Tag: dilemma

The time was some minutes past nine when I read the last lines of The Dame of Our Time. I had never read it in such a record time of three hours, being a particularly slow reader. I soon went into some sort of day-dreaming and as I was coming out of it, my mobile phone came alive. First, I was startled. Later I picked it up and my guess as to who the caller was right.

“What is it again?” was the first thing I said to this friendly voice.

“Nothing much. Just to remind you of the deal…”

“I have told you times without number that I have got no deal with you…”

“My friend,” he shouted, “this is an important call, and it will be in your own interest not to trivialise it. I’ve called you to lend you the only money I’ve got. A word, they say, is enough for the wise. And whatever you do after now will tell me whether you are wise or not. I am giving you a last chance. The last chance to name your price or allow me to force one on you.”

He paused. Perhaps for emphasis. I was not moved by anything he had said. And not until later in my life did I truly understand the purpose of this particular call.

“So, what is your price?”

I felt he was insulting me. How could he assume that he could put a price on my intellectual property? I just did not answer him. And he got furious.

“In the part of this country where I come from, there is a wise saying that when you are trying to save a hen from death, it feels you are robbing him of the right to feed from the garbage dump. I can see clearly that you are not different from the hen. You are still blind now. But time will heal you of your blindness. And then it will be too late,” grunted the unfriendly voice.

As far as I was concerned, he was only trying to threaten me so as to sell my conscience. And I was not ready to do that. Not now and not later.

“Bye. Good-bye.” And the phone was hung.

By now darkness had enveloped everywhere. The whistle of the night-watchman could be heard from some distance. The weather was cool. And gentle breeze was ruling. My eyes were beginning to play some tricks on me when the phone rang. Who could it be again? After all, my tormentor had told me that he would never call me again. Perhaps he forgot to tell me something. I was convinced he was the one on the line. But I was dead wrong.

The next morning, a group of men from the Department of State Security  came for me. I was accused of trying to blackmail the First Dame. I was charged to court and they made sure the case dragged on for months while I was remanded in prison.

After months of time wasting, I was discharged and acquitted. But it took some weeks later before it became clear to me that there was a link between my months in jail and my novella The Dame of Our Time. It never crossed my mind that my months in prisons had anything to do with my ex boss who lied and committed all kinds of atrocities.  But the link was established one day in my house shortly after I regained my freedom. A young man I could not place his face came asking for me. I was damn sure I had not seen that face before but his voice sounded very much ‘familiar’ to me. I knew I had heard it before. But whose?

I could not answer that question until this young man started spinning the yarn, or more appropriately, spilling the beans.

He told me that he was the mysterious caller who was bombarding me with strange calls shortly before I was arrested and tried for a sin I knew nothing about. If that revelation shocked me, what followed left my mouth agape. He revealed to me that it was my refusal to co-operate with them by insisting on publishing the novella that made Mama Peace implicate me.

And more terrific for me was his revelation that the pictures, which led to the end of my relationship with my fiancée were his handwork. He told me how they had trailed Kaira and me to that restaurant, taken the shots without our knowledge and how they had got my fiancée’s address and mailed them to her. According to him, they did all these to break me, to put pressure on me so that I would not be able to publish The Dame of Our Time which he told me Mama Peace felt would tarnish her image and deplete her followers.

At this stage, I could not but ask him how they got to know about the book. And this was another shock to me. He told me someone told them. When he mentioned the person’s name, it turned out to be the same person who had told me of Mama Peace’s many misdeeds. Why he had gone back to them was a mystery I would never be able to unravel. Perhaps he was afraid Mama Peace would find him out. Perhaps he discovered he had a stake in the First Family. Perhaps. And a whole lot of perhaps.

The young man would not leave my office until I told him I had forgiven him. Forgive, yes but would I ever forget? Certainly not!

Concluded

some months back, all I could see after quitting my job as spokesperson for the First Lady of the Federal Republic of Niagra, Dame Peace Azikwe, was that a new phase, and  a different one at that, was beginning. How different it was going to be was what I was not sure of.

As planned, I took up the job as Deputy Corporate Affairs Manager in the firm my friend, Dodondawa, introduced me to.

All was well at first until I decided to write a book. The idea of doing a book was beautiful and marvelous in my sight.  I tried to run away from it. Try as I did it would not leave me. In my dreams at night and during the day, the muse kept drawing me to it. I heard the muse clearly telling me to become a devotee and at the same time nudging me on the shoulder to take the quills. With time, I began to admire the muse and got enraptured. Then one day, I decided to give it form by putting pen to paper and by the time I was about to bask in my new joy, hell came down hard on me. My head began to do topsy-turvy.

Then one day, I was in my three-bedroom apartment when there was a knock on the door. I stood from the only three-seater chair in the sitting-room, where I had been sitting for hours, ruminating over the turn of my life.

I peeped through the door-view and saw a strange face, wearing what looked like a uniform. The colour of the uniform was blue. I opened the door.

“Good afternoon sir,” greeted the stranger.

“Good afternoon,” I managed to reply.

“I’m from Ramson Express. I have a parcel for Mr. Tunde Omoeko…”

“I’m Tunde Omoeko,” I cut in.

I signed and collected the parcel. I bid the courier man farewell and retired to my previous position on the three-seater. I tore the envelope hoping the content would add some sunshine to my wearing-out existence. But it was only a matter of time for me to realise that I had murdered sleep and single-handedly threw it out of the window. And never would I sleep again.

The first thing I saw on opening the parcel sent a rude shock down my spine. It was a picture of a lady, a colleague of mine and myself. The picture in question was taken inside a fast food joint. I could not immediately remember taking any such picture with Kaira. This must be some trick, I tried consoling myself. But the fact that the parcel was from my fiancée in far away Port Harcourt puzzled me. Even if I had taken a picture like that, how did it get to Adeeza, my fiancée?

Yes, I had taken Kaira out some weeks back when she was celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday. But I could not remember taking a picture with her during this outing. The state of confusion which the picture had put me made me forget that there was an accompanying note in the parcel. Quickly, I fished out the note and fed my eyes and soul with the content:

“Lover boy,

I’ve always known that I am a pain in your neck. I am debarring your progress as far as the exploration of female anatomies is concerned.

Don’t be surprised that I got this picture of yours and your latest catch, which was at the scene of the bash you organised to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday.

I’m on my way to Lagos as you are reading this. It is for no other reason than to bid you a final bye-bye, pick my things in your apartment and drop the damned spare keys of your apartment in my possession.

Till then, hold your breath.

Adeeza.”

I re-read the letter more than four times. And all I kept muttering was: “Why bring this at this material time, Adeeza? I’m still battling one mighty problem and here you are adding what can turn me into an emotional wreck.”

Before I knew it, my eyes had turned a flowing  river. Tears. Tears. And more tears. I could not really think straight. Things were happening too fast for me to comprehend.

The sun was up in the sky. In high quantity too. But not a dose of this was in my life at the moment. The sun soon peeped through the window and poured harsh rays on my sitting position.

Just when I cleansed off the films of suspended tears in my eyes, my mobile phone buzzed. It startled me as if I was not aware of the facility’s existence. I did not feel like answering it. But when the phone would not stop ringing, I grabbed it and said a very weak “hello”.

There was silence from the other end. A dead silence. I managed to say hello four more times. Still it was a graveyard silence. But just when I was about to drop the handset, I heard something that sounded like a “hello”.

“Hello, hello,” I cooed.

But there was no answer from the other end. A thought was about taking a shape in my heart when the phone came alive again. I felt like smashing it. But in no time I was clutching the handset.

“Hello…”

“No time for pleasantries, Tunde,” purred an unfriendly voice from the other end.

“What is it this time?” I asked.

“Nothing much, nothing much…”

And then a dead silence.

“Please say what you want to say,” I begged.

“Don’t be too smart boy!” rebuked the unfriendly voice.

Somehow, I had the impression that the fellow on the other end had a cigarette burning in his hand. I could feel the stench. So nauseating. This unfriendly voice had been terrorising me on phone in the last one week.

“Mr. writer, do you know what happened to Dele Giwa?” asked my tormentor.

I did not say anything.

“He was blown to pieces…”

“For doing his job,” I managed to say.

“No, no, not exactly…”

“Then, why was he blown?”

“For following a path similar to the one you are now following.”

I did not say anything.

“If you love yourself, just keep the term of the deal…”

“I don’t remember having any deal with you,” I grunted.

”You sure do. That useless book you are working on about Mama Peace must not see the light of the day. If it does, then light will be permanently out of your life. You may be deceiving yourself that you have written fiction but we know you only use the Kole Omotosho style to write about your experience working with Mama Peace…”

”I still don’t understand,” I feigned.

“When you are ready to cut a deal, I’ll be here. I’ll call you from time to time to find out your price. Bye!”

And he hung up. I was soon smoking away the pains searing away my inside. One. Two. Three.  Four. Five… By the time I got to the tenth cigarette, my eyeballs had turned red.

I later went into my room and came out with a copy of the manuscript of my coming novella The Dame of our Time. Another copy was with a foreign publishing company. We were trying to work out an agreeable contract.

The time was almost four in the afternoon. I took a look at the manuscript, which I had expended a lot of energy on and had done everything possible to hide the true identity of the dramatis personae. Yet my life was in danger, because of this same work.

“Even if I’ll die, this work must see the light of the day,” I said to myself and opened The Dame of our Time and started reading it for the umpteenth time. But with more attention now…

The first time I was offered this job, my joy knew no bounds. Laraba, an old schoolmate, called me on phone some six years ago. We exchanged pleasantries and she dropped the bombshell: “Mother Excellency needs a media aide.”

“Who is Mother Excellency?”

“The First Lady of course,” she answered.

Since wives of state governors also addressed themselves as First Ladies at their level, I needed more clarifications.

“The wife of the President of Niagara,” Laraba explained.

Four months before then, I had quit my job as the Editor of an Abuja-based newspaper over issues bothering on welfare. For close to a year, my salaries and other entitlements were not paid and the fool who called himself our publisher was busy frolicking with women of easy virtues all over the world. Yet, he was an elder in his church and preparing to become a deacon.

Laraba’s information was good news given my predicament. She told me she had been given the consultancy job to pick a Chief Press Secretary for the Office of the First Lady. We arranged to meet the following day. Since Laraba knew me well, the interview was mere formality.

A week after Laraba sent in my papers as the qualified candidate, a meeting was arranged between the First Lady and me. Thinking back now, I wonder if the near accident I had on my way to the Office of the First Lady was a warning that the job I was about to take might end up taking my peace away. But any sign of trouble faded away after I met Mother Excellency. She was pleasant to listen to. Not that she was an orator, but she said nice things to me and put my mind at rest. I looked forward to a nice time with her.

Soon my letter was out and the terms and conditions were good. For me, that was a further sign that all would be well. But how wrong I was.

For the first few months, all seemed well. The job was routine. We came to the office and followed her to programmes, usually women-related events.

The first sign that I was working with a terror came one morning when she  summoned me to their apartment in the Presidential Village. On getting there, I heard noises coming from the first floor, where the bedrooms were. I was in the living room downstairs with a domestic hand who ushered me in.

“Who is shouting?” I asked.

“You mean you can’t pick out your boss’s voice?” the domestic hand fired back at me.

I knew it was her voice, but just could not believe it. Why would she be shouting and who was she shouting at? I didn’t have to wait for long or ask the domestic hand, Chike, for answers to these questions tearing my heart.

“Peace, leave me alone. I have had enough of your trouble for one day,” the voice was clearly that of her husband, the president of the Federal Republic of Niagra.

“I will not leave you alone. How can you allow that boy, Chibuike, to embarrass me like that in public and not do something about it?”

The mention of Chibuike reminded me of an incident that happened the day before. We had gone to Waters State, her home state, to see the governor, Chibuike, who was carrying out some urban renewal programme on waterfronts in her town. Mother Excellency did not agree with the way the programme was being done and this generated some altercations between her and the governor.

“That boy must be removed as governor,” Mother Excellency’s voice cut through my thought.

“I will do no such thing,” the president said.

“Then say goodbye to peace,” Mother Excellency thundered.

Three minutes later, she stormed the living room. Her eyes were red, as though she had taken some local gin.

“Good morning ma,” I greeted her, standing.

Chike had fled when he heard her footsteps.

She did not return my greetings.

“Chibuike is using the media against me. I want you to counter him. I don’t know how you will do it, but find a way to dominate the media space for the next two weeks portraying him as rude to the First Lady. Go and start immediately,” she said and went upstairs.

I left the apartment hearing her resume her shouting match with the president. I went straight to my office, read through reports on her encounter with the governor and started the hatchet job. To make it more effective, aside the statement from the Office of the First Lady on the matter, I wrote a letter to the editor using a pen name, wrote an opinion piece, also with a pen name and did a few other stuffs using fictitious names, all to fulfil her instruction that I should dominate the media space.

We had hardly managed that crisis when another reared its head. Advertorials started appearing in the media accusing her of plotting to remove the governor of her husband’s state, Mr Silverbird. The advertorials were signed by fictitious individuals and groups, but going by my experience of how the media worked, I knew the governor was behind them. He only was not prepared to fight her in the open yet.

I received another summon; this time, it was to her office and she threw a paper at me immediately I entered.

“Go and circulate that in the media.”

I tried reading it there, but she shouted on me to go and distribute it fast.

“I want it in all the papers tomorrow,” she fumed.

I ran out of the office. On getting to my office, I read through the statement. It was from the law firm of Patience and Sisi Mama.

It read: “We write as the solicitor to the First Lady of the Federal Republic of Niagra, Dame Peace Azikwe, who we will henceforth refer to as our client. We have her instruction to warn media owners against publishing advertorials degrading her office and person.

“In the last few weeks, there have been a series of adverts in almost all the major newspapers accusing her of plotting to remove Governor Silverbird because he refused to share the state’s funds with her. This is so untrue and has brought her office and person to ridicule.

“Our client has been receiving phone calls from friends, family members and others from home and abroad on the matter and this has caused her sleepless nights.

“This letter serves as the first and final warning against the publication of libelous materials against our amiable our client, who is a known agent of peace and unity in our country. Ordinarily, she would have gone to court to seek damages for the harm done to her office and reputation, but due to her disposition as a woman of peace, she has decided to offer this olive branch to the media.

“Failure to respect the terms and conditions of this olive branch will leave us with no other option than to seek redress in the court of law. We will be seeking damages in excess of N5 billion from any media house which publishes libelous materials against our client henceforth.”

After reading through, I got my secretary to type it out and I sent them out to Editors of newspapers. On receipt of the statement, Ibrahim Dodondawa, the Editor of Spear and a long standing friend, called me and asked why I did not advise the First Lady against fighting the media.

“You know no one fights the media and wins,” said Dodondawa.

“My brother, my boss takes no one’s advice. She does what she wants and since I have no choice yet, I have to comply,” I said truthfully to Dodondawa.

“I pity you. If not for media owners who run their businesses without human face, what will you be doing working with such a woman? May God give you the strength to continue while searching for a better job.”

“Amen.”

To be continued next week.