The Extinction of Menai. Chuma Nwokolo
a pen and a notebook.
He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘What do you want to know? I entered Harvard at the age of sixteen—’
‘Harvard?’
‘The university. You ’ave heard of it, not so? I graduated firs’ class. Won the prize for my year. After my PhD, I entered revotechnics . . .’
‘Revo-what?’ I asked, writing.
‘Revotechnics.’ He sighed. ‘Journalist of nowadays. So wha’s the problem? Spelling or meaning?’ I didn’t reply, and he continued. ‘By the time I was thirty I was registering patents left, right, and centre. I was chairman of UAC for ten years. Then I ran for the presidency.’
‘And how was your election?’ I asked caustically. I had stopped writing when he started registering patents left, right, and centre, but those shorthand squiggles that I had been silly enough to make stared up at me with pity.
‘Don’t mind those tribalists,’ he said. He took a bottle, shook some groundnuts into a fist, and munched away. ‘Anyway, that annoyed me so much that I retired here to my country villa.’ His groundnut hand indicated his luxurious retirement estate. He shook his legs with barely concealed irritation. ‘Any more questions?’
I did not think my crisp currency notes deserved all this sarcasm, but it was also clear that the hallucination had knocked me off-balance. I had opened an interview with a smuggler with my celebrity formula. In two and a half years of print journalism it was hard to beat a sillier opener: asking a criminal for testimony that could lock him away. I had to pull things together quickly.
Patrick’s money was on the line.
He extended the groundnut bottle to me. I shook my head politely. ‘This Badu, is he from this area at all?’
‘No, he’s from Congo.’
I stared, trying to decide if he was still being sarcastic. ‘Do you know where he is?’
He returned my stare.
I tried another tack. ‘About the second video, is it ready yet? I want the first copy.’
He sneered. ‘From this money? Look, young man, I am a smuggler, not a Nollywood producer.’
I paused again: deep breath, slow exhale. ‘Is the IG still alive at all?’
‘What did you think will kill him? Mosquitoes?’
I paused to consider my options. Despite his fearsome reputation, Adevo did not look like a physical match for me. At fourteen, I had realised I was never going to make six feet and became the second member of the Kreektown Boxing Club. I had maintained the sport in Abuja while I hustled for my degree. I took every opportunity, in and out of the ring, to practise. Adevo did not look fit enough to yawn properly, but he had not left his chair so far, and his off-white robe was generous enough to conceal a small arsenal—a smuggler with his reputation would not get by on divine protection alone. This was a nonrefundable transaction, then. I tried again. ‘Can I meet Badu?’
He stared at me.
‘Are you Badu?’ I asked.
‘Is this a joke?’ he snarled.
The harmattan howled through the interstices of the tent, sinking its chill between my shoulder blades. Fear for my money and my life seized me. I regretted coming alone, coming at all. My dreams of journalistic fame on the wings of a Badu scoop began to fade. I leaned forward and whispered, although I could have screamed in that wilderness and not been heard, ‘Listen, we are on the same side, okay? Talk to me in confidence, eh? I’ll use a false name for you, and a false location for Badu . . .’
He chewed his nuts quietly.
‘So, is Badu planning any more strikes?’
‘We pray.’
I closed my notebook. ‘You want to cancel the interview?’ There was a tremor in my voice, which angered me. I ratcheted up my anger. It was preferable to fear, ‘Is that it?’
‘No, no, the money’s good,’ he said, eating some more groundnuts. ‘The interview’s very good.’
‘Because I’m getting the feeling that I’m talking to a con man who has never even seen Badu.’
‘Is that so?’ There was mockery in his voice.
‘And if that’s the case, just give me back my cash. Forget about my petrol, forget about my time, just give me back my . . .’
He smiled. ‘There’s no refund in ashawo business. You can’t just tell a prostitute it wasn’t sweet—’
‘Listen, my friend . . .’
His smile drained slowly away. ‘I know who you are. You wanted to try me, not so? But I passed your test. Eh?’
The unspoken tract of a strange language sprawled between us. My mind gridlocked and refused to mesh. Visions of a post-Palaver TV-journalism career plunged into a swirling vortex. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘My mouth is . . .’ He zipped his lips. There were bits of caked starch meal on his palm. ‘I swear to God.’
I rose slowly. My mouth was parched. I prayed for a violent fit, but all I got was a roaring in my ears. I took a step towards him and provoked a belly laugh. A low growl issued from the dog, and a metal post with two black nozzles peered out from his robes. I froze.
‘I’m a honest thief. A deal is a deal.’
‘Our deal was for an interview. You call this an interview?’
‘If you also want me to finish Pitani for you, just say so.’
‘What do you mean, finish Pitani?’ I shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Go and ask about me,’ he boasted, getting into a clearly familiar groove. ‘I am Korba Adevo.’ He gestured at the bank of phones by his side. His voice rose and the tent began to billow with his bombastic rage: ‘There’s nothing I can’t move. Me that I have sold army helicopters from this very chair. What about boats? I have six, do you hear me? Six contraband boats! Is it crude? I have bunkered enough petrol to flood this country. Go and check! Lamborghinis, Hummers, there’s nothing that’s too big for me.’ He simmered slowly, then ignited again, his great eyes bulging. ‘Because I’m sitting in this dirty tent! This is my field office only! My house in Ubesia is two storeys! Go to Constitution Road, Aba! Half of the houses on that road are mine! I’m the one that sold the FESTAC mask to British gov’ment, you hear me? There’s nothing tha’s too big for me—’
‘—except the presidency . . .’ I suggested.
‘Leave nonsense for foolish people,’ he counselled shortly. ‘I sell silence as well, okay? That’s me.’ He picked up a phone. ‘You see this red Samsung? It has the telephone of a federal minister. You know why he does business with me?’ He drew his zipper again.
Beneath the bombast was some truth. I had never met him before, but the name Korba Adevo had resonance amongst the dwellers of creek country. This far from civilisation a grave would not require a death certificate to dig. A funeral would not need a coroner’s report. I had lost Patrick’s money. My life was still on option.
I opted to flee.
I raised the flap and backed outside. The harmattan was more insistent now. The fever inside me was gone. I was uniformly cold all over as I mounted the horse. My sore, unaccustomed buttocks connected with the craggy saddle, completing my misery. I remembered my Dictaphone, which had a few untranscribed interviews. Yet I knew that if I returned for it I would either have my head blown off at the entrance or find the fat fence dead all over again. Neither prospect appealed. I turned the horse’s nose for Kreektown and urged it on.
HUMPHREY CHOW
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