by Wole Soyinka
“Yes?”
“Your Excellency, I’m so sorry, but my assistant wasn’t ready with the package.”
“What!”
“He didn’t know that we’d brought forward Mr. Pitan’s appointment to this afternoon. We shifted it on account of yesterday’s marathon.”
“He must be an idiot. Does he think they’re laggards at the UN like all you useless people around me?” Sir Goddie turned to Duyole. “I’m sorry. I told them to prepare a package for you—something to show the government’s appreciation, and of course our pride. Just a token.”
“If Mr. Pitan-Payne could wait a few moments…” Garuba began.
“If Mr. What could what what what? Send it after him. Take his address and see that it is personally delivered to him before he takes off for New York!”
“Apologies, Your Stewardship. We shall do exactly that.”
“Now see Mr. Pitan through security and bring yourself back here. The night is not yet over, so don’t disappear with him.”
“Will take care of him, Your Stewardship.”
Engineer and Equivalent departed, leaving Sir Goddie alone—at least, so he thought. As he shushed close the heavy door after him simply by swiveling round and resting his back on it, he scowled at his reclining chair, seeing there the ghost of his predecessor. He rewarded that dislodged occupant with a further snarl for having bequeathed him a possessed scientist by the name of Duyole Pitan-Payne—yes, talented and all that, no one denied it, but what the hell! Was that why he should keep making trouble for everyone? Well, good-bye to bad rubbish. He heaved a sigh that resounded through the labyrinthine corridors of power. Then he clasped his hands, rubbed them together, interlocked the ten fingers to support his chin while shutting his eyes tight and pursing his lower jaw upwards—it was his terminal sign of satisfaction. If the engineer carried the same mentality to the UN and they kicked him back home, it no longer mattered. His impact thereafter would be considerably diminished. This was Nigeria’s own slot, and they would have no problem filling it with someone more deserving. The nation was not short of experts in every field, and nobody would accuse the government of sidelining or suffocating talent—every inch of the way, they had done everything to make full use of him. Records don’t lie.
He had forgotten the presence of his chief of staff, who had stood to one side of the departing pair. He coughed discreetly to make his presence known. Sir Goddie was startled.
“Oh, you still here?”
“Sir, you said you would give instructions about his outstanding fees.”
“What fees? He knows what to do, otherwise it’s lapsed. I expect to hear from his Old Man latest tomorrow night. He at least doesn’t encourage throwing government money back in the government’s face.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And we have one of his close cronies in our clutches—corruption network. We’ve checked—the fellow is not really part of his business outfit, but they are close. They are not only close, the criminal is a founding member of this overreaching Brand of the Land. All we have to do is tag them a secret cult—we have the full story of the founding members and what some of them have been up to lately. A bunch of drunks to start with—can you imagine that? I have the lowdown. The social media will do the rest. He cannot afford a scandal, not at this stage. The UN won’t stand for it.”
“Your Stewardship is absolutely right.”
“I’m letting his father handle him. Nothing directly from me—I don’t trust his kind. He strikes me as capable of anything.”
“We know that type, Your Stewardship. You can rely on us to do the needful, sir.”
“You do that. Is Oromotaya still waiting?”
“No, he left, Your Stewardship. Together with Dr. Merutali. Said I should let you know that they’re having dinner with the first lady.”
“I’ll join them later. I’d hoped that engineer would also join, that’s why I kept delaying him. But he’s too pig-headed for his own good. Either his old man brings him round or you make sure his file is lost in the system. I’ll deal with the useless file he sent me before he quit—as if the nation doesn’t have enough on its hands as it is.”
“Very good, sir.”
“The only problem is that he managed to get a copy to the president. That’s not convenient. Our president often forgets he’s a party member. All this non-partisanship nonsense once you sit on the presidential chair—he actually takes it seriously! All right. If needed, we’ll just have to remind him that all shit may smell different, but it still smells. But he’s in good standing with Oromotaya. Keep that in mind. It means Mr. Benzy now has a copy. Has had one for years.” He clutched his head. “I don’t know how I am supposed to deal with all these nasty variables.”
“We’re mopping up the copies, PS. And we can always denounce them as forgeries. Dr. Merutali knows how to handle that. The president knows how he got elected, sir, so I wouldn’t waste much sleep on him, Your Stewardship. Everyone knows how they got where they are.”
“They’d better. That’ll be all. Oh yes, send in that numbskull as soon as he returns. Oh, anyone else waiting?”
“Just the Indian, PS.”
The People’s Steward slapped his forehead. “The geologist, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t see him. Not today. He had a bad experience in Zamfara and I don’t think I want to cope with that right now. When gold—the real thing or the black gel, doesn’t matter—when it gets mixed up with religion, prospectors must learn to expect the worst. Tell him I can’t see him today.”
“If I may humbly suggest, Your Stewardship, maybe just shake hands with him? He’s been waiting longer than the engineer, and he did have a very unhappy experience. But he is not deterred and wants to return. All the reports show he’s a genius at detecting gold deposits. I think he’s a useful man to know, PS, sir.”
Goddie became thoughtful. “All right, all right. Bring him to show face. Just a few seconds.”
“Very good, sir.”
One moment Goddie was waiting impatiently at the door. The next moment he swiveled and bounded back inside, making a straight dash to his desk. He grabbed two kola nuts and made it back to the door as his chief of staff returned, the Indian prospector in tow.
“Sir Goddie—so kind of you, Your Excellency, so kind.”
“I am so sorry that this has been such a bad day at the villa. And I hear you had an even worse time in Zamfara. But you must come back. There are places my own experts can suggest to you. We certainly need you here.”
“You are most kind, Mr. Prime Minister. I have to fly out tomorrow, but I shall be back. I shall be back because I know there are rich resouces within your soil, and we wish to do business with the country.”
“You will be doubly welcomed. My CoS will give you the numbers to call. And here”—thrusting the kola nuts into the bewildered hands—“you know about kola nuts, don’t you?”
“Absolutely sir, absolutely. I see them in the markets. They were all over Zamfara.”
“They are a symbol of friendship, among other things. Take them with you. Have a safe flight and return soon.”
Bowing in great elation, Dr. Mukarjee was finally ushered off, all his terror of days in Zamfara hived off him as if they had never been experienced. He had been briefly kidnapped but was quickly rescued by the civic vigilantes. “Most daunting experience,” he continued to declare for weeks thereafter. “But the deposits are even more daunting.”
The pair were replaced almost immediately by the special adviser, breathless from his semi-trot back to his boss.
“Is that preacher still around?” Sir Goddie demanded. “What does he call himself these days?”
“Teribogo, Your Excellency.”
“Ah yes, Teribogo. Send him to me”—indulging in his broadest, unquestionably his most s
elf-rewarding smile of the day. “There’s no harm also soliciting some, er, divine intervention over this one. I think Mr. Pitan-Payne’s case calls for multiple insurance.”
Shekere Garuba relaxed, sensing that the day had worked exceedingly well to his boss’s satisfaction. He felt sufficiently emboldened to take a parting liberty: “Bishop Teribogo? Ah, Father, is that you?”
For a brief moment the People’s Steward hesitated—was he letting the young rascal become too familiar? No, he decided. His upbringing ensured that he knew his place. So Goddie threw him a conspiratorial wink, which he followed with a kola nut, The young man caught it, then prostrated himself full-length in gratitude. This was indeed the ultimate sign of acceptance. Uriah Heep finally felt himself absorbed into full family membership.
11.
The Hand of God
Teribogo, known more affectionately as Papa Davina, was now fully established in awareness as not one of your common run of preachers. He was a study in difference, and innovation. Indeed, the prestige media, in their dedicated pages on spiritual pursuits—published Fridays and Sundays—often lauded him as the future of the Call, if God himself were to survive and Satan driven to his primordial hole. Satan is a Bushman, Papa D. was fond of preaching, and together, with the force of our prayers, we shall shame him back to his jungle lair! For a class of followers, such heady imprecations would sound crass and insensitive, but Papa D. was nothing if not combative and controversial. He reserved such rhetorical flourishes for his open services at the base of his operational hill, Oke Konran-Imoran, which, translated in the true spirit of canonical—twin to poetic—licence, meant the Mountain of Faith, Counselling. In ecumenical alternation, encouraged, indeed enjoined as an article of expectation for all true believers, was its equally revered version, Oke Ariran, the Mountain of Vision. Propagated as one and the same, they were united at the spiritual confluence of the supervising ministry, registered in the Company Affairs Commission (CAC) as Ekumenika Ltd. Papa D. led by example. In the tradition of officially bilingual nations such as Canada, Papa D. was famous for never completing even the tiniest phrasal fragment of any pungency or mysteriousness without ensuring that he had given it utterance in more than one language.
Services at the mountain base took place in a vast outspread Y-shaped space, whose stem was open on all sides to wind, rain, beggars, goats, and chickens as well as hawkers of snacks and multinational gadgetries, including motorcar spare parts. By contrast, at the remote end of one arm was a nearly soundproof aboveground bunker. This served as vestry and meditation space and housed individual prayer cubicles. The other arm terminated in a special soundproof “confessional,” dedicated to Papa D.’s famous ICDs—Intensive Care Delivery rooms, where extreme cases were delivered of the devil and all his works. Delivery could involve prescriptions such as self-flagellation and other forms of self-mortification, including but not limited to sessions of cold baths in the central sit-in, larger-than-life baptismal-cum-redemption font. The sit-on ledge onto which the faithful descended from floor level was a solid marble block from Jerusalem, reputed to be from the same marble deposit that produced the covering slab of the Jerusalem sepulchre. It was a replacement of the former, lighter slab, which had served faithfully until it was smashed by the descent of one of his more ponderous followers, known as prayer warriors.
The lady drowned, in full sight. The weight of her transgressions obviously smashed through the flimsy marble top despite the scientifically supportive buoyancy supposedly provided by the water. The same oppressive weight of unexpiated sin prevented her from raising her head above the merely three-foot-deep waters, certified imported from the Lake of Galilee. She choked and drowned, flailing in what the small gathering thought were ecstatic motions. Teribogo gave several media interviews on the cause and effect of that event, contrasting it favorably with the toll of over three hundred pilgrims from across the continent incurred by the Church of the Blessed Saints whose new building, then under unlicensed construction, collapsed over their heads. The substitute marble block, evidently impervious to no matter the weight of future burdens of sin, was gladly subscribed by his grateful congregation at one single session of pledges, all promptly fulfilled on the next bank working day.
That powerhouse, as it was widely known, directed the affairs of the ministry. The rest was simply the all-comer open space, roofed by tarpaulins and corrugated iron sheets, occasionally demarcated by bamboo and raffia stalks. The space could accommodate a cast of thousands, doubled and tripled, even quadrupled during religious seasons. Services were round-the-clock, often conducted by well-trained subordinates. But mostly the apostle himself presided, preached and ministered to all humanity without discrimination as to gender, age, class, profession, ethnicity, nationality, or spiritual erratism—a term that Papa D. respectfully applied to all who commenced with different faiths but had come to realize, or were on the way to accepting, the error of their ways and had begun to grope their way towards the one and only truth—ecumenism.
It was no secret that Papa Davina’s distant model was the charismatic Father Divine of the black American Peace Mission, early twentieth century, who, Papa D. was convinced, had died with the stigmata of martyrdom on either palm and both feet. While he adopted a tweaked version of the name, he did not thereby discard his own, Teribogo, which may or may not have been his real name anyway. Perhaps even he no longer recalled the name that had been conferred upon him at birth, or it had gone through so many incarnations that it no longer mattered, nor did he care. Some claimed that Teribogo, the sobriquet on his calling card, one that offered him a tenuous hold on identity with Yoruba-speaking parts of West Africa, was possibly not his own but a product of malicious conferment at one of his earlier evangelical bases in a different part of West Africa; Ivory Coast was mentioned.
One of Papa D.’s envied talents was his ability to convert even the most negative event or mere imputation into a positive asset. Thus what was rumoured to have originated in some scandalous past became a thing of treasure and emulation as he migrated to a new location and reinvented his ministry. All preachers worth their salt have their signature tune, a sound bite or exhortation trigger. Teribogo was the one that became thoroughly identified with Papa Davina: Bow your head into glory. His confident attachment to the name gave the lie to malicious versions that were peddled about its origin—would any sane man parade, including on his gold-lettered calling card, a name of dubious, especially salacious, antecedents? The name gave power to the word, most especially during “delivery” sessions. Nonetheless, that irreverent version of its origin persisted, spread by skeptics and prurient revisionists. Papa D. remained indifferent. Let them continue to imperil their souls by tarnishing a product of divine inspiration. Papa Davina, self-repatriated to the grotty suburb of Lagos known as Mushin, was aka Teribogo, and this became a household name for all who sought divine guidance and intervention, despite being a victim of the profane proliferation of apocryphal lore instigated by sinful tongues.
It had all happened, it was claimed, during one of Papa D.’s exorcist sessions—that is, in the presence of more or less a five-thousand-strong congregation. The crucial event took place out of view, in the special, privileged section, but not out of hearing of an assemblage that had itself attained that level of paroxysm of worship to which, as in all things, while all may partake, only a few are called. The most common cause for spiritual intervention that Papa D. handled was, as might be expected in a society plagued by rabbit envy, childlessness, a condition that stigmatized women, very often without just cause. Slowly, and with enduring skepticism, scientific explanations were permitted to percolate through, including the blasphemous theory that the cause of this condition could possibly emanate from male deficiency.
The history of the afflicted woman followed the accustomed route. It resulted in its apportionment to the portfolio of devilish possession—her womb had clearly been seized upon by the Devil, sque
ezed dry, and blocked from germination. The Devil himself had been contracted, no question whatsoever, by a neighbour enemy. Papa D., a seasoned raconteur, acquired fame—or notoriety—by his in-depth knowledge of that affliction, a knowledge that he imparted through illustrative tales that were uproarious, disarming, and thereby satisfied the yearning of his audiences for a rational explication of the mysteries of diseases. The woman’s predicament became the anecdotal vehicle that transported his audience to distant lands and back, even while the remedy itself lay in the inner sanctum of Teribogo’s Mushin prophesite. Papa D. took his audience on a ride from reality to virtual reality and back, leaving them fluttering like butterflies in a wind stream. With a deadpan, unemotional mask over his face, Papa D. plunged into the Lagos lagoon, resurfaced in the African diaspora of the West Indies—Jamaica, specifically—dispensing laughter and merriment along the way, until it was time to explode presumptions of cause and effect.
This reminds me, dear followers in Christ, of an expatriate from Jamaica who for days had been experiencing acute pain in his urethra. The problem was diagnosed, and he was ordered to drink gallons and gallons of water. For our poor sufferer, this was worse than the ailment, since he had a great aversion to any water treatment except under the shower. Titters. This in turn made his wife wish that his aversion to water was total and all-inclusive. Why so, you might ask? I shall tell you. Once he was under a shower in our notoriously hot, humid weather, it became a problem to get him out! Laughter. It was worse when he chose the bath, because by the time the bath was halfway filled, the water supply, which was usually little more than the average of a cupful for each household, totally dried up. It led to petitions that he be assigned a special hour, after the entire block of flats had had their turn. [Don’t we all know it? Tell it, Papa. Let the Water Corporation hear it!]
Teribogo paused. He smiled. He raked in the entire prophesite with an indulgent smile. Only those who had never heard of Papa D. committed the error of thinking that he was ever contented with extracting only one moral lesson from one story. The homily was yet nowhere complete.