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Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

Page 13

by Wole Soyinka

“Don’t you find it simply exquisite?”

  “Yes, Master, just like every day.”

  Still, masters and vassals were all brought down to earth by that very earth-shaking event whose memory would continue to linger in mounds of charred masonry, cracked, blackened, and broken china, and twisted metallic rods that disfigured the landscape for years afterwards. It was all that remained of the sturdy legacy of a love-hate relationship from the colonial era in that northern part of the nation, a proud, majestic outcrop that had dominated the region for nearly two centuries. For the local population, mostly traders and local workers simply carrying on with the exigencies of the hour, their faces turned resolutely earthwards, it was hardly surprising that it was they, who lived far from the mansion in an area known simply as GRA—Government Reservation Area—who first noticed the overnight disappearance of the imperial squatter. These early spotters consisted of early risers, many shuffling to the motor parks, bicycling to work, or awaiting the vacant taxis—motorcycles or keke napep, the Indian-constructed tricycle taxis, increasingly reproduced locally.

  Even when the cantilevered hill—only one of a range that stretched, with substantial breaks, sloping and sheer, over a hundred and eighty kilometres in the direction of the capital, Abuja—was shrouded in mists during the Harmattan season, there was still a view—no, views!—worth an early rise by the painterly inclined, as witness the framed poor man’s Constables, Turners, etc., lining the reading room, bar lounge, and ample corridors of Hilltop Mansion—different faces of a plateau masked by mists, a sun pressing valiantly through, patches of shifty shrouds as if the hundreds of mosquito nets in the GRA had billowed outwards through the broad windows to be progressively shredded into willowy scrims.

  That was then, seasonally predictable, almost to the calendar dates. Like everything else, however, there crept, then accelerated a transformation that earned the name “climate change.” There were other changes, unacknowledged, some far more deeply penetrative and malignant than even desert encroachment, itself a prolonged, phenomenal exercise in denial. Sometimes the resident surgeon Dr. Menka feared that the change would infect the hills themselves, that he would wake up one day, the mists would have cleared but taken the hills with them. So far, however, they seemed to have defied all such prospects. Menka was loath to lose his own consolation fantasy, which accompanied his contemplation of the hills, that all he had to do was take a short stroll along the rim, then slide down a natural chute on the other side and he would find himself in his own village, Gumchi, located in one of the hollows, yet boasting heaps of sheer granite that rose to dwarf the surrounding hills. It made no difference that he knew it would take no less than six hours of driving through a twisting course to arrive at a village into which he had not stepped for as many years and over.

  More striking—perhaps because somewhat incongruous—than the amateur Constables and Turners, occupying pride of place in its florid glory of crocheted lettering, was a maxim that had endured all the way from the mansion’s initial occupation. It was a survival that presided over the spacious fireplace of the main lounge, having outlived generations of Hilltop tenancy. This eighteen-by-fifteen-inch wall décor bore the inscription Manners Maketh Man, often jovially invoked by members as the Triple M—or simply MMM—Club manifesto. Despite constantly provoking irreverent variations, depending on who and in what state of lubrication, it was an inviolate touchstone for membership conduct for which even the physical structure appeared to serve as prelude. Maintained under its near-pristine condition, a monument to arrested time, the historic mansion indeed also testified, as a corollary, to the principle that environment conditions manners. A librarian’s dream of an interior of glazed wood paneling, absorbent carpeting, browned, outdated British journals, and ornate chandeliers took over from an approach of geometric hedge configurations, conspired with an exterior of lichened walls and stained glass architraves to imbue in members—and guests—a comportment that was merely and superfluously summarized by the framed Triple M, conditioning the movements of the domestic staff, the placement of objects, the vocal level of exchanges, and even accompanying gestures.

  It all collapsed, alas, during the countdown towards that memorable Independence anniversary. British décor and decorum presided for the last time over the Hilltop landmark, an unprecedented shattering for which the actual fire was a mere spectacle of affirmation.

  Within its walls, all had proceeded as always—safe, measured, and predictable. Members conceded nothing beyond a dismissive acknowledgement of the madness that still engulfed wide swaths of the northern part of the nation, the northeast most notoriously. True, it was indeed those events in a nation partially under convulsion that ignited the evening, but ultimately it was none other than the conduct of their very celebrant, Dr. Kighare Menka—a gross MMM violation—that held them all riveted and anxious, confounding their incredulous hearing, wrenching minds over what to make of—perhaps even do to—the bearer of bad news. Manners Maketh Man? The opposite, and intolerable, side of that was Bad Form. You simply do not make members and guests uncomfortable on club premises. And the solitary medium of Bad Form, ironically, was the man they had trooped by to honour. It was not a formal event—the usual notice had been sent to members: Drop by on your way home from work. One of us—and from a little-known corner of our host state, Plateau—has brought distinction to the club, bagged the prime national honour, the very first member of the club to so much as make the Honours List on any grade. Drinks on the house between 6 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., half price thereafter till nine, after which back to membership rates.

  The reception was all impromptu, but it followed the age-long pattern, with a few trivial variations to pay homage to local tradition—the breaking of the kola nut and the pouring of libations to thirsty ancestors—the variations themselves having fused over time with inherited rituals. Nothing really out of the ordinary. A welcome speech by the social secretary, a few reminiscences, eulogies, and rambling jokes. A vote of thanks. The evening proceeded along familiar, ritualized observances that would have earned approval from their British predecessors. Then came the turn of the honoree, the eminent surgeon Menka, to respond. Nothing startling expected, nothing unique, nothing ponderous or provocative, nothing controversial. A measured Thank you for the honour of this peer recognition, etc., etc., rendered especially significant for its season of national rejoicing. Hopes that the next would witness the terminal exit of religious fanatics, etc., etc., pietisms delivered with genuine sincerity, from all appearances. The formal event was soon over; the club reasserted its ambiance of British genteel bonhomie.

  The guest of honour had even assumed his favourite position at the bar, beer mug in hand. When the eruption occurred, even to his hearing his voice sounded odd, as if it were coming from somewhere outside himself. Only afterwards did he acknowledge that it was a long-repressed catharsis that had only awaited the moment of detonation. He admitted to himself, however, that on reflection it still offered a glimpse of some emerging brightness. All was not lost. What these colleagues—and strangers—were admitting, despite their discomfort, resentment, and even outrage, indeed on that very account, was that, MMM notwithstanding, some deeds stood outside even moral outrage, indeed that the emotion itself still had validity, that it implied a moral discrimination—a possession that he had begun to consider was merely presumptuous.

  None of this diminished the unexpectedness of the outburst, or the impact. Menka was not conscious of its approach. He had no explanation, and he offered none. He only knew that something blew apart inside him, as if that morning’s explosion in the market had occurred deep down within the recesses of his own guts, which then involuntarily spewed out all its contents, drenching Turner, Constable, Ruskin, and club injunctions in their bottled-up ferment. He could only conclude that he, Kighare Menka, famous Dr. Bedside Manners, lost his cool and violated the founding principle of Manners Maketh Man, replaced it with Bad Form
in a hitherto unprecedented manner, and through revelations that would have churned the stomach of the founders of Hilltop Mansion Club.

  Embarked on stock-taking afterwards, the worthy surgeon did feel unjustly put upon. After all, he was not the initiator. He had played his role, gracefully acknowledged plaudits from his peers, accepted their packaged gift, which he had declined to open on the spot, and was quietly gathering up his physical self to join his thoughts, which had long preceded him to his bachelor apartment in the same hills. Along came Kufeji, the club treasurer, with whom he maintained a quite unremarkable but cordial relation. In Kufeji’s hand was the day’s newspaper, his eyes glued to its contents.

  “Get a load of this, Doctor.” He chuckled. “It seems you have some stiff competition.”

  Menka raised his head from staring at the array of bottles on display, asked quietly, “What is it?”

  “The country is full of aspiring surgeons. Just take a look.”

  Menka waved him off. “What else is new under the sun?”

  “No, no, no, this you have to see. Listen.” And he began to read: “ ‘Thirteen—take a good note of the number, we’ve never had so many at one sitting—thirteen suspected ritual gang members and their patrons, made up of herbalists, a church pastor, Islamic clerics called alfas, have been arrested by operatives of the Inspector General of Police Intelligence Response Team (IRT) in—’ Hey, wait a minute, I hadn’t noticed that. It’s in my state! Oh my bleeding ancestors! It’s in my own bloody state! Damned if I’m going to disseminate this with my own mouth.”

  “Come on, no censorship. Read it all—leave nothing out!” The reader was unaware how far his voice had carried, enabling occupants of a nearby table to overhear him distinctly as he read the headline, “Thirteen-Member Ritualist Gang Broken Up, Reveals IG Police.” Other members begun to gather, eager for the lurid details. By all accounting, the number was unusually high. Mostly such groups operated in smaller units. This was one for the record books.

  “No way!” Kufeji protested. “Why should I expose my own state to your kangaroo trial? How do I know it’s not Fake News?”

  That predictably drew haw-haws of derision. “Oh yeah? Until now there was no mention of Fake News. Don’t stop. Read it all out.”

  He ignored them, blocking their voyeuristic efforts by resting his back against the bar counter and holding up the newspaper against the pressuring lineup. “I was addressing the doc, not you mob…Here, here, all right, I’ll read it out. ‘Thirteen arrested for allegedly killing a thirty-year-old housewife, Mrs. Abosede Adeyemi Iyanda. The suspects are Segun Olaniyi, forty-two years old; Adewole Oluwafemi, forty-one, aka Pastor; Mustapha Iliya, aka Alfa…’ It names all thirteen of them, let’s see—thirty-seven-year-old, fifty-six, forty-eight, etc., all seem to be in the range of between thirty-five and sixty.”

  He lowered the newspaper and surveyed the lounge. “Imagine, about the average age of our elite membership. For all we know, you all could be part of those still at large.” He shook his head in mock dolefulness and tut-tutted, then resumed.

  “ ‘Another eight of them have been identified but are still at large; the IG has threatened to place them on his Most Wanted list. The victim’s daughter was said to have written directly to the inspector general after her mother vanished on her way home from the office. The herbalist has confessed…”

  More and more listeners were drifting towards the reader. Menka tried to change seats but found his exit blocked.

  “No, no,” Kufeji pleaded. “I’m just coming to the part that really caught my attention, the part that concerns you. Listen…yes, here it is. Just get hold of this. ‘According to the ritualist’s confession, the victim was once his lover but was now married to someone else. Some clients had approached him for a money-making ritual, so he tricked her to return, saying that he had seen a vision of danger to her and she needed delivery. He then contacted Ayo Adeleye to come and do the slaughtering. After sending for food for the woman, Segun put some drug in the food so that she would begin to feel sleepy. She was then told to go and wash in the river for ritual cleansing. She proceeded, having taken off her clothes, so that she was completely naked. While Abosede was washing her hair, Ayo pushed her head into the river, brought out a pocket knife, and killed her. Both he and Segun then pulled out her body from the river—’ Now wait for this, Doc, wait for this! ‘He dismembered the body, separating the flesh from the bones as directed by Segun. Some of them allegedly roasted the meat and ate it with hot drinks. Among the items recovered by IRT operatives were decomposed human breasts, burnt human flesh mixed with liquid substance in a bottle and calabash, one complete human foot, pieces of dry human skull. A Laura SUV with registration number…”

  By now the trickle had swollen to a sizeable group, successfully peeking over the shoulders of the reader, joining him with their own tidbits glimpsed from the paper, punctuated with exclamations of disbelief, imprecations, and proposals for summary disposal of the arraigned or implicated. For some reason the police had been unusually generous with details—clearly one of those breast-beating instances provided by detective success, and of an especially sensational nature. Photographs of the captured accused adorned the page, most squatting on their haunches and made to hold up placards bearing their names, others some of the recovered implements deployed in their crude surgery. Even the registration numbers of vehicles trapped during the raid featured in the bulletin. Individual profiles—address, occupation, local and other connections—graphically filled out their profiles as if in an effort to dispel all incredulity, affirm that these were indeed no more than next-door humanity. The facts had been volunteered by the suspects, in such detail that one could only wonder if they had been administered the so-called truth drug, last rumoured during the interrogation of one of the nation’s failed coup-makers, the infamous Colonel Dimka, trapped in a brothel in Asaba after his flight from a doomed attempt to overthrow the regime. The papers all reported that he was singing like a canary, virtually in a state of euphoria.

  * * *

  —

  Admittedly it had been an abnormally stressful day for Dr. Menka, shuttling between the emergency wing of the hospital and the operating theatre—a slightly above-average haul of human forms, sometimes unrecognizable. The women quota had been especially unnerving—the bomb had been planted in an onion basket in the vegetable section of the main Jos market. It was over ten hours without a break since his summons from bed, wave on wave of casualties—on bicycles, trolleys, pushcarts, and motorcycles—before he was able to hand over the minor wounds and shock cases to his assistants, then call it a day. He showered and changed at the hospital, then drove to the club reception gratefully. He did need some unwinding before finally heading home. The club fulfilled that function; indeed it seemed specially tailored for such crisis days, as if human carnage had been factored into the mansion by its departed proprietors. That halfway house was efficacious therapy, to be followed by a quiet dinner on his own, needfully and entirely on his own. After the groans of the injured and the expiring gasps of fatalities, he needed that spell of solitude, the restorative silence of the hills. Thereafter, hopefully, an in-depth crash into fathomless, uninterrupted sleep. In the morning, substantially refreshed but never fully recovered, he was back to the hospital on ward rounds. That routine had earned him the nickname, bestowed on him by appreciative patients and colleagues, Dr. Bedside Manners. There was certain to be some time before another assault shot him back to the surgical theatre. If that happened, he simply psyched himself and moved among the dead and mutilated as one born to that occupation and none other. Menka had attained a level of detachment that made him feel sometimes that he was no different from the media voyeurs who wallowed in body counts and lurid headlines, not forgetting image harvesters of disasters whose phone cameras, obsessively poised for internet voyeurism, pursued dazed survivors meandering sightlessly, walking through debris
, propelled by some inner beckoning destination, oblivious to their surroundings, or even to their own fatal hurts, simply dragged forwards on some inner momentum until the frayed, invisible thread snapped and they collapsed in a totally unaffected neighbourhood, dead on arrival.

  In the midst of this unpredictable yet constantly anticipated brutality, it was the domestic, noninsurgency wounds that most depleted his reserves. Something appeared irreversibly unhinged, turning the human terrain that he felt he knew so intimately into mere maceration fields. It remained the most tormenting encroachment on his professional latitude. Victims of that undeclared internecine warfare, mostly one-sided, consisting of the most vulnerable, unsuspecting of society, often jostled for space, their conditions demanding precedence over the urgency of terrorist carnage. The flashes came unsolicited—the eight-year-old “housemaid” driven into the emergency section that very morning, after a ride that lasted over an hour on rutted roads. She arrived wedged between the rider and a hysterical aunt. The girl was already halfway dead. There was hardly a moment’s hesitation as her loose wrapper fell off and he glimpsed the gruesome mush between her thighs. It was instant priority on the surgical roulette. She died anyway, right under his hands—a merciful end to prolonged serial rape by a businessman and his nineteen-year-old son. Each such abuse merely sealed up channels of emotional response except one—rage, murderous rage. It accumulated behind the neutralizing surgical mask and beneath the swift interventionist hands, always hovering over decisions of life and death where the hopeless made room for the dubious, the dubious for the clamorous—his hands schooled in parameters of designation, unwelcome but essential.

  That was the hardest part, he openly conceded—to immunize himself against horrors that did not emanate suddenly and violently from the demonism of religious fanatics and deluded millenarians but from the civilian demonism. That seemed even more determined to win the grim contest in human desecration, physical and mental. As he led his team of equally blood-caked assistants through shattered humanity, honed instincts to the fore, his mind actually found relief in trying to make sense of beliefs that justified such scenes, to configure visions of that future whose gateway some could only glimpse through mangled humanity.

 

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