Doing Dangerously Well (7 page)

Kolo visualized how the financial jigsaw would fit together, but kept each transaction separate, his commercial interests managed in discrete entities independent of each other.

“Sir! This is a great privilege.” The vice-president of Northwest Water came to attention immediately, knocking over his coffee in his haste to rise from his chair.

Kolo puffed with fatigue and collapsed into a leather couch. “I need you to acquire rights to the northern Benue River in case it is needed for fresh water. It is of prime national interest. We cannot afford for Nigerian water to fall into the hands of foreign powers.”

“Foreign?”

“TransAqua International, along with the French and British, will bid for the rights. We need to be in a position to …” he paused to consider phrasing, “… to decide if the country should sell them.”

The vice-president bowed. “Of course, sir!”

“Obviously you will be entitled to a percentage.” He surveyed his subordinate. “However, I expect you to keep this highly confidential, because you don’t want other businesses,” he slowed down to let the implication of internal rivalry sink in, “to get hold of this information. Someone else might decide to take over the portfolio.”

The vice-president gripped the side of his desk to steady himself. “You can put your full trust in me, sir,” he whispered. He took Kolo’s hand and shook it in both of his, not stopping for a full minute.

After this ordeal, Kolo flicked his wrist with concern and, as he did so, caught sight of his fingernails. The stresses of his life were exhibited there, despite his fastidious nature. His nails had been chewed into uneven lengths, their cuticles frayed, their beds miniature. In disgust, he hid his hands underneath his agbada.

Next, he wended his way around the serpentine corridors of the curved edifice to visit the team headed by the vice-president of Mideast Water. This ritual continued, albeit with hands firmly in his pockets, as he visited the head of each geographical division.

Finally he got to the centre that connected all four droplets of his personal panopticon. There, he kicked closed the door to his own office, he settled back in a chair of emerald velvet and applied moisturizer to his fingernails. He wondered if a manicurist would be able to help him. Picking up the phone, he ordered his stockbroker to buy shares in TransAqua International, the company he had already decided would partner with him in reconstruction. He planned not only to profit from TransAqua’s future stranglehold on water supply via the Niger River in the west—which would be contaminated with bodies and bacteria from the flood—but also to compete with his own supplies, which would come from uninfected groundwater, aquifers and other fresh-water sources near the mighty Benue River in the east. In this way, he would own almost all of the fresh water in Nigeria.

After securing military and diplomatic support, as well as his own business interests, it was time for Kolo to address the formalities expected by a grieving populace. He toured the devastated areas with the eyes of a politician and the sight of a man of commerce. As he drove west to the banks of the Niger in his Mercedes, now soiled by mud, he heard the screams of horror through his bulletproof windows. He could sense the panic of those who had witnessed the hunger of the water, devouring all that stood in its path. He knew no aid would reach them, that they would rot with their kin in the stinking mire.

Everything around him was razed—factories, farms, drains, village centres, even cities. Electricity poles lay like fallen giants, telephone lines like broken matchsticks, mighty buildings like sand castles after the tide. Lead clouds, black sky, metal sun, heavy with mist and dust.

Kolo saw one man hanging upside down, with his leg caught on a window grille, the other leg like a third arm flopping over his head, a human tripod. The aerial on a roof displayed human remains like a clothesline, a banner testifying to the horror of the dam’s wrath. More images from the darkest realms of human imagining: bodies like torn plastic, slung high on tree-tops, dead and rotting; others folded over balconies in garish poses or washed up into piles around the corners of buildings.

Most areas were inaccessible by road, so he toured the banks of the Niger by helicopter. Always fearful of that which he could not control, he would look out of the helicopter, every muscle straining in fear.

“Don’t bank so far,” he commanded the pilot. “Are you in an air show?”

The pilot gently levelled out. Kolo’s short nails continued to grip the handles of his white leather seat.

“Okay. We need to go round this area,” he instructed. “But my drink must remain level. Circle gently. You’re not a Hollywood stunt man today-oh.”

Kolo looked down and saw that which no human should ever behold—horizons of horror, as far as the eye could see. Where buildings once stood, a raging river thundered; what once contained the to and fro of human activity now held the current of an almighty sea, its waters flowing with human flesh.

Where the flood allowed, the tops of houses could be seen. Occasionally, Kolo would spot someone waving a shirt from a roof or tree, begging for him to save them. He left them there,
knowing that they would die before any help could reach them. He would be the last witness to their existence, his eyes the last to turn away from their despair.

With these damning images as bait, he then made his way through meetings across the country, consoling the lost and forlorn, expressing his heartfelt sympathies to community leaders and pronouncing his disgust and shock to the international press.

In the north, he quoted the Qur’an; in the south, the Bible. In rural areas, he invoked the spirits. With ordinary people, he listened to stories, shook his head, shed some tears; with politicians, he discussed how best to save their jobs; with analysts, he offered statistical details of the tragedy; with journalists, he painted colourful pictures of horrific deaths; with the international community, he pointed the finger of blame; with his voters, he promoted restitution; with the business community, he talked about reconstruction.

Kolo read the papers daily as he flew from meeting to meeting. The news delighted him. Many politicians could plead, beg and cajole. Very few could weep. But Kolo enjoyed performing; it challenged him. He had collapsed on the arm of a local leader. All the papers ran the story. On the inside pages, in smaller print, they reported on the president’s meeting with European ministers.

After an exhausting fortnight spent with community leaders, politicians and the international community, Kolo finally went home. He was sitting in the back of his famed white Mercedes-Benz, deep in thought, airing himself softly with an exquisitely decorated Spanish fan.

“Joh. Turn left here. There’s too much traffic ahead,” he said wearily to Innocent. He lay back on plump seats and stroked the rare wood. His hands—as always, too dry—made swishing
sounds on the surfaces. He turned the air conditioner to high. As others believe in gods or sons of gods, Kolo believed in consumption, and he practised his belief.

The car came to a halt outside a bright white compound protected by wrought-iron gates in beautiful filigree shapes: on the left, “O”; on the right, “K.” Ogbe Kolo. O.K. The tops of the surrounding walls were studded with broken glass.

A guard peered into the car and immediately set to opening the gates. Kolo looked at him from the corner of his eye. As a night guard, he was above average. However, Kolo knew that, if any harm were to come to him, any threat to his person, any potential for violence or mischief, the guard would disappear as quickly into the night as he had appeared from its depths.

And Kolo had reason to fear. He was now on the verge of his boldest move.

O
n a hill within the moonscape that overlooked Santa Fe’s warren of adobe houses rose a mighty building, out of harmony with its surroundings, an oasis within a thirsty desert. Its mirrored facade assumed the features of a mirage, a veil to hide the extent of its dominion. While obscuring the activity behind its walls, it offered unobstructed views for those within of that which lay outside. Despite the implied transparency of this glassed giant, the outside world would not be let in, nor the corporate world out.

Mary Glass sat in her crystal office, looping a pen through her fingers, afloat one of the largest multinational corporations on the planet, TransAqua International. Its subdivision, Sparklex, was the foremost American provider of bottled and fresh water. Monstrous fortunes were made through corporate control of this finite natural resource, once considered, like air, as “commons.” A trillion-dollar industry had emerged almost
overnight, profiting from a recent global obsession for water privatization.

However, the most profitable sector of TransAqua, the division that hired those with the most robust ambitions (“bold, creative, energetic people”), that is to say the leviathan to which Mary had tethered her future, focused on the acquisition of water rights in a highly competitive market. To own water was to own life.

Except for those in close proximity, colleagues considered Mary one-dimensional. The character was her own creation. She ensured that no hint of her competitive, ambitious personality rose to the surface—and she often succeeded. Her desk was almost bare; her room devoid of any personal touches; her face expressionless. She rarely referred to her personal life. She wished to provide only a mirror to those who interacted with her, so that no threat presented itself to them.

The rapid competition for water rights in Nigeria had intensified pressure within TransAqua, and Mary had to work quickly. Thus, this silent, camouflaged creature had slipped through the corridors to her office. She clicked her door closed, sat down and speed-dialled her father. Days had passed since the dam broke, and she had not been able to contact the government complex at Aso Rock.

“Hello, Dadsie. How are you?” she said, scrolling through her emails.

“Spectacular. And you, petal?”

“Wonderful.” She started typing a response. “Your little girl needs your help.”

“Anything for my … It’s Mary!” he screamed, a hand over the receiver. “No, Mary—your daughter!” He took his hand away. “Your mother says hello. She hasn’t got those flowers yet.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot.” Mary scribbled a note. “I’ll send them. Now—can you help me?”

“Of course, darl—… No!” he screamed again. “She’s sending them!” He turned back to the receiver. “When?”

“Today.” Mary buzzed for her assistant and cracked open a bottle of water.

“Today!” he shouted, then turned back to their conversation. She could hear her mother yelling in the background.

Mary swallowed some water.

“Now,” Father continued, “how can I help? By the way, have you found Barbie a job yet? Something slow-paced? Mailroom? Delivery, perhaps?”

Mary almost spewed out her water. “Uh, nothing yet.” She could just imagine Barbara, with her purple harem pants, booming voice and jangling earrings, jeopardizing her reputation and status on a minute-by-minute basis.

“Too bad,” Father sighed. “Ah well, keep trying. It’s such a huge organiz—”

“Will do. Anyway, Dadsie, I’m working on the Nigerian contract. Any advice? Do you know anyone?” She pressed Send and continued through her email.

“Well, I haven’t been following it closely … No! Peas will do …”

Mary’s assistant entered. Devoid of facial expression, Mary handed her a piece of paper with a list of plants on it, handwriting neat. Her assistant looked at the list, glowered and shut the door.

“Who should I contact? Do you know anyone? We’ve got an article in
West Africa,
but no calls. The Nigerian presi—… Just a moment.” She put her father on hold and answered the other line in an insipid voice. “Mary Glass. Yes. I’ll find out. Please hold.” She returned to her father.

“… that would be a good idea.” He was in mid-sentence.

“Pardon?” She rifled through some papers.

“I said, I don’t think the president would be a good idea. He won’t last … No, just two potatoes, love. No, just two … He won’t … I’m trying to watch my weight, darling. Now, please put those potatoes back, Catherine. Put—”

Mary put her father on hold. “Lebanon? James Stiffner has the contracts. You can get the number from my assistant.” She switched back to her father.

“… know I never mix proteins and carbohydrates, love. Please, put those back … Now—what was I saying?”

“Not to contact the president.” Mary took another drink of water.

“Ah, yes. He won’t last long. Keep an eye on whoever heads the military. They’ll be in contact … No, I said no carbohydrates. Turnips are carbohydrates … In contact with the next … Yes, they are. Look it up, dear … See who’s meeting with him.”

“How do I get in touch with any of his visitors? Aso Rock isn’t answering.”

Her father replied with surprise at her naivety. “All their children are educated abroad, darling. They’ll have the home numbers.”

“Yes, I knew that.” She cleared her throat. “Just checking other avenues.”