Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  Shekere Garuba came panting up the stairs to the residential section of Villa Potencia, found Sir Goddie at breakfast. He explained the situation. Goddie thought for a moment.

  “What state did you say it was?”

  “Zamfara. It’s the Yantulai al-Yarimeh sect. I know them quite well.”

  “All right. Let me just finish this akamu while it’s warm. I’ll speak to the governor—no—better still, to Papa Davina. In the meantime, get yourself back to the conference room. Keep them locked in. They are not to leave the villa.”

  “Nothing to worry about on that score, PS,” the adviser assured him. “Once they declare a prayer jihad, they will not budge from the spot until a counterfatwa is recited. That takes at least half an hour from start to finish. Just like the original prayer jihad—it runs in half-hour cycles and must not be broken. So we have at least another half hour in which to take action.”

  “Good. I can finish my breakfast in peace. Wait outside while I think.” The People’s Steward continued his breakfast, grumbling, “Inauspicious beginning to the day, damn it. What else is in store? I wonder.”

  A soft, empathizing belch, followed by a thoughtful caress of his stomach, signaled the end of breakfast. Sir Goddie picked up his mobile phone and stabbed at the buttons. The voice at the other end cooed: “Peace of Ahura Mazda, Lumen ascendant, Druj in flight, this is Father Davina of Ekumenika Ministry.”

  Sir Goddie snapped. “Cut that out. I hear you’re standing right in the middle of a crisis—is this a time for the prayer mat?”

  “There is a time for everything, Sir Goddie. Let me counsel you with the biblical chapter and verse….”

  “No, thank you. Teribogo, let’s stick to business chapter and verse. And the last you cited to me was that you’d brought the Yantulai into full partnership.”

  “Indeed we have. Two of their members are on the board of governors.”

  “And—payments. Are those regular?”

  “Up front. Human Resources guard their track record jealously—no one knows that better than you, Your Excellency.”

  “So, why are they making trouble?”

  “Greed, what else? The human failing called—avarice. I’ve ignored them so far. I recommend that you do the same.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You are not the one standing elections.”

  “They’ll come round. It’s all about bargaining. Holding out for more.”

  “In that case, what about increasing their shares….”

  Papa Davina’s tone was firm and dismissive. “Not the way to go, Sir Goddie. Which Peter do we rob to pay Paul? You? Or me? We can’t run a business on extortion. It’s unethical.”

  Sir Goddie snapped shut the mobile, snarling: “Hypocrite!”

  For a while he sat still, staring ahead. He blotted his lips neatly with a napkin, began to pick his teeth. With that ritual went some of Sir Goddie’s most inspired bouts of thinking. Suddenly he stopped, carefully laid down the toothpick, and raised his voice.

  “You, there. Come back in!” Shekere returned. “Explain to the delegation that the maximum age of participants will be thirteen. So this event that is upsetting them will consist only of beauties between three and thirteen years old. Nothing above. And there will be opportunity for takeaway. Now get going.”

  Shekere moved, then stopped. He turned round slowly.

  “What did you forget?” Sir Goddie snarled. “Didn’t you hear my orders?”

  Shekere stammered badly. “I just wanted to be sure, PS, sir. Did you say thirty? Or thirteen?”

  “The fool is also deaf! Thirteen! Thirteen! Now get going!”

  “Yes, People’s Steward, sir. How soon do we expect you, sir?”

  “What time did we set?”

  “Ten o’clock, PS.”

  Goddie glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s nearly time. Go and make the announcement and get them into their places. And I don’t want to hear any more objections to anything. Always act with cultural sensitivity and there will be no problem.”

  Sir Goddie was right. The Festival of the People of Happiness could now move forward. When a breathless Garuba returned to the conference chamber, banged on a table for attention, and made his announcement, the relay chanting of the Yantulai al-Yarimeh stopped abruptly. The pause lasted just a few seconds, then resumed. Even the crassest tone-deaf kafri could assess a distinct change of tonality that exuded pure, undiluted spiritual ecstasy.

  Shekere breathed a sigh of relief, allowed them a few more minutes’ rapture, sensed the approach of the end of the current round of the counterrecital, and began to herd in the guests. “Honoured delegates, kindly take your seats. All is resolved. The People’s Steward will be with you shortly and the inaugural ceremony will begin.”

  The nominees, old and new faces, found their seats from the small placards placed on the long semi-bifurcated oval desk in the Villa Potencia Cabinet Room. It was where the Executive Council normally held its monthly meeting. New members to the board were already sworn in. Only then did His Excellency the People’s Steward Sir Godfrey enter the chamber. All rose. As soon as the chair of the People’s Steward was pushed back and he inserted himself into the created space, the national anthem resounded—just the first verse. He remained standing, as did the others.

  His eyes took in Papa Davina immediately and turned to him. “Father Davina, perhaps you will assist us with prayers for successful deliberations?”

  Papa Davina, robed as could not be faulted in any postmodernist concept of Zoroaster in person, bowed. With his arms from shoulder to elbow liturgically pinned to his sides, elbow to hands angled upwards, both palms upturned, Papa Davina pronounced his divine attestation, specially prepared for the occasion and placed in advance before every seat of the participants.

  To you the Almighty GodAllah, known in other climes as Ahura Mazda, Begetter of the Universe and Benevolent Master of Wisdom, Dispenser of Happiness, we give praise and thanks and seek blessings. Preside over our gathering in these chambers. Grant us the creative strength that focuses the mind and imagination, enabling us to deliver to our people their heart’s desire at this forthcoming festival. Let Asha the Good prevail over Druj, the Slave of Evil. Let goodness and harmony prevail among us. Amen. Oooom. Allah Akhbar. Shanti. A-a-se. So be it as you will.

  Sir Goddie took his seat, followed by the others. A folder was already in place before him. The Steward of the People opened it and proceeded to the business of the day—the inauguration of the Board of Happiness, tenth edition.

  “Once again, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to commence preparations for the great day. As some of you will undoubtedly have noticed, we have quite a few new faces among us. As we proceed, you will get to know one another. Right now, I wish to bid them welcome. We are a nation of great diversity, and therein lies our strength. Thus we continue to endeavor to cater to that richness of diversity and ensure that every sector of the nation, every group interest, every professional sector, has a voice in the onerous task of ensuring for this nation a sustainable state of happiness. This is what underpins the commitment of this government to the annual Fiesta of the People’s Choice. For those who do not know it, this very chamber is the room of power. It is the very room where the Executive Council holds its monthly meeting. What does this signify? I shall tell you. It means that for the next three weeks to a month, that is, the countdown towards the People’s Fiesta, you are the government. Your word is law!”

  The records at this point read, “Spontaneous applause.”

  “I do not wish to paint a dismal picture, but I must be frank. This has been a particularly problematic year. Crisis after crisis. Terrorism. Arson. Murders. The pride of our nation, of our very race, a global icon, was blown up under our noses. I shall address that tragic event in greater detail before the end of our sessions. In the meantime, let me give a
n especial, heartfelt welcome to the sister of that martyr, Selina Pitan-Payne. The widow of our murdered citizen, unfortunately, could not join us, as she is still in mourning, and our culture does not permit her participation. The lady you see here, the bereaved sister, volunteered to take her place, and her presence here, co-opted as a member of the Board of Happiness is, as you have surely guessed by now, not unconnected to that tragic event and a nation’s statement of solidarity.

  “Let me state here again, without fear of contradiction—everything imaginable, indeed sometimes beyond imagination, has worked against the peaceful and joyful celebration of the People’s Fiesta. Indeed, at certain moments my government debated whether or not we should proceed with the festival. Some voices clamoured that it would be more appropriate to substitute a national week of mourning. Fortunately, that raised the issue of copyright, as there is already in existence a movement known as The Nation Mourns, which goes into sackcloth and ashes for a full week annually. It is always safest to be original in these matters, to avoid treading the beaten spoor. And so in the end common sense and national pride triumphed over pessimism. The fiesta has become a tradition. I don’t have to remind you that we have already applied for its placement on the UNESCO annual calendar, thus making it a destination for global tourism. To miss even one edition is to tell the world that we are not a serious people. So all proceeds as scheduled. If it takes nothing less than a miracle to pull it through, then we must produce a miracle. After all, we have among us that man of God Papa Davina—he just led us forth with an ecumenical invocation—not that he needs any introduction.” Mild applause. “However, it is also said that heaven helps only those who help themselves, and we do have seasoned, public-spirited hands like Chief Modu Oromotaya—there he is over there.” Mild applause. “Our unstoppable governor, Chief Akpanga, has also joined the board. That is one man guaranteed to add spice and colour to any occasion. As you see, we continue to inject new blood, and that means new energy, new ideas—”

  The People’s Steward stopped abruptly, his head swiveling to the right. Irritably he spat, “Yes?”

  The side door that led directly to the Steward’s offices had opened furtively, and a head recognizable as belonging to the presidential adviser on energy, Shekere Garuba, was inserted into the opening. It was now followed by the rest of the body, apologetic.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Shekere entered fully, trotted the few steps on padded feet to Sir Goddie’s chair, and slipped a note face-up on the desk. Sir Goddie read, and his countenance was seen to change. It read: “Mayday! Mayday! Abort, sir, abort! Abandon speech, sir.”

  He waved off the adviser and turned to his audience. “You will have to excuse me. What did I just complain of? A season of crises. No sooner do we resolve one than another develops.” He turned towards his image-maker-in-chief. “Dr. Merutali, please take over. This may take a while. Dr. Merutali, I suggest you simply proceed with general brainstorming and exchange of ideas. Chief Oromotaya can brief everyone on how he has designed things, the state of play, etc., etc. It’s his baby, after all.”

  He rose, stopping the assemblage in their respectful midrise. “No, no, no more disruption. Merutali, all yours.” A flustered Goddie sped from the room, followed by his dutiful aide, who carried his papers behind him.

  His chief of staff was waiting in his office, apologetic. “I thought it wise to interrupt, Your Stewardship, knowing of some crucial items in the draft speech I had prepared. The situation was desperate.”

  Sir Goddie waved the note in the face of his chief of staff. “ ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ Are you a pilot? Whose plane is crashing?”

  “Sir, I merely quoted the man. He was frantic—so was I, Your Stewardship. It has to do with the very meeting of the board. And I recalled, you did say he was to have priority access on his return.”

  “Who? Me? Who is he?”

  “The man who went to Zamfara, Your Stewardship.”

  “Zamfara? What’s my business with Zamfara? You mean you didn’t ask him what it was about?”

  “First thing I did, sir, but I think you’d better listen to him in person, Your Stewardship. I did recall that your instructions were—”

  “All right, all right. Bring him in.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Hold on. Ah yes. Just want to make sure we’re talking of the same man—is it the Indian? The geologist? Back so soon?”

  “The very one, Your Stewardship.”

  “Better bring me today’s papers.”

  “Right before you, PS. Plus this. Please read it, sir. That’s what got him racing to the villa.”

  Sir Goddie looked down on his desk and found that, yes indeed, the day’s clippings were right before him, pinned down by his bowl of kola nuts and company, just so he would not miss it. Fiercely his eyes ran over the relevant news. He exhaled.

  “Only speculation in here, thank goodness. The fakir seems sure of his facts.”

  “I think it is wise to assume so, PS.”

  “All right. Send him in. If this is a dud, he’s on the next plane back to his curry and chapati!”

  Sir Goddie settled behind his desk, composed himself. A few moments later the cause of interruption was led in by the chief of staff, who promptly took his leave. The People’s Steward was alone with his guest, the geologist Dr. Mukarjee. Sir Goddie blinked.

  “Your news must be really desperate.”

  The caller looked down, saw the clippings. “I see you have the matter before you. That was why you had to be stopped.”

  “Oh yes, I recall. You came to see me just before your departure.”

  “The very one who fled from Zamfara with his tail between his legs. Today, however, is a very different meeting, Your Excellency. Very, very different. The last time was very stressful. But you instructed your chief of staff to ensure instant access on my return. It was most prescient. I don’t know what faith you follow, but it must have been divine intimations.”

  “Do take a seat. I wasn’t expecting you back so soon, and in person. We get so many of these false alarms. Lucky you had my CoS on your side. He has been a most consistent advocate for your ventures.”

  “Ah yes, Your Excellency. I returned from Delhi just two nights ago. I had not imagined that I was in a situation of emergency. Then, this morning, in the papers, I saw the news. The inauguration of the board, and then, Sir Goddie, I nearly choked on my breakfast. News about dedicating a clinic in Gumchi village in respect of the departed son of the nation as part of a coming festival. Sir, when I recovered, that was when I called up your chief of staff. You will forgive me, but I told him it was a matter of life and death—and I invoked you as being mortally endangered. I hope you will forgive me. It was crucial that you should mention nothing of the will in public.”

  “I already have,” said Sir Goddie.

  “But was it an official statement, sir? In the newspapers, it did not come directly from you.”

  “Whether it did or not, Mr….”

  “Mukarjee, Your Excellency. Mukarjee.”

  “Yes, whether it did or not, a will is sacrosanct. Unless of course pronounced invalid by the courts.”

  “If I may make a pun, sir. There is will and there is will. There is the matter of a people’s will.”

  Sir Goddie leant back, a broad smile fanning out on his face turning into a chuckle. “You know, Dr. Murkajee, you won’t believe this, but I have always preached that we have a lot to learn from India beside your lessons in small cottage industries. Yes indeed, a will—such as testamentary—is one thing, and the will—the state will—is another. Here, the latter is known as Doctrine of Necessity. We are no strangers to that recourse, even in recent history, I assure you!” Sir Goddie sat back, locked his fingers together across the desk.

  “Now, I take it you are dying to enlighten me about why we may find ourselves i
nvoking that doctrine, right?”

  “I was not mistaken,” Dr. Mukarjee responded, relief all over his face. “But I wanted to avoid unnecessary hassle. I am from India, and I think you know our politics are very much alike. Very much so, I felt at home here from my first arrival fifteen years ago. So please understand why I panicked.”

  Sir Goddie moved to put him at his ease. “Relax, my good Indian compatriot. I hadn’t even got to the board’s formal inauguration, so fortunately there is no public commitment. I hadn’t even finished my welcome address. You know the media, they love to speculate. That’s their job, trying to scoop competition. Yes, we did mention that the engineer’s last will would be on their agenda, its provisions integrated into the Festival of the People’s Choice. There are other posthumous awards proposed, but nothing announced as yet. Speculations are normal. In any case, a government is free to reverse itself.”

  The Indian smiled and nodded. “True, true. You must forgive my nervousness. But I have noticed, among your people, they tend to take government pronouncements at face value. Then the media jump in.”