Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

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Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth Page 35

by Wole Soyinka


  A fellow scientist, the Greek permanent representative in UNESCO, sought to track down the bronze original of the trademark—it had affinities with a long-vanished four-headed deity in the Greek pantheon, a double Janus, he asserted. Dogs, griffons, horses, dragons, serpents, and other mythical monsters—these all had extant representations, the multiple heads usually lunging forth from the shoulder on equally convulsing, auto-driven necks, not a static, fused four-in-one human head as in the Benin bronze, each head nearly fully executed. No, the diplomat learnt, there was no four-headed beast or deity in any African mythology, just the modest endowment of two, the most notable being that irrepressible lord of the crossroads, Esu. The man’s curiosity appeared insatiable. The search led him logically to Duyole’s Badagry factory. Could he at least see the original piece from which the logo was derived? And perhaps meet the sculptor, if living? Pitan could not guarantee the latter but drove with him to Benin City and the bronze casters’ sector. Travel by road was the caller’s choice—a wish to “drink in the environment.” He did, staggering drunk—to all appearances—from the vehicle at each rest stop all the way to Benin. Still, the ride through kilometres of a succession of moon craters was largely relieved by engrossing exchanges on human inventions even before Archimedes and into the solar panel. In Benin he was thrilled by the kingship rituals and the historic defence moat that encircled the “City of Blood.” The sculptor could not be identified, but at least the starved mythologist could commission a replica, which duly landed on his desk in Paris a few months afterwards. The return journey to Badagry was much smoother, despite the air turbulence that bedevils flights during the rainy season—he had drunk his fill of potholes! Finally he departed with an enhanced understanding of the origins of his own Grecian mythology, especially that of the disordered mass from which all phenomena are supposed to emanate—Chaos.

  Thus commenced a fortuitous journey that now landed him in the parent body, the United Nations. Out of the blue, some eighteen months later, came the enquiry, then a formal offer to join the Energy Commission, all thanks to the sculptural clout of a four-headed gong—not really a startlingly unique composition, in his view. Or beauty, for that matter. Indeed, squat, graceless, nearly ugly. But it was a four-in-one. And perhaps the sculptor had had in mind the four elements—earth, water, air, fire, all composites of matter, the matrix of the engineering occupation? And then, much later, Duyole argued, it captured the serene essence of Yoruba royalty, never mind that it was unambiguously of Benin fabrication; even schoolchildren knew of the intertwined histories and cultures of Edo (Benin) and Yoruba, so who was arguing? The four-headed serenity, the engineer argued, came from embracing the world in one single spiritual compass. All that came later, rationalizing an already settled choice, which actually began with an adapted Viking drinking ritual—with beer as the ritual libation, not even the tourist-addicted Greek retsina or Spanish sangria—far from the land of palm wine, sorghum mead, and fiery ogogoro.

  Skip Notes

  * “Brother, my brother, is it you that the malicious world has tried to maltreat in this manner?”

  18.

  A Vigil Too Far

  Damien had awaited the police and bomb squad in the home after the departure of the ambulance. He remained with them while they pottered about the workshop, dusted their way through debris, took samples, and asked questions. He followed them back to their station as he was anxious to share with them, in confidence, some of his observations. He did not wish to do this in the house—fear of eavesdroppers—and he insisted on speaking to no one below a commissioner’s rank. When he joined Dr. Menka by the sickbed, the surgeon was relieved to see him valorously trying to play the man, to let everyone know that he was someone the rest could lean upon in a crisis, even though he was bleary-eyed and looking distinctly sleep-deprived. That was one potential patient less, and Menka was more than grateful. Running a brief clinic on the situation, he prescribed that he could begin to concentrate on his number-three patient—Dr. Kighare Menka!

  “I almost feel I’m back in Jos,” he declared. “So I may as well go with the routine. I’ll head home, try my best to enjoy dinner, stop by the house to check on Bisoye, and then back on duty. They’ll make me a bed somewhere near.”

  Just then the patient stirred, showing signs of life for perhaps the third time that day. His gaze took in Damien’s presence and that appeared to stir something in him. His lips moved, and Menka brought his ear close to his lips. He was rewarded with some decipherable words.

  “My briefcase…office…briefcase…tell Damien I…want it.”

  Menka shook his head, half in irritation, half in despair. His voice was terse. “I’ll tell him nothing of the sort! Will you kindly forget all about work for now? To hell with your briefcase! How are you going to recover if you keep worrying about your business! Leave Runjaiye and the rest to do their work.” He turned to Damien. “This father of yours is incorrigible. Can you imagine him worrying about a briefcase? At such a time!”

  Damien threw up his arms. “Uncle, he’s your friend. You know him. Now you see what we have to cope with. He thinks nothing can work without him. Anyway, you be on your way. Take your time, I’ll stay with him.”

  Menka noticed that Duyole had become even more agitated. This time, however, his restlessness did not appear to stem from physical discomfort but from a state of mind. Menka could make out the words formed by his lips even without the sound, and became exasperated—the lip-reading still spelt briefcase. Then he thought, well, who could tell what he was working on anyway? There he lay in bed, physically immobile, unable to articulate every need, but who knew where his mind was functioning, and at what? He decided to dispatch Damien, if only to put his friend’s mind at rest.

  “Get the briefcase, Damien. I’ll defer my break till you get back.”

  The briefcase was Pitan-Payne’s mobile office—documents, diary, aide-mémoire, cigarettes and lighter, and other minor human crutches. He kept his most secretive papers in it, including his “special dossier”—scribbles on business ventures and deals that, put simply, required close examination through his special, protection-needy contacts. It had proved crucial during his consultative stint with the power ministry. Most of the scribbles were in a special code that was at least two or three levels more specific than the Gong o’ Four–improvised lingo, which was more reliable in gesture, tone, and context than meaning-specific. The briefcase itself was protected by a seven-key combination lock—a chance of one in over five million, he boasted, in favour of any safe-breaker. The engineer was separated from that mini-vault only when the driver or a messenger carried it to or from the car ahead of him, both constantly kept in view. Well, maybe just seeing the briefcase on his hospital locker, under his own custody, would make him relax.

  Menka nodded again to Damien. The young man left.

  It was painful to watch his friend clearly agitated by something he could not express. His eyes indicated something pressing on his mind, something he desperately struggled to confide or request, but all efforts merely wearied him, and he soon subsided. It was a relief to see him drifting off to sleep. The periods of apparent relief grew longer and longer, and finally his body went limp altogether and he began to snore softly.

  Perhaps it was the background sibilance of Duyole’s snores against the silence, but something slid a discordant note into Menka’s mind. A small thing, perhaps, he considered, but it left him unsettled. Several times his mind had returned to the morning of the explosion, reliving every second from that first ominous sound that accompanied a just-breaking dawn—the dash downstairs, a run to the main house, and the sight of Godsown struggling out of sleep, dazed and confused, the familiar smell of cordite that eliminated all doubt. Then the series of motions in speeded-up tempo. Bisoye appearing from upstairs—the struggle to keep her away, force her back into the bedroom while Duyole was evacuated. The explosion had occurred in his basem
ent studio. Damien, it would seem, had slept through it all, emerging, he learnt later, long after the ambulance had left, with Menka accompanying the concussed engineer, hardly breathing, covered in blood. Then, after the operation, when he returned to the house to check on the wife, Damien was nowhere to be seen—he assuming that he was in the office; the office—that is, Runjaiye—assuming that he was in the hospital. Remained missing for quite a while, even while stragglers—business associates, friends, the media—still hung around for news despite being refused admission to the patient, all hungry for any scrap of news on the victim’s condition. Casual exchanges afterwards would appear to have placed Damien as preoccupied with securing the workshop, once he had woken up. He had elected to remain and protect the studio while awaiting the arrival of the police. His services to the police over, he went on to Millennium Towers—to secure his father’s office, he said. Not until the afternoon of the day did he come to the hospital. So the doctor transposed himself: Now you, Kighare, place yourself in that young man’s position, a father hovering between life and death—would you give a damn about securing the scene of crime? As for the office situated some five kilometres away…Menka shook himself free of the disquiet, subsumed the play of priorities under one dismissive word: Lagos!

  What was on the patient’s mind shortly became clarified by the arrival of the next visitors—his mother-in-law, with Bisoye’s brother, Denrele, in tow. They needed a document in Pitan-Payne’s custody, and it was urgent.

  Denrele explained, “You see, Doctor, by a coincidence, we came in from Kwara this afternoon—we hadn’t even heard of the morning attack. Mr. Pitan himself gave us the date. It’s not the time we should start bothering you or him with such matters, but…well, you see how awkward it all is. The document is crucial for a court sitting the day after tomorrow.”

  Menka was relieved, and then suddenly worried. If Duyole kept anything important, a document in action, so to speak, it would be in his briefcase. Who on earth would know the lock combination? Certainly not Bisoye, nor any of his children, nor his business partners. Duyole, a believer in the need-to-know principle, kept secrets in that briefcase. When Menka turned to look at the patient, as if hoping to find a solution there, he encountered a twinkle in his eye, followed by a perceptible nod and the ghost of a grin. Menka grinned back and completed the gung-ho gesture which he knew he badly wanted to add. If that was indeed what had made him restless, then his mind was fairly back to normal functioning. Again, it was with a sense of marvel mixed with excitement that the surgeon realized that Duyole’s mind had retained the appointment. He felt an overwhelming urge to celebrate.

  Soon after, Mr. Damien himself came huffing up the stairs, a folder in hand, but not the briefcase. He saw the visitors. “Ah, you’re here already,” and he waved the affidavits triumphantly.

  “You found them?”

  “Yes, I guessed that’s why Papa wanted his briefcase. I was present when he gave you the appointment.”

  “Oh, you knew the combination.”

  “It was unlocked. He had it open in his studio. Must have been working with it when…well, when it happened. I noticed it at once on his work-desk. Open.”

  Overwhelmed, the woman embraced Kighare. Embraced Damien. Leant over and planted a kiss on Duyole’s forehead.

  “I’ll see you off myself,” Dr. Menka said, ushering them out. “Then I’ll take a break. I must confess I am getting weak around the knees. Hands a bit trembly. I feel hunger.”

  “And sleep,” insisted Damien. “Uncle Kighare, please go to sleep—in your own bed. I’ll take this shift. The hospital has a doctor on night duty. I promise to wake you up when I sign off. I’ll knock you up, I swear.”

  Again the engineer’s agitation appeared to resurface. Something he needed to say, struggled to say, but the effort only weakened him. He rolled his eyes between Damien and Menka as if to link them together in some way, but the ability to speak appeared to have been exhausted by the few words he had uttered. And then the enquiry about a Uriah Heep who kept them waiting. Where? Finally the patient appeared to resign himself to the helplessness of it all, shut his eyes, and fell asleep.

  Menka resigned himself to the needed break. Four hours later he was back in the hospital ward. Damien occupied his vacated chair, fast asleep. Menka sent him home, commending his luck on inheriting his father’s gift for dropping off. Before settling down, he checked the notes on the bedside card, then gave the patient a routine examination.

  Dr. Menka turned instantly, raced down the corridor, and sought out the night nurse. The doctor on duty was already on his way up the stairs. Thereafter the world appeared to whirl in demonic tempo.

  “Dr. Menka?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, but the news is not good. You saw my notes.”

  “Yes.”

  “I checked on him about half an hour ago. The critical drug is not in our pharmacy.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I was on my way from the store. We do not have even one ampule.”

  “We’ll find it. Let’s start checking other hospitals.”

  Before full dawn there was a conference of doctors, plus private consultants who could be roused. Aneurism! Thrown down its bloody gauntlet. One drug was on the tongue of everyone, but the hospital had none. Phone calls to sister institutions—the university hospitals all over the nation, always beginning with the closest. It all ended in absence. Damien had hardly settled into bed when he was roused, conscripted, and put in charge of coordinating all efforts. Private hospitals, again fanning outwards in concentric circles—they actually opened up their Google maps. Next the tantalizing wait for opening hours, giving silent thanks that it was not a weekend, followed by the agonizing wait for the doors of pharmacies to open. Where the pharmacists were known—Lagos and Badagry, Abeokuta, Ibadan, Benin—they found their breakfasts interrupted by frantic calls. Millennium Towers ordered all its cars and dispatch motorbikes fueled, drivers and riders ready to take off in whatever direction. The drug was nowhere to be found, neither in Badagry nor in Lagos. Pitan-Payne’s condition worsened. It appeared to have been complicated by a stroke.

  The consensus was total. “It is time for the drastic move.” Menka sighed, distressed by the irony—Duyole, of all people, obliged to join the so-called medical tourist trail!

  “Even for an airlift, we must first stabilize. The drug is essential.”

  “I know,” Menka snapped.

  It was the irony that provoked his unaccustomed irritation. A state-of-the-art diagnostic clinic was among the blueprints of Duyole’s Millennium Towers projects; indeed, it reached far back into three decades, the umbrella theme of a collective commitment of which Duyole was pivotal. Now they could not even find a basic drug. But at least they could begin to hunt for an air ambulance.

  Menka continued in a more even tone. “We can’t wait until we find the drug. Whichever comes first waits for the other—no, well, strictly the drug first. Air ambulances can’t be kept hanging around for too long. A patient of mine in Jos has links with an oil company which of course has an air ambulance. I can rouse them immediately. If needed, we’ll even appeal to the prime minister.”

  Damien quickly interjected, “I hope it won’t get to that. Papa wouldn’t like to be obliged to—”

  “The devil? Right now, Damien, your father’s views don’t count. Apart from anything else, he is international property. And a national responsibility. Even honour—if there is any left in Villa Potencia!”

  They began to work contacts, fanning outwards—east and north. Menka called his former hospital in Jos. The result, zero. The staff of Millennium Towers joined in the search, contacting mission hospitals and hole-in-the-wall patent medicine stores in their towns and villages—one never knew what might be hidden far from the regular circuit. Even if the drug had expired, they might just try out an ampule or two.
Those expiry dates preferred to err on the side of safety, so there was always a gambler’s margin. Bisoye, once her sedatives had worn off, turned to steel. Calmly but sternly, she called up her class—Dial up all your medical contacts, but find me this drug! Brand of the Land activated its dozen or more branches all over the nation. Nothing surfaced. It seemed unbelievable, but the drug was nowhere to be found.

  Finally, it was indeed a hole-in-the-wall, a modestly stocked pharmacy owned by an eighty-year-old retiree in an obscure village near Ogbomosho, that produced the miracle. The state governor was contacted; he agreed to provide an escort to rush the drug to Badagry.

  * * *

  —

  The council of experts dispersed, the rustled-up logistical team took up the reins, divided the tasks for Pitan-Payne’s evacuation among themselves, reinforced by family, firm, and friends. The brother Kikanmi dismissed Menka’s offer to procure an air ambulance through his professional links—the family, he assured him, had its own spheres of contacts and would take care of that item. The linkage extended all the way back to Duyole’s student days, when the old man had joined him in Salzburg for the first time, on his graduation. On his list of sites of interest was a branch of the famous Lindtz chocolate factory situated just outside Salzburg. The Otunba had promptly negotiated representation of the company within Nigeria, a partnership that became a two-way affair as the shrewd businessman also took to serving as agent for cocoa exporters from within the country. His attempt to extend this interest to Ghana was not so successful. The Lindtz people were willing and contracts were signed, but nationalist sentiment from that veteran cocoa source proved intimidating, and the Otunba wisely sold his Ghanaian partnership to a local company, concentrating on the quite sizeable Nigerian market and its increased export market. The Lindtz are our people, announced Brother Kikanmi; we can rely on them for the ambulance. Only later did Menka learn, and with great satisfaction, that the service had indeed been called upon before. A family member had sustained hideous injuries from a motor crash and the Lindtz firm had come to the rescue. The new assignment was handed over to Teahole. He would contact the Austrian embassy and undertake all chores relating to documentation—landing permit, emergency visas for crew, their lodging, exemptions, etc., etc. He brushed off all offers of assistance. He knew everyone; his clout with aviation on the ministerial level was comprehensive. He would see the crew through immigration protocols on arrival and obtain clearance for departure.

 

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