Doing Dangerously Well (56 page)

She took an amaranth flour muffin from her bag and nibbled it while she stared aimlessly at her computer screen. But then something caught her eye.

It was a photograph of Aminah, with hundreds of thousands
of people behind her, some carrying palm tree branches, others with their fists in the air. Even the soldiers surrounding the crowds gazed at her, smiling. She wore a giant wrapper with Femi’s face stamped all over it.
Well,
Barbara thought,
maybe I’m just a cascade. Because this.

This is the waterfall.

Barbara felt the joy of accomplishment, even if by proxy.

Finally, like the leaf, Barbara sensed it was time to let go.

She clicked on to another website. Not this time, about Nigeria, but about water.

And there it sat—an assault to logic, a scandal to propriety. In ferocious, resplendent colour, a large ship pulled a bright white iceberg out of the Arctic’s sapphire blue waters. Once melted, the water was destined for TransAqua’s new incarnation, Globo-Elixir.

Having been violated for its oil and mineral wealth, the Canadian Arctic was now being dismantled for its water, piece by piece—an iceberg here, a snowbank there—with little thought as to the long-term consequence of this project.

Barbara thought of the Inuit of Canada’s north. She pictured herself in moose hide, chanting songs in an igloo as they stroked polar bears by their fire and penguins sniffed through the garbage. She thought of her waterbed and wondered if they would mind her building a rectangular igloo.

It would prove to be interesting legal ground—whether ice could be considered part of international waters, as Globo-Elixir claimed, or a piece of land, a territory or region, as Canada proposed.

On a whim, Barbara searched for organizations involved in iceberg preservation.

She wanted to stay on in Canada. It had elected its first openly gay prime minister, it had initiated some bold environmental
protocols, and, of course, cannabis was legal. How could she return to the prehistoric posturing of the United States?

She unearthed, with difficulty, three small groups: one based in Stockholm, one in Russia and one in Washington DC. She checked the name of the DC group’s director. She gasped, almost losing her balance on her kneeling chair. Norm Blacksmith—the ousted vegan director of the Association of Rare Heritage Stock and Poultry!

With this helpless, fragile entity at the helm, there was no doubt in Barbara’s mind that the organization would need all the assistance she could offer. They would certainly need a satellite office in Ottawa, given that the Canadian Arctic was in the greatest danger.

She hiked up her wrapper with confidence and dialled Norm’s number.

For entertainment, my father liked to hop in the car, drive to some area of Nigeria that illustrated the follies of “modernization,” laugh to the point of needing supplementary oxygen, and then drive back home. As a result of these forays, our little family saw the white elephants for which the World Bank has become so justly famous.

One day, however, he took us somewhere that made him smile with delight: Kainji Dam, an eerie monster that loomed out of the landscape, a towering crucible that made me wonder if the man even slightly cared about his young family’s safety.

Many years later, having little else to do but meet an urgent deadline, I wandered lonely through the Internet. Knowing that big dam projects usually produce more harm than benefit, I sought out information on Kainji. Unexpectedly, I came across an article describing its state of disrepair, sadly similar to most large dams in poorer countries. It was predicted that
it would soon collapse and the rupture would kill one million people.

Given that few politicians seemed interested, I considered what to do that involved least effort. Having decided to write, I phoned in a plausible excuse to delay my deadline. (“My car won’t start.” “Just send an attachment then.” “My computer’s down.” “Okay, so send a fax from the corner store.” “My leg’s broken.”)

I had three long-suffering friends who helped thrash out ideas. Despite the fact they all complained about my neediness (“she’s aged me ten years”), they were too naive to realize the benefits of caller ID. Moreover, I had the great fortune to live with the Himbeault family for five years, being fed and entertained by them—a rare generosity.

Julie Donovan offered unrivalled patience in a friendship that has lasted over two decades and provided dazzling philosophical insight, which I have claimed as my own; Kathy Himbeault, a friend of great compassion and imagination, sautéed neurons in her efforts to rework entrenched plot problems; and Bunmi Oyinsan has worried and fussed over me, while maintaining an extremely strict ITK (I Too Know) Pidgin fundamentalism, and thus will need resuscitation when she sees the changes made to her red pen scribblings.

I have never understood why writers get to rattle out their acknowledgements but anyone else, computer technicians, for example, do not get to thank God, their parents, their manicurist or cat when they’ve sorted out computer meltdowns. For this reason, this section is the hardest to write: a bit pompous and of necessity it excludes so many collaborators.

I’m very grateful to Critical Ms, a writing/editorial group with outstanding critiquing skills—particular mention to Kathy Himbeault, Ruth Walker, Gwynn Scheltema, Fred Ford and Sue Malarkey; as well as Dean Cooke at the Cooke Agency and
Anne Collins of Random House Canada. And all of those who inspired, amused or supported me, including Darrell MacInnis, stern critic who insisted on absolute silence, John Picton, professor emeritus at the famed School of Oriental and African Studies—an early and cherished intellectual mentor, Dr. Connie Ojiegbe, Adaoma Wosu, Ogbe Guobadia, Pier Wilkie, Margo Timm, James Esson’s “any dog can do that” father, the Writers’ Circle of Durham Region (WCDR), a necessary hub for writers, my parents and sister, Vivi, whose humour infuses the pages, and most particularly my brother, Nick, who has lived in Nigeria all his life and thus helped me refresh my knowledge of it, after finishing his usual “this place will kill me” diatribe.

Peter Enahoro, a journalist and satirist whose work has inspired me, proved long ago that only the strong have the capacity to laugh at themselves, and Nigerians with their incomparable sense of humour are living proof of this. No less influential is Anthony Enahoro, an elder statesman and pro-democracy activist who, even in his eighties, continues to campaign for justice regardless of personal risk.

Most importantly, I express deep gratitude to those many activists who devote their energy, hours and lives to protect the rights of the rest of us. In Nigeria, environmental campaigners, water access advocates and dam activists; in Canada, the Council of Canadians, a unique organization advocating for progressive policies on water rights, among other issues; and finally, along with many other groups, the Blue Planet Project, a global initiative securing the right to water as a public trust.