by Wole Soyinka
“Doctor, we know you’re a busy man, and please accept our apologies for the intrusion. We are not here to waste your time. Or ours. But first let me add my congratulations to those already expressed by our young manager. We’ve come to invite you to come on our management board. That’s it, sir. The decision was taken quite a while ago, but we were waiting for our chairman to return to the country. He has been on a world tour, broke it off specifically to be able to join us in this approach to you. We’ve been extending partnerships across the globe—”
Menka raised his hand. “Wait, wait, wait, Mr….” He quickly shuffled the cards to refresh his mind.
His guest assisted him. “Rakuniwe. Dr. Rakuniwe. Professor.” He gave a self-deprecatory smile. “Not a real doctor like you, I’m afraid, just the usual PhD. My real field is agronomy. I specialize in agric economics.”
“Yes, Professor. I was about to say that I still do not know what partnership in what. I am completely in the dark about what has brought you here, gentlemen.”
Rakuniwe’s startled gasp was followed by a prolonged silence. Stopped in stride, baffled, the trio looked at one another, then at their equally baffled host, their faces gouged in frowns as deep as their commencing beams had earlier marked their confidence. The opening interlocutor, the young executive, rose slowly to his feet, the shiny briefcase sliding to the floor—he had forgotten that it rested on his lap.
“Dr. Menka, are you saying that you have no idea, no knowledge at all, regarding what has brought us here?”
Menka shook his head. Firmly. “Not a clue.”
A medley of deep sighs ensued. The trio went into a huddle, from which eventually emerged a protesting voice, the young executive’s. “But, Doctor, our intermediary assured us that he had spoken to you. Not made an offer—that was not his brief. We are here to do that. But the nature of the business, surely…”
“I know nothing. This is all very strange.” He held up one of the cards. “This is my first intimation of what this may be about—‘Primary Resources Management.’ Coming across it for the first time.”
“United Against Waste,” the professor intoned, almost with a touch of solemnity, tapping the card at the bottom.
“Yes, I can see that. Your mission statement?”
“Precisely,” said the young executive, relieved and eager, as if, despite the earlier setback, they were finally on common ground. “That is what we do, Doctor. Prevent waste. We engage and maximize resources. Human resources.”
After which all three kept silent, as if no other explanation were necessary. Dr. Menka glanced at his watch, looked up at his visitors, and found all three pairs of eyes on him, boring into him as if the guarantee of their entire purpose of existence were hidden somewhere within him. But he equally awaited elaboration. None was forthcoming. He decided to break the silence.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to do my ward rounds now. If you’d like to explain how you do that—this initiative against waste—and what you really want of me…”
The director of projects glanced at his chairman. He received a nod to proceed. “Doctor, it’s all rather awkward. You see, we were assured that you had been duly briefed. Someone was sent to see you, one of your club members who knows you very well—at least, claims to. He was supposed to have laid the grounds for this meeting. Now we find ourselves in a difficult situation. We don’t quite know how to go about this, and we were wondering…”
The chairman decided to take charge. “Why don’t you come with us, Dr. Menka? I mean, come and see our operations for yourself. Then you can decide. It is not one of your run-of-the-mill businesses, not something you come across every day, but it’s gaining ground. It’s spreading. Expanding all the time, and it is highly profitable. You’d have noticed on that card that I’m an economist, so I know what I am talking about. And I can predict that it is only a matter of time and it will be quoted on the stock market.”
Menka tried to interrupt, but Odumade persisted. “I know, I know. We shall take you to the site of operations so you can see for yourself. It all falls squarely within your profession. Where you come in is simply…your professional expertise. Prestige. And position. Our mission goes beyond waste management—you could even call it waste prevention. Right now it might seem that we are moving too fast for our time, but believe me, we have assessed the way society is tending, and we know this to be the business of the future. We have placed ourselves at the forefront of that future.”
The doctor felt he had had enough. “Gentlemen, my staff are waiting for me.”
“Ah yes, of course,” sighed the man called Odumade. “We should release you now. How long do your rounds normally last?”
Menka’s short fuse came to the fore. “Excuse me?”
“Your ward rounds. How long would that take?”
“I’m sorry, but I do not see why I should predict that to total strangers.”
“I am not a stranger to you, Dr. Menka. I am not approaching you as a stranger.”
Menka was startled, then angered by the abrupt change of tone. Did he sense a tinge of menace? Instinctively he responded in kind. “You are a stranger. I do not remember you from anywhere or anytime past, and frankly, I prefer to leave it that way.” He rose. “And now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me…”
“Sit down, sit down, Dr. Bedside Manners,” the man shot back at him. He swept the air with his wide sleeve, signaling a clear intention of staying put. “Or, if you prefer, why don’t you go off on your rounds? We’ll simply wait for you to be done and then we’ll resume where we left off.”
For a few moments Menka stood, stunned. Aghast. Then he burst out, “You will do what?”
“Wait here for you. We came with an offer. A partnership.”
“And I am not interested. I don’t care if you came to offer me the presidency.”
The man chuckled. “No-o. Something a lot more modest. But definitely of interest to you. Please, go on your rounds. We have a long afternoon ahead of us. We’re taking you on a ride—oh, sorry, bad choice of expression. Not that kind of a ride. Just a physical ride. On the bumpy side, but that’s only a small stretch of the way, and even that is being taken care of. I promise you, Dr. Menka, it is one ride you will never regret.”
The surgeon, known for outbursts that made acquaintances wonder how he ever acquired the title Dr. Bedside Manners, finally found his voice. “You will have something to regret if you do not leave my office—now! All three of you—get out!”
Odumade settled back in the chair even more comfortably. “Regret? I like that word. Do you sometimes think back on things you regret, Doctor? Have you any regrets at all? Anything in your entire existence that you regret? Think back, Doctor, think back. Take your time. We are in no hurry.”
And now Menka found himself bereft of speech. Blackmail? Was this a blackmail session? His mind flew backwards over the years, wondering what immense crime he could have forgotten, of such weight that it armed his uninvited callers with such confidence. Try as he could, he could dredge up nothing. Then he saw the one whose card read “Director of Operations” move towards him, his tone placatory.
“Permit me to intervene, Dr. Menka. I apologize. I am truly sorry that things have taken this, er…rather hostile turn. That was not our intention. Totally at loggerheads with what we anticipated. I think it all has to do with, obviously, the missing link. We expected to meet you already in the know. Apparently not. The chief has just flown in from a prolonged tour, so, if I may say so, Chief, that made you somewhat irritable. Professor, am I right?”
The professor mumbled something incomprehensible but appeared to be simmering down. Menka did not feel the least bit mollified.
“You came into my office to blackmail me? Over what? Blurt it out! I dare you.”
“No, no, no,” the peacemaker persisted. “Dr. Menka, please, take my word for
it. He spoke out of turn. Let’s do it another way. We’ll take our leave now and leave you in peace. I’ll give you a call, Doctor, then come back and see you in person. Without the chief. He resumes his tour tomorrow, so it’s just we, the locals, with whom you’ll need to relate. We know the score. I’ll take you round our operations and you’ll see for yourself.”
The other partner had also risen. “Yes, let’s do it that way, Doctor. Please. I add my apologies to his. There has been a misunderstanding. We can still make this happen—it’s a matter of mutual interest. Right now we need also to have a word with our failed intermediary. We need an explanation from that partner. And a new date for the ride. We’ll clarify everything.”
“The sooner, the better,” Menka agreed. “I’d like to know what this is all about.”
“Is tomorrow soon enough? It’s a Saturday.”
Menka shrugged.
The executive picked up his briefcase. “Can I meet you here tomorrow morning? Same time as now?” He looked at his watch. “Eleven a.m.?”
Stone-faced, Dr. Menka nodded agreement.
* * *
—
That visitation and its morning after fully on replay, Menka fell completely in tune with his decision—he would finish what he had begun, take his leave, and never return to the club. The certainty destabilized him somewhat—a phase in his life had come to an end. He was spending his evening at the Hilltop Mansion Club, partaking of that ambiguous fellowship for the last time. As he rose, he heard the sound of a coin rattling down the metal chute of a jukebox in the recently abandoned alcove. The nearly totally forgotten relic, retained as an antique curio, found itself resurrected and recruited—perhaps to pre-empt a resumption of hostilities by the guest of honour? Or maybe to restore the ruptured ambiance of the club. It was an incongruous object in such a setting and was clearly tolerated for its very oddity, rarely played, a modern acquisition in its time that lingered on to augment the pub veneer already established by the billiards table and dart board. Suddenly given voice, the neglected jukebox rose to challenge the routine of Hilltop Mansion for the second time that day. Menka paused, his gift parcel in hand, then began to walk slowly towards the secretary, making it plain that that was his destination, for all the world unfazed. Arriving by his side, he waited the few remaining minutes for the track to end. In any case, it was a soothing melody, nostalgic and appropriately scratchy. It sang of a vale somewhere in the rusticity of the homeland of the original owner and donor. Against the weaving hills of Jos, that exile had perhaps sought to project the lulling evocation of someplace called Derry Vale in his nostalgic mind. Its strangeness momentarily tempered the generated heat and also gathered together the scattered shards of accustomed cordiality. Menka arrived at the secretary’s table and stood beside him, the only way he was certain he would be accorded attention; even placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and glued him to his seat with a pressure that was anything but hostile.
As he sensed the approach of the last violin whine, Menka raised his hand in the direction of the alcove to forestall a repeat. If necessary, he was resolved to raise his voice above any renewed din and generate a clash of decibels. His determination alone, he felt confident, was sufficient to floor any jukebox of twentieth-century manufacture. However, his voice remained under control, evenly modulated, conciliatory, but paced rapidly also to prevent the insertion of another disk or any dissenting effort to shout him down.
“One moment, please, just one moment. I owe you all an apology.”
It worked. On the word apology, the putative disk jockey—it was Chudi—stopped, other heads turned in his direction, and ears perked up. Menka further placated them with a shy shake of the head, his hands raised shoulder high in a gesture of peace. “I agree. I should have gone into the mission box. I didn’t even remember its existence.” He expelled a mild snort. “Mission box! Most appropriate. Some of us have been bitten by the missionary bug, excessively, and I am speaking of both the main waves of religious exporters—yes, those missionaries. Anyway, there it is. We all know the society we live in. I just happen to be one of those who actually bathe in its offal. On a daily basis. Child rape. Child sodomy. Mutilations. I’m a doctor. I treat cases. I have studied victim and violator. But mostly all those derive from a sickness. They are the sick ones. Perverts. Plus the quota of morons who have simply abandoned conscience. They believe that sleeping with a three-year-old will change their lives for the better. Will win the American lottery. Or local elections. Or that sprinkling their food with powder from a smoked human kidney will make them live longer. We have overtaken South Africa on the index of casual rapes.” He paused. They were still free to suspend him for breaking club rules—it was his valedictory speech, his parting gift of something to take home to wife and family.
“Yes, I should use the suggestion—sorry, mission box. But I have just remembered also that it is my night.” His smile was self-mocking. “I am the guest of honour, right? Club rules entitle me to certain privileges. I’m nearly done, I have just one more question, and then I’ll go home and leave you alone.” Again he paused, cleared his throat. “Have you asked yourselves why it has been so difficult to stop rhino poaching?”
Again a puzzled silence. He chose not to prolong it, offering the answer himself. “Of course the answer is obvious. The horn. And for that, you must first shoot the rhino. Pass all the UN resolutions you wish, the Japanese will pay astronomical sums for a pinch of rhino dust. And you all know why, don’t you?”
The atmosphere changed, shed a large wedge of hostility; the tension eased and the laughter turned salacious. Virility jokes and gestures passed from mouth to mouth, snigger to snigger, then petered out as a voice quietly admitted—a voice upped at last. “I know I must be slow, but I still don’t get the connection. What have rhino horns to do with this?”
“Myth. Just myth.” Menka sighed. “Medically it’s all nonsense. There is no ivory component in Viagra or any of its effective predecessors or successors. It’s a myth. So is the heart or scrotum or pubis of a human, pounded or stirred into pottage, in this rampaging obsession to get rich. But there are hundreds and thousands who believe it. And a handful take it sufficiently seriously as to lose all human compunction.”
“So? What’s the issue for us, Doctor, please?” It was Kufeji, the one who had started it all. “And this time, to the point.”
“Supply and demand. The law of supply and demand comes into play. And that is what, frustratingly, most of us refuse to contemplate. Both the state and ordinary citizens like you and me. We keep talking about the sick ones who would kill anyway. But what of the sane ones, at least the ones we call sane? Look around. You need to take a very good look around. Don’t we all look sane? We get drunk, but eventually we sober up, we return to sanity—agree? But who knows where some of us do our shopping?”
Menka waited. He seemed perversely resolved to ensure his complete isolation, and in that he was clearly succeeding. The response was not long in coming. It was Muktar.
“You have something to urge on the rest of us, Doctor, right? Well, just say it. You are the guest of honour. You have the floor, but don’t overdo things.”
Menka’s voice turned nearly pleading. “Yes, I do have something on my mind. It’s been growing in me. Call it a nightmare, if you like. Over and beyond the tumours I have to examine, then decide upon—leave well alone or take it out. I sometimes feel that everything I read in the media is addressed to me. Personally. Yes, that’s the truth. The hypocrisy we all live. And the nightmares. No, no, no, this is not an accusation flung at anyone here, no. I have no grounds for that. But you see, this club is not the entire world. It is not even the real world. I look around and yes, we all look so safe, it makes us complacent, underestimating what is out there!”
Menka held up his hand to quell the rising murmurs of renewed protest. “Only a few more minutes and I’m done. It’s about
time you learnt something outside your professional stockades. I just want you to know that some places exist that many of us know nothing of. Maybe the club can play a role, maybe not. I don’t know, but I must make sure you cannot claim ignorance after tonight—call it the missionary in me. If I fail to bring you into this…well, just say I couldn’t live with myself after tonight. After all, this is not supposed to be a club of ostriches—please, be patient. You see, your men of power, your sanitized community leaders, moralizing from soapbox to pulpit and minaret and back again—you should try and get to know them better. You might meet them coming from strange places, places you don’t wish to know of. Places where they do their shopping. But what kind of meat do they buy? Kufeji, you began all of this—that’s what I am talking about. It’s all there, in that news item. I’ve been there. I was taken there. And at such times I wished I believe in a god, so at least I could have some entity to blame for abandoning humanity. The rest of the time I wish I had taken to a different profession.”
“Oh, come on,” protested Costello.
“That’s God’s truth,” Dr. Menka stated, his voice matter-of-fact. “Not that I believe in him. Or her. Anyway, that’s the end of my spiel. I wish to thank you all again for honouring me. I am going home now to open my gift.”
Menka walked away in the silence, passing again through the billiards room, perhaps in the hope that the lurking figure would emerge. He was increasingly convinced that it was the missing emissary. There was only the disk jockey, Chudi, and he hurriedly skipped into the main lounge, unsure how to deal with any further outburst from a seizure that he could not quite diagnose. The doctor took a deep breath, took out his mobile phone, and dialed his “twin,” Duyole Pitan-Payne. His shoulders seemed to loosen as he heard the voice at the other end, his face slackening in relief for the first time that evening, from the first sound of the familiar rumble. Any chance listener would have been confounded by the cryptic exchange that followed, since it did appear to transmit sense between the two. It was clearly responsible for the mood change that overtook the surgeon at the Hilltop end of the exchange, a change that was in stark contrast with that of the recipient at Villa Potencia, Abuja.