Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  “Oh, you mean I didn’t copy it right? Is that what you call antiparty activity? Eh, we can always make correction. If it is a matter of grammar or spelling, nobody is above mistake…”

  At that point, it is reported, the chairman of the trial panel called for a recess. The jury went into a huddle to consider the disconcerting turn that the trial had taken. When it was time to resume, the chairman recused himself from further participation in any trial that involved Chief Akpanga, pleading health reasons.

  * * *

  —

  In a separate chamber in the same wing of the presidency, around a ponderous conference desk, the more cerebrally strenuous exercise attained fever pitch—a search for a substitute for the now-compromised designation. The machinery was ready; the graphic artists awaited the logo to move into action with images. The printing press yawned for fodder—time was short, and Sir Goddie on the impatient side. Glad he was that he had chosen to preside, because no sooner was the session open for suggestions than a primed, overeager voice proposed “the Nation’s Serf.”

  One look at Sir Goddie’s face was sufficient. The peon tried to recast, refine, etc., but it was too late. The bellow “Take your yam pottage brain out of here!” found him already at the exit, fulsomely apologetic, to be formally banished and confined to his office until after re-inauguration. Slave as a proposition—“Slave of the State”—fared only less suicidally. The proposer raced to place it within a rhetorical frame—“I stand before you, a Slave of the State,” etc. It did sound less repellent than Nation’s Serf, but Sir Goddie pronounced it slithering too slimily obviously down the chute of self-abasement—to be expected only from Pharisees and Sadducees. The proposer suffered the fate of his predecessor, with just a few refinements in administrative castigation.

  The “People’s Valet” was next to surface. It rated very high—so many angles to it, it struck an exotic tonality, and after all, did the party election promises not include a cleanup undertaking? When taken with “Grooming the Nation for the 21st Century,” it became even more acceptable.

  The American-trained member of the Image Task Force, however, wrinkled his nose—it did not smell quite right. In the U.S. of A., he reminded his colleagues, the valet was the garage flunkey. He relieved clients of their limousines, stacked them, brought them out of confinement when the clients were done with their business lunches, dinner dates, shows, or shopping sprees. Was the prime minister of the most populous black nation to be conflated with a mere parking attendant who earned a living from tips? What did it matter if some of the more upscale valets were so snooty that they refused coins—even if the coins exceeded the customary tip—insisting always on the “rustle of greenbacks”? A rustle would be strange to his compatriot big men—notes rustled mostly in isolation, and local players were more accustomed to the thwack of landing packs, high domination, mint fresh, always in hundreds. Only then did counting make sense and save labour. And so on and on, the arguments swayed this way and that. In-house, much-traveled professors were summoned to join the discourse. They trooped in from the Ministries of Culture, Education, Mass Communication, Business, etc.—drop everything and report to the presidency immediately! Over coffee and akara bean cake, crunchy chin-chin snacks, alligator peppers, kola nuts, and other instant energy inducers, they strained to find the perfect fit within the adopted twinning of service and loyalty. “General Factotum,” “National Supervisor,” “Overseer,” “Field Worker,” “Foreman,” “Attendant General”…

  Finally, towards evening, a timorous voice belonging to a Youth Corps intern just graduated from the Institute of Theological Studies piped up: “Steward, sirs? How does Steward sound?”

  There was silence in the conference room. The eyes of the principal himself lit up like twin fireflies. “The Nation’s Steward,” the hesitant voice further amplified. The brainstorming paused in stride. Each expert checked other faces for reassurance—somehow it sounded a reasonable fit—finally resting on Sir Goddie’s face, awaiting verdict.

  Independently of desperation for leftovers after intellectual larceny, there was, Sir Goddie felt, a finely adjustable, double-, even triple-decker signification about the consolation title—the Nation’s Steward. It suited a governance source from which orders emerged, yet insisted on acting subordinate, and with plausible dignity. Steward dispensed that faint suggestion of being in charge, unlike Servant, the very function of which the intended beneficiary, Sir Goddie, temperamentally detested, though he had not really found it untenable before it was stolen. It went beyond sour grapes, however. It had to do with his knighthood—a sir was a contradiction of the servant’s functions. The notion of serving brought out his most irritable moods but also the most colourful, memorable declamations, of which perhaps the oftenest cited was “I prefer to sock it to them rather than suck up to them.” That enjoyed the liveliest retransmission from desk to desk among the villa staff. “Didn’t I order you to kick some arse?” came a close second favourite. It attested also to his familiarity and identification with the reported sally from a past American president during that nation’s ritual of televised debates—Hey, did we kick some arse?—unaware that the microphone was still on.

  Sir Goddie silently wrapped his lips around the proposed designation, chewed it a little, and found that, yes indeed, it was palatable. A creature of deep religious convictions, he found it immensely evocative. There was a theological redolence about stewardship that he had already begun to mentally explore—Let us remember that one day we shall all render account of our stewardship on earth, etc., etc.—that suited a full-time commitment to the management of property and possessions in the here and now. The leader was lost in a reverie, a parade of images of those stewards of scriptural chronicles, sometimes entrusted with the total control and management of households, thrones, and commercial empires. The icing on the cake, however, was summed up in its popular, nonspecialist understanding—stewardship as camouflage for power under the servant’s livery. He especially delighted in the implicit dissembling—stewardship. So, he knew, would his campaign manager, the party caucus, and all. The spin doctors would be enraptured. It was a clear case of having one’s cake and eating it, currants, trimmings, icing, and all. And of course he would nod bashfully when they all came to congratulate him on his choice—genius, Sir Goddie, pure genius.

  “Out of the mouth of babes…” he began, only to raise his hand to restrain other hands poised for relieved applause. “But not quite. Close, very close, but not right on target. The People. Change Nation to People and what do you get?”

  A cementing chorus filled the chamber: “The People’s Steward.”

  The newly employed domestic beamed. “Nation? State? You leave that to the internationalists. On home ground, always give pre-eminence to the people. It doesn’t get more grassy-rootsy than that!”

  That same evening the theology student was moved from internship into a permanent position in the ministerial office. It contributed to Shekere Garuba’s general disgruntlement.

  The most pressing business of the day had ended in triumph, a dangerous outsider checkmated. Re-designation settled, the task of organizing supportive images could begin in earnest. There was much catching up to do—a different yet related tournament was at hand, and other contenders had enjoyed a clear run so far in acquiring credentials for that contest. Sir Goddie’s mind had already shifted—it could occupy fifty different planes at once. Now it raised itself up to an even higher level of aspiration—PACT! The annual People’s Choice Awards. Alas, there also lurked the same stalker, the ubiquitous Chief, now Governor-designate Akpanga. Accustomed to being on the side that dished it out to others, Goddie began to wonder if he had not become a victim of undeclared persecution. Was Akpanga’s defection to his party genuine? Or could it be part of a cunning design? The man had to be a plant! It was not simply that he quit, he was sent! His mission was to undermine the ruling party through a fro
ntal attack on the leader’s accustomed state of being in charge.

  Designed as the people’s answer to the “elitist” Independence Day Honours List, the alternative event was nearly as good as an election ace in hand. That it should fall in the wrong hands at election time was not a welcome prospect. It went beyond the award itself. The maverick media proprietor exerted such influence that he was assiduously courted by no matter what government was in place. His journal, The National Inquest, was a fearsome weapon of subjugation that made even the powerful occasionally pause before taking a dubious plunge. Oromotaya’s award Night of Nights was, without argument, the event to beat. In Sir Goddie’s campaign strategy, it stood to reason that his new identity as the People’s Steward would constitute a distinct advantage in securing nomination for the most coveted of the awards of the People’s Choice—Dr. Merutali himself had not failed to stress its importance at strategy sessions. It was not, he was quick to point out, a matter of life and death. However, the role of The Inquest in swaying votes at election time was ignored only at the candidate’s peril, and a YoY Award was the most visible evidence of endorsement by that institution. The party had done its “arithmetic, cashrithmetic, and thuggerithmetic,” courtesy yet again of Sir Goddie, and would still win without it. Nonetheless, it was a feather that deserved its place on the knighthood cap—actually the elongated gondola-shaped hat of the Knights Templar. The first and major step was to secure nomination, and from a prestigious source. That done, the rest was easy.

  Governor-elect Akpanga, in all innocence, had no notion whatsoever of the full extent of the grounds on which his servility gambit had so blatantly encroached. Nor was he even aware that he had been scouted and was now shortlisted for that same apex award. Akpanga was simply one of those products of Nature upon whose heads the wand of recognition lands, without any effort on their part. An oil producer and marketer—the palm oil of human, not machine, consumption—Akpanga was accustomed to working arm- and knee-deep in the gooey cholesterol-saturated product, noted for its deep red-purple intensity. He had laboured side by side with his workers ever since he had first learnt, as a barefooted, semiclothed urchin, to extract the precious colloid, easily the densest cooking oil humanity ever forced from spiked clumps of kernels that ringed the neck of the palm tree. Even squirrels, whose favourite snack it was, found negotiating the spikes to sink their snouts into the kernels a sometimes thankless exercise, the harvest hardly worth the labour. Such a parable of Nature made for irresistible promotion images and campaign copy—it was a predictable leap from “from a nest of thorns, the kernels of life” to “from a nest of thorns, the kernels of wisdom”—words that his party would come to regret as each public appearance became a source of escalating embarrassment on every occasion that Akpanga left his comfort zone. At the time of the find, however, he was the political catch of all time! A godsend. The oil man was a natural, and soon pithy comments wrapped in folksy renditions found themselves attributed to the successful oil merchant, sometimes with his head emerging from a penumbra of kernels. His presence at campaigns guaranteed a down-to-earth dimension, a public relations dividend of minimal labour investment. Akpanga’s own election trajectory was one of a constant shoo-in—beginning as a town council member, unchallenged in his own milieu of a once-overlooked constituency. From there, all proceeded exactly as Nature prescribed. Palm oil had furnished him with all the wealth required for each succeeding step. Akpanga became a rallying point for others. Soon he found himself referred to as Godfadda Junior—the position of the godfather of all being conceded to Godfrey Danfere by universal consent, even across party lines. With the first taste of office, and with prodding from calculating interests, came the state of addiction. From local councilor to chairman, then House of Representatives…Finally, at the approach of the next elections, Akpanga declared, Governorship or quit!

  The ruling People on the Move Party, proudly known as POMP—We are the people of pomp and majesty, Guardians of the people’s sovereignty, etc., etc., went the party anthem—desperate for a foothold in a tantalizing zone that controlled a fair percentage of the other, more potent oil deposits, offered it to him with no strings attached. His departure was a mixed relief for his original patrons, and they wished his new party the best of luck. They’ll find out, all in good time, smiling behind their hands but of course condemned to endure the jeers and taunts of the sour-grapes morality tale. How right they were after all, lamented Sir Goddie, the man had nothing in that skull but clotted palm oil. No matter, his punishment awaited him, governor or no governor—if he cared to look up, his neck would twitch from the dangling object known as the Sword of Damocles. Right now it was time to concentrate on the main target—the Festival of the People’s Choice, and its highly prized awards of the Yeomen of the Year. Sir Goddie had his eyes on the prime prize, and if the palm oil tycoon chose to act spoiler just one more time…!

  Engineer Pitan-Payne! In the day’s to-ing and fro-ing, he had forgotten all about him. Feeling genuinely contrite, he had already reached down to press a button underneath his desk when he heard the knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The caller was Dr. Merutali, the image-maker, fresh from the Chamber of Inquisition on Chief Akpanga’s misconduct. There was a sly look on his face like one who was trying hard to suppress a smile, and Goddie instantly bristled. Only a handful of individuals, of the caliber of Teribogo and Dr. Merutali, enjoyed the right to walk in on the prime minister without first checking in with the chief of staff.

  “What have you got to smile about?”

  A calm, not easily ruffled operator, used to handling clients from bilious monarchs to wheedling entertainers, Merutali moved to the Steward and laid two neatly typed sheets of paper on his desk, took a seat, and helped himself to a kola nut.

  “I think all competition is over. We can proceed to elections.”

  The People’s Steward pulled the folder closer, opened it. “This had better be good.”

  Transcript from the Trial of Governor-Designate Chief Akpanga for Antiparty Activities and Conduct Bringing the Party into Conflict, Indiscipline, and Disrepute: Count II

  Acting Chairman: “Let the records show that hearing by this Special Panel resumed at 4.30 p.m. under a new chairmanship. My name is Ogusuigbe. The former chairman has requested to be relieved owing to an attack of migraine. Everything else remains the same. Chief Akpanga, are we ready to resume?”

  The accused, Chief Akpanga, having indicated his readiness, the acting chairman continued.

  “Chief Akpanga, we have also been delegated to look into an incident that took place at your home two days ago, in which the police had to be summoned and arrests made.”

  “Good, I am glad the party has noticed how I, number-one citizen of my state, am being persecuted.”

  “You are not yet number-one citizen, Chief Akpanga.”

  “By God’s grace, I shall be. Just a few more weeks and I shall take office. God has said so. The promise of God is a pledge that will not be broken.”

  “As loyal party members, we share your hopes and prayers. But right now we are here to ask you some questions about how truly loyal you are to the party, especially where its public image is concerned.”

  “Fire on. If it is a matter of image, try my loyalty and see.”

  “Do you consider yourself loyal to our leader, Sir Godfrey Danfere?”

  “If I am not loyal to him, who else will I be loyal to?”

  “Do you accept that you have a duty not to tarnish his image, or the image of the party?”

  “As far as I am concerned, the leader is the leader. We must all queue up behind him.”

  “Good. Now take your mind back to last week Friday. Did you receive some visitors in your home village?”

  “Oh yes, many people came. They came with camera and made video all over the place.”

  “Did they tell you the reason
they were doing that?”

  “Something about the Festival of People’s Choice. They said they wanted to put my name down for an honour. Some prize they want to give me on their gala night. They were liars. They just came to look for my trouble.”

  “They came to look for your trouble? Isn’t it the truth that they came to film you at home and at work?”

  “That was what they said. And I let them do what they want. They make video everywhere—me and my family. My workers and so on and neighbours. Then they come into the house and start asking questions. That is when trouble start.”

  “What sort of trouble, Chief Akpanga?”

  “They insult me, so I tell them to leave my house.”

  “They insult you. How come?”

  “They take their photos, come into the house, then come and insult me. They said they want to award me because I am a common man.”

  “You’re talking of the YoY Awards, of course. The Yeomen of the Year, with the Common Touch Award at its apex.”

  “Yes, that is the one they mention. That one is insult. I am a governor-to-be. Just because I come from the village, is that why they should come and give me a common man award? I tell them to pack their things and get out of the house. I tell my people to chase them off my land and they must never come back.”

  “Mr. Akpanga, these were people from The National Inquest. They were offering you nomination—”

  “You were not there. I was. They should not come and tell me I have a common touch. Would you take that kind of nonsense?”

  “But did you have to be violent?”

  “Who was violent? It is my house. I cannot take that kind of nonsense anywhere, how much more in my home. Just because I follow my leader and call myself Servant of the State, is that why people should forget I am going to be governor? Is that a common rank? What is wrong with special award—that is what I expect, a special award. What business do I have with a common one?”