|
Place your ad here for only $15.00! Reach thousands of writers and visitors! CLICK HERE
|
|
|
 I am Oshinaga Adeboye Wilberforce. I was born and bred in the large heart of Nigeria, Lagos. Went to best secondary school in town, called "International School". It was during these interesting school days that I picked writing as a hobby.
Writing, to me, is just one of the tools capable of expressing by in-born talent which I have recognised to be IMAGINATION. WHen it comes to spawning stories and making gripping caricatures of situations and events, count me in!I write prose and poetry well. But I am yet to be published. I belive, however, that my first work (a thriller nigerian-set novel) is going to be an international bestseller. I have no doubt about that!
I AM PRESENTLY IN oBAFEMI aWOLOWO University, Ife, Osun State in NIgeria studying COmputer Science. And, here is the great news, the completion of my novel is drawing closer.
GET READY TO BUY "becoming president"!
|
|
MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- WOn the hearts of hundreds in my secondary school with my writing.
- Went pretty far a poetry competition at Voicesnet.com
- Won an inter-school essay competition
|
|
MY NEWS:
Hey! I have short stories, poems and my upcoming grand novel for your enjoyment. These are spiced up by great essays.
|
|
|
MY FAVORITE LINKS:
|
|
MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Lagos
State/Country: Nigeria
|
|
BOOKS PUBLISHED:
 International Bestseller
BECOMING
PRESIDENT
WILBERFORCE OSHINAGA
PROLOUGUE
Al-Zhagawis (named after the renown terrorist)
Fur. Sudan
March 18th
10:10 PM
Bursts of fire sent the Arabs reeling backwards in terrible pain and shock. Just corking their shotguns, the flummoxed men clad in Kayefis received the bullets in their heads and chests. Those ones that guarded the territory from a height fell lifeless to the ground, vibrating in intermittent spasms till they stretched still and dead. The Freedom Fighters rebel group was caught unawares. The night air was charged.
With great accuracy and skill, the assailants hit their targets, surrounding the territory and throwing the enemies in disarray. Bullets that were fired back by the Arabs were ensured that they had no precision, or direction at all. They hit tree trunks or went into space. The enemy barely had time to understand the situation or to gather forces. When a handful of fleeing ones ran to consult or relay the message of the assault, they met, instead of their fellow Arabs, some trigger-happy soldiers pointing the machine-gun muzzles at them. Everything was working as planned.
The soldiers from the Nigerian troop were not as many as the enemies but they overwhelmed them. Bodies of surprised guerrillas lay on the ground in awkward positions, their fully chambered guns lying beside them. The assailing forces were converging till they faced the thatch-made cover of Mohassad Sadir, the number-three most dangerous terrorist in the world. He was the brain behind the havoc wrecked in specific areas in Sudan and Rwandan-style genocide suspected to be taking place gradually in the country. He was the main rebel to be killed.
Sergeant Moses was on the other side the brain behind the assault. One out of many sergeants, he worked out the hidden location of this militia base. He was not the battalion captain but he stirred the soldiers for this history-making attack. Sergeant Moses made his captain, Colonel Rafiu Badmus, see in between the lines on the Sudan map that there lay the base located behind the village of Fur (used as a cover-up). Col. Badmus loved Sergeant Moses for this, partly because he and his battalion would make history, but chiefly because he would be transferred back home to Nigeria, following the peace message that would be spread soon after.
The architecture of Mohassad Sadir’s erection was impressive. A quick look revealed that there was no entrance from anywhere visible. The entrance had to be underground. The only mistake was that it was made of thatch.
“Sergeant Sanni,” the battalion captain barked, “set this construction ablaze!” The soldier paced to the side of the erection and put fire to it. The glow of fire rose gradually colouring the blackness of the night yellow and red. The growing fire reflected on the sweaty faces of well-spaced-out soldiers with guns at the ready.
The few Arabs who felt the heat first from below took quick peeps and got simultaneous blasts on their faces. As the fire grew like a high-rise, Arabs caught between the devil and the deep red sea jumped out of enclosed spaces to see the devil. The devil spat on their heads and chests and ripped them apart. Every Arab that was shot was snappily examined to know if he was Mohassad Sadir. Sadir was still inside.
An eerie silence followed the rat-tat-tat. The silence gave a funny sign that all the enemies were dead. The soldiers were waiting for the fire to engulf the entire erection before they began to doubt whether their terrorist was here at all. Just before it did, there a sleek movement and a man lashed out of the fire in an action-movie, Hollywood-style jump. That was their man, instinct told the soldiers. It was Sergeant Moses’ bullets that caught the terrorist in mid-air and ripped him apart. The bullets that followed met him on the ground. Col. Badmus barked an order to check the body. It was Mohassad Sadir! Today is the happiest day of my life, Moses thought.
Col. Badmus ran across the field to Sergeant Moses and kissed him on his forehead. “You’ve done a great job”, he whispered, “ you’re a military man with a difference.”
“Thank you sir”, Moses said.
And in a split second, when all the soldiers were already off-guard, rejoicing in their victory, Sergeant Moses saw a moving trail of fire. Still unable to figure out what it was, Moses saw it turn and stand still, releasing something that was enveloped in the darkness. Moses, realizing in microseconds of brain translation that it was a bullet, shoved Col. Badmus away from it and received the bullet that sent him off balance. Another one followed.
Mohassad Sadir’s immediate assistant, Al-Khartoum inhaled smoke and smelt fire. Choking in intermittent coughs, he murmured something inaudible to his master. His master too had known the situation. They knew there was an enemy and they were just planning the next action. When the sea of fire seemed to be coming to swallow them, master jumped out, not before saying to Al-Khartoum: “may Allah guide you” or before chanting some Koranic verses. Al-Khartoum stood stunned, not knowing what to do next. He cursed under his breath: “ may Allah send your enemy to hell for putting a faithful to hell”. The fire touched his feet and he screamed. His unending screams were drowned in the fire. He jumped and tumbled down (with a gun in his holster), running as far as his feet could take him. He ran faster than the fastest man in the world, he thought—but with a patch of fire devouring his clothes and his olive skin. Then he stopped abruptly, all his nerves screaming more than he just did. He stopped to send one of his enemies to hell. He pulled out his pistol and let out a bullet, then another: just before a rain of bullets removed pain from his life— or his life from pain—forever.
The two bullets sank painfully into Moses. His blood was forming a pool around him and he tasted it. Voices from the outside were yelling but he did not know what. He knew why—he was dying. He was trapped to the earth and could not, and would not, move a nerve. Everything in him was narrowing down to nothingness and he fought it painfully. No…no…no, he wanted to say, not on the happiest day of his life.
PART ONE
Exchange Of Fate
Chapter 1
“These foreigners really think the country’s economic climate is ‘unfavourable’,” Alhaji Mustapha, the sixty-eight year old chairman of Primate companies, said, mimicking the European and American investors. All the men that sat round the mahogany table were triggered into laughter. When they had all barely recovered, Alhaji Mustapha continued: “Gbabe, Nigeria is really the best place to invest. The chaos that scares all these lily-livered ones away is really what keeps business going, abi? And more importantly, it ensures excess profit”.
The last sentence threw only a few into laughter—throaty, cracked, inconsistent laughter. They briefly picked up the wine- glasses and gulped. This round-table sat a handful of the biggest businessmen in the country. Other equally established businessmen and their wives were spaced out in the large Sheraton Hotel hall. It was the monthly get-together that helped them foster their relationship, discuss deals or know their archrivals.
Chief Ike Godswill took in a last swallow before saying: “You are right Alhaji. In fact, the more they are scared, the better. It will give us enough space to exploit our abundant resources. We don’t need them in this country…” Chief Godswill was the CEO of The Peoples’ Bank.
Chief Godswill’s comment did not go down well with Mr. David Bade or so it seemed, as he wore an unsettled look.
“I disagree Chief, we are talking about those who are responsible for the recent progress in the economic situation of our nation through their investments. Then you talk of exploiting resources. Sincerely, how many of us actually know our resources or how useful they are or how we can maximize them? We’ll always need them”.
Some greeted the rejoinder with quiet disapproval; the others nodded in intellectual understanding. The general opinion about Mr. David Bade was that he was an intelligent young man, nevertheless inexperienced when it came to business. He was only lucky to be in the league of multi-millionaires. Such a species dropped from sky to earth only once in centuries.
“But Mr. Bade, these foreigners you seem to take sides with only give us a taste of development. They let us beg continually for their investment, so that we never really learn to develop ourselves,” Dr. Adesola, the founder of Xero Pharmaceuticals, launched an attack he did not want Mr. Bade to easily recover from, in this war of words. A smile parted Mr. Bade’s lips. He knew he was becoming a minority with his maverick opinion. He had to appeal to the majority.
“Quite true, Doctor. But however hard we deny this, these so-called foreigners virtually own a significant share of our economy and they teach us how to play the game using international rules; if we were left on our own we’ll play with our crooked rules that only make the business arena hot enough to scare the next businessman. It—”
Alhaji cut in unannounced, “ tori na, they can shakara us abi? And tell us our country is unstable; ‘our economic climate is unfavourable’”. Everyone had to laugh—if not for the combination of words, for the thick Ilorin accent.
Just then, Mr. Daniel’s phone began to ring. He felt the vibration of his Nokia 9500. “Ex—cuse me”. He received the call while walking away aimlessly.
“Hello—oh, Moses—what is happening? —You are coming back? —Fine, fine, fine. The home will just be ready for you—how is the army going?—glad to hear—Mozeezo!—see you…”
He reached the table again and heard them discussing the recent privatization of NEPA, one very good ground of argument—but as he checked his watch, he thought better of it.
Mabel, his life-loving wife, was still chatting about just everything with her friends when Daniel came to tell her he was going. Still chatting, she half-signaled him to wait for a moment.
“Adike, the quality is best in Dubai, and it is of course more expensive than jewelry in Paris or London. You see, not only are the styles different my friend, 84 carats gold is not 84 carats gold everywhere”.
“Mabel!” Daniel turned and stormed out of the luxurious hall.
She later caught up with him close to the jeep. “Wha…what was that for?” She demanded. Daniel gave her a “that’s-a-stupid-question” look and she shut up. He brought out the keys to the BMW X-5 and unlocked it. They both entered. He started the jeep and revved the engine to life.
“Mabel, Moses called and said he will be arriving next week. I will be picking him up from the airport”. Daniel turned to her. She gave him a contemptuous “and-so?” look. He knew she was paying him back in his own coins.
It was dark on the way home. Heavy rain poured unheralded from the sky, splattering on the windscreen, giving the wipers a futile task to do. There was a terrible traffic jam and the rain was worsening it. Every other car seemed to Daniel through the windscreen like another blurred object with two red eyes behind it. But none of these disturbed him. What disturbed him were the memories of the past that kept juxtaposing with the present: the effect of his decision three years ago on his life now. The event replayed itself in florid detail in Daniel’s mind.
On the Saturday, he remembered vividly, Mabel in her overflowing white gown, holding him passionately as though he were her anchor. She looked heavenly. The large attendance in the church made it look like the whole world came to witness the event. Professor and Mrs. Ologbenla, Mabel’s parents, were simply all smiles. His own parents were not alive to witness it and this fact brought tears to his eyes. However, his favourite Uncle Joe and his wife represented them well. It was the happiest day of his life, knowing that he had won himself an angelic bride. “God,” he told himself when he removed her veil, “she is so beautiful”.
The vicar’s words kept coming to remind him that he was in love “I hereby join these two in holy matrimony...what God has joined together, let no man put asunder”. The musical notes that filled the air from the organs with the glorious hymns sealed the day’s joy.
He remembered slipping the ring into her finger and looking into her eyes---where he saw himself. She was a mirror of him, he thought… “and this two shall become one”
But all that was then. Now, he was wondering whether that beautiful angel on the wedding day was the same as this monster by his side. He traced slowly how their marriage had gone awry, and then he remembered the hospital.
It was in the hospital that their painful fate was revealed to them—no, him. He was the only one who heard the fate. They had been visiting the family hospital for some time, since they noticed that Mabel’s stomach was not protruding with a child. She had been weeping daily, so he suggested they examine themselves in the hospital. Doctor Laseni conducted tests on them and called Daniel personally to hear the results.
“Sir, as rare as such a case might be, I would like you to know tha…that the problem of giving birth cannot be traced to your wife at all.”
“Are u implying_?”
“Sorry to say sir, but it is low sperm count on your own part that is not causing her to give birth”
“Low what?”
“Low sperm count sir”
Everything in Daniel’s head whirled. He cried home and told his wife. She cried too, but only on that day. Since then, she started acting like she was the man of the house. She got indignant by everything he did. She grew cold. Whenever she gave him those funny looks, he knew she was daring him to give her a child.
“Daniel, Daniel!”
Mabel’s screams yanked him out of his thoughts. He woke up to reality, realizing in seconds that his BMW X-5 was heading for a parked truck. He turned the steering wildly, pressing hard on the brake. As he turned, he saw a car heading for his, in high speed. He slammed the accelerator to get across to the right lane, skidding to a halt with a screech of brakes as he neared a wide gutter. He heaved a sigh of relief. It was an act of sheer experience. He would have had an accident.
The man in the battered Nissan Datsun that he almost hit reeled out curses, with the strained fingers of his left hand poking out of the window into the rain: “e no go better for ya mama!”
CHAPTER 2
The headquarters of Integer Technologies was a magnificent sight. It could well have been a tourist attraction. It swept 10 hectares of land in Ogba, Lagos. Several edifices towered above the linear wind-breaking palm trees that graced the side of the fence towards the major road. Two large gates opened to the inside and were labeled ‘entrance’ and ‘exit’. The field just before entrance into the main buildings was beautified with obvious artistic adroitness. Flowers in blue, purple and bright red were scattered in a pattern along the paths. Lemon-green grasses mounted up to make the word: INTEGER. The space untouched by the plants was tiled with terrazzo.
Mr. Daniel Bade’s Jaguar was driving in at about 10A.M. Watching from the owner’s corner of the car, Mr. Daniel fixed his eyes on the billboard that stood beside the entrance gate. As often as he gazed at this masterpiece, he liked it. Its design and concept was so striking, he always greeted it with humour. The message it boldly displayed could be viewed about 500 metres away at several angles. It read: “ THE FUTURE HAS BEEN STORED IN THE CPU_ AND THERE IS ONLY ONE THING YOU CAN DO_ SWITCH OVER TO INTEGER TECHNOLOGIES…”
Mr. Bade came down from the car as the suited driver opened the door for him. He headed briskly towards his office in the Administrative Block, with a leather briefcase in his right hand.
As he strode across the hall, his employees took moments to holler out greetings before continuing their jobs as if nothing happened—“ Good morning, CEO” or “Oga, good morning”.
“Good morning”, he replied accordingly without slowing his pace.
At half way into the length of the hall, the Finance Director sauntered to meet him.
“Good morning sir…sir, I want to inform you that our loans as of last year December are already overdue”
“And so?”
“And so The Peoples Bank is demanding full payment before the end of the month, which is only a week and three days to go sir”.
“Simple: conduct a meeting with the heads of the bank and request for an extension pending our turn-over for the quarter”
“Sir, we have done that before and—”
“Mr. Finance, don’t make them threaten you, threaten them. Tell the CEO, Mr. Godswill directly my position on it”
“And that is sir…?”
“That they should lick the bones for now. Meat is coming at the end of the quarter”.
Mr. Fayombo stopped trying to keep up with his Oga and gasped for breath. He watched Oga enter his personal elevator and get shut behind it. Oga was always like this, he thought, never attempting to appreciate delicate situations…treating all of them like mathematical equations. He turned around and sighed…anyway, he solved them as though they were.
In the marble-floored office, Mr. Daniel Bade laid his briefcase flat on the shined mahogany table, and sat on the swivel chair. He bended and spun around like a kid. He was happy and he had reason to be. Apart from the fact that he was alive to claim ownership of the most successful computer company in Nigeria, he had just heard that the greatest problem in the Finance Department was no problem at all.
As a tradition, the managers of different departments took turns everyday to intimate him, on his way to his office, their biggest problems. This particular one that Mr. Fayombo is going to give himself a headache for, had been settled in the Sheraton hall the other day. Mr. Godswill amicably accepted the extension on some flimsy conditions.
Daniel zipped open a compartment of the briefcase to get his palmtop. He scrolled to read his schedule. Today, his company was going to employ three individuals. The interview could be taking place already. He stood up and picked the jacket he hung earlier on, and headed for the Human Resources department.
When Daniel entered unannounced into Mr. Olaniyi’s office, the HR manager jerked to catch a sight of the intruder. His squeezed, irritated countenance that rose up to meet whoever the intruder might be, imperceptibly became an amiable, respectful one. He stood to exchange handshakes.
“Good morning, CEO!”
“Very good morning. I see you were not expecting a surprise. Just said I should see and informally interview our would-be employees”.
“Oh—no problem. Actually, they are in the waiting room. They’ve all gone through rigorous interviewing and are having a break”. CEO just nodded in reply. With two hands buried in his pockets, he headed for the waiting room.
There were ten waiting people in the waiting room: individuals waiting for their fate to be spelt out by the company, with shaky expectations, hanging in the air of optimism, or pessimism. Whatever it was, it was evident on their different faces, with slight traces of fear and trepidation. Only a few had a way of showing no emotion, as they sipped hot tea in the air-conditioned room.
“Good morning sir”, they greeted, almost in unison.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen”, Daniel replied, walking across the room, “the morning is always good when we are picking among great talents who will take up positions in this great company. You see, this company’s ranking as the foremost computer company in the country is what puts it on the lips of everyone. But, I confide in you in this, that the success of Integer Technologies is as a result of nothing other than the calibre of people running it or working in it. It is not as a result of my intelligence or whatever, but those working selflessly and wholeheartedly towards the development of the company”.
Daniel looked in the eyes of his would-be employees, imploring into their present nervous state. He pointed to one of them. “Mister—yes, you—if this company is the best in its field and it is as a result of its employees, and you are lets-say one yourself, what does the company expect of you?”
The man, who the question was shot at, was just about to take a sip of the hot tea when his panicky hand pushed a painful gulp into the wrong side of his throat. He coughed, opening his mouth to cool his burnt tongue and signaled sorry with his right hand. Some of the others almost laughed.
“Okay—you, mister—what does the company expect of you?”. The bespectacled man who had big bumps in place a beard and a relatively large nose looked up at Daniel, pretending to ponder seriously. He then said, “the best”
“Good, Mr.…?”
“Mr. Oluwasetemi Mobolaji”
“Mr. Mobolaji, what is the best?”
Those hitherto cocksure eyes fell to find answers in the cup of tea he was holding. Then they rose, once again, to shoot a confident glance at Daniel.
“The best is our utilizing our potentials, or talents so to speak, in order to achieve the company’s great expectations so as to…”
Daniel pointed to the next person and asked, “what is the best?” Mr. Mobolaji immediately kept quiet.
“The best is making use of what we have to get what this great company wants”.
“You are…?”
“Mr. Thomas Nwamadu”
“Okay. The lady next to Mr. Nwamadu, what is really the best?”
The lady was one of the few that shielded their emotion with a deadpan look. He noticed that her eyes had since been on him, probably judging his minutest comportment. She let her deep-black eyes meet Daniel’s, making a faint smile part her lips.
“The best is the selfless and wholehearted effort directed towards the development of the company”.
Daniel was impressed. This woman was really listening.
“You are…?”
“Miss Eunice Edokpolo”
“Miss Eunice E…”
“Edokpolo”
“Okay”, Daniel said, turning his head to the others, “Now, when responsibility is compromised by the employees and the best is not achieved, Integer technologies (a notch higher in the fulfillment of my God-watered dreams) will have its reputation in the mud”
He pointed at the second lady in the waiting room. “You are…”
“Miss Adisa Fagbenro”
“Miss Fagbenro, what else’s at stake?”
“Eh—I think eh—”
“The man next to her, please”
“The company’s—goals—I think”
Daniel looked pitifully at the stammering man of about forty-something with ears standing erect like antennae.
“And you are…?”
“Mr. Jacob Smith”. The antennae-ears man placed undue emphasis on the surname, hoping for effect.
“Okay, this is not an easy question. If you know it, signify by looking straight into my eyes”. Daniel slowly threw demanding glances at them sequentially. All of them let their eyes fall to their laps or their cooling cups of tea. Except one woman.
“What else is at stake? You know?”
The lady’s eyes bored so hotly into his, he was tempted to look away. They bore the news of victory, which was not worth its salt after it must have been gotten. News that was shining gold to everyone else, but dull lead to her. The lips of the familiar face, once again, creased in a smile.
“What is at stake are your God-watered dreams”
Christ, the exact phrase.
“Excellent, Miss Eunice—”
“Miss Eunice Edokpolo”.
CHAPTER 3
It was not surprising that Eunice Edokpolo won the job as market research manager. She was so exceptional that her intelligence in Daniel’s informal interview tallied with her real interview scores. The others who were employed with her were good too, but were not Eunice’s equal. At least, that’s what Daniel thought. And there was something about her that provoked compassion in him. He could not pinpoint it, but it was there all the same. But what should he care, if not that he was tying his business success to negligible intuition rather than to professional business ethic.
And if “compassion” was a misnomer, “love” was the word. Love for the talents he saw in her, for her easy-going nature, however taciturn. In just two days of her starting work, she already had perfected her responsibilities as though she had been employed some twenty-years ago. Even when the last time she worked for any company was six years ago!
When Daniel tried to squint into her future, he could easily see the thirty-year-old quickly climbing the corporate ladder to the top, probably being second in charge soon; but she had to be patient. Just like he too was, when he was working in someone else’s company.
Although it was impatience, not patience, that made him join a cult in the University of Ibadan, he seized the virtue sometime later. He was the “detective” of the Ekun fraternity, finding out about the activities of other cults. Since he joined in his 200-level, he used to think his cult was a modern one, which would never yield to violence. He was right, until his last semester, when all popular cults had to be involved in a long violence. Following the events of blood and gore, the police was after every cult member involved in the three-weeks horror. One way or the other, the long arm of the law caught up with every other cultist Daniel knew, except himself. However, for fear of being recognized, he could not return to school to finish his exams and get his degree in Computer Engineering.
Without bemoaning his terrible misfortune, he started working as operator for a small computer consulting company, earning peanuts of seven thousand naira a month. Daniel was sure, with his degree, he could earn that times ten at least. His newly learned virtue—patience—made him gradually prove himself to be more than just an operator. In five years, he became Managing Director. Then did the idea of being an entrepreneur strike him, like thunder on Sango’s enemies. Do you know how much he could be earning if he was the owner of the company?
So with the help of his brother, Moses and his generous Uncle Joe, he started Integer Technologies, dealing mainly with hardware. Now, he had a giant blue-chip company that ranked number one and dealt with virtually everything related to the magic word: computer! Only now did City People call him a big boy. Only now did his pictures, in expensive Gucci or Giorgio Armani suits, appear in ovation and almost all celebrity journals in the country. And, he thought with a smile, he had not arrived yet. This was just a tip of the iceberg.
Maybe his last thought was a full stop to his train of thoughts, or the cold air from his split units just froze his thoughts, Daniel took a quick glance at his clock and got up. It was time to leave the office. He opened a drawer to take his key for the BMW X-5. Picking his jacket from the hanger, he headed for his elevator.
“Miss Stella, I have retired for the day”, he said to his secretary, who only managed to grunt a reply. She was very busy typing.
Daniel hit the road and sped towards the Entrepreneur’s Club in Ikoyi. He met an awful traffic jam in Ikeja, where everybody’s impatient maneuvrings only aggravated the jam. The commuter bus drivers, with nothing to lose, drove recklessly. The blaring of horns produced the kind of music that only mad men danced to. Two lanes easily became four. The motorists sprayed curses on themselves, crossing lanes with the impatience of a cub tearing fresh meat.
At some point, the road became suddenly freer and he gladly drove at eighty kilometers per hour.
In the club, there were so many appealing state-of-the-art facilities. Most of the time, gray-haired rich men with flabby stomachs and potbellies visited the gymnasium to get a shape. There was a snooker table, a boxing ring, a lawn tennis court, a golf course and a grand swimming pool. If you were already done with sweating in whatever game you were playing, you could take a bath and jump into the pool.
Daniel sat by the pool with a glass of orange juice and had a chessboard facing him. He was waiting for his ultimate challenger, Mr. Taiwo Randle. Taiwo Randle was his friend only because they both loved chess. Taiwo claimed to have a record of winning numerous chess competitions throughout his life. His claims seemed undeniable as he always won his rookie friend. But Daniel never really accepted defeat. He wanted to play some more. One day, he was going to capture his friend’s king in a checkmate, and prove to be better. Maybe today.
Daniel called his friend to ask if he was coming. No, he wasn’t. He had a compulsory seminar to attend. After thinking alone for a boring while, Daniel decided to leave.
Like men that know no comfort in their homes, Daniel drove reluctantly home. He had started to dread his own house. He hated that pervading feeling in his house that reminded him that he was grossly incapable. It naturally widened the gap between him and his wife. Many times, the pregnant silence that bore in it fully-fledged accusations was either too hot, he was going to melt; or too cold, he’d prefer to live in Antarctica.
To him, when he didn’t have an item on his schedule to take care of, it was natural to look for diversions in the middle of the road to pass away time. His eyes appreciated every neon-light billboard that came across them. With little conviction, he normally accepted to call the owner of the billboard. But just as his eyes were idly roving, he saw a familiar face. The car of the person zoomed past, like a shiver racing down the spine. He drove up close to confirm the face of the lady. Although disguised in thick, my-grandma-used-it glasses, the beautiful face was unmistakable. At the crossroad, the lady’s saloon car went right. His way home was left. Without offering any effort to think, he turned right.
That was how he tailed Eunice Edokpolo to her home in Ajegunle.
CHAPTER 4
The consecutive dumbfounding revelations came to Daniel like triplets.
Taiwo: this exotic-taste bungalow seemed to come out of nowhere in this rascally neighbourhood.
Kehinde: this big compound must have been known by nobody else except this strange man who led him there after making a phone call to Eunice.
Idowu: Eunice was…who was Eunice?
He had lost sight of her car at a point, and was shamefully lost. In his effort to find his “target”, some ill-mannered agberos surrounded him so as to beat him. At the moment he was going to be descended upon, a shabbily dressed (like all the others), although respected middle-aged man, came forward and asked Daniel what he was looking for. Daniel explained his story, packaging it in such a way that he was a little bit better than a corporate wanderer, tailing his employee without the slightest idea why. The man brought out a fanciful phone and made a call. After approval from the person from the other end of the phone, the man led Daniel through a muddy-water maze of impossible places, till he got here.
Daniel walked slowly towards the open door, savouring every detail of his discovery. He walked into the living room of the house, where the strange man backed off. He took glimpses at the array of marvelous artworks and murals on her walls. A 41-inch plasma TV took centre stage in the parlour, flanked with a modern hi-fi system. He thought he shouldn’t believe his eyes.
“To what do I owe this honouring visit sir?” Eunice said, without a bit of excitement. He turned to catch her blasé look.
“A million sorry, Miss Eunice. It is only that—that you don’t want to know”. She raised her left eyebrow questioningly. Daniel was beginning to feel like a troublemaking pupil in front of his headmistress. “I suppose you can understand my shock. And I presume you are going to be allaying it in the progressing minutes.”
She hesitated for a second, and then she said, “have your seat sir. Today, you are my august visitor. Let’s forget about shock for a moment or two. What will you like to drink?” Seeing him shrug she said, “I will get you non-alcoholic wine. I hope you will like that”. She brought the bottle of wine and poured it in glass for him. Then she sat on a chair by his side and crossed her legs.
“You have come a long way sir, and I want to believe with a purpose…or should I presume it is what I don’t want to know”. Daniel tried to relax and put on a cheerful demeanour.
“Yes. The fact is that there is no exact purpose, except probably—”
“Probably?”
“Probably that I wanted to know who this genius of an employee really is, and where she lives.”
“Hmmm.”
Daniel recalled the scenario of the agberos, and the strange man, and the twists of beaten paths.
“Miss Eunice, from what I just went through, it is only sensible to deduct a vague fact, which is, you are in hiding. I am sure this house is not known about by anybody except your friend that led me here”.
Eunice sighed and spoke slowly, “You have finally decided to come back to the shock…” As though her prayers were answered, the microwave from the kitchen squealed, and she hurried for it.
Emerging from the kitchen, she brought two plates of fried rice and chicken. Daniel wondered how she must have cooked for two, when she alone lived here. Reading his mind, she said, “I normally cook a lot and keep the remaining in the freezer, for another time when I can’t cook. Now, no keeping, I have with me the man of the moment in the business world. I must sacrifice a little. Sir, you can come to the dining table”.
Little by little, with the same deliberation with which she masticated her grains of rice, she told him about her haunted life. Sometimes, she hesitated to rethink to what level she was going to trust her boss. She told herself she liked him, if not, she would have let the area boys give him a black bruise or two. He told himself he was once again breaking professional ethic by being over-sympathetic with his employee—and liking her.
She revealed that for the six years that she claimed not to be working, she was actually working for a political party as secretary. For those years, she knew the entire plans and actions of the party inside out. She could tell whatever overt or covert action so-so-and-so member of the party was soon going to do, or has done.
She was totally trusted by the shot-callers, before one man she refused to name hinted that she could be of grave danger to them, with the kind of information she had. Actually, the man’s fear emanated from her decline to be part of an evil agenda for the forthcoming elections. In a nutshell, they planned to kill her—but she knew ahead of time. In the heat of trying to escape her imminent death, her unknowing fiancé was shot to death while plying the Lagos/Ibadan expressway. As she said this, her eyes watered; she looked into the eyes of her listener and searched for understanding. To her, her unfulfilled life had ended there.
But they were still trying to do away with her. The more she jumped from house to house to hide, the more number of deaths were tied to her neck. They were always closing in on her. Then, she found the idea of living without any obvious trace: behind a cover. She found Ajegunle. She settled her co-operative neighbours monthly and catered for their everyday needs too; and she was secure. Daniel felt an urge to hold her close and console her.
“How many years have you been here, hiding?” he asked.
“A year and a half”
“Christ! Why—why did you then come to get a job, and put your life at risk?”
“The truth is, I can’t continue to hibernate here forever because of some person. I needed to get a life.”
Daniel was awed by the sheer intelligence and courage that this lady exuded. He could never wish this kind of life for his enemy, talk less imagine being in her shoes. If she was sure about this evil men’s ability to plant spies and agents in order to track down their targets, could she be using her real name?
“Yes, I am. That’s the name in my CV. I could not fabricate a name, or else I would have looked like a fraud. But I was about to ask you sir, if you could please insist I be called by another name, maybe Adeola Jimoh.”
“Good. From now on, the lovely lady that works as market research manager in Integer Technologies is, and has ever been, Adeola Jimoh. Adeola, please know, you would have to occasionally prove you are an omo ijinle and not an ajokutamamomi”. They burst into moderate laughter. When they abruptly stopped laughing and looked into each other’s eyes, they both saw replacements. Hers, for her long dead fiancé; his, for his never-satisfied housewife. After all, he was just five years older than she was.
When he kicked the car to start, it was nine O’ clock sharp. The strange man of before was on the passenger seat, ready to direct him. When he finally pushed the accelerator to go home after watching Eunice walk back to her house, it was five minutes past nine.
CHAPTER 5
Moses stretched his torso in his fiftieth sit-up inside the plane heading for Lagos. It was his own way of reminding himself that he was still alive. It was already a month since those lethal bullets blasted into his shoulder and chest. It was natural for him, or anyone else, to conclude that he was going to die.
But just at the brink of slipping into that void of darkness and screaming silence, he decided with unbelievable conviction that he could not and would not die. He had so much to live for. He fought death with such dogged determination. As his fellow soldiers carried him on their shoulders and flew him to Cairo for medication—as his own blood soaked his uniform and caked on his skin—Moses kept repeating to himself that he was going to survive. Nothing could stop him from breathing…now.
And nothing did.
Now, only two scars, which he could hide under permanent tattoos, remained the vestiges of his closeness to death. He could keep it from the world, as Colonel Badmus had only spoken about “victory…victory!” during the press conference. He did not have to tell anyone, even his brother. He hated arousing pity for himself, when he knew, truly, it was he who pitied that was pitiable. But could he do without telling his only brother, Daniel?
“Please fasten your seatbelts. We are approaching Lagos and will be landing in five minutes”, the pilot announced. Mr. Pilot’s voice came out of speakers as incongruent electrical vibrations. The announcement brought Daniel’s image more to the forefront of his brother’s mind. Moses could expect nothing less than a rope-tight hug from his brother, when he finally landed. That was all he had in this world: Daniel. There was this special bond between them which, in trying to tie it down to something other than natural love, can be said to stem from their past.
Fate had always held the aces. It was sometimes hilarious to think they were once a family of five. First, mama went across the bridge on the painful wheels of diabetic cancer. Daniel had just clocked seven then. Moses was five years behind, and the last born, Ruth was still unable to say “mummy”. They slowly began to live with irrevocable fact that mummy was no more. Daddy, who was a policeman with a passion for his job, was all they had.
Moses remembered how he and Daniel pampered their beautiful sister. Ruth was fair, beautiful, intelligent and very talented. What more could they ask for in a sister? She had the mellifluous voice of a hummingbird. As they listened to her sing along with Pocahontas in the cartoon, as they heard her sing her own self-composed songs, they knew for sure that Ruth had this talent. Even Daddy could not deny this. He got her a piano and a teacher. He too, like his two naïve sons, believed she was going to be the next big thing.
Ruth was really going to be the next big star that would bring them out of poverty. A record company got interested in her, and decided to give the idea of Ruth singing for children her age a try. Ruth went to the studio just like any other professional musician at the age of nine. Everything was supposed to work out fine—until fate struck again with an even colder blow. The doctors said it was the hereditary diabetes that killed her, after two agonizing months trapped in the hospital bed.
From then on, with the knowledge that they both shared the loss of a priced possession, Moses and Daniel became very close. They shared memorable times together, arm-wrestling, playing some sport or talking. Moses always said he wanted to be a soldier, even against Daddy’s wish. Daniel preferred the less dangerous business world. He boasted that he would be the richest man in Africa and consequently, the world. “Uh, you? I will be the president of Nigeria by then…so, tell me, who has more power?” “Me”, Daniel would say. “No, me”, Moses would reply. They never came to agreement on that particular subject.
Later in their lives, before Daniel got married, Daddy died peacefully in his sleep. The doctor said it was High Blood Pressure but, really, if anything killed him, it would have been stress from the police job.
So, being the only remaining two from the Bade nuclear family, Moses and Daniel had secured permanent places in each other’s heart. They wanted nothing, not even death to come between them. Nothing.
Mabel’s hug surprisingly was tighter than Daniel’s. She embraced him like man embraced destiny. She looked as beautiful as she had always been, but sounded kinder. He could not see through the acting in order to ascertain if it bore in it any sincerity, but he didn’t care to. Not with his sleepy brain, after such a tiring journey from Egypt.
“Heeeey! Welcome Moses. How are you? How was the army?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“Great to have you back!”
Daniel helped him with his luggage. Moses was so tired, he simply collapsed unto the bed.
He woke up an hour after to find his food on the dining table. Daniel and his wife ate silently, letting not as much as a word go from them. At first, Moses thought something was wrong. He soon gave up the thought as pessimistic. Maybe Daniel and Mabel were observing what Daddy used to call “table-listic manners”: do not talk while you eat.
Moses joined them.
When they had each finished eating a sumptuous plate of Semovita and Egusi soup, Daniel and Moses remained in the living room to discuss. There was so much water that had gone under the bridge.
“So, what shall we say took you and your fellow soldiers two months? Is that how much time you guys waste doing that Childs play you call training?”
Moses was amused at the sarcasm in his brother’s voice. He calls what almost took away my life Childs play. Funny.
“Watched the news at all?”
“Not really, been too busy”
“That’s why you didn’t hear of the Nigerian troop that killed Mohassad Sadir, the world’s third most dangerous terrorist in Sudan who was wanted dead. If such fiery experience of exchanging bullets is called Childs play, I wonder what one will call sitting down lazily in an air-conditioned cell called an office and commanding lofty profits”.
“Oh-oh, taking revenge like the Count of Molti Cristo? Anyway, let’s see what’s in the news.” Daniel picked the remote control and switched on the TV. A female newscaster was talking of the recent cases of stashing money abroad by governors and public servants. The newscaster’s big lips, with the blood-red lipstick over them, were the most prominent feature of the props. Several Nigerian public office holders had been caught in separate countries depositing large sums of US dollars in foreign banks. The international community was alarmed at such level of corruption, or so she said. In a flash, the next piece of news came in pictures of so-called masses complaining of the recent fuel hike. “This government has no conscience”, one professor of political science whined. Another pepper seller shouted, “gofment just dey make life hard for we”.
“Mozeezo, did you hear what this wicked souls are doing to the common man? Can you see what this devil of a president has caused?”, Daniel pointed to the long queues of cars waiting to buy petrol on the TV.
“What do you expect? Aren’t you happy to be in a democracy?”
“I don’t think that’s the issue at all. What is happening now isn’t a dent on democracy, it is a mad decision by the Head of State”
“Really?”, Moses smirked, “if the democratic structures are well placed, would we be talking of one man single-handedly changing the price of everything? It’s ridiculous, Danielolo, we have a lopsided system of government where public officers steal as much as they want without getting caught, where the people never have a say, and you call it democracy. Government officials climb seats of power only to watch their pockets and their insatiable egos…and we are in a democracy”.
Daniel took sometime to chew the message in what his brother said. Moses thought Daniel always looked more handsome when he was thinking deeply—although Daniel would never accept he was really handsome. He found it easier directing the compliment back to Moses, claiming those one-in-a-million stylish eyebrows on his brother were worth more than gold. He talked of Moses’ dimple, stylish goatee beard and curly hair as though those were the only parameters to measure cuteness. He always forgot that Moses even wished he didn’t have all those. They made him look less harmless and tough than he truly was. They betrayed his heavy build and husky features. Like their many arguments, they never concluded on who was more handsome, or who needed such looks more.
“Mozeezo, I don’t still think the problem is the system. The problem is how each government decides to operate it. Right now, those greedy men at the helm of affairs are relishing the pain of the masses. Now, that’s psychotic…. Will we ever have a set of good leaders?”
“Yes and no. The choice is ours. When we do nothing, we are bad as they, ‘specially when we are in the position to. Let’s say the panacea is one big revolution spear-headed by the military.”
“No way!”, Daniel retorted. He somehow knew Moses was heading there. Always in the search of something to justify his joining the army. Making himself sound like one very wise guy, expecting a time bomb, and preparing for it. “The military has nothing to offer Nigerians. Those brutal regimes are gone for good. Mozeezo, never say that outside or they will lynch you. Nobody prefers hell to sweating under the hot sun. But…but something actually has to be done to the Nigerian view of democracy. There’s no democracy yet.”
Moses was already feeling sleepy. He could feel his legs go numb—the same with his brain. He stood up to go to sleep, his deoxygenated brain only capable of imagining the image of a bed. But Daniel still wide-awake wanted another argument, reminiscent of their hot arguments of the past. He charged his brother with yet another comment.
“Seems like you soldiers still think you can do it right, but I don’t envisage any opportunity for a second chance, not from the Nigerian people; not from the international community”. Daniel smiled at the mention of international community. What did Daniel know about the apathy of such parasitic community? He was forced to reply.
“You might be right about the no-second-chance theory, but who knows? And forget the international community. As far as our oil is secure for them, they don’t care a hoot—goodnight”.
Moses’ goodnight was final. He didn’t want anything that will return him to a hospital bed, and a heavy fall with his face to the hard marble ground on his way to bed might do just that.
CHAPTER 6
Moses Bade jumped out from the steaming bathtub, sprang to his new wardrobe and threw off his towel. He rushed the part of creaming lotions on himself. He put on what looked like a very expensive suit. Then, he sprayed on himself half a bottle full of Tommy perfume.
He took quick glances at the mirror in his room as he combed his hair and thought of what he actually had in his schedule today. He was going to the Yellow club. He checked his watch: 11:30 A.M, he was late already. Daniel had bought him a new car, saying he just bought some vehicle to move him around. But who said a Mercedes SLK was just some vehicle? Like Moses’s favourite teacher in secondary school, whose two big dreams was to make heaven and own a big car, used to say, “there are vehicles and there are ve- hi-cles!”. The shiny blue convertible SLK was a ve-hi-cle.
As Moses drove to the Government Reserved Area (GRA), Ikeja, he tried to imagine what must have been happening in the Yellow club while he was on duty in Sudan. Yellow club was one of the few secrets Moses kept from his brother. It wasn’t just a club like Daniel’s many clubs, it was more of a political group with a critical view of political issues. Not a pack of social critics or human activists but of men and a woman of considerable capability to change situations. It was a thirty-two-person secret organization of powerful military men, politicians, past presidents of Nigeria, lawyers, entrepreneurs, and academics. It was one big secret that nobody, not even the government or the family of members knew about, except the members themselves. However, far from being a mere chat group, the club held clandestine meetings for one sole purpose: to work towards a social, economic and political revolution in the near future. Talk of Napoleon and his fellow comrades or Hitler’s Nazi party.
Yellow stood for “get ready” and came from the idea of the traffic light. Just before the light turns green, yellow appears and raises the hope of the motorists. The same thing when red is about to show and halt car movement. Yellow is always there to warn you, or as the case may be, happily inform you. That was the basis for the club.
Moses had sharpened most of his views talking to the best political crop in the country. Sometimes, he wondered whether he deserved to be among such a powerful group of people. His “calling” had happened differently compared to that of most other members. Brigadier-General Muftashao, the founder of the club, or cult (if you like), had Moses as his boy before he died. Moses was more or less like a son to him in the army. So, it was normal that if he could form such an association, he would trust Moses enough to involve him. Actually, other members got invitation after at least three months of tailing and studying them. The former members would then have a consensus on whether they want to invite the prospective member. After a consensus, a special letter was sent to the person. If such a person believed in the ideology of the club, he just had to call the number he was given in his letter to confirm, and whish! He was a member. The time of meeting could fall on anytime of the day and on any day. It was never repeated, to avoid suspicion of whatever kind. The last thing they wanted was for government to suspect sabotage and throw all of them behind bars.
More hilarious than Moses’s involvement in what he had not bargained for in Yellow club, was that he was also very respected. In the 6-year agenda for the revolution that must take place, Moses found himself being the would-be candidate for the temporal military rule.
For the 6-year plan to work, things must have gotten so bad that people would begin to doubt the effectiveness of democracy. Things were already bad enough. Inflation rate stood rudely at 28 percent. More than 70 percent of Nigerians lived less than a dollar a day. Life expectancy had dropped hopelessly to 40 years. Nigeria was the most corrupt country in the world and the second poorest. Things were only to get worse.
.
The SLK took a sharp corner into the street in GRA that harboured the most beautiful houses. Then the tyres sped to the last house on the street. The gates opened for the car as Moses flashed his headlight on it. The photoelectric gate opened when the headlight flashed thrice before resting permanently on it.
When he had locked his car, he walked over to the mansion. A room underground in the house was specially built for secret meetings. Moses saw some security men who directed him to the elevator that will take him beneath the ground. As he stepped out from the elevator into the room, he saw the other members doing a round-table discussion. His presence cut the discussion short. Everyone was happy to see him again.
“Guess who’s here?”, Barrister Johnson, the boisterous one among the club members, announced, “its our very own sergeant exceptionale!”.
Moses could only smile; he did not know what to say, considering that his impromptu arrival might even have been a disturbance. He walked over to his influential colleagues and shook them one by one.
“We were afraid you might have enjoyed the action in Sudan, scattering bullets from your toys like Rambo, so much that you would not return”, commented Retired General Fredrick Ironsi as Moses shook him. Moses burst into abrupt laughter, noting the contempt in the use of “toys”, but waiving it because it was coming from a former military leader who knew it all.
Moses took his seat and poured himself a flute of French champagne and picked at cookies. He hadn’t even eaten breakfast. He could see the day’s dailies spread on the long glass table. He had probably interrupted Honourable Garba Suleiman, a present member of the House of Representatives, who was most likely expounding some political issues. Not surprisingly, the Honourable continued his elucidation without delay.
“As I was saying, we have here a secret feud between Mr. President and his major sponsor during the last election, Chief Femi Douglas. What is being represented by the media as dissatisfaction from members of the NDP is actually a machinery employed by the powerful chief to unsettle the president. The way it is, it is most likely a case of clashing ambitions. Mr. President is already thinking about a second term in his first year, while his godfather has another candidate. The question is who is this candidate and why is so much trouble already taking place when he has three years to prepare?” The Honourable stopped his gesticulation and took time to observe any signs of a contribution.
“Let me chip in something here”, said Professor Abaziem, a PhD holder in Philosophy from the University of Leeds, “I think we need to understand to some extent the power Chief Douglas is capable of wielding and the strength of his followership. Maybe its time we track him down and figure out what he is up to. Whatever it is, it is obvious the man is passionate about it.”
The only woman amongst them who was a monumentally successful businesswoman and a CEO of twelve companies, which have their specialization ranging from oil and gas to confectionaries to importation to banking. Moses always said in his mind when he noticed her: watch out! My brother is coming for you.
It seemed Mrs. Audu herself had something to say. “I am of the opinion that Chief Douglas’s ambition is bad news”. Everybody nodded in agreement. “For the smooth running of our plans, it is imperative that this present government remain for a second term.”
“True”, cut in General Ironsi, with suppressed accent, “what we should do is to emasculate this man’s power base, and get him also unsettled. We can even do away with him”. Some of the others laughed at the idea. Ninety-percent of them was thinking, once a soldier, always a soldier.
Very rarely do members suggest what General just suggested. Everyone knew Yellow Club could organize an assassination, but very few saw need of it. Once, a former member of the club was assassinated when he betrayed the club by being a confidant to a presidential aspirant. He was only killed when it was obvious he soon was going to uncover the secret of Yellow Club. In fact, hell was let loose in the club before the decision was taken. Opposition the size of an Obudu hill was meted out by the business people and academics. This time around, General’s suggestion was already irksome to many of them. And, anyway, who said Chief Femi Douglas was as open a target as Dr. Dotun Pedro?
“General, I believe there are more effective ways of stopping this man’s agenda”, said the acting Assistant Inspector General of police, “we do not need to use crime to stop crime”. The AIG’s comment was expected. He felt the need to defend the integrity of the police.
“Not when we don’t have an option,” replied the General curtly.
“But we do!” the AIG’s voice went a decibel higher and his face squeezed in a frown.
“And so what? We—”
“Kilode gan na? Can’t you both see that the issue is not an arguing one? All we need to do is to track Chief down like Prof said, and to also know who his candidate is, like Honourable said. Simple, abi she simplistic ni?” When Alhaji Mustapha spoke, coating his words with his notorious accent, everybody listened, partly because of his age, but more because he was a business icon.
The story of how illiterate Alhaji single-handedly transformed the transportation industry could make a soldier at the field of battle to cry. It bore fateful doses of setbacks, sorrows and sacrifices neutralized with astronomical determination. You only needed to check the celebrity magazines for the rest.
“So who can this candidate be?”, asked the Honourable.
There was silence signifying that brains were thinking, spinning out webs of solution. A former vice-president of Nigeria was the first to speak.
“I was vice-president in Chief Douglas’ regime of the first republic. I know how much he liked power and how much he wanted to continue to cling to it. I therefore suspect he himself is interested in becoming president.”
“I shouldn’t believe that. The sweetness of power doesn’t come when you are in the position of power; it comes when you can control those in the position of power. Chief is more likely to have a puppet candidate…it’s definitely not him,” Professor Onabule with his big goggles easily reminded you of Mahatma Gandhi and he dished out words of wisdom with such frequency that Solomon would have been jealous.
“Seems our guy might be Senator Usman, his close associate. There have been close friends since secondary school,” as Barrister Johnson said this, he looked up for approval on the faces of the others. In less than three seconds of doing so, he knew nobody had bought his idea. Senator Usman has not been known to openly support Chief. And chief and egoistic people like him never know how not to keep sycophants.
“I think it is more possible that this candidate is the governor of Ogun State. He is always found around Chief.”
“I was just thinking of that too. Governor Olumide is the closest we’ll ever get. And remember he already has political clout, so chief won’t have to start from scratch.”
“Ah, yes…we’ve finally got our guy. It’s funny we didn’t know this all along”
“Maybe that is why the governor has started taking extra effort in pleasing his people—”
“And remember they are from the same state.”
“So, we had better start gathering close details about the governor’s whereabouts: we should be able to foil their plan in the end”.
Moses had been quiet all through. He watched how his colleagues, with so much enthusiasm, branded their choice. Were they right about the governor? Were they just being lazy so that they couldn’t see beyond their noses? Weren’t they missing something?
“Lady and gentlemen”, Moses got their attention with such formal address and he suddenly became the centre of attraction, “I am of the opinion that we can’t merely because of an intelligent guess put all our eggs in one basket. And in fact, I believe that another person with same chance of being our candidate is Engineer Tutu Douglas, Chief Douglas’ businessman son. If Chief so much seeks control, his best bet is his obedient only son.”
“That might be true”, the AIG commented.
“Seems we should keep our fingers crossed. The information team will bring enough detail in our next meeting to aid us in our choice and subsequent decisions”, Honourable Suleiman checked his 113-carats gold wristwatch as he spoke, “its time to go. We should be meeting next time on the planned date. Lady and gentlemen, I make a motion.”
“Seconded.”
CHAPTER 7
For two weeks now, Mr. Mobolaji had been trying to unravel the mystery behind the Market Research Manager’s change of name. Even if nobody noticed, he was no fool to let that one go past without questioning. What happened to Miss Eunice Head-something that she suddenly found that she was born of Yoruba parents? Or what does Jimoh have to do with the head of a frog? (at least, that’s what he remembered that first came to his mind when he heard her surname).
Honestly, Mr. Mobolaji knew he wouldn’t have given a damn if it were somebody else. But, for heaven’s sake, this was the woman that snatched his dream job from him by virtue of that purposeless informal interview. God knows, he had a Curriculum Vita that screamed “very intelligent!”, and he was yet to find any other that matched it. Straight As from secondary school plus summa cum laude from UNILAG plus Masters from Queen Mary Post-graduate School, England, multiplied by numerous awards from just everywhere had always equaled to any position of choice. Yet, the people here didn’t just seem to be able to calculate well.
To add salt to injury, she had been bossing him around like some kind of jerk. What did she take him for? Whenever Mr. Mobolaji recognized any beautiful person, his mind immediately conjured the image of the bumps that was now his chin. Maybe all this was happening because he was ugly. He had noticed Oga had become extra friendly with her. People always got attracted to beautiful people. That’s why he hated beautiful people. That’s why he hated her.
Just as Temi was meditating on his hatred and letting it eat away into every corner of his mind, his phone rang. The ID was “unknown”. He picked it and heard a voice he could not recognize. The person at the other end finished offering this deal and cut the line dead before Temi could make his decision.
He must have just spoken with the devil. Or who else could have peered into his feelings so deep and given him a deal that he just recently wished he had? Whoever it was, this was a nice deal. He didn’t mind extra cash at this critical moment.
The door opened and closed behind her. Daniel looked up from the screen of his laptop to catch Eunice’s golden smile.
“Hey, Miss Deola, what is it you have for me?”,
|
Blood, My Burden
I look into the mirror. I see my battered face. The make-up cannot even help to hide the leanness and sorrow on my face. I sniff in watery mucus as tears roll down my cheeks and fall on the papers on my desk. My strained eyes are turning red; pulling away into their sockets, especially the left eye whose eyelid is now swollen. My own son beat me up because I told him that he cannot go anywhere this night: “don’t you know it is twelve O’ clock in the night already?”
Like my husband never did, he turned to slap me when I applied some force on him, to prevent him from going out. As I continued to struggle with him, he started throwing his fists at me. He didn’t stop until I could no longer stand up from the settee. What have I done to be paid in this heinous way by life? Can’t I advise my son anymore?
The guilt in my conscience causes a rumbling in my stomach and adds weight to my bleeding heart—the same way mud does to the sole of a shoe. Something tells me I am merely reaping what I sowed, that I am the architect of my misfortune. But how was I to know that things will unfurl this way? How was I to know that my child would soon turn a dreadful monster?
The memories of my child’s days in school return to my mind. I remember when I begged teachers to pardon him, or when I faulted the principal for not taking action against a teacher that ‘overused’ his cane on him. I almost smile remembering it, but the sorrow rebukes the smile.
I bought him all he wanted, from goodies to clothes to shoes to computer games. At his tender age of ten, I took him to wonder places in Amsterdam and London—even Disney Land in Paris. Is this what I get for my love? Or have I spoilt him this way?
I try to bury my thoughts under the pretext that I have assignments to do. I try to think of what to write as the speech for tomorrow’s seminar. If my husband were here, he would have drawn out an outline for me. Yes, my husband Gbenga! Haven’t the police found his killers yet?
I pull the phone box near myself. Picking up the receiver, I dial the Inspector’s number. It is ringing.
“Hello Officer!”
“Hello ma. Anything?” His voice is the guttural type.
“How can you ask such? What is happening to the case?”
“Ma, we haven’t relaxed at all trying to fix a missing link. We have some suspects arraigned…”
“You’ve been saying that since, Inspector Jude. You and your team are not trying to prove what the press people are saying about sweeping the case under the carpet wrong?”
“Madam, do not take it that way. We are doing our best.”
“Your best ehn?…something tells me the murder is political and you all have been bribed.”
“Ah, madam, if not that you are …madam, please don’t say that, we are…trust us”
“Trust you?”
“Yes ma, trust us”
“I can’t!”
I hang up. How can I? The tears have dried on my skin, and my eyes are glassy. My lips are smarting, so I feel them. The cut on my lower lip is bleeding. Gbenga’s death makes my heart bleed even more. Gbenga will forever be my love. He was a charming man. I was only scared about one thing in him: his perfectionism. He required more than the best in anybody. He expected everything to work just fine. He used such idealistic vigour to run his business. But, against all odds, he made it big.
Gbenga somewhat had his share in spoiling Lekan, his son. He was busy traveling to Europe. He hardly stayed here in Nigeria. When he came to stay permanently, he couldn’t condone everything about his only son. He started beating Lekan very regularly. He beat him the most when Lekan brought a bad WASSCE result home.
“I didn’t send you to school to fail!” Gbenga declared, breathing in forceful puffs, “a brilliant child is an obedient child. This result shows how insolent and stubborn you are at school.” After that short speech, Gbenga drove his whistling belt towards his son’s back—and tore it.
I scribble something on the paper. Every time I complete a sentence, I wish I can write: “who finished me by taking away Gbenga and leaving me with a devilish son?”
TWO DAYS LATER
I go downstairs just after a call from Gbenga’s lawyer. I have not finished descending the stairs when the noise in the parlour hit me. Lekan again!
I see Lekan dancing with two other girls who cannot be more than seventeen. I approach them but they don’t budge.
“Lekan!” I have to shout enough for him to hear over the banging noise from the deck. “ I want to talk to you!” He doesn’t answer.
I contemplate going to put off the hi-fi system but I can’t. I don’t have enough courage, or do I? I, seeing that it for his good anyway, go to switch the thing off. Just as I stop the music, Lekan casts a menacing glance at me. He wipes sweat from his forehead and comes for me. My God, he wants to beat me again.
Simultaneously, the door slams open. Policemen armed to the teeth appear. Inspector Jude is in front of them. I am surprised. The two girls seek refuge behind the settee. Inspector Jude wears a hard look. He takes two steps forward and says, “sorry for disturbing you, we are here to arrest a suspect to the murder of Mr. Gbenga Latunga”
“I don’t understand,” I say “what is all these about, don’t you know are speaking to his wife and only son, so who is the suspect?”
Another policeman comes up and sneers, “your child madam, is a murderer. His cultist mates are under torture in the cell and—” Inspector Jude signals him to shut up. The other policemen go to Lekan and handcuff him.
They drag Lekan to their car outside. Lekan turns to see my reaction. Tears are already welling up in my eyes. How could you do that? How could you kill your own father?
The gory scenery of Gbenga’s cold body lying in his own pool of blood returns to me. I shiver. Several stabs of a sharp object, the police say, killed him in his office, as he was the only person there at that time.
“Lekan, why did you do it?” I go after them. He whispers that his father hated him and did not just let him be. Tears have already flooded my face. I hold Inspector Jude instinctively. He shoves me mildly and leaves me screaming, weeping and jumping.
“My God oo! My God oo!”
The Mistake Of All Mistakes
The Beginning
He was a man that hated mistakes. Most of his achievements had accrued to him due to his wariness of those small mistakes that could roll up into that big bad ball of failure. His philosophy was “nip the mistake in the bud”. Practice always made perfect. Or what do you call his faultless performances in the several big movies he had acted?
His father had said it once, in one mistaken attempt to impress a visitor, “Kunle can wear the character of anybody he wishes to. He is a natural actor”. Papa was right: acting was what Kunle did with flair, more because of his erratic nature than because of talent. Kunle was certain, as night of the next day to come, that he was soon going to be the next big thing in Nollywood. He saw it in the applauses from the directors after every well-orchestrated scene. “Bravo…spectacular…great!” In fact, if you watched any home video without the handsome face of Kunle Raji, it was not a major hit.
Magazine after magazine and headline after headline, everything had to do with celebrating Kunle’s astounding success in the movie world. He loved it: the fame, the money…the girls. As for the girls, they were all around him like flies around faeces. He had as many as he wanted. When merely being Kunle didn’t trip the girls, his innovative lines worked. Falling in love would have been a mistake.
But not true for Kunle’s only and best friend, Alex. Alex, a fashion designer, who lived two duplexes away from Kunle in Ajah, had a problem with girls. Or maybe it was this one particular “beautifuuul gal” that was just so difficult. Alex would come by Kunle’s house and they would talk. One day, just like any other day, he talked about “her”.
“Man, that girl has a way of making you feel unsure of yourself. Even after giving her such a fabulous valentine gift, all I got was a thank you and a smile. Jeez!”
“What did you want: a hug?” Kunle took some seconds to laugh like there was no tomorrow, before recovering and saying, “man, you need to establish your position in this relationship. She gave you probably what she thought you were satisfied with. Make yourself transparent. Let her know what you want and the consequences of not…”
“Consequences? See how you talk like I can do without her”
“Alex. That’s horseshit. Only chickens fall in love.”
Well, even Kunle was soon going to be a chicken. He came across one beautiful Daughter of Eve he could not take his eyes off. He was on a date when he kept stealing glances at her. She was talking to her friends. When he had gotten rid of his date, he walked up to the group of girls. They all jibed and whistled at seeing him coming towards them—except her. She wasn’t impressed. Then, he dropped one of his witty lines. She was not moved. He asked for their names. She said hers was Lola.
“Lola, mind if I give you an advice?”
“No problem”
“You will be better off smiling than wearing this look that makes you more a scarecrow than the angel you really are”
“Oh—thank you”
That cold reply brought three thoughts to Kunle’s mind. His first was “did I make a mistake by getting attracted to Lola?”. His second thought was “do I need to check the mirror again?”. His third was, “I am going to take the challenge. I’ll make her mine.”
No mistakes this time, Kunle told himself. He had fallen for this girl who was not like the rest. He had a big plan.
A mistake
His plan was to arrange with some of his guys and fake a rape situation where he will show up to save her like superman. It sounds simple, but it could win any girl’s heart. Girls could do anything in appreciation for not being raped. He would just be performing one of his golden scenes literally.
However, thanks to Kunle’s expert advice, Alex was gradually winning “her” heart.
“Thanks man, she is beginning to show her warmer nature”, Alex was really so happy, he gulped a glass of mango juice at once. “We are going to dinner tomorrow!”
“Cool man, didn’t I tell you”. Kunle wanted to tell his friend about his own problem, but on second thought, he didn’t.
Kunle had followed almost every of her activities through his watching guys. They had been reporting to him for a week. She was a model. She lived in Victoria Island. It seemed she already had a man, they said.
Soon, it was D-day. She was supposed to be going home after a party in Ikoyi. She had a friend who she could not do but visit on her way home. Kunle and his crew were waiting for her there.
“Christ!” she wanted to scream when a hand cupped her mouth and another carried her off her feet. One more vicious hand started to tear up her blouse. Lola could not believe what was happening. She could hardly breathe. Just when she thought she was going to suffocate, the hand on her mouth released grip a little. She gave her best shot of a scream, but it came off as a weak shriek. It was too dark to see these animals. It was too late to get help. Her boyfriend sleeping in the car would not hear.
Just then, a new pair of hands grabbed her rudely from behind. The owner of the hands tried to maneuvre or cover her or something of that kind, like she was a basketball. Before she lost her balance and fell, she heard a man shout, “hey you guys, back off!”. It was her boyfriend. He hit the one behind her with a hard blow. The others ran away. He continued to punch the animal that grabbed her from behind. He twisted the man’s arm and slammed him to the wall, extending his right arm in preparation of one last fatal blow. This was sure to withdraw another two teeth at least from the man’s jaw.
“Alex!”, Kunle gasped as his head was nailed to the wall with Alex’s big hand. Blood was flowing freely from his nose. This was a nightmare. Alex could have thrown another punch, but for the recognition.
“Kunle!”
The End
The news of the rape scandal was on every magazine. His name was dragged in the mud. Hungry journalists employed the most crass words to describe the event Lola herself called, “terrifying, although shameful to have come from him”. So he had become merely “him” for all his efforts. Kunle realized how easy a tall skyscraper of fame and respect could easily become rubble. Everyone that was interviewed called him names, like he had always been the devil. Ah, this life!
The magazines he had been reading were scattered in the table before him. Among them was an invitation to the wedding of Lola and his best friend, Alex. He finally picked it up to read. Behind the invitation card was a private letter from “her”:
“Dear Kunle, I am very sorry for all that must have happened to you after that event. Please take heart. Just want to tell you that, although you think otherwise, I like you. I really used to, when I was still a baby model and you were Nollywood’s newest sensation. But I heard you had a bad aspect, which was your pride and over-confidence. Actually, I should be in your arms now if not for these two scary demons. I knew I would never be able to live with them for the rest of my life. So I had to find a better replacement. I heard Alex was your best friend. Is it true? That’s hilarious.”
Kunle soon started shivering. A sharp pain roared in his bowels. He began to vibrate violently. The poison he used on himself was beginning to work. The force from inside his bowels threw him on his television (as the newscaster talked of “a shocking rape attempt…”). He began to foam.
Just before he died, one thought came to his mind, “I have made the mistake of all mistakes, but I don’t know what. Is it that I made the wrong friend? Or that I fell in love? Or that I employed those stupid touts to fake rape? Or what?” Kunle died before answering the question. But pray we give him a minute more, this is how he would have answered: “I made the mistake of not accepting my mistake in the first place, that is, thinking I was above mistakes”.
|
|
|
|
