cannot afford for Nigerian water to fall into the hands of foreign powers.”
“Foreign?”
“TransAqua International, along with the French and British, will bid for the rights. We need to be in a position to …” he paused to consider phrasing, “… to decide if the country should sell them.”
The vice-president bowed. “Of course, sir!”
“Obviously you will be entitled to a percentage.” He surveyed his subordinate. “However, I expect you to keep this highly confidential, because you don’t want other businesses,” he slowed down to let the implication of internal rivalry sink in, “to get hold of this information. Someone else might decide to take over the portfolio.”
The vice-president gripped the side of his desk to steady himself. “You can put your full trust in me, sir,” he whispered. He took Kolo’s hand and shook it in both of his, not stopping for a full minute.
After this ordeal, Kolo flicked his wrist with concern and, as he did so, caught sight of his fingernails. The stresses of his life were exhibited there, despite his fastidious nature. His nails had been chewed into uneven lengths, their cuticles frayed, their beds miniature. In disgust, he hid his hands underneath his agbada.
Next, he wended his way around the serpentine corridors of the curved edifice to visit the team headed by the vice-president of Mideast Water. This ritual continued, albeit with hands firmly in his pockets, as he visited the head of each geographical division.
Finally he got to the centre that connected all four droplets of his personal panopticon. There, he kicked closed the door to his own office, he settled back in a chair of emerald velvet and applied moisturizer to his fingernails. He wondered if a manicurist would be able to help him. Picking up the phone, he ordered his stockbroker to buy shares in TransAqua International, the company he had already decided would partner with him in reconstruction. He planned not only to profit from TransAqua’s future stranglehold on water supply via the Niger River in the west—which would be contaminated with bodies and bacteria from the flood—but also to compete with his own supplies, which would come from uninfected groundwater, aquifers and other fresh-water sources near the mighty Benue River in the east. In this way, he would own almost all of the fresh water in Nigeria.
After securing military and diplomatic support, as well as his own business interests, it was time for Kolo to address the formalities expected by a grieving populace. He toured the devastated areas with the eyes of a politician and the sight of a man of commerce. As he drove west to the banks of the Niger in his Mercedes, now soiled by mud, he heard the screams of horror through his bulletproof windows. He could sense the panic of those who had witnessed the hunger of the water, devouring all that stood in its path. He knew no aid would reach them, that they would rot with their kin in the stinking mire.
Everything around him was razed—factories, farms, drains, village centres, even cities. Electricity poles lay like fallen giants, telephone lines like broken matchsticks, mighty buildings like sand castles after the tide. Lead clouds, black sky, metal sun, heavy with mist and dust.
Kolo saw one man hanging upside down, with his leg caught on a window grille, the other leg like a third arm flopping over his head, a human tripod. The aerial on a roof displayed human remains like a clothesline, a banner testifying to the horror of the dam’s wrath. More images from the darkest realms of human imagining: bodies like torn plastic, slung high on tree-tops, dead and rotting; others folded over balconies in garish poses or washed up into piles around the corners of buildings.
Most areas were inaccessible by road, so he toured the banks of the Niger by helicopter. Always fearful of that which he could not control, he would look out of the helicopter, every muscle straining in
“Foreign?”
“TransAqua International, along with the French and British, will bid for the rights. We need to be in a position to …” he paused to consider phrasing, “… to decide if the country should sell them.”
The vice-president bowed. “Of course, sir!”
“Obviously you will be entitled to a percentage.” He surveyed his subordinate. “However, I expect you to keep this highly confidential, because you don’t want other businesses,” he slowed down to let the implication of internal rivalry sink in, “to get hold of this information. Someone else might decide to take over the portfolio.”
The vice-president gripped the side of his desk to steady himself. “You can put your full trust in me, sir,” he whispered. He took Kolo’s hand and shook it in both of his, not stopping for a full minute.
After this ordeal, Kolo flicked his wrist with concern and, as he did so, caught sight of his fingernails. The stresses of his life were exhibited there, despite his fastidious nature. His nails had been chewed into uneven lengths, their cuticles frayed, their beds miniature. In disgust, he hid his hands underneath his agbada.
Next, he wended his way around the serpentine corridors of the curved edifice to visit the team headed by the vice-president of Mideast Water. This ritual continued, albeit with hands firmly in his pockets, as he visited the head of each geographical division.
Finally he got to the centre that connected all four droplets of his personal panopticon. There, he kicked closed the door to his own office, he settled back in a chair of emerald velvet and applied moisturizer to his fingernails. He wondered if a manicurist would be able to help him. Picking up the phone, he ordered his stockbroker to buy shares in TransAqua International, the company he had already decided would partner with him in reconstruction. He planned not only to profit from TransAqua’s future stranglehold on water supply via the Niger River in the west—which would be contaminated with bodies and bacteria from the flood—but also to compete with his own supplies, which would come from uninfected groundwater, aquifers and other fresh-water sources near the mighty Benue River in the east. In this way, he would own almost all of the fresh water in Nigeria.
After securing military and diplomatic support, as well as his own business interests, it was time for Kolo to address the formalities expected by a grieving populace. He toured the devastated areas with the eyes of a politician and the sight of a man of commerce. As he drove west to the banks of the Niger in his Mercedes, now soiled by mud, he heard the screams of horror through his bulletproof windows. He could sense the panic of those who had witnessed the hunger of the water, devouring all that stood in its path. He knew no aid would reach them, that they would rot with their kin in the stinking mire.
Everything around him was razed—factories, farms, drains, village centres, even cities. Electricity poles lay like fallen giants, telephone lines like broken matchsticks, mighty buildings like sand castles after the tide. Lead clouds, black sky, metal sun, heavy with mist and dust.
Kolo saw one man hanging upside down, with his leg caught on a window grille, the other leg like a third arm flopping over his head, a human tripod. The aerial on a roof displayed human remains like a clothesline, a banner testifying to the horror of the dam’s wrath. More images from the darkest realms of human imagining: bodies like torn plastic, slung high on tree-tops, dead and rotting; others folded over balconies in garish poses or washed up into piles around the corners of buildings.
Most areas were inaccessible by road, so he toured the banks of the Niger by helicopter. Always fearful of that which he could not control, he would look out of the helicopter, every muscle straining in
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