by Wole Soyinka
The response was prompt and definitive. “No way!”
“Good. That’s settled. Unless, of course, you’re going to join the queue for contracts. Mind you, I admit, maybe with your national honours, you won’t have to queue. You just show up.”
“Quite right. I can hawk the medal and live on the proceeds.”
“It’s only gold-plated, don’t kid yourself. It’s tin inside.”
“And I bet it’s other people’s tin, not even from our own Plateau mines.”
“The gold is elsewhere—actually not far from you. They’re killing one another for it, pretending the killing is about something else. Religon, as always the scapegoat. Well, it’s part of it, don’t get me wrong, but there is gold, real gold, up there. Zamfara, for instance. And the whole fundamentalist shit began there. All that Islamic reform crap. It’s the gold rush. I’ve seen sneak photos.”
“There is gold mined everywhere—are we changing the subject?”
“Not me. So that’s settled then. But of course I know you do have other options. There is this small settlement along the Benue plagued by river blindness. President Carter once visited. He might find you a job.”
“Stop being caustic. What do I know of ophthalmology?”
“Good. So, when in doubt, home ground. Badagry, why not? A brand-new centre. Specialization changed. It’s the idea that counts—the idea, Gumchi, the idea! And the idea isn’t all yours, remember that. It belongs to the full house—all four still-subscribing members.”
“Four? I thought we were down to three. When did you last hear of that man of all seasons?”
Duyole chuckled. “Farodion? He’ll show up. I don’t know why, but I just sense that he’s gainfully active somewhere around, preparing to spring a surprise and show up the rest of the quartet. People like him don’t just vanish.”
“Ever the optimist.”
“Why not? But always right, no? Well, nearly.”
A huge sigh from Menka, one that the engineer could feel halfway across the country. “All that is past history, Duyole. Days of high optimism. We’re done with that. Scattered all over the country—and perhaps overseas. End of Big Dreams.”
“No way. We simply never got round to Gumchi. And no fault of any of us. It was not the country we left to which we returned. Abuja did not exist as Abuja, yet it’s also played a role. Mostly counter to the Gumchi dream. Why should anyone go to Gumchi when Abuja is just round the corner? Did we think of that? Capital was Lagos at the time, now Abuja is all in all. They’ve even named the main specialist hospital after the most brutal and thieving head of state the nation has ever known. And after all the nation endured before getting rid of him. I still find it difficult to believe.”
“Maybe that’s the attraction. Our beloved compatriots have exotic tastes.”
“And the major highway into Abuja itself, the nation’s modern capital? Also named Sani Abacha Avenue?”
“That’s the star attraction.”
“You’re just in your contrary mood. Pure Gumchi rock stubbornness. Anyway, bugger all that distraction. I was pointing out that the original blueprint never stood a chance. Misplaced. Sentimental location. I’m an engineer, but was not at the time. Now I am one, and I tell you—wrong location. So keep the blueprint, change location. Simple.”
There was silence.
“Hey, are you still with me? Can you hear all I’m saying?”
Wearily, Menka acknowledged his listening existence.
“We can’t fight reality. And right now you are jobless, right?”
“Who’s denying it?”
“So you settle for Lagos. I’ll make you sing for your supper, don’t worry. I’m not just an engineer; I’ve become a businessman. I’ve developed the business killer instinct. I’ll raise the funds, you’ll do the hard work. Why fool around? You know I’ve made it—yes, that ugly expression, but accurate. I have made it. With solid hard work. Without compromising. My money, and I can invest it as I wish. Timing couldn’t be better. Spot the silver lining? In any case, it will pay for itself—you’ll see. I have it all worked out. Been working on it since your first call. Had nothing else to do while waiting for Godot! Oh, you know, that just hit me—what a coincidence. Tell you about it later. The man eats kola from Gumchi. And did he keep me waiting hours! Never mind, back to business. We’ll even make a profit, which was not originally on the idyllic card. Everything then was pro bono. Amazing how generously youth volunteers what it hasn’t got, eh? Well, stuff that. As for Gumchi herself, we’ll do something for the old crabby lady—in proportion, of course, in proportion! A mud-and-wattle clinic in your bush village, tucked somewhere within your skyscraper floors, with hook-on ladders. Nothing fancy. Your people won’t know the difference. So what say you? What better time than now?”
Menka was only half listening. He was all too familiar with Duyole’s instinctive thoroughness—everything would have been worked out in that churning mind, in detail. That was what powered his business, drove it to its startling success. He heard Duyole’s voice rising above his thoughts.
“You’ve nothing ethical against cosmetic surgery, I hope? God knows what primitive taboos you people still follow in that place. There are many of these wrinkled old lechers wanting a facelift—they don’t ever want to age, man or woman. That’s where we’ll make our money. Listen, Badagry adjoins Lagos—I know you hate that word, but it does. That means an overflow from the Lagos clientele. Thank goodness for the internet—we’ll work closely over the net, designs and everything. While the structure is going up, with you telling me where to insert this room and that facility and whatever else, you’ll be consulting with any teaching hospital of your choice. Or private clinics. Even without your new status, you can pick and choose. I mean, how many surgeons do we have left? All gone to Dubai. The University Hospital is nicely situated between Badagry and Lagos—you can do the rounds among them, always assuming you are not kidnapped en route, of course,” Duyole’s voice ended cheerfully.
Or indeed within the hospital premises, Menka added silently, while making routine ward rounds, or even in the operating theatre itself. That last stage of refinement had yet to be recorded, but others had. His profession was fast replacing clerics as an endangered species, prized targets in the new epidemic of myth-busting—no more sanctuary, the altar next time! Ah well, sooner or later everything becomes once upon a time. Plateau or Lagos, Maiduguri or Yenagoa, who was he to place a wager on which was less or more vulnerable? The nation greedily partook of this communion of the wafers of development. No one could swear anymore where sanity lay. Or safety. Or sacrosanctity.
“That reminds me, G-Kid, I know these things don’t count with you, but you know, we still have to wash that award of yours. There isn’t much to celebrate these days, so why not a genuine deserving and— Shut up! No false modesty or I’ll arrange your kidnap myself. How many Pre-eminence Awards are shelled out every year? No, tell me. One. Just one. When last did anyone from your—what did you claim was the name of your village?—snag one? So all right, that’s by the way. A quiet celebration, anyway. As for the centre, I’ve earmarked a site by the lagoon, beautifully situated. It was meant for one of our branch workshops, but we expanded in a different direction. Overgrown so repeatedly that the government threatened to revoke my certificate of occupancy—we’ll go into all that when you arrive. Business with reunion, just the family. And—oh yes—you remember Damien?”
“You must be getting senile. How could I forget?”
“Well, just wanted to be sure, since it’s such a while since you helped resolve that small issue. He finally showed up. Returned to the family bosom, wife and two children. See? Haven’t really celebrated the return of the prodigal son, so that’s another cause for slaughtering the fatted calf. Celebration goes with celebrity, and that’s what you’ve become—big celebrity! Don’t be shy. Pop complains we’l
l have to make double appointments to approach you now.”
“All right, all right. I’m thinking.”
Duyole sensed victory, moved to consolidate. “You need a break anyway. As your unsung and unpaid psychiatrist, I prescribe a break. Don’t overdo things. You don’t have to decide right away, just take that break. What does the Good Book say? Physician, heal thyself—right?”
Before the fire, Duyole would not have expended one moment’s breath trying to entice him south, not for the sustained period his scheme demanded. Brief consulting clinics, yes, while overseeing construction, but to actually take up residence there? The south for Menka meant Lagos. Lagos meant Purgatory. Badagry was simply a euphemism for Lagos, a contiguous neighbour for the latter’s overflow of manpower, and a relief valve for a highly charged existence. The native son of Gumchi had been mentally ready for the one-year National Youth Service anywhere, even Lagos. It was a duty tour across the board for which he was fully prepared, even if Lagos proved to be his luck of the draw. That mandatory stint over, however, the five-year scholarship service bond was more flexible. There one had a choice, and he made sure he exercised it—no Lagos. Anywhere but! No amount of inducement could make him serve out that sentence in Lagos, not even closeness to his lifelong friend Pitan-Payne. Yet those were indeed halcyon days when “too frenzied” was the most disparaging charge he could raise against the metropolis. He settled for Jos, the closest on offer to his own craggy Gumchi hills, whose people kept so much to themselves that they were known as the invisible tribe of the nation, internally discovered, then allocated arbitrary population figures in each self-canceling census.
Pitan-Payne saved the pièce de résistance but sans résistance to the last. He had measured it all carefully. He was used to assessing the Gumchi Kid’s temperamental tie to his village, one that could work in the contrary direction to Duyole’s incessant schemes. He had been feeling his ground, endeavoring to assess what actually happened to the mind of Menka, only knowing what happened in Jos. That last by itself was sufficient for him to exert every measure to get him out of that heated zone without delay. Then there was his newly acquired profile—that surely could open the door to him outside the country. Was it not a similar process that sent him, Pitan-Payne, hurtling in the unsought direction of the United Nations? They had this uncanny pattern of leapfrogging or leveling up with each other. He let a few seconds pass in silence and then he threw in the prize bait—after all, even symbolic ties sometimes prove more effective than actual.
“By the way, Bisoye and I discussed a name for the rehabilitation centre.” They had not, there was hardly time since the events of the previous day, but this was no time for fidelity to merely supporting facts. “What do you think of Gumchi Rehabilitation Institute? GRI to challenge GRA. Or Centre—no GRI much closer and more annoying than GRC. But whatever. It’s your call. You decide. It was your idea in the first place—more obsession. Those ancient times known as salad days. You know something? There are lessons to be learnt from that barren rockery of yours. Like survival. Extracting a living virtually from nothing, etc., etc. So there’s already a point of attraction. It would even make people curious to know, why Gumchi? What’s in there? Let’s go find out. Was it what brought the Greek fellow to Badagry? Where did that logo come from? See what I mean? Where did Gumchi come from? And they’ll go look. Nothing wrong with a little tourism on the side. We could work on that, you know. If only Farodion were around…that would be meat and drink to his yen for promotion.”
“You still count on him showing up.”
“We’ll find him. I feel it in my bones. Back together, eh? That will be some feast. All Bisoye’s idea, so you can’t turn her down. That’s your chance to make up for the first time. What do you say?”
Menka mulled over his situation. Plans change. A crazy outburst can bring down an edifice or terminate a lifelong dream—it all depended on timing and context. What happened that day was sufficient on its own as the prelude to a seismic life change. Duyole, as always, had been instantly there for him. The idea of Gumchi in Badagry-Lagos did not seem much of a contradiction. Everything still appeared to favour his old battle cry, repressed but never abandoned—Gumchi First!
Yes, Gumchi first, but first Gumchi’s unfinished business. Settle down quickly, then revisit Boriga, only this time better prepared. How? As yet Dr. Menka had no idea, only that it would involve careful, discreet, and perhaps even dangerous research. Pitan was on his way out—foolish to expect the United Nations to grant him a leave of absence before he even took up his duties. That left just the prince, the one they called Scoffer. Definitely, first stop in Lagos would be a call on Badetona. He moved in business circles, had connections of whose existence even the gregarious Pitan-Payne knew nothing. It seemed strange, but Bade had his ears closer to the ground than all the others—except perhaps Farodion.
And just then Kighare Menka paused. Strange, his mind returned to that post-convocation night which, thanks to Farodion’s semantic objections, began as a pledge but ended in a wager. Admittedly the drinks flowed freely and the night grew increasingly contumacious. There is a difference, Farodion continued to insist, between Gumchi First and First, Gumchi. The former spelt a closed project, pure ego, while the latter indicated a mere starting point, with intimations of many things, and others, to follow. A hanging promise, he called it. First, Gumchi kept the project infinite, permanently exploring. It included both the known and the unknown, elastic. First, Gumchi, then…See?
No, Menka did not see. More factually, refused to see. Or hear. Theatrically plugged his ears with his fingers and shook his head. Even the U.S recognized the justice of affirmative action, he argued. Gumchi was the home of underprivileged natives, the black indigenes in the midst of affluent white settlers pretending to be black, calling themselves Badetona, Farodion, and one half-and-half known as Pitan-Payne—perfect giveaway expatriate camouflage. And so, Gumchi First. Over and above any other condition. A simple case of reparations. Agreed?
It was all a familiar, inebriated raillery, but Badetona was the one who noticed, and later remarked on, something he found troubling. There was not the slightest wisp of banter on Farodion’s face when he retorted, “In that case, let’s all begin on the same playing level. Then we’ll see who eventually gets to brand the land.”
It struck the prince, even in his state of impaired absorption, as being unusually heavy!
14.
Badetona
It took a long spell of patient silence, perhaps two hours of Dr. Menka’s presence in the swish home of the failed financier of the Gong of Four, but finally something pierced through to Badetona’s refuge, that hitherto impenetrable distance that he had placed between himself and the world. He glanced up suddenly, took a long look at his visitor, Menka, as if to make up for his days and weeks of withdrawal. He sat straight up, and his habitually slouched shoulders seemed to find support. They were the shoulders of an overweight seventy-five-year-old retiree, but he was only three years past sixty.
“The more you recall,” he sighed, “the deeper this darkness that envelops you.”
Kighare Menka gave no sign that he had heard, yet he tensed in every hopeful fibre of his body and waited for him to continue, but there was nothing more. Badetona had always been a man of few words anyway, more at home with figures and spreadsheets. A half hour later, his wife entered the room, picked up the emptied glasses and settled them on a tray, plus the untouched saucer of her home-made chin-chin, his favorite cookies. She made no attempt at pretending that she had just arrived—it had been agreed that she would remain in the anteroom, listening, the door left just slightly ajar. It had been an agonizing thirty minutes since he had spoken, but she held herself in check. She had left them together, hopeful that the company of his old comrade, albeit some five years younger, would stir something in his mind. She took her time picking up, arranging, and rearranging the glasses, wiping off non
existent smudges on the glass top of the designer coffee table, but nothing more was forthcoming.
She took the tray away, resumed her place at the listening post, but finally reentered the living room. Badetona had sunk back into that dark hole of the mind from which he had briefly emerged. There would be nothing more, it seemed—at least, not that day. They spoke freely, as if the husband were not present. Over the past few months she had learnt that it did not matter what went on around him.
“And he has remained like this throughout? Ever since his release?” Menka asked.
She nodded. “Ask Duyole. He’ll confirm everything.”
“Did he say anything about what they did to him?”
“Nothing. Not a word. As you know, he was with them close to eight months.”
“Any hint of…torture? I mean, how they treated him?”
“There is no mark on him. No sign of ill-treatment. If only there was…at least…”
“Yes, I know.” Menka sighed. “Sometimes one actually wishes for…anything—you know, anything to which one can point…physical. Even a small bruise or whatever.”
“What we do know is that they kept him underground. Everyone knows the place. They call it the Strong Room.” She stopped suddenly, placed her finger across her lips. As Menka made to turn to see what had caused the change in her, she signaled to him to keep still.
Badetona had indeed stirred suddenly. He rose fully to his feet, looking vaguely around, perhaps for a mind that had been spirited away, one that he now convinced himself was in that room.
Wife and friend watched him. Badetona paced out a measure of the room, as if sectioning it to conform to a dimension that only he appeared to see. Over and over again his eyes slowly traversed the walls, and in short, brief spurts like a wall gecko’s. The eyes climbed up slowly, descended, then scurried around and came to a stop, appeared to explore a crevice, a stain, only to dash to yet another walled-in secret, then resume in a sudden spurt of speed. A sigh emerged from him. Then, after a seeming struggle, his eyes prised themselves away from the walls. He turned, almost as if he had become aware that he was being observed, but then smiled, as if to assure his watchers that he did not really mind.