Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Next came the unofficial but profound ritual finale—the real meat on stiff bone. Did that really follow? Menka interrogated the night. For that was the dusk-to-dawn shindig at the class nocturnal “mortuary,” where bottles of multinational breweries and distilleries breathed their last. A Nissan shed for stadium equipment at the southern end of the football field was transformed on Convocation Day by fairy lights, the revelers outfitted in extreme team-supporter attire complete with scarves almost the length of the distance between the twinned goalposts. There he openly articulated, in between hiccups, his oath that, come coups, come nation dissolution, secessions or bankruptcy, come marriage or family, he would build a first-class diagnostic clinic with his own hands in Gumchi village. The rest of the diminished band had no special agenda of their own, their graduation being between a few months to a year ahead. In any case they had only come to celebrate with him, so they formally, solemnly laid hand over hand and swore to join in bringing the dream of the Gumchi Kid to reality—One for four and four for one, ever the Gong o’ Four forever! (Repeat four times, slap thighs four times, bump bottoms four times, drain the tankard in four gulps, and clink upended tankards four times. Repeat till only one contestant left standing.) The entire ritual could have emerged only from the sadistic mind of Duyole, though he took pains to admit that it was only an adaptation of a far more ancient drinking ritual from roistering Vikings in the ninth century. No matter, it was then flushing down student brains at their union bars, dedicated to a mysterious Cardinal Puff—I drink to the health of Cardinal Puff for the first time tonight, etc., etc. Duyole had traveled down from Salzburg to a warmer Bristol. He mulled over Kighare’s dream for less than the disposal time of one pint of beer, promptly offered to design and build the clinic in a place he had never even visited, only heard of—and only through its solemn-minded overseas ambassador, Kighare. Once he had established his engineering practice in Lagos and had it running, Gumchi, he promised, would taste the weight of his dedicated genius. All ended up with a commitment to visit Gumchi within the first year of their return to the homeland.

  The other two remnant members, recently elusive, chipped in, adopting portions of the scheme as suited skills or temperament. Badetona, suave corporate finance trainee, would generate the funds, extracting loans from stingy banks. Farodion—Menka again shook his head, mystified. What on earth had happened to our fourth member? Duyole might have been the hyper-efficient organizing mind; Faro was the live wire, heart and soul of the group. Talking of dreams, now there was a dreamer! Tended towards speaking in riddles, nonetheless dreamt big. His ventriloquist turns, acutely rendered, made him the performing star of gatherings, indeed once earned him a cameo voice role in a Disney cartoon. Mention popularity with the fair sex: the common wisdom was, stick with Faro and at the worst you would get to console his rejects. Strange, he had dropped out of sight completely! Simply vanished. A smooth talker, he dreamt of launching a film industry long before the thing called Nollywood. That man of many talents undertook to equip the Gumchi clinic with state-of-the-art electronic marvels, digitalized to the last disposable injection needle, guaranteed to bring Gumchi ancestors, in whose names he took his participant oath, back to life with one virtual jab. Space-age health delivery? Watch this space! Yes, that was Farodion—back in Sierra Leone perhaps? He did claim his mother was a Saro, a descendant of the Yoruba slaves who were replanted in the soil of Sierra Leone after rescue on the high seas by patrolling British antislave ships. No matter, who ever succeeded in checking any of Farodion’s multiple claims? They changed all the time, and sometimes in the most contradictory manner—which biography did he occupy at that moment? Perhaps the Sierra Leone internecine inferno had consumed him?

  Hopefully, nothing worse than dispersed, like the others of course, just like their vision of youth. Careers, marriages, families, a civil war, military coups, religions—all took their toll. No one actually said, Blow the dream, no. It simply faded, receded into the mists of idealism. Abuja, Menka thought, with pointless resentment, played the largest role in the sabotage—too bad Gumchi was saddled with a neighbor that eventually became the choice for a “nation-unifying capital,” the choice of a military dictatorship. To start with, who would now go seeking diagnosis and treatment in Gumchi when the nation’s capital had moved close by from Lagos, just a stone’s throw from the village? Even that loyal scion of the rockery settlement had to admit the problem. He bit his lips in disappointment, swallowed his pride of birthplace. There was no need for words—it was all understood—the Gong was released from its pledge. Life proceeded normally, staidly, profession- and opportunity-driven. If fulfillment and/or commitment required extra stressing, Boko Haram was gestating round the corner, readying to test Menka’s skills and resilience in the theatre of emergency operations—pun definitely approved, he vigorously nodded.

  But now—and for Menka it was truly the final straw—a different kind of awakening, a different turn in the rites of passage: the unexpected call by the unusual business consortium and its proposition. It was already happening. It had become routine under him, right under his professional punctiliousness. It all contributed towards the startling outburst by the Gumchi outsider in gross violation of the norms of propriety of a British former colony-within-a-colony, the ecumenical city of Jos. By then the stubborn Gumchi streak had melted into, then become inextricable from the surgeon’s ingrained discipline—everything thereafter went into a spin. That vortex threatened to swallow him; it was something he sensed. His medical instincts prescribed a breathing spell…

  At which point both body and brain had taken enough. Dr. Kighare Menka finally fell deeply asleep.

  * * *

  —

  Early the following morning, it was not his phone alarm, set for five-thirty, that woke him, but a pre-emptive call, about twenty minutes before the alarm was due. The caller Duyole Pitan-Payne, and with no trace of any Gong o’ Four banter.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Duyole?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Turn on your television.”

  “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

  “Just turn it on. Get the news.”

  “What channel? What’s happening?”

  “Any channel. Your club is on fire. The Hilltop Mansion.”

  “What! Where are you?”

  “Still in Abuja. I was up early to catch the first flight back to Lagos. I switch on the TV for news and what do I see? The old club engulfed—the entire hill seems to be on fire.”

  “The hill? What hill?” Still trying to shake off inadequate sleep.

  “The Hilltop Mansion, Club, whatever you call it. Where your club is—or was, from what I’m seeing.” Duyole could hear Menka scrambling awake, perhaps trying to locate the remote control. “I imagine this will affect your plans, no?”

  Menka’s voice was now tinged with anxiety. “But that’s where I live. I’m here…where’s that damned control?”

  “You live on the same hill? Where the clubhouse is?”

  “That’s what I said. My apartment overlooks—”

  Banging suddenly erupted outside the bedroom door. Menka raised his voice. “Just a minute…Hey, Duyole, there are people at the door. Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m right here. What’s that noise?”

  Towards the door, Menka bellowed, “Who is it? Just hold on, will you?”

  Duyole’s voice became anxious. “Maybe you should answer the door, Menka. This early morning—were you expecting anyone? It may have to do with the fire.”

  The banging intensified but was now joined by multiple raised voices in full-throated panic register: “Doctor! Doctor! Are you awake? We’re evacuating. Everyone, out!”

  “Menka, what’s going on there?”

  “Coming, coming…Hold on a moment, Duyole.”

  Duyole’s voice brooked no dissent as he shouted, “G
o and answer that door, Kighare. Call me later, but answer the door. Now! Right now!” And he switched off his phone.

  * * *

  —

  Immediately outside, on the segregated lawns, were fearful batches of humanity, coverlets wrapped around them against the cool mountain air that was turning quite warm with wind blasts coming up from fires that seemed to strain at the leash from a yet safe distance. A short perimeter beyond the flames were also rudely aroused forms, but mostly in silhouette, framing the hillsides. Menka moved instinctively to his customary lookout position, from where he would sometimes confess, I feel lord of all I survey. This time, however, he would confess later to irrational moments when he felt that the fire actually took the shape of straining bloodhounds already primed with the scent of the very clothes he had hurriedly put on, so that they seemed to be headed straight for his bungalow, and specifically for his person. As a spectacle, the fire lacked nothing. It appeared to have a mind of its own but a mind of focused malice, with a quality of elemental force, indulging itself in serial morphing, just to confuse the watchers about its real intention. It certainly held the gazes of the hillside residents, dislodged from their homes, not to mention those in the plains below who had been aroused by the unusual crackles that carried far, as well as human agitations at that time of the night. Sometimes the flames appeared to race at a crouch, bent double by the very firestorm they raised along the tunnels formed by the ranges, as if they planned to encircle the buildings and trap the watchers, then consume them in one concerted, omnivorous sweep, only to change tactics, spring upright to full height, then lick the granite bowls clean towards the rims. Abruptly the outbreaks changed formation, swirled like colourful, performing masquerades, and at a signal bore down the mountain slopes at a speed designed to mesmerize, intimidate, then overwhelm their captive audience gathered below. The fire seemed humanized, orchestrated, malevolent. What appeared to be a series of cavalry charges down those slopes turned the flames into a phalanx of pennants that melted into one another, separated and regrouped, then whirled around at astonishing speeds down different inclines, disappeared into deep gullies only to levitate virtually under the noses of the hastily improvised firefighters and the two dilapidated trucks that had nonetheless set up a heroic line of resistance to the onslaught. Unfortunately, they lacked water. Again and again the resistance fell back. And then this demonic horde paused, as if surveying the rout, smacked its lips in satisfaction, then turned its back disdainfully and virtually strolled off, dwindled away in innocuous flickers, only to break out at a different compass point in a calculated feint, forcing the two-piece fleet of trucks to change their defensive line and select yet another line of resistance. Never did symbolism aspire so heroically to potency since, lacking water, it remained a mystery what difference their “tactical” change of position was designed to effect.

  At one stage Menka thought he could count three separate fires on the leash, working independently, ravenously exploratory. Then, even as he tried to recall if anyone he knew lived in those locations, they moved on in opposing directions, consuming what appeared to be the line of domestic staff quarters, which also contained sales shacks and a poultry farm. He saw the cages encircled and dissolve. The units then converged, compared notes, separated once again, and resumed probing lunges, belching hot wind as they advanced. It was the turn of the white-collar homes. For that sector they appeared to have adopted a pincer movement straight out of military textbooks. Skeletal frames in the car park already signaled the scale of devastation, and he could almost follow the fiery traceries along the ivy that had once covered the mansion frontage, including the porch to the massive doors. Just beyond, as if to confirm the execution of a well-laid strategy, the cavalry of flames that had lain camouflaged at the deepest inlets of the valley, the same cavalry line that had retired out of sight along the further valley trough, sprung its ambush, pennants ablaze. With a triumphant roar it levitated and charged up the lower peaks, gathering strength, then swept towards the main water tank, where a uniformed figure struggled with a rusted faucet that appeared to have been sabotaged ahead of the invading force. Menka looked at those flames and it was as if it were a personal thing, a unilateral declaration of hostilities over a piece of real estate that he had not been aware was under dispute. After all, he had never claimed ownership. It was all government property, and his monthly rent was automatically deducted from his pay.

  He watched the futile line of residents passing buckets of water from hand to hand, turned back to his bungalow, and began desultorily to pack his possessions.

  13.

  Surgical Transplant

  The early-morning call did not resume until midmorning, as in between, Pitan-Payne was airborne. More calmly, against the remote backdrop of a charnel house that was once known as Hilltop Mansion, Dr. Menka, the night’s reminiscences totally forgotten while the club exchanges of the previous night resounded with total clarity, the house now stood charnel for a lot more. Such as perhaps an entire era. The panic and evacuation exchanges of the early hours were also forgotten. Roles reversed, the engineer accurately diagnosed the doctor’s dilemma. He moved to prescribe for it in the only way he knew how. It was no longer sufficient to bring him into mere reconciliation with a move from Jos as inevitable. The man from Gumchi needed to be cajoled into a state of mind that saw that the turn of events, even while signaling an end, also aligned with the dream they had all shared from youth. He had to be persuaded that the move was in fact a base for fulfilling pledges, bringing closer the core vision that had driven them over decades.

  Impatience racked him throughout the flight to Lagos, which of course seemed endless. No sooner landed than he dashed into the VIP lounge, tucked himself into a corner, and dialed. Menka’s report was straightforward: “It’s all gone, Duyo. The Hilltop Mansion is gone.”

  “But are you all right? Your bungalow?”

  “No, we were never in serious danger. A bit of a threat, yes, but not much. The mansion was the real target, and that was thoroughly consumed.”

  Silence followed. “Any explanation? Suspicions?”

  “Nothing yet. But it was clearly a case of arson.”

  Another silence followed. “No reason to change your plans, is there?”

  “Not in the least. I need that break more than ever.”

  “I’m thinking beyond a brief break, Kighare. On the flight, I couldn’t help thinking—maybe it’s time you made it permanent.”

  Again silence.

  “Are you giving it some thought?”

  “Everything has moved rather fast. Haven’t had time to bring you up to date, but much shit has been hitting the fan of late. I don’t know how soon we’ll all get spattered.”

  “Then move, Gumchi. Just move. Do a transplant.”

  “A what?”

  “A transplant. You’re a surgeon. You do it all the time.”

  Menka was thrown. Transplants? It sounded as if Duyole had been at the Hilltop Mansion when the recent waves of body adaptation had come up for that impromptu, bitter airing. For one fleeting moment he almost wondered if Duyole was the vanishing figure in the alcove, listening to the exchanges. The absurdity of it made him fear that the events of the past twelve hours had unhinged his mind. Almost fearfully, he probed, “What are you hinting at?”

  “You. Or rather, Gumchi. It’s fate. Do you believe in fate? Bring Gumchi to Lagos. Do a transplant. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Menka’s sigh was leaden. “No, no! Not Lagos.”

  “Where then? Tell me, where? Where next?”

  “I hadn’t given it a thought. Still trying to absorb what has been going on around here. Around me.”

  “Well, start thinking.”

  “You know me, village boy. Your Lagos…”

  “No, not quite Lagos. This is the village next to it, my Badagry.”

  “What’s the diff
erence?”

  “Lots. Listen, kid, you’re still mentally locked in your primitive Gumchi stiff-neck prejudice. All right, suggest another location. You need a fresh start. Clean break. You’ve pieced together enough Boko Haram victims to earn you full retirement. And now this!”

  “Don’t think it hasn’t often crossed my mind!”

  “Good. So, do the transplant. Take yourself out of there and reattach elsewhere. I’m an engineer. I’m trained to adapt. It’s the idea that counts. Suited to time and place. There’s a growing population of amputees, mangled sleepwalking ghosts. Children. Hundreds going into thousands. With no prospects but to join the hordes of almajiri, those wretches who later become easy conversion fodder for Boko Haram. And now ISWAP. So we set up a model rehabilitation centre—the latest in prosthetics. Give them a new life. A different form of counseling. New direction. It’s along the same plans you’ve long nurtured for Gumchi.”

  “Gumchi has no amputees. For a start, we don’t wage war. Just have the nature-inflicted diseases. Boko Haram was not even born when we were in college.”

  Duyole caught himself just in time from reminding him of Boko Haram’s predecessor, the Maitatsine—they had made Menka an orphan. He would never have forgiven himself for raking up that wound, one that continued to suppurate, Duyole knew very well, in his innermost organs. Nearly swallowing his tongue, he quickly changed tack.

  “Stop trying to be literal. The idea, Gumcheeky, the idea! We all adopted it. Hand over hand, remember?”

  “Yes, four for one and all that student crap. We are all grown, Engineer Pitan. Times have changed.”

  “Precisely! And you are getting old. Don’t tell me at your age you’ll be asking for transfer to another government hospital.”