He stared at me suspiciously. ‘If it was so easy to make ten thousand bucks, we’d all be writing stories, wouldn’t we?’
‘And passing law exams as well,’ I suggested, ‘but then you also need hard work and intelligence, talent and . . .’
His nostrils flared as he shrugged off his rucksack. His face was flushed: I had overdone the sarcasm. I hoped it would be a punch rather than an explosion, but he was only trembling with a renewed greed for life. ‘This bomb pack costs another five hundred pounds,’ he wheedled. ‘I could destroy it. Will you pay for that as well? That would help with my train fare to Lee . . . back home . . .’
I shrugged noncommittally.
It was good enough for him.
* * *
‘I GET the general point,’ I said, stopping him a mere half hour into the story of his life, which seemed an endless succession of drunken nights, vindictive law professors, and stinkers written to his hapless dad. I switched off my Dictaphone and switched on my laptop. We both stared at the blank Word page for several minutes. I cleared my throat. ‘Ah . . . there’s a TV upstairs. Should be more interesting . . .’
He studied me suspiciously. He had found a comb in one of his combat pockets and was grooming his beard. ‘You write better alone, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘War correspondents manage to write well enough with bombs exploding around them . . .’
‘But then again, I’m not a journalist.’
‘You said writers were like journalists.’
‘In our pursuit of facts, not in our writing style. Newspapers are read for a day. My short stories will still be read a hundred years from today.’
He muttered something inaudible into his beard. I chose not to seek clarification. Eventually, he said, ‘Can I see any of your books?’
‘Don’t have any here.’
‘You’re ashamed of your stuff, aren’t you? I know this guy . . .’
Mentally I rolled my eyes. ‘Only new writers carry their books around.’
‘How can I trust you to write my story if I’ve never read one of your books?’
‘You’ll never read anything else either if you don’t stop pestering me! Your killers are probably circling the airport right now!’
He rose with alacrity. ‘Fine, I’m going upstairs. But I’m trusting you with my reputation.’
‘Not to mention your life,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t write me into a monster. Even terrorists are getting good press just now. That Bantu vigilante in Nigeria, he’s all over BBC, isn’t he, and it’s not all bad. I’m just a regular law student who suffered a depression. D’you know how many students break down every year?’
Frankly, I said to myself, I don’t give a hoot.
‘And don’t forget it was my idea to disable the bomb,’ he added, jabbing at my laptop. ‘Write that in as well.’
I ignored him, and he finally got the message. He turned to go, reaching for the rucksack. ‘Leave that!’ I said, too stridently.
‘Why?’
‘I need it . . . for inspiration.’
He hesitated, but I did not blink. Unless the bomb was with me, I was just going to spend all day worrying that a lunatic was about to blow me up. He shrugged and left the rucksack. Halfway up the stairs, he paused and 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