‘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?’
‘The three battalions that Abuja will depend on to put down the rebellion are on our side. They will march down to Sontik State okay, but they will join up at double salary. Not one shot will be fired. There’ll be no war.’
Obu released his generous weight, and the two front legs of his chair slammed onto the veranda with a thud. His eyes were hooded with derision, and Penaka knew he had overplayed his hand.
* * *
WHEN PENAKA Lee left shortly afterwards, the rain was coming down in steady sheets and the gardener had given up. A steward followed Penaka down the long pathway to the car park holding a large umbrella, but it didn’t stop him getting wet.
He slipped into the back of his limousine, allowing his PA to pass the steward a crisp note through the crack between the window and the door-frame. He dried the rain from his face and hands with a handkerchief before pulling out his phone. He opened the air conditioner vents, but his hands were wet again, this time with sweat, as he dialled his intelligence contact in Abuja.
There was a short pause as Belinja’s security loop kicked in. ‘Hello?’
‘He’s not biting,’ said Penaka.
There was silence.
‘He’s scared,’ suggested Belinja. ‘Maybe next week.’
‘He’ll never be ready. He’s a coward. He doesn’t believe I can deliver Nigerian battalions to the Sontik Republic.’
‘Maybe I should have a word with his security adviser . . .’
‘Lamikan? Well, that’s a thought.’ Penaka sighed. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Belinja, sounding apprehensive but somewhat expectant as well.
A month earlier, when Penaka had promised to put an American destroyer in the Gulf of Benin to establish his bona fides with Obu, Belinja had been quietly derisive. Two weeks afterwards, a training exercise originally scheduled for the Indian Ocean was rezoned at the last minute, and Belinja’s unwillingness to take the other man on faith had evaporated.
‘I’ll set up a couple of meetings with some friends,’ said Penaka absently, ‘organise a little escalation. Do you have a newspaper publisher on your books?’
‘I have all of them.’
‘I want a paper with a decent circulation.’
‘How about Patrick Suenu’s Palaver?’
Penaka was indifferent. He did not read Nigerian newspapers, ‘That should do. I have a story to plant. Could you . . .’
‘I’ll arrange it.’
‘Thanks, Belinja.’
The phone went dead, and Penaka massaged his cheek muscles. He did not like ditherers. He would be fifty-five in April. He did not have all the time in the world. It was a big country; it needed big decisions. Big decision makers. And if it burned, there were fifty other countries on the continent. He lowered the partition window between him and his staff. ‘Go,’ he said to his chauffeur. ‘Confirm our flights for Kinshasa,’ he told his PA.
He had been caught on the wrong side of a Nigerian crisis before.
It was not an experience to be repeated.
SLEEPCATASTROPHES
Kreektown | January/February, 1999
Oga Somuzo
Saint John
Allotua Allegi
Renata Torila
Jani Agams
Ariz Agams
Eddi Fadamu
Births
Ogazi Kroma-Alanta
Extant Menai population: 430 (NPC estimates)
LYNN CHRISTIE
London | 16th March, 2005
‘I am worried for you, Humphrey Chow,’ I said.
We had the Chinatown restaurant all to ourselves. Every five minutes, a surly waiter tacked by to see whether we wanted something more. He wore an accusing frown, as though our refusal to order extra dishes was responsible for the imminent closure of his cold restaurant. My wintry blue overcoat was buttoned to my neck. But for my black boots, I might as well not have changed out of my nightdress, for all the good my clothing did me. Humphrey risked another bite of his tacos. We had managed to find a Mexican restaurant in Chinatown, and their tacos tasted more like wafers from a Chinese menu. Still, I was carrying a couple of extra kilos, so any excuse to abandon a meal after a spoonful was welcome.
‘I can’t think why,’ he said. ‘I finally write something you like