by Wole Soyinka
She smiled a little. “The Scoffer. I gave him that name myself. Yes, it did take some persuading.”
“I can imagine. So now you are a full member of Father Davina’s temple, or whatever?”
“Well, I suppose you could say that. I’ve attended his services quite a few times, but I don’t really call myself a follower. But you know, when trouble really hits, one turns no matter where, anywhere, everywhere, for help. And Davina does have a reputation.”
“So did Bade. Seeing him like this…it hurts. It really hurts. In school, his reputation was second to none. Brilliant. Even the staff lived in terror of him when it came to mathematics. No one could touch him.”
“I know, I know.”
“He was well ahead of any textbooks. And especially when it came to trigonometry. That was his favourite. He could reel off all the formulas straight from sleep. Bade? Gave the best of our teachers an inferiority complex, slaughtered challengers right and left. Did he ever tell you the other nickname he earned—his nom de guerre, if you like, battle name? We used to have these interschool mathematics contests.”
She shook her head.
“You should have heard the shouts when the teams took their places on the stage to begin the competition. Trigo-happy killer! Trigo-happy killer—go get them! And did he revel in it! Need I tell you, he went ahead and mowed them down!”
There was a sudden, startled movement from Badetona. They both turned, and there was Bade rising, this time as if in a mildly speeded-up trance. Menka quickly put a finger across his lips. The wife nodded agreement, both hands superfluously cupped against her lips. They watched him move slowly but purposefully towards a stack of books on the coffee table. Badetona stood staring uncertainly for a few seconds, then bent down, as if to select one. His lips moved soundlessly, but both watchers could read exactly what they said, and it was, “Trigo-happy,” his eyes squeezed together as if in a hurtful or querulous effort at recollection. So Jaiyesola jerked her head towards the door—should she leave? Menka’s hesitation was of the briefest. He responded with a vigorous nod. The wife tiptoed out, shut the door. She resumed her listening post behind the door.
Behind the kitchen door left slightly ajar, positioned so as not to miss one utterance that would spell hope, Jaiyeola in her thoughts traversed the years as she waited with an intensity she had not been given cause to exercise since Bade’s return, his mind far slipped into this vaporous state. On the one hand, the positive—it had led to his early release, the scared detective team not knowing what to do with him anymore. After all, he had more than “co-operated.” The funds in his possession were mostly intact, and he was of no use to them even as a witness for the prosecution of others, the tough ones who held out, determined to win their acquittal through the technical wiles of their seasoned defence counsel and/or with secret channels to the judiciary. Even a change in government might result in a general amnesty, with or without restitution. It was all a question of holding out, brazening it out by showing up at public functions as if to assert a clear conscience. Even throwing increasingly lavish parties to mark the acquisition of yet another chieftaincy title or honorary doctorate—there were more than enough mushroom institutions ready to oblige for a modest contribution.
On the other hand—well, what kind of relief was there in receiving this damaged article, his razor-sharp mind scrambling in a void for a hold on reality? As had become predictable, almost instinctive since his release, those thoughts moved to explore possible gaps or errors in the no-holds-barred supplication regimen that preceded—and surely enabled—her husband’s phenomenal rise in public service. So where was the source of this drastic reversal? Enemy action? Possibly, but easily dismissed. Jaiyesola prided herself on veteran spiritual credentials; these were more than sufficient to rout the most diabolical conspiracies against her man. After all, had those not failed in the first place? Where were their powers when, out of the blue, Badetona was handed, even without applying, one of the most envied and contested positions to which any civil servant could aspire—and at that age when he was already lined up for the mothball treatment? Just where were their vaunted powers?
Could it have been his early phase of refusal to acknowledge the prophet’s powers of intercession? Indeed, Bade’s dismissal of such aid had been nothing short of terminal, a disgusted rejection of the very notion—could that have resulted in a psychic penalty, now being manifested in his mental deterioration? Such a fatal flaw—a lack of faith would undermine the efficacy of any spiritual protection. To make matters worse, the supplication had been transmitted through a third party, even though that surrogate was his own wife. Perhaps it had taken too long to persuade him to undertake that climb up the hill of Oke Konran to consult, be blessed, and be fortified. Was this the punitive exaction for his earlier scornfulness? Just how much more were they doomed to expend? Till the last gasp of their possessions? Everything had been taken away. They had sold and mortgaged all to retain lawyers, all on the prestigious grade of senior advocates of the nation, the glamorous, elite club of registered lawyers. Now all they had left was faith, and that, alas, was patchy, partial. She lamented that she was left alone to generate, then stand guard over their promise of salvation. Badetona was too set in his cynical ways—wasn’t that the trait that had attracted her to him in the first place? He himself never failed to acknowledge the contrast throughout their courtship, evoking it in favour of a union—Like poles repel, unlike poles attract, so you might as well marry me and stop fighting your better judgment! And the marriage had indeed remained as close to bliss as one could find in the average household, she a born-again Christian believer, he the master of deflation who compulsively found the weak patch in the most tightly sealed religious refuge. The home had been filled with laughter, the children raised in a balance of the hilarious and the solemn spaces of mutual toleration. Now there was only silence. The children were grown, dispersed. There remained only the silence they had left behind. Now it had gone beyond a silence of absent children, of an emptied home. There was the heavy pall of guilt, perhaps even of blame-passing, unvoiced. There was also the silence of hope, as if once the disaster was denied voice, confined within the walls of home and mind, the miasma would dissolve and the oppressive pall lift from the roof.
Were there gaps? Weak spots in her mission of intercession? Requirements unfulfilled? She shook her head—no! There had been none, not even through him, no dereliction whatsoever. That was the other trait in the character of the man she married. It might take days, weeks, even months, but once she succeeded in breaking through his stubborn defence ramparts, compelling him to assent to her schemes, however outlandish, he carried his part of the bargain to the letter! She paused, reconsidered. Was that perhaps the problem—to the letter? When it came to matters of the spirit, the letter was simply not enough. Spirit called to spirit, and spirit must be truthful. There was nothing she could do about that. One could only make do with what one possessed, and she never fooled herself that she possessed her husband’s spirit. What she did with their lives was to double hers, thus reinforcing his. And she made sure there was no confusion—when she prayed, for instance, or tithed, she ensured that the watching powers understood that there was a separation of attribution: And this for my husband, this for my beloved Bade, whom I know you will bring under your divine benefice of understanding and belief in your own good time, Lord Jesus in heaven be praised. Amen.
In any case—and her face contorted in a frown—who was anyone to judge her? Why had none of them rallied to his side? It was always the same—each man for himself and God only for the righteous. Righteous? Yes, righteous! She dared to say righteous. Her Bade was a righteous man, no worse than the others. To hustle for one’s share of public largesse was mere common sense. It was also avoidance of the sin of pride, of which no sin rated higher in the sight of God. To feel superior to others, that was the real sin—the holier-than-thou pretensions! Her life re
volved around her husband, and the bond was consecrated in prayer. First pray for his advancement. Didn’t she know what others did to gain their promotion? Some indulged in evil rituals. Even infant sacrifice. They made pacts with the Devil, sold their souls and signed in blood. She, on the contrary, only sought help from Apostle Davina. The success that followed was hers, she the lightning rod that overcame her husband’s lack of faith and brought down manna from the skies. She compelled her Saviour to forgive the man who was his own worst enemy, the most reticent in his own cause. She would do it all over again, a million times if necessary. Who said God was an advocate of failure!
She heard footsteps and gingerly opened the door. Menka approached. She saw her husband beyond him, standing still, staring at the book in his hand. Menka shook his head sadly.
“There was nothing further,” he said.
15.
Badagry
Several weeks had passed since his departure from the yet simmering city of Jos, that city of tin mines, forested hill contours still very much on his mind. His belongings had finally arrived by road haulage, having survived the elephant-trap potholes, unchecked expressway market takeovers, military-assisted police extortion checkpoints, siren-heralded in-your-face motorcades, cattle occupation, and kamikaze drivers drugged to the gills on all brands of affordable hallucinogens, local, smuggled, or traded in. He had traveled ahead and landed gratefully, having opted for the equally unpredictable domestic airline. From pottering among the contents of the advance truck, trying to impose a semblance of order on the contents of a madhouse of ripped boxes, last-minute gift packages, mini-cabinets, and document holders, the eminent surgeon Dr. Kighare Menka silently diagnosed himself weary body and soul, drained beyond bone tissue and marrow, a candidate perhaps for brain surgery at his own hands. Heaving a sigh of regret that such a prospect seemed unlikely—he was not a neurologist, in any case, just muscles, tissues, and organs—he picked his way to the beckoning drinks cabinet, sensibly prescribed and dispensed himself a restorative. His visit to Badetona was perhaps the last straw. He had placed so much hope on that alliance, but the mind of the man he knew was nowhere near accessible. Duyole Pitan-Payne was in the last throes of a looming departure. He felt isolated, alone with the burden of a discovery that, alas, did not permit of a simple surgical act of excision. Administering kicks along the way to stubborn obstacles that refused to yield ground at his approach, the surgeon meandered along a path into a deep-cushioned, enveloping armchair of his temporary lodging, one sole question preying on his mind: How long is temporary? Duyole Pitan-Payne had plucked him from the Jos inferno, replanted him in the sumptuous guest annex, and he knew he was welcome to stay there forever if he chose. He required no mind-reader to warn him, even as he let himself surrender his aches to the velvety comfort, that Pitan-Payne and his wife, Bisoye, were busy confecting every extravagant inducement to throw his way, with the single-minded intent of making him agree to do just that—accept this as his new home sine die. Forget Jos. Forget its parent state, Plateau. Forget the Middle Belt. Forget even Gumchi, his natal village. Or at least relegate them to a marginal, mostly preparatory bearing on his life and new career. Just relocate!
The campaign was anything but hidden, beginning when Duyole’s driver had met him at the airport and driven him straight to the dinner table, no thought of permitting him a fresh-up stop at the guest annex, at which his checked-in baggage would be offloaded. As for dinner, even by Pitan-Payne’s standards it was easily the most lavish impromptu spread Menka had ever survived, and survival was the most fervent prayer any guest silently muttered even for—indeed, especially for—such a modest snack.
The effort, he ruefully admitted, was unnecessary—it was mostly preaching to the converted. After all, he had himself initiated the rescue, albeit on a strictly respite basis, just a pause to recover some equilibrium. Aiding and abetting was the patriarch himself, the wisecracking, guileful, agilely ageless Otunba Pitan-Payne, and his silent consort, the buxom Mamma Kressy. She had accompanied him to dinner one evening, without notice, after years of bachelorhood since the passing of his wife, and without even the slightest intimation of her antecedents, to one of Duyole’s famous “impromptu” dinners. That was Otunba Pitan-Payne’s specialty—surprises, then mystery. She became a permanent family fixture, nearly inseparable from the Otunba, whose toenails appeared to have become her primary zone of devotion—the family swore that no matter what time of day they called at the Otunba’s home, her sole ministry as mistress was the trimming of the Otunba’s toenails, or simply massaging the gnarled ginger-root digits that bore that crowning glory. She had even learnt to crackle those toes, a most unusual feat that she would sometimes perform at dinner, the Otunba’s foot on her knees under the table. It took the first set of crackles for the family to understand why he always insisted that she sit across from rather than beside him. It was also the only audible contribution Mamma Kressy was ever heard to make to any discussion, however animated.
Then there was Brother Teahole, thus named for his lackluster golf-course performance and his preference for a genteel British cuppa tea at tee-end and final off-course hole—known as Hole 19—rather than the variety of more potent tipple favoured by others. Teahole exhibited either a sinus affectation or an affliction—it was impossible to decide which—the consequence of which was a tendency to punctuate even the most ordinary statements with a sniffle, most especially when he was engaged in circulating a dubious claim, which was most of the time. This made conversation with Teahole rather disjointed. Ah, there you are, Gumchi-man himself. Sniffle sniffle. Only yesterday Pop-of-Ages—sniffle sniffle—was saying how he wished—sniffle sniffle—the country had a few more—sniffle sniffle—talented people from your part of the world. Sniffle sniffle. Sniffle. He claimed to be a general salesman but appeared to be better known as procurer of this and that for the powerfully positioned. He was in standard embarrassing form with his weak phallus jokes.
Equally on display was Kikanmi, the “Brain of Badagry,” eldest of the brood and authentic real estate agent, moderately successful. That profession had once earned him a stint as state commissioner for lands and housing under a military regime, an appointment that no other commissioner before then or after was permitted to forget, since his tenure became the touchstone for all commissioners in all state governments, living or dead, serving or retired. You see, these people simply failed to appreciate what we did when we were in government. In his estimation, the real estate mogul hoarded between his two ears all the Pitan-Payne family endowment of human intelligence, and it was of a very special kind. This, he felt, was universally recognized. It encouraged in him a habit of taking ten to fifteen minutes to digest a trite passing comment, then persist in interjecting ponderous expositions on a discussion point that no one still recollected. Menka could not resist the feeling that he considered his junior brother Duyole little more than a roadside mechanic who happened to have merged spare-part replacements with a flair for business. How he viewed him, Dr. Menka, was a riddle that the surgeon never attempted to resolve.
Spluttering behind her fingers but clucking, chortling, and pouting encouragement on the family assignment was Duyole’s kid sister, Selina, rushed in as reinforcement from her boutique cum hairdressing salon in Yaba, with a reputation for being a discreet nymphet—anything but raving. There was general agreement that she had begun to mellow somewhat since she had met her current partner, a reformed stud who discovered too late that he had finally met his match.
Yelping in from the compound as if to egg on the combined emotional assault, the Alsatian, Jiro, constituted all on his own a formidable family ally. Jiro, right from his whelping among a litter of eight, had taken to Kighare on his first boyhood incursion into the Pitan-Payne home—Duyole had simply dragged home the orphan for vacation at school closure, and thereafter he remained an on-and-off vacation fixture. Casual visitors assumed he was one of the family along some lin
e or the other—that is, until they saw the faint trident tribal marks emerging from the corners of his mouth. The Alsatian would later earn the alias Disloyal Hound from its habit of leaping into the spare seat or luggage space in Menka’s vehicle whenever it sensed a move towards his departure, and had to be physically dragged out by his master, assisted by domestic staff, led by Godsown, the chief steward, who mostly saw to his feeding and thus earned a little respect. If master and friend had cause to call him at the same time, he invariably trotted towards Kighare, as if—the domestics railed in disgust—it was the stranger who stuffed his slavering jaws. From Menka’s reappearance after more than a year’s absence, he had patrolled the dining room precincts, sending out periodic canine blasts to let the neighbourhood know that his buddy was in town. All were present and convivial at the first—he dreaded, yet relished—of many more welcoming dinners to come.
The freshly celebrated, now somewhat rootless surgeon tried to cushion his dislodgement by reassuring himself that he was embarked only on a mere transformative project—same idea and content, different location, simply an adjustment of format. He had not lightly earned a reputation as the Gumchi Stubborn-Head. Gumchi Rehabilitation Centre—yes, he could live with that. Even if the location was Lagos, yes, that fell within the pledge of Gumchi First. He cast his eyes lightly over the boxes, trying to remember which one held the long-suffering mantra, last seen in its porcelain ashtray embossment. It succeeded in moving with him everywhere, once framed and hung over his bed in boarding school, neatly capitalized on the loose leaf of his textbooks, etc. It was a response to the sudden, cruel end that had thrust him among the ranks of the orphaned. It appeared to have matured him overnight. He carried the placard with him over the North Atlantic after his plight—and aptitude for learning—had come to state notice and produced the consolation of a scholarship that took him step by steady step up the occupational ladder, catapulting him into national prominence. The Gumchi Kid never forgot. He clung to the mantra as if his entire seizure of life were lodged in the placard, progressively miniaturized, then launched into virtual space by insertion in the signature box of his electronic mail account. Even when the four friends rallied round and adopted his Gumchi project as their joint venture of “giving back,” there was no yielding, no watering down. Such contributed to his notorious “coconut head,” at which even the smooth talker Farodion the marketing guru tilted, only to retreat with a broken lance.