by Wole Soyinka
The steady whirr turned to a nerveless whine, and finally only a dismal moan emerged. End of battery. Godsown’s return was a feat of perfect timing, but it did not really matter. What Menka had heard so far was more than sufficient. A decision already taken, and his mind fastened only on trivial proceedings. Once he had recorded the entirety, posed some questions, his first duty—not that he remotely considered it a duty, but simply as the first course of action, if only as a preliminary step—was a visit to the police station. The notion felt odd; then again, quite logical. No one would claim that his predicament was unheard of. Even so, it was not every day that a doctor, a much-sought-after surgeon, found himself associated with a crime. The victim of that crime none other than his friend, a pre-eminent profile poised to enter the rarefied zones of global influence. Duyole was already basking in the prospect of shedding the burden of vested interests, ascending—he ceaselessly quipped—from a private scientist to a scientific statesman. “From now on,” he boasted, “I no longer need a passport. I have joined the ranks of the stateless.”
How true. Duyole had indeed made good his timeless prediction, joined the ranks of the stateless. Permanently. Again the riotous images—the only man he knew who, even encased in a constrictive three-piece suit, would break the robotic mould and perform feats unmatched by any trencherman of history, effortlessly celebrating each new culinary encounter with a mini-paean, just like Muhammad Ali. Strangers became his pupils and would repeat after him any of his favourite refrains—tongs and tonsils, tongue and tonsils, time for tongue and tonsils—as he rolled his eyes as if each dish were a newly discovered planetary body under exploration, tuning up a discriminating yet accommodating palate that provoked total strangers to futile emulation. It was unique, that one should make an art of that common pursuit of humanity known as feeding, create around himself a zone of reverential isolation—an invisible card that read Do Not Disturb—yet at the same time exude a bearing that preached, Communion time, enter, come and do thou likewise. It was a mystery, but one that produced a rich album of recollected images, the ever-intruding succession of festive slides that fused both work and play. Menka had watched Duyole take a complex machine, obsolete or simply discarded, to pieces. Once it was a turbine rescued from the storehouse of a wastrel governor. It could be an “izophone”—something he invented and patented but never explained even to Menka, growling that he did not give seminars while communing with affairs of tongs and torque. The growl became pronounced if he was using his basement studio and the aroma of cooking wafted through from the kitchen. That was the only time his hands moved a little faster—grease, detach, file, oil, refit, unscrew, reassemble. Yet these gestures never failed to receive equal dedication, and those who saw him at work swore he handled the machine parts with the same solicitude that he brought to bear when cleaning and preparing a haunch of venison—macerate, simmer, a gentle pressure and a turnover and slide into the oven, only to be released in due time, resurrected and transformed in hues, textures, and functions.
Decimation was no different an aesthetic. The thoughtful mastication, each morsel rolled round and round the secret nodes in a unified working of hands and light metallic accomplices that transferred choice bits to his mouth for a prolonged interior interplay of flavours, as if he had a secret periscope through which he viewed the internal seepage of condiments into flesh and bloodstream. Was it someone else, or could it truly be this compulsive performer about whom Godsown now continued to speak, Menka’s adopted twin, as designated by families, friends, and acquaintances? Yet Godsown’s tale, interrupted by the Fist of Dark, was that he, Kighare Menka, stood accused of enabling, even aiding the attempt on the life of his twin, Duyole, then finished off the unfinished business under cover of professional ministrations.
He shuddered all over again. As if implacably committed to complicating his existence, Duyole’s will had made him his main beneficiary, after his widow and children—and not merely substantially but in dedication to the Gumchi pledge! No wonder Cardoso had gone to such lengths to make him attend the reading. That effort was one nonstarter of a lifetime—he had no wish to set eyes even on the most innocent of the surviving Pitan-Paynes. But that Duyole should remember and keep faith with a pledge of youth, alive or dead—he found it extremely moving, wafted him into a state of high elation that, on his part, he had brought his friend’s body home in fulfillment of a nonexistent pledge. For once I trumped you there, my friend, admit it! There was just the unnerving thought, suppose he had been by his bedside in Salzburg? What if the doctors, even without knowledge of the pact between them, had insisted that he, in the dual role of professional colleague and friend of the patient, should make the decision on when to pull the plug? He refused to contemplate the outcome.
One for four and four for one, gung-ho? Anticipating the certainty of forces already mobilizing to thwart the dream of Gumchi, he permitted himself a twinge of pity for the dead man’s Family.
22.
The Board of Happiness
It would appear that the late engineer’s interventions in joyless existence were by no means over. If anything, he continued to dominate the environment, though not quite in the manner that he would have chosen during his earlier mode of existence. His will had taken on a life of its own, thus conspiring to make the feast of life perpetual. If the proceedings of the Prime Ministerial Task Force, in association with the Oromotaya National Inquest organization, were anything to go by, the Festival of the People’s Choice, which was now redesignated the Branding the Land Festival, in honour of the slain engineer, it would be no surprise to discover that it proved in the end indeed one for the record books, unlikely to be matched, much less surpassed, in this century or the next. And yet it very nearly did not happen. And as usual, the behind-the-scenes buildup made for far greater instruction—and indeed excitation—than the grandiloquent event itself.
The pre-festival meeting of the National Board of Happiness, summoned by the major shareholder, Sir Godfrey Danfere, consisted of a highly eclectic bag of representation, a crisscrossing grid that sought to cater for every group interest, taste, and social adhesion—trade union, the learned bench, domestic services, academia, etc., etc., not forgetting…religion! Papa Davina was present in magnificent form, while the State of Zamfara boasted a selection that had been made nearly exclusively from the dynamic and progressive Islamic sect known as the Yantulai al-Yarimeh. It was this group that launched the most potent threat to what was intended to be a harmonious bonding for a nation of remarkable diversity. Even before the start of deliberations, the Yantulai mobilized to stage a walkout. When reminded that the meeting had not begun and thus there was nothing out of which to walk, they reasonably resolved to go into a prayer jihad until the meeting formally began, take their seats, remain seated during the national anthem, chant their way through any opening prayers, await the commencement of the welcome overture by the prime minister, then stage a protest walkout into the waiting arms of the villa press corps.
Their leaders had leafed through the lushly printed draft programme handed to each participant on arrival in the anteroom. Their sharp eyes instantly detected one repulsive item that had obviously been entered to give offence to their religious sensibilities. That item was beauty contest! Nothing, they declared, could persuade them to participate in a festival that contained such an exercise, which promoted female prostitution. This was worse than even serving alcohol at the festival, or roasting a pig on a spit, as, they had earlier learnt, had actually been contemplated by Chief Orotomaya and his religious bigots, namely Papa Davina. The chief leapt up as if stung by a school of scorpions, denied it strenuously, and demanded a withdrawal. Teribogo was ensconced amidst a small group of devotees in a different part of the anteroom, oblivious to the brewing storm only a few yards away from him. They had it on good authority, the Yantulai insisted. They were aware that wiser counsel had prevailed, that the piggy offensive had been eliminated. However,
there were strong indications that alcohol was being smuggled in via a most devious route—and by none other than one who called himself a man of God and advocate of religious pluralism. Let him deny that he had tried to insinuate an alcohol-saturated event into the festival in the name of ecumenical values. Fortunately they had done their homework thoroughly and knew what they were talking about. They would have the world know that they represented the new breed of believers, not to be confused with mere fanatic agitators. They were scientific in their approach, and could not be easily manipulated by Christian and other closet Islamophobes.
Eyes swiveled curiously to the spot where Papa Davina was standing, exchanging urbane wisdoms with his circle of adoring delegates. Other delegates converged on the accused, curious but also anxious to preserve the peace.
Teribogo was somewhat taken aback, as the matter had surfaced at the most elementary stage of planning. This consisted of the usual nationwide call for event propositions, to which artistes in every genre, cineastes, colleges, war veteran associations, social clubs, market women, and every conceivable institution and contract hunter responded with ideas, supply offers, and even demonstration videos. It had all been amicably resolved. Was this a renewed offensive by an aggressive offshoot of one of the Boko Haramic schools of religious persuasion? He beckoned to Chief Oromotaya to join them and corroborate his rendition of events, the initial glitch to which, he revealed, had been triggered by a different school of protesters. That was none other than the nation’s increasingly powerful Green movement, avid protectors of the world’s ecosystem. Approaching the spirit of the people’s fiesta through his globally recognized ecumenical perspective, Papa Davina explained, he had indeed felt moved to offer a unique religious contribution—a Zoroastrian Fire Temple to be erected on the festival site. “According to computations within our Ekumenika ministry,” Teribogo further detailed, “the festival season falls on the cusp of Zoroaster’s birthday. It thus struck us as a divinely ordained opportunity to kill two birds with one stone—introduce Zoroastrian presence into the ecumenical family while blessing the festival with a fire temple. The only question was where? There are no mountains in Lagos. We looked around, and our sights were divinely guided to none other than the nation’s capital, which boasts our famous landmark, the Zuma Rock. However, there are other, lesser-known rockhills in that area, notably the Gumchi rockhills, close to the very centre of the nation and the highest elevation in the Abuja region—higher, many are unaware of this, than even Zuma Rock.” This prompted the Green movement to raise an alarm. They feared that there might be air pollution—which of course was proven quite scientifically baseless.
Oromotaya took up the story. His imagination, he admitted, had indeed been fired on receipt of Teribogo’s fiery concept. It was an opportunity to raise the festival literally to new dramatic heights. Gumchi had sprung back in the news since the assassination of the nation’s famous export to the United Nations. The completely anonymous rockhill village had first come into public notice when her surgeon son, a Dr. Kighare Menka, had won the prestigious National Pre-eminence Award. Then, before it could fade back completely into its accustomed obscurity, along came the tragic assassination of his lifelong friend, the famous engineer Duyole Pitan-Payne. The will of the deceased was read, and lo and behold, he had bequeathed to that same son of the soil a large chunk of his wealth for building a state-of-the-art rehabilitation clinic in the same Gumchi. It was all in fulfillment of a pledge made in their schooldays. The media could not get its fill of yet another episode in the long-running saga of the rivalries of the inseparable pair.
Merutali had joined him, injecting the political boost. The prime minister, a most sensitive politician, had instantly committed his government to match the bequest, act as a full partner—staffing and operation, equipping, etc.—to ensure it became a medical mecca for both nationals and the world’s stream of medical tourists. It would be named after the late engineer himself. Breaking of the first soil had been inserted into the festival programme. The nation could look forward to a unique, multidisciplinary edition. What else could be expected? The world was witnessing the triumph of the creative partnership of government and the private sector. Demonstration once again of the commitment of POMP to citizen partnership, which had been the cornerstone of POMP policies from the inception of the government, certain to expand as a solemn commitment once it was returned to power.
The baton was again picked up by Oromotaya. He reminded one and all that the festival had always been a moving feast. Bringing it to Abuja would further cement the sense of unity and belonging that had formed the cornerstone of government policies since the capital of the nation was moved from the coastal, marginal Lagos to the nation’s geographical centre. The year’s fiesta was now designed to explode within and around the ultramodern national stadium, not the decrepit National Theatre, which was sinking by inches in the swamps of Iganmu, a decaying suburb of Lagos.
It would now devolve on the members of the task force to spread the word and expand the deed, each in his or her own zone of influence and operations. The passing of a great man would bring people closer to people, enhancing the popularity of the tested party of vision. It had already inspired the introduction of new variations in Teribogo’s weekly homilies at Ekumenika, enabling him to evoke the universal message in an ancient fire that was different from the fires of Purgatory, cleansing as opposed to burning, the vision of an ancient seer called Zoroaster. Oromotaya was even more vibrant and innovative, very much in his element. A sudden flash of the Olympic Torch descending from the skies propelled him in the direction of the embassy of Switzerland. Could the embassy recommend a company of professional abseilers? Yes, it could, veterans of the Alps whose experience extended beyond Mount Everest to Kilimanjaro. The deal was sealed. Papa D. obtained the franchise to build his Temple of Fire on the ledge of Mount Gumchi, shielded by ancient boulders. The Festival Torch would be lit from the Zoroastrian temple. The abseilers—the entire spectacle captured and transmitted nationwide by drone cameras—would ignite the torch from Mount Gumchi, first descending and ascending in a torch play, passing the torch from one to the other until the final bearer set foot at the mountain base. Runners would then continue on flat ground all the way to the National Stadium, where they would ignite the Eternal Flame, which would remain illumined throughout a festival now named Branding the Land. The concept made Oromotaya reel with an ecstasy that was equaled only by Teribogo’s anticipation of securing a sorely craved foothold in Gumchi. The rockery of that time-bypassed village remained in blissful ignorance of its future service as a nation’s futurist historic site.
It all seemed spectacularly inspired, until the objections began. The eco-warriors instantly registered strident opposition, demanded that an ozone quality check be conducted around Mount Gumchi to ensure that no damage was done by a fire lit so close to the skies, a rockhill that was notorious for vanishing for weeks at a time, completely shrouded by clouds. Negotiations followed. The conclusion was favourable to the project—a bit of firewood splashed with some paraffin for instantaneous combustion at the dramatic moment would constitute no harm to the ozone layers. And of course there was no risk of a forest fire on the barren rocks. The Greenies’ intervention had, however, provided a lively debate that consumed days and reams of newsprint. Festival preparations became virtually the monopolizing content of national discourse. Firewood, matchstick, and paraffin appeared to have resolved the issue, and media attention was taken up with more mundane festival aspects, when it was revived from a most unexpected quarter.
Provocation had merely transferred ownership, providing the very first grounds of the Yantulai al-Yarimeh conscientious objectors. Let it be understood, they thundered, that the nation was no longer dealing with any kind of untutored almajiri. They represented the new wave of Muslims, every bit as educated as any other part of the nation. They had aerospace engineers among them; among their ranks were authors
of numerous books on every earthly phonemenon. They had done their research and knew that paraffin was alcohol-based and thus unacceptable as inflammatory fluid. They began to mobilize for a massive boycott. Hurriedly Sir Goddie got his minister of science and technology to issue rebuttals and assure the nation that paraffin was extracted from wood resin and contained no alcohol. Chief Benzy and Papa Davina weighed in, issued both separate and joint public assurances that, irrespective of scientific debunking, they had no need of paraffin and would studiously avoid its use throughout the festival, if only in deference to religious sensibilities. They would settle for kerosene or even petroleum, which would also demonstrate a commitment to the use of indigenous material, since the nation would have to import paraffin, while petroleum was in sufficient local abundance to douse the entire Gumchi rockhills and leave them perpetually aflame if the festival so required. It was this last reminder that came to the rescue. Reluctant to be denounced as unpatriotic in a preference for imported material over the local, the Muslims softened their stance somewhat. The boycott was suspended, but they reserved the right to revisit the subject.
Bunched together in a corner, with the draft festival programme flapping and bristling versus the rest, the Yantulai al-Yarimeh now declared that they had suddenly realized that the entire alcohol debate had been nothing but a hoax. A ruse. The paraffin debate was a smokescreen. It was a grand conspiracy by all three—the Temple of Ekumenika, Oromotaya’s The Inquest, and the Greenies, with Sir Goddie’s POMP possibly pulling the strings in the background—all joining hands to create a diversion from the real destination. While they, the Yantulai, were busy denouncing that outrage, the real business was being organized, readied for the presumed rubber stamping by the Prime Ministerial Task Force to become a fait accompli—a Beauty Contest! The Yantulai al-Yarimeh delegation moved into their now-patented stonewalling strategy—they declared a prayer jihad, drew a virtual laager against all comers in the anteroom, and invested it. It could not be breached. From within its sanctuary they demanded nothing less than a removal of that event from the programme—otherwise the suspended boycott would be reactivated. Together with sympathizing states, they would withdraw from all further participation. And they hoped the prime minister knew what that meant for his coveted votes from those constituencies. Villa Potencia was flooded with the cadence of prayers that rose and fell from long practice, passing from one cantor to another, a brand-new resistance weapon that had become the hallmark of the Yantulai and was spreading quite appreciably to a number of states in the northern region.