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11

Abuja

CHIEF SANDAYỌ, THE HONORABLE Minister of Education for the Federal Republic of Nigeria, slid up his drooping agbada sleeves and glanced at his Rolex, gifted to him by his late wife, Funkẹ, a twenty-year-old watch, still telling accurate time. Two hours gone already. On the podium, the minister of health droned on, stuck on a slide about malaria prevention.

Each minister would give a special presentation to the president in this dome-ceilinged hall with low-hanging chandeliers that caught the sparkle from rings and chains and bangles. The room was cold, the air conditioner set to chill, transporting them to a region where scarves and thick socks were necessary. The president was flanked by his predecessors, four former heads of state, all human rights abusers, lined like sphinxes, inscrutable in their chairs. They had been defanged now, overthrown by one coup or the other, paraded in the capital once a year as “elder statesmen.” Chief Sandayọ turned his eyes to the rest of the room.

You could not speak when a minister was presenting, but nothing stopped them from looking, sizing one another up, going over the battle lines in their heads. It was like the polygamous household he had grown up in, except the stakes here ran to billions. His late wife would have mocked him for how fast he had learned to play Abuja politics. He bobbed a greeting to the Senate president, who had just walked in with a cloud of assistants.

As well as the ministers, the room was choked with their ambitious aides, men and women in sharp suits. The aides held files for the ministers, they straightened the folds of their clothing, and if necessary, they presented for them, careful to ascribe credit where it was due.

Chief Sandayọ had come with two assistants of his own, Harvard MBA and PhD from Warwick. The agriculture minister had brought seven to bolster her. She was a new appointee, rushed into a job she had scarce qualification for. During each presentation, her lower lip disappeared into her mouth, emerging more mangled as Petroleum, Defense, and Tourism gave their reports. Finally it was Agriculture’s turn. “Your Excellencies, Former Presidents of Nigeria, His Excellency the Senate President, Honorable Ministers, Honorable Chair of the House Committee on Agriculture, Special Adviser to the President on Performance Monitoring, distinguished ladies and gentlemen, all protocols observed.”

She was trembling, her knees touching and untouching like the wires in a faulty cable. Her makeup was bold, provocative even, her lips too red for this hour of the morning. Her fellow ministers were either plain, potbellied men or motherly women, past makeup and seduction. Who had she slept with to get her job? Rumors were flying around already. Sandayọ’s bet was on President Hassan himself. One of her aides stood and whispered to her.

“Forgive me, Mr. President. I omitted you in my opening address.”

She looked ready to display the contents of her breakfast to the room.

“Your Excellency, President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, Commander in Chief, GCFR—”

“Perhaps we will hear from the Honorable Minister of Agriculture another time,” the president said, cutting her off. “My honorable predecessors and your brother and sister ministers will agree that it is not fair to expect a presentation at such an early stage of your new job. Chief Sandayọ, if you will proceed for us.”

His ministry, the Ministry of Education, was of little interest to his present audience. A small budget considering the army of teachers, professors, and vice chancellors that fell under his command. Education was of importance only when university staff went on strike, demanding higher pay for their worsening services.

Sandayọ breezed through the introduction: observing all protocols, naming all names. The ministry had begun implementation of its five-point agenda on toilet provision in northeastern Nigeria to increase female pupil attendance. The ministry had made a detailed plan of a three-tiered approach to combating the increase in adolescent dropout rates.

The jargon came easily to Sandayọ now, each technical phrase linked to another, forming a chain of incomprehensibility that passed as knowledge in front of this crowd.

“And what of the Basic Education Fund?” the president asked.

“We are beginning a strategic positioning of how best to direct this new resource.”

“I have high hopes for you and your team. I hear you have done good things in basic education for the Yoruba people. Now I want you to do the same for the rest of Nigeria.”

The president was speaking of Sandayọ’s time in the Yoruba People’s Congress over a decade ago, a time that Chief Sandayọ seldom remembered in the whirlwind of meetings and gala dinners that was Abuja.

He had joined the group at the invitation of its founder, Francis Ifaleke, a charismatic, simply dressed man, compelling with no manic fundamentalist air around him, the opposite of all he had imagined the YPC to be.

He still remembered the first meeting he attended, brimming with skepticism, ready to walk out at the slightest provocation. YPC members were rumored thugs, gullible in their violence, obsessed with invincibility charms and amulets. He discovered that first night a mini utopia, it seemed, bricklayers and doctors, vulcanizers and bankers all gathered for the good of the Yoruba race. They were committed to education with the zeal of their guide, Ọbafẹmi Awolowo. He had been honored to accept Francis’s offer to become the group’s education officer.

That was over fifteen years ago, a time of slimmer waistlines and larger ideals. As he swung the sleeves of his agbada onto his shoulders, he wondered what most of his former comrades would think if they could see him now.