Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  “Kiln ready stoked.” It sounded like an identification sign.

  “Matchstick and kindling.”

  “Gumchi Kid, that really you?”

  “Gong of Four.”

  Aware of his location, Pitan-Payne gave a quick look around. Nothing abnormal appeared to have been stirred into action. There was just Mr. Garuba, his equivalent. He continued on a more sober register: “That really you, Gumchi?”

  “Who else?”

  “Nightmare or what?”

  “No fun. Crack in the mould. Stand by to receive.”

  That elicited a sharp breath intake from the distant end. “Skin or deep?”

  “Skin.”

  “Dense or fluid?”

  “Both. But not desperate.”

  “Neither bone nor marrow? Be candid!”

  “Light bone. Just hairline. Metal fatigue. Nothing cooling kiln won’t heal. Mingling with a few old faces instead of total strangers. Often with no faces. Sometimes even better off without. Takes its toll after a while.”

  “You’ll never guess where I am—tell you about all that later. But I watched the ticker tape. The news seems bad today—the market blast. Is that it?”

  “Never anything specifically. But it takes its toll. Adds up with other things. Not apparent, but it takes its toll.”

  “All right. Firing time?”

  “This weekend. I’ll book my flight tomorrow and call you.”

  “Advance stoke?”

  “No, not on your side. Maybe mine. I plan to look up one of ours—Bade. The fearsome foursome rides again—wouldn’t that be great? Seen him lately?”

  “Hmm. Bothersome item. He also seems to have taken to iso. Like Farodion.”

  “Faro is a special case. I think we’ve lost him completely. He’s migrated—let’s hope not terminally. Not to the Great Casting Kiln. The company diminishes, I’m afraid.”

  “Bade is around, but not quite firing. He ran into some kind of trouble. Ironic, isn’t it? It was Faro one expected to provide that kind of gripe.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I know. He’s getting back on his feet. Very slowly. He’s been keeping to himself, that’s all. Maybe he feels he’s let the side down. Doesn’t take calls.”

  “The Gumchi Kid doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  That drew a chortle from the other end. “Doesn’t the world know it! Right on, and good luck. A big reunion dinner. I’ll alert Bisoye—no, maybe I’ll simply set up a surprise. No, best to start all over again. Elevate Bow-Out Rout to something else—have to think up what. See what you’ve done?”

  “All that trouble? I’ll cancel.”

  “Write your will.”

  “On my way.”

  “Whichever way—war or peace. Dead or alive. Be on the plane.”

  “As the crow flies. Will chirp.”

  “Kiln on stoke.”

  “Cross my bones.”

  “Gong of Four!”

  “Gung-ho!”

  “Four for one.”

  “One for four-o.”

  The celebrated surgeon Dr. Menka looked quickly around the alcove, checking that no one had been listening. A childlike, mischievous, but contented grin. He replaced the mobile in his pocket, squared his shoulders, executed a high five all on his own, and moved to continue his passage home, his stride transformed into a Richard Rowntree Shaft swagger, better known as stomping. As he pushed the curtains open, he surprised a small group gathered on the other side, obviously awaiting his exit. None of them failed to notice the mood transformation in the man who had harangued and implored them just ten minutes before. Tormented and tormentors alike, they stared at him in disbelief. Menka, at first startled by the reception committee, recovered before they did, winked, and moved towards the exit.

  Blocking his way, however, was the Old Man of the Desert, flanked by Costello. He looked at the gift parcel under Menka’s armpit and read accurately that Menka was taking his leave. He shook his head.

  “Doctor, you can’t just leave us like that. Some of us have questions that need answering.” He stood aside. “Come and join us at our table. Away from the rest. Where we can talk seriously.”

  * * *

  —

  At the other end, in Villa Potencia, Abuja, Pitan-Payne slowly replaced his mobile. Looking up, he saw Equivalent staring at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

  “Is that not some secret cult language?” he asked.

  Cheerfully Pitan-Payne reassured him. “Of course it is. Only four of us in the whole wide world speak it. We’ve lost touch for a while. Now talk to me about this masterpiece you’ve written. Fill in the missing nitty-gritties. I feel ravenous—your boss has proved most inconsiderate of my time, but that’s nothing to beat the way I feel starved for some insider stuff. How did you deal with that Bushman?”

  The special adviser looked disgruntled. “How did we? I don’t know. I was telling you—they kept me out. Top party hangers-on only.” His voice rose higher and higher with resentment. “I was only called in afterwards to be told by that Dr. Merutali—he’s the Steward’s official speechwriter—that I would have to make changes to my work. Only two hours given me, I couldn’t even go home for dinner. That is no way to treat an author. Writing a book is not the same as just writing speeches. I worked till midnight to make the changes. But that’s all right. If the Steward hasn’t signed off, who is anyone to go to bed? I like the way he leads by example. But that governor has a lot to answer for!”

  9.

  The Rumble of the Humble

  Who could ever have entertained a thought that a rookie politician, recently brought into the ruling party of People on the Move, had the ability to generate that stressful day for the Number-Two official resident of Villa Potencia! That assailed incumbent was none other than Sir Godfrey Danfere, Knight of the Order of Templars. Pitan-Payne was right—he had indeed spied a gaggle of party stalwarts, as well as the maverick proprietor of The National Inquest, filtering through security checkpoint number 3, but the crisis was over. What he had glimpsed on arrival was the team of party coroners moving in to take orders on designated lines of public damage control, report back to their chapters, set the ball rolling for the final set of primaries, armed with newly crafted party slogans. Chief Benzy had been summoned to affirm his role in the changed picture—the prime award of the annual Night of Nights and its prime feature, PACT, the People’s Award for the Common Touch.

  Normally unflappable, Sir Goddie had been badly shaken, his carapace of invincibility cracked—in an open field, and under the full glare of the public. A mere political neophyte, and a defector at that, had stolen his identity handle, and in the most brazen, matter-of-fact manner, as if the culprit had no notion of the commission of any crime, nor of the consequences of such an affront. It was difficult to believe, but when eventually called to account, the man was reported to have looked bewildered. He did not deny it, having heard of the adoption of that nom de guerre from the knight himself, yet he blithely proceeded to appropriate it as if it were just another lump of discard in a junkyard. And he continued to cry persecution all the way to his village and to any listening ears along the way.

  Pity, Sir Goddie’s handlers had failed to check the reasons why, despite his popular appeal in his constituency, the defector’s opposition party had denied him the governorship ticket. The ruling party was only too delighted to receive him, guarantee him his heart’s desire under its policy of SAT—“special automatic ticket.” As a party wag was wont to explain it, that policy assumed that you had sat—and passed—all the required tests and were thus qualified for whatever position was under negotiation. The party leader, Sir Goddie himself, candidate for a renewed tenure, had personally received him into his ruling party at one of the most intimidating rallies ever witnessed in the constituency of that v
ery ingrate. The affair was thus an open event, not a deniable glitch that could be shunted out of existence or memory, having been witnessed by a cast of millions and a few more million viewers on television. Sir Goddie had suffered the humiliation—all by himself and with a handful of his image-makers in the know—of personally handing over the party flag to the miscreant, anointing him the party flag bearer and inevitably the winner of the approaching governorship elections. Goddie rose from his elevated seat on that rally podium, symbolically handed over the party and state control to this upstart in his own state, raised his arm in a victory signal, jointly waved the enormous flag up and down and west to east, and chorused the party name and slogan combination, “People on the Move.” Then he was compelled to listen to the most treacherous acceptance speech in his entire career. He watched the crowd go into ecstatic applause for the blackguard, not one jot of suspicion on his mind that this anointed son was about to steal his identity, his political image stamp, in his very presence, to his own face. After handing over the flag, he returned to his seat, already bored by the familiar ritual, his mind only on quarter attendance at the rest of the proceedings. All of a sudden his wandering wits were jerked back onto the teeming plain of reality by an unprecedented rhetoric of pure perfidy: Once elected, I shall jettison the elitist title of governor and all its derivatives, connotations, presuppositions, circumlocutions, and other concomitants. I shall contest the elections not to govern but to serve. I therefore declare, fellow citizens of our beloved state, that I shall interact with you as your servant, not your ruler. On assuming office, I shall choose to be addressed as your Comrade State Servant—CSS for short—not as Your Excellency the Governor.

  Even the annunciation flam was copyright, stolen, claimed Sir Goddie’s team, nearly word for word by the scallywag—though that was somewhat unfair. Chief Akpanga never did see any such script, which was tightly guarded by Goddie’s chief image-maker and scriptwriter, Dr. Merutali, sometimes known as Dr. Fix-it. He insisted that the speech was nowhere near a duplication of what he was preparing—not even yet finalized—for his paymaster. Nonetheless, bemoaned Sir Goddie, this was a stab in the back, just the kind of slithery conduct expected from a green snake in the green grass. Akpanga was just like the palm oil he marketed—greasy—an unscrupulous opportunist—no wonder he kept jumping from party to party, the plundered knight raged. I did not know it at the time, but I had taken a snake to my bosom! That male Jezebel stole my image!

  Governorship primaries took place routinely before the prime ministerial, with the presidential tucked in between tenures since that event took place only once every six years. Maybe it was time the process was overhauled, with advance vetting of all acceptance speeches. All that for the future. For now it was a successful pre-emptive strike, a public relations coup, and the prime ministerial camp was justly miffed and disoriented. This was identity theft, plain and simple. By public proclamation, symbolically endorsed by the topmost figure of the party structure. Copyright now belonged irreversibly to the first open user. There was nothing his superior could do except grin without and grimace within, commence plans for Akpanga’s death from a thousand tiny cuts while simultaneously embarking on brainstorming to leapfrog the pesky footling a rung or two down the humility ladder. An internal emergency was declared. Orders were issued for a one-day retreat, at the end of which…! Or else!

  The Image Task Force was reconstituted. Debate commenced in the early morning after the historic rally, with the aggrieved leader himself presiding. This was brainstorming at the highest pitch, no time for peanut brains who merely filled up party-allocated slots in his government. When Shekere Garuba walked in, blithely assuming that his place at the session as author of a twenty-five-page biography, half of it full-page portraits and action photos with captions, was a foregone conclusion, Sir Goddie sent him out to go and fetch his bowl of kola nuts, then sent his secretary after to instruct him to hand over the stimulants to her and not bother to return. A firm believer in delegating, Goddie nonetheless entrusted weighty matters of state to no one but himself—he would stimulate ideas and cut out drivel. It was a difficult choice; he would have preferred to preside over yet another emergency session that was taking place simultaneously within the same power precincts, to turn the screw himself and watch the felon squirm. This was of course the trial of Candidate Akpanga for antiparty activities, identity theft, etc., etc. However, it did offer an opportunity to make a virtue out of necessity. So he invoked the principle of nemo judex in causa sua—never a judge in your own cause. He assigned the case to a reliable party stalwart, only incidentally an unapologetic Goddie diehard, while he presided over the more creative arm of damage control. The rapporteur for the trial was the versatile party intellectual and general Fixer Dr. Merutali. He was also the link for the antiparty tribunal.

  The transcript of the trial would become a party classic. It made for some soul-searching, not merely within People on the Move but indeed as a reference, cautionary document for other parties in their eagerness to field electoral “sure bankers.” Treasured excerpts, especially those that raised Akpanga’s stock as an underrated political orator—officially leaked, some alleged—escaped party censorship and eventually found their way into the notorious social media. While there were undoubtedly suspicions of doctoring here and there, the main extracts were generally agreed to be authentic, based on Akpanga’s own account of his ordeal when he returned to a hero’s welcome in his village and was formally fêted by the chairman of his local council.

  Akpanga, it would appear, stood trial on two counts.

  Transcript from the Trial of Chief Governor-Designate Akpanga for Antiparty Activities and Conduct Bringing the Party into Conflict, Indiscipline, and Disrepute: Count I. PLAGIARISM AND IDENTITY THEFT.

  “Chief Akpanga, you know why we have summoned you to this meeting, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. You say I commit crime against the party. I still don’t know what crime.”

  “You have done great harm to the party that welcomed you to its folds. You have repaid the party openness with malice and ingratitude.”

  “This is persecution. You know I am popular. I am the only one who can win that seat in my constituency. Why are you people persecuting me?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Akpanga, we will ask the questions.”

  “All right, I am here to hear you. Ask your question.”

  “Good. We shall go straight to the point. First, do you deny that you paid a visit to the leader, Sir Goddie, to formally thank him for approving your admission into our great party?”

  “Yes, is that not customary? Is that not what our culture tells us to do as Africans? I went with full entourage. And I took him four baskets of yams, two rams, a coop of guinea fowl. Go and ask them at the security gate, where they took charge of everything.”

  “They were duly delivered—please, let us avoid digressions. We want to get to the point quickly.”

  “All right, continue.”

  “When you met the leader, Sir Goddie, what did he tell you?”

  “He welcome me like his own son. He serve me kola nut and I take oath over schnapps. He give me his special telephone number and tell me to call him day and night. Anytime I want to talk to him, he say, just call him.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “I thank him. I tell him I am ready to serve People on the Move body and soul. I tell him my loyalty was now fully with People on the Move, not with those useless people—”

  “Right, Mr. Akpanga, very good. Do you recall how you addressed him?”

  “Yes. I addressed him with all respect. I say to him, Your Excellency, I have come here to—”

  “Stop there, Mr. Akpanga, stop right there. You addressed him as Your Excellency, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what did he say?”

  “He stop me, just like you do just now. He sa
id, No, no. I want you to address me as National Servant. That is how I intend to be addressed. I want to do away with Excellency. No more Excellency this, Excellency that.”

  “Yes?”

  “So I address him National Servant, sir. I say, National Servant, sir, I have come here to thank you. I add sir because everybody know he is a sir, and also he be my superior.”

  The trial jury looked at one another, their eyes alight with relief—and surprise. They had expected stout denials. This made it all easier. The prosecutor flung his arms upwards.

  “So you admit it.”

  “Of course. What is there to deny? From then on I address him National Servant, sir. At home, after the rally, I even refer to him as Our National Servant.”

  The party prosecutor now proceeded to give every word full gravity, stabbing the air in the direction of his chest.

  “And yet, knowing that, the following week of party primaries, in your acceptance speech, fully aware that that designation had been taken by the leader, you proceeded to appropriate it to yourself in your acceptance speech.”

  Akpanga turned from one persecuting face to the other in mounting disbelief. “What is wrong with that? I wanted to show loyalty. Is he not our leader? I like the idea, so I follow his example. Are we not the same party? Where is the problem? He is for centre, we are just state, so there is no confusion. I think everyone should do the same thing.”

  There was silence in the trial chambers. Finally:

  “Chief Akpanga, have you ever heard of identity theft? Do you know the meaning of copyright? Legal or moral, it doesn’t matter. Copyright is copyright. Are you aware of copyright?”