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The Miraculous Deliverance of Oga
Jona


By Chimamanda Adichie

As soon as he opened his eyes, he felt it. A strange peace, a calm clarity. He
stretched.  Even his limbs were stronger and surer. He looked at his phone.
Thirty-seven new text messages – and all while he was asleep. With one click,
he deleted them. The empty screen buoyed him. Then he got up to bathe,
determined to fold the day into the exact shape that he wanted.

Those Levick people had to go. No more foreign PR firms. They should have
made that article in the American newspaper sound like him, they should have
known better. They had to go. And he would not pay their balance; they had not
fulfilled the purpose of the contract after all.

He pressed the intercom. Man Friday came in, face set in a placidly praise-
singing smile.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!”
“Good morning,” Oga Jona said. “I had a revelation from God.”
Man Friday stared at him with bulging eyes.
“I said I had a revelation from God,” he repeated. “Find me new Public Relations
people. Here in Nigeria. Is this country not full of mass communication
departments and graduates?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Friday’s eyes narrowed; he was already thinking of
whom he would bring, of how he would benefit.
“I want a shortlist on my table on Wednesday,” Oga Jona said. “I don’t want any
of the usual suspects. I want fresh blood. Like that student who asked that frank
question during the economic summit.”
“Your Excellency… the procurement rules…we need somebody who is licensed
by the agency licensed by the agency that licenses PR consultants…”
Oga Jona snorted. Man Friday used civil service restrictions as a weapon to
fight off competition. Anybody who might push him out of his privileged position
was suddenly not licensed, not approved, not registered. “I don’t want you to
bring your own candidates, do you hear me? I said I want fresh blood, I’m not
joking.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Man Friday said, voice now high-pitched with alarmed
confusion.
“Put that DVD for me before you go,” Oga Jona said.

He watched the recording on the widescreen television, unhappy with his
appearance in the footage. His trousers seemed too big and why had nobody
adjusted his hat? Next to The Girl from Pakistan, he looked timid, scrunched into
his seat. She was inspiring, that young girl, and he wished her well. But he saw
now how bad this made him appear: he had ignored all the Nigerians asking him
to go to Chibok, and now The Girl From Pakistan was telling the world that he
promised her he would go. He promised me, she said. As if the abducted
Nigerian girls did not truly matter until this girl said they did. As if what mattered
to him was a photo-op with this girl made famous by surviving a gunshot wound.
It made him look small. It made him look unpresidential. It made him look like a
leader without a rudder.  Why had they advised him to do this? He pressed a
button on his desk and waited.

Violence was unfamiliar to Oga Jona. Yet when Man Monday came in, his belly
rounded and his shirt a size too tight as usual, Oga Jona fought the urge to hit
and punch and slap. Instead, he settled for less: he threw a teacup at Man
Monday.
“Why have you people been advising me not to go to Chibok? Why have you
people been telling me that my enemies will exploit it?”
“Sah?” Man Monday had dodged the teacup and now stood flustered.
“I am going to Chibok tomorrow. I should have gone a long time ago. Now it will
look as if I am going only because a foreigner, a small girl at that, told me to go.
But I will still go. Nigerians have to see that this thing is troubling me too.”
“But Sah, you know…”
“Don’t ‘Sah you know’ me!” This was how his people always started. “Sah, you
know…” Then they would bring up conspiracies, plots, enemies, evil spirits. No
wonder giant snakes were always chasing him in his dreams: he had listened to
too much of their nonsense. He remembered a quote from a teacher in his
secondary school:  ‘The best answer to give your enemies is continued
excellence.’ What he needed, he saw now, was an adviser like that teacher.
“Sah, the security situation…”
“Have you not seen Obama appear in Afghanistan or Iraq in the middle of the
night to greet American troops? Is Chibok more dangerous than the war the
Americans are always fighting up and down? Arrange it immediately. Keep it
quiet. I want to meet the parents of the girls. Make gifts and provisions available
to the families, as a small token of goodwill from the federal government.” He
knew how much people liked such things. A tin of vegetable oil would soften
some bitter hearts.
“Sah…”
“From Borno we go to Yobe. I want to meet the families of the boys who were
killed. I want to visit the school. Fifty-nine boys! They shot those innocent boys
and burnt them to ashes! Chai! There is evil in the world o!”
“Yes Sah.”
“These people are evil. That man Yusuf was evil. The policemen who killed him,
we have to arrest them and parade them before the press. Make sure the world
knows we are handling the case. But it is even more important that we tell the
true story about Yusuf himself. Yes, the police should not have killed him. But
does that mean his followers should now start shedding blood all over this
country? Is there any Nigerian who does not have a bad story about the police?
Was it not last year that my own cousin was nearly killed in police detention? Let
us tell people why the Army caught him in the first place. He was evil. Remember
that pastor in Maiduguri that he beheaded. Find that pastor’s wife. Let her tell
her story. Let the world hear it. Show pictures of the pastor. Why have we not
been telling the full story? Why didn’t we fight back when The Man From Borno
was running around abroad, blaming me for everything when he too failed in his
own responsibilities?” Oga Jona was getting angrier as he spoke, angry with his
people, angry with himself. How could he have remained, for so long, in that
darkness, that demon possession of ineptitude?
“Yes Sah!”
“You can go.”

He picked up the iphone and spoke slowly. “I want to expand that Terror Victims
Support Committee. Add one woman. Add two people personally affected by
terrorism. How can you have a committee on terrorism victims with no diversity?”
On the other end of the phone, the voice was stilled by surprise. “Yes Sah!”
Finally emerged, in a croak.

He put down the phone. There would be no more committees. At least until he
was re-elected. And no more unending consultations. He picked up the Galaxy,
scrolled through the list of contacts. He called two Big Men in the Armed Forces,
the ones stealing most of the money meant for the soldiers.
“I want your resignation by Friday,” He said simply.
Their shock blistered down the phone.
“But Your Excellency...”
“Or you want me to announce that I am sacking you? At least resignation will
save you embarrassment.”

If those left knew he was now serious as commander-in-chief, serious about
punishing misdeed and demanding performance, they would sit up. He ate some
roasted groundnuts before making the next call. To another Big Man in the
Armed Forces. They had to stop arresting Northerners just like that. He
remembered his former gateman in Port Harcourt. Mohammed, pleasant
Mohammed with his buck teeth and his radio pressed to his ear. Mohammed
would not even have the liver to support any terrorist.  He told the Big Man in the
Armed Forces, “You need to carry people along. Win hearts and minds. Make
Nigerians feel that you are fighting for them, not against them... And when you
talk to the press and say that Nigerians should do their part to fight terrorism,
stop sounding as if you are accusing them. After all, let us tell the truth, what
can an ordinary person do? Nothing! Even those people who check cars, if they
open a boot and see a big bomb, what will they do? Will they try to subdue an
armed suicide bomber? Will they pour water on the bomb to defuse it? Will they
not turn and run as fast as their legs can carry them? Let’s start a mass
education campaign. Get proposals on how best to do it without scaring people.
When we tell Nigerians to report suspicious behavior, let’s give them examples.
Suspicious behavior does not mean anybody wearing a jellabiya. After all, was
the one in Lagos not done by a woman?” He paused.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
“As for the girls, we have to go back to negotiation. Move in immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I should not have listened to what they told me in that Paris summit. Why did I
even agree to follow them and go to Paris, all of us looking like colonised goats?”
From the other end, came a complete and lip-sealed silence. The Big Man in the
Armed Forces dared not make a sound, lest it be mistaken as agreement on the
word ‘goat.’ Besides, he had been part of the entourage for that trip and had
collected even more than the normal fat juicy estacode.
“I don’t want to hear about any other mutiny,” Oga Jona continued. “You will get
the funds. But I want real results! Improve the conditions of your boys. I want to
see results!”
The Big Man in the Armed Forces started saying something about the
Americans.
Oga Jona cut him short. “Shut up! If somebody shits inside your father’s house,
is it a foreigner that will come and clean the house for you? Is Sambisa on
Google Maps? How much local intelligence have you gathered? Before you ask
for help, you first do your best!”
“Yes Your Excellency.”
“And why is it that nobody interviewed the girls who escaped?”
There was a pause.
“By tomorrow night I want a report on the local intelligence gathered so far!”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Oga Jona turned on the television and briefly watched a local channel. Who
even designed those ugly studio backgrounds? There was a knock on the door.
It had to be Man Thursday. Nobody else could come in anyhow.
“Good afternoon, My President,” Man Thursday said.
Short and stocky, Man Thursday was the soother who always came cradling
bottles of liquid peace.
This time, Oga Jona pushed away the bottle. “Not now!’
“My President, I hope you’re feeling fine.”
“I received a revelation from God. From now on, I will stop giving interviews to
foreign journalists while ignoring our own journalists.”
“But My President, you know how useless our journalists are…”
“Will Obama give an interview to AIT and ignore CBS?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“I know some of our journalists support Bourdillon, but we also have others on
our side. I will beat them at their game! I want to do interviews with two journalists
that support us and one journalist that supports Bourdillon. Find one that will be
easy to intimidate.”
“But…”
“I want names in the next hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Thursday now stood still, lips parted in the slack
expression of a person no longer sure what day it was.
“Tell the Supporters Club to change their television advertisements. They
should stop mentioning ‘those who are against me.’ I will no longer give power to
my enemies. They should mention only the things that I am doing. I like that one
with the almajiri boy. It shows Nigerians that I have helped with education in the
North. They should make more advertisements like that.”
In response, Man Thursday could only nod vigorously but mutely.
                                                                                                        
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