Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  “The Family is in full agreement.”

  “Does that include the wife, Bisoye?”

  “I spoke to her yesterday. She’s most amenable, yes, amenable to the idea, yes, quite in agreement.”

  That was unexpected, and a setback. Had bereavement also warped Bisoye’s thinking? Bisoye? No, surely, that couldn’t be! For a moment Menka wondered if he was the one whose sensibilities had gone askew, then recalled that Runjaiye and company had been before him on that very protest mission. “You’re sure about this, Timi?”

  “Oh yes, I told her that this was what The Family wanted…”

  “You keep saying The Family, The Family. I am referring to Duyole’s family.”

  For the first time the procurer looked defensive. He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I am including the children. They are in agreement.”

  “The children! Oh, of course, yes, that I can readily believe. I warned Duyo to bring them home more often. Not let them grow up thinking Europe and America were the entire world.”

  “At first they too were thinking like Ekete and the others, but Damien assures me they’ve all come round.”

  Oh, Damien? Damien was a special case. And who had brought home Damien? He, Menka. Serves me right, he thought. So how did one describe what the children had become, how they regarded themselves? As part of the Nigerian, the Yoruba family? It was a question that Duyole often put to himself. But then again, his widow? The same Bisoye, a princess in her own right, being a daughter of one of the ruling houses of Ondo. The house was that close to the throne, the “asking ceremony” took place in the palace of the Osemawe, the paramount king of them all. They had all rallied round, accompanied Duyole to the asking event, bearing the traditional gifts of yam, palm oil, bales of aso oke, kola nuts, and what else? There they had undergone the solemn rites of asking for her hand, receiving her formally on Duyole’s behalf, and celebrating their betrothal. No, something was screwy. Menka could not see Bisoye consenting to have Duyole abandoned on foreign soil, any more than he could imagine that Duyole, if he could exercise his will at that moment, would fail to denounce—even disown—his family for what they were about to do. Mixed up though he was in some aspects of his choice of a lifestyle, there were far too frequent, profound, and consistent statements of the dead man’s mode of existence that did not permit of any such travesty. Menka had to dispute Teahole’s claim.

  “If Bisoye said you should bury her husband in Austria, she was not herself. She was overcome by grief—you should know that. In her state of mind, she would probably agree to anything, not even knowing the implications of what is being said to her. It is easy for me to imagine her condition. I wouldn’t take her consent as conclusive if I were you.”

  “We-e-ell, a-Gumchi-man, you know the tradition. Duyole belongs to The Family, and the widow’s wishes are really dependent on what The Family says.”

  “Don’t talk guff, Timi. You know you won’t be permitted any rest. No one will applaud this decision.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve already been bombarded by protests, but see? That’s typical of our people.” And it was as if he knew where Menka’s mind had been in the preceding moments. “They know how to forget tradition when it’s convenient for them, but they’re always the first to call on tradition, tradition. Eh? That’s consistency for you. You are a traditional person, not so, a-Gumchi-man? You know that tradition forbids the father to attend the funeral of his child.”

  Menka wondered why a united bolt from all the divine custodians of tradition did not smash through those office walls and blast Teahole off his seat, scorching him en route for submitting his hearing so patiently to such non sequiturs of a damned illiterate. This surpassed the uttermost limits of distortion that he had yet endured. His hardened eyes asked Teahole if he was raving. Perhaps Brother Timi saw that and decided not to await its voicing.

  “Bringing him back to where Pop-of-Ages is—it comes to the same thing, if you look at it properly.”

  “Wait, wait, Teahole, just hold on a moment. What kind of cockeyed reasoning are you trying to fob off on me? I’m not a Yoruba, but don’t think you can pull a fast one on this deep-dyed Gumchi-village-born. Your old man doesn’t have to be within a hundred miles of the funeral. What are you talking about, for heaven’s sake! Duyole could have died here, he could very easily have died at the Badagry hospital. Or right on the tarmac, where you and the airport commandant kept him for hours when he should have taken off. He was already dying on the tarmac, within this same Lagos where you were all raised by the old man. What then? Would you have ordered the ambulance plane to continue with his body to Austria to ensure that his father was not present at his funeral? Teahole, please, spare me. I badly miss my friend and maybe I am not being coherent. But I am clear-headed. So let’s allow some logic into this!”

  “Ah, a-Gumchi-man, you don’t understand, you see. You have to think of Pop-of-Ages, the Otunba himself. Let me tell you what he said, eh? Then you’ll understand the true nature of the man. I asked him, what do you want us to do about bringing back his body? You know what he said, eh, a-Gumchi-man, you know what he said? He said, ‘Is this idea of bringing him back so you can put him on the table and serve him for my dinner?’ See? That’s the kind of man he is. He wanted to know what was the purpose of our bringing him back. What was the point? So it comes to the same thing. He was reminding us of tradition.”

  Menka wanted to hear it again, but this was the reaction also of many. It seemed to have become a habit. Some pronouncement from Teahole, and the listener asked to hear it all over again, just to ensure that his or her hearing had not got twisted under the famous Teahole sniffling impact. The salesman obliged, his eyes shining with a strange, near-fanatic pride.

  “He’s tough, the Otunba is, real tough. What was the point of bringing him back, that’s the point he was making—you get it? ‘Is this idea of bringing him back so you can serve him out at table for my dinner?’ ” And Teahole shook his head in sheer wonder at the profundity of the patriarch’s declaration. “There are not many like Pop-of-Ages, I tell you. The man is deep. Really de-e-e-eep. Sometimes too deep even for us, his children. He is one of a kind.”

  Teahole walked on air for the rest of that day, and even for some days before the funeral. At one of the planning sessions of The Family, he narrated how he had floored the surgeon with an unanswerable riposte. “I tell you, that finished him. The Gumchi man simply got up slowly. He was so dazed he didn’t even know he was walking backwards.”

  The general salesman was quite truthful. Kighari Menka did get up slowly, backed off nearly all the way to the door, staring at Teahole with the eyes of a madman. In his churning mind there was only the alarming question, could Otunba Pitan-Payne be on the clientele list of Codex Seraphinianus?

  * * *

  —

  Even less comfort awaited Kighare Menka in Austria. He arrived braced for the dreaded moment. That was it. Nothing more to be said, only evolve a strategy for minimal contact, bid his friend good-bye, go somewhere to lick his wounds, then return and occupy his time with the Codex affair. He was grateful for that. It was something to engage his mind, take it away from living nightmares. It had proved a hectic day, repacking all his junk from Jos so soon after beginning to unpack and settle into a new abode, but the omens were clear. The Gong of Four had struck its last peal; it was finally back to Gumchi. Bring Gumchi to Lagos? What a dream! The new order called for him to find a small cottage in Abuja, perhaps Bida—yes, why not Bida, the home of pottery? From there he would commute to Gumchi, slowly, gradually build the Rehabilitation Centre, continue the work he had embarked upon. Gumchi First? No, Gumchi Now. He had been right from that very beginning when he had resisted all Duyole’s blandishments to settle down south so they could fulfill the dreams of youth—Lagos was simply no place for the Gumchi dream factory. Leave Lagos to the Pitan-Paynes, now deservedly emptied of its one
sustaining soul. That was one soul which truly understood the worth of happiness. He permitted himself a wry smile of gratitude—he had been saved making himself at home only to pull up roots again. As for the pangs of bereavement, all that would come later. For now, grief was relegated into a mere knot of insensibility. He felt nothing. He had to confront the young widow—just what form of consoling words could he possibly utter?

  She was in her room, kept company by Selina. At least she now had a woman’s shoulder to cry upon. He tried to imagine what it had been like for her in the few days before Selina’s arrival. It must have been a double cruelty. The bereavement, yes, but that Duyole should die so far away from home, which left her deprived of the consolation of the women of the house. They would have taken turns to be with her, never leaving her for one moment, sleeping in her room and watching over her until the funeral, and even remaining with her for days, weeks afterwards—that was the other cruelty. Kikanmi, who had arrived before anyone else had attempted to fulfill that role, aided by Duyole’s two daughters—he was none too sure how much empathy could be expected of them, considering their long-simmering, quite understandable resentment towards “the new woman.”

  The surgeon was prepared for the effect of his appearance but had underestimated the intensity. Also, he had not been aware that he had arrived on a battlefront. He was instantly overwhelmed by the emotional outpour. Even Selina brushed off a furtive tear. Perhaps this was the product of sudden memories of times shared, times now forever over, and a genuine love for the absent begetter of those times. Her mind also remained on her duty—to prevent the widow from injuring herself through excessive grieving. Bisoye went into successive waves of sobbing, becoming inconsolable, and Selina took charge with an efficacious mixture of compassion, gruffness, and mock anger at her ward: All right now, that’s enough. Yes, yes, it hurts, I know it hurts. It’s unfair. Life is unfair. Yes, sometimes we wonder why God deals one such a heavy hand, but…Yes, yes, by all means, grieve. It can’t be helped. But enough now, enough. That will do. You have to look after your health, you know. I say, that will do! Do you want me to go away? All right, I’m off. If you think all I have to think of is mopping up the floor after, you’d better think again. Do we have to go through all this each time a friend or associate of Duyole’s turns up? There, there, come on now, come on. Compose yourself…Oh, never mind me, look at me trying to keep up the pretence. But excess is wrong, you know that, excess is quite wrong, it becomes self-indulgence. There, there, there, take heart. Auntie Selina is here, we’ll see it through together….

  Menka had witnessed such scenes numerous times, an intuitive gauging of the degree and phases of distress, the deft rebandaging of a wound as it is opened and reopened. Selina came truly into her own, displayed totally unexpected expertise and affectionate concern. Menka was genuinely relieved, and resolved to relate to her with greater empathy from then on. Misjudged her completely, he decided. The Damien affair was just an aberration.

  The storm subsided at last, and Menka broached the subject on the mind of everyone. “I suppose, Selina, there has been no change of mind from The Family? We are not here to accompany Duyole’s body home?”

  The transformation was instant. One moment Menka was listening to the purr of consolation, the next it was the hectoring voice of The Family.

  “Uncle Kighare, it was the best decision we could have taken. There was no other choice. In fact, we’re lucky in a way that he died here, it’s an act of God. They are professionals over here, I mean the funeral parlour, not like all the noisy and messy people we would have had to cope with at home. Those who are able to attend will come, those who cannot will remember him in their own ways. But they will learn that we gave him a royal sendoff.”

  The surgeon turned to the widow. “You agree with this?”

  She wrung her hands. “I suppose so, Doc. I really don’t know what to do.”

  “Timi told me that you are in full agreement.”

  Selina jumped in instantly. “Oh yes, we’ve been discussing nothing else. Sentiment apart, Doctor, is there any other choice? You know, we are so lucky he studied here, so many people knew him. We went to look at the facilities, checked everything. It’s all so classy, you’ll see for yourself. And the music! There was a funeral going on at the time—the undertakers arranged for us to peep in and also walk around. You won’t find that level of taste and decency when it comes to our own people.”

  Menka rose. “Ah well. There was no harm in hoping. It appears all settled. So be it, then.”

  In his mind, however, the surgeon had resolved that this was anything but the end. Bisoye was clearly under some emotional control and Selina was the agent of transmission. In any case, Menka had finally had his fill. It left him feeling sick and angry. Bisoye saw him to the door and asked what room he was in. Menka told her, adding that he was going first to the bar for a badly needed drink. And then something in her expression—it was an unambiguous plea from a prisoner seeking release. Menka had not earned the title Dr. Bedside Manners for nothing, but anyone with even the most calloused antenna in the world would have picked up that mute plea. She had her back to Selina, so it was nothing especially subtle. It read, quite distinctly, unambiguously, Please, get me out of here!

  “Come to think of it,” the doctor drawled, “why don’t you come with me? I’ve a feeling all you do is stay cooped up in your room all day—am I right, Selina?”

  “She can’t be made to budge, Doctor. I’ve tried.”

  “Well, this time she will.” Menka took her by the shoulder and propelled her towards the corridor.

  “But, Uncle K….”

  “I’ll bring her back in thirty minutes, Selina. She’s going to have a drink with this doctor, even if he has to force it down her throat.”

  He propelled her out, walked at a fast pace, half expecting Selina to come barreling out of the room with the unarguable proposition that she also needed a drink. The door remained shut, however, while the sluice-gates of Bisoye’s emotions burst open all over again. The resulting downpour continued all the way to the bar, arrested only when Menka asked her, “Where do you really want Duyole buried?”

  “Where else, Doc? Where else but in Nigeria? In Badagry. I know he would want to be buried right there, where he chose to settle. Not even Lagos. In Badagry, where he left his mark. Where he launched that infamous street party on escaping from the government cage. I know he wants to rest where he raised Millennium Towers, the first of its kind in Badagry. What deep ties has he ever claimed with Salzburg? He studied here—so what? Everyone studies somewhere.”

  “Let me ask you once again, do you want Duyole’s body brought home?”

  “Could I possibly want anything different? Is it possible for anyone to think of any other place? I don’t understand what they’re all doing. Auntie Selina dictates to me and speaks on my behalf. I am not allowed to say anything. All I hear about is the family this and the family that. They have taken over everything to do with Duyole. They don’t permit me a say.”

  “You mean you never expressed a wish for him to be buried here, in Austria? At any time?”

  “Uncle Kighare, during the first two days, did I know where I was? What I said? What I was doing? What clothes I was wearing? What do you think I understood about what anyone was saying? I could have said yes. Maybe I did. I probably did. But was that what I wanted? Did anyone ask me what I truly wanted? When Auntie Selina came, all she kept hammering into my head was the need for him to be buried here. What need? Whose need? No one explained. Everything had been decided, everything. I was merely being informed. No one bothered to ask what I wanted. I was being told only of family decisions. Until Debbie arrived, and Katia, and they both began to protest, I didn’t even know who had really decided what or how. I kept asking for you—Where’s Doc? Where’s Doc? Why isn’t Dr. Menka here yet? When is he coming? I called your number, left recorde
d messages.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I picked up nothing. Nothing at all. Did you do your own dialing?”

  “No. Auntie Selina always volunteered. I don’t even know where my phone is.”

  “Yes. It figures.”

  “I had no one, just these people telling me what to do, what was being done. No one consulted me about the funeral arrangements. They settled on which funeral parlour, which cemetery, they picked the burial plot, spoke to the undertaker. I no longer know if this is a Lindtz event or the funeral of Duyole Pitan-Payne. It’s a strange family, Doc. They are all strange in that family. I think that’s why Duyole moved out. He was different. There is something weird about the rest of them. No one acts the way they’ve been doing since the attack. And in the one week since his death…”

  The bar was largely deserted. As she grew calmer, it became possible for Menka to nudge her gently into sharing with him something he had tried to capture all by himself—Duyole’s final moments. He was not sure if it was the right time, but from whom else, apart from the doctors, could he learn of such a defining, particularized moment? He could anticipate the bathetic rendition of the Brain of Badagry, probably punctuated by some coarse comment that he would take to be an expression of manliness. As for Damien, Menka preferred not to even think of him.

  Menka would have been wiser to have thought of that son, for what little there was merely succeeded in inserting yet more kinks in the template of morbidity, even for a veteran like Menka. The confident schedule underwent an unexpected setback. A sudden seizure, and the brain virtually ceased to function, its electrical pulses getting weaker and weaker by the minute. He was placed on life support, his brain pulses becoming fainter. Phone calls were made to the patriarch four thousand miles away. Damien had arrived and was collating and transmitting views as he thought fit. The doctors made their recommendation. The burden of decision was beyond his stricken wife—how could she ever consent to take Duyole off his life support? She was able to rise to direct, practical challenges—how was she supposed to assess this one?