started descending again. I steeled myself to argue some more over the custody of his bomb, but he had something else on his mind.
‘Could my short story get more? Say, twenty thousand pounds?’
I frowned at his choice of pronoun. I phrased my response carefully, repossessing my intellectual property. ‘My stories have earned substantial sums before,’ I said airily.
‘I want half of every penny over ten thousand five hundred pounds,’ he said peremptorily. ‘That’s my final offer.’ Then he turned and went upstairs.
I thought that for a student who had spent nine years retaking law courses he was demonstrating a monumental ignorance of the basics of offer and acceptance. Still, this was not the time to quarrel over speculative royalties. Moments later, the TV went on upstairs and Spiderman, Batman, or some other rodent-human began to save the world at a disconcertingly high volume. Ten minutes later, I was still staring at a blank Word page.
It dawned on me that the possession of the bomb alone was enough to give Dalminda his year’s vacation in jail. If he didn’t realise that, then it was no wonder he kept flunking his law exams. My hand reached for the phone. This way, Lynn would still get her offbeat story while I got to keep all my hard-earned royalties.
Only one thing stopped me: the possibility that the police might well arrive and be unable to see either the suicide bomber or his bomb. I walked over to the bomb, unzipped the rucksack, touched it. It was there all right. And yet . . .
Rubiesu simini randa si kwemka!
I set my computer on my lap and started tapping away. I was Humphrey Chow after all, short story writer. Even if no one else saw the bomber, everyone should read his story. Upstairs, a bomb exploded on TV and I jerked, sending the laptop to the floor. Its screen winked off as its battery scooted halfway across the room. I retrieved it and put it back in with trembling fingers, then tried powering on the laptop. Nervously I watched it boot up. It seemed to remember all I had written. If this was a hallucination, the computer was hardwired into it as well. I began to write. Desperately. Lynn was going to have to change her taste in short stories. Or I’d have to take Grace’s advice and interview for the dog-walker job.
PENAKA LEE
Ubesia | 15th March, 2005
‘I don’t want to start a war,’ wheezed the obese governor.
‘There’ll be no war,’ said Penaka Lee confidently, raising his voice over the tumult of rain.
Governor Obu pushed away his trolley of files and clasped his hands behind his head. They were alone on the veranda of the Governor’s Lodge in Ubesia. The only other human in sight was the gardener bent double over a flower bed, labouring in the rain in an obsequious show that was lost on the distracted governor. The first lady of Sontik State was away in the federal capital on her minorities rights campaign, but the power of her presence was such that Penaka half expected to see her striding out onto the veranda. Sonia Obu was conscientious and charismatic—an electoral asset for any candidate—but her husband had been elected twice and had run out of electoral options. He needed other kinds of assets, like Penaka’s pragmatic ruthlessness, to stay in power.
‘There’ll be no war,’ Penaka repeated, speaking with a confidence that came from decades of successful deal-making.
‘You’ll say that, won’t you?’ The politician tipped his weight backwards until the front legs of his raffia chair left the ground. He stopped pushing back when he put his body in same precarious position as the rest of his life. ‘But you can’t guarantee it. Despite all the promises from your men in black, in the end, nobody can guarantee it.’
‘There are no guarantees in this business, Your Excellency. But Washington doesn’t want war in this delta. Every shell that falls in Ubesia will add ten cents to the price of gas in New York.’
‘The Biafra War killed millions. I don’t want to be responsible for another civil war.’
Penaka did not reply. He could see that the sanctimonious governor was arguing with himself, working himself up to the inevitability of secession. In the end, Governor Obu would take the decision that best suited Governor Obu. Just then, it did not take much imagination to figure out what that decision had to be. In four months, Obu’s second and last term as governor of Sontik State would be over, and he was not on business terms with any of the front-runners to succeed him.
One of those front runners was the deputy governor, who had refused to take his slice of the monumental heist that liquidated the Petroleum Communities Development Fund. He could not be trusted to cover Obu’s back. If the governor didn’t want to stand trial for the deals he had cut with his budget, he had to argue himself into a secession decision—and quickly, too. That would entitle him to another two terms as president of a new Sontik Republic. If things panned out right, that would take him to his sixty-second birthday; ten more years of presiding over the richest oil wells in Africa would give him the opportunity to create a succession plan that would cover his back. Penaka sipped his soda water slowly. He gave Obu all the time he needed.
‘They’re waiting for my declaration? They’ll recognise us as soon as we secede?’
‘Absolutely.’ He hesitated. ‘Your Excellency . . .’
‘What?’
Penaka looked around. He wondered how much to say, for the natives could be damned sensitive. ‘The Sontik traditional ruler is a strong federalist, but he’s very sick. This is the time to strike, before—’
‘That’s no problem. The Nanga is dying, and Elder Rantan, who will replace him, is already in my pocket. The only problem is that we don’t have an army.’
‘Once you give me the word, Sekurizon will mobilize—’
‘I don’t want mercenaries . . .’
‘These are security contractors,’ said Penaka, smoothly, ‘not mercenaries. I have a planeload of them standing by in Bogotá. They are more efficient than mercenaries. They guarantee outcomes. We have used them before, and they will train up your military in no time.’
Obu grumbled, ‘Abuja will send troops. I know they will. The president has said so. I’m not afraid, but I don’t want bloodshed.’
Penaka was silent.
‘How long will the American destroyer wait?’
‘Five days, maybe less,’ lied Penaka. The US naval exercises were scheduled to run a couple of weeks, but the lie was necessary to keep the pressure on the dithering governor. ‘Once you make the secession announcement, the American destroyers will move into the Bight of Benin—which will now be the Sontik Republic’s territorial waters—to protect your oil rigs, which are of US strategic national interest. You are happy to sign a security agreement with the US?’
‘Of course.’
‘After that, Abuja will not dare move without provoking a full American invasion.’
Obu licked his lips. ‘They won’t dare, will they? It’s just that I don’t want to start a war.’
Penaka sighed. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I will, just to reassure you,’
‘What?’
