Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Menka now fished for the card, found it, and called him. Did he know at which restaurant Duyole might have expanded his stock of eating notoriety? The man laughed out loud—of course! Could he direct him there? He would like a meal there, Menka said, and if the waiters remembered Duyole’s last visit, he would like to have exactly what he had had for lunch, dinner, or whatever.

  It proved a cruel night, a night of unforgettable crassness. As he started out, thinking to slip away before others began assembling for dinner, he saw them! They were together with his volunteer host, awaiting him. The friendly, solicitous man thought it was such a befitting idea that he had decided to invite the entire family of the deceased. Everyone. The Family, the family, the extended family, the consenting family, and the dissenting family. Silently Menka upbraided the friend he had planned to celebrate for his choice of local friends. How could the man fail to have sensed that he desperately needed to be alone? Alone, alone, alone, alone! And if that proved impractical, then just the children and the widow. But certainly not The Family.

  Escape was impossible. Briefly he thought of retreating to his room and ordering whatever, but the shipping magnate was also there, looking foward to being with him. Menka felt trapped. He blamed himself. If only his mind had been less cluttered by the day’s events and its looming demands, all the travesties that passed for a solemn farewell, he would have anticipated the expansive nature of his volunteer host. He gritted his teeth, submitted to an evening of penance. They piled into the provided minibus, the same that had served as his Purgatory earlier in the day.

  The maître d’hotel made his recommendations and took orders. Yes, he recalled most distinctly what Duyole had ordered, and he would treat the doctor to that very pasta and venison. The extraneous garnishing—not from the kitchen—was anticipated but not in such heavy dosage. Even he had underestimated The Family’s capacity for plumbing down to base sediment in pursuit of the banal.

  If only they would keep quiet!

  Were they genuinely enamoured of the day’s proceedings? Surely they must know that they were isolated by the choice they had inflicted on everyone else! Or did they feel so resentful of the evident disapprobation around them that they felt compelled to justify their action through a continuing glorification of the assets of strangers? It was doubtful if they knew the answer themselves, only that they felt driven to talk and talk, endow their taste with enforced appropriateness. As for dinner itself, they wolfed down their orders with undiminished relish while others grew increasingly embarrassed and upset, squirmed, threw covert glances at one another, and perhaps upbraided Duyole silently for his one unforgivable error of emerging from such an incongruous nest.

  That cemetery, do you know how many generations of Austrians have been buried there? Getting a plot in that place was not easy, you know. If we hadn’t had connections, I mean, they know the Pitan-Payne family here…You know the Austrians, they’re very strict. The cemetery can take only so many—the limit is all decided in advance.

  You bet! After a certain number, that’s it. Doesn’t matter who you are. And of course they are most selective—not like it is at home, where t’aja-t’eran*1 can find room anytime…

  And those flowers…beautiful, so beautiful.

  The music—didn’t you love the music? I told them my brother loved Mozart, and that’s what they chose. These undertakers really do honour to their profession. They know how to put people in the right frame of mind.

  The overall atmosphere…

  Oh no, don’t even talk of the atmosphere…overwhelming. Simply superior. How could they keep a cemetery so neat, just like a garden?

  As I said, the goats would have eaten all the flowers. Pigs would be let loose to root as they please. No, just tell me, where in all of Nigeria could one find a garden—I mean cemetery—so well kept? Our people have such a long way to go. Oh yes, a lot of catching up to do.

  Do they know it, though? Are they aware of the huge gap?

  Well, they travel, don’t they? They see these things. I mean, it’s not as if they haven’t got eyes in their heads.

  But it makes no impression on them, none at all.

  It’s sad. Eating and drinking, that’s all we understand. Their idea of a funeral is to bring in the band and carouse all night. People you’ve never known will show up. They’ll even sew aso ebi*2 and parade themselves in it. God, what a contrast! Everything so sedate here, so decent and tasteful. Dignified…

  Oh yes, dignified. It’s what I call respectable and dignified.

  Bisoye stood up quietly, excused herself, and went to the toilet. Half the table followed her anxiously with their eyes, but the trio did not miss a beat. A waiter escorted her in the direction of the toilet and pointed the way. Then the maître d’ reappeared in his white overall, and his voice was a mixture of surprise and displeasure.

  “Your food is getting cold, Herr Doktor. I make it special, the way your friend liked it. You haven’t touched it.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” And Menka quickly stuck his fork in the pasta and tried to wrap a few strands around its prongs.

  “Or perhaps you don’t like it? You can order something else.”

  “No, no, please. It is delicious.” He was not lying, and he quickly rammed a forkful into his mouth. The maître d’hotel hovered around him for a few moments, then went on an inspection tour of the rest of the table. The siblings had no cause to fear his disapproval. Menka was beginning to twirl the next forkful when the voices of provocation resumed once more. It was Kikanmi in full flight yet again, and the surgeon knew that the rest of his pasta was doomed to stay down in the plate and slowly congeal.

  “Mind you, quite apart from everything else, it’s fated, you know. There is a bond between our family and Austria. We lost a brother here, you know. He died and was buried here.”

  “Your brother died in Austria?” asked the Englishman whose voice Menka had last heard in the bar.

  “Oh yes.” Selina added, “He was something of, ah, you know, a wanderer. How he got himself here, heaven knows, but it was after Pop-of-Ages first visited Vienna. I think he heard about the city so he decided to try it. It was all between him and the Otunba. But we received news one day that he had died. The Family sent word that he should be buried in Vienna. Who would have known at the time that we’d have all this close connection with the Lindtz people?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Kikanmi agreed. “The Family seems drawn to Austria. Our destinies are linked in a strange way. Maybe from a previous life. I’ll probably end up being buried here myself.”

  Menka found his voice. “You really would like to be buried here? If you had a choice, you would?”

  “Of course. Wherever I drop dead, just dig a hole there and bury me. One thing you learn from dealing with land is that all land is the same everywhere.”

  That provoked instant howls around the table. His fellow diners, both citizen and transient, began to shout out competitive experiences—what they had had to shell out informally, then undergo formally, to secure the specific patch of real estate they badly sought for specified business—forget even as basic domicile. Other voices screamed last-minute deprivation of allocated land—certificate of occupation issued, stamped over government seal, only to have excuses and offers of alternative acreage, most notoriously lagoon-side land reclaimed with public funds but shared only among the anointed. Testimonies flew like flaming arrows over being offered substitutes of such value sameness that they turned down the offer sight unseen. Such was the torrent of passion generated that the Brain of Badagry could, if he wished, fairly claim that it was only thanks to him that conversation finally overcame the somber evening, became spirited and unforced.

  About twenty to twenty-five minutes after his profound pronouncement, Kikanmi finally appeared to catch up with his thoughts, emerging with yet another family revelation. “Mind you, The Family
has a soldiering tradition. We have an uncle—he’s still alive—who actually fought in Burma. He was in the West African Frontier Force, commissioned in Ghana. He used to say, when you sign up, your body belongs to the Queen. So one patch of land is just the same as any other.”

  That ended Dr. Menka’s prolonged reticence. “Cultures differ,” he remarked. He had sworn himself to silence, praying that Kikanmi would take the same Trappist vow in deference to the occasion. It would, in any case, merely conform to his spasmodic bouts of presumably deep reflection. Now Menka felt personally assaulted. “No! Speak for yourself or your, er, Family. But don’t you dare suggest it’s a universal military code. The Israelis sometimes risk losing more soldiers just to bring their dead home. And the United States is still looking for the bodies of her soldiers from the Vietnam War. So don’t tell me it’s a military thing.”

  “Quite right.” It was the Englishman again. “I was about to make the same point. There are armies where it is considered a matter of honour to bring home their dead if at all possible.”

  “At the time your brother died in Austria,” Menka continued, “it was a far more complicated business to bring home a corpse. Cumbersone and expensive. It happened quite a while ago, didn’t it? The journey would have been by boat.”

  Timi rose to the defence of family honour. “The Family never had a problem looking after its own, no matter what it took. It was simply a decision it made.”

  “Ah well,” Menka sighed, “when you finally get your wish to be buried in Austria, in an exclusive, dynastic cemetery, just recall that a character called Adolf Hitler was an Austrian. Then pray that one of his heirs does not take over your newly acquired borough as mayor or burgomaster or whatever. He might just decide that your presence desecrates his ancestor’s memory, that a big black buck nigger was once buried on his Aryan soil and that it was time to restore the graveyard’s racial purity. You try and tell him then that the Salzburg destiny is intertwined with that of the Pitan-Payne family.”

  It was at this point, wishing he could evaporate and resurface on Plateau soil, that Menka looked around and noticed that Bisoye had been gone nearly half an hour. Alarmed, he commented on the prolonged disappearance, pushed back his chair, and went looking for her. Selina made a halfhearted effort to rise, but the doctor forged ahead anyway, muttering, “I’ll just make a quick check.” He found her in the joint vestibule, weeping out her soul. Now he regretted not waiting for Selina. He tried to console her, persuade her to rejoin the company, but stood no chance. “It’s not simply grief,” she succeeded in blurting out. “It’s all that horrible talk issuing from the mouths of his brothers and sister. I couldn’t bear to listen to them anymore.”

  Selina arrived moments later. Menka left the widow in her loving care and walked slowly back to the table. The maître d’s voice was caustic as he offered to reheat Menka’s plate or make a fresh dish. The chastened client winced, begged him not to bother, apologized, and hoped he would understand.

  “I came here for a sort of Last Supper,” Menka improvised. “But I think I only betrayed your Christ all over again.”

  Of course he only left the maître d’ confused. That proud professional sniffed, but stuck to his guns. “I’ve kept for you our famous apple strudel—would you like it cold or slightly warmed up? Your friend never missed it to round out his meal.”

  “I believe that. But no afters please, I lack his sweet tooth. Hardly ever touch dessert.”

  The man was scandalized. He looked ready to throw him out. “The Austrian apple strudel is not a dessert, Herr Doktor. It is tradition.”

  “I know, thanks. You should hear our friend sing its praises. But believe me, I’ll just restrict myself to the main course.”

  Gingerly Menka resumed his seat, pulled his plate close, muttering to himself, “Penance time, Gumcheeky—one for two, gung-ho—eat!” Becoming slowly aware of it only moments after his commencing motions, he became increasingly deliberate with every gesture, especially when he broke off some bread, sipped from his long-neglected glass of wine, and resumed eating. He forced himself to swallow forkfuls of congealed pasta and venison, rare, indeed still oozing red blood, albeit thin, stuffing his mouth, masticating with a slow, reverential awareness. The maître d’ remained by his shoulder, implacable, unforgiving.

  Skip Notes

  *1 Dogs and cattle.

  *2 Group outfit for a social occasion.

  20.

  Homecoming

  Kighare Menka did not, could not mourn. Certainly not yet. The churning of his mind left no room for grief. True, there was the constant companionship of loss, but it was without any sense of dejection. With so much ferocity within, there was simply no room left to mourn, and what little room was left was occupied by a sense of urgency.

  You want to bring his body home—why? To serve him up for my dinner?

  Yes, Sir Patriarch Pitan-Payne the Otunba, dearly respected Pop-of-Ages, if that is indeed what that means to you, you had better start setting that table, bring out your best silverware, and spruce up for dinner in your lodge outfit. For that is exactly what I plan to do!

  To begin with, was there a daytime flight to Lagos?

  There was. Going via Frankfurt. That meant the Lufthansa airline. Refusing to consider that he was now virtually locked within a blind zone of pure obsession, Dr. Menka rose early—he had barely slept—before the rest of the hotel began to stir. This time he was prepared to encounter any of The Family, if there were any somnambulists among them. He would walk straight past, out of the hotel, exchanging not a word. If he was unlucky enough to find himself in the same shuttle, heading for the same airport, he would refuse to acknowledge their existence. The sole exception would be Damien, and that was only because he had a question for him. Menka had personally entrusted him with a mission that stood to affect his plans, and he needed to obtain the result. At dinner he had asked the question of the one who was primarily in charge of that task, big brother Kikanmi. As they all began to play musical chairs around the large table—actually several put together—trying to decide who should sit next to, opposite to, close by, etc., Menka walked up to Kikanmi and put the question, but the answer that came back was vague, shifty, and even near dismissive. It was delivered with such offhandedness that it was with great difficulty that Menka stopped himself from repeating it aloud for the benefit of any listener, just to put Kikanmi on the spot and extract a straight answer that his intuition already proclaimed. Now he had only Damien left to provide him with a truthful response. Come to think of it…and Menka picked up the phone. He paused, glanced at his watch, hesitated, shrugged off all sense of guilt, and dialed Damien’s room anyway.

  The voice was heavy with interrupted sleep. “Who is this? Wait a minute…what time is it?”

  “Never mind the time, Damien. Can you hear me clearly?”

  “Yes, Uncle K. Is something the matter?”

  “No. I’m leaving, and I want to know if you passed my message to your uncle.”

  “Message. What message? Ah—oh yes, I did. I was with him.”

  “And did he embalm?”

  “I’m sure he did. I delivered the message with the undertaker present. I left them together—I had to go to the florist…”

  “All right. See you in Nigeria.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m off. Sorry I interrupted your rest. Go back to sleep.”

  Some four hours later, all checked in at Frankfurt and awaiting his flight home, he called his nation’s ambassador in Vienna. That diplomat had attended the funeral on behalf of the government and departed as bewildered as everyone else. He had planned to be present anyway, but revealed in confidence to the family that the prime minister himself had phoned and ordered him to be there, representing the government. The message that was read followed soon after. Also—this in strict confidence—the minister of f
oreign affairs on his own had instructed him to find out discreetly why the famous engineer and United Nations consultant was being buried in Austria. The diplomat had returned from Salzburg to his base a frustrated being—“a stiff-necked lot,” he grumbled aloud all the way back to Vienna. Over the phone, it was as if he had been waiting to let off steam.

  “Dr. Menka, I didn’t know what to make of those people. I pleaded with them. I warned them. I said, ‘Listen, you people, you know this is part of our duties. When one of our nationals dies, we get involved.’ So we have the experience. Some people make this decision in a state of confusion—they just want to get things over with. A funeral. Just any funeral. And then, of course, they think of it as a most natural way to go about it if they happen to be living abroad at the time. But in the end they change their minds. They want to take the body home, so they come to us for help. They don’t consider that it then becomes more complicated. You have to exhume. So why the rush? I advised them to leave the body in the morgue and give themselves another week or so to think about it. And this is someone we happen to know about. I knew him personally. He’s not the kind of person you leave on foreign soil.”