Doing Dangerously Well (13 page)

T
he general was a man ruled by fear. He had every reason to be. Many men of ambition could be found within the ranks of the military: a few men of strategy, but a greater number of brutality. Kolo was working on the general’s fears, kneading them like clay until he created a vessel he could use. He had to keep the general on the move, so that he could not consolidate power. A military coup could not be allowed to bungle his plans.

“Joseph.” He used the general’s first name whenever he wished to promote intimacy. “You need to make sure you have the endorsement of the great majority of the people. You don’t want some upstart to …” he placed his hands together in a steeple; the general blinked, “… to get any ideas.”

As usual, the general reverted to questions, deliberately unhurried. “Have you heard anything? Any rumours?”

“Nothing of substance. Nothing that could be verified at this stage.”

The general remained immobile, eyelids at half-mast, revealing no trace of his inner thoughts-with the exception of this immobility. Given Kolo’s greater ability to sink into an endless meditation, the general finally had to break the silence. “And you suggest securing support?”

“No, no, no, absolutely not!” Kolo appeared scandalized. “I am merely suggesting strengthening the backing you already have.”

A gentle wash of suspicion overlaid the general’s temperate expression. It was now time for Kolo to deploy tactics familiar to any politician, but alien to a military man. The general, used to strict hierarchy and discipline, would naturally consider the principal leader as his main contact. Kolo understood that support could most effectively be built in the form of a pyramid, by approaching less powerful parties before moving to those at the peak. He appreciated that it was important to consult with those under siege first, then advance on those comfortable with their unqualified dominance. This prevented the alienation and resentment that inevitably led to the formation of allied opposition.

Kolo was aware of the growing rivalry between the sultan of Sokoto, who favoured the continuance of Islamic Sharia law, and the newly appointed emir of Kano, a more moderate Muslim who favoured international commerce, human rights and the advancement of women. The emir had gained an immense power base in one of Nigeria’s giant commercial hubs, overwhelming the sultan’s waning influence.

“My friend,” Kolo’s belly creased as he leaned in confidentially, “I strongly suggest you visit the emir of Kano as quickly as possible. The north needs to be reassured that the nation is stable, that Muslim and Christian will work together and that there
will be no political backlash.” He leaned back in his armchair to rest his tautened belly.

“You think so?” Anxiety trounced suspicion. “Maybe so. Maybe so.”

Kolo nodded. He issued a few compliments as a parting gesture, then left the general’s compound with soft steps, as if eggshells surrounded his colleague, signifying the fragility of his continued survival.

Kolo then flew to the fringes of the Sahara for an end run around his ally, having preplanned a visit to the less powerful sultan of Sokoto first, in the Islamic north. The sultan was the president of the Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs, reigning head of the legendary Sokoto Caliphate and one of the most powerful paramount traditional leaders in Nigeria. Radar did not assist Kolo’s flight nor landing lights his descent. The airport itself was deserted and no taxis stood outside, save for the sultan’s Rolls-Royce waiting for him.

Even here Kolo could not escape the terrible sounds of mourning—people screaming and praying, broken souls, spirits that would never again find rest. He drove through streets devoid of traffic. In the absence of petrol, the resourceful people of the north had bought donkeys, horses and camels for transportation. Wells had opened, charging exorbitant fees for small canisters of water, while farmers offered their goods at five times ordinary prices.

The Rolls entered the palace gates and parked next to the three others in the courtyard. A member of the sultan’s retinue led Kolo to a chamber. Here, the paramount leader sat on a golden throne, and had discarded his usual Western attire, Kolo noted, to underscore the historical significance of his role. He wore a white turban wound around his head, one end of which was secured from one ear to the other under his
chin and over his chest, and ceremonial robes of sparkling white embroidered with gold. Together, the sultan and Kolo looked like the figure 10, the sultan the long, straight form of the 1, Kolo the round, plump shape of the O.

Kolo looked into the sultan’s eyes, an act that few of his subjects were allowed. Betrayed there were genuine distress, real grief. Kolo wondered how such events could touch this man-one of the most venerated in Nigeria.

“Minister,” the sultan said with rolling r’s and clipped tones, “welcome.”

Kolo creased into his lowest bow. “I have come here personally to ensure that the caliphate is safe in these troubled times.”

“Allah is merciful.”

With a Christian mother, Muslim father and pagan grandparents, Kolo ensured that any individual would consider him a dedicated adherent of whichever religion they practised. He had completed the Hajj to Mecca, stating, according to Muslim precepts, that Jesus was a prophet of Islam, and, within the south’s many churches, he had claimed that this prophet was God’s Son, in capital letters. Whether other sons existed, he left to the imagination. The Old Testament kept him free of problems. He occasionally worshipped the spirits of nature, as animists represented just 10 percent of the population. In this way, he had managed to sidestep the divisions of north and south.

The sultan gestured towards Kolo and the contrasting silhouettes of the duo walked towards an inner courtyard.

“How is the general?” the sultan asked.

“Very busy. Very tired. Very worried.”

“Ah. No doubt too busy to visit Sokoto.”

Kolo looked embarrassed.

“But not too busy to visit Kano, I see,” the sultan continued.

Kolo stood, head hung in shame, eyes buried in apparent humiliation at the military’s lapse, but internally ecstatic, floating. “Perhaps he is more liberal than expected?” he opined.

“Maybe he believes one day we will all worship at the feet of the dollar. I am happy to welcome you.”

The sultan posed with Kolo outside his walled palace, intricately carved and painted with arabesques. They were surrounded by brightly adorned aides, attendants and retainers. A reporter snapped a picture of a new figure, a much higher figure than a mere 10: 1107111. The 7 held the ceremonial umbrella over the sultan’s head.

Kolo was even able to read a little speech he had prepared: “Our ancestors are calling us to move forward. We will not let this mire engulf us. The great River Niger—which stretches from our north to our south, our east to our west—will be our friend once more.”

The next day, Kolo flew to see His Royal Highness, the emir of Kano. The general’s meeting there the day before would have had the added benefit of implying support for Kolo.

Each time he called on the general, Kolo donned more daring attire, a subtle message of mounting supremacy. His latest visit warranted an audacious yellow agbada, made of heavy brocade silk, a recent purchase that had to be sent abroad for dry cleaning.

“Did the meeting go well?” Kolo asked.

“Very well. The emir was very appreciative.” The general visibly relaxed in Kolo’s company.

“Ah, you had better luck than me.” Kolo brooded in mock self-recrimination. “A tactical mistake to visit the sultan first.”

“You live and learn, my friend.” The general slid down in his armchair to a more comfortable position.

“Unfortunately, if you don’t learn fast enough, you don’t live long.” A wistful thought followed this, seemingly unconnected. “Perhaps it’s time to go to Kainji. The people cannot think you might be avoiding it. You must portray yourself as a man of integrity and authority.”

The general pondered a while. “Agreed.”

“A man who cares about their fate, even while the president runs away from them.”

This emotion-caring-did not fit the general’s repertoire, and he shook his head. “The area is too dangerous to visit at the moment. There’s armed rebellion.”

“Well, some of your junior officers are taking that risk, I note.” Kolo left the thought to hang in the air.

The general softly scratched his cheek, a vehement gesture from such a discreet man.

“Meanwhile,” Kolo sighed, “I’ll visit the less affected spots downstream–just a few farmsteads. Hardly worth going to those bush areas.” He took a last few strokes of the armchair. “Call me if you need political backup.”

The general shrugged. Kolo understood the gesture. According to the general’s logic, armed force trumped diplomacy on any occasion. Kolo suppressed a grin.

“I would keep a low profile in Kainji over the next few weeks, Joseph.” Kolo stood up and moved around in silence, as one would in a funeral parlour. “The situation could become combustible. You don’t want to be associated with that. Don’t let reporters anywhere near the area.”

Thus, he sent the general to the region where rage was about to erupt into organized protest, while Kolo visited settlements too far apart for any movement of solidarity to have formed. Getting Kainji under control would take weeks, if not months.

Kolo flew from Abuja to Lagos, the bustling commercial hub of Nigeria, unharmed by the catastrophe; a city built on islands criss-crossed by lagoons and creeks, named after the Portuguese word for “lakes.”

While the general was away, Kolo courted the forgotten but powerful Christian groups, who represented almost half the population. The people flooded back to the centres of worship, as their belief in man’s primacy over nature had been thrown into serious question. Kolo made sure to visit the leader of the newest Christian sect, funded by evangelicals in the United States. These churches were an increasingly popular form of entertainment.

He left the reporters outside as he entered a crystal temple to meet its spiritual leader. The bishop was dressed immaculately in a Nehru jacket and a thick golden cross encrusted with diamonds, which matched the fine baubles on his fingers and the large ruby and sapphire watch on his wrist.

“Minister!” the preacher sparkled. “You are the answer to my prayers!”

“Your eminence. Please tell me how I can assist your people.”

The bishop’s glittering eyes lifted up to the dull ceiling and walls of his glorious oasis in the filth and squalor of Lagos. They were constructed of glass, built high, soaring into the sky, in imitation of California’s great monument-the Crystal Cathedral. Unfortunately, as with most ideas transplanted directly into Nigeria, the bishop had been unaware that no window cleaners existed to wipe their higher reaches. So the ceiling and upper walls were now covered in red dust, tree sap and bird droppings. The pride and joy of the bishop lay in a sullied state.

“Look-look at this foul dirt,” he frothed. “It is not a fitting monument to the Lord. People come here to have their spirits raised, and all we can offer them is a glass hovel.”

“Ah! You need water.”

“Yes, clean water.”

“I would be honoured to provide it.”

“Oh, Minister Kolo,” crystal tears glistened down the bishop’s translucent face, “you are truly one of the Lord’s chosen.”

Outside the cathedral, bright flashbulbs caught Kolo and the bishop, gleaming smiles, sparkling teeth, shaking hands.

After this interlude, Kolo set about touring the seats of power: the members-only Yacht Club, the Polo Club and finally Ikoyi Club.

Built during the colonial era, Ikoyi Club stood in lush gardens, its facade white, paint-chipped and airy. It now teemed with people seeking information, all in pursuit of the benefits of its water supply and generator. Kolo had made a point of ensuring that the club was fully provisioned during these dark times. He did not wish his colleagues to go without the benefit of a swimming pool, or for its golf courses to become parched.

He donned a dashiki made of the finest Dutch lace for his meeting with his closest and most loyal business associate, the famed newspaper tycoon Alhaji Dr. Monday Ikene, LL.B., M.B.A., Ph.D. (incomplete). They sat at the nineteenth hole, fondling drinks while Kolo watched his friend’s daughter play with some of the other mixed-race children—or “oyinbo pepper”—who had sprouted after the return of Nigeria’s businessmen, intellectuals and diplomats from abroad. Their white wives sat in a huddle, trading horror stories of life in Nigeria and exchanging news of the best places to buy supplies. Some wore Western dress with flounces and flowers; others, with more adventurous spirits, sat there in bubas and wrappers, headdresses sliding down their silken hair to their eyes.

Ikene’s oyinbo pepper came to greet him and settled to play with her doll at Kolo’s feet.

“So, Dawn,” Kolo asked, wondering why her father—who called her Don—had given her a name he could not pronounce, “what do you want to be when you grow up? A businessman like your father?”

“No,” Dawn answered. “They don’t make enough money.”