LAGOS, NIGERIA
TUESDAY, 7:20 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (2:20 P.M. EST)
It’s time to get funky!” the woman sang as she gyrated her hips to a heavy bass rhythm mixed with West African drumming. “Hello, world. Hello, my people. It’s me, Funke Kanju, and it’s time for the latest episode of Let’s Get Funke!”
She danced to the music in a bright-red dress for a few more seconds in front of a green screen, one of her most beloved moves that had helped turn Funke Kanju into an Internet sensation across Nigeria and the diaspora communities in London, New York, and Houston.
This was the point in the show when the producers would insert her regular opening montage: Funke with a microphone weaving through the crowded streets of Lagos, Funke playing electric guitar, Funke sipping tea with the Nigerian President, Funke kicking down a door with jackbooted police officers, Funke smiling mischievously at the camera.
“Hello, world! Hello, my people! I’m sure you have all seen the news by now that the Lagos commissioner of culture and tourism has been arrested by federal police. I had the displeasure of meeting Mr. Kingsley Oluwa just last week. Ah-ah! What a man!”
The screen cut to a shaky single camera. Funke was standing in an orange-and-pink print dress outside a brightly lit hotel just as a long black Mercedes pulled through the security gate.
“Commissioner Oluwa, Commissioner Oluwa!” she shouted at the car, waving a bulbous microphone. “It’s me, Funke!” The car slowed and the back window lowered.
“Mr. Commissioner, have you seen my latest movie, Last Flight to Lagos?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” said a chubby face in the window. “I see all your films.”
“Mr. Oluwa, what should government be doing to support Nollywood directors like me?”
“We are very proud of you,” said the commissioner. “Nigerian movies are seen all over Africa. All over the world. Soon we will overtake Bollywood. And one day Hollywood!” he declared, flashing a two-fingered victory sign and a toothy grin.
“Ah-ah! So, what happened to the cultural arts fund?” she pouted.
The commissioner’s smile evaporated.
“Where are the four hundred million naira allocated to the film festival at Benin City?” she demanded, shoving the microphone into his face. “How can you spend the festival fund but have no festival? How does that happen, Commissioner?”
The man tried to close the window, but Funke stuck her arm deeper into the vehicle.
“Is that how you afforded this car, Mr. Commissioner? With the money meant for Nigeria’s young filmmakers?” she asked as the car rolled forward. “Have you spoken yet with the Crime and Corruption Task Force? Has the CCTF questioned you about the missing money? Have the police?” she shouted as the Mercedes sped away.
The shot cut back to Funke Kanju in the studio. She looked directly into the camera and scrunched her face. “Well, my people, what do you think of that? My interview with the commissioner of culture and tourism didn’t go too well, did it?”
She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I guess Mr. Kingsley Oluwa can now answer those questions for the police.” A still shot of the commissioner in handcuffs appeared over her shoulder. She flashed a devilish smile at the camera.
“Well, enough about politics. It’s time for the Nollywood Beat, oh! The most popular films produced in Nigeria this year . . .”
The show continued with its usual mix of popular culture, news, and the signature of Let’s Get Funke, the peppy host’s muckraking confrontations with public officials. Funke’s guerrilla journalism tactics had made her an online pop star. Her TV show had also helped turn her into one of the country’s most admired filmmakers and a cultural icon for millions of West African youth.
“Tomorrow is a big day,” Funke declared. “Tunde Babatunde, the pride of Nigeria, will return home from America. Fresh off signing a new seventy-five-million-dollar five-year contract to play basketball for the Brooklyn Nets in New York City! That’s a lot of American dollars,” she said, shaking her hand like it was on fire. “I’m going to meet him, oh!” She smiled and stuck out her chest. “Our hometown hero is sharing his success by donating the new Babatunde Hospital for Children in central Lagos. Let’s Get Funke will be there for the opening ceremony. . . .”
But Funke’s greatest success was far outside the public eye. Her cell phone was flooded every day with tips about missing money, government scams, and other boorish behavior of the country’s elected officials. She had become, more by accident than design, one of the most valuable sources for criminal investigation. And that had made her a secret ally of Judge Bola Akinola’s.
“Here is a question that all of us should be asking,” she said with a cheeky grin into the camera. “How many planes does the office of the president require? Five? Six? Seven? No!” she said, wagging a stern finger at the audience. “Eight, chai!” She covered her ears and shook her whole body. “It cannot be! But that’s the truth. Eight airplanes for one president! What do the men at Aso Rock have to say about this? Aah, notin’. But they cannot escape the truth forever!”
Funke passed on some of her juiciest tips to the Judge’s Crime and Corruption Task Force. Bola would return the favor, pointing Funke to a particular piece of evidence that he couldn’t reveal but that might, were it to somehow wind up on popular television, create a stir.
“I’m Funke Kanju and that’s the end of another episode of Let’s Get Funke,” she sang as the theme music began.
“That’s a wrap,” she said curtly as the camera light turned from green to red. “Good show, everybody. See you tomorrow.”
A crowd quickly formed around her. Funke handed over her microphone to one aide and accepted a bottle of bright-orange Fanta. In among the staff a young man with bloodshot eyes held out a piece of paper and a pen.
“Sista’, autograph?”
She smiled back at him. “How did you get in here?”
The man replied by pulling a snub-nosed pistol from his pocket and—bang-bang-bang—putting three shots into her chest and, once her body hit the floor—bang—one more bullet through Funke’s forehead.