fear.
“Don’t bank so far,” he commanded the pilot. “Are you in an air show?”
The pilot gently levelled out. Kolo’s short nails continued to grip the handles of his white leather seat.
“Okay. We need to go round this area,” he instructed. “But my drink must remain level. Circle gently. You’re not a Hollywood stunt man today-oh.”
Kolo looked down and saw that which no human should ever behold—horizons of horror, as far as the eye could see. Where buildings once stood, a raging river thundered; what once contained the to and fro of human activity now held the current of an almighty sea, its waters flowing with human flesh.
Where the flood allowed, the tops of houses could be seen. Occasionally, Kolo would spot someone waving a shirt from a roof or tree, begging for him to save them. He left them there,knowing that they would die before any help could reach them. He would be the last witness to their existence, his eyes the last to turn away from their despair.
With these damning images as bait, he then made his way through meetings across the country, consoling the lost and forlorn, expressing his heartfelt sympathies to community leaders and pronouncing his disgust and shock to the international press.
In the north, he quoted the Qur’an; in the south, the Bible. In rural areas, he invoked the spirits. With ordinary people, he listened to stories, shook his head, shed some tears; with politicians, he discussed how best to save their jobs; with analysts, he offered statistical details of the tragedy; with journalists, he painted colourful pictures of horrific deaths; with the international community, he pointed the finger of blame; with his voters, he promoted restitution; with the business community, he talked about reconstruction.
Kolo read the papers daily as he flew from meeting to meeting. The news delighted him. Many politicians could plead, beg and cajole. Very few could weep. But Kolo enjoyed performing; it challenged him. He had collapsed on the arm of a local leader. All the papers ran the story. On the inside pages, in smaller print, they reported on the president’s meeting with European ministers.
After an exhausting fortnight spent with community leaders, politicians and the international community, Kolo finally went home. He was sitting in the back of his famed white Mercedes-Benz, deep in thought, airing himself softly with an exquisitely decorated Spanish fan.
“Joh. Turn left here. There’s too much traffic ahead,” he said wearily to Innocent. He lay back on plump seats and stroked the rare wood. His hands—as always, too dry—made swishingsounds on the surfaces. He turned the air conditioner to high. As others believe in gods or sons of gods, Kolo believed in consumption, and he practised his belief.
The car came to a halt outside a bright white compound protected by wrought-iron gates in beautiful filigree shapes: on the left, “O”; on the right, “K.” Ogbe Kolo. O.K. The tops of the surrounding walls were studded with broken glass.
A guard peered into the car and immediately set to opening the gates. Kolo looked at him from the corner of his eye. As a night guard, he was above average. However, Kolo knew that, if any harm were to come to him, any threat to his person, any potential for violence or mischief, the guard would disappear as quickly into the night as he had appeared from its depths.
And Kolo had reason to fear. He was now on the verge of his boldest move.
* “For those in misery perhaps better things will follow.”
FIVE
It Takes a Corporation …
O n a hill within the moonscape that overlooked Santa Fe’s warren of adobe houses rose a mighty building, out of harmony with its surroundings, an oasis within a thirsty desert. Its mirrored facade assumed the features of a mirage, a veil to hide the extent of its dominion. While obscuring the activity behind its walls, it offered unobstructed views for those within of that which lay outside.
“Don’t bank so far,” he commanded the pilot. “Are you in an air show?”
The pilot gently levelled out. Kolo’s short nails continued to grip the handles of his white leather seat.
“Okay. We need to go round this area,” he instructed. “But my drink must remain level. Circle gently. You’re not a Hollywood stunt man today-oh.”
Kolo looked down and saw that which no human should ever behold—horizons of horror, as far as the eye could see. Where buildings once stood, a raging river thundered; what once contained the to and fro of human activity now held the current of an almighty sea, its waters flowing with human flesh.
Where the flood allowed, the tops of houses could be seen. Occasionally, Kolo would spot someone waving a shirt from a roof or tree, begging for him to save them. He left them there,knowing that they would die before any help could reach them. He would be the last witness to their existence, his eyes the last to turn away from their despair.
With these damning images as bait, he then made his way through meetings across the country, consoling the lost and forlorn, expressing his heartfelt sympathies to community leaders and pronouncing his disgust and shock to the international press.
In the north, he quoted the Qur’an; in the south, the Bible. In rural areas, he invoked the spirits. With ordinary people, he listened to stories, shook his head, shed some tears; with politicians, he discussed how best to save their jobs; with analysts, he offered statistical details of the tragedy; with journalists, he painted colourful pictures of horrific deaths; with the international community, he pointed the finger of blame; with his voters, he promoted restitution; with the business community, he talked about reconstruction.
Kolo read the papers daily as he flew from meeting to meeting. The news delighted him. Many politicians could plead, beg and cajole. Very few could weep. But Kolo enjoyed performing; it challenged him. He had collapsed on the arm of a local leader. All the papers ran the story. On the inside pages, in smaller print, they reported on the president’s meeting with European ministers.
After an exhausting fortnight spent with community leaders, politicians and the international community, Kolo finally went home. He was sitting in the back of his famed white Mercedes-Benz, deep in thought, airing himself softly with an exquisitely decorated Spanish fan.
“Joh. Turn left here. There’s too much traffic ahead,” he said wearily to Innocent. He lay back on plump seats and stroked the rare wood. His hands—as always, too dry—made swishingsounds on the surfaces. He turned the air conditioner to high. As others believe in gods or sons of gods, Kolo believed in consumption, and he practised his belief.
The car came to a halt outside a bright white compound protected by wrought-iron gates in beautiful filigree shapes: on the left, “O”; on the right, “K.” Ogbe Kolo. O.K. The tops of the surrounding walls were studded with broken glass.
A guard peered into the car and immediately set to opening the gates. Kolo looked at him from the corner of his eye. As a night guard, he was above average. However, Kolo knew that, if any harm were to come to him, any threat to his person, any potential for violence or mischief, the guard would disappear as quickly into the night as he had appeared from its depths.
And Kolo had reason to fear. He was now on the verge of his boldest move.
* “For those in misery perhaps better things will follow.”
FIVE
It Takes a Corporation …
O n a hill within the moonscape that overlooked Santa Fe’s warren of adobe houses rose a mighty building, out of harmony with its surroundings, an oasis within a thirsty desert. Its mirrored facade assumed the features of a mirage, a veil to hide the extent of its dominion. While obscuring the activity behind its walls, it offered unobstructed views for those within of that which lay outside.
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