As soon as he opened his eyes, he felt it. A strange
peace, a calm clarity. He stretched. Even his limbs
were stronger and surer. He looked at his phone.
Thirty-seven new text messages – and all while he
was asleep. With one click, he deleted them. The
empty screen buoyed him. Then he got up to bathe,
determined to fold the day into the exact shape that
he wanted.
Those Levick people had to go. No more foreign PR
firms. They should have made that article in the
American newspaper sound like him, they should
have known better. They had to go. And he would not
pay their balance; they had not fulfilled the purpose
of the contract after all. Continue...
He pressed the intercom. Man Friday came in, face set in a
placidly praise-singing smile.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!”
“Good morning,” Oga Jona said. “I had a revelation from
God.”
Man Friday stared at him with bulging eyes.
“I said I had a revelation from God,” he repeated. “Find me
new Public Relations people. Here in Nigeria. Is this
country not full of mass communication departments and
graduates?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Friday’s eyes narrowed; he
was already thinking of whom he would bring, of how he
would benefit.
“I want a shortlist on my table on Wednesday,” Oga Jona
said. “I don’t want any of the usual suspects. I want fresh
blood. Like that student who asked that frank question
during the economic summit.”
“Your Excellency… the procurement rules…we need
somebody who is licensed by the agency licensed by the
agency that licenses PR consultants…”
Oga Jona snorted. Man Friday used civil service
restrictions as a weapon to fight off competition. Anybody
who might push him out of his privileged position was
suddenly not licensed, not approved, not registered. “I
don’t want you to bring your own candidates, do you hear
me? I said I want fresh blood, I’m not joking.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Man Friday said, voice now high-
pitched with alarmed confusion.
“Put that DVD for me before you go,” Oga Jona said.
He watched the recording on the widescreen television,
unhappy with his appearance in the footage. His trousers
seemed too big and why had nobody adjusted his hat?
Next to The Girl from Pakistan, he looked timid, scrunched
into his seat. She was inspiring, that young girl, and he
wished her well. But he saw now how bad this made him
appear: he had ignored all the Nigerians asking him to go
to Chibok, and now The Girl From Pakistan was telling the
world that he promised her he would go. He promised me,
she said. As if the abducted Nigerian girls did not truly
matter until this girl said they did. As if what mattered to
him was a photo-op with this girl made famous by
surviving a gunshot wound. It made him look small. It
made him look unpresidential. It made him look like a
leader without a rudder. Why had they advised him to do
this? He pressed a button on his desk and waited.
Violence was unfamiliar to Oga Jona. Yet when Man
Monday came in, his belly rounded and his shirt a size too
tight as usual, Oga Jona fought the urge to hit and punch
and slap. Instead, he settled for less: he threw a teacup at
Man Monday.
“Why have you people been advising me not to go to
Chibok? Why have you people been telling me that my
enemies will exploit it?”
“Sah?” Man Monday had dodged the teacup and now stood
flustered.
“I am going to Chibok tomorrow. I should have gone a long
time ago. Now it will look as if I am going only because a
foreigner, a small girl at that, told me to go. But I will still
go. Nigerians have to see that this thing is troubling me
too.”
“But Sah, you know…”
“Don’t ‘Sah you know’ me!” This was how his people
always started. “Sah, you know…” Then they would bring
up conspiracies, plots, enemies, evil spirits. No wonder
giant snakes were always chasing him in his dreams: he
had listened to too much of their nonsense. He
remembered a quote from a teacher in his secondary
school: ‘The best answer to give your enemies is
continued excellence.’ What he needed, he saw now, was
an adviser like that teacher.
“Sah, the security situation…”
“Have you not seen Obama appear in Afghanistan or Iraq in
the middle of the night to greet American troops? Is Chibok
more dangerous than the war the Americans are always
fighting up and down? Arrange it immediately. Keep it
quiet. I want to meet the parents of the girls. Make gifts
and provisions available to the families, as a small token
of goodwill from the federal government.” He knew how
much people liked such things. A tin of vegetable oil would
soften some bitter hearts.
“Sah…”
“From Borno we go to Yobe. I want to meet the families of
the boys who were killed. I want to visit the school. Fifty-
nine boys! They shot those innocent boys and burnt them
to ashes! Chai! There is evil in the world o!”
“Yes Sah.”
“These people are evil. That man Yusuf was evil. The
policemen who killed him, we have to arrest them and
parade them before the press. Make sure the world knows
we are handling the case. But it is even more important
that we tell the true story about Yusuf himself. Yes, the
police should not have killed him. But does that mean his
followers should now start shedding blood all over this
country? Is there any Nigerian who does not have a bad
story about the police? Was it not last year that my own
cousin was nearly killed in police detention? Let us tell
people why the Army caught him in the first place. He was
evil. Remember that pastor in Maiduguri that he beheaded.
Find that pastor’s wife. Let her tell her story. Let the world
hear it. Show pictures of the pastor. Why have we not been
telling the full story? Why didn’t we fight back when The
Man From Borno was running around abroad, blaming me
for everything when he too failed in his own
responsibilities?” Oga Jona was getting angrier as he
spoke, angry with his people, angry with himself. How
could he have remained, for so long, in that darkness, that
demon possession of ineptitude?
“Yes Sah!”
“You can go.”
He picked up the iphone and spoke slowly. “I want to
expand that Terror Victims Support Committee. Add one
woman. Add two people personally affected by terrorism.
How can you have a committee on terrorism victims with
no diversity?”
On the other end of the phone, the voice was stilled by
surprise. “Yes Sah!” Finally emerged, in a croak.
He put down the phone. There would be no more
committees. At least until he was re-elected. And no more
unending consultations. He picked up the Galaxy, scrolled
through the list of contacts. He called two Big Men in the
Armed Forces, the ones stealing most of the money meant
for the soldiers.
“I want your resignation by Friday,” He said simply.
Their shock blistered down the phone.
“But Your Excellency…”
“Or you want me to announce that I am sacking you? At
least resignation will save you embarrassment.”
If those left knew he was now serious as commander-in-
chief, serious about punishing misdeed and demanding
performance, they would sit up. He ate some roasted
groundnuts before making the next call. To another Big
Man in the Armed Forces. They had to stop arresting
Northerners just like that. He remembered his former
gateman in Port Harcourt. Mohammed, pleasant
Mohammed with his buck teeth and his radio pressed to
his ear. Mohammed would not even have the liver to
support any terrorist. He told the Big Man in the Armed
Forces, “You need to carry people along. Win hearts and
minds. Make Nigerians feel that you are fighting for them,
not against them… And when you talk to the press and say
that Nigerians should do their part to fight terrorism, stop
sounding as if you are accusing them. After all, let us tell
the truth, what can an ordinary person do? Nothing! Even
those people who check cars, if they open a boot and see a
big bomb, what will they do? Will they try to subdue an
armed suicide bomber? Will they pour water on the bomb to
defuse it? Will they not turn and run as fast as their legs
can carry them? Let’s start a mass education campaign.
Get proposals on how best to do it without scaring people.
When we tell Nigerians to report suspicious behavior, let’s
give them examples. Suspicious behavior does not mean
anybody wearing a jellabiya. After all, was the one in Lagos
not done by a woman?” He paused.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
“As for the girls, we have to go back to negotiation. Move
in immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I should not have listened to what they told me in that
Paris summit. Why did I even agree to follow them and go
to Paris, all of us looking like colonised goats?”
From the other end, came a complete and lip-sealed
silence. The Big Man in the Armed Forces dared not make
a sound, lest it be mistaken as agreement on the word
‘goat.’ Besides, he had been part of the entourage for that
trip and had collected even more than the normal fat juicy
estacode.
“I don’t want to hear about any other mutiny,” Oga Jona
continued. “You will get the funds. But I want real results!
Improve the conditions of your boys. I want to see results!”
The Big Man in the Armed Forces started saying something
about the Americans.
Oga Jona cut him short. “Shut up! If somebody shits inside
your father’s house, is it a foreigner that will come and
clean the house for you? Is Sambisa on Google Maps? How
much local intelligence have you gathered? Before you ask
for help, you first do your best!”
“Yes Your Excellency.”
“And why is it that nobody interviewed the girls who
escaped?”
There was a pause.
“By tomorrow night I want a report on the local intelligence
gathered so far!”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Oga Jona turned on the television and briefly watched a
local channel. Who even designed those ugly studio
backgrounds? There was a knock on the door. It had to be
Man Thursday. Nobody else could come in anyhow.
“Good afternoon, My President,” Man Thursday said.
Short and stocky, Man Thursday was the soother who
always came cradling bottles of liquid peace.
This time, Oga Jona pushed away the bottle. “Not now!’
“My President, I hope you’re feeling fine.”
“I received a revelation from God. From now on, I will stop
giving interviews to foreign journalists while ignoring our
own journalists.”
“But My President, you know how useless our journalists
are…”
“Will Obama give an interview to AIT and ignore CBS?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“I know some of our journalists support Bourdillon, but we
also have others on our side. I will beat them at their
game! I want to do interviews with two journalists that
support us and one journalist that supports Bourdillon.
Find one that will be easy to intimidate.”
“But…”
“I want names in the next hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Thursday now stood still, lips
parted in the slack expression of a person no longer sure
what day it was.
“Tell the Supporters Club to change their television
advertisements. They should stop mentioning ‘those who
are against me.’ I will no longer give power to my enemies.
They should mention only the things that I am doing. I like
that one with the almajiri boy. It shows Nigerians that I
have helped with education in the North. They should make
more advertisements like that.”
In response, Man Thursday could only nod vigorously but
mutely.
Later, after eating vegetable soup with periwinkle and a
plate of sliced fruits – he was determined to keep himself
from looking like Man Monday – he asked Sharp Woman to
meet him in the residence. Not in the main living room, but
in the smaller relaxing white parlor. Sharp Woman was the
only one he fully trusted. He had sometimes allowed
himself to sideline her, when he had felt blown this way
and that way by the small-minded pettiness of other
people. She was the only one who had not allowed him to
dwell too much on his own victimhood. Once, she had told
him quietly, “You have real enemies. There are people in
this country who do not think you should be president
simply because of where you come from. Did they not say
they would make the country ungovernable for you? But
not everything is the fault of your enemies. If we keep on
blaming the enemies then we are making them powerful.
The Bourdillon people are disorganized. They don’t have a
real platform. Their platform is just anti-you. They don’t
even have a credible person they can field, the only major
candidate they have is the one they will not select. So stop
mentioning them. Face your work.”
He should have listened then, despite the many choruses
that drowned her voice.
It was she who, a few days later, and after the four rubbish
candidates stage-managed by Man Friday, brought the
new PR people, Kikelola Obi, Bola Usman and Chinwe
Adeniyi – when he first saw their names, he thought: and
some crazy people are saying we should divide Nigeria.
They were in their early thirties, with rough faces and no
make up; they looked too serious, as if they attended
Deeper Life church and disapproved of laughter. They
started their presentation, all three taking turns to speak.
They stood straight and fearless. Their directness and
confidence unnerved him.
“Sir, we voted for you the first time. We felt that you would
do well if you had the mandate of the people instead of just
an inherited throne. We liked you because you had no
shoes. We really liked you. We had hope in you. You
seemed humble and different. But with all due respect sir,
we will not vote for you again unless something changes.”
He nearly jumped up from his seat. Small girls of
nowadays! They had no respect! As if to make it worse,
one of them added that if the election were held today, the
only person she could vote for was The Man From Lagos.
Oga Jona bristled. That annoying man. Even if a mosquito
bit him in his state, he would find a way to blame the
president for it. Still, Oga Jona could see why these foolish
small girls were saying they would vote for him. The man
had tried in Lagos. But their mentioning The Man From
Lagos was now a challenge. He would rise to the
challenge.
“Sir, the good news is that Nigerians forgive easily and
Nigerians forget even more easily. You have to change
strategy. Be more visible. Stop politicizing everything.
Stop blaming your enemies for everything. You have to be,
and seem to be, a strong, uniting leader. Make sure to keep
repeating that this is not a Muslim vs. Christian thing.”
Oga Jona cut in, pleased to be able to challenge these
over-sabi girls. “You think Nigerians don’t know that it is
mostly Christian areas that they are targeting in Borno?
And what about all those church bombings?”
The three shook their heads, uniformly, like robots. They
were sipping water; they had declined everything else.
“With all due respect sir, if you look at the names of
bombing victims, they are Muslims and Christians. If God
forbid another terror attack occurs, you have to come out
yourself and talk to Nigerians. Stop releasing wooden
statements saying you condemn the attacks. We will prep
you before each public appearance. You have a tendency to
ramble. That’s the most important thing to watch out for.
Be alert when you answer each question. Keep your
answers short. You don’t have to elaborate if there is
nothing to elaborate. Stick to the point. If they ask you
something negative, be willing to admit past mistakes but
always give the answer a positive spin. Something like
‘yes, I could have handled it better and I regret that but I
am now doing better, and am determined to do even more
because Nigerians want and deserve results.’ You have to
start reaching out beyond your comfort zone. Nigeria has
talent. Look for the best Nigerians on any subject at hand,
wherever they may be, and persuade them to come and
contribute on their area of expertise. Especially the ones
who have no interest in government work. Even one or two
who don’t completely agree with you. Think of Lincoln’s
Team of Rivals.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, sir. The important thing is to reach out
beyond your circle. Oga Segi was not a calm person like
you. He even used to threaten to flog people. But he had a
good network. Jimmy Carter is his friend. If he needed
expertise from a university in Zaria or Edinburgh or Boston,
he would pick up his phone and know somebody who knew
or somebody who knew somebody who knew. But with all
due respect, sir, you don’t have that. Bayelsa is a small
place.”
These girls really had no respect o! He glared at Sharp
Woman, who shrugged and muttered, “You said you wanted
people who would tell you the truth.”
But he listened.
In his first interview, the words rolled off his tongue. Those
girls had made him repeat himself so many times. “I want
to apologize to the Nigerian people for some actions of my
government. We could have done better. No country
fighting terrorism can let everything be open. But we owe
our country men and women honest, clear assurance that
we are taking decisive action, with enough details to be
convincing. I ask for your prayers and support. I have
directed the security services to set up a website that will
give Nigerians accurate and up-to-date information about
our war against terrorism. I have also hired specialists to
manage the flow and presentation of the information.”
And the words came easily when he shook hands with the
parents in Chibok, simple polite people who clutched his
hand with both of theirs. He should have done this much
earlier; it was so touching. “Sorry,” he said, over and over
again. “Sorry. Please keep strong. We will rescue them.”
The words were more reluctant when he wore a red shirt
and asked to be taken to the gathering of The People in Red
at the park. But he cleared his throat and urged himself to
speak, particularly because, as he emerged from within his
circle of security men, the People in Red all stopped and
stared. Silence reigned.
“I came to salute you,” Oga Jona started. “We are on the
same side. My government has made mistakes. We are
learning from them and correcting them. Please work with
us. Together, we will defeat this evil.”
They were still silent and still staring; they were disarmed.
He thanked them and, before they could marshal their old
distrust, he turned and left. That night, as he sank to his
knees in prayer, he heard the muted singing of angels.

Wow. Such imaginative ingenuity with so much simplicity of language! I love this. I will adapt this to a playscript and perform it soonest on the stage. God bless you Chimamanda. Just your support of homosexuality I don't like. You are rare.

chimamanda really gats brain I so much love this write up ehnnnnn