Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  “Floor to ceiling,” he said. “Floor to ceiling and all stacked. Day after day. After a while I couldn’t count any more. I told them so.”

  The wife threw an anxious look at Menka. He understood the question and nodded eagerly. The woman girded herself and urged, “Yes, dear?”

  Tears began to well in his eyes, then streaked down his face. As if in empathy, the words also came out in a torrent, but gently. “We counted them,” he murmured, and his voice assumed a level, explanatory tone. “No, I counted them while they watched. They worked—that is, they watched—in shifts. Sometimes they brought their own drinks—hot coffee mostly, but sometimes soft drinks. Food, of course. Then they would point to my tray. At the start I refused to eat. I said I would count first, then eat after I had finished. They seemed to find that amusing. But that was at the beginning, before I knew what they had planned. Every day they would ask me what I wanted for lunch. Or dinner. They were so polite. Then, when I refused, they pleaded with me, saying they couldn’t start eating until I had had my meal. I told them to go ahead and have theirs, that I would follow at my own pace. They complained that I was not being fair to them. They were only carrying out orders and they were just as much prisoners as I was. So I resumed eating.”

  Bade’s voice took on a sense of wonder. “Over and over again. They would say to me, ‘Are you sure you didn’t mix up the currencies? Your figures differ from the last. Perhaps you should give it another try.’ I looked around and asked, ‘Which pile?’ They merely shrugged their shoulders. ‘How do we know?’ one of them would say. ‘You are the one to tell us.’ ”

  It was now close to three months since Badetona’s release, almost a year since they had finally come for him. He was waiting when they arrived, dressed in his executive-office suit. When they knocked, he did not immediately utter a word. Not even to ask who they were. As soon as he opened the door that morning—“Just after our morning prayers,” the wife revealed in a voice that almost accused God of being in the know—he knew. He emitted a huge sigh, and it sounded like one of relief. He heard the voice of his wife from the kitchen, where she was preparing breakfast. “Who is it, dear?” He continued as if he had heard nothing, opened the door wider, stood aside, and led them quietly into the house.

  “Yes, come in, gentlemen,” he virtually whispered, like a well-trained English butler, steeped in impeccable manners. He indulged himself only with a brief glance across the three figures that confronted him, did not wait for them to speak, not even to introduce themselves, state their business, or ask any questions. He merely sighed, turned, and led them without a further word along the corridor that terminated at the door of the main guest room. He gestured towards the closed door—“Some of it is here.” He stood aside as they entered, opened one wardrobe after another. After that it all proceeded nearly wordlessly. From the guest room he led then to the marble-tiled mezzanine, which was formerly the children’s playroom, but of course they had all grown up and gone their different ways. Across his mind briefly flashed a vision of his own order of childhood—was it ever a place of innocence? he wondered. No matter, this room of his scattered, successful children was now filled with innocent-looking boxes. The school texts and exercise books had all been thrown out for more valuable contents—who used exercise books these days anyway? He recalled the first conversion of that room to yet another storage space. As each stack came in, needing more space, and he encroached on the deserted expanse, he felt his first twinge of regret that morning. It was brief, perhaps the only moment there appeared a flicker in his eyes; otherwise it was all calm acceptance. Even relief. It was all over, the years, even decades of deceit, of false appearances. Mostly he had no expression left. They were his guests, and he was showing them round the house.

  The leader took out his walkie-talkie and spoke to someone. A few minutes later the evacuation team came up the stairs, smoothly efficient. He watched them stare at the improvised vaults, now thrown open, which appeared to contain all the currencies of the world, neatly stacked from floor to ceiling.

  “You may count them,” he said. “I think you’ll find everything is correct. I kept records.”

  Bade did enjoy a reputation for that. He kept records. He excelled in record-keeping, all the way from his student days in Manchester. Others sought his help in designing spreadsheets for their clubs and activities. His student union made him its treasurer. Figures were meat and drink to him. As the evacuating team, dressed in overalls without pockets, began their task, he turned abruptly and left them alone to carry out their task, ignoring the request that he remain and witness their proceeding—and the counting.

  It was that same walk that he now retraced from time to time, whenever something clicked in his mind, usually with his wife, only his wife, as audience. But uttering not a word. On that day of the initial visitation, he had indeed walked past her on the stair landing, on their way to the children’s room, his feet dragging as if he were already transported to another country and another age, when felons had iron balls tied to their ankles. After calling out from the kitchen without receiving a response, she had come up to summon him for breakfast. So she was on the landing as her husband led them past to the first storage space. Maybe he saw her, maybe not, but he walked right past, not saying a word.

  Was it all coming to an end at long last, the wife now allowed herself to hope, the eight months of absence, his incarceration, that had ended only to be replaced by another spell of absence, this time of the mind? Had the voice of an old friend triggered off something in his mind? Whatever had provoked the reenactment of that first walk that had ushered in the day of disaster appeared to have spent its force. Badetona simply relapsed into his former state. He sank back into his chair, his teary head held in his arms, elbows dug into the arms of the chair.

  She spoke softly. “I was home when they came. It was—oh yes, two days after we had a class reunion dinner with Bisoye. He went out with Duyole—little did I know it was the last time I would see him as his old self. He woke up unusually early, I remember. Had his bath, dressed himself, and then sat, as if waiting for some guests. It was odd. I watched from the landing along the corridor. They actually walked past me, five of them. Two were in dark suits, another in a polo shirt. One was in a tracksuit. I recognized him immediately. I had seen him before, a number of times in fact, jogging past.”

  Trapped on that landing as they walked past her, Mrs. Badetona had indeed recognized a face, and she let out a gasp. It was only at that moment that she realized her husband and she had been under surveillance for weeks, even months, that the regular athlete was no jogger at all but an agent detailed to keep the house under surveillance until they were ready to make their move. The picture unfolded before her. Heaven alone knew how often that jogger—or even other innocent-seeming passersby—had watched the delivery unit arrive and hand over their packages. The supply came in all sizes, sometimes in cartons that had once held bottled water, beer, or fruit juices—only these contents were juicier. The watchers had probably taken thousands of photographs. Yes, even she must be there in their album, their rogues’ gallery, although they never once invited her for questioning, not even after her husband’s arrest. There was hardly any need—the evidence literally littered the house. Littered? Well, in a sense, but it was all neat, its meticulous rows left largely undisturbed except when they were pushed deeper into the cupboards and other recesses to make room for new arrivals. Generally they came when Badetona was home, obviously by arrangement, so he took care of the storage. But sometimes while he was at work there were also deliveries. Whenever that happened, she opened the door, gestured to the space behind the door or along the walls of the passage, especially for the larger boxes. When the husband returned—from office or audit tours—he took charge. Practiced and efficient charge. He carried the boxes to the improvised office on the mezzanine and entered the delivery in his spreadsheet, using a specially devised system.
It was a system that served both physical deliveries and virtual transfers under myriad businesses and accounts that were scattered all over the globe. They did not derive from a single source. The physical deposits were, however, entirely his, and the earnings had spread over two decades, beginning with his being spotted as a natural, a near-genius in the art of creative accounting. The expression money laundering was considered an abomination in the vocabulary of the seasoned civil servant and his elect business circle.

  Bade was frugal, discreet, unobtrusive. Anything but flashy or ostentatious. He hardly ever threw parties. When he did, he did not close up the streets and set up marquees to accommodate the city throng and advertise his splashing power. All activities stayed within the walls of the compound. These were qualities that marked him out for advancement and recruitment. His most extravagant indulgence was the annual cruise for the family. Even those adjustments to the home interior to make up for usurpation by boxes that accumulated steadily were modest. Impeccable taste but restrained in style. He deplored his colleagues who flaunted their wealth. He did not vacation in Dubai or Paris but stuck to one of the Queen liners that shifted itineraries between the South American mainland and the Caribbean, he and his wife always keeping to themselves, even on the boat. Once they flew to Adelaide in the antipodes, then took a cruise around the South Pacific islands. When asked by curious neighbours about their absence, they would answer, “We needed a break, so we went to visit our people in the village.”

  There was a question Menka knew he had to ask. “All these years, you said nothing to him?”

  “At the beginning, yes, I did. The deliveries were irregular. Sometimes for months nothing came. Then there might be a flurry. One thing was consistent—the packages grew bigger and bigger. At first I protested—I can’t pretend that I didn’t know. Of course I did, and I knew it meant trouble. He said he had no choice. If he didn’t take it, he said, they would grow suspicious of him and then…even get rid of him in some way. Others had died sudden deaths—always in mysterious circumstances, unsolved till today. Perhaps forever. Improbable motor accidents. In the end, the money simply grew and grew, spilled into other rooms. It began with his study, then the wardrobes, then any spare cupboards—he even built new ones—then the bedroom itself. At that point I moved out into one of the smaller guest rooms. I couldn’t live with the sight of that thing growing and growing and growing. Then he began to use spaces downstairs. I tried to persuade him to take them to his village, but he wouldn’t budge. Said the least he owed his ancestors was not to contaminate the family home.”

  “And since he returned from their, er, place, he’s never moved beyond what I’ve seen?”

  “You are the first to share that walk, you know, that second part. Somehow, you being here, I did hope he would go beyond…he’s never gone past what you just heard. If only he would!” Her mood changed with an abruptness that frightened her visitor; her face contorted with a rage that he had never witnessed in the woman he had known and interacted with as the wife of a friend. Her chest heaving as if she would have a fit, she screamed, “What is it? What do they do to them in there? What goes on in that devil’s hole they call the Strong Room?”

  Menka instinctively shrank back, then recovering immediately, took a stride towards her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and shook her gently. Badetona appeared to have heard the scream, since he turned towards them, looked somewhat baffled, then continued to stare, as one who was seeing them for the first time.

  “It’s me, Scoffer. Kighare Menka. Gong of Four-o. Four for one…”

  He had tried that several times already. It made no difference. Badetona simply stared. Menka returned to the wife.

  “What they do to them? On the surface of it, nothing bad. I know some people who have been through it. It’s deliberate. Psychological torture. They treat them well, good food, even drinks. Outside of that, a set time for stretching their legs for some minutes, and that’s it. No books, no reading. The rest of the time they impose on them that sole occupation—count the money. Over and over again. That’s all they do. Make them count the money, all the various currencies—euro, dollar, yen, ruble, naira, whatever it was they found in the home, wherever, even from the soakaway pits. They transfer it all to the Strong Room, and that is where the ordeal begins. They make them count and record the cash. Over and over again. They pretend there had been an error, if not in the accounting, then in the currency numbers. Only the Devil could have dreamt up such torture. If it was not Sir Goddie himself, then it was his clone from hell.”

  For a while longer they watched Badetona, but he had returned to full immobility. Menka knew that nothing else would come from his visit. He stood up and prepared to take his leave. There was nothing left to say.

  “I am glad you came.” Her voice turned bitter. “It’s over three months since his release, but there hasn’t been anyone else. Apart from Duyole, of course. All the ones he called friends, those he helped and advanced in every way, made them rich, some of them worth nothing to begin with, now multimillionaires. Do they remember him? Do they care? No, they’ve all abandoned him. They treated this place like their clubhouse—you know we didn’t enjoy going out much, so they came here most of the time, to socialize. They ate here, drank here, cracked stupid jokes and made themselves at home. None of them has stepped across that doorstep since his release—not one of them! Except the psychiatrist. And you should see his charges!”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Patience. Just give him time, he’ll come round. What else did he think I’ve being doing? Stupid advice for the fortune he’s been charging! I told him not to bother himself anymore.”

  Menka winced, feeling himself a hypocrite. His visit had not been completely altruistic, though he had kept his purpose to himself. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Now that I’ve relocated to Lagos, I shall look in from time to time.”

  Her “thank you” emerged from the depths of the heart, which only made Menka squirm even more guiltily. Her eagerness made him wish he had never knocked on that door. Unwittingly, she drove the needle even deeper. He wondered why Duyole had not remotely hinted about what to expect.

  “I know that seeing people, more people with past links to him—it doesn’t matter how slight—will help. Eventually it will bring him out. Something from his past, perhaps. Sooner or later someone will say something that will bring him out of this darkness. I just know it. Even the one time that Papa Davina visited, I detected a change. Slight, but it was there. Some kind of response showed in his eyes. I don’t fully trust the man, but—”

  Menka stopped. “Who did you say?”

  “Papa Davina. I’m sure you know of him. Everyone does.”

  Menka nodded. “Yes, of course. So they were acquainted?”

  She hesitated. “I…don’t really know,” she admitted. “But when this trouble started, everyone, you know, advice from everyone—relations, his office colleagues, people I had never heard of before then, they all descended on us offering advice. That was when news of his arrest began to spread, then they started to keep their distance. But that was the one name on everyone’s lips. For prayer intercession—you know. So when he was in the custody of those people, I moved close to the ministry. I was desperate.”

  Menka nodded thoughtfully. “He does have a reputation, I know. He has a branch in Jos.”

  “Everyone advised I should join, so I did. I kept up tithes, for both of us. I took part in all-night vigils. Then of course when he was released, in this…as you see him now, this condition, I redoubled my attendance. The prophet has quite a reputation. Who knows, but for him, maybe the whole story would be even worse. At least Bade was never brought to trial. He would not have survived the public finger-pointing. I sought help everywhere, but…well, it was on Papa D. that I eventually landed.”

  “Bade went to his, er, whatever it is—what’s it calle
d now?”

  “Prophesite. The holy site of prophecy.”

  “Ah yes, prophesite. What I’m trying to say is, in this condition? I mean, he’s ventured out like this?”

  She hesitated, then began to speak in halting spurts, as if she were busy retrieving a report from someone else, not her own predicament. Menka felt uneasy. “Once. Only once. And that was before this…this ordeal. When we became certain they would come for him. He went alone that one and only time. After that, I’ve tried to persuade him to accompany me, but…it was as if the name Davina meant nothing to him. He won’t budge. You know how obstinate he can be! So I went on my own, on his behalf. Davina seemed to understand, and after that he came here himself. Just once. I understand that happens rarely. And he came in some kind of religious costume—he changes them all the time. It’s as if he doesn’t even want people to see his full face. There are rumours that he once had an accident and is disfigured. Some say a woman attacked him with a broken bottle and left scars. Even at the base venue, he keeps away from strong light. People go to Davina, he doesn’t go to people, even if you’re dying. He just sends his prescriptions—things to do or avoid. Holy oil for self-anointing, and prayer scrolls. He made an exception for Bade. Sometimes he phones to check if there has been any change in his condition.”

  She noticed that Menka seemed distracted. “Have you met him yourself? In Jos?”

  “No.” Menka shook his head. “It’s just that his name came up, in fact has been coming up my way quite recently.” He gestured towards Bade. “I am simply astonished that Bade actually agreed to visit. I hand it to you. You know what we used to call him in school?”