by Wole Soyinka
The surgeon’s rising cheerfulness, reinforced by these reminiscences, lingered only until his gaze again rested on the boxes. With the offloading of the first bulk luggage from Jos virtually crowding him out of resting space, the finality of his repatriation began to press home. He looked round the debris, stopped as he saw his rumpled, lightly scarified face—three lines like a trident on either cheek, radiating from the two corners of the mouth—reflected from the inside mirror of the drink cum book cabinet door. He hissed, glared at the reflection, then proceeded to subject it to a terse harangue: “Gumcheeky!”—the name had stuck to him through boarding school, college, and even into a professional career of over two decades. “You and your big Gumchi mouth! You’ve really done it this time!”
Annoyed even more by the stolid silence from his reflection, he slammed down his glass, tucked his index fingers in both mouth corners, and pulled at the soft inside flesh, stretching the cheeks and distorting his face until the tridents disappeared into bunched skin and his jaw actually began to ache. It was a self-mortification routine he had retained since childhood, when it served the adults—the schoolteachers especially—as a labour-saving device for administering punishment to the erring child: Stand in the corner facing the class and pull your cheeks! Snorting, Menka let his mind linger on the notion of upbringing—such treatment, he reflected, would be considered child abuse in the present. The routine turned his face all the more grotesque from his efforts to issue parental/teacher admonitions through the same maltreated orifice, the emerging sounds warped and meaningless to a nonexistent audience:
“Yes, go on, open it wider. Open it as wide as you can. Now try and put your foot in it. I know you can. You do it all the time. Go on, no one is stopping you. You never learn, do you? I said, open it wider. Wider still, mug!”
The reunion dinner resurfaced with its mixture of assurances and anxieties—warmth, exasperations: family. The couple were right to discern signs of disorientation almost as soon as they set eyes on him. They continued to observe him keenly throughout dinner, began to nod satisfaction to each other as he progressively relaxed into the company and slid into the persona of the Menka they had known. He himself began to feel fully at ease, his psyche retuned to old times, recovering a lost solidarity, almost as if the missing pair of the gang were also present. He could almost feel pieces of his scattered self floating back into accustomed places.
Badetona had been a severe setback. No sooner did he return from that somber visit than Menka tackled the engineer.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Not even a hint!”
“No, it was best you found out yourself. What could I tell you? That he fumbled, lost his way and then his mind? I’ve visited scores of times, but he remains…well, as you saw him. Ever since his release. We try to do what we can with Jaiyesola, but she’s also set in her ways.”
“Are they planning to put him on trial?”
“That was the idea. And then they put him through something, and that’s what came out at the end of it. It would be stupid, and doubly cruel, even pointless, to place him in the dock. I think they know that, so they leave him alone. Pop-of-Ages also keeps an eye on that aspect—he’s close to Sir Goddie.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“They’re both members of one of these secret societies—Rosicrucians.”
“What are those?”
Duyole laughed. “No idea, but that is what gives the old man his vigour. I’m going to sign up. You saw him in action at dinner.”
The patriarch had been at his most irrepressible, shamelessly flirtatious on the verge of eighty. One easily recognized the source of Duyole’s gregarious, irreverent streak, though the rest of that engineer’s attributes appeared to be of his own secret formula. The Otunba had eagerly accepted to join the reunion dinner—it was his chance to broach the delicate mission imposed on him by his fellow lodge member. An earlier attempt, which had also failed to enroll Bisoye as ally, had met a brick wall, but the persistent streak appeared to run in the family. If the Otunba hoped to find an ally in Menka in that campaign, however, it was proving an uphill task. Menka refused to be drawn.
“So, doctor, who’s your candidaate?”
At first Dr. Menka was puzzled, his mind anywhere but on election matters. “Candidate for what, sir?”
“The elections.”
Bisoye interjected, “Pop, don’t bother him. You know there are no elections. Everything is decided in advance.”
“And to start with,” Duyole added, “which elections? The political or the festival? Let him understand what you’re asking. You like mixing things up, Pop.”
The old man waved him away. “Let the good doctor answer. You are just an anti-Goddie fanatic, so no one is asking you.”
“You did ask, though. More than merely ask, I seem to recollect.”
“Not anymore. You won’t even be here for the elections. No one needs your vote.”
Duyole turned to Menka. “He’s been badgering us to sponsor his friend for the YoY Award. Told him nothing doing. Can you imagine? Gong of Four and POMP!”
“This has nothing to do with the party. POMP and YoY are two different things. YoY is given to individuals. And institutions. Not political parties.”
“Try separating Goddie from POMP and what do you get?”
Bisoye sighed. “Here we go again. I thought that was all settled.”
Not for the sister, it seemed. “I still think it would have made a good merger. Like it or not, Sir Goddie is the national brand. I can just see the headlines: Brand of the Land sponsors Brand of the Nation. Doctor, what do you think?”
Menka shook his head and concentrated on his plate.
Bisoye nodded approval. “That’s right, Kighare. Don’t let them drag you into this.”
“Doc, your young friends do not understand how things get done. You know if you team up with Sir Goddie, he’ll modernize that village of yours in no time. Before you know it, another skyscraper will hit the sky. What’s the present count? I forget.”
Bisoye Pitan-Payne knew where her father-in-law was headed. Once the Otunba sensed opposition, or failure, his teases tended towards the waspish. She tried to head him off. “Pop, you know there are no skyscrapers in Gumchi.”
The old man squeezed his face in agony. “No? Are you quite sure? When I last visited…”
Even though he knew it was a waste of time, the son joined in the attempt to stop him in his tracks. “You have never visited, Pop. You don’t even know where Gumchi is.”
“I don’t have to visit. You can see those skyscrapers from looong distances.”
“When last did you travel up north, Pop?” Selina queried.
“That doesn’t matter. Gumchi skyscrapers? If you’re looking for the orginal, that’s where to find it. Long before the first one appeared in Lagos. Trust our people, they wasted no time pinning a name on it—Ilé gogoro, followed it up with the song On’ilé gogoro. Yes, long before all that song and dance, Gumchi could already boast at least two or three high-risers. Perhaps even before America’s Empire State Building. The Americans copied from Gumchi—as usual, no acknowledgement.”
His listeners shrugged. Until he had run the course, there would be no holding him. The old man chuckled. “Well, what do you call those rocks sitting on top of one another? The top ones don’t just scrape, they push through to the other side of heaven. Ask your friend, he’s one of the cave dwellers. They live inside those rocks, just as in blocks of flats.”
Selina’s ever-ready hysterical laughter filled the dining room, but the rest of the company permitted only embarrassed smiles. Bisoye and her husband exchanged looks, regretting now that they had invited the old man. Nervously, they hoped that it was just the Otunba’s misplaced primitivist jokes, not the signal for an evening of peevishness. The Otunba was fond of the family extra, they all admitte
d—as Kighare also was of him—but they continued to underrate the Otunba’s tendency to indulge in near-the-bone banter, mostly derived from notions of a sophistication of Lagosian-colonial aristocracy, superior to “natives” from the interior. There had been moments in the past that they preferred to forget, hoping that the guest victims had forgiven, or generously dismissed as the effects of old age and occasional dissociation from reality.
Menka, however, moved swiftly to douse any flickers of unease, his voice genuinely warm. “Sir, I have a penthouse reserved there for you anytime you choose to visit.”
The awkward moment disappeared. The Otunba screamed, “Without a proper lift? You want me to climb up and down? At my age? Duyole, your friend wants to kill me.”
“All right, Pop, that’s my next engineering assignment. A private lift, just for you.”
“Ah, that’s more like it. Mamma Kressy!” She looked up from her toenail assignation with a broad smile but would not be drawn. “That’s where we’re going for our next Easter holiday. Spending Good Friday right next to God. We’ll witness the Resurrection from a ringside seat.”
The Otunba was rewarded with the accustomed mix of shock and laughter. The evening approached midnight, all conviviality. It was a success. By unspoken accord they would make the long-absent son feel fully at home. The seeming outsider was the other prodigal son, Damien, lately returned to the bosom of the family. His withdrawn presence generally passed without notice, certainly did not inhibit the overall upbeat mood. He alone appeared somewhat ill-at-ease, never joining in the conversation but solicitous of everyone in his quiet way, ensuring that glasses were filled, dishes assisted in the direction of emptied plates or exploring gazes. He ate sparingly, nursed the same glass without any noticeable change in its level. Bisoye ensured the relay of dishes. Finally, movements under the table indicated that Mamma Kressy had begun to refasten the buckles on the Otunba’s sandals. She gently lifted the leg off her knee, reverently assisted its descent to the carpeted floor. It was her signal to the Otunba that it was time to head home.
* * *
—
After they had all dispersed, Kighare, seated in the cosy safety of an intimate lounge, designed as if for just such confidentialities, looked his friend over and nodded appreciatively. Nothing about Pitan-Payne surprised him anymore. The engineer had started work on a permanent solution from the word go, wasted no time on temporary measures. That was now obvious. Kighare tackled him quite bluntly. Duyole merely shrugged his shoulders.
“After that first phone call, the one you made from the club, it became impossible to concentrate on anything else.”
“You’re a born worrier. America’s Homeland Security would grade that yellow. Still far from red alert. I thought I made that clear?”
“You think I can still recall details of that shifty code? When last did any of us have cause to resort to it?”
“Well, you should. It was mostly your handiwork. Let’s see now. Farodion—that’s right, he was the last to evoke it. And that was some twenty years ago.”
“Oh yes, the cannabis problem at Customs. Stupid. Anyway, listening to you was enough, no matter how casual you tried to sound. Listen, Gumchi, I know you inside out—don’t argue! Knew we had to get you out of there. And permanently. Not just for a short break. Even if it meant myself coming over to set fire to the damned place and smoke you out. Bisoye fully agreed.”
Menka smiled. “She would! You’ve ruined her sense of judgment.”
“Well, were we wrong?”
Glasses steadily replenished from Duyole’s favourite malt whisky, Menka felt warmed even further by the glow of a renewed friendship, and gratitude. He quickly warned himself to guard against even the slightest exhibition of the latter by word, gesture, body language, or whatever around the couple—especially the sharp-eyed Bisoye.
They did not hear the door open, just a solicitous voice asking, “Is there anything you need, Papa?”
It was Damien. “Oh, thanks, Damien. Didn’t know you were still downstairs.”
“I thought I would check before turning in.”
“Thanks, but…” He looked around. “We’ve got everything, I think. See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Papa. Goodnight, Uncle.”
“Goodnight, young man. Your dad and I are in for a long night.”
“I bet, Uncle. Goodnight, sir.”
Duyole burst out laughing. “Look at him, just take a look at him. He takes after me, loves fabu like nobody’s business. Don’t worry, I’ll pass on what you are dying to hear over the next few days. Let me first extract it all from him.”
Damien looked mildly embarrassed and protested, “Ah, Papa. I was just trying to make sure you had everything you needed.”
Again Duyole let loose one of his uproarious gusts of laughter. “Liar! Just make sure the open malt reserve doesn’t disappear with you. I earned every one of those bottles the hard way, but that’s a family secret. Pour yourself a glass and then leave us ancient fogeys to our conspiracies.”
Damien smiled at that, threw up his hands. “You see what I get from him, Uncle.”
“I get worse, Damien. Ignore him.”
Damien left, shutting the door behind him.
“Where does one begin?” sighed Menka.
“Anywhere. Anywhere. All right, go from the beginning. Leave nothing out. I want to hear everything.”
Menka nodded in the direction of the departed figure. “How is he doing?”
For the first time that evening, Duyole’s face clouded in uncertainty. “Hm-hmm. Gradually finding his feet. One thing for sure—he is determined to settle down. Keen, very keen. I’ve brought him into the firm, so he’s now fully absorbed into the family business. But he must work his way up. Others helped build the firm, not him. They are senior to him.”
Menka nodded. “Gong o’ Four to the core. I expected no less. And he?”
Duyole’s face receded into deep thought. “I’m not sure. But he has no choice in the matter. Matter of principle.” He broke off abruptly. “Wait a minute.” And he raised his voice. “Damien!”
“Coming, Papa.”
“I nearly forgot. I have something for you,” Duyole said to Menka. “Someone came and left you a parcel. They said you left them only this address.”
“I did?”
“From Hilltop Club. They said it’s from one Baba Baftau.”
Menka’s face lit up. “Old Man Desert! He’s one of the real genuine hearts in that place. I remember now, he did say he was going to send me some kilishi.”
“You eat that stuff?”
“It stops the stomach gnawing when you can’t stop for lunch. But there is a special story regarding this one. Not to worry, it’s part of the overall saga.”
Damien entered.
“If I may trouble you, Damien,” Duyole said, “please look in the office corner of my studio. You’ll find a brown paper package, on the flattish side. It’s tied with a ribbon, somewhere on my workbench. You’ll see it as soon as you enter.”
“I’ll bring it right away. See? I was right after all.” And Damien turned to his errand.
“He always keeps his word, that old man,” Menka explained. “Promised he would send me kilishi every month, if only to make sure I don’t forget them. As if I could ever!”
“Or me either. From the moment I turned on the TV and watched that inferno…”
“That’s exactly what it was, an inferno. Never thought that ancient building could catch fire so thoroughly. Think it was truly arson?”
“What else could it have been?”
“Either you were trying to smoke out someone or someone had decided to smoke you out. More likely the latter. What the pyromaniac didn’t know was that it was the surest way to make you dig in even deeper. He should have taken lessons from those who know
anything of the Gumchi Stubborn-Head!”
“You know, Duyo, only just now, what you just said—yes—only now has it occurred to me that maybe you’re right. Maybe it was I who set fire to the place. In a sense, one could say that. Some kind of chain reaction, not yet certain how that was set off, but yes, could be. Could be.”
Pitan threw up his arms. “All right, I’ll let you tell it your own way. Just as long as you know—to go back to what I was saying earlier—the only problem I saw was the usual one, how to get you to act in your own interest. Bisoye and I put our heads together, and bingo! She came up with the answer—what about the Gumchi idea? It was so long ago that it took seconds for it to click. Brilliant girl, eh? Then of course she had to rub it in. You should have heard her sniff—You men! You’re so different. We don’t forget such things. You told me about it when we were courting, a day before you finally proposed. I did, too. Seems it was the very day after I returned from your graduation. She said I went on and on about joining you in your remote mountain village to construct a clinic on sheer rock surface—exaggeration, of course, I could never have suggested building anything so impossible. She made that up.”
Menka laughed. “Are you sure? You’re talking about the morning after…”
“Come on. Are you saying I hadn’t sobered up even after a long train journey back across the English Channel? You’re just a sore loser, taking her side because I drank the entire competition under the trestle, including all three of you.”