I knew it. Who said anything about conscience?”
The pupil scratched his head, shook it violently, but received no help from that unit. The People’s Steward looked at him, contempt all over his face.
“I obliged your father by finding you a position to occupy here, but thank God I never expected you to advise me on any matter. I keep you here only so I can keep an eye on you. What has conscience to do with it? Now, pay attention. Ask yourself, doesn’t the priest make his parish rounds? Doesn’t he go knocking on doors to ask after the welfare of his flock? Doesn’t he drop in at events unexpectedly? Or don’t people run into him suddenly? And so on and on. Now imagine you are inside your house,
someone knocks on the door and shouts, ‘Is anyone home?’ You recognize the voice, and you want to return the greeting. What do you shout in response? Think carefully.”
The adviser frowned, thought hard, and enlightenment descended. He grinned sheepishly and intoned, “Father, is that you?”
“Exactly!”
The adviser doubled up with laughter. “Ah, People’s Steward, sir, you are too much.”
“Not me. It is the father who forever found it much too much. From that day on he knew no peace of mind. Conscience, what is that? Peace of mind is what counts. The question he kept asking himself forever afterwards, whenever he heard that greeting, was, is it a genuine salutation? Or are they making fun of me? People would put on a straight face, or decorate their faces with a fawning smile and say, ‘Father, is that you?’ And the wretched man wouldn’t know what to think.”
“He should have transferred that sexton.”
“Straightaway! Now you’re using your head. Assignment over, presence terminated. No hanging around. Promote them out of sight or send them on special courses. They can’t resist that. They collect travel allowances. Everyone likes money. This terminal departure was handed to us on a golden platter, and you dare complain? And you can pass that on to all those who egged you on to come and ask me the stupid question—you think I don’t know? You are all so dumb. Tell them I said they should be grateful you all have someone who knows the ropes and looks after your interests. Now go and keep him occupied. When I’m ready, you’ll bring him so I can wish him godspeed and good riddance. Come on, get out. He’s unpredictable, just like his father. I know the family. So make sure he doesn’t leave the premises. Get him anything he wants!”
The adviser gasped, then turned radiant. A grateful smile lurked around his lips, and a distinct body lift attended his departure. But for his flapping slippers, he came close to skipping as he opened the sanctum doors, half jogged the few yards along the corridor into the waiting room, and startled the engineer out of his distant rumination zone. This time he took a seat beside him, settled in comfortably.
“It’s all arranged. The People’s Steward will see you any time now, I promise you. If need be, I shall interrupt him personally, whatever he’s doing.”
“Just how late is soon? Our appointment was for—”
“He knows, Mr. Pitan-Payne, he knows. He sends his apologies. He’s extricating himself as fast as he can. In fact, any moment now.”
It was time, Duyole decided, to be difficult. “I need a drink. A real drink. Is there anywhere I can get a beer?”
Uriah panicked, but only for a moment. He had his orders to keep him, and this appeared—so soon—as the first test. He squared his shoulders. “Any particular brand, sir? I think I know where we may be able to get some.”
“As long as it’s chilled. Thoroughly. I’m dehydrated. That tends to affect performance. And you know one needs one’s wits around one when meeting with power. Any form of power. Not to talk of Sir Goddie in person.”
“It must be the air-conditioning,” Garuba proposed, and he sounded immensely relieved. “Sometimes even I feel drained of moisture. Then I find I can’t think straight.”
Duyole smothered a snigger. “Actually, just between us, I think it’s my snoring. In fact, I’m sure it’s my snoring. The guru who advertises my online remedy was emphatic. Did you know that? Snoring affects one’s level of dehydration.”
The adviser stared, open-mouthed. “You mean there are remedies? Among my people we think it comes at the discretion of Allah. Like belching. No one should attempt to stop it.”
“Really?” And for the first time Duyole really looked at his equivalent, with genuine human interest. “You are not making that up?”
“No way,” Garuba reassured him. “You should hear the snores at night in our family compound. I think some people snore deliberately so others can think they have been touched by the special wand of Allah.”
“Interesting.” Duyole appeared to think it over. After close to a four-hour wait, he felt urged towards recklessness, even relishing the near-certainty that the room was bugged. He leant forward and in his most confidential voice enquired, “What of farting? Is that also considered divine intervention?”
As one who simply stated universal possibilities, the energy adviser replied, “It all depends. For instance, if the People’s Steward were to fart…”
That was more than the engineer had bargained for, and he quickly retreated. “No, no, don’t let’s turn our noses in that direction. What about that beer?”
“Give me a moment. I’ll dash over to the residential quarters. His Excellency the Steward said you had only to ask and I must deliver.” He grinned. And off he went.
Skip Notes
* Top man at the top.
7.
An Intellectual Property Heist
The Inside Story
Pitan-Payne settled back into the overstuffed chair, leaned forward to pick up a magazine, and sharply withdrew his hand. There it was, right on the top of the pile, as the receptionist had indicated—The Making of a People’s Steward. He picked it up by the edge—it did feel warm. Perhaps the woman had not exaggerated after all. His eyes flew over the pages—mostly glossy pictures—and snorted. Well, some people are so easily satisfied! Duyole Pitan-Payne did not fall for the glib, bowdlerized stuff. Unabashedly avid for the “nitty-gritty” and “juicy morsel,” he made it his business to pump even the most marginal source until he had pieced together a riotous version of the most insipid anecdote and entered it into his private repertoire—factual base and details intact, but somehow ending up a nearly unrecognizable original in the retelling. Parturition of the People’s Steward was no different, a drama occasioned by one of the most daring intellectual property heists, he would insist, for which the felon deserved either a national medal or a direct hit from the aggrieved. From all the signs he had received since his arrival, it made no difference. They could commit mutually assisted destruction for all he cared. Right then the engineer merely drooled with anticipation. Adoption of “the People’s Steward” as the new prime ministerial identity label appeared to have set a seal on that unprecedented crisis. But what on earth had actually taken place behind the scenes?
A virtual unknown, the political miscreant had defected from his own political party, then in opposition at the centre but in the seat of power within his state. His ambition was to be governor. Denied his party’s nomination for that seat, he defected—that was normal—and joined the party in power. I listened to the yearnings of my people as befits a true leader, obeyed their call, and have now moved into my true political family. His reward was instant—governorship nomination from his new political home and now contestant against his former party. Shambolic, sham ballot, shame of a nation, screamed the losers. Kidnapping of party agents, in daylight glare and in the presence of international observers; decapitations, flying ballot boxes, and riverbeds lined with the same UFOs; acid rain through slits of the chained-down replacements; a display of scant respect even for the virtue of originality—same scenario, same identifiable hands: the pasted and broadcast result was the ultimate decider. International observers had their say, then went home to document their findings. What difference did it make? mocked the victorious, lamented the losers. Seventy-five percent of that year’s elections ended up at the tribunals anyway. The state set an all-time record for election hits, boasting no less than a hundred and eighty-five fatalities, most of them administered in broad daylight.
So far, so good. All that was public property, but how many people could claim to have obtained even a whiff of the real insider stuff? That, Pitan-Payne boasted, was what separated the men from the boys! And here he was at the source. If nothing else, he would extract the real fabu from that pinhead of an equivalent.
The rapid slap-slap sequence of the flat-soled leather sandals between the wearer’
s heels and parquet floor, and he found his tongue already running over his dry lips—it had been a long wait, and he did yearn for that beer! If the god of success had indeed sat on Garuba’s explorative shoulders, he promised, he would never again call him Uriah Heep. The footsteps came closer and the door opened. The prime ministerial guest did not attempt to disguise his eagerness, his eyes fastened on the distinct shapes, even in their brown paper disguise—and not just one, but two! Small cans, but he could not wait to savour their liquid contents.
“Thanks. No need to have gone to such lengths to keep them chilled,” Pitan-Payne gratefully reassured the bearer.
Shekere Garuba was baffled. He raised one of the brown paper shapes as if he would pierce through the wrapping. “They came straight from the fridge.”
“Yes, I appreciate the care. Here. Let me touch it.” Pitan-Payne touched, then unloosed the wrapping and placed a palm directly against the can, grinned his satisfaction. “Thank you, Mr. Garuba. The wrapping retained it at fridge temperature. May you outlive even Villa Potencia.”
The penny dropped. “Oh, no, the wrap was not to keep it chilled. This was just so people wouldn’t start getting the wrong image about the presidency.”
“Image? What kind of image?”
“One doesn’t wish to make people think that all we do here is drink.”
“Oh, of course. I keep forgetting. This was the arena for the recent battle of images, right?” He tapped the monograph. “Wish I could have been here yesterday.” He prised up the small top lever of the can, took a long draught, and asked, “Is Sir Goddie a teetotaler?”
Garuba giggled. “Who? The People’s Steward?”