Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Menka felt lighter in mind. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  “Anything I can do, just let me know. You’ll see. The family will change its mind. They usually do. But these ones would not even give it a thought. In fact, they barely stopped from telling us to mind our business. As if that is not why we’re here. It is part of our business. So I left them with our standard advice, the senior brother especially—embalm. Make sure you embalm, and get a strong casket. That’s always been our advice from the embassy.”

  It was as if the ambassador knew of the persistent thread running in Menka’s head. “You did that? You gave him that advice?”

  “Of course. What else could we do? We’ve been involved since Pitan-Payne was flown in for surgery. And when it happened, we moved into our routine for assisting the body to go home. So you can imagine my surprise when they said they would inter him here. I met them, together with the parish priest. We both preached and preached, but it had no effect, so all I could do was give them the usual advice—embalm, and get the strongest casket you can afford!”

  The surgeon thanked him.

  And still he had no idea how he would fulfill his—no, Duyole’s desire. He did not need to be told—that was what Duyole would have wished, nothing else! And so, institute a lawsuit in Austria maybe, on behalf of his widow and children? No, perhaps best done in Nigeria. Or else embark on a covert operation to disinter the body and take it home? He did not consider that in the least outlandish—Menka was confident, could swear that the Salzburg authorities, the burgomaster or whatever, would cooperate in full. What was the Nigerian engineer to them? Why should they want his body in the graveyard consecrated to their families and ancestors? If worse came to worst, Salzburg would accept the authority of the wife over that of his weird siblings. Or parent. Menka made his calculations: wife plus ex-wife plus two and a half children (Damien making up the half, as a dubious factor) versus father and three siblings. Even wife alone should trump the rest—any sensible judge would find for her. A trial was not even needed. All that was required was a court order, from any court, as long as they moved before the enemy uncovered the plot and moved to obtain an injunction or counter order—so yes, a straightforward court order would be best. He was prepared to do anything, anything, to obtain one. What mattered was to present a document to the embassy to obtain its formal cooperation. If it had to be forged, he, Menka, would personally forge one.

  He spent his waking hours on the flight home on nothing else but the plan, beginning with a short list of colleagues who had trained in Austria. Or indeed any German-speaking university. Useful, but not crucial, since English was virtually the second language of Austria. One such jumped almost instantly to his scouting mind, and providentially close to hand—he was engaged by the Lagos State University Hospital. That young doctor had graduated, he recalled, from Frankfurt University. Menka wasted no time—it was straight from the airport to the teaching hospital. The young yet unsuspecting body snatcher was on ward rounds. Menka sat down to wait. Wryly, his mind flashed to the visitors from the business combine whom he had met waiting on his doorstep, another haunting sensation of a persistent déjà vu! When the young doctor returned, he was visibly overwhelmed by the sight of the famous senior, ushered him into his office with apologies for having to wait. Dr. Menka countered with his own for intruding without an appointment, and there ended all preliminaries.

  “How soon can you leave for your former base, not exactly Germany, but next door—Austria?” Menka enquired.

  The young doctor blinked. He had not yet recovered from the presence of this elderly star of the medical firmament, one who had so recently honoured the profession by his work on Boko Haram victims, culminating in the National Pre-eminence Award. In a few sentences, Menka outlined the mission.

  “But my duties here, sir—”

  “You can leave that to me. I’m coming straight from the airport, and you are my first port of call. Once you’ve agreed, I shall speak to the provost. I have consulted here before—I’m even considering a resumption of that association. Take it from me, they can spare you for a week. If needed, I’ll even volunteer to cover your schedule, but it won’t come to that.”

  Ekundare stuttered his readiness to oblige.

  “Good. First thing tomorrow I’ll arrange the tickets, get you some money for hotel and feeding…Wait. You still have a valid visa, I take it?”

  “Oh yes, my wife is even still in Germany, in fact.”

  “Ah, that’s good. You’ll be able to stop over and see her once you’ve carried out your assignment. I’ll work on this all day tomorrow so you can take off on tomorrow’s night flight.”

  “That soon, sir?”

  “How soon do you think? You’re a doctor, so I don’t have to tell you what happens to a corpse underground. What you and I know is happening right now!”

  Menka made no attempt to avoid the image of the decomposing body, stage by stage. Deep in his marrow, he knew that Kikanmi had not embalmed his friend’s body. Even without the evasiveness of his answer at the dinner, he had read the answer on his face. He and The Family had resolved to make the repatriation a fait non accompli even before the effort, to place every possible obstacle in the way of anyone bringing their brother back home. It was a strange tussle, since he had also discerned nuances, even in their most stubborn iteration of a finality, a done deed—lurking behind it all was a graceless acceptance that repatriation might prove inevitable. It was there, perhaps the effect of their complete isolation. The odds, they secretly acknowledged, were against them, and they felt ostracized. A part of them even objectively assessed that they could not stand against the combined rights of the widow, the children, and their mother, together with the moral weight of Nigerians and the obsession of one busybody named Kighare Menka. Spoilers, however, they could make it prove extremely untidy. But why, why, why? This was something Menka found frustrating.

  Next Menka was confronted with a practical matter. He was a guest at the home of Duyole, and his host was dead. His next mission was on his own behalf—to find a new place to rest his head, store his worldly goods, and plan his offensive before The Family threw him out. Gumchi ultimately, but right now a consultancy with the teaching hospital. They would find him a temporary apartment. If not, one of their lodgings for extended supervision cases. If necessary he would find a small hotel until there was a vacancy. The thought suddenly sobered him—he seemed sentenced to become an eternal wanderer. His jaw tightened—that made two of them. One would also find his peace when the other was finally laid to rest.

  Then, quite distinctly, Duyole spoke from beyond the grave. A week after his Austrian funeral, the family was summoned to the home of the deceased by the executors for the ritual reading of the last will and testament. On reflection, Dr. Menka suspected that the executor, Cardoso, an ancient business associate of Duyole, had deliberately brought the reading forward. He knew the contents of the will: Duyole had decreed that he be buried in his birthplace, Badagry, and specifically in the cemetery of the university’s Chapel of the Apostles.

  Dr. Menka already felt fulfilled, just by that one intervening voice by itself. The news was gleefully conveyed to him by a junior in the executor’s chambers—he could not wait to describe the rapid tics on the face of Teahole, especially as that item was broached. Debbie’s call followed almost immediately, effervescent with excitement—she had of course diverged home for a while before resuming her sojourn in the United States. All who could, and were entitled, had ensured their presence at the reading—The Family in full complement, minus the patriarch. Menka felt reenergized, embarked on a renewed burst of frenetic activities. If he could have, he would have joined the solitary advance team to Salzburg to commence digging his friend out of foreign soil, if necessary with his bare hands. To leave arrangements for exhumation in the hands of The Family was certain to ensure delays. Deliberate
delays. It was logical, and he could read them, one after the other. The covert acts that accused some of the members of a perfidy, the refusal to embalm their brother yet lie that it had been done. Naturally they all would wish to postpone the day of reckoning until it no longer mattered. Move only after the heat of bereavement had fizzled out and the rest was mere depersonalized ritual. The advance team had to be reinforced.

  Ruefully Menka checked his resources—yes, he could afford one more flight ticket. Even two. If needed, he would borrow. Bisoye was obviously out of it—she was to be left alone with her grief, and the cultural demands on her status as freshly widowed. Menka spoke to her and she was only too grateful to leave everything to him—Please do what you have to do, whatever you want, just bring him back. Debbie was next. As the eldest daughter, she would represent family authority, and she had been battle-ready even without the backing of the will. With the formal validation from Duyole’s will, the surgeon felt ready to take on ten Families! Yet even in his now galvanized rush, Menka succeeded in forcing on himself a sense of propriety, always conscious of the fact that he was strictly an outsider, a member of neither The Family nor the family. For Duyole’s sake, Gumcheeky, right? Four for one and one for four-o. Dig into that conciliatory reserve and blow up only when it’s all over. Gung-ho, gung-ho, take a deep breath!

  Working up a conciliatory spirit with every trick earned from professional practice, Dr. Menka braced himself and moved on The Family. He called on Kikanmi with the conscripted doctor in tow and introduced him as his personal contribution to The Family’s efforts to fulfill Duyole’s last wishes, which, he knew, had become paramount in their minds. He explained that the doctor was merely an advance team, sent to facilitate what was now a binding commitment. He, Menka, planned to follow him immediately, once he had put a number of logistical offerings in place for the return home. He knew that The Family must be feeling the pressure of time—as a family friend, he was there to take off some of that pressure. As a matter of fact, he ought to travel with the young doctor, but there were a few things that needed organizing locally. Quickly running a fast spot check over his pronouncement, Menka felt certain that Duyole would have applauded his placatory delivery. He intended to maintain the grade.

  Kikanmi finally appeared to recognize that the stalling was over. However, the objections were not. And so Big Brother reminded Menka that in Salzburg he had himself openly declared that the affair was not thereby concluded, that the remains might yet be brought home once the fuss over Duyole’s death was over. He could not understand how a trained surgeon could subject himself to such rush—why didn’t he just go at a pace that commonsense and practicalities dictated? We can safely leave it all in the hands of Lindtz. The Lindtz machine was in any case far more efficient than anything even Gumchi-man, with all due respect to the laureate of National Pre-eminence, could set in motion, whatever connections he had. Lindtz might even arrange to fly Duyole’s body back in the same plane that had taken him out, which would simplify the course of action no end. After all, they had not let the side down over the first repatriation. And The Family could send one of the children to accompany the body home—Debbie, for instance. Whichever way, Dr. Menka, the Lindtzes are on the spot, they know the terrain, have the necessary contacts and influence, experience, and so on.

  Kighare Menka listened attentively, acknowledged that everything The Family proposed made sense, and was indeed thoughtful. All he was doing was augmenting their obvious efforts to repatriate their brother. He had merely recruited expertise for a time-sensitive operation, nothing more. And it was time-sensitive. Moving a live body was less complicated than exhuming, then repatriating, a corpse. We have a situation on our hands where the time factor dictates—didn’t he agree? The sooner the better, and this doctor would appreciably hasten the process. Menka looked Kikanmi straight in the eye and addressed him quietly, emphasizing every word.

  “Even with the best embalming, before being moved from its present resting place, the body will require some final cosmetic attention, do you agree? If you do, then obviously the sooner disinterment takes place, the better. Dr. Ekundare will work with the undertaker. His findings will affect arrangements over here—for instance, will it still be possible for Duyole to lie in state for his very final honours? Or will it be a straightforward journey from grave to grave? So you see, we are not speaking of an identical objective. Now that the wishes of Duyole have been spelt out unambiguously, every moment is vital. Ekundare is a godsend, virtually a native. He knows his way around Austria, speaks German. It turns out he also knows Salzburg itself. His advance visit will facilitate all necessary action that would naturally flow from Badagry—or indeed from Lindtz.”

  Finally the real estate mogul attempted to regain control and unveiled a firm Family position. The Family had to protect its honour. Therefore it would not take kindly to others spending their own money on its behalf. There was no need for it, since the Lindtz people were more than ready to oblige. They were virtually members of the family, so why didn’t Kighare simply wait another day or two so the company could arrange the young doctor’s flight? Even his, Menka’s—the company would pay for everything, just give it another day or two. Things should be done in an orderly fashion—he found the doctor’s proceeding too rushed and untidy.

  Menka signaled full accord with The Family’s position. He had no intention of assailing the Family honour. If it was reinforced by having their foreign business partner, Lindtz, pay for his ticket or refund the cost or whatever, it was all to the good of his bank balance, and he had not the least objection. However, he happened to be a doctor by profession, and he knew that his role was to return at once and assist. He could not, however, so this young man would go ahead and act for him. And yes, what a great idea that was—Debbie should indeed accompany him! He was certain she would be ready to leave any moment! So, nothing wrong with a relay—Dr. Ekundare this very night; he, Menka, the following day; Debbie to follow at her own pace. Impossible to fault such an arrangement. “The widow has expressed a wish that we proceed along that initiative. So what do you say to that? It takes nothing away from anyone.” Kikanmi gazed into space, expelling non-committal sounds.

  Seeing Dr. Ekundare on his way, Menka found himself stopped by the young man. “Doctor Menka, I feel honoured to be entrusted with this assignment, but may I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Ekundare hesitated. “Anyone could read the tension—it made me very uneasy. You, a stranger, wanting the body back—that man, the brother, he was like a man being dragged to the gallows. Why? Unless, of course, it’s a matter of medical confidentiality?”

  “Not in the least. I just want to count the body parts, make sure nothing is missing.”

  Ekundare looked startled. “Are you serious, Doctor?”

  Menka shook his head. “No, of course not. I’ll answer your curiosity, but later. It’s a long story. Right now, bon voyage. Keep me posted at every stage.”

  Almost simultaneously, in his home the patriarch, Pop-of-Ages, was fully exercised with the same puzzle, albeit from an opposing stance. He had of course been instantly briefed on the content of the will and on Menka’s reckless haste, even the man’s impudent attempt to take over what was so clearly a Family responsibility. He snatched his foot from Mamma Kressy’s soothing fingers, stood up distractedly, and bristled. “But what is the business of that primitive—wherever bush he’s coming from? Why does he meddle in a family affair? I just hope these boys know they must move to protect the family honour!”

  Perhaps it was this famous sense of “the family honour” that now began to propel things forward. It was an immediate, extraordinary reversal, one that should not have been surprising, however, since the great Otunba Pitan-Payne’s family set great store on public image. The Family dropped all further objections, let it be known to a restricted public circle that it was happily involved in the repatriati
on of its son, and that the eldest daughter would accompany a doctor on behalf of The Family on a preliminary mission for that very purpose.

  The advance mission traveled as planned. Dr. Ekundare appeared to hit the ground running. Straight from landing after a night flight and reinforced by senior embassy staff, he took the train to Salzburg and met the undertaker, who had been alerted and had indeed carried out the first stage, once he had received auhorization via the embassy: exhumation. Ekundare called Dr. Menka to let him know that there was no need for him to rush to Salzburg just yet; there was absolutely nothing for him to do until the mortician had completed his work. Indeed, he advised him not to travel until some restoration had been done to the remains. Ekundare would stay only one more day, stop over in Frankfurt to see his family, then return almost immediately to resume duty in Lagos. He would bring back a detailed report, with photographs. Over the phone he conveyed the summary to Menka—nothing approaching revelation, simply that the body had not been embalmed.

  The undertaker, Ekundare reported, turned out to be a very disturbed man. Everyone involved in the passing of the engineer appeared to end up only too anxious to unburden. In this case, the undertaker was relieved to talk to someone from the same part of the world as the deceased, and for a change to someone who fortunately spoke the undertaker’s language, understood his culture, and was a colleague—well, in the sense that they both worked on the same material: the human body.

  Yes, indeed, he had advised—and strongly—that the body should be embalmed, and had warned the elder brother from experience that funerals that took such a contested course hardly ever ended in permanence on foreign soil. It was not unusual for the family to change its mind later on. The undertaker had interacted with the Lindtz people. All voiced deep concern. No one in the entire Lindtz outfit, he declared, showed support for Duyole’s burial in Austria. Indeed, their Nigeria-based staff were shocked and disappointed; they had begun preparations to play a conspicuous role in the plans—they assumed—to receive and accompany the Pitan-Payne scion to his final resting place. Leaving cynicism aside, the undertaker said, it was good public relations for the firm. It had operated in Nigeria for decades, even before their formal Nigerian franchise was granted to Pitan-Payne the elder. Their managers had become absorbed into the culture, since they often visited the cocoa farms to establish quality control and had been involved in the termination of the black pod disease in West Africa, sending out experts to train cocoa farmers in preventive measures. They considered themselves part of the nation’s economic development, long before the oil discovery. They had looked forward to celebrating with their adopted compatriots the passage of this individual through their lives.