The Extinction of Menai. Chuma Nwokolo
Then he said, stressing his point with firm jabs on Lamikan’s chest. ‘We are businessmen; we never do anything illegal. What we do is done at primitive levels all over the world. In Washington, lobbyists make careers of trying to influence lawmakers one way or the other.’ He cranked up his grin. ‘We make a success of it.’
‘So you are a lobbyist?’
‘In the sense that Open Heavens is a painting, yes. Listen, a lobbyist can deliver a senator’s vote on a particular bill. I can take a particular bill—or policy, or appointment—and deliver it. In a dozen countries at the same time. It is a matter of the level of influence my club can deliver. We take the long view. Sometimes all we do is identify people with leadership potential in a country and build with them, sometimes over a decade. And I don’t like to boast, but considering the state of our collection right now, I must say we have developed a knack for backing the right horses.’
‘Or mules,’ muttered Lamikan into his glass. A chill fell on the room. ‘During the Orkar coup, there was a rumour of a foreign coup plotter who escaped Nigeria in the boot of a car.’
Penaka’s champagne hand trembled. ‘Rumours, stories, the revenge of the powerless against the powerful.’
Tanko cleared his throat. ‘What you are talking about is like . . . developing connections.’
‘Not connections,’ insisted Penaka quietly. ‘Collections.’
‘So,’ said Ofo, gesturing at a political map of the world on the wall opposite the skyscape. ‘How many countries are in your collection right now?’
‘If you’re talking connections like Tanko, there’s nowhere in the world where we have none. But if you’re talking collections—’ He grinned coyly. ‘Well, like my friend Lamikan suggested, there are some things that are better not said in public.’
‘I see . . .’ Lamikan took a deep breath and glanced pointedly at his watch.
‘What’s your nationality?’ asked Tanko.
‘Patriotism is an outdated concept. I hold a couple of passports of convenience, speak eight languages, and pay some tax in nine jurisdictions.’
‘If patriotism is outdated, what have you replaced it with?’
‘Capitalism is inconsistent with patriotism; otherwise there’d be no such thing as a tax haven. Business transcends borders. If countries can own people, why not the other way round?’ He thumbed off a ringing phone. ‘The most patriotic thing you can do for your country is to be very rich! Taxes win wars!’
They talked a while longer. Lamikan had fallen silent, glancing at his watch every now and then. Finally, Belinja took the hint and made their apologies. Penaka’s invitation, when it came, was almost too casual: ‘Some of my club members are in town for the week, and I’m giving them a dinner soon.’ He waved a derisory hand to indicate his pièce de résistance: ‘This painting is nothing. If they like you, you might get an invitation into the most select club in the world.’
Tanko took Penaka’s hand in a farewell handshake and retained it once again. ‘Let me ask you a straight question, Mister Penaka: are you planning a coup?’
‘I’ll give you a straight answer, my friend: I’m not crazy.’
‘That’s not a straight answer.’
‘Touché.’ He nodded. ‘Look, imagine a hundred power brokers from all over the world with a hundred unique contacts each, all in one club. That gives every single power broker access to a hundred thousand quality contacts worldwide. That’s my idea of a coup. Only it’s no longer an idea. You can call up your president on the phone. Imagine that with me as a telephone exchange you have that kind of access to one hundred presidents. That’s my coup, friends. Totally legit.’
* * *
SOON AFTER, Penaka was on the patio, seeing off his guests. The soldiers were almost at the car, but Penaka hung back with Belinja until the rest were out of earshot. His smile was still intact as he said, ‘That Lamikan, I don’t want him back.’
‘He’s Obu’s security adviser,’ Belinja argued. ‘He’s critical—’
‘He’s out.’ Penaka pushed his finger into Belinja’s shoulder and repeated, ‘Out.’ He looked past Belinja to the soldiers talking by the car. ‘Ofo is an interesting character, though. You do take risks, don’t you? M.A. to the head of state. What more can he want?’
‘He thinks his boss is sleeping with his wife. Guess who put that silly idea in his head?’
‘Say no more, Belinja.’ Penaka Lee grinned as he walked with the major toward the car. ‘You’re a genius with your database.’
‘Thanks. When are you seeing the Sontik governor?’
‘I have a plane waiting to take me to Ubesia.’
At the car, he looked at Ofo and said, ‘Belinja tells me you used to write poetry at the Defence Academy.’
‘Still do.’
‘Who’s your favourite American poet?’
‘I’d say Robert Frost.’
‘Give me a poem,’ said Penaka. ‘Any poem.’
Ofo shrugged. ‘“Fire and Ice.”’
‘Okay. I’ll give you a treat from the mouth of the American president. He’s scheduled to address an Island Nations conference next month. Tune in to that speech on CNN; I’ll give you a practical demonstration of my skills as a presidential ventriloquist.’
Ofo kept a polite smile on his face, but as soon as they drove through the gate, he shook his head and joined in the general laughter. Belinja alone was silent.
HUMPHREY CHOW
Lower Largo, Scotland | 15th March, 2005
‘I think I have a solution,’ I said quietly. ‘What if you refunded their money?’
‘I have a cash flow situation here,’ he replied.
‘Let’s say you refunded it; would they still come after you?’
‘Of course not; it’s a bloody business. Once their books balance, we’re quits.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’ll write me a ten-thousand-quid cheque?’
I had to smile at that. The week before, Grace had cut out a job advert for a dog walker and left it on my laptop. I raised my hands. ‘Not so fast. I am a short story writer. I’m sure my agent can get me a decent advance on the basis of your story.’
‘You’ll do this? Just to save your banger?’
‘Not to talk of the innocent people you planned to kill.’
The sarcasm washed over him. ‘How quickly can you raise it?’
‘You’ll have to keep running for a few more days, if that’s what you mean.’
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘You can get an advance of up to ten thousand?’
‘Sure,’ I replied bravely.
He continued to look me up and down. ‘Are you any good? I never heard the name “Humphrey Chung” before.’
‘Chow!’ I moved in polite circles where people snapped their fingers and claimed to recognize my name whenever I introduced myself as a writer, although I was sensible enough never to ask which of my stories they had read.
‘Have you actually published? Never heard of a Humphrey Chan . . . of your Humphrey before.’
‘Yes.’ He was going to persist, so I continued, ‘But then again, nine years of grappling with law exams doesn’t leave much extra time for fiction, does it?’
‘But