Norman Goodman Misserial’s
‘ESCAPADES OF KWEKU ATTA, ESQ.,’-An African President
“By all means, heads will roll in this matter!” thundered His Excellency Nana Sir Obrempong Ewiasewura Kwaku Atta I, Esq., QB, SAG, OBE, KFC, his big eyes wide open, the pupils flashing with light and rolling against the startling white of the balls.
His Excellency was addressing the press in the capital, Ogya City, the capital of Ogyakrom, on the recent bomb blast at Nabadoge in the north of the country, which had killed several people, injured dozens more, and destroyed millions of Dwete, the currency of Ogyakrom, in property. His Excellency was especially riled about the needless loss of lives. According to his briefing, a security company had been carrying a ton of dynamite to a mining concession, owned by a rapacious international mining consortium, and had somehow mismanaged the consignment, leading to the blast in a populated area. Several civilians were dead, including a police officer and a baby. As a lawyer and a human rights one at that, he was enraged at a visceral level over the matter.
When the press had posed the question, he could not help but let his anger show.
“As President of Ogyakrom, I swore an oath to serve and protect all Ogyakromanians, particularly the vulnerable ones. It should never be the case, that business interests would override safety issues, so that the lives of our people would be in danger. I will see to it that there are prosecutions in this matter,” he threatened.
Behind him on the podium, the Minister in charge of Internal Safety shifted uncomfortably from foot to food. He recalled that his signature was on the certificate of the security company that was responsible for the carriage of the dynamite that exploded. In fact, he had been advised to withhold his signature for the time being whilst that company was forced to improve its operations, but his wife had told him that she had received a deputation from the family doctor, who knew the Lebanese family that owned the security company. The minister knew from long and prosperous experience that when his wife took a certain tone and spoke about matters that were none of her business which she made her business, it was his duty to listen closely and forever swear that he had not heard a word of the conversation. A few days later the Minister had noticed that his stock of several pickup trucks had been augmented by a new one, but since he made it his business not to see too clearly when it came to certain matters, and even to ask less questions about some of his wife’s doings, he had let his convictions dwindle, and the signature had been signed, albeit unwillingly. In fact, he told himself now, anybody who subjected that signature to a close study would know that it had been given most unwillingly.
Needless to say, the pickup truck had disappeared from his yard, driven post haste to a far corner of his ranch in the south of the country… his wife was really a formidable woman, he told himself.
His Excellency finally brought the presser to an end, declining to answer any questions due to his rage. Turning, he started towards the lifts that would carry him to his office, signaling his entourage to follow him.
Among them was the Vice President Papa Kofi Banda, who had just returned from the scene with his report, National Security Advisor Major (Rtd) Anthony Dzigbodi, the Minister for Internal Safety, Chief of Police, the Chief Fire Officer, the Minister for Mineral Exploitation, several top-ranking security and police officers whose names and designations he could not remember, and several aides, who always looked more important than the bosses they served.
His Excellency led the entourage straight to his office, his eyes still flashing for the benefit of onlookers, but as he walked his public ardour cooled significantly.
After he had taken his seat, he signaled for the underlings to leave the room, leaving him with the Veep, Dzigbodi, the Chief of Police, the Chief Fire Officer, and the Minister for Mineral Exploitation. Somehow, along the way, they had been joined by Ansah Kwame Atta, brother to the President, Yaw Broni Kwapong alias the ‘Sinkhole’, his Chief of Staff, party Chairman, Derrick Yalley, and the General Secretary, James Badu. They had not been invited, but they were there. His Excellency shared a quick look with his brother and knew the score at once.
He sat in his chair, adjusted his gangling frame for comfort (life was too short to tolerate discomfort at this age and in this position), poured water from a carafe into a glass cup and took a long drink (he did not invite anybody to drink with him) and blew his fat cheeks, turning his basilisk stare onto the Minister for Internal Safety.
“So, how many dead?” those listening noticed that his voice carried considerably less warmth towards the dead in the air-conditioned board room of the presidential suit.
“Twenty-six sir. Officially,” said that Minister for Internal Security.
“Officially? And unofficially?” he asked in an annoyed voice.
“Well, sire, it was a congested road. Many cars, and a market in close proximity. We are still counting and still discovering bodies. We are past eighty. We think we will get past a hundred,” he said mournfully.
There was a collective and very audible intake of breathe around the room. Everybody was shocked.
“Hundred!”
“Yes.”
“Injuries?”
“Hundreds.” the Minister said shortly.
“Prosecutions?”
Ansa Kwaw, his brother, coughed loudly and cleared his throat audibly. The Sinkhole and the party people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. He was being sent a signal. A warning signal. The room remained silent. He told himself that prosecuting anybody for this horror just died in this room, here and now. He went on with the questions.
“Will this figure get out?” asked the President.
National Security Minister Dzigbodi spoke up, “We have dispersed the dead and injured through several health systems. Some have even been brought to Ogya City overnight.”
He did not add that that would make the tallying of figures difficult. Nobody asked the question. Everybody knew the score.
Privately, he was nauseated. He asked, “Any ideas on the way forward?”
“A committee of inquiry,” said the Minister of Internal Safety. “I would form a committee of Inquiry.”
His wife would be satisfied with that. Maybe another pickup truck or two.
“Do we all agree?” asked the President.
The nods of ascent came from everybody. The last to nod was the Chief of Police. Finally, he also nodded, wondering why a purely criminal matter of the manslaughter of nearly a hundred civilians, including one of his officers, was going to end up gathering dust in a committee report.
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