Doing Dangerously Well (3 page)

“You are downy-stream, my friend.” The official drew out the words “downy-stream” as if no one would understand their import.

Femi slapped his papers onto his chair with irritation. “Are you a polar bear?” Femi asked suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Are. You. A. Polar. Bear?” Femi said, enunciating each word.

“Of course not!” the official responded, perplexed once more.

“Is anyone in this room,” Femi turned to face his audience, “a polar bear?”

“No!” “Of course not.” “Not today, anyway.” They answered in an incoherent babble.

“Well, that is a relief. I was mistaken in thinking we had a polar bear in this room. So I can assume that none of us is currently living at the North Pole, correct?”

“Correct!” they shouted.

“Thus, is it not true that we all live downstream?”

“Correct!” they screamed, applauding.

Having used his first weapons—an assault of Nigerian proverbs—he made his way towards the realm of legal jargon.

“Given that we have now agreed on this point,” he adjusted his agbada to the left, “are you of the opinion that access to fresh water is a human right?”

His body thrust itself off his heels to emphasize the point.

“That is to say, an inalienable human right …”

He left a giant pause, looking around the room to observe the effect of this legalese.

“Or …

“that water is …

“simply a commodity?” These last words shot out like air expelled from a balloon. Femi had sat down by the time the last syllables had been uttered. He busily aired his agbada and crossed his arms, frowning at the municipal official.

The crowd glared at the bureaucrat, some adjusting their seating to indicate a need for greater self-control. All mouths were fanning the air in noisy accord.

With visible discomfort, the official leaned forward, closer to the microphone. It screeched. “Em. Yes, of course.”

He leaned back and sat on his hands, eyes darting around the room.

A few voices from the audience shouted at him, “Of course, what?” “What are you trying to say?” “Who is this idiot?”

The official released his hands, shuffled his chair forward a bit and cleared his throat. He grasped his elbows and bent
towards the microphone once more. “Em. We are all aware of the government’s position.”

Femi shot up again, hiking his agbada back on his shoulders. The room fell silent. “May I beg to differ, honourable sir.”

Femi stepped back in a bow.

The official seemed puzzled, but relief quickly washed over his face—this bow, a symbol of respect, could mean only one thing. He smiled at Femi.

“Thank you very much,” he interjected, unknowingly. “And I, on my side, also agree to differ.”

The room looked at the helpless official in silence. Jaws dropped. Flies entered. This man was so incompetent, so idiotic, he must be a government minister’s son.

Femi prepared to sweep away this last speck of dust. “It seems we have reached a juncture of the highest consequence. In conclusion, for the record, let me restate the government’s position.” He cleared his throat. “The government agrees, according to your good self,” another bow, “that access to fresh water is an inalienable human right and is pathologically consolidated,” his finger stabbing the air, “in its position against water privatization, while, on our side, we claim,” hands circling back, “that water should be provided for free and not bought and sold like Coca-Cola. Is that the point we have now reached, in so many words?”

“Em, correct. In very many words,” said the official.

Femi paused to regroup, then continued. “It is sad to see that we can come no closer than that in our debate.” A note of defeat. “Are you of the highest certitude,” he thundered, “that you are unwilling to move from the statement I have just provided?”

“I am afraid the government cannot and will not move from that position.”

“Am I correct in stating that the government stands irrevocably and immutably in its position and we, on our side, support our own contention?”

“Em, you are correct.”

“Are there no other arguments we can bring to bear on this matter of serious national import?”

“You have brought many debates to this meeting, but no one can be swimming against the tide of change and live to tell the tale.”

Femi shook his head with a look of shrivelling dismay worthy of the most austere schoolmaster at his moment of greatest shock. “My friend,” he breathed in a soft voice that the back row had no trouble hearing, “a lion can eat a man, but can’t a mosquito bite a lion?” He raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

The official twitched in discomfort.

Femi shook his head sadly and sat down again, while journalists quickly tapped at their laptops at the front of the room. The official looked at the fan, knowing that the mosquito/lion/man cluster had a point of weakness that, for the moment, eluded him.

The room tingled with victory.

The great man, the human colossus, who held wisdom, craft and, most importantly, the full breadth of the English language at his fingertips, had achieved a critical victory in the debate. Within the click of one Send button, news of the government’s new position against the purchase of water would be received by stations as far as clocks tell time.

The assembly gathered up their belongings. Femi avoided all eyes in the room, and the crowd knew that any tittering would alert the official to his blunder. The next meeting would now have to be with a more senior official, perhaps even Chief Ogbe Kolo, minister for natural resources.

As Femi walked out, the creaking fan slowly stopped. The room tutted. Electricity was so erratic, the only constant was that blackouts were the norm.

“Ah-ah. Light done quench.”

The back door opened and a man quickly scuttled to the official’s side. They scurried out together, but not before Femi noted the terror now written over the face of the official.

As the crowd bustled out of the hall and into the courtyard, Ubaldous called to Femi, “And?”

“Aaah! Ubiquitous Ubaldous!”

“Femi, you were vibrating today-oh!” Ubaldous smiled. “Why use shorter words when longer ones can provide better climate control? The poor official. He was too cold-oh! When you were blowing your rhetoric, he was sitting on his own hands!”

“Me? And your own good self, nko? Were your own lips not fanning the air? Did they hire you as an air conditioner?”

“Potato in ear,” replied Ubaldous. “I can’t hear you, my friend. Isn’t your own tongue tired? Can you swallow food today?”

“I was just warming up. Bring me a pot of egusi and I’ll show you if I can swallow. If you don’t have egusi, just bring your potato.”

Both men chuckled.

“Well, I must blow. Will you branch by the office later?” Ubaldous shouted as he passed the gate.

Femi’s eyes filled with pretend confusion. “Em, correct.”

The two men exploded into laughter.

“Please keep the air conditioner on.” Femi, turning to head out into the street, threw his head back in another eruption of laughter. As he came up for air, he heard a piercing scream from far away. The assembly stopped. Two people with tears streaming down their faces came running up to a woman.
They spoke urgently to her. She listened and pushed out “No!” in a loud hush. They gave her more information. She put her hands over her ears, looked up to the sky and screamed. Her friends tried to pull her arms back down, but she was rigidly in position, save for a trembling of all her limbs.

As the crowd watched in bewilderment, another scream pierced the air. Then another.

“Na waa oh! What is the matter? Wetin?” Femi asked.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He swivelled around to see his beloved companion, Igwe, looking at him. His eyes were hidden behind his large brown glasses, but the horror in them was unmistakable. His thin frame, usually so lively, appeared to be weighed down by some unknown trouble. “Please,” he said to Femi. “Come home now. There is some news.”

Femi looked at Igwe, frightened and puzzled. He had often seen in his partner’s eyes a flash of alarm, a stiffening of the body. It was his habit. Yet this time his body was charged with an insistence and foreboding Femi had never before seen.

Igwe took Femi’s arm and pulled him away, struggling to talk. “A tragedy. Terrible tra-”

As they rushed through the streets, they heard more screams. They saw one woman running without her wrapper, frantic as if she were on fire, followed by friends trying to grab her.

“Kainji!” Igwe gasped for air. “It’s Kainji!”

“Enh?”

Igwe ran faster, struggling to catch two motorbike taxis while the frenzy in the streets grew. As they hopped onto the bikes, Femi hunted for clues, searching Abuja’s sterile boulevards and forbidding concrete for hints of trouble. The quiet avenues, planned before the city had even been inhabited, had become chaotic. Cars moved in all directions, at erratic speeds, their drivers frantic.

Femi tried to push away troubling thoughts. Giant trees with flame-coloured flowers shimmered in the region’s tender heat. Blood canna lilies, towering over the heads of men, swayed in the gentle breezes. Even the elephant ears, with their emerald leaves, waggled in the sun.

When they arrived at a dilapidated apartment building, Igwe tugged him upstairs.

“Amos’s cell.” Igwe’s disjointed utterances continued. “No answer.”

“It’s okay. He went to the village.”

Igwe’s sandal slapped a concrete step as he stumbled. “No!” This hushed sound, voiced almost as a question, was followed by short vowels as if he was trying to build a sentence for which no words existed.

He pushed Femi into the darkened room they shared. A low, unbroken wail—a thin echo, carried from an upper floor, that laced through the building—unsettled Femi.

Without waiting for the question, Igwe said, “Kainji Dam has burst.”

Femi slammed his papers on the desk. “Did I not tell you that a catastrophe of this enormity would befall our people?”

“Femi, I beg …” Igwe looked down, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

“Does the government care about the plight of the people?” Femi came closer to Igwe’s face. “No one listens in this country unless the business community has been affected, and then,” he leaned over Igwe’s small frame, “oh, then suddenly everyone’s ears become ultrasonic like a bat’s.”

“Light don go for the whole country,” Igwe said meekly.

Femi stared at him, for once unable to utter a word. Finally he said, “So the whole dam has burst?”

“Yes.” Igwe started to weep.

Femi lurched forward, threw his arms around him and cradled him. “Which villages has it hit? Have people been killed?”

“All the villages downstream have been wiped out. Ndadu has been wiped out. From Kainji past Jebba, it’s all gone.” Igwe started to sob and put a hand on Femi’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry-oh! Your family is gone.”

“Ndadu?” Femi sprang up again and stared at him. “That can’t be. It’s nowhere near Kainji. Where did you get this …” He started to shout. “Why can’t we Nigerians provide accurate information? Ah-ah! Everything in this ridiculous place is rumour and gossip!”

“Hundreds of thousands have been killed. The government has declared a state of emergency.”

“The government is always declaring … pardon?”

“Half a million killed.”

“Igwe, you are my friend-oh! Why are you telling me this?” An image of the latest fashions in Congo clothing punched into Femi’s mind. Amos!

Igwe held his head in his hands, helpless. Femi stood staring at Igwe’s limp body, a toy doll folded over itself. Slowly, very slowly, tears started to well in Femi’s eyes. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to them, pushing the sockets to keep the tears at bay, pushing to force pain into his body, pushing to keep the information away. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to avoid the truth. Screams were piercing the streets around them.

Femi slowly moved his hands down to Igwe’s head, pulling his face to him, cradling the back of his head. He pushed his cheek onto his companion’s face, burying his nose into the crook of Igwe’s neck, eyes screwing into fierce knots. He cried, small choking sounds. His tears ran down his friend’s neck, pooling on his shirt at the shoulder. One arm moved around
Igwe’s back, pulling him closer and closer, gripping furiously. His arms clasped tighter, drawing his friend in even more, as if hanging on to history, onto a present now denied him. He snatched at visions of Amos lost in a permanent childhood, unable to reclaim images of him as an adult. Femi started to tremble, his whole body convulsing with a quiet violence. His thoughts raced to his beloved parents, to the grandfather who had hidden kola nuts for him, to the grandmother who had sung to him about his ancestors as he lay in her lap. He could no longer control his weeping.

O
n the outskirts of the world’s most powerful political centre sat a large house with fake porticos and a strong sweep of crescent driveway cutting through the front garden. Protected by wealth and fortified by social superiority, the house rigorously deflected the onslaught of chaos that nature tried to impose. Two or three large trees stood to verify the legitimacy of old tenure, while bearing silent testament to the neighbourhood’s mastery over Creation. Alexandria, Virginia, was bedded in verdant grass, shorn with legally specified precision. Its November leaves—now dismantled for winter and classified as “yard waste”—had been swept up and carted away for compost.