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?” Read more after the cut
“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.
Chimamanda Adichie is an award winning writer
and author of bestsellers including Purple
Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, The Thing Around
Your Neck and Americanah.
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