He ignored her question for a while, feeling more hopeful for having carried out an abridgement of what his wife, Josephine, had instructed, or rather, as her spiritualist had directed her to instruct him.
‘Dear,’ she had pleaded in the morning, ‘Make sure you do it today, hmmn? Today today.
Twenty Naira to twenty one beggars hmmn?’
He had nodded to every directive with school boy devotion.
‘I have a mind to go with you today to ensure this is done to specification as I do not think that girl of yours you call a PA can count up to twenty one..’
‘You don’t have to bother,’ he had responded quickly, giving her a hug.’ If she can’t count, at least I can… Her days are numbered anyway. Soon after the appointment.’
‘The man of God said it will improve our chances of receiving the call.’ Josephine had repeated for the umpteenth time, her arms failing to reciprocate the firmness of her husband’s hug. ‘You know it will ensure our ministerial appointment, don’t you?’
He had nodded repeatedly. He found it bemusing that Josephine used the words ‘we’ and ‘our’. He also wondered if there was any chance of the president appointing two ministers from one
Southern nuclear family. He had wanted to joke about it, but thought it unwise in the circumstances.
Now, using the word ‘we’ with such ease in his discussion with Rebby made him a little guilty.
‘Bee!’ she jolted him. ‘What do you mean by “we might get an ambassadorial posting”?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you want to go on foreign assignment?’ he asked in defiance of himself.
Rebby hesitated. The phone rang. She rummaged through her handbag and checked the screen.
‘No calls except from Abuja please,’ said the bigwig. ‘We can’t afford to miss the call.’
‘I understand,’ whispered Rebbie, passing the phone. ‘But it’s mummy.’
‘Hello Biola.’
‘Josie dear, are you alright?’ He pressed the phone to his right ear.
‘I’m fine,’ she answered, sounding impatient. ‘Have you done it?’
‘The thing? Ah, yes, yes. Done it. We got lots of change from one of the beggars.’
The word ‘change’ sounded hollow. He had worked it out anyway. Twenty multiplied by twenty one. Four hundred and twenty. He had given the blind old man eighty Naira extra. But why to only one beggar, he queried, playing Josephine’s advocate. No no no. That was not just one solitary beggar, he defended himself, but the head of a family of twenty-one beggars, probably twenty-five. You see, I’ve done much better than you thought I’d do…
‘Hello, Biola…. Are you there?’ She insisted on calling him by his middle name to remind him of the poverty days when, as she puts it, ‘we both struggled together, surviving largely on my father’s benevolence.’
‘Yes yes yes.’ He was startled. ‘It’s the damned network.’
‘Mind your language dear. Make sure you don’t speak like that to Mr. President.’
‘I won’t’
‘And make sure you do that thing. Hmmmn?’
‘No problem dear, it’s done…. Call you when I get the call and—’
‘Oh,’ she cut in. ‘Adebisi called. He is expecting the project money and also…’
‘Also what!?’
Rebby winced. Banjo slammed his brakes for no apparent reason. The car was approaching the roundabout. In a few minutes, they will be turning into the expressway leading to the party office where he hoped to meet the state chairman.
‘No need to shout!’ Josephine’s voice shot through. ‘He told you he needed a new car over a month ago and the poor boy has been kept waiting..’
‘Ok ok, let’s talk about this later,’ the bigwig said in a dramatically calm tone. ‘Ok? Just tell your son to tone down his high living. You know how the country is at the moment. This government has informants even in Europe. Ok? We can’t afford any… Hello? Are you there dear?’
Josephine was no longer on the other end.
‘Should I call her back?’offered Rebby. ‘She must have run out of call credit.’
‘No thank you.’ The bigwig was genuinely grateful that she made an excuse for his wife.
Rebby grabbed his hand and placed his palm on the newspaper left on her lap. Then she gently ran her fingers up and down the back of the hand.
The bigwig sighed. ‘I feel like a kid hemmed between mum and auntie to stop me from disrupting the bazaar.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she counselled. ‘You’ll soon be free. Mum and auntie will let go of your hands once you’re called out for the prize…’
The phone rang.
His heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t any of the phones Rebby answered. It was the special one he kept. Apart from Rebby, only three numbers were stored on this one. They belonged to The State Chairman, The National Chairman and someone he had never met called The Contact. All three had promised to help push his case with Mr. President.
His heart beat faster…
‘Answer it!’ Rebby tried to stay calm, but was not making a good job of it.
Be calm! He told himself.
Banjo quickly manipulated the vehicle into a filling station and switched off the engine. Educated driver. Very good.
Bigwig pulled out the phone from his jacket. His right hand shook. Rebby held firmly to his left
hand.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. President,’ he said with as much composure as he could muster.
There was no reply from the other end.
‘Mr. President? Ranka dede….’
‘Chief, chief, chief,’ retorted an irritated baritone voice. ‘This is not Mr. President. This is The EFCC……’
—Ifedayo Babalola is a freelance writer.
Leave a Reply