An emergency meeting was held at the top in Abuja to decipher a solution. Threats and warnings had been issued; Otunba and the high-ranking police officer were determined to not go down alone.
Soye returned from Abuja admonished and subdued, like a dog left out in the pouring rain; this wasn’t the triumphant end to the year he’d hoped to have.
‘You’re still young. This will pass. Our people forget easily,’ I told him because I couldn’t bear to see him so dejected.
Rabiu Harouna’s death would only serve to prove me right. On the panels discussing his death, he was referred to as a national hero, a man who had lived a life of service to his country.
There were no mentions of his past as a commanding officer of the Nigerian army division that had perpetuated the Asaba massacre, his role on the dubious petroleum trust under the leadership of a late dictator, nor the several corruption scandals that trailed his time as a governor. Before his demise, he’d sat on an economic council that had overseen the country’s plunge into a recession.
The voices online were raised in contest:
Soye wasn’t taking any chances this time, and influencers were unleashed to turn the conversation around:
‘I met Senator Rabiu Harouna a few times,’ a guest on a news network informed the viewers. He tapped a handkerchief on the skin underneath his eyes. ‘We would discuss policies and books we read over tea. A very refined and dignified fellow. He will be greatly missed.’
A glossy magazine cover was the right way to announce success.
‘That’s how you let everyone know you’ve arrived,’ Mrs Aluko said.
The foundation’s work had been recognised on a random international end of year list and Mrs Aluko thought it was just what was needed to boost my profile in the political arena. A few calls in her penthouse office and the editor of a newspaper magazine made space on the cover of its end-of-year issue. ‘I want her to look like a future president’s wife,’ she told the editor. ‘The piece must be tastefully done; no second-rate nonsense. Hope you understand?’
When the call was over, she grinned with self-satisfaction and pressed a little knob on the side of her table. A steward in white appeared and she asked him to bring her a bottle of Pol Roger and two flutes. ‘We need to celebrate.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ I asked, sincerely puzzled.
‘The magazine cover, of course.’
‘But we haven’t accomplished much yet. Isn’t it a bit early to talk about it?’
She shook her head as if saddened by my naivety. ‘You really don’t seem to understand how the higher-level works, my dear. This isn’t local government politics,’ she scoffed. ‘Anyways, it’s why you have me. You think all the people you see on these covers have actually accomplished much? It’s all about presentation! You need to blow your horn; sell your story so others can believe it. Otunba who is wanted by the FBI was just on a magazine cover lauding his business exploits and you think you shouldn’t talk about this? How else do you plan to attract attention to yourself and build your profile?’
The steward returned minutes later with a laden tray and she told him to return the bottle for an older vintage. ‘Are you trying to make me look cheap?’
As we sat sipping from our flutes, the floor-to-ceiling windows creating an illusion of being suspended in the sky, Mrs Aluko said, ‘You’re doing a good job, my dear. But I need you to talk to your husband. He needs to calm down, all this gra gra will lead nowhere. What was that statement he put out about Otunba?’
The morning of the shoot, the team offloaded their equipment in our garage and the shoot coordinator threw instructions around like he owned our home: ‘Put it there. Yes, over there. No no, not there. Over there! Watch what you’re doing!’
The interviewer, a woman dressed in an abstract jumpsuit that was intended to be fashionable but ended up appearing as though the tailor had gotten her measurements wrong, spoke in an accent that had been American at some point but was now stolidly somewhere in between. ‘I’m Klara, ma. It’s so lovely to meet you. The work you’re doing is absolutely phenomenal,’ she said, shaking my hand enthusiastically, and I wondered how often she’d spoken those words to an interviewee.
In our living room, Klara opened her binders to explain the concept they had in mind, ‘Somewhere between chic and boss lady,’ and shared a copy of the interview questions. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you’re uncomfortable with and we’ll take it out. I’ve already shared them with Mrs Aluko but she says you should have a say as well.’
Soye walked in as we sorted through concept photos, dressed in a collared polo shirt and shorts that stopped above his knee. He’d recently taken to playing golf because a friend had mentioned it was the best way to socialise with the upper class. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, looking around at the magazine staff and equipment with open curiosity.
I excused myself to speak with him. ‘Today’s the shoot I told you about,’ I said.
‘Oh, oh, I totally forgot about that.’ He looked over my head to speak with Klara. ‘Are you the interviewer?’
‘Yes sir,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Good morning, sir.’
Soye stepped around me to speak with her. ‘Good morning! It’s good you’re here, I had some ideas in mind,’ he said as he plopped down to occupy the seat I’d only just vacated. ‘We can do a couple shoot, then you can ask her some questions. Afterwards, we can do a brief column on the role she’s played in supporting me in my career and my plans for the future and the country.’
Klara looked between me and Soye, confusion written in the lines of her face. She stuttered as she spoke. ‘W–well the shoot is meant to be about just Mrs Adebowale and her foundation’s work on maternal health care.’
‘Yes? And? You’re saying there’s no space to discuss my work afterwards? It’s not like much has been done with the foundation anyways.’ He wouldn’t know; he left the files I handed him unread.
‘Sorry sir, but Mrs Aluko gave clear instructions about what we should do, and we can’t change that,’ Klara insisted.
Soye brooded when the team left. The shoot had concluded on a high note and the interviewer commented that it was one of the best ones she’d done.
‘So is this how it’s going to be now?’ he said.
‘How is what going to be?’ I asked as I wiped the makeup from my face.
‘You’re just going to focus on yourself? The whole purpose of you starting this project was to boost my profile and you wouldn’t even let me participate in your interview.’
I laughed, incredulous. ‘Soye, you’re interviewed every other day. You can’t be serious!’
Hassana was campaigning for votes for a Big Brother housemate in our WhatsApp group chat when Mrs Aluko sent the galley proofs. I’d been added to the Women in Politics group after I’d attended the meeting at the hotel and like most groups, it often pivoted from its main purpose.
Hassana: Please you people should vote so she doesn’t get evicted
Enitan: With all the problems affecting this country? This is a serious group Hassana
