Doing Dangerously Well (18 page)

“Couldn’t be better.”

“You want speak to the minister, sir?”

“That would be fantastic. Thank you, Nkemba.”

After a couple of minutes, the minister was put through. “Mr. Sinclair. How are you?” A broad accent in a baritone growl.

“Dangerously well, sir, dangerously well. And yourself?”

“Feeling as dangerous as yourself, my friend.” He issued a hearty hee-haw.

“Well, as you see, I was as good as my promise. Now—do we have a deal?”

The minister hesitated for a second. “Yes, sir. We have a deal. Can I ask how you managed to deal with the, em, situation?”

“I didn’t have to lift a finger. A colleague told our man in mourning that his best friend was planning a coup against him. Your path should be pretty clear now. Without the army behind him, you-know-who will soon be too weak to continue. Time for you to make a deal with the military.”

“Walahi!” the baritone croaked.

“Don’t you worry. There’s no risk here. Absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve got our government behind you.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries, then Sinclair signed off, relieved.

Only a few minutes after he had put down the phone, it rang again.

“Hello? Please may I speak to John Sinclair?”

“Speaking.” Sinclair clipped on his headset and leaned back in his adjustable chair.

“This is President Ogbe Kolo speaking.”

Sinclair jerked to attention, cricking his back. “Yessir. A privilege.”

“The privilege is mine, sir.”

“To what do I owe this honour?” With the tips of his toes, Sinclair rotated to face the window, away from inquisitive eyes outside his plate glass office.

“I understand you are interested in water rights near Kainji.” Kolo sounded as though he were sucking on something. “And that you have been discussing such rights with some of my colleagues.”

“Yessir. TransAqua is interested—”

“I would be most honoured if you would in future address your concerns to me directly.” The voice had a musical quality to it, behind the sucking.

“Yessir.”

“Perhaps we could meet in London?”

“I would be honoured.” Sinclair was in excruciating pain.

“No, please. The privilege is mine.” The phone clicked off.

A bold man,
Sinclair thought.
He must have balls of titanium. Well, let’s jack him off too and see who spurts first. If it’s not Kolo, then back to Plan A.
He swivelled his chair around towards his desk so that he could lever himself into an upright position.

Early morning free-riding eased Beano into his day. He sprang up the stairs to his new enclosure and leaned his snowboard on the wall, then pulled up the sleeves of his black polo neck and ruffled his hair. Its blond extravagance had been too long hidden in Sewage. He planned to grow it.

From his tiny glass office down the Africa Acquisitions corridor, Beano could glimpse Sinclair’s corner tank situated on a dais. His relationship with it felt more than visual, it was carnal: an incorporation, an embodiment, a union. Four doors down stood Mary’s office, also on a plinth. It had little effect on him.

An artist friend had designed a phone that contained bubbling water. On this gadget, he called Nigeria. “Hey, Dad! It’s Beano. Howzit going?”

“Don’ask. I hate this damned country. The Brits get knighted once they’ve served over here. All we get is high blood pressure.” After a groan of self pity, he asked, “So, have you finally wiped the shit off your ass?”

Although he resented the disparagement of his previous role, Beano’s dimples deepened with determined good cheer. “Yeup. Still, everything’s a bit precarious. I don’t know how you cope, Dad.”

“You’re dealing with Nigeria, son! Whaddaya expect? It’s stormy seas from here on in. And if you think you’ve spotted land, you can be sure you’re hallucinating.”

“I hear Kolo—”

“Don’t mention that upstart’s name! Arrogant prick with that damned aristocratic accent. Why doesn’t this place just go back to military rule? It’s easier to deal with.”

Beano adjusted a picture of the Sewage division at karaoke, which he’d propped on his desk to remind everyone of his humble origins. “That’s actually what I was calling about, Dad. Did you tell Sinclair about the minister for the environment?”

“As instructed. When did you suddenly become so efficient?”

“Gotta get dirty sometime. My body might be in water, but my mind is still in the gutter.”

His father groaned. “D’ya have to keep mentioning it?”

“So, who do you think’s gonna replace General Abucha? I told Sinclair I’d get him a name. Can you try for Major General Wosu P. Wosu?”

“Wosu? Almost impossible! Why?”

“It’d be a real help. I mean, if you’re looking for a military coup, he’s a Muslim who’s migrated to the Middle Belt, Dad. So the army will accept him. But he’s not originally from Benue State, so in the meantime Kolo won’t feel too threatened by him, right?”

“By an Igbo? No, ’course not.” He paused. “But you want an easterner? Why?”

After two months of negotiation, Mary had finally managed to secure a meeting with Kolo on the 8th of March; at the weekly meeting, she had announced a much later date to build in time for delay. She purchased some wax earplugs, which she placed securely in each ear for her first-class flight to London so that the pressure change would not topple her physical or mental equilibrium.

The flight was without complication. But in line at Immigration, she heard a familiar, unctuous snigger that sent the skin crawling
up every rib. Her freeze-dried frame ducked behind another passenger and scouted out the territory.

Sinclair.

What was he doing here in London? There were only two possibilities. He was either following her or he had his own meeting with Kolo. She tracked him for a while. Easy. Like a slug, he left trails wherever he went, this time to a giggling flight attendant.

There was only one conclusion to draw. He had come to meet Kolo.

Mary jumped into a limousine in the madness of London’s traffic, heading towards the city’s core. She tried to figure out if Kolo had contacted Sinclair or vice versa. In the final analysis, it was unimportant. Either way, Kolo was double-dealing.

Mary had agreed to meet Kolo for tea in the marbled halls of the promenade within the elegant, old-world splendour of the Dorchester Hotel. London disoriented her with its complicated array of architectural styles, its twisting, crowded streets and dishevelled population. However, the Dorchester, harking back to an era of opulence and defined status, provoked a sense of calm and relaxation.

Kolo was shorter than she had expected, and sported a rash across his face that did not match the colour of his hands.

“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” Mary began as they sat down together at a small table, her small, blunt teeth appearing behind a wide smile. “I appreciate that this is a difficult time for your country and for you personally.” She sounded harsher than she would have wished.

“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Glass.” Kolo smiled, the rash cracking somewhat as his facial muscles pulled. “Perhaps we can get down to business.” He clicked his fingers to order tea.

Mary opened with a lateral move. “I would certainly be relieved to get our terms down on paper, Mr. President.” She crossed her legs to display a bony kneecap. “My colleague, John Sinclair, has been dealing with so many different parties in Nigeria, I think it would be best to bring this to some closure under your leadership.”

Kolo froze.

Mary took a bite out of a crust-free cucumber sandwich.

“Mr. Sinclair is dealing with whom?”

“Unfortunately, that’s confidential. That’s always been his strategy. Negotiate with everyone. See who ends up on top.” She shrugged with a remorseful smirk.

“Really? Many separate parties?”

“Well, that’s how he got to where he is. He’s our best negotiator.” She flipped a sprig of parsley into her mouth. Check. “I personally prefer to deal with one person at a time.” Mate.

“Indeed.”

Kolo looked distinctly out of sorts, out of depth and out of choices. She pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it.

Two days later they had signed the deal. He had guaranteed TransAqua a 70-percent annual return on its investment, tax incentives, shipping rights and exclusive rights to all water in the district.

With men,
Mary mused,
all you have to do is throw them some meat and they think it’s dinnertime.

She was hardly to know, however, that Kolo’s tastes were strictly vegetarian.

A
nother of the planet’s vegetarians stood at a door, but there was no answer to her persistent knocking. She went downstairs to the one neighbour she knew would be home: the meat-necked bully who had attempted to stamp out Astro’s musical serenade during her first visit.

She found him talking to a tramp dressed in layers of sweaters with a blanket draped over him, carrying assorted plastic bags.

“Do you know where Astro is?” she butted in.

“Hey, Bra-Bra.” Yellow eyes peered in her direction from under a fake fur hat with earflaps. “I thought you were supposed to be here at seven. It’s seven thirty already. Where were you? I thought …” Barbara waited for the words of her parents to assume their position on the tip of his tongue. “… you’d died!”

She looked at Astro in silent disbelief. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Astro to the neighbour: “I thought she’d died, man. I called all the hospitals.”

“Where do you think we’re going? Antarctica?”

A bobble on his hat jiggled as he spoke. “I was listening to the traffic reports and everything.”

Barbara also turned to the neighbour for assistance. “We’re driving, for god’s sake! What’s he wearing? What in Shakti’s name is he wearing?”

They both looked at the neighbour, who stood mute.

“Just get ready,” Barbara turned to Astro, “because we’re leaving. What’s this?” Barbara snatched some sheets of paper from the neighbour’s hand.

“None of your business.” Astro whipped the sheets back. “Just instructions on taking care of the place.”

“You’ll be back by the time he’s finished reading it.”

“Ho, ho, ho, so.” Astro turned back to his neighbour. “If you have any trouble,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, “any trouble at all, call me at this number, okay?”

“Okey-dokey.” The man scratched his armpit.

Astro looked up, obviously unsettled. “So, what number do you call?”

“That one there.” The neighbour stabbed at a large number in red letters.

“Good.”

They looked at each other.

“So,” Astro raised his eyebrows expectantly, “are we okay here?”

“Solid gold.” The man leaned in his doorway and folded his arms.

Barbara could tell that Astro was about to change his mind, that the puncture in his routine might be too great to bear, so she grabbed some of his bags and stole downstairs. “I’m leaving in one minute, Astro,” she called back tartly.

After a minute, she started honking, waiting for Astro to appear. He finally managed to pry himself out of the building and ran across the street with a few plastic bags and a picnic cooler.

Barbara leaned over and opened the door. “What’s that?”

“Food and water, Babu.” Astro’s eyes were on the window to his apartment.

“Food and water? Why?”

“Look, man,” he said, struggling into the car, “I don’t know what the hell they eat in Canada. I’m not taking any chances.”

“They eat the same crap we eat here.” Barbara reached over, slammed the door and secured Astro’s seat belt.

“Oh, really? And when were you last in Canada?”

“What—you think I have to go somewhere to know about it? Oh, please!” Barbara accelerated out of her parking spot, then released the hand brake.

“Well, let’s just find out who’s right, okay, man?” he snapped. “In the meantime, don’t ask me for any food, okay? If you want to eat whale blubber and boil some snow, whatever, man, be my guest.”

“I do not believe this.” She swerved into the fast lane and proceeded to drive at a crawl, carefully scanning the signs. “Don’t ask to borrow my clothes when we get there.”

“Ditto, man.” Astro grabbed the dash. “Turn left here.”

“I know where I’m going.”

“Could you change lanes, please?”

“I’m fine in this lane.”

“I know, but look at that car, man. It’s too ugly. I don’t want to follow it for the rest of the journey.”

She hovered on the line between two lanes, and swerved into another lane.

Then she checked her rear-view mirror.