Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  No matter. Mack—that was the name of the gentleman—finally bowed to the doctor’s prescription and drank ceaselessly. His stomach bloated, but finally he felt the beginning of a redemptive flow. More laughter. Clapping interruption. The process was painful. If you ever have a choice between expelling gallbladder stones the natural way and doing it like a pretence Caesarian, don’t be brave. Just tell them, bring on the surgeon. By now the audience’s eyes are streaming tears of laughter. His wife was present. She held his hand and urged him to persevere. Mack did his manful best. In the midst of his anguish, however, he screamed, squeezed his wife’s hand till it bled, and threw accusations at the poor lady. “Betty, why you doing this to me? Why you trying to kill me? I told you to always make sure you pick out all the stones from the rice before cooking. See now how you going to emasculate your innocent husband!”

  Then, as the congregation’s laughter and exchanges roiled round the divine arena, the voice of the Worshipful Bishop Teribogo, yet another superb calculator of the dramatic moment, thundered across the arena and wiped off the smug countenances of his female listeners, focusing, from long experience, on an already selected two or three women seated together. Teribogo held his listeners in the cup of his hand. Changing vocal register, the superlative performer roared, “You find it funny now, but think for a moment. Sooner a million particles of stone in the gallbladder than a devil-stone in a woman’s womb. You can expel the gallstone, but where is that most brilliant of the followers of Aesculapius that can deliver you from the devil-stone in the uterus! Where? No, tell me. You know of one, point him out here and now! So there are those unbelievers who say barrenness is a medical condition? No sin is worse than ignorance. The ignorance as of that poor liberated slave from across the seas, who blames the stones in the rice grains for the stone in his gallbladder. Between one agony and the anguish of the devil-stone in the uterus, is there any difference?”

  In a concerted voice that nearly brought down the tarpaulin roofing: “No-o-o-o-o!”

  “I said, is there difference in ignorance?”

  And Teribogo would thereupon throw back his head and go into a laughter convulsion, then break off abruptly and resume the voice of the patient teacher.

  Immerse yourselves in the story of Sarah. What sin did Sarah commit? Did you read in your Good Book that she was wayward? Did you read that it was a punishment for unseemly conduct? Was she disobedient? No! Did she turn her back on God? No. But she was guilty of envy. Aha, you think you know the story? You think you know that story better than Papa D.? Yes, she was guilty of envy. She stirred up envy in others, and those others became enemies. They had something to avenge. They envied her status. Envied her success. Envied her demureness. Her humility. Her industry. Her family. Envied her very existence. And what did they do in revenge? Placed the devil-stone in that sister’s womb.”

  A devil-stone in the womb required deep penetrative ministration, administered by the physician of souls, aided by the church entirety as supporting cast and chorus, albeit unwitting, but in deep fervor. As ecstasy mounted, Papa D. would lead his child-starved supplicant into the multipurpose side chancel which served as private offertory, for registration of tithes, private prayers of “deliverance,” personalized sessions of blessings, consultations, and sometimes all-night vigils of the personal kind, where the supplicant might be advised to spread-eagle himself or herself stark naked before the mini-altar, on the cold cement floor, all night, sometimes for three or more successive nights, subjected to mysterious lashes in the dark by malevolent spirits. Occasionally these sessions were relieved by brief communions with the angelic touch with milk-white gloves. They shimmered into place, lifted the head of the seeker, administered a sip of “Jerusalem water” to the parched lips, which they then wiped daintily clean, and took their departure.

  On the memorable day, to the fervent chants and prayers of the congregation, Papa D. led this especial case to the miracle and delivery sanctum. She knelt on the padded stool, head bowed. Papa Davina went through the liturgy, intoned prayers, and liberally cursed the enemies who had inflicted such misery on his client. In the main arena, organ, choir, and congregation grew increasingly ecstatic. Papa D. placed his hand on her bowed head, most conveniently level with the storehouse of male procreative energies.

  It was a day of miraculous happenings. The preacher’s fervor, even his greatest enemies admitted, was unusually charged and infectious. If this was not spiritual arousal, said one faithful, then nothing ever was or could ever again be. On that day the prelate found himself in the throes of possession. The wand of blessing rose to the occasion. As the supplicant bowed her head, she knew she had encountered a rising obstacle and instinctively recoiled. This was not to Papa D.’s liking, and he placed his hand on the back of her head, pulling it towards the energized zone. The more she attempted to retreat, the more determined he grew, exhorting her to t’eri b’ogo! Again and again—t’eri b’ogo, t’eri b’ogo. It was a contest of organs, the musical pump artist equally possessed, perhaps in mystic empathy, while the spiritual carousal of Praise the Lord from thousands of voices continued to rip apart the sanctified air. The organist, accustomed to such bouts of possession and exorcism, increased his pedaling and pulled out all the organ stops, his eyes popping in a head that darted from vestry door to the assembly and back again. He knew what might be happening as even the heavy breathing became audible under the laboured t’eri b’ogo that emerged loudly from the ministering sanctum. And so, under inspiration, even possession, he continued to pump until suddenly the door burst open and the supplicant, all disheveled, burst through at the very moment when the priestly command, staccato and urgent, changed completely into an unbroken, ecstatic cry that would never be forgotten by a congregation, since all were instantly stunned into silence by the apparition that burst through at the very moment that Teribogo gave voice to that impassioned culmination: “T’eri b’ogo-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-o-o-o-o-ooooooo!”

  It went down as a day of miraculous delivery. Papa D. made an Oscar-winning appearance, microphone in hand, and what appeared to be scratches, a reasonably deep gash on his face, and a swollen eye, staggering only a little but in the main triumphant, as one who had wrestled and prevailed, a contest that he instantly captured in ringing outburst: The Devil was strong, but God was mightier! Alleluia!

  The congregation went frenzied. Revelation was imminent.

  Praise the Lord! Hallelujah, praise the Lord! Glory to him forever and ever.

  It was a day that turned legend, hailed as that blessed day when all skeptics were silenced. Were there not several thousand eyewitnesses to testify how they had seen the Devil, having taken possession of the woman, turn on the preacher in the seclusion of the vestry, pummel him with his own crozier, and reduce him to a pulp? But he fought back, the valiant prayer veteran that he was. Seeing what he was up against, the Devil reentered the woman, and what they saw was not the woman at all but the Devil which had taken her shape and voice in a bid to escape. Emerging, she stumbled and fell and promptly collapsed in a faint. The proof was incontestable: the Devil had been chased out of her, and the congregation went instantly into the triumphal mode. She struggled against their restraining hands, desperate to say something and attempting to point in the direction of the priest, but who was interested in what the Devil tried to say? The more she struggled, the more evident was the Devil’s continued presence. Her husband was the most fervent and inflexible. He gave her a huge punch across the breast which knocked out the rest of any breath in her sternum. She went limp and was carried into the recovery room by Teribogo’s uniformed wardens. The Devil was vanquished and—so goes this version—Teribogo was born.

  * * *

  —

  Sir Goddie was at his most affable. This was his last engagement for the day, and by preference he liked to end the day on a spiritual note. He had his own chaplain and chapel—it went with the position—but if t
he proprietor of Ekumenika was available, that prelate of many parts was his choice for intoning the day’s vespers. All staff was now dismissed. The pair could hold communion without a fear of profane ears or voices.

  “Come in, come in, Your Eminence. I hope you’ll forgive us the long wait, but it has proved one of those long days.”

  “I understand perfectly, Your Excellency. I understand. These are hard times.”

  “Take a seat, Papa D. Relax a little.” He pushed the crystal bowl towards him.

  Teribogo shrank back instinctively. “At this time of the night? The caffeine won’t let me sleep.”

  The People’s Steward grinned. “It’s from the prime ministerial pod.”

  “Ah well, to please you. I’ll keep one for the morning.” And Teribogo helped himself to a nut from the crystal bowl.

  Sir Goddie went straight to the point. “Bishop, we may have a problem.”

  “Our mission, Your Excellency the People’s Steward, is to solve your problems.”

  Sir Goddie leant back. “Are you sure that in doing that, you are not creating other problems for me?”

  Teribogo expressed shock. “Impossible. Your interests and those of the Lord’s ministry are too deeply intertwined.”

  “Does that include what happened on Ikorodu Road?”

  Teribogo nodded understandingly. “Ah, that. I did have a feeling it might alarm you. The moment I heard, my mind went to you. Indeed, I confided my concerns in God, I prayed to him, Don’t let our prime minister be unduly alarmed.”

  “Not unduly alarmed! What do you think I am made of? An atrocity like that! In broad daylight? Well, at least you don’t deny the divine hand was involved?”

  “A hand in what, Dr. Goddie? These weak hands of mine?” Teribogo spread out his hands, leant forward confidentially. “Sir Goddie, I know you are not a soccer fan. But at least you do follow some games.”

  “Soccer? What’s this about soccer?”

  “I shall remind you. But first, do bear this in mind. Apostolic work, no matter which religion, strives to bring all human beings closer to God. To Allah. If we succeed, we have done the work of God. In the process we may achieve other things, but basically our life mission is simply to bring the erring mind closer to the Almighty. Sometimes it takes effort. Planning. What matters is that it should succeed. We must never disappoint our Creator.”

  “Are you going to get to the point? I have been here since seven this morning! And yesterday was even worse!”

  “I know, Sir Goddie. I’ve been here nearly as long. Now, I was talking about soccer. You see, Sir Goddie, what happened on Ikorodu Road—I did hear of the awesome event, who hasn’t? Well, what I learnt was that on the one hand, a sinner was brought closer to God. At the same time, a lesson was also served on those who think they can impede the work of God. An open lesson. Not hidden. Two events coming together, the principle of confluence—do you get my meaning, Sir Goddie? But to achieve that confluence, it required yet another confluence. The confluence of time and place. Bringing two things together to form one. The police theory is that the victim had been followed all day, perhaps all week, until time and place came together as one. The confluence of confluences. That took some diligent work. I ask you, Sir Goddie, do you recollect the match between the United Kingdom and Argentina? Remember the controversial goal?”

  “No, I don’t. As you’ve observed, I have no time for soccer.”

  “There was a goal. Some cried foul. And so it seemed. The moment was caught on camera, played and replayed afterwards. How come the referee, the two linesmen were so positioned that they did not see the foul? The ball had indeed been handled. The goal remained validated. And what did Maradona call it?”

  Again Goddie conceded ignorance.

  “The hand of God.”

  12.

  Boriga or Bust

  They were waiting outside the billiards room when he emerged—Muktar; Costello; Baba Baftau, the one everyone called Old Man of the Desert; the treasurer Kufeji. While he was on the phone to Duyole, a faint glimmer, not too far off the mark, had begun to percolate through to the lounge. Not all but at least a few of them had heard stories, difficult to believe at first but increasingly attested. They had come to invite him to join them at a table in a secluded corner where a half-dozen other members had already gathered.

  “We need to know more,” Baba Baftau pleaded. Until then he had not taken part in the discussions, though he had listened to every word from his prayer corner.

  “I need sleep,” Menka protested. “Let me get my things and go to bed.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” Baba insisted. “Not more than half an hour, I promise. Take it as a hospital emergency. We are patients. We need some reassurance.”

  Menka took a deep breath, capitulated. He liked Baftau. After his phone call, he felt buoyant, liberated, as one who had finally taken a decision that was irreversible. Nothing else mattered. He sank into the seat that Baba had pulled out for him. They went straight into questions. His answers were given clinically, without emotion or commentary. He told them of the visitation of the corporate threesome and where it had eventually led the following morning. The suburb was known as Boriga.

  “Yes, I saw it myself. I was given a guided tour, all businesslike. The goods were on display. Rows and rows of body parts—thighs, ankles, necks, breasts and fingers, hunchback tissue, well preserved. Foetuses and reproductive organs. There were entire rib cages suspended from hooks—that was strange to me at first. But apparently if you imprison an infant within the rib cage and leave it there to die naturally—yes, that was the word—naturally, that is, from starvation, the baby’s vital organs produce a double, triple potency for something—I forget what precisely, but it had to do with longevity. Yes, all neatly arranged in refrigerated glass display cases. Preserved in alcohol. Sometimes in coconut oil. Professionally labeled. They even have a vault. Access granted to a very limited clientele.”

  “They have a vault?”

  A loud spluttering as Muktar nearly choked on his drink. A spell of racking coughs as his laughter competed with speech till he managed to expel his contribution. “A vault! Did you hear that? A vault. I warned you people it’s a waste of time. This man has been doing the pilgrimage rounds. Visiting all those vaults and catacombs of Europe and Jerusalem. A vault? What else?”

  Baba Baftau gave him a vicious look and pointed the way back into the lounge. “I thought we agreed we were to have a sober talk here. Ask questions. If you came on simply to have yourself some fun…”

  “No, he should stay.” Menka smiled. “A vault, I said. Like a bank vault where you keep private boxes with important documents and prized jewelry. Massive steel doors. Round-the-clock refrigeration. That is where they keep the heads. Both fresh and in various stages of desiccation. When I visited, I counted fourteen fresh skulls. All human.”

  “Did you ask how they came by them?” Kufeji queried.

  “No. I didn’t need to. They volunteered that information. You remember the luxury-bus crash at Lokoja, the media screams over a secret mass burial? Visit that supposed gravesite and see if you’ll find one single body beneath the disturbed soil.”

  Again, for Muktar it was too much to take. The man was raving! None of them denied that the media was an obliging source of prolonged banquets of sensationalism as the occasional grave robber was exposed, paraded, and prosecuted, but as organized business? His cranky guffaws threatened to resurface, so he quietly left the group, shaking his head. He had long come to his own conclusion for the seeming derangement—the doctor was a glutton for attention. The national award had merely fueled his hunger. Greedy for publicity, he needed to make himself interesting over and above his newfound fame.

  Kufeji decided to bring matters to a head. “Very well. The solution is easy. You say this is business? I am the treasurer—I’ll accompany you on your
next shopping spree. We both report back to the club members. Agreed?”

  That made Muktar pause in stride, listening. A calm response, however, sliced through the air behind him. He turned round, incredulous.

  “You shall. Tomorrow?”

  Muktar retraced a step. “Is the man serious?”

  “After this morning’s carnage in Sabo market,” Menka pressed on, “we are likely to have a few weeks’ respite. So before I get boxed in by the next emergency, no time like now. Let’s do it tomorrow. Crack of dawn. Shall we say six a.m.? It’s a two-hour drive from here, and their opening hours begin at seven, before the general office hours.”

  “I think I’d like to come with you both.” It was Costello’s voice.

  As a few other voices mumbled in the volunteer mode, the surgeon stopped them. “One more, maybe. Two at the most. They don’t like a crowd.”

  Kufeji looked at him intently. “If what you’re saying is true, don’t we have to be members—I mean, like a shoppers’ thrift club?”

  “No. Obviously you can only be introduced by an existing member. And you swear an oath of secrecy. You are obliged to take that oath. And you’ll have to make a purchase, no matter how small. Even a fingertip can be expensive—it all depends on your desperation, what your ritualist has prescribed, the timing and all that. Age. An infant’s finger may be more expensive than an old woman’s today, tomorrow the positions are reversed—and so on and on. The purchase is to commit you, to bind you as a participating member.”

  A voice piped up from the end of the table. “So what part did you purchase, Menka? Or perhaps in your case, what did you supply? I mean, given your profession…”

  “Exactly. That is why they approached me in the first place. I told you—maybe you weren’t listening! They offered a business partnership. As plain as that.”