Anthills of the Savannah

“And you are of the House of Baal.”

“Exactly. Or worse, of the unknown god.”

OVER LUNCH she told him about last night at Abichi. Or as much as it was possible to tell. Chris took in the introductory details warily knowing that the gaiety in her voice was hiding something awful. When she finally let it out he was so outraged he involuntarily jumped up from his seat.

“Please sit down and eat your food.” He sat down but not to eat. Not another morsel.

“I can’t believe that,” he kept saying. Beatrice’s efforts to get him to resume his lunch failed totally. He had gently pushed his plate away.

“Look, Chris, this salad is not Agatha’s. I made it specially for you.”

He relented somewhat and shovelled two or three spoonfuls of vegetables into his mouth and set the spoon down again. Finally she gave up, saying she should have known better and not shot her stupid mouth till he had eaten. She called Agatha and asked her to put the dessert back in the fridge and bring them coffee things. Without answering, she began instead to clear the table.

“Agatha!”

“Madam!”

“Leave the table alone and get us coffee, please. After that you can clear the table.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Let’s go and sit more comfortably,” she said to Chris. “We will have coffee and brandy. I insist on that. I want a little celebration. Don’t ask me for what. A celebration, that’s all. Kabisa!”

SLOWLY, VERY SLOWLY under Beatrice’s expert resuscitation his spirits began to rally. She dwelt on the amusing trivia as much as possible and underplayed the shocks. But most masterly of all she got Chris to actively participate in recreating the events.

“Who is that Alhaji fellow, Chairman, I think, of the Kangan/American Chamber of Commerce?” she asked.

“Oh that one. Alhaji Abdul Mahmoud. Didn’t you know him? I thought you did. You see, that’s the trouble with being such a recluse. If you came out to even one cocktail party a month you would know what was going on… Alhaji Mahmoud is himself a bit of a hermit though. He hardly appears anywhere and when he does, hardly says a word. Rumour has it that he has in the last one year knocked all other Kangan millionaires into a cocked hat. Eight ocean liners, they say, two or three private jets; a private jetty (no pun intended). No customs officials go near his jetty and so, say rumour-mongers, he is the prince of smugglers. What else? Fifty odd companies, including a bank. Monopoly of government fertilizer imports. That’s about it. Very quiet, even self-effacing but they say absolutely ruthless. All that may or may not be standard fare for multi-millionaires. What I find worrying and I don’t think I can quite believe it yet is that (voice lowered) he may be fronting you know for… your host.”

“No!”

“Don’t quote me. Rumours rumours rumours. I should know though. After all I am the Commissioner for Information, aren’t I? But I’m afraid I have very little information myself… Incidentally BB, how can you be so wicked? Imagine confronting me with that embarrassing catalogue of my morning’s activities including the BBC at seven! Absolutely wicked… But I suppose it could have been worse. You might have added, for instance, that while the ministry over which I preside dishes out all that flim-flam to the nation on KBC I sneak away every morning when no one is watching to listen to the Voice of the Enemy.”

“That was a good performance of mine, was it?”

“Absolutely flawless. And devastating. I don’t know why you still haven’t written a play. You would knock Ikem into a cocked hat.”

“That would take some doing. But thanks all the same.”

Before he finally left her flat a little after six she had made another pass

ionate plea to get him to agree to patch things up with Ikem.

“What I heard and saw last night frightened me. Ikem was being tried there in absentia and convicted. You have to save him, Chris. I know how difficult he is and everything. Believe me, I do. But you simply have to cut through all that. Ikem has no other friend and no sense of danger. Or rather he has but doesn’t know how to respond. You’ve tried everything in the book, I know. But you’ve just got to try them all over again. That’s what friends are for. There is very little time, Chris.”

“Little? There may be no time at all left… I should do something; I agree, but what? You see there is nothing concrete on which Ikem and I quarrel. What divides us is style not substance. And that is absolutely unbridgeable. Strange isn’t it?”

“Very strange.”

“And yet… on reflection… not so strange. You see, if you and I have a quarrel over an orange we could settle it by dividing the orange or by letting either of us have it, or by handing it over to a third party or even by throwing it away. But supposing our quarrel is that I happen to love oranges and you happen to hate them, how do you settle that? You will always hate oranges and I will always love them; we can’t help it.”

“We could decide though, couldn’t we, that it was silly and futile to quarrel over our likes and dislikes.”

“Yes,” he answered eagerly. “As long as we are not fanatical. If either of us is a fanatic then there can be no hope of a settlement. We will disagree as long as we live. The mere prospect of that is what leaves me emotionally drained and even paralysed… Why am I still in this Cabinet? Ikem calls us a circus show, and he is largely right. We are not a Cabinet. The real Cabinet are some of those clowns you saw last night. Why am I still there then? Honour and all that demands that I turn in my paper of resignation. But can I?”

“Yes, you can.”

“Well, I’ve just told you I have no energy to do it.”