By Ifeoma Chinwuba
Chapter Two
Many people do not know that there are two independent republics completely surrounded by Italy. One is the Vatican City, the other is the Republic of San Marino. Ambassador Godsonn was his country’s chief representative to the Republic of San Marino. He was not a career diplomat. He was what was called, in diplomatic circles, a political appointee. He had been a contractor-turned-politician, a failed one who had lost the battle for governorship of his home state. He blamed his electoral loss on massive rigging and bribery.
“A poor man should not contest elections in that country, no matter how bogus his ideas and manifesto. Only money delivers votes. You can talk from morning to night, campaign from north to south, east to west, if you don’t have C-A-S-H, go into your mother’s hut and eat soup. Nigerians will not vote for you,” he used to say. “And let me tell you, it is not only the military that can plan coups in that country. Your own political party can topple you even before the main race starts at the Primaries. Palace coup, they call it.”
The party had compensated him with an ambassadorial post under a loosely defined coalition agreement.
Alas! He was not very knowledgeable in diplomatic affairs.
His personal assistant had told a story of how he had once accompanied His Excellency to an international women’s conference on domestic violence in Genoa. The ambassador had been asked by headquarters to represent the Women’s Minister. At the conference, delegates spoke passionately against wife battery and general violence against women. It was obvious that the ambassador was bored. After a while of listening to the session, he raised his hand to intervene. The PA, consternated, sought to find out what he wished to say, but the Chair had seen the raised hand and had excitedly given the floor to the envoy. Everyone recognized his country’s leadership role in the world. Ambassador Godsonn then proceeded to tell the story of his neighbour back home, a small wiry thing who had married a woman three times his size. Every night, this woman would pound and hammer the poor man who would shout for the whole town to come to his rescue. He concluded by advising women to marry smallish men as a way of escaping domestic violence. He prayed the conference to consider addressing the issue of wives who beat up their husbands. Husband battery, he called it. It was an embarrassment to all present.
On another occasion, when he intervened in an international conference, it was to appeal to the delegates not to smoke along the corridors as this disturbed his breathing. “I have not had breakfast,” he said. “My stomach is turning me.”
His staff, especially the senior ones who had risen through the ranks, propped him up, covering his deficiencies. They wrote his despatches and reports and advised him on matters of protocol. Certainly, there were many political appointees who had a lot to offer on the job. But not Godsonn.
Ambassador Godsonn knew no word of the local language. Once, he had welcomed some businessmen to his office, a big smile on his face, saying arrivederci to them. He thought it meant welcome, since it contained “arrive”. It means goodbye. He depended squarely on his social secretary to decipher the mystery contained in incoming mails. And when unravelled, he would call one of his staff to reply appropriately. All he did was to append his signature.
He ascribed all the sayings whose authors he didn’t know to Shakespeare. “Shakespeare says no condition is permanent. Shakespeare says rub my back, I rub your back…”
To all who cared, he would say he was a bird of passage. He was here to recoup all the money he had lost at the elections and make extra for the electoral battles ahead. He awarded contracts personally, bypassing the Tenders Board. He negotiated his commissions and cuts with the contractors, not trusting his subordinates in this field.
“It is only the Italian language that I do not understand. I speak the language of money very well. Thank you,” he would say.
People said he needed all the money he could lay his hands on, as he had eight children and two wives to cater for, with the attendant coterie of extended family members and in-laws whom he jokingly called outlaws.
He had arrived post with a band of these relations, declaring that his first mission was to find jobs for them to reduce their ‘parasitism’ on him. He sacked the subordinate staff of the embassy for the least misdemeanour and replaced them with his dependants.
His two wives hailed from different parts of the country. The first was from the West, the second from the East. The ambassador himself was from a Northern minority. He was unable to control his wives, especially the second who was given to bouts of violence. On several occasions, she had locked up the chief representative in one of the Residence rooms, threatening to cut off his manhood unless he fulfilled his promise. What the promise was, no one could tell. At such times, the poor fellow would call his embassy for reinforcement, bellowing: “The government is about to fall o! Your president’s Chief Representative is in trouble oh! Send troops to free this important hostage.”
His staff would rush to the Residence, appealing to madam to release His Excellency for a non-existent important meeting with host government officials. The poor fellow would beg the staff not to go back to the embassy without him, as madam could change her mind and re-arrest him.
This same lady would attend the meeting of the International Women’s Club – alongside the first wife. The club had written that only one wife per embassy could be recognised at the meeting; polygamous heads of Mission were to transmit the name of Her Excellency to be recognized and accredited. This fell on deaf ears as Madame number-two maintained that in a polygamous home, everything was taken in turns. If the wives could sleep with the man in turns, then they would also take the benefits of his office in turns. Full stop. The senior wife did not intervene between her husband and her mate. She only told the ambassador: “You passed the shit that is smelling, you have to take it out. Excellency my foot!”
Ambassador Godsonn made jokes of his marital ménage à trois: “You see, it is not good to be charitable,” he would say. “I married that Ngozi woman so that she would not be left on the shelf. You see how she is paying me back now? One day it is lock me in, another it is lock me out. I have told her if she wants to be the man in this house, let her carry all my trousers and wear. Only leave me in peace.”
But he had a good heart, his staff would say. And he liked the bottle. He usually invited his staff to have a glass at the end of the day, and then they would talk of general things. Godsonn would beam with happiness, his domestic worries forgotten for a while. He would pull at his salt-and-pepper goatee and crack one or two jokes. His favourite was the one about two Tiv men. He usually cracked this joke in the presence of the Finance Attaché who hailed from that tribe.
“Two Tiv men from Nigeria went to London,” he would begin. “It was late evening and they needed to change their dollar travellers cheques to pounds sterling cash. They approached a police officer and told him, ‘We are two Tivs from Nigeria, looking for a bank.’ They were promptly arrested.”
Ambassador Godsonn was based in the capital where the embassy was located. However, he made trips to Milan to “check up on things,” as he liked to say. Everyone knew he was running away from his troublesome wives. And then too, Milan was livelier than San Marino in more ways than one. Initially, His Excellency, accompanied by his protocol officer, visited once every three months. Later, he had taken to coming every month. Nowadays, he showed up every fortnight, alone, sometimes unannounced.
The consulate staff did not know what to make of this. The Consul advised his staff to be on their toes since no one knew when the chief would surprise them. “He will come like a thief in the night,” the Consul would joke. Ufot had passed through many bosses and knew that each had his own style. However, as a good officer, he had tried once or twice to voice out his concerns on the security implications of these impromptu travels.
His Excellency had brushed them aside. “My friend, there are no terrorist threats against us that I know of. If you want to start one, let us know. Are you America? Who is interested in kidnapping an African ambassador? If you have nothing to report, go home and eat your garri. Do not alarm colleagues. Or is it Mr President that would want to reach me? He has my mobile phone number. The white man has solved all our problems by inventing the mobile phone. I can be reached anywhere, anytime even when I am on top of a woman.”
A corner office had been furnished for his use while in Milan, complete with a TV set, satellite dish and a computer connected to the Internet. There was a well-stocked bar and a divan. The ambassador was reclining on the divan when Mr Ufot entered.
“Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. There are drinks in the bar. Serve yourself. You know what is there.”
The Consul grabbed a glass and poured himself some Campari. He was not a drinker but he could not turn down the boss’ invitation for a drink. With the Campari, he would be able to keep the ambassador company and still be on his guard. By habit, he always resisted the invitation to drink with his bosses. One could easily go too far.
His Excellency looked worn out. He had a drink in hand, probably his known favourite, Remy Martin. His eyes were riveted on the television, which was showing a tennis duel between Agassi and Arnaud Clément. It was the finals of the Australian Open. They watched the match for a while, and when Agassi finally reached a match point, the ambassador cleared his throat:
“How are things here? Your reports are not as regular as they used to be.”
“I am sorry about that, sir. Recently, as you well know, we have had a series of visitors. However, by Monday, we shall be able to produce all outstanding reports.”
“So everything is ok?”
“Yes sir, more or less. The only worrying report is yet another death of one of our nationals. Apparently a hit-and-run accident.”
“Yes, I now remember seeing a fax on that. One Lovett Jon or something like that. Obviously a prostitute. What do you propose to do?”
“We were thinking of protesting to the Foreign Office and then informing Abuja to try and locate her next-of-kin. We have an address in our records.”
“You can send a note to the FO. But contacting her next¬of-kin, my friend, don’t trouble yourself. They will not show up. Where will they get the money for the ticket or for repatriating the corpse?”
“That is the procedure, Your Excellency.”
“You people in the Civil Service know how to waste time. In the private sector, do you know what we do? We allow the police here to dispose of the corpse. I mean what are we talking about? A prostitute? Listen. The other day I was told that each of these girls has to pay her madam eighty or ninety million lire in two years. That is forty-five thousand US dollars. I did some elementary arithmetic and I concluded that for her to be able to pay that amount in that time, she has to sleep with at least three to four thousand men. In two years! Tell me, a woman who has slept with four thousand men, is there anything left in her? Is she still a woman, a human being? I am telling you now, forget the report to headquarters. Don’t waste government paper. Was it not Shakespeare that said ‘Let the dead bury their dead?’”
It was hard to agree with the ambassador on this subject. Yet, arguing would give the impression of insubordination. Ufot made one last attempt.
“Your Excellency, with due respect, sir, these girls are victims, victims of their madams. They are still human beings. And out here I believe it is our duty as the eyes and ears of our government, to make a fuss, as it were, when an innocent Nigerian life is taken.”
“Innocent indeed! A prostitute, innocent? P-I-e-a-s-e.”
“Sir, your position is a personal one. Officially, I believe we should protest to our hosts and inform our ministry of the action taken.”
“If you insist… It is your career after all. It is your job. I am a bird of passage, here for a while. But you, you will stay on in the Service. So, do what the GO says …”
The GO was the Government Order that contained the rules of the public service; annexed to it was the Foreign Service Regulations. Every public officer had one.
“Another thing, sir. Next week we are off to Florence. There is a deportation exercise scheduled for the weekend.”
“Yes, that I support wholeheartedly,” Godsonn acknowledged. “Deport them. Most of them do not have Residence Permits anyway.”
“No, sir. However, those who do have, we do not deport.”
“I think you should. How can one have a Residence Permit and remain on the street? Can’t they use it to get better jobs? A factory work or some menial job?”
Godsonn and Ufot had been through this conversation before. In his earlier briefings, Ufot had told His Excellency that prostitution, per se, was not a crime in Italy, or in Nigeria, for that matter. The only reason these girls were being deported, was because they did not have the Permesso di Soggiorno as the residence permit was called. There was no reason to deport girls with permits. Ufot reasoned that his boss was a bit tipsy and decided to take his leave. There was no point in arguing with him now. He stood up.
“Thank you for the drink, sir. With your permission, I would like to take my leave now.”
“Oh yes, you have a busy weekend ahead of you. However, before you go I’ll need some money. I wasn’t able to collect the per diem before leaving. So advise your accountant. Three nights.”
“No problem, sir. I shall deal with that forthwith. Goodnight, sir.”
“Another thing. Is your wife back? I understand she travelled home.”
“I am expecting her in the next few days, sir.”
“How do you manage? I know you have a nanny, but the other department… especially with all this cold.”
“Oh, one gets used to it, sir.”
“A young man like you? I could never get used to that, my brother. That is why I have two wives, you see. When one is unable, the other is able. Anyway, all these girls you are deporting, make sure you do not collect toll before they enplane … It is dangerous o!”
“That would be suicidal, to say the least.”
“Just a joke, my dear, just a joke. Thanks. Goodnight then.”
“Goodnight, Excellency.”
* * *
Chief Godsonn lay back to relax. He flicked the remote from Agassi’s Aussie Cup. He dwelt briefly on the CNN news channel before moving on to the cartoon network. That was his favourite. He dared not watch it in public but now that he was alone, he could indulge. He joined Tom in pursuing Jerry all over the screen, through the roof, eventually locking him up in the oven.
Godsonn was bored. Bored. He had come to Milan to escape from his domestic woes. But here, he knew no one, had nowhere to go. He called up his friend, Franco, but his wife said he went to South America and would not be back before the end of the month. He needed a woman.
When he knew he would be coming to Europe, his friends had told him to try out white women. So far, he had not done so. At the numerous cocktail parties, he usually stood by himself. He seized the opportunity to watch the female guests, trying to gauge who could be available or approachable. So far, nothing. They all looked dowdy, bored and troubled. He liked exciting, giggly, women with body. The younger ones he had seen were accompanied by men. And they were all so skinny like they had AIDS. He had read somewhere, that people with that sickness were usually very thin. He liked women with body. That way, when the lights are out, one will not be stretching his hand all over the place looking for her in the big bed. Ha! Ha! Ha … Here it seemed that thin, sickly, dry women were in vogue. “Count me out,” he said out loud. “Give me a big, sturdy, woman, any day.” He had thought of choosing one of his staff and making her his mistress, but jettisoned the idea immediately. If Ngozi ever found out, that would be the end of his work. She would kill the lady. Madame number-two dreaded the idea of being unseated by a third wife.
He did not feel like bedding his spouses. The senior wife, Awat, had tuned off since the arrival of a mate. She just lay there like a bag of semolina, as if to say, finish quickly let me go and do something profitabe with myself. He knew that if not for her children, she would have walked away from the marriage. It was hard for a woman to have a co-wife. It killed the spirit. She spent the whole day singing and humming religious tunes. She was there, but not available for anything reasonable or concrete.
Ngozi, the second wife, had been great before he brought her into the house. But she was no better. Whenever it was her turn to share his bed, she complained from the beginning to the end: the first wife did this, you bought this for her, her children this or that. He told himself again that he should not have married her. But he had spent so much on her as a mistress: several trips abroad, a second-hand car, and loads and loads of cash. He had even bought her a plot of land in the capital. He could not bear for another man to have her, to inherit all his investment on her. Now, she wanted to study everything under the sun: catering, fashion designing, computer, business studies, everything but stay at home. She had even gone to the Mission asking how much the ambassador’s wife allowance was. Luckily, the embassy staff had not obliged her. Otherwise, she would have insisted on collecting every cent. Was this how polygamous homes operated? Other men with many wives were living in peace, he, in pieces.
He knew what he would do. The next time she babbled, he would give her a sound beating. There was nothing like a sound beating to quieten a troublesome wife, he reasoned. He could do it if she did not get hold of a dangerous object first. That was what frightened him most. He recalled when she wielded a pair of scissors and threatened to cut off his precious penis. My God, why had he complicated his life by marrying that amazon?
He remembered the women’s conference on domestic violence and wife battery in Genoa. He had been right in telling about old Nick. Many men were suffering in the hands of their wives and the UN was doing nothing about it. Only thing was, that old Nick was no other person than himself.
I need a woman, a plain, simple, loving woman: a woman to love me for myself, not for how much I can supply her and her family: a woman to mother me, to care for me, to love me. He needed a woman somewhere, a refuge, a place he could go and get some quiet, and unwind, be himself. The Residence had become too rowdy, a mini-United Nations, he used to say. He spent half of his time settling quarrels between wives and their siblings. There was no peace. They lived high-tension lives, each suspicious of the other. Even to eat properly, in his house, was a problem, each wife claiming “I fed him yesterday. It is your turn today. What do you do with all the money he gives you?” Then the person whose turn it was would reluctantly shuffle to the kitchen and start something. At four o’clock! He had settled the problem by calling on one of his distant relatives. “Please, make sure that I have lunch when I return from work, even if it means going to the railway station, to the Nigerian restaurant there and buying ‘mama put’.”
As for entertaining guests at home, forget it. He had stopped when a loud shouting match had erupted in the kitchen between his two wives. With guests in the dining room! He had hurriedly excused himself and rushed into the kitchen. The women were at daggers-drawn, wielding knives and hot pans. He had threatened to call the police to lock them up for good, if he so much as heard pim again. The murderous look in his eyes must have convinced them. Since then, all entertainment of guests was done in restaurants in town. After all, government would pay and he would get some happy hour.
How can a man have two wives and be loveless, he asked himself again and again. Indeed, when a man marries his mistress, a vacancy is created.
Yes, he had found a good remedy in Milan. Any time he felt domestic discomfort, he would go on a “consular visit”. It was a good idea that the government had opened this consulate. The capital had become inadequate in catering to the needs of the Nigerian emigrants, majority of whom worked in the factories and enterprises that abounded in the northern part of Italy. It had been a choice between Milan, Turin and Genoa. The Government had chosen Milan. It was a bit more central, though Turin would have served just as well. Turin, Milan, any place to get away from home.
He turned off the lights and locked up. He went down the lift to the courtyard. The duty driver jumped to attention.
“Good evening, sir, Your Excellency.” He was from Albania, his English shaky.
“Let me have the keys. I can take care of myself.”
Halil gave the keys to the ambassador. He had no choice. But he would report to the Head of Chancery in case anything happened … Excellency looked tipsy.
“If you go straight on, sir, it will take you to Viale Manzoni. That’s downtown. Corso di Francia is farther on to the left. The Jolly Hotel is on that road.” Everyone knew that the ambassador usually stayed at the Jolly Hotel.
“Careful please, sir,” added the driver. “Italians are crazy drivers.”
“Now tell me, where do I find our sisters?” Godsonn asked, ignoring the warning.
“Our sisters, sir?” Halil repeated, uncomprehendingly.
“You know, your Albanian sisters and my Nigerian sisters.”
The Albanian driver understood what His Excellency meant. He described the way to the envoy.
Godsonn took over the steering, adjusted the seat and the rear-view mirror. He had not driven in over six months but that was no problem. He had driven many cars in his time. This 406 was a toy. Slowly, cautiously, he slid into the traffic. He knew that the diplomatic plates were not the best. “I must remember to ask for an unmarked car in future,” he told himself. He hoped he was sober enough. He had not had much to drink. But with this cold and the heater at full blast, the effects of a single glass of alcohol could spell trouble. Double trouble. He imagined the headlines. ‘Drunk diplomat in hit-and-run!’ “God forbid such a bad thing,” he said out loud, flipping his thumb against his middle finger. “I will serve out my tour without any mishaps and then go home quietly, to my business and politics.”
His wives did not cross his mind at all, as he headed for the red lights.