Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Menka’s return to the cluttered apartment should have been the commencement of reconciliation with loss, but no, that was not yet to be. There were already signs that could not be ignored. Indeed, the conduct of The Family over Duyole’s second burial had warned of a ferocious, vengeful storm to come. Graceful capitulation, even to the dying wishes of a free spirit, was not in the vocabulary of The Family. They would feel, not relieved, but humiliated. You want to bring him back? To serve him up to me for dinner? And then an outsider had done just that, brought back a dinner that was indigestible. He anticipated a storm that would finally bring relief, since it would drown what was left of the sham courtesies between The Family and the family, those “presumptuous upstarts.” It would nearly succeed in drowning the peace of all who had partaken of Duyole’s friendship and responded with loyalty, but it would not.

  It would be a purifying storm—of that he was certain. It would cleanse Duyole’s earth of the foulness that had accompanied his passage home. At the end of it all, he, Kighare Menka, would know peace, and be made whole again.

  21.

  Ziggurat or Death

  The funeral storm, to all appearances, had abated. Mamma Kressy opened the Otunba’s confectionery shop as usual and took her accustomed position behind the cash register. This was the Otunba’s retail outlet, his place of modestly gainful repose in the ancient Onikan section of Lagos Island. Once exclusively residential, it was now pocked with supermarkets, offices, keep-fit gyms, and even a multifloor parking facility. The shop itself, an architectural contrast to the rest of the building, was a modernist frontage to an interior room of genteel mustiness, with faded, heavy framed photos around the walls and poised on narrow stands and a central round table, an imported escritoire with twin inkwells, black and red, both long dried up from disuse, the steel-nib pens still stuck through their covers, a leather pad of blotting paper. The antimacassars spoke of a bygone age, and thick wall-to-wall carpeting still retained its full absorbent efficacy. In this room the Otunba received friends and fellow socialites and occasionally conducted business meetings. Mostly, insulated from the rest of the world, he and his visitors dissected the day’s news, mulled over the latest gossip, compared quotations on the stock exchange, and tried to outwit the pundits on nominations for the YoY Awards. The main attraction, the shop itself, was an ultramodern study in contrast to the interior parlour—by which designation the Otunba and his household still addressed the living room. The display cases were a combination of chrome and glass, every bit as seductive as their contents—designer sweets, chocolates of every nation, extravagant themed gift boxes, variously shaped jars, toffees and cubes of exotic Turkish delight in glossy, ornate wrappings. There was a section for cigars and accessories. The entire outfitting was a gift from his late son, who had designed, built, and occasionally restocked it. The final touch was a concessionary, filial variation on his own quality mark, a placard that swung on a golden cord across the velvety curtain of the entrance to the inner sanctuary: brand of the grandee.

  The patriarch was seated on a high stool that he sometimes occupied, quite close to the inward entrance that enabled him to escape unwanted customers. He clutched a legal folder and turned the pages one after the other, squinting and scrutinizing their contents through steel-rimmed spectacles. Occasionally he frowned, placed the folder on the counter, and jotted down notes in the margin with a pencil. The document in his hand was the last will and testament of the son, now late.

  Mamma Kressy sat behind the cash desk, her glances at her partner increasingly uneasy. In a seismic break from the norm of her four-year insertion into the Pitan-Payne extended family, Kressy quietly ruptured the morning silence, raised her voice, and said, “Papa”—it was the only way she ever addressed the Otunba—“is that not your son’s will?”

  “Eh-hen?”

  “I think it’s unlucky.”

  There followed a genuine pause of mystification. “What is unlucky?”

  “To read the will of one’s own pickin. It’s unlucky.”

  The patriarch looked at her with mild curiosity. The break in routine had yet to sink in. “Where did you pick up that superstitious nonsense?”

  “In our part of the country, we think it is unlucky.”

  Otunba hissed, “You think it’s unlucky to try to find out who killed my son?”

  The woman digested that for a while. “Papa, you think the will can tell you who kill your pickin?”

  “I know who killed him. I just want to confirm what I know. This will may contain the answer.”

  “Papa,” she said, in the same level monotone, “why do you think his friend killed him?”

  The folder nearly dropped from the patriarch’s hands. Even then the disruption of the norm, embedded in the identity of the inquisitor, had yet to fully penetrate. “What is the woman talking about?”

  “You think his friend killed him. The doctor.”

  Finally it hit the patriarch. Far more destabilizing than what she actually said was that Mamma Kressy was speaking at all. Beyond the exigencies of dialogue that bedevil all who keep shop and thus must speak with clients—a chore that she mostly assigned to an assistant, expected to resume duty within the hour—and beyond routine enquiry over Papa’s daily fancy for lunch or dinner—when, and would there be company, etc.—Mamma Kressy hardly ever joined in conversation, much less initiated one. Her entire world of apprehension was wrapped up in the faculty of listening, and without any suggestion of being even remotely engaged in such a taxing occupation.

  Otunba was now riveted. “Since when did you become involved in affairs of the family?”

  She shrugged. “I am not, Papa. But people say things in my hearing. I can’t help it if I hear things.”

  “Well, among the things you hear, did you ever hear me say anyone killed my son?”

  “No. But you think he killed him, Papa.”

  “What is going on in your mind, woman? Good God. Are you trying to make yourself a witch in my household?”

  “Each time the doctor’s name is mentioned,” she continued, “something happens to you, Papa. I notice it, especially if I happen to be massaging your toes. Some tingling pass through your feet. That tingling, I feel it like electric shock.”

  “Well, maybe you should be working for NEPA. That way we can be sure of getting electricity instead of darkness. We only have to connect you to all electrical appliances. The man you’re talking about brought Duyole back. Against The Family’s wishes. That’s enough for me to discharge any amount of electricity when I hear his name. Whether it’s electric shock or madness in your head, that is your business. He went against Family wishes.”

  “Yes.” Mamma Kressy nodded, somewhat sadly. “That is how I know you believe he killed him. Because he brought the body back.”

  Otunba slammed both sides of his head with open palms. “God help me with this woman! Does two and two make five in your part of the world? All right, I’m listening. Explain to me how one thing follows another in that cooking pot you use for a mind.”

  “You told me a story once, about Badagry. You know, not long after our church introduce the two of us and we begin to meet. Do you remember? About the time when our people were catching one another and selling slaves to the white people. Something about when the captured ones were being marched to the coast and they were made to drink from a well.”

  It was called the Well of Attenuation, implanted in the ground perhaps three kilometres from the embarkation point. It was a routine stop for rest, and the slaves were made to quench their thirst from its waters. All drank without hesitation; they did not need to be persuaded—that went for any stop during the long trek from the interior. There was talk that its water was laced with some herbal hallucinogen, since those who drank from the well lost their memory—at least, such was the intention. They forgot home, land, captors, even killers of their kith and kin.
Their memories vanished totally. No will for revenge accompanied them into the ships, no spur to rebellion. And when they died on the plantations across the ocean, their ghosts retained the same mental blank. They never felt an urge to return and haunt those who had wrenched them violently from their homeland. Their restless spirits remained where they had drawn their last breath, among their foreign masters.

  The Otunba looked puzzled. He recalled regaling her with stories of his family ventures in the trade; that was one of them. He threw a scornful look at the woman. “Is that the story now bugging you? How has that story scrambled your brain? Are you still capable of using your head? The doctor brought back the body. If I thought he killed Duyole, why should I oppose his victim being brought back? Would I not want his murderer to be haunted for the rest of his life? I would bury him myself in his Gumchi village, next to his family home!”

  “So, Papa, you are saying you don’t believe the doctor killed him?”

  “I am saying nothing about my son to you, you stupid woman. Since when have I taken to discussing my sons with you? Who invited you to poke your nose in my family affairs?”

  “You, Papa.”

  “Me? Otunba Pitan-Payne? Woman, have you been drinking again? It’s too early in the day for this nonsense.” The Otunba’s voice had risen to a scream. “You are back to your secret drinking. Where is it? Where do you hide your ogogoro?” He leapt from his stool, his eyes scanning likely hiding places in the shop.

  “Papa, that is what I hear you say. You were phoning somebody. You said Doctor Menka put something in Uncle Duyole’s body during the operation here. You say he has to take it out again after he died, because it’s exactly like those slaves, only the other way round. The doctor thought he would die here. First he tried to kill him with the bomb. Then he put that thing in his body during the operation, but the son died overseas. That is why he had to bring the body back. Something he has to take out and use again here. I did not mean to listen, but I was there with you, and you were speaking loudly. You said that is the reason why you don’t want the body to come back, why you said the body should remain overseas. Am I lying?”

  Otunba was sputtering madly, nearly incoherent. “Of all the dangerous witches I’ve ever encountered! You mean I cannot discuss with my son what I hear people saying?”

  Kressy nodded slowly. “I thought so. So it was your son to whom you were talking.”

  “Yes, my son, you dirty eavesdropper! This is what comes from trying to put some knowledge in an empty head. You’ve gone and mixed fact and history together. Mamma Kressy, I hope you’ve never opened your mouth to talk this garbage with anyone. In all my eighty years, I have never heard such rubbish coming out of a woman’s mouth! Go and wash it. Go and wash that mouth of yours. It is dirty. Go and wash it with strong detergent. Now!”

  She got up calmly. As she walked round the counter, however, she stooped and picked up a mildly heavy object. As she came round to the front, Otunba saw what it was—a suitcase.

  He gasped. “What—is—that? Where do you think you’re going with that?”

  “This is all I came with, Papa. I was just waiting for you before taking my leave.”

  “Leave for where, you drunkard? I picked you up from the gutter, cleaned you up, and brought you into a respectable home. Do you know where you are at all? You want to go back to your slum?”

  “I’m afraid to remain here. All this business of saying the doctor bring back your son for dinner and other this and that. Is making me afraid. I never hear that kin’ talk in all my life. Maybe for my area, we take too much ogogoro, but we don’t eat our pickin. Let me just carry myself go.”

  Disbelieving, Otunba Pitan-Payne watched the figure of Mamma Kressy step through the door, walk with the voluptuous steps that had seduced him on his first encounter and led to his requesting her priest to bring about an introduction. He watched her calmly receding down the road, dragging her suitcase, her all-purpose pouch of a handbag slung over a shoulder. She turned at the end of that stretch, paused, looked back at him, and waved to the patriarch in the most amicable manner, then turned the corner and vanished from sight.

  Otunba remained rooted to the spot. He only returned to the present with the sound of a timid voice that had repeated, “Good morning, sir,” for perhaps the sixth time. It was the shop assistant reporting for morning duty.

  * * *

  —

  In the evening of that same day, across Lagos Island, in a new but already run-down expansion called Lekki Gardens Phase 4, where one room was sometimes shared by a family of seven or eight, with a toilet that served an entire block of six or seven such rooms, a tens-of-thousands-strong chorus of yells and curses, moans of long-suffering, resignation, frustration, and rage suddenly ripped across the sky over the tenements. Godsown was barely halfway through a narrative before the descent of the huge gloved hand silenced him and blotted out the neighbourhood. Huge, coal black, it snuffed out all things visible from one end of the earth to the other. Another blackout! It was always like that, Godsown reflected; one could almost feel the imprint of the diabolical palm on the forehead. Or celestial? It all depended on whose—he hesitated—yes, perspective, was involved. The thought brought a smile to his face. Even if nothing else, his preacher’s “perspective” theology had definitely rubbed off on him, and he was profoundly impressed that he, on his own, should invoke it almost without thinking. Just like the preacher would gently massage the believer’s forehead before smacking it with the heel of his palm, and with a force that jerked the proffered head backward and sent its owner into a paroxysm of possession, self-repudiation, recantation, and/or testifying, this invisible hand caressed its earthly victims, whose moans were, however, not of spiritual surrender but of angry impotence. No one ever received warning of its approach, but suddenly there it was, forcing one and all instinctively to commence the blind man’s shuffle and grope and make allied motions of adjustment to the imposition of a universal pall.

  For those caught outdoors—as Godsown was, together with his caller, Dr. Kighare Menka—a thin streak of residual light lingered over a distant rim of rooftops, treetops, and hilltops, the last being sometimes camouflaged mounds of multi-textured garbage jutting out between the glove’s widespread fingers and unseen ooze. The space permitted to its affected populace was circumscribed by that impenetrable shroud pressed down to frustrate recognition of familiar, domestic, companion landmarks of human transactions. As for sounds, the high-decibel medley of fuji rap, juju survivals, Afro-reggae, revivalist harangues, relics of international Top Twenty and latest presumed new-generation musical breakthroughs, crossover beat and exotic genres—all were abruptly silenced. The silence was not prolonged, though. It was replaced by the progressive orchestration of generator spurts, gearing up for extended runs. They drowned out the agonized and resentful shrieks that presumably reassured frustrated citizenry of signs of life under the sudden eclipse. In some way this leadenness equated with what Menka felt within him as Godsown poured out his long-pent-up message in a nearly uninterrupted flow—at least, until the blackout. The recorder, tethered to a light-bulb power source through the window of Godsown’s recently hired room in the face-me-I-face-you multiple occupation building, hiccupped, then slowly slithered to a stop.

  Menka sighed, bemoaning the loss of the fluidity that had built up in Godsown’s revelatory soul as he warmed up in his narrative. He looked round, eyes squinting to make out features of his surround, while mulling over what he had heard so far. Godsown was equally frustrated, eager to continue and conclude. After all, it had taken a while to track Dr. Menka down in his new, temporary abode, and he had been most pleasantly surprised and appreciative when the doctor offered to meet him in Lekki, thus saving him the trouble of traveling across Lagos Island and all the way to Badagry.

  “Get one small stall next street,” Godsown offered. “I sure say the woman get batteries inside all
her wosi-wosi.”

  Menka nodded, dug into his pocket for money, and handed it over. Godsown waddled off on his uncoordinated legs, one of which, Duyole had cruelly remarked—but only out of his steward’s earshot—pointed to Maiduguri, the other to Sokoto. That was one of the few traits Menka had found uncomfortable in his “twin”—Duyole’s teases were often too close to the bone, especially in commenting on any anatomical landscape. He remained incorrigible, could never resist a comparison of retreating bottoms or advancing “headlamps.” Menka grinned—he could do with a real headlamp at that moment, or simply its power source.

  The chorus of neigbourhood protests continued, surged and crisscrossed in ragtag imprecations against the accustomed violation, then petered out. It was all too familiar. Menka decided to switch the Walkman to the batteries, glad that he had earlier tested the equipment. No one used those things anymore, but his ease with gadgetry had stopped at the fax machine and Walkman. He had relied on Duyole, in addition to his multipurpose factory staff, for any technical aid, except of course in his own field—medicine. The recorder spun, the battery light at pale yellow indicating that there was still some life to it but not much. He kicked himself. He had meant to stop and buy extra batteries on the way, but…Not for nothing had Duyole nicknamed him AMB—Absent-Minded Butcher—swearing he would never trust himself to Menka’s surgical blade as Menka would be certain to harvest the wrong body parts or leave his forceps in his guts. Strange turn of events when such banter took on dimensions of real life and death, and now accusations of deliberate homicide! Could either ever have imagined flippant moments twisted into intimations of sinister intent? And then the pact—that pact, that uncanny, or should he call it prescient, pact—between them, at least seven years old!