Doing Dangerously Well (27 page)

Securing his shoulder-length hair behind his ears, Beano phoned his father. “Your Excellency? It’s Your Inadequacy speaking.”

“Hey there, Your Mediocrity! Howzit going?”

“Kolo’s signed. If you want Wosu in, I think you’ll need some kind of tactical—”

“He’s signed? He didn’t tell me!” His father sounded hurt. “And no press? What’s he up to? Can’t trust that guy. Can’t trust him. He’s as sly as they come.”

“If you want to avoid any further civilian rule, Dad, you need something to destabilize public confidence in the whole, you know, system.”

“Why Wosu?”

“While TransAqua is fighting over rights to the Niger, Kolo is picking up rights to the Benue River in the east. He can easily undercut our prices. Major General Wosu is from the Benue area. He’ll care about Kolo owning their river.”

“Listening.”

Unlike others, Beano recognized the importance of pandering to his father’s fragile self-esteem. “Not try’na tell you how to do your job. I’ve never even set foot there. But why don’t you raise the profile of an insurgent? Then the people will demand a stronger response, like, you know, a non-constitutional system.”

“Got anyone in mind?” His father’s voice sounded sarcastic. “I’m not sure there’s much of that about at the moment.”

Beano held up an article featuring a recent explosion in the Kainji area. “I dunno. You’re the Man, Dad. I mean, mentally, I’m still a Sewage guy.”

Rumours had been circulating for weeks about Sinclair’s impending dismissal, staved off only by an unexpected but
minor success in Ghana. In his corner office, Sinclair paced like a shark in a tank, glued to his headset, trails of cologne wafting back and forth. Though intent on the conversation at hand, he was still able to watch his reflection in the plate glass as he paced.

“How are you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Nnnot bad. Dangerously well. And yourself?”

“Tired. Weary, my friend. Things have turned very ugly.”

“Well, Minister, the trees have been cleared for three weeks. Have you made any move at all?”

“How can I, my friend? The man will stop at nothing to stay in power.”

“That must be very trying.” Sinclair was at the furthermost point of his patience, the outermost thread of his tolerance, ready to sever all ties with this coward and deal with a more able man. It might be expedient to bring the minister for the environment’s name up at the next meeting. Mary would doubtless tip off Kolo, who would, yet again, order an extermination. At least this time, for the first time, he would actually be targeting a potential threat to his power. “Is there anything more I can do to help?”

“It takes time, Mr. Sinclair. Everything takes time in Nigeria.”

“Of course it does, Minister. Of course it does.”

Yes, it was definitely time to cut the cord. He researched a list of alternates, finding one almost immediately. Like Kolo he’d been top of his class, not in the UK where a weak nation taught students to survive on guile, but in the US, which opted for a more straightforward approach based on presumption of dominance. No doubt as dangerous as Kolo, this minister had an impressive portfolio, both domestic and international. As Sinclair’s relationship with Nigeria hit the rocks, he merely slipped this candidate into his mental back pocket.
Turning to Plan A, he opened his Day-timer and double-checked the maps. The Niger River flowed south into Nigeria. Perhaps it was time to negotiate with those who lived upstream in the adjoining desert nation of Niger.

Janet buzzed to inform Mary that an important visitor had arrived from Africa.

Mary felt on edge and close to physical collapse. Her mind, now hazy, found it difficult to tackle routine issues. She gazed over the cubicles.

A woman sporting a turban, an African wrapper and a riot of turquoise jewellery on her chest, arms and earlobes waved merrily in her direction. Her armpits had not been shaved. Pendulous breasts, unencumbered by the supportive structure of a bra, swayed with the movement.

Mary bounded from her seat in a rush to block the hideous sight.

“Mary!” Barbara threw her arms around her sister.

“Get off me!” Mary shuddered. The hair in Barbara’s armpits had touched her white shirt at the shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mary could see her co-workers standing up to peek above their cubicles, the bolder ones pretending to walk to the water cooler to get a better view.

“How are you, my sister?” Barbara asked, a Nigerian twang easing its way into her voice.

Mary propelled Barbara towards a glass-free meeting room, out of the sightlines of her colleagues.

“Mary!” Barbara yelled. “I beg, stop making
gra-gra!
What is your problem-oh?” More necks craned in their direction.

Barbara’s stinking incense wafted past the cubicles as the mismatched duo marched by. Mary walked directly in front of
Barbara in an attempt to obscure her jangling, hirsute sister from widened eyes. Once she had found a suitable enclosure, she pushed her sister in and slammed the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Herman Meyer needs to see the blueprints and plans,
sha.”

“Meyer? Jesus!” Mary kicked a chair. “What the hell is Kolo up to now?”

“Are you okay, my sister?” Barbara tilted her head.

“Fuck off! What does Meyer need the blueprints for?”

“Kolo has asked us to rush this through,
abi.”
Barbara replied, confidently using the wrong Nigerian terminology.

“Finally! Why the hell does it take you guys so long to get your shit together?”

Barbara’s Nigerian accent deepened. “Even a tortoise—”

“Fuck off!” Mary had to get this eyesore out of the building.

She bounded out of the meeting room to get a copy of the blueprints.

H
aving dispatched the blueprints to Wise Water, with a complimentary copy to Drop of Life to keep them quiet, Barbara embarked on the next stage of her mission. She woke up early, after an uneasy sleep, plagued by an almost irrational sense of urgency. She slipped on her Turkish kaftan and crept to her laptop. She surfed the Internet, investigating sources, pricing and varieties of armaments so that she could put together a rough inventory for Femi. Occasionally she clicked over from this arduous task to search websites selling toe rings to match her new Nigerian sandals.

At 6 a.m., Astro, previously always the earlier riser, wandered out to the front room. “What’s up, bud? Couldn’t you sleep?”

“I have work to do,
sha,”
she replied.

“Oh, really?” He picked up a trail of her clothing, while kicking the sand to an even level. “What kind of work?” His summer dress floated behind him.

“Important work.” Shades of a Nigerian accent crept into her voice.

“Ooooh!” He seemed impressed. “I guess you’re a pretty big cheese over there now. I’m real proud of you, bud.”

He left the room to dump her clothes, then returned to the dining table. He closed one eye and spent a few moments aligning her coffee mug with the edge of the table. After completing this critical work, he ambled behind her. She quickly clicked off the armaments page.

“So—you gonna help your friends?” He leaned over her. She could feel his excited breath on her neck. He straightened up. “Toe rings? Are you sure that’s what they need, Bibble?”

“No, it’s just—”

“I’d think they’d need flotation rings and life rafts. That’s what they need.”

The Nigerian accent disappeared. “How the hell would you—”

“I mean, if you wanna buy them jewellery, get them some waterproof watches. At least they’ll be able to tell the time, like, how long have I been sitting on this roof? Oh, let’s see, two weeks, seven hours and thirteen minutes. Thank god I was given this waterproof watch.”

“What the hell would you know about it? You’ve never even set foot—”

“Towels. Now that’s another idea. Did you think of towels?”

“Why don’t you just stick to your damn flower arranging and let me do the real work, okay? You have no idea what you’re talking—”

“What?” The colour drained from Astro’s face and his eyes widened in disbelief.

“I’m saving lives here, not watering plants, so just leave me alone.” She swivelled back around to her computer as Astro
stalked out of the room. She heard no more noise, save for some muffled sniffing sounds from the bedroom.

When Barbara finished her work, she drifted into the bedroom to find a note on the bed.

Barbara tutted, realizing the gulf that now existed between them. She had been thrust into the dizzying vortex of revolution, where he, sadly, had little role to play. She shook her head. She hoped this would not cause a problem in their relationship.

Astro returned just before nine, his eyes red and puffy. He rattled about in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, avoiding her company.

Barbara marched to the phone to call a travel agent. “Hello!” She spoke in staccato tones. “Name’s Glass. Barbara Glass. I need a ticket to Ottawa, Canada, pronto.”

Astro wandered into the front room to listen to her call. She leaned back in her chair, flinging a self-important elbow across its back.

“Oh, are we going to Ottawa again? I’d better pack my …” Astro looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Huh. With that place, who knows?”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Barbara’s arm now dangled behind her. “I’m going. You’re staying here.”

“How come?” Astro looked at her, grief-stricken.

She stopped his complaints with a stern index finger, and he stormed into the bedroom. When she got off the phone, she followed him.

“Why are you treating me like this, Bee-Bee? I don’t get it.”

“Look, I’m on a top-secret mission.” She put both hands on his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “I don’t want you involved. This is very dangerous work.”

“Dangerous? What do you mean dangerous?”

“I can’t tell you.” Barbara walked to the window and looked out, her arms spread-eagled, hands clutching the window frames. “The less you know, the better.”

Astro forced her to face him. “What’s up, Babble?”

“I can’t tell you.” She pushed some wisps of tawny hair behind his ears. “I wish I could.”

“But we’re a team, Babu. We’re in this together.”

“I have to do this alone, Astro.” Barbara turned to look out the window again, wistful, pensive. “It’s a lonely number—one—isn’t it? But it’s the only number I know.” She paused. “Apart from …” she tried to stop the thought, but it expressed itself nonetheless, “… apart from zero.” She looked back at Astro with solemn intent. “I’ve often wondered if God is digital too.” She shook her head, rapped the windowsill with her knuckles twice and walked out the front door.

She returned a couple of moments later. She had forgotten the cash for flashlights and balaclavas.

After buying these indispensable items, Barbara had one more task to complete in Washington: a trip to a dynamite supplier with connections to the Nigerian construction and mining industries. This entrepreneur worked from a home office overlooking the amiable Virginia hills. He could supply Femi with explosives to continue the work his group had already started.

Barbara had to borrow Astro’s car, but he refused to let her go alone. So she devised a plan.

She ripped off her Nigerian clothing and selected a maximumsupport bra, a severe white shirt and a plain black skirt. She then
bound her feet in her flat, Salvation Army–style lace-ups and flattened her hair with a centre part. She checked herself in the mirror. Something was missing. Though it did not suit her purposes, she could not stop herself from adding one small item to her outfit: a beret. She smiled in self-appreciation–she looked very much like a female Che Guevara.

She made Astro change from his formless, bland summer dress to more traditional garb, and they both hopped into his car. She swerved into traffic with a honk and swore at other drivers, a habit she had picked up in Nigeria.

Astro closed his eyes. “Where are we going, bud?”

“To see my family-oh.” Barbara’s Nigerian accent re-emerged.

“Oh, Babu, I can’t believe you’re finally introducing us! What a privilege! I guess I’m officially your significant other now, huh?” He scrunched up his mouth with pleasure.

“Look, my friend-oh, don’t-”

“I thought you didn’t get on with your family.” He looked out the window, taking in the sights.

“Family is important. Even lions must live in a pride.”

“A what?”

“A pride.”

“A pride?” He turned to face her. “Are you sure? I’ve never heard of a pride. I thought it was a herd.”

“It’s a herd of elephants. But it’s a pride,” she pronounced the “d” with a blunt emphasis and a slight “uh” at the end, “of lions. I know. I’ve been there. You haven’t.”

“With all due respect there, Bob, I think it’s a herd of lions. All cats live in a herd. I mean, have you ever heard of a pride of leopards?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then you would think wrong, man, totally wrong.” He edged into her face. “It’s actually a leap.” He articulated the last
word with great care. “A leap,” his mouth stretched to form the word, “of leopards. And I suggest you look it up before you visit your parents, because they’ll be asking you and you won’t know, will you, Babs?”