by Wole Soyinka
Finally a voice, a drawl in genuine concern. The voice belonged to Costello, the Italo-Nigerian, one of the older fixtures. He had been sitting close to the bar, enjoying the mildly rowdy session. “What’s the matter, Doctor?”
Menka’s response flew off without a pause. He flung his arm all round, his voice rising in contempt. “You. All of you! I don’t believe any of you. You’re either all hypocrites or…ignorant! Whichever, you are part of the nightmare and I say I don’t believe you—that’s all there is to it. And I am sick of listening to all this pointless babble.”
Costello’s voice grew even more solicitous, anxiously exploring. He considered Menka a friend. “So take it easy. They were just teasing. Did anyone say anything bad?” There were frowns and gestures of puzzlement around the room. “Menka, we came to celebrate you. What’s gone wrong, my friend?”
The celebrant was no recent admittance, but few had ever found inclination or occasion to get close to him—not that he appeared to be in need of friendship or acceptance. He was not one of the regulars. A doctor’s calling card was all hours, so no one really expected him to be a frequenter at club events. Just as long as he paid his membership dues and settled his monthly consumption account.
But there he stood, pinned against the bar by the small crowd, and the scorn on his face was unyielding, indeed hardening with every passing second, as if winding itself up for a terminal explosion. It was not long in coming.
“I don’t know which is worse”—and he was near yelling—“these morbid jokes or the moral pontifications. That was a human being who was butchered, perhaps the hundredth this year alone—detected, that is, reported—and you all think it hilarious. And then the moralizing—I don’t know which is the worse of these nightmares. Someday we’ll all be grateful for one nightmare that knows itself—even one will do. But not now. Not yet. So all I ask for now is, how much does any of you know? Even the best informed—just how much do you really know?”
Another voice, again not hostile, not yet, attempted some oiled restraint. There had to be an explanation. It was unusual, unprecedented. “All right, our Dr. Bedside Manners,” the voice virtually cooed, “this is unlike you, so tell us what we don’t know. What’s eating you? I don’t know about others, but I am baffled. Can’t we joke anymore? How do you think one keeps sane in this country? It’s known as gallows humour, in case you never heard the expression. As a doctor you should even prescribe it. Gallows humour, good for digestion.”
A member offered from across the lounge: “Maybe something terrible happened at the hospital, something we do not yet know about. Apart from the bomb, I mean.”
“Is that it, Kighare?” Costello joined in. “You should have said. We could have postponed the party.”
It was as if a blowtorch had been adjusted to its fullest suddenly and thrust in Menka’s face. “Don’t you all eat meat?” he yelled. “Which of you here has been to the meat shop lately? Or maybe you’ll tell me you’ve never been?”
“What’s the man talking about?”
“You. Me. All of us yapping away our souls in this palace of self-deception. That’s what I’m talking about!”
Kufeji picked up the soggy newspaper, squeezed it and threw it behind the bar, headed back to his table. “Sorry-o. Someone seems to have got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
Dismayed murmurs spread across the lounge, creeping towards alarm. Had their own in-house, state-honoured doctor finally blown a gasket? Here and there some sniggering had begun to emerge. It was the secretary himself, Muktar, who picked up the gauntlet, his voice rising steadily with resentment. “What are you talking about, Mr. Surgeon? You haven’t earned the right to come here and lecture members. Many of us here are senior to you! We avoid politics here, and also any holier-than-thou posturing. We are all Nigerians—no, we have some expatriates, we don’t even remember that, they’ve become part of us. We have members from all over the country. No, wait, let me remind him”—he brusquely brushed aside a restraining hand from his seated neighbour—“I’ve had enough of this. Others can speak for themselves, but rules are rules.” He raised his arm and pointed in the direction of the mantelpiece. “MMM—it’s all there. I hate to have to invoke it. Never had to since I became secretary, but if that’s what it takes…”
Menka looked in the direction of the latest interventionist, then began to move in his direction, parting with both hands the small crowd still standing around him. When he reached Muktar’s table, he stood squarely and faced him. “What of you? You’re local. Haven’t you ever visited the meat shop?”
“What has a meat shop got to do with it? My wife buys all the food for the house. But I can tell you I’m not a vegetarian.”
“Being a vegetarian has nothing to do with this.”
“Then just what has to do with what? Why are you blowing hot over nothing? Come out straight with it, man! Cut out all the roundabout.”
A new entrant said brightly, “Oh, I’ve got it. Pork! Is that the problem? Did someone suggest we scrap the club’s no-pork-on-Fridays policy?”
Menka did not blink. “No one that I know of. But I am talking business. Simply business, do you understand? That’s how far things have degenerated. And just because I come from the north, that does not make me a Muslim. I eat pork.”
Muktar snapped back, “Then make yourself clear. First it was meat. Now it’s business. What business?”
“You haven’t answered me,” Menka retorted. “Have you been to a meat shop lately? Clean, sanitized, well regulated by any standards—even bar-coded? It will pass any international standards—its products are branded, freshly packaged. Yes, that’s what I am talking about. Specialized. Not pork. Or mutton either. Not even beef or poultry.”
It only made matters worse. Sniffles competed with sniggers. The man was clearly disorientated. Something had gone wrong at the hospital. Part of the throat-clearing could have emanated from empathy or embarrassment, but it filled the lounge with unease, and a premonition of impending disaster. Chudi, owner of the cooing voice, appeared to have misheard. He shook his head mournfully and moved towards the club secretary, who had remained standing. “Menka, if you have turned vegetarian, just say so and leave us alone. No one is stopping you from launching a vegan campaign. Put up your posters or whatever you want.”
It appeared to act as a signal for regrouping. Most moved back to their tables, but a trickle gravitated towards Muktar, mainly the club officers, Kufeji in the lead, perhaps propelled by a growing feeling that this somehow constituted a veiled attack on the competence of their executive. It required both solidarity and counteraction, possibly suspension. At least a fine. Kufeji leant close, whispered in the ears of his colleagues, but it was clearly a stage whisper, intended for everyone’s hearing. “I think the Pre-eminence Award has scattered his Gumchi head.” The mood was turning distinctly hostile.
“Maybe he would have preferred the populist YoY? You want to cross over, cross over. The club will sponsor you for Yeoman of the Year, category any which you choose. Even PACT. We’ll come round and campaign for you. Don’t take your frustration out on us.”
Guffawing loudly, Muktar latched onto it. “Is that true, Doctor? All this sudden posturing on account of a national award? What happens when you get the Nobel Prize for Medicine!”
“Wissai? From which village? There’s no quota system in Sweden!”
Unfazed but with studied emphasis, as one who was educating retarded pupils, Menka persisted. “Listen to me, I am not speaking of cow meat. Or goat. Or venison. I am not speaking of rump steak or veal cacciatori or pork chops in a fancy restaurant. Just the same, that establishment observes the same meticulous checks. The local inspectorate visits the premises and storage to check on quality, ensure that flies have not laid eggs in the meat and cockroaches are not scampering all over the floor. You will not find a single housefly buzzing with
in that shop. Standards are strict. It’s all official. And impressive.”
Muktar turned and resumed his seat. “I don’t know about others, but I am tired of this rigmarole. If this is a campaign to involve the club in some new project of yours, you know the routine. The mission box is over there. Write down what you have in mind and drop it in there. We’ll place it on the agenda at the next meeting. Now is not the time for it. We came here to celebrate your award, and I apologize to others for the mistake. It will not happen again.”
The gruff sounds of dismissal were, however, cautious, unsure. Even the formerly disinterested had perked up and were keenly scrutinizing their guest of honour turned mighty irritant—but over what? Whatever the answer, this qualified for the grossest violation of MMM present and past officers could recollect in their combined tenures, an ominous display of Bad Form. The surgeon seemed embarked on a relentless course. Something unusual, even abnormal, was taking place in this in effect second home of theirs. Looks of apprehension were fast turning into flares of outright repudiation. The surgeon felt doused down from his fiery heights, drained. All commencing spontaneity defused, he eased back into a quieter stance.
As his gaze swept round the room, identifying individuals as if for the first time, his eyes caught, through a split curtain, a figure within the small alcove next to the swing doors that led to the kitchen. One of those stranger-recognition flashes that could be a mistake or taunting semi-recall. Not that he could claim to have met all the members, but the figure struck him as simply not belonging, yet he felt he had seen him somewhere not unrelated. The man stood idly chalking the tip of a billiard stick while assessing the relative positions of the balls on the ponderous table, perhaps as old as the mansion itself but in its prime, well-preserved condition; obviously it enjoyed regular renewal of its green baize. Instinctively Menka raised his eyes up the walls to see if the alcove also held a dart board—he had never really explored the club for its facilities, he reminded himself for the thirtieth time and some. He sensed, strangely, that the figure, whose features he could barely discern, had been paying far closer attention to exchanges in that lounge than to the billiards table. Come to think of it, he had not heard one click of the cue against a ball, no sound of collision of careering balls, or one that signaled a drop in the bag. The presence of a suspect stranger may have contributed to his feeling of exposure, even a mild feeling of foolishness. He had begun as the star attraction and now, within less than an hour, was being viewed as a pariah. The presence of an eavesdropping, suspect member further eroded his sense of a deserved, even overdue call to order, left embarrassment in it place. It was time to head home. The final therapy for the day’s stress and excitation, dinner with his now thoroughly isolated self, beckoned.
As he slowly returned to the bar to pick up his present and leave, his gaze also reversing its line of observation, the figure was gone, as noiselessly as it had earlier filled the alcove while supposedly preparing for its next stroke. In the lounge itself, his interlocutors had drifted back to their interrupted exchange clusters, but only partially. The whispers varied. Some dismissed him as a crank or long-hidden bipolar; the rest remained simply puzzled by the abnormality of it all, the hostile accusation over something they could not yet fathom. Menka decided to pass through the billiards room, perhaps conjure over the dart board a few villainous in absentia figures that had contributed to his brain storm, then drill them full of holes—one of his secret modes of stress relief. He ordered another beer, downed it, turned to leave. And then, just as abruptly, he changed his mind. Irrational though he found it, the disappearance of an outsider, albeit so presumed, decided him. It was no more than an intuitive flash. This lurking figure—could he be the one who had failed to deliver the crucial message that had thrown his hospital callers into a quandary? The visitation had taken place only a few days before. Someone was to have delivered a message, to prepare him for the visitation itself, and hadn’t they mentioned something about this being a fellow club member?
* * *
—
The visitation had followed swiftly on the public announcement of the Independence Honours List, a bare three days after the award ceremony itself. Perhaps his callers had even watched the event on television, then met and decided to strike before others obtained allied ideas and netted their prize catch. Unlikely, but why take a chance? They certainly moved fast with the timing.
Recalling that day of his attempted co-option, Dr. Kighare Menka could only marvel at how incongruous yet logical it had been. The day had begun so quietly, almost lulling in its prospects. It promised to be a light workday. Just two minor surgeries, and he had begun to look forward to one of his rare early-closing hours. The usual rounds to check on his inpatients, then a drive to the club. That was his favourite hour, daily craved, grudgingly granted—the hours just after the departure of the business-lunch crowd and before the launch of the evening buildup by the thirsting faithful. They drove—or were driven—straight from offices, tugging off ties and abandoning jackets even as they strode through the oaken manorial doors. Today he would be one of those early birds.
Three men were seated in the corridor outside his hospital consultation room, obviously awaiting his return. That irritated him. It was not his outpatients day, and he had taken pains to give no one an appointment. Intuitively he felt that they were not patients. That assessment had nothing to do with the immaculate business suits worn by two of them, nor with the formidable polished leather briefcase sported by the younger-looking of the duo in bespoke suits. Menka’s quick eyes assessed its leather hide as being nearly an inch thick, as if specially built to withstand a bomb assault, festooned with an array of combination locks that stood ready to frustrate all but the most seasoned code breaker with a whole night and day at his or her disposal. Nor did the splendour of a full babanriga worn by the third, the flowing, ornately decorated formal wear of the northern part of the country, play any role in his quick assessment—it was simply his customary intuition. Whatever brought them to the hospital had nothing to do with their health, or indeed any health emergency. On the other hand, he felt a distinct, uneasy tremor over his skin, along the spinal furrow, whose reading was that the visit had everything to do with his, Menka’s, own well-being. It was again all intuition, he would later insist to his friend and confidant, Duyole Pitan-Payne. My spine tingled. So I grimaced inwardly, shrugged, then braced my shoulders and said, “Gumchi Kid, here we go again, let’s see what the cat has brought in today.”
On their part, the cats grinned most affably as he drew near, defeating Menka’s effort to ensure that they at least glimpsed something of his displeasure. If they did, it did not appear to faze them in the least. A seemingly coordinated beam split their faces, as if they were bearers of unseasonal but nonetheless good tidings.
“Were you waiting for me?” he asked. They had positioned themselves so that he could only squeeze between them to gain entry into his office. The youngest stepped slightly forward, his spare hand flashing a card that had remained invisible until the moment of presentation. The voice emerged in a practiced executive delivery, businesslike yet accommodating. “My card, Dr. Menka. Yes indeed, it was you we came to see.”
A cautious frown on his face, Menka ran his eyes quickly over the card. “Did my secretary give you an appointment? Today is not my outpatients day.”
The spokesman’s smile broadened. “We know, Dr. Menka. Today is your surgery day. We presumed on your indulgence. But we were also careful to check, and we saw that today’s surgery schedule was light.” He waved his hand. “May I introduce my colleagues?”
The admission merely increased Menka’s irritation. “Well, if you know so much about my routine, then you also know that this is when I make my ward rounds. I am now on my way to do that.”
“Of course, Doctor. We came prepared to wait. It is a matter of great importance, one that we believe will appeal to the love you hav
e of your very profession. But Doctor, may I first present”—again he extended his arm to indicate his two companions—“my superiors. First, my immediate boss and head of our northern operations.”
The indicated superior bowed, his card sleekly on offer. “Dr. Menka. We have heard a lot about you, even long before your recent state honours. My chance to say Congratulations, Doctor. Your great work among our wounded…we can never forget.”
Menka shuffled his feet in accustomed embarrassment, received the card, shook hands. The young master of ceremonies turned to the figure in the babanriga, whose card had also emerged from the folds of his attire. “You won’t recall me, Dr. Menka,” he drawled, “but we have met. A very long time ago—when we were both young and…eager. Idealistic also, if you prefer. We did our youth service together in the state. Even at that time you stood out among our batch. The rest of us—well, we were just part of the herd.”
Menka did not try unduly hard to task his memory—his batch had numbered over two hundred and fifty at induction, and he had served his sentence mostly in the hospital, interacted throughout with perhaps no more than a dozen or so of his inducted bunch. They were assigned from all over the nation and similarly dispersed after induction. He read the name on the card—Larinwa Odumade—and it meant nothing. “To be honest, I don’t recall…” he mumbled. Then, briskly, “Well, hadn’t we better go into my office? “His hand gestured towards the blocked entrance. They stood aside while he extracted a bunch of keys from his apron, opened the door, ushered them into his office, waited for them to be seated, then took his place by the side of his desk, standing.
They deployed themselves in what must have been an instinctive pecking order—Odumade in the only armchair, cushioned, into which Menka habitually sank after hours in the operating theatre. A straightback and a high stool served the other two. Menka then sat, half-arsed on the desk, one leg dangling. The obviously senior of the suited pair plunged into the order of events.