Doing Dangerously Well (6 page)

“Well,” Kolo ventured, “I fear for the government. There is so much unrest in the country. I hear the president has as much as barricaded himself at Aso Rock. Which is a pity. I love neoclassical buildings.” He grew bolder. “I pray they don’t get damaged.”

The general halted the progress of the crystal to his mouth. He peered at Kolo through heavy eyelids, remaining silent. One thing Kolo had learned in his journey through life was to wait for a reaction, no matter how long that wait took. With the general, this could represent a formidable length of time.

Kolo eased forward for his Scotch, swirled it around, sniffed it, held it to the light and very slowly took a tentative sip. He closed his eyes as if he were in a trance, lulled into that sweet state by the gentle wonder of the “water of life.” Finally, he opened them.

The general leaned towards him. “So—you have heard news?” he asked.

Kolo was not one to be outwitted by a question. He pondered awhile, then gave a noncommittal shrug and reached for the Scotch again.

The general finally buckled. “There have been rumblings in the army.”

“Rumblings?”

“Perhaps looking for a change in leadership.”

Kolo’s eyes flickered in anticipation.

“I have ensured, of course,” the general rushed to explain, “that all dissidence, any hint of discontent, is quashed at its onset.”

“Of course!” replied a shocked Kolo. “The government needs the full support of its armed forces at this tragic juncture.”

“Which I am in every way committed to providing on an ongoing basis in this hour of our country’s greatest need.”

They both sipped their Scotch.

“Yet,” the general proposed, “the people are suffering.”

“There’s no doubt that that is so.”

“And I wonder …” The general paused, eyes boring into Kolo’s.

Kolo stopped blinking. He now knew that he had the general’s support for any change that might make his position more secure. He lay back in the pampering leather and closed his eyes again. “You still have the best Scotch in Abuja.” A smile surfaced behind Kolo’s yellow skin.

“Reserved only for the best company.”

Both men paused, lost in their separate thoughts.

“Tell me-how can I help my countryman?” Kolo asked at last.

“Maybe some information. Are there any new …” the general paused, “… initiatives, any changes, perhaps changes of personnel, that I should be aware of?”

The general swallowed the rest of his Scotch. Kolo recognized that the general must be under considerable strain and chided himself for not having approached him sooner.

“The British and the Americans want to see a new …” Kolo flicked a small silk thread from his agbada, “grid of power-by power,” he hastened to add, “I am referring, of course, to electricity—”

“Of course,” the general quickly rejoined.

“And it is about that initiative that I wish to talk to you today. Can I count on your support for such an enterprise?”

“So you’re in touch with the Americans and the British?”

“On an informal level.” Kolo stared directly at the general.

“Aha.” The general considered for a moment, then responded. “The army will provide whatever support is necessary for the good of the country.” He looked at his glass. “More Scotch?”

“Thank you.” Kolo drained his drink. The general refilled their glasses.

Kolo raised his. “Cheers!”

Kolo was accompanied to his car by his driver, who carried his parasol aloft. Once enveloped in the leather seating, Kolo lay back, exhausted. He took out a small pot of Oil of Olay and applied it to his face.

“So, Innocent,” he asked. “What news of the general?” The car passed crowds of people carrying jerry cans on their heads, water spilling from some of them.

“The general’s driver said the president has visited him twice this week at home.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. Anyone else?”

“Yes—the minister for the environment two days ago. The general’s driver had to drive the minister back to his office.” Innocent scowled in disapproval.

Kolo looked at him through the rear-view mirror and smiled in appreciation of the relative importance of resource consumption over protection. “Well, the minister has no driver of his own.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied, still irate.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Madam is no longer in town. She left with the general’s mother.”

“Really? And where is she?”

“His driver took them to the airport last night.”

“International?”

“Domestic.”

“How much luggage did they have?”

“Five big suitcases, television, new oven.”

Kolo smiled, the rash making the expression quite painful. “Back to the village. Ah well, at least they’ll be safe there.”

Kolo saw that whatever the minister for the environment had proposed, it had not allayed the general’s fears.

“Good work, Innocent.”

They arrived at the residence of the British High Commissioner. The flag flew at half-mast. Kolo wondered whether flags in the rest of the former empire also lay at half-mast, or whether this was merely a local courtesy.

The architecture was colonial, but the entrance door bore the imprint of the Nigerian artisan. The great sculpting lineage of the Fakeye family had carved the history of contact between Nigeria and Britain on the door, panels that chronicled the benefits of trade, minus the delicate issue of exploitation. They depicted the arrival of the queen, skirting the thorny issue of British rule; they celebrated the bucolic idyll, without reference to rural unemployment. The door had been a bold commission by an adventurous and self-confident High Commissioner, His Excellency the Honourable Sir Peter Wigglesworth-Lyle.

A steward in a white uniform with shiny brass buttons and white plimsolls ushered Kolo in. The High Commissioner, an icon of punctuality, was waiting for him under a portrait of an aging queen.

“Ogbe, how do you do?”

“Peter, how
are
you?”

As per tradition, neither question needed answering and Kolo had slipped easily into his British public school accent. They were old school chums; formalities could be discarded.

“Pray, do sit down. Beastly weather today, isn’t it? So very hot.”

Not, however, the formality of the weather exchange.

“Abso-bloody-lutely. Thank Christ for air conditioning.”

“Ah—your generator’s still working, is it?”

“On its last legs,” Kolo said apologetically.
“Forsan miseros meliora sequentur.”
^*

“Bloody right,” the HC sighed. “Can’t argue with that. Now—can I get you something? Dry Scotch, isn’t it?”

“Tremendous.”

Kolo was offered a silk armchair in muted gold to rest his weary frame. He scrutinized the painting of the queen, slightly envious that he had not been born into a safe haven like Peter. Who could a Nigerian hang in his parlour? The president, that representative of folly and greed? No. The oba of Lagos? The sultan of Sokoto? They could hardly be considered a uniting force for an Islamic north and a Christian south. Where was the Nelson Mandela, the Mahatma Gandhi, of Nigeria? None existed—the country had been collated out of too many nation groups. No one had yet managed to integrate the interests of the Hausa north, Igbo east and Yoruba west.

Still, did the British royal family represent the British people? Were they also not a divisive force between the English and the Welsh, Scottish and Irish, between south and north, between the ruling elite and the working classes? No, few countries had figureheads truly representative of the country’s struggle for identity.

Kolo, reflecting, suspected he would have to fulfil that role in Nigeria, that his was the face that would grace the walls of
Nigerian embassies for forthcoming centuries, even though others might note his great reluctance at receiving such attentions.

“So, how can I help?” Peter asked, always one to get straight to the point.

Kolo was not to be rushed. “Very little, actually. I merely thought I’d avail myself of the benefits of one of the few active generators in Abuja.”

The HC smiled briefly.

“Any news of Henry?” Kolo asked.

“Left the Foreign Office. Joined UNHCR. Deputy Executive Director.”

Kolo’s skin crawled. Peter’s bullet points had always irked him. He spoke as if his innate superiority released him from the momentous effort of replying in whole sentences.

“UN?”

“Apparently so.”

“My god.”

They both shook their heads in disbelief. The HC sipped his Scotch with a grimace and a shiver. “Bloody strong stuff, must say.”

The generator shut off.

“Blast!” exclaimed Kolo. “Time to visit the French ambassador.”

The HC laughed, displaying a row of crowded and yellowing teeth. “Kolo, old boy, you’re hiding something.” He ushered his guest to the privacy of the veranda. “What’s up your sleeve? Always so obtuse. Something’s up.”

Kolo felt he should reward Peter for the exertion of having formed a couple of almost complete sentences. He looked down the compound to the blood red hibiscus, a luscious flower with no inhibitions, petals splayed wide, opening its most private parts to the sun. Now was not the time for discretion. “I thought you should know that General Abucha doesn’t know how
much longer he can hold the army together. Major unrest. He approached me today to ask if I would be willing to assume leadership should anything happen to the president.” He rotated his face to witness the HC’s reaction.

“General Abucha? Really?”

“He already has the support of the Americans.”

“The Americans?”

“The Americans.”

“Interesting.” Peter’s mouth tightened. “Profits, of course, with them. Self-interest only. After the oil, no doubt.” His lips threatened to disappear altogether. “And the water. Worship of the almighty dollar.”

“Utmost discretion is necessary, of course, for the safety of all involved.”

“Absolutely,” the HC hurried to respond.

After a few casual courtesies, Kolo called his driver and walked back to his car under the parasol. A guard opened the geometric gates and Kolo’s Mercedes slid away.

“So, Innocent, did you get any petrol?”

“The driver sold me five gallons, that’s all. The embassy is watching petrol too closely.” He looked in the rear-view mirror with apology. “Where now, sir?”

“American Embassy.”

Kolo had a natural disdain for Americans, whom he considered politically naive, socially dislocated and self-idolizing. He disliked these people with no history and no culture who had, nonetheless, exported their desultory offerings—fast food, simplistic films and evangelical economics—erasing the history, culture and identity of others. More tragic still, they had succeeded.

The embassy compound was designed and built by American architects and landscape gardeners. The grass was razed, the
garden clear, so that the windows looked out onto a magnificent view of the compound’s concrete walls.

The car parked next to an eggshell white Cadillac SUV with tinted windows—the ambassador’s official car—and a van carrying water from Nevada Springs.

Treated like a market trader, Kolo negotiated passage through a series of security stations before gaining entry to the ambassador’s office, a vast monstrosity of rectilinear rigour sporting three giant American flags.

“Your Excellency,” Kolo adopted his deepest Nigerian accent, “thank you so much for seeing me, sir.”

The ambassador put down his dumbbells. “Mr. Cole. C’mon in! Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. Some whiskey, perhaps.”

The ambassador poured himself and Kolo a glass, then drained his in one gulp. Kolo’s sip looked prim in comparison.

The ambassador stood up to get another shot. “We’ve been worried about the oil supply. Is there any way to get it pumping again?” He wandered over to stand underneath a large painting of a rodeo.

“We will be producing again by Thursday. However, I thought you would like to know,” Kolo took a larger sip of whiskey, “it appears there might be a change in leadership. Had you heard?”

“I’ve had no intelligence of that nature.” The ambassador looked like a child who had not been invited to a party.

“There has been an uprising in the army.”

“A military coup?”

“Almost, sir, almost. But I have managed to persuade General Abucha to maintain civilian rule.” Kolo thought he could detect some disappointment in the ambassador’s eyes. “It appears the president is planning to adopt protectionist
measures during the period of reconstruction.” Kolo deliberately reverted to his British accent.

“What?” The ambassador sounded alarmed. “He’s never mentioned that!”

“It came up behind closed doors.”

“Closed doors? What closed doors?” There was the childhood look again.

“Of government, I’m afraid,” replied Kolo, bemused by the ease at which he was able to deploy quite rudimentary tactics to accomplish his goals. “The British have approached me to assume leadership during this interim period.”

“The British have backed this?” The tips of His Excellency’s ears went pink. “So they’re allowed behind closed doors, right? Goddam colonial rulers. Haven’t let go of the reins, I see.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Kolo added, enjoying every moment of the interchange. “They have very specifically insisted that I gain the sanction of the US government in the first instance. They simply could not make any decision without it.”

“Ah, sanction—yes, I see.”

“It may cause some embarrassment for them if you mention it. A bit humiliating for a former colonial power. You know how it is.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Well,” the ambassador finally grunted, “thanks for keeping me updated.” He patted Kolo on the back, happy that he had now been invited to the party.

Having laid the groundwork for a change of government, Kolo dropped in at the glittering offices that housed his numerous business enterprises, built in the shape of four droplets of water—an unfortunate choice, as these contours could only be seen in aerial view. Otherwise, the building looked like so many others in Abuja: large and mirrored.