Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth

by Wole Soyinka

  In the Pitan-Payne home, where Damien doubled as watch over enemy action from whatever direction, it was not difficult to discover the hour when the engineer cracked the code, almost to the minute. Barely twelve hours later, as he bent over the display of transcriptions from his triumphant labour, the ceiling appeared to lift, then descend in near-simultaneous motions. The noise deadened his eardrums and snuffed out his consciousness. The sound woke everyone except Damien. He had remained wide awake since he had telephoned the apostle of Ekumenika, Teribogo.

  * * *

  —

  “He called me late evening, the day before the explosion,” Teribogo admitted. “ ‘Medina has fallen’ was all he said.”

  “You? Why you?”

  “Who else, Goddie? I was his minder. He was directly responsible to me. And he was most effective in that safest, most respectable of safe houses. It was as if he had found his true calling. Young Damien truly thrived on it. No one would ever suspect the prestigious Millennium Towers as the centre of the…Human Resources.”

  “I take it, then, Damien knew all about the code.”

  “Knew? He set it up for the company. It was his primary assignment. But vanity! Vanity upon vanity, all is vanity. The downfall of man since the creation. That was definitely one trait he did not inherit from his father. The fool used his own name as the foundation of the encryption—a three-ply construct. Once you broke through to one…I’ll say this much for his father—he would never have done that. He would look for something far from his own person. So what was I supposed to do? The entire operation was compromised. We had to take care of that studio, if only to buy time.”

  “Just as in Hilltop Manor?”

  Teribogo indulged in a demure smile. “We never claimed to be original, Sir Goddie. How many government buildings have gone up in flames in the midst of an audit? We merely followed tradition.”

  “Try not to divert attention from the present, Your Eminence.”

  “Not trying to. Not in the least. It is simply charitable to give credit where credit is due.” He stood up, looked round. “Since it looks as if we’re going to miss lunch, at least…”

  Goddie gestured over his shoulder to the rear. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” The drinks cabinet, an ornate shimmering import, was covered by a light drape. Teribogo pulled the drape aside, pressed a button, and its doors swung smoothly open, an imprisoned children’s chorus within it bursting into a “Jingle Bells” rendition. He lifted a heavy decanter, eased out a glass and poured himself a heavy shot, tossed half of it down his throat, and moved back towards the desk.

  “Yes, quite right. Just as in Hilltop Mansion. With such a sensitive evacuation, there had to be a distraction. Think we would risk another Okija? Kighare Menka was a mistake. What should a surgeon care about body parts, as long as they weren’t created on purpose? And there was his history—that amputation work on the kilishi seller. One would expect that to squash any moralistic qualms. But look at the way he reacted! He could have said a simple no. But not that village crusader. Set himself on a warpath against us. I’m sorry to say this, but sometimes even the most accomplished of humanity, cannot be trusted to behave rationally!”

  Sir Goddie threw back his head and indulged himself in a prolonged roar. “I like that, Teri. Actually, you become almost human when you say things like that. There is such honesty in your disappointment—I find it refreshing. It makes me feel almost a hypocrite myself.”

  “Laugh all you want, Goddie, but that was a most complex operation. Evacuating, relocating all in one night—”

  “Not forgetting burning down an ancient landmark—”

  “It was an anachronism. Disposable trash. Who misses it except a few black touranchi? And it was convenient. Everyone blames infiltrators from Boko Haram.”

  There followed a long spell of silence. Both men appeared lost in their own thoughts. These consisted mostly of weighing up each other, yet without actual confrontation merely staring into space, into vistas of power, rewards, domination, and intrigue. Finally it was Teribogo who broke the silence.

  “We must relocate from Millennium Towers.”

  “Do you have to?” asked Goddie. “It’s still safe enough. Your Median is still there—very effective. He’s in a position of influence. Why another flight? Stay put.”

  Back at the desk, Teribogo put down his glass, placed both hands on the surface, and stood over the People’s Steward. “My good friend Goddie, have you met the family? The brother? You’ve now met the sister, but do you know her at all? Even our lodge-mate the Otunba? He sleeps with a copy of the will. He can quote its provisions verbatim!”

  “Wills are tricky things. Have you thought of transferring everything to your own parish—Oke Konran? Religion is perfect camouflage for no matter what.”

  Teribogo held up his hand. “Please, Goddie, we’ve been through all that. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.”

  “Isn’t it rather late for scruples?”

  “Who says anything about scruples? We are talking security. You cannot deal in flesh and cater to the soul—not within the same space. The two do not mix. Call me superstitious if you like, but look at Zamfara. Gold and zealotry—it’s a toxic mix. The jealous God won’t stand for it. Check with our partners in Yantulah. They collect their dividends on the dot but—no, they refuse us storage space in their minarets.”

  “So what of Zoroaster?”

  “A beautiful cover. Who’s ever heard of the seer? He’s to serve as the festival motif, then remain to serve as cover. How many converts do you imagine he’ll rake up? Count them on one hand. But his temple—what a facility!”

  “I suppose Lokoja…”

  “Impractical. Unsafe. Like Oke Konran, it’s too open. Up on the hill, it’s impossible. Going up and down that rancid sector—are we going to use donkeys? By contrast, Gumchi is perfect. Every bit as secure as Millennium Towers and just as immune to suspicion. No one would ever imagine Gumchi as a depot. Contained, virtually an independent enclave. It can be policed by no more than a small detachment of the special forces. Listen, Goddie, Gumchi has been on my radar for years, and not necessarily for the ministry. Oh yes, I did think of its possibilities as a film location—villains tumbling off the heights as they screamed their way into hell. You should visit the place. I liked what I saw. One visit only and I cast down my bucket there—mentally.”

  Goddie was unsmiling. “Then you had better pick it up at once. The will of the murdered man has disposed of it, thanks to none other than you, Your Zoroastrian Eminence. And your tenacious surgeon doesn’t strike me as the kind who gives up his vision.”

  Teribogo was losing patience. “Come on, Goddie. We’ve handled far knottier issues than this before now. And we’ve made it all easy for you. He’s going to be kept so busy he won’t remember his pet project.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “All sorts of ways. For a start, he’s an obvious murder suspect. First-line suspect. I don’t buy the Otunba motive—envy. Cheap. Or the sister’s dark murmurings about an affair with his wife.”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t heard? You should keep your ears more to the ground. Like we do.”

  “Wish I’d known that. I would never have let her be close by.”

  “That’s where we are different. She’s the perfect type to represent the family at YoY. But the motive is unimportant. He had the means. Had the opportunity. It’s so straightforward. Who brought in the kilishi?”

  Sir Goddie looked lost. “Kilishi? What has kilishi got to do with this?”

  It was Teribogo’s turn to fake disbelief. He resumed his seat. “Haven’t you seen the police report? One would imagine the head would first report to you. You don’t know how the bomb was disguised?”

  “No. I try to do a hands-off whenever I can. And this is
high-profile, with the international community hovering around like hawks. I leave the police to do their work, then report to me. Investigation is still ongoing.”

  “Of course it is ongoing. But the report is ready. That’s the procedure—surely you know that, Goddie. You want to call your police chief?”

  Goddie sighed. “No, no, just tell me what you know. Whatever is in the report.”

  “It’s straightforward. Kighare Menka visited in the company of two men—one a foreigner, the other a pensioner called Alhaji Baftau, known as the Old Man of the Desert. And they brought with them a package of kilishi, a gift for their friend, the honoured surgeon. At least, that was what it was claimed to be. The surgeon transferred it to Duyole and it was kept in the studio. At the appointed time, it was detonated—by remote control, obviously. There were two packages, in fact. The bomb squad found the earlier kilishi in the studio, intact. Quite harmless. But the one that was brought by Dr. Menka—that was the lethal package.”

  Goddie looked at his informant, marveling. He muttered, “I am supposed to be the prime minister.”

  “And so you are, Mr. Prime Minister, but you cannot oversee everything. We exist to make your task easier. If you stick to governing, we will take care of the rest—including your reelection. My friend, as you remarked, you are only here for…maximum eight years? We are here forever. That is the reality. We have more at stake than you do. When we protect you, we secure ourselves.”

  Sir Goddie nodded gravely. He continued to study the priest of Zoroaster—at least for the YoY Festival.

  Teribogo leant forward. “Of course, there is also the alternative theory. Would you like to hear it?”

  “I am curious.”

  “Take your mind back. Remember, I was here, around, waiting, when our late engineer paid you a courtesy call.”

  “Yes?”

  “You saw him off. That fellow, one of your aides—the Brain of Potencia, we call him—he was supposed to see him off with a welfare package.”

  “Hm-hmm? I remember. The fool wasn’t ready with it when it was time for Pitan to leave.”

  “That’s right. And you ordered him to take the man’s Badagry address and have the parcel delivered to him. Right?”

  Goddie sat upright, looked at the speaker in disbelief, his mind instantly churning. He remained speechless.

  Teribogo’s lips pursed with satisfaction. “I am glad you see the possibility. Nothing has to be proved. Simply, it’s election time. The YoY Festival is just round the corner. The electorate can be swayed by any trite speculation.”

  For a while not one eyelid of the People’s Steward so much as twitched. Then, quite abruptly, his demeanour changed. He brought out the key to his desk drawer, opened it, and extracted a kola nut. He weighed it in his hand, tossed it just a few inches high, and caught it. He rolled it round in his hand, placed it on the desk. Then he stood, picked up his discarded agbada from its stand, thrust his head through the opening, and settled it over his shoulders, arranging the sleeves with studied care.

  “Shall we join the others? We don’t want them thinking we’re cooking up a separate agenda. I’ve kept you away too long.”

  Teribogo did not move. “And the procession? Is that still on?”

  Goddie smiled broadly. “I shall participate myself. All the party leaders will be there. Plus the cabinet. We shall all join in lighting the Zoroastrian Olympic torch. There are surprises you know nothing of. Our friend Benzy has really gone to town on this edition—it is going to be one for the record book. He’ll brief you himself. Let me give you a preview—he’s importing abseilers from Switzerland. One will light the torch from your Temple of Fire and a relay will pass it down the rockface. Then begins the ground-level relay all the way to the National Stadium in Abuja to light the eternal YoY flame. You shall have your day at YoY, but you know something?”

  “What is that?”

  “Try Lokoja. Or wherever. But not another word about relocating to Gumchi.”

  “You are going to stick to the terms of that will?”

  “Let us just say, Teri, that the interest of the party of POMP coincides with respecting the provisions of that Pitan-Payne will.” And Goddie picked up the kola nut lying on the desk. “May I remind you, Gumchi is home to the small plantation from which this kola nut is harvested.”

  Teribogo threw up his hands in disgust. “For heaven’s sake, what is so special about this damned kola nut? I’ve tasted it. Are you going to sacrifice all this investment for a mere kola nut taste? Human Resources needs to relocate!”

  “Yes, Teribogo. You see, you may boast of having even my chief of police under your spell, or in your pocket, or both, but even you do not know everything about this stimulant.”

  “What is there to know about kola?”

  “Everything.” He dug his nail into the fissure of the nut, separated the lobes, and pressed a piece into Teribogo’s hand. “Try this piece. It comes straight from that special preserve. Here, we call it the prime ministerial pod.”

  A baffled Teribogo glanced up, rose slowly, his eyes boring into Sir Goddie’s face. “You are keeping something back from me, aren’t you?”

  The prime minister shrugged. “We made no pact of mutual disclosure. And you? Are you sure you are keeping nothing from me?”

  Teribogo glared. “All right. Let’s go.” He followed Goddie towards the door.

  Goddie stopped, looked him up and down, then pointed towards his desk. “Don’t forget your costume.”

  Teribogo struggled to regain composure. He turned back, fully possessed, re-set his turban, wound and tucked in the loop under his chin to link up aross his ear. Goddie remained by the door, his hand on the knob.

  As he patted himself down, Teribogo, in his most matter-of-fact counseling register: “Oh, I hope you have no objection if the police deport young Damien.”

  “On what grounds? No objection, I am simply curious.”

  “The police will decide that. I told you there are several scripts, so—the Damien script. He could have installed and/or set off the bomb. Time, place, motives—everything fits in. Qualifies him to be a prime suspect. When he is confronted with that, he’ll go quietly.”

  “And quite right. The young man is now a liability to everyone, himself included.”

  “Absolutely. His continuing presence here is a time-bomb—well, a fitting expression. The earlier the better. Maybe even tonight. He should be allowed no time to prepare—take nothing with him beyond his passport—and even that will be handed to him when he’s safely on board the plane.” Teribogo threw the last length of loose shawl over his shoulder, gestured his readiness. Sir Goddie opened the door, waved him forward, his voice lowered but with absolute clarity:

  “After you, Fa-ro-dion.”

  The priest of Zoroaster stopped dead in his tracks, completely stymied. He stood ramrod for nearly a minute. Finally, his shoulders slackened and he grinned, a little sheepishly. “Well, you were bound to work it all out soon enough. That’s more than the rest—the Gong o’ Four—have done, even till now.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that. You’ve left trails. In any case, Menka will, by tonight. Inside report is that he’s been working things out, like the true surgeon he is, he probes. Compulsively. In any case, he’s on his way. He was invited, and we got word from him this morning—he’ll arrive in time for the afternoon session. Apart from some other…side benefits, do you realize into how many votes his project translates—potentially? This is Villa Potencia—we try to earn the label.”

  “So did we, so did we—as Brand of the Land—each in his own chosen field.” Teribogo’s expression, earlier impassive, slid into his favourite apostolic—the bland—smile for all seasons. “We made a wager—at least I read it as one—which of us four would get to be the pre-eminent brand of the nation. Did your…research go that far back?”<
br />
  “Far enough,” said Sir Goddie. “One must protect oneself.”

  “Of course. In your shoes, I would dig all the way back, even into the womb.”

  Sir Goddie rocked himself back on his heels, looked intently at Farodion. “I must admit, you are definitely outside my league. I mean, to actually recruit the son and heir of the Gong Leader into this business. And appropriate his headquarters!”

  “Why not? It’s business.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Goddie opened the door wider, beaming grandly: “As your friends declaim it on Broadway—Show Time, Baby!”

  Acknowledgements

  For the creative seclusion sorely needed for the emergence of these Chronicles, I owe a debt of gratitude to my young colleague Manthia Diawara of New York University, whose cottage in Yene, Senegal, permitted nothing more intrusive than the roar of ocean waves.

  Past president John Agyekum Kufuor of Ghana, aided and abetted by his son Chief Addo Kufuor, raised isolation to baronial heights in the hills of Aburi, sustained by lavish hospitality.

  To one and all, plus the volunteer “space explorers” Alessandra di Maio, David Awam Amkpa, and Ivor Agyeman-Duah—Thanks!

  WS

  A Note About the Author

  Wole Soyinka was born in Abeokuta, Nigeria, in 1934. He is an author, playwright, poet, and political activist, whose prolific body of work includes The Interpreters, his debut novel, which was published in 1965, and the play Death and the King’s Horseman, which was first performed in 1976. Soyinka was twice jailed for his criticism of the Nigerian government, and he destroyed his green card in 2016 when Donald Trump was elected president of the United States.

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