Doing Dangerously Well (21 page)

“That bitch. I’d ask her to go to hell, but I know she’d just grab a pair of sunglasses and a bottle of suntan lotion.”

“What happened?”

“Can’t you remember anything, Beano? She said she was signing at the end of the month, not the 8th.”

“You’re kidding! She lied?” Beano flushed with shock.

On the subject of complexions, Sinclair’s tan aged him, not in terms of wrinkles, just in style. It gave Beano the psychological advantage he needed. “If it helps, and it probably doesn’t, Dad said he’s met with Brigadier … hold on …” Beano felt inside a pocket of his unironed jeans for a scrap of paper, smoothed out the crumples, then flipped it right side up. “No, Major General Wosu, who fully supports the minister for the environment. He said our government’s willing to do so as well, if I … uh … if we need his support, when the time’s right.”

Mary rushed to her office and with trembling spider fingers dialled Kolo’s residence. She had dangerously underestimated him. He had taken their operating principles—firm, robust, made of steel—and twisted them like rubber bands. She had heard of forged signatures, corrupt accounting methods, ruthless lawyers. But she had never even conceived of the president of a country signing two different contracts with the same company on the same day. Kolo had sniffed out the company’s ethos of internal rivalry, sensed that her department hid information from itself and gambled on his intuition. It had been four months since she had boasted to her parents about her plans for Nigerian water rights, and she had come no closer to completion.

After a great fertility of dead ends, she finally tracked Kolo down to the Mandela compound in South Africa, where he was staying as a guest.

“Ah, good evening, Ms. Glass.” Kolo’s voice revealed no unease. “How may I help you?”

Mary kept her cool. Control and composure were her watchwords. Irritable bowel syndrome was her most pressing medical condition.

She straightened the items on her desk to calm herself down. “Good evening, President Kolo,” Mary began tartly. “Something very odd has occurred. You appear to have signed two contracts with us for the construction of the dam.”

“Oh, my Lord!” Kolo was sucking again, a tone of deep concern overlaid with a soupçon of utter indifference. “Is this true?” She remained silent.

“That is a serious concern,” he continued, unperturbed by her lack of participation in the charade. “How did it happen? I signed two separate contracts with TransAqua? That’s impossible! Does your company not communicate internally?”

“With respect, sir, it’s a complex situation. Perhaps we could arrange to nullify the contracts and re-sign.”

“I have heard a most disturbing rumour,” Kolo replied, off topic. “I understand that Mr. Sinclair has been dealing with other parties. Before I sign, I would obviously need the names of his contacts.”

“Pardon?”

“Who else has been dealing with Mr. Sinclair, Ms. Glass?”

Mary picked up a pen and began to doodle, lines drawn on top of other lines, straight and unforgiving. No circles, no curves or arcs.

“Ms. Glass?” Kolo prodded.

She looked down at her doodle. She had unwittingly drawn an organogram. It triggered a thought. Who in TransAqua would have leaked this information to Kolo? Who was the spy? Her mind flitted through the alternatives until she rested on one name.

Her own.

She remembered the words she had uttered in London:
My colleague has been dealing with so many different parties in Nigeria.

Mary felt her chest implode. She knew if she provided the information Kolo wanted, all those listed would die; yet if she did not supply the names, she would lose her job. He had given her no budge room. With IT’s help, she would have to log on to Sinclair’s computer to find the names. She considered the dangers of politics in a country as complex as Nigeria. It must be like playing three-dimensional chess blindfolded while sitting in a pit of snakes.

“If you agree to sign a new contract, without delay, I’ll get the names,” she said.

“Of course I’ll sign. By the end of April. On my word of honour.”

Aso Rock surged out of the landscape—a mighty granite mound, hard and worthless—as surprising a sight as a vast verruca overlaying a field. This oversized boulder loomed over Abuja, a conceit that claimed ownership of the capital. Tourists visited it; locals praised it; politicians posed in front of it. Even the presidential palace nestled underneath it.

Kolo loved the permanence of the fossilized wart. No matter the political changes the capital faced, whether the city spread to cover the whole of West Africa or was annihilated by some terrible tragedy, it would always have to contend with this monstrous hump. It was, as local journalists liked to point out, the Ayres Rock of Nigeria.

Kolo snorted to himself. Who would even want to visit Ayres Rock?

Yet Aso Rock had a hidden purpose. To his fellow Nigerians it symbolized victory conferred by gods, which is why they had
built the presidential complex underneath this pagan site, despite the pleading of its Modernist architect.

The giant pebble reminded him of the farce within all things; the fact that you could get away with anything in Nigeria. Eventually even an obstruction like Aso Rock could become a site of pilgrimage. Kolo had no doubt that over time the site would draw disciples to worship quite another deity-one that took human form.

He loved the grandeur of the presidential villa, its colossal rooms and European elegance, the crème soufflé feel of it and the surrounding fortifications that offered so much protection; it fit him like his own skin. He was loath to give it up and had no plans so to do. Yet Kolo had served as president for a mere three months and had accomplished very little, although on a personal level he had profited handsomely from the catastrophe at Kainji.

He buzzed his intercom.

“Yes, sir?” The voice of the minister of information crackled through.

“Here. Bring pictures.”

The minister arrived, carrying bundles of photographs, canvases and designs, looking disgruntled. “How goes it?” Kolo surveyed him.

“Well. And yourself?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Things will change.”

Kolo studied the minister more intently, trying to excavate any meaning behind that remark, his unease increasing as his confidant plopped the designs on Kolo’s desk from a fair height. Annoyed by this breach of etiquette, Kolo flicked an upward-pointing finger at a chandelier.

The minister of information slowly strutted to the light switch, which gave Kolo time to note the expression of disdain on his
haughty features. He flicked his finger again, indicating a chair.

“Sit.”

“Sir.” The minister lingered on his way to the chair, sat, crossed his legs, and watched his president through arrogant eyelids.

“We need some decoration in this place. It’s a bit drab.”

The minister merely nodded.

Increasingly irritated by the minister’s lack of enthusiasm for such a monumental project, Kolo sorted through the many portraits of himself—paintings, sculptures and large ceramic murals—that he had commissioned from Nigeria’s most prominent artists. He beckoned his advisor with two fingers, and the minister dutifully laid out the architectural plans of the entire governmental complex.

“Now, what should go where? This is the question.” Grabbing a pencil, Kolo waited for a response.

Designed in neoclassical style to signify democratic intent, the legislative, executive and judiciary buildings huddled together beneath the protective posture of Aso Rock.

“Sir, in view of the fact that the three branches of government have been unfortunately co-sited, I think that perhaps it might be best to confine these splendid works of art to the executive branch. This would assist in symbolically indicating a separation of powers between your office and those of the legislature and judiciary.”

“Really? Perhaps we should also symbolically indicate a separation between the executive coffers and your paycheque.”

The minister shifted in his chair, his discomfort finally palpable.

“Personally, I find the arrangement quite snug,” Kolo continued.

The minister of information reluctantly replied, “It makes communication much faster.”

“Indeed.” Kolo waited for more contrition.

“And, em, who can deny the therapeutic properties of art.”

“They use it in hospitals.”

They both pored over the plans, placing objects throughout the entire complex in pencil. Thereafter, Kolo personally oversaw their positioning. It took less than a week for the implied surveillance of Kolo’s virtual presence to be felt in all sectors of the administration.

After a successful meeting with Cheeseman the next morning, Sinclair placed a series of red-flagged email herrings to three Nigerian ministers for the unwitting Mary to hook and offer to Kolo as fodder. Then he picked up his handset and dialled
011,
followed by 234.

“Office of the minister for the environment. How can I help you?”

“Nkemba! Lovely to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Mr. Sinclair. And you yourself, sir?”

“Dangerously well, Nkemba. I’m a menace to the world today.”

“You want speak to the minister, sir?”

“I’d be infinitely grateful, Nkemba. A million thanks.”

Sinclair sat tapping his desk, attempting to contain his anger. Kolo had screwed him over. It would be the first and last time. He’d let Glass try to cope with that maniac, while he would throw his full support behind the minister for the environment. He might not be the brightest of the bunch, but at least he knew how to bend over and enjoy the ride.

After a few moments, the phone clicked.

“Mr. Sinclair, sir!” The baritone had less energy than usual. “How are you?”

“Dangerously well, sir, dangerously well.” Sinclair smiled as he spoke. “And yourself?”

“Not so dangerous, maybe, but alive, praise to God. You-know-who is still too strong.”

“The last tree felled didn’t help, sir?” Sinclair was all sympathy, though his patience had almost run out.

“My friend, you live in a forest. I live in a jungle. As you’re cutting bush in front of you, the bush grows behind you. It’s very difficult.”

“Wonderful analogy, sir. Wonderful! And if I might use the same analogy, I’m here to clear the way, in front and behind. Three trees will be cut down very soon—they are old, with many roots. Your path will be clear, but make sure you take it at the right time.”

“Three trees? Same method?”

“Same method. Don’t you worry, sir. I’m still working in your best interests. I think you’ll provide some exciting leadership for the country.” Sinclair applied the necessary lubrication to his words. “You’re a man of great vision, Minister. Your country needs a man like you.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. So, Mr. Sinclair,” the minister offered himself up, “can I do anything for you in return?”

“Can I make another small suggestion, sir?” He eased himself in.

“Anything.” The minister’s voice quivered.

“Perhaps you could make contact with Major General Wosu P. Wosu. He’s on board. And if there’s anything else you need, just call. I’m behind you all the way.” Sinclair could feel them both moving in the same direction, thrusting forward together. It felt great. “I think you’ll find, in the next few weeks, that OK will be KO’d.”

“Ah-ah! OK will be KO’d!” The minister neighed a laugh. “You’re a poet, my friend. A true poet!”

“And you will be crowned king, sir.”

The minister whinnied in approval. “Ah-ah, Sinclair!” His excitement grew to fever pitch. “You have the mind of a
businessman but the heart of a politician.” He screamed out the last words. “You’re a true Nigerian-oh! Yes, oh yes! Oh, Sinclair.” The excitement of the news overcame him at last. He let out a groan. “If only I could depend on others as I can depend on you.” He sighed and bid his friend farewell.

When he put down the phone, Sinclair was exhausted. He had to take a few minutes to catch his breath.

O
ttawa’s cotton wool blossoms flurried past Barbara’s window, a festive confetti of blushing white, flamingo pink and daring fuchsia carried by the breezes of an unseasonably early spring. The petals tripped over people’s feet in giddy circles, revelling in the last few moments of their short lives. High above, the pines looked down on this uncouth display of nature at its most intoxicated, appalled by its unbridled sense of elation. The pines stood tall through all seasons, sober and staid, but this annual carousal made them question the substance of an existence based on certainty rather than celebration.

Mary-bland, unchanging Mary-she was the powerful pine. And Barbara, tumbling and capricious, was the blossom. She knew Mary despised the blossom as much as Barbara scorned the pine. She nodded to herself, ingesting this wisdom.

Barbara moved away from the window, catching sight of
Astro packing his plastic bags for his trip back home. Astro—neither pine nor blossom, more constant, yet ethereal.

The wind. Astro was the wind.