Doing Dangerously Well (49 page)

Members of Kolo’s publicity team now rushed in to fuss over him. Unlike most other departments, he had ensured that Public Relations was staffed principally with Westerners who had mastered the art of spin. A few Nigerians tagged along for training purposes.

A woman took charge, her hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight she looked almost bald. “Mr. President, it is imperative we deal with this situation at once. And I’m afraid, sir, there’s only one way out. You need to speak of your admiration for Jegede.”

She flipped the first draft of a public announcement in front of him. He read it rapidly.

“I’ll do no such thing.” Kolo’s voice echoed off a high ceiling.

“You need to keep your presidency safe.”

The last word hit home—on the left side of his chest, to be precise. He started scratching out phrases with his pen. “Well, we can take out ‘national hero’ right now. ‘Self-made man’ will do.”

“Certainly.”

“‘A human colossus’? You have to be kidding. Replace with ‘very human.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“‘Provided direction and unity for the country?’” Kolo simply stared at the head of PR.

As these negotiations took place, she beckoned to an intern, who arrived with a large rectangular object wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s that?”

“A portrait of Jegede. You’ll need to replace your picture with his, just for a short period of time.”

As they unwrapped a magnificent depiction of the man standing in a god-like pose with a preternaturally angelic face, Kolo’s restraint took flight. “In oils? You’ve done it in oils? Have you gone insane? Take it away right now. And who commissioned it, pray tell?”

“I did.” She brooked no opposition.

He tried to stare her down, but she stood firm.

“Crayon, then. And you don’t need to find Nigeria’s greatest artist—best to support a student.”

“No crayons, sir.”

Eviscerated by this new humiliation, Kolo ensured that a small portrait of the terrorist was executed in acrylic paint with crude mounting. In order to accomplish this, they delayed two days. The press officer removed the resplendent oil painting of a majestic, light-skinned president that hung behind the presidential chair and replaced it with that of the regrettably sublime features of Jegede, then summoned the media. Kolo read out a statement clarifying his deep respect for Nigeria’s greatest icon. While the press took their snapshots of an imperious Kolo underneath Jegede’s painting, his aides hauled their president’s now redundant image to the basement, accidentally damaging some of the rococo flourishes to its frame.

When they were all gone, Kolo sat down behind his desk, a shattered man, hardly able to speak, knowing that someone—or something—was trying to drive him to the brink of insanity. Riots had broken out in every major city, with thousands massacred by supporters of the same idol. Each time he thought of Jegede, visions of his brother’s face became more bloated, blue in colour, his eyes wide, as he sank downwards.

He needed to move on the Igwe scheme, but so far he had been unable to contact the assassins. He considered phoning the inspector general again. As this thought lodged in his to-do list, his assistant buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“Lance Omeke, sir.”

“Finally! Bring.”

Lance strode in, wearing a black Stetson with a butterfly logo on the front. “Worraps?” He smiled with a row of strong, intelligent teeth. “Jegede is gone.”

Kolo’s spirits rose. “Did you bring body?”

The man surveyed the rich textures of the room, with its Italianate chairs, embossed velvets, rich patterned carpeting and ivory inlaid tables. Kolo had taste: this he knew. Lance seemed particularly struck by the three chandeliers that hung over their discussions, and gazed up at their many rainbows like a child mesmerized by a toy.

“Did you bring body?” Kolo repeated, not irritated, simply happy that at least one person appreciated the splendour that accrued to a presidency.

“No. No transportation.”

“Ah, I see.” Kolo sat back and laced his fingers over his shrinking belly. His body ached. “What took so long?”

“Enh, well, you said three months,
sha,”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Since when has three months lasted four months?” He kissed his teeth. “How do I know he’s gone?”

“Don’t you read newspaper? They’ve written about my work. It’s even on the television. Ah-ah! You’re president. Why can’t you follow these things? It’s your job. Anyway, at least I myself am a professional. I took photo.”

“Aaah. Good, good. Bring.” Kolo laid a hand on his desk: he could hardly raise it to beckon to the man.

Lance placed a stash of photos near Kolo’s hand. Kolo gasped. The man had taken thirty photos—twenty-nine more than necessary. They appeared to serve as trophies, as a form of murderous pornography. Wincing with revulsion, Kolo sorted through them, placing them in piles of full body injuries, head, chest, lower body and so on. Jegede looked as if he had been stabbed over a hundred times. An unexpected boon.

“Good work. Good work.” Kolo pushed the photos aside. “So, you need your release papers? And payment, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before you go, I would be interested to find out who paid you to protect Jegede.”

“My clients rely on being anon.”

“… ymous is the full word. But they know you’re operating a bona fide business, so they understand you’re paid for a range of services. Paid ten thousand, for example. Diversification is key. Your clients would be aware of that. A man has to live, after all.”

“Confidentiality and diversification. It’s my motto.”

Kolo wrote a cheque. “So?”

“American ambassador.”

Kolo’s pen stopped mid-figure, blotting ink over the cheque. The crewcut had actually dared to attempt a plot in Nigeria. Was he mad? “Look at the man. If I thought he could read … No, it must be books on tape. He listened to
Conspiracy for Dummies,
then thought he could vault into the top league. Idiot!” He tried to brush aside the very idea, although it niggled him slightly when he considered it.

Kolo shook himself free of these inner irritations and finished writing a cheque that would never get cashed. “Go and see the inspector general. He will provide your papers for you. I will tell him you’re coming.” Kolo piled the photographs together with weary gestures and threw them into his desk drawer.

“Okay, sir.” Lance made as if to reclaim the photos but obviously thought better of it. He hesitated before leaving. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said.

“No, thank
you.”
Kolo shivered. Was this the kind of killer they would send for him? “Nice doing business with you.”

Lance bid him a respectful “Later” and left.

For a moment, Kolo settled into the high back of his scaled-down throne. How could he have been so short-sighted? With Omeke, he could implicate at least two others, as well as
incriminate him in an internal struggle for power at Wise Water. He had no need of this Igwe character.

A great calm overcame Kolo as he picked up the phone. “Inspector general? Omeke is coming for his release papers.”

Since the day his people had hung the portrait of Jegede above the presidential chair, Kolo kept a strict separation of his life into two spheres—his haven and his hell. His haven was his garage, increasingly decorated with personal items: his portrait, various medications and creams, Napoleonic furniture, cupboards for his agbadas. Here, he could relax in his Chinese silk pyjamas, sink his toes into the lush cream carpet and stroke the grain of the curtains that covered the garage door. They were made of heavy velvet and fringed, like those in the presidential offices, but he had chosen royal blue to grace this personal paradise, a colour that did not adorn the windows in the floors above.

In his haven, Kolo allowed no daily distractions, no newspapers, radio or television—merely the staples of a tranquil life: classical music minus any gloomy Germanic influence, Quality Street chocolates, biographies of great men.

As he zigzagged his way to his hell—his office—past broom cupboards, storage lockers, food stores, and upwards to purgatory along windows that gave a view of Aso Rock, he encountered the cubicles of small fry, then climbed past the offices of potential presidential rivals. As he progressed, his safety grew increasingly precarious, his step more erratic. By the time he reached his office, his pace had escalated into a hesitant sprint.

Every day, same routine: slam door, check window, curse Jegede’s portrait, flop into seat, take Aspirin, consider relocating portrait, ring for minister of finance, grab newspapers, greeting, response, detailed examination of Jegede’s ascent to glory, wave aide away.

Today, he had a meeting that he hoped would raise his spirits somewhat. After dismissing the minister of finance, he opened his briefcase and took out some new footwear. He then grabbed his parasol and headed for the nature reserve behind the governmental complex.

“Good morning, Ambassador Bates!” A more rugged habitat provided a fitting backdrop for such a meeting. Kolo wore trainers under his agbada. “I’m not sure I’ve shown you the national arboretum. It’s a wilderness, absolutely untouched by human hand.”

Side by side, the president and the American ambassador strode past a series of gates manned by military sentries and into an area landscaped with varieties of local trees, flowers and undulating pathways.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? We copied the DC model, of course.”

The path wound around trees with leaves too stiff for the wind to rustle. The ambassador peered at Kolo, leery.

“I wanted to talk to you about this Jegede business,” Kolo continued. “We have the culprit. The man wanted to wrest control of Wise Water. A handsome man—he thought his face would better suit the T-shirts. I find it hard to disagree.”

“Uh-huh.” The ambassador did not look reassured by this amiable chit-chat.

“He’s a sociopath, of course. I was surprised to find he considered you an ally. You’d apparently paid him quite a sum.”

“What? Me?” Rays of pink leapt to the surface of the ambassador’s face.

Two paths diverged in an unkempt wood, one more travelled. Kolo took it. “Yes, a certain Lance Omeke—hope I’m pronouncing that right. We’ll have to display the body, of course. We’ve become a very visual culture, like yours. I just wanted to ensure you wouldn’t be tied up in any kafuffle.”

The ambassador’s response took a long time to come. No doubt he was mentally replaying his tapes of
Scheming for Simpletons.
“I had nothing to do with Jegede’s death.”

“Of course you didn’t. The very idea! No, Omeke must have acted on his own. Lovely tree, that.” Kolo’s admiring gaze travelled up the length of a basic palm.

“Yeah, ’course the guy did.”

“Well, then, I’m sure you’ll be willing to confirm that at the press conference this afternoon.”

Posing in front of a large American flag, the ambassador attended the identification ceremonies—which lasted many days. He constantly reaffirmed the inspector general’s account of a play for dominance within a chaotic organization—an act that unwittingly implied a CIA conspiracy to eliminate Jegede.

Kolo stood in the background, by Omeke’s body, framed by yet another portrait of Jegede, his face a vision of despair. This time, he had no need to perform: the oil painting behind him aroused an overwhelming depth of emotion.

The papers featured pictures of Lance Omeke’s corpse, dressed in his most garish clothing to convey an implied message of greed. Omeke’s photographs of the multiple stab wounds to Jegede’s body confirmed the attack. Despite their macabre content, these too hit the front pages in colour, looped through news channels and introduced the day’s events on most websites.

But regardless of the grisly, uncontrolled nature of the attack on Jegede, the pungent odour of suspicion still lurked around Kolo—Nigerians were no dupes and had little respect for the presidency.

Therefore, his office continued to circulate pictures of Jegede’s butchered corpse, along with the bloodied Stetson.

“If I had asked for an assassination,” Kolo’s official press release stated, “one bullet would have sufficed”—a fact that made sense.

I
n March, Kolo hosted a Canadian delegation. These people Kolo could not abide: whenever they visited they insisted on talking about the environment (his, not theirs), poverty (Nigeria’s, not aboriginal people’s) and, most vexing of all, embarking on some form of physical activity.

The prime minister wished to climb Aso Rock to get a panoramic view of Abuja. Apparently, a postcard would not suffice. The man’s lack of sophistication astounded Kolo. What European head of state would soil his handmade shoes to pursue such a folly? The female politicos were even more sensible, with their stilettos fiercely protected.

The prime minister was most amiable, which made the experience even more unbearable. “Great day for a hike, huh? What an awesome country!”

“It’s like many others, I can assure you. I hope I don’t sound immodest when I say it’s our culture that differs.”