The Vip

By Chiku Abeze

Akpa Nku, a young successful business executive decided to join politics against his wife Ifeomas counsel. Although he won, a most unwelcome event claimed his attention the love of women. Later, his political career was seriously threatened and he was forced to fall back on what had been his pillar of support, his loving wife. But the reunion was short-lived as the military overthrew the civilians and jailed the entire political class.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Sep 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482875959

Chiku Abeze

Chiku Abeze was born in Enugu in 1973. He had his early education in towns that are now parts of three states in south-eastern Nigeria. He hails from Ogidi in Anambra state. He is a medical doctor and author of two political books. Twenty-five years after the fall of the second republic, he wrote an article in the Sun titled ‘Remembering the Second Republic’. He comments on sundry national issues whenever he deems it necessary. This is his first fiction.

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Copyright © 2016 by Chiku Abeze.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-7597-3

                  Softcover       978-1-4828-7596-6

                  eBook              978-1-4828-7595-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Contents

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Our enemies are the political profiteers, the men in high and low places that seek bribes and demand ten per cent; those that seek to keep the country divided permanently so that they can remain in office as Ministers or VIPs at least, the tribalists, the nepotists, those that make the country look big for nothing before international circles; those that have corrupted our society and put the Nigerian political calendar back by their words and deeds.

Major Chukwuma Kaduna Nzeogwu

15 January 1966

Books by the Same Author

The Triumph of the Peasants

Impeachment and Immunity in Nigerian Democracy

This book is

dedicated to His Royal Highness, Chief (Pharm) Alex Uzo Onyido, Igwe Ezechumuagha I of Ogidi.

Acknowledgements

I was fortunate to have a constellation of gilded luminaries whose influence was a bulwark to what could have been a desultory literary pursuit. These are persons decorated in their chosen fields; they include the late professors Chinua Achebe and S. N. C. Obi, Beth Adelman (a New York editor), Prof. Emmanuel Ohanaka, the erudite scholar Dr Emeka Kesieme, Dr Christopher Ekwunife, Dr Obi Onukogu, Mr Chris Onwudiwe, Dr Jovita Obi-Echere, Dr Henry Chineke, Pharm. Ferdinand Ibebuchi, Prof. Jude Nwaneri, and Mrs Pat Ekeocha.

I appreciate the support of my family: my late dad Chief Hyacinth Nwabueze, my mom Mrs Victoria Nwabueze, my late uncle Chief Patrick Nwabueze, my sister Bar Josephine Ikegbuna, Dr Peter Nwabueze, and the contributions of Dr Clement Kaduru, Chief Obi Mbaekwe, Chief Obiora Mbaekwe, Chief Emeka Onyido, Dr Charles Okoye, and Dr John Ndukwe.

Considering personal reactions to conflicting realities and the options open to different classes, I found my interactions with Dr (Mrs) Augusta Oji, Dr Emmanuel Nwoye, Dr Emeka Ojiaku, Mrs Prisca Okakpu, Ms Marcelina Ihionu, Mallam Mansur Aminu Kano, Dr Uddy Anyadiegwu, Dr Chioma Chukwu and Ms Karen Olumba quite insightful.

1

A kpa Nku was sitting on his bed with his back on the pillow; by the next morning he would cease to be the chief executive of Bagon Woods, a company he co-founded with some expatriate business partners. After that he would head to Enugu, the Anambra state capital. He pondered what Ifeoma his wife had told him. ‘Am I going to die?’ he thought.

He was apprehensive not only about what his wife had said but also about the future, and that future started tomorrow. Although Mr Obidi had assured him that there was not going to be a postponement he still feared it could happen, and that would adversely affect his plans. He looked at the table clock; it was 8.30 p.m. He was home early to prepare for the next day. He had left the office by four to beat the busy Lagos traffic but only came in by eight. He had played with his children who were now having dinner and had a cold bath. In the next thirty minutes he would be in the living room for the network news. If there was any development, he reasoned, he would hear it on network. He would have heaved a sigh of relief but the bathroom door opened, and a comely dark-complexioned lady in a nightdress came out.

The dress was light and short, hanging from her breasts and stopping below the hip. Life in the corporate world, characterised by leaving by five and coming in at nine at the earliest, had made him unable to fully appreciate the beauty now staring at him. After four children she had maintained her trim figure, and her bosom still menacing. She didn’t look at him but walked towards the mirror, his eyes following her. She looked at the bed and saw the boner between his thighs. She ignored him and went to the mirror. His gaze followed her as she went. Her plans seemed to be working. She picked a long comb beside the mirror, removed her shower cap, and started stretching her long hair. His gaze was now fixed on her backside. She felt the time was ripe. She used a band to hold her hair together at the back and went to the bed.

‘Dinner is ready,’ she told him politely.

He said nothing; rather he held her arm and pulled her towards himself. With her locked firmly in his grip, he kissed her; she held him too. That was part of the plan; he seemed to have fallen for it. They snuggled.

‘Will you still travel tomorrow?’ she asked in a slinky voice.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

She caressed his chest and shoulder. ‘But I have told you to forget the idea.’

He went for her bosom. ‘No,’ he replied hastily in fast breaths. ‘The arrangements have reached an advanced stage and I can’t go back.’

‘It’s never late,’ she persuaded him as he started to climb her soft body.

He seemed so obsessed with his own ideas to the detriment of her counsel and she decided to stop making efforts to convince him, vocally or romantically, at least for now. He had botched her plans. She lay quietly as he bunked repeatedly. She didn’t hold him; she neither moaned nor whined, nor did she ask for more. Had he listened to her, it could have saved that union from internecine feuding and stalled his eventual tragedy.

He woke up as the door was slammed shut. He looked at his side; she had gone. He looked at the clock: 6 a.m. He remembered he had an important assignment for the day and reluctantly slouched out of bed.

The headquarters of Bagon Woods Limited stood out clearly at the Marina, overlooking the waterfront. As his car pulled up in front of the building, one of the security men came and opened the door.

‘Good morning, sir,’ the man said to him.

‘Good morning,’ he replied.

The man went over to the other side and picked a briefcase from the back seat. He walked into the building and the man followed with the briefcase. As he sat in his chair in the office, he surveyed his table for the last time. The incoming and exit trays were now empty. He looked at the right-hand corner of his vast table and saw an item he was almost forgetting, his family picture. His wife, Ifeoma, in front of her his younger daughter, in front of him, his younger son, his older son and daughter flanked them on the left and right. He stood up, bent over, and picked up the picture. He opened his briefcase and tossed it into it. He heard a knock on the door and a young lady entered.

‘Sir,’ she told him, ‘the directors are all present and the occasion is expected to start in the next ten minutes.’

‘It’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I am ready.’

The send-off was held at the conference hall. All the directors flanked him at the front table. All the staff were present. Mr Odenigbo, an indigenous director, stood between the table and the staff; he spoke with the mic. ‘I wish to welcome all present to this occasion. Our outgoing director had served this company well. It is right that we give him a befitting send-off. Before we continue, may we hear from him.’

It was Nku’s turn to speak. He stood up with smiles on his face; Odenigbo handed him the mic. ‘Thanks for honouring me today,’ he said. ‘It was fun working with you and it was truly rewarding. I will never fail to acknowledge your contributions to the growth of this company. Our feat has been quite remarkable. From a small trading store dealing in handbags, shoes, and belts to a mighty conglomerate with interests in cement, oil, beverages, and tobacco, and we are set to expand even further.’

They clapped for him.

‘I enjoin you to carry on diligently from where we stopped. On my own part I’m going to answer a call, a higher call, a call to service. Having succeeded in the onerous task of steering the ship of this company I think I’m now well equipped for the task I’m going to face. But if I have a choice between leaving you and continuing to stay, I would choose to stay, but the situation is such that I have no choice.’ He sat down as they clapped.

Mr Odenigbo addressed them again. ‘No doubt the success story of this great company cannot be told without the mention of our outgoing MD, please let’s give three hearty cheers to him.’

‘Hip hip hip!’

‘Hurray!’

‘Hip hip hip!’

‘Hurray!’

‘Hip hip hip!’

‘Hurray!’

He started a song, ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

‘For he’s a jolly good fellow

For he’s a jolly good fellow

For he’s a jolly good fee-llooow

And so say all of us.’

‘As a sign of appreciation for his meritorious service to this organization,’ Mr Odenigbo said, ‘we are giving him a special gift.’

The secretary walked in with a wall clock and presented it to him as a parting gift. He received it and shook hands with her. Mr Odenigbo declared the event over. The directors escorted him to the car.

‘Mr Smith,’ he said to the expatriate new director, ‘I’m wishing you a successful tenure.’

He shook hands with him and turned to the other man. ‘Mr Odenigbo, please give him all your support.’ He shook hands with him too.

He entered the car, the driver turned on the ignition, they waved at one another, and the car drove off. At the domestic wing of the airport, he boarded a flight to Enugu. Airborne, he was thinking of what the future held for him in the emerging political dispensation. He knew politics was an unpredictable venture. It was capable of making a hero out of a villain and a villain out of a hero. Then his mind went to what he had always dreaded about politics, elections. As the managing director of one of the most successful conglomerates, he was used to boardroom politics. But what he was going to face now was bigger than boardroom politics. He was going to face a real contest, one in which there was no dividing line between fair and foul; most times they were taken as one and the same. How was he going to go about this? Were Ifeoma’s fears going to be real? The crew announced that they had reached Enugu.

The Nigerian Airways plane taxied to a stop at the Enugu airport and Nku stood up from his seat, ready to go down. On getting down from the plane, he was approached by two people, a man in a white up and down, and a lady, a businesswoman, dressed in a well-designed reflecting ash-coloured lace, and a matching scarf. He looked up, recognised them and smiled.

‘Mr Obidi,’ Nku called him.

‘My director,’ the man replied happily and they embraced.

‘We have been expecting you,’ the man told him.

‘I needed to settle things back in Lagos before coming back,’ Nku replied.

‘Mrs Adaobi Okolonta,’ he called the lady.

She smiled and hugged him. As they talked, a man pushed luggage towards a black Mercedes parked at the airport. Nku walked towards the car and the duo followed him. The man loaded the luggage in the boot. Nku and Obidi entered the back; Mrs Okolonta entered the front. The driver closed the boot, entered, and they headed to Violer Hotel.

‘Chief Dimgba is already waiting in his room,’ Mr Obidi said as they alighted from the car. ‘We will see him after you settle into your room.’

‘Okay,’ he replied.

The news of Nku’s return had spread among the NPP followers in the state. The next day, party supporters trooped in, in great numbers to welcome him. The presidential lounge of Violer Hotel was a beehive of activity. Men were drinking, smoking pipes and cigarettes, and talking loudly, from the big party guns to lower-ranking members.

Ndu was a dark slim young man. He needed to be at his company’s head office by nine that morning. Today would be his last day at work. He looked himself in the mirror, good. The last time he wore a suit to the office was the day he was interviewed for the same job he was about to quit from now. On his way he came across Queen’s Choice supermarket. He remembered he had to give someone a present. He pulled over in front of it. A few minutes later he was out. He entered his car again and put the wrapped item in the briefcase in the back seat.

The head office of Slum Drillers was a few blocks away from Bagon Woods at the Marina. The company was engaged in construction business, and with the recent oil boom, their business boomed. He parked his orange Volkswagen Beetle in front of the company’s headquarters. He walked to the building, pulled open the glass door, and went in. He pressed the elevator door and it opened; he went in and pressed 3. The lift ascended and shortly after the door opened and he exited.

He rarely had cause to visit the headquarters, but today was an important one in his career and his life. He entered the office and saw an ebony-complexioned lady, a charming and courteous young woman. When he entered she looked up, saw him and gave him a cold look, and faced the electric typewriter. He came close and spoke to her. ‘Uka, how are you?’ he asked her, smiling and bending over her table.

‘Don’t talk to me,’ she replied; the keys of the electric typewriter clanged softly.

‘Did anyone trouble you?’ he asked, wanting to sound protective.

She frowned, ‘You eh, you eh,’ she said when she lifted her head and faced her work again.

His expression became serious. ‘Ha, Uka, what did I do this time?’ he queried, pretending not to know.

‘Oh, you have forgotten, no problem, there is no problem,’ she said and continued her work.

Ndu went closer and held her shoulders and pleaded with her to remind him.

‘Yesterday was my birthday and you didn’t show up,’ she told him.

‘Okay …’ Ndu exclaimed, pretending to have just remembered. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. I will surprise you.’

‘Surprise me?’ she replied. ‘When you have gone?’ she asked, looking up at him.

‘Wait, let me see the director first,’ he said, straightening and leaving her.

‘He’s in the office, you can go in,’ she told him, pointing towards the door to the director’s office.

In the office was Mr Anyanji, a dark-complexioned man of about forty-five. He wore a black suit; his head was shaved clean. He had his two hands on a pile on his left, pulling at a file. His head turned towards the door when Ndu walked in.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Ndu greeted him with a smile.

‘Good morning, Ndu, how are you?’ he asked, drawing out the file.

‘I’m all right, sir,’ Ndu replied, walking towards the table.

‘You can sit down,’ the man told him, opening the file.

He sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the director’s table. On the table were two columns of trays, the one on the left marked ‘outgoing files’, the one on the right marked ‘incoming files’, with heaps of file in them. Ndu saw the columns drawn on the paper inside the file the director opened: bill of quantities. This was the project he was supervising before his resignation. He felt a pang of conscience. The man did not understand what the younger man was saying: that he wanted to leave a lucrative career to chart an uncertain course. He looked up. ‘Listen, Ndu, I was the one that recommended you for employment in this company. You have worked under me for three years. Already you have a sound footing in this profession. Why do you want to destroy it? You should leave politics for those old and retired men looking for something to while away time with.’ He faced the page, read and underlined an item.

‘No, sir,’ Ndu replied, ‘age should not be a barrier to participating in politics. Anyone who thinks he has something to offer should feel free to do so.’

His eyes still on the page, he said, ‘I have discussed with the MD and he shares my opinion about you.’ He looked up. ‘Look, if you were my brother I will tell you the same thing. Do you know politics can ruin you?’ Both men stared at each other, the director’s head slightly tilted to the side, a look that suggested that Ndu reconsidered his decision. ‘If you vie for this seat now and lose, what will you do? How will you survive? You start from scratch?’ he asked and turned to his work.

He was right. Ndu bent his head in thought. With the dwindling economy and growing unemployment, anyone leaving a lucrative job for an unsecured future was taking a great risk, more so a young man with no significant investment to fall back on in case of crash of ambition. Ndu lifted his head. Mr Anyanji didn’t want to sound discouraging; with his eyes focused on another item, he said, ‘I am not trying to discourage you, but I want you to look at the issue thoroughly.’

‘I still want to join politics, I want to make a change in the lives of my people,’ Ndu said, stressing with his forefinger.

‘Since you have made up your mind,’ the director said, turning to another paper, ‘I will not stop you, neither will the company. But please, know that you’re embarking on a dangerous mission.’ He lifted his head once again. ‘You are going out there to mix with a slick brood of sordid characters desperate for political power, ready to smother anyone who stands in their way, acts betoken of people with no moral certitude. Please, my brother, be careful.’ He bent his head again.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ndu replied, his heart pounding. What the man said was completely true.

The director turned to his right, to the outgoing files, and picked the topmost file on the tray. He opened it and brought out a small paper with different colours, lines, and boxes, and different sizes and characters of letters and turned to Ndu. ‘The company has approved a handsome sum as a reward for your services. We hope to find another competent fellow to take over your position.’

Ndu smiled at the compliment. He handed Ndu the cheque. He took the cheque and looked at it; his name was written on it in black cursive letters on the first line, and the sum fifty thousand naira in like manner below it. It was signed and double crossed. In one of the boxes was written the same sum in figures. Again he felt another pang of conscience; he wished he had given the company more of his time, but unfortunately, events had dictated otherwise. He looked at the director; he was leaning his right elbow on one arm of the chair. Ndu expressed gratitude to him for being like a brother since he joined the company. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I appreciate all the assistance you have given me since I joined this company.’

‘You are welcome,’ the man replied in a relaxed tone.

‘God will reward you, sir,’ Ndu told him and brought out his hand; he leaned forward and they shook hands.

‘I’m wishing you luck in your future endeavours,’ the director told him, leaning back on his chair once again.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ndu said, smiling and left.

He came out of the director’s office into the secretary’s office, the cheque still in his hand. He put the portfolio on the secretary’s desk and opened it. He put the cheque in one of the pockets in his portfolio and brought out the wrapped item. He closed the portfolio and handed the item to Uka, who was busy with her work.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed in apparent surprise. ‘You brought something for me?’

‘Yes,’ Ndu replied, locking the portfolio.

‘I thought you were joking,’ she said, her eyes sparkling at Ndu. She took the wrapped item and walked round the table and hugged him. ‘Thank you, Ndu,’ she said.

‘You are welcome,’ he replied as he held her.

She went back to her seat; he picked up his briefcase. ‘I will be taking my leave, I still have a lot to do.’ He took his briefcase and started to leave.

‘Please be very careful,’ she told him as she turned to bid him farewell.

‘Thank you,’ Ndu said, smiling at her. He turned, briefcase in hand, and headed to the door.

When he left, she removed the well-designed noisy wrap that covered the item and saw an orange-coloured spherical can. On it was written powder sweet sixteen. Her face lit up. She brought the tip close to her nose and nodded. She held the can close to her chest, and brought it out again with smiles on her face. The director opened his door and entered the secretary’s office. The smile instantly faded. He saw her holding the can of Sweet Sixteen. Maybe he heard her chirps and giggles with Ndu and wanted to know what was happening. She opened her drawer and kept the powder. She had expected him to press the bell as he was wont to do whenever he needed her attention. But he had opted to come and make the request by himself.

‘Get me the file on retirements,’ he said and went back into his office.

This man na wa o, she said to herself and made for the file cabinet.

At the NPN headquarters in Enugu, a white van with the inscription NPN was parked in front of the bungalow. On the building were posters with the image of two corn plants with a house between them, representing the party’s housing and green revolution programmes. Two poles stood on either side of the entrance with flags in national colours. On the walls of the house were posters of political aspirants. Shortly after a white Mercedes pulled up in front of the building and parked beside the van. A man wearing a black suit with a long black tie came down from the rear and closed the door. It was Chief Agbogu, a party chieftain and one of the aspirants to the state governorship. He was a lawyer who had set up his practice in the city shortly after coming back from the UK. His stay abroad had robbed him of a betrothed. His erstwhile father-in-law had accepted a bride price from another suitor in his absence and returned his dowry to his ageing father. But he had put all that behind him and his law practice prospered. Now he was ready to give the governorship his best shot. So far he couldn’t see a strong opponent, except one materialised overnight. A red Volvo saloon parked beside his white Mercedes and a fat man in agbada and a tall striped cap came down. That was Chief Nwanze; they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

‘Let’s see the chairman,’ Mr Agbogu said. ‘We need to get going, the Igwe and his cabinet will be waiting for us now.’ He went into the building and Chief Nwanze followed.

In Ezinite it was harvest season. People were going to the farm to harvest their crops preparatory to the new yam festival. Chima and Emenike were two friends. They were on their way back from the farm that afternoon. He was carrying a small basket loaded with yam, with Emenike walking by his side with a long metal harvester. Chima’s father was trailing behind them. A convoy of three cars swept past them and raised dust in its trail.

‘Who are these people?’ Chima complained.

‘Don’t they have respect for human beings?’ Emenike shouted.

Chima’s father looked at the last vehicle on the trail and saw the inscription NPN. ‘They are politicians,’ he informed them.

‘Politician what?’ Chima complained again. ‘Is that why they didn’t regard us?’

But that was not what he was listening to. He was admiring the convoy, a smile playing around his lips. ‘So we are going back to civilian rule finally,’ he said. The boys were watching him. ‘What a wonder. So we will enjoy life again like in the good old days.’

The boys were surprised; they had not experienced democracy before.

Brigadier Odion and Brigadier Oraya were colleagues in the army. Odion was commissioned a year ahead of Oraya in the Nigerian Army. As he rose through the ranks, Oraya followed closely. Odion went to Sandhurst, Oraya went to Eaton Hall. Both fought in the civil war. The coups and counter-coups of the post-war years found them always in the camp of the loyal troops. But even this was questionable, as loyalty or otherwise was proved by the side with the greater firepower. After all, military power flowed from the barrel of the gun, but not its legitimacy. But at no time during their two decades in the army did they have course for personal interaction till now. When the news of the retired officers was made public, Odion was told he was affected. He doubted it, but on visiting the headquarters, he confirmed it. As his car pulled up in front of the officers’ mess, he saw Oraya. Oraya was leaving to verify his when Odion hollered at him.

‘Oraya,’ he called him. He was winding his car glasses when Oraya approached and threw a salute; he responded by forward thrust of his chest. ‘How do you see their recent action?’ he asked and stretched to wind up his back glasses.

‘Lopsided,’ replied Oraya. ‘And premature,’ bearing in mind that someone like him had not attained the highest level in the army. ‘If I may ask, what was the basis?’

‘They say the army is over-bloated,’ Odion replied, wounding up the front glass of the passenger side.

‘We have been hearing that,’ Oraya told him. ‘Are you and I the ones over-bloating the armed forces?’

Odion looked at him and shook his head. ‘No, we belong to the officer cadre,’ he said.

‘We belong to the officer cadre,’ Oraya affirmed. ‘So what was the basis?’

Both men gaped at each other. They army had a large number of men and the government thought it was overdue for demobilization, but surprisingly the exercise affected senior officers.

‘Will they now say that they need money to pay salaries?’

‘We have an oil boom,’ Odion replied. Looking forward from his car, he saw a soldier coming out of the mess, Col. Yon Madaki.

Oraya nodded, the same answer he was expecting. ‘So why?’ he asked. He had seen the calibre of officers retained: serial coup plotters, smugglers, drug peddlers, and those indulged in debauchery.

‘I think they want to reserve money for these criminals that call themselves politicians,’ Odion said, turning off the ignition.

Oraya smiled wryly. ‘They are dealing with politicians, they will see. Let me go and collect my own letter,’ he told Odion, who was coming out of the car.

‘It’s okay,’ Odion replied. They shook hands and Oraya went his way and Odion locked his car.

‘Do I have your guarantee that your local government will support me?’ Nku asked Mr Okoye, the local government chairman, in his hotel room.

‘I have told you my terms,’ replied Mr Okoye, a man of stocky build, in a bogus milk-coloured kaftan and red cap.

Mr Obidi was listening as he sat on the chair, with his hands folded across his chest, his knee crossed.

‘So if we fulfil them, we have your assurance?’ Nku asked again as he pulled off his shoe.

‘Gbam,’ replied Mr Okoye.

Nku looked at Obidi and he nodded in the affirmative. Nku pulled his briefcase close, opened it and brought out wads of crisp ten-naira notes, and handed them to the chairman.

‘Consider it done,’ Mr Okoye said as he packed the money in the pocket of his kaftan. He stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he told them. ‘My people are waiting for me.’

He walked to the door, opened it, and left. Nku looked at his watch: 4 a.m. Since his arrival in Enugu, he had been meeting with delegates, local government chairmen, and party stalwarts from all the local governments. It was the final push before the party primaries that were to be held the same day. When the man left, Nku turned to Mr Obidi.

‘Is there anyone we have skipped?’ he asked, pulling off his own kaftan.

‘None, to the best of my knowledge,’ Obidi replied, standing from his seat.

But he was not satisfied and saw the apprehension in Obidi’s face. ‘Can we count on all these people?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Obidi replied, stretching himself. ‘I am still worried about a party chieftain.’

‘Why?’ Nku asked, his kaftan off, only trousers and a white singlet on.

‘He is a close ally of Chief Onyeji,’ Obidi replied. Chief Onyeji was Nku’s political opponent.

‘So what should we do about him?’

‘I think we should schedule another meeting with him,’ Obidi replied, heading to the door.

‘When?’ Nku asked.

‘This morning,’ Obidi replied, one hand on the door handle. ‘We don’t have enough time anymore.’

‘It’s all right,’ Nku said. ‘We see him this morning. I need to catch some sleep.’ He sat down on the bed.

‘One more thing,’ Obidi told him and left the key.

‘What is it?’ Nku asked, one elbow on the bed.

‘I need more money,’ he replied, looking him in the eye.

‘Why? What happened to the five thousand I gave you?’ Nku asked, stretching himself on the bed.

‘I had to settle those boys, buy them hot drinks and cigarettes,’ he told him, using the right hand to count the left. ‘I had to pay the driver that brought them. And yes,’ he remembered, ‘as they were coming, the police arrested them and I had to go and settle the police. As it is now, the money has finished.’ He waved his two hands at him.

Nku opened his briefcase and brought out two bundles of twenty-naira notes and handed it to him.

‘Goodnight,’ he said to Nku as he put the money in his trouser pocket, his chieftaincy clothes concealing it and walked towards the door.

‘One thing again, please,’ Nku said and beckoned to him to come back.

He did and Nku rose from the bed, asked him in a low tone because the walls had ears, ‘What of what I told you?’

‘About what?’ Obidi replied, his brow creased in thought.

‘About my protection,’ Nku reminded him.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘A man will come here tomorrow evening, he will lead us to that place,’ he said, nodding his head in assurance.

‘All right, goodnight,’ Nku finally replied and followed him to the door.

He left the room and Nku locked the door and went to the bed. He shifted his briefcase to one side and lay down. In a short while he was in a deep sleep.

2

I n Oka, visitors were calling at the late Mazi Okwu’s compound. His son who had gone to work in Lagos had returned. They were mainly neighbours and relatives. Adaku, Ndu’s mother, was greeting the women. They were happy for his safe journey home. One man, Anedu, was particularly irked and expressed his worry. ‘Was it not the same boy we celebrated his employment the other day?’ he asked no one in particular, stamping his walking stick on the ground.

‘Yes,’ replied Adaku, Ndu’s mother. ‘He says he no longer wants to work.’

‘And what does he want to do now?’ asked the man, turning to Adaku.

‘He wants to join politics,’ Adaku replied, hastening into the house.

‘So he has suddenly matured? A schoolboy a while ago, recently a job seeker, now aspiring to be a politician, so fast?’

The man sitting next to him, leaning on his walking stick, Mazi Nduka, realising the enterprising spirit of their people countered him, ‘Leave him alone now, even if he wants to go from here to the moon, only him knows. He will be the one to take the consequences of his actions.’

In giving him that response, Mazi Nduka had sensed the envy in Anedu’s comments. Otherwise what was his stake in what Ndubuisi, whom they called Ndu, did or did not do? Adaku returned with a gourd containing kola nuts and alligator pepper. He handed it to Mazi Nduka and he broke the kola nut with a prayer.

‘He that brought kola brought life,’ he said, holding the kola nut.

‘Ise.’

‘Our ancestors come and eat kola nut.’

‘Ise,’ they replied.

‘As you can see, we are going backward in this country. There is no electricity, our children walk long distance to school. To drink clean water the story is the same.’ He leaned forward to face them. ‘Our people, will it be a bad thing if we drink from underground pipes?’

‘No.’

‘There are no motorable roads.’

The men nodded.

‘If Ndubuisi can provide us with these, are we going to ask for something else?’

‘No,’ was the unanimous response.

‘We are asking olisa to let us eat this kola nut so that it will replenish us, body and soul,’ he concluded.

‘Ise!’

He broke the kola nut.

‘Aka ino,’ he said, referring to the four parts of the kola nut. He broke three, leaving one. He took one and bit part of it. A younger man took the gourd and shared the kola nut. The sound of teeth grinding kola nut rent the air.

At the office of The National Opinion newspapers, the crew were having a meeting of the editorial board. The former editor had resigned and a new one had been appointed. After welcoming them, Emeka Odikpo spoke.

‘This is my first meeting with you as the new chairman of the editorial board,’ he said, a paper and pen in hand. ‘As you all know, Mr O. C. Okafor, the former editor, resigned his position to join politics. I was appointed by the management to replace him.’

‘Congratulations,’ many of the members said to him amidst smiles and laughter.

‘Whom the cap fits!’ Udo Maduka, a reporter shouted.

‘Let him wear it,’ the others replied.

‘Thank you,’ Emeka said, smiling. ‘But I am not new to the National Opinion. I have been here for a while so it is still the old wine in a new bottle.’

They laughed.

‘What we had was a change of leadership, the crew remains the same,’ he said. But he didn’t want them to see things as business as usual, so he chivvied them. ‘We are approaching a difficult time, we are at the tail end of the transition programme. Campaigns are on now and very soon the elections will follow. We have to sustain our in-depth coverage of the campaigns and the elections. Our numerous readers need to be regularly updated on the happenings in the political arena.’

Many of them nodded.

‘So, ladies and gentlemen,’ he concluded, ‘let’s sustain our efforts.’

They clapped for him.

By nine in the morning that July Monday, Ndu was in Enugu. He slowed down as he entered the street, looking at the numbers. Soon he saw the one with the sign PRP Anambra State Headquarters. He slowed down and parked in front of it. He came out and entered the building. Inside the office was a stocky man with eyeglasses, seated at a table. He greeted him and told him why he had come.

‘I want to pick a form.’

‘You’re lucky,’ the man replied. ‘Nomination ends today. What are you going for?’

‘House of assembly,’ Ndu replied from across the table.

‘It is available,’ the man told him, resting on the back of the chair. ‘But there is a procedure.’

Ndu listened.

‘You have to register, get a membership card, pay your dues, and we give you a copy of the party’s constitution and the programme,’ he said.

Ndu nodded.

‘With that you can now purchase nomination form for the office you wish to run for.’

Ndu nodded again.

‘Sit down,’ the man offered and he did. He brought out a notebook and started to register him.

‘Who is my opponent?’ Ndu asked.

The man raised his head and looked across the table at him. ‘In the party, you have no opponent. The NPP and NPN have candidates, prominent among whom is Chief Odiukonamba.’

By twelve noon he was back to Oka. He drove to the house of Obinna, his cousin. As he parked, a young man in his early twenties peeped through the curtain; seeing who it was, he went in again. Ndu came out of his car and walked into the house. Obinna stood in the middle of the living room.

‘Are you back?’

‘Yes, is my aunt in?’

‘No, she went to the market. We have seat,’ he told Ndu and both of them sat down. ‘How did you go?’ he asked, facing Ndu.

‘I went well,’ Ndu replied. ‘I am now a registered member of the PRP and its candidate for Oka constituency.’

‘When are they holding their primaries?’ Obinna asked.

‘I’m the only candidate.’

Obinna’s face lit up. ‘What a lucky fellow you are.’

Ndu smiled too.

‘So how do we go about the campaign?’ Obinna asked.

‘That’s why I am here,’ Ndu replied, sitting up in his chair.

‘We must mobilise our people to come out in large numbers and vote for you,’ he told him.

‘So where do we start?’ Ndu asked, throwing his hands open.

‘We need to form a team first,’ Obinna said, ‘those that will be going round the nooks and crannies of Oka, campaigning with us.’

Ndu nodded.

Despite being scheduled to start by 10 a.m., the party primaries took off by 2 p.m. at the state stadium. The two aspirants were given the chance to address the delegates. Nku’s opponent Chief Onyeji spoke first.

‘I have studied in various universities within and outside the country,’ he declared and the audience clapped for him. When it was his turn, Nku said, ‘I am a great manager of men and a technocrat. I have no doubt that this state will benefit from my managerial skills in these trying times.’

When it was time to vote, all the delegates lined up and headed to the high table one after the other to collect ballot papers; thereafter they went to the table provided for voting and ticked the candidate of their choice. Two hours later, voting ended and counting began. His opponent’s votes were counted first. He scored a total of forty-six votes. Some votes were voided because of inappropriate filling of the ballot. Next were Nku’s votes. His heart pounded when the returning officer counted forty. Forty-what was he going to get, with all the voided votes?

‘Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five.’ The returning officer stopped and looked up. Nku turned away his face.

‘Forty-six, forty-seven …’

The floor erupted; Nku had won. Party men went to congratulate him. No one bothered to listen as the returning officer kept counting. All that was needed was a simple majority. By the time he counted the last vote (‘Fifty-two!’), Nku and his associates had gone far with their celebration. As he was chatting with some party chieftains, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked; it was Mr Obidi.

‘The chairman wants to see you,’ he told Nku.

‘Okay,’ he said, excused himself and made for the high table. Seated there were the chairman and the party executive. He shook hands with them.

‘Congratulations,’ the chairman, Chief Dimgba, said cheerfully.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied happily.

The party exco also said the same and he responded.

‘We need to meet,’ Chief Dimgba told him.

‘When?’ Nku asked, bending over to hear him clearly.

‘Soon,’ the man replied and turned to the secretary. ‘It is time to end this meeting,’ he said. ‘We still have other important things to do today. We have no time on our hands.’

The secretary stood up and called the gathering to order. The chairman then stood up and addressed them. ‘I wish to thank you for the peaceful conduct of the primaries. It was keenIy contested. I wish to congratulate the winner, Mr Akpa Nku, for being magnanimous in victory.’ The crowd jubilated. ‘And his opponent Chief Onyeji, for his sportsmanship.’ The crowd cheered Chief Onyeji; he went and shook hands with Nku, and they embraced. ‘It is time for us to start working towards the elections. I urge you not to relent in your efforts towards ensuring victory for the NPP. Our further plans will be made known to you in our subsequent meetings. I hereby declare this meeting closed.’

From there the exco and the candidate headed to Violer Hotel for a meeting. By the time the chairman and the others stepped out of the hotel, it was four in the morning.

‘What of the man you said we were going to see?’ Nku asked Obidi in hushed tones.

‘We would have gone yesterday if not for the meeting that cropped up. We have scheduled a meeting with some chairmen today, so we go in the evening,’ he replied.

Nku noticed the casual manner with which he responded but kept quiet. By eight, both men were taking breakfast at the hotel. Obidi ate his bread and drank the tea, oblivious of Nku’s attention on him.

‘Why are you delaying our seeing the dibia?’ Nku asked him confidentially.

‘I told you it was not my fault,’ he replied and drank his tea. He