The Tired Ones do not exist in any manner that something as simple as a Nimbus search will reveal them. There is no word of mouth. A network of African leaders and potential leaders, the organisation exists to remove the despotic-style leadership that most African countries end up saddled with. Their main thrust is education, support and resources for candidates they back. It is strictly by invitation, and leaks are unheard of, though there are always rumours. The candidates, Tired Men and Tired Women, usually know of and support each other in elections, logistics and other ways. Their resources are considerable. The Tired Ones took the young Jack Jacques out of an abusive situation, trained him and expected him to take his place in their new African order at a time of their choosing. Instead, he saw and chose Rosewater before anyone else could see the potential.
To Jack’s surprise, the president, against whom Rosewater fought the insurrection, is also a Tired Man, but this does not help their relationship as it would for any other two people.
Now they meet, not on neutral ground, but in Nigeria, in full view of other Tired leaders of the African Union. Junior members are allowed to observe because lessons are to be learned by all. There is a slight preponderance of women, mainly because the balance of power in the continent has always leaned towards men. The Tired Women see the time as ripe for a course correction, and the Tired Ones have adopted this as an agenda. In fact, Jack has heard a rumour already that the next president of Nigeria will be a woman, a Tired Woman that he knows from the day of his induction.
They walk in together. A weird coincidence lines Jack up with the president. He looks down on Jack’s wheelchair.
“So you have sympathy for the gays now,” says the president.
“The fact that you call them ‘the gays’ tells me everything. And they don’t need sympathy, sir, they need equality.”
“I have no problem with them. But my constituents do, and so, to get re-elected, I perform. On re-election I can serve the greater good, as a Tired Man.”
“I—”
A voice speaks over them. “Will you both keep quiet? You know you can’t do that here.” She sucks her teeth loudly.
The room is circular and dark, a diameter that Jack thinks might be thirty feet, with modular tables arranged in a circle as well. People he knows have affinity for one another sit close, even though placement is meant to be random. An exception is Jack’s mentor, who sits so far around the circle that they are almost opposite each other; not a good sign. He is considerably thinner. Last summer he picked what he thought was a pimple off his face, but it was a skin tag. The spot bled for days and a test finally showed he had some kind of blood cancer. He won’t come to Rosewater on principle, despite Jack imploring him. He thinks what Jack did in the insurrection was wrong, and people like that believe hard, even unto death. So be it. He has come in a kaftan, not agbada like everybody else, including Jack.
The proceedings are led by the secretary, a promising Tired Woman from Gabon.
“Welcome. We’re here for a follow-up session to the previous negotiations between the Federal Republic of Nigeria and the city state Rosewater, as both heads of state are Tired Men. I’ll start with what’s settled.
“There will be no hard border, but credentials will be checked and either side reserves the right to deny entry. No visa will be required, but a form can be filled outlining purpose of visit at or on approach to the border.
“Food export from Rosewater to Nigeria will continue, as will international imports to Rosewater.
“Health tourists to Rosewater will be taxed and all the revenue shall be ascribed to the government there, minus a twenty-five per cent administration fee.
“There shall be no attempts by either country to undermine the other, including, but not limited to, espionage, overt military action, inducement of dissidents or other extra-natural means as is abundantly available in Rosewater.
“There shall be no allowance for so-called Homians or any other extraterrestrial to enter Nigeria. Should they break bounds, Nigeria may take any steps necessary to protect the populace, including destroying such extraterrestrials. Rosewater will take reasonable precautions to prevent this from happening.
“Gentlemen, does this summary meet your mutual approval?”
Grunts, glares and nods from both parties.
“You’ll have to speak for the record, please.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Right,” says the secretary. “We’ll start by repair of—”
“He legalised gay marriage!” The president’s eyes are bulging. His right index finger pokes at Jack, and it trembles. If it were a weapon, Jack is sure, he would be dead.
“Shock. Horror,” says Jack.
“I will show you shock and horror,” says the president. He nods on each word.
“Gentlemen, please.”
The president gestures, and a graphic appears in the centre of the circle. “These are the active and suspected gays we are monitoring.”
Jack cannot believe what he is seeing. “You’re monitoring… Never mind.”
“Since Jacques’ stupid announcement, they have been steadily moving to Rosewater. Look at the graph.”
The time lapse does show a net influx to Rosewater, and with alacrity, which Jack does not regret. Every single one of them would vote for him in an election.
“These would be criminals in Nigeria, no? So you are glad to be rid of them?” asks Jack. “You’re welcome.”
“You are disrupting the social order, my friend.”
“How is that? What exactly is vexing you in this thing, Mr President? That they are homosexuals, or that they are escaping your grasp?”
“It is an abomination and unnatural. And un-African.”
Jack sighs. “Un-African isn’t a real word. And we’ve always had people attracted to the same sex. In antiquity we may not have had the concept of being gay as an identity or identifier, but, haba, are you going to sit there and argue that men have not loved men? Women have not loved women?”
“You sound like you are a gay yourself,” says the president. “You and your supporters.” He waves his hand generally to a section of the crowd.
“Are you talking to me?” says one of the Tired Women, rising in her seat. One of the president’s men rises in response. Angry words. More people stand.
Jack doesn’t see who throws the first punch, and it doesn’t matter because pretty much everybody joins in. He backs his chair up to the wall and watches as noses are broken, ears are bitten, unfit people slip and fall, and the din of rage rises higher and higher. There is one incident of projectile vomiting. The president punches and swings, missing half the time, and nobody hits him back because it’s a felony. Jack remembers that when the man was a young senator, there were many fist fights in the House of Assemblies.
His mentor walks towards him and leans against the wall beside Jack.
“Looks like we’ll be needing a visiting dentist,” says the mentor.
“At least. Some of these will have to visit Casualty. That lady over there’s unconscious,” says Jack.
“No, she’s not. She’s waiting for… There you go.”
“Oh, yeah. Wow. That was effective.”
“Jack?”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not a clue, sir. I have a general idea about what I want, but I’m formulating my plan as I go along.”
“Do you think you might be deliberately provoking the president?”
“He sends me dick pics, sir.”
“So? Let him be juvenile.”
A tumbler sails across the room and shatters against someone’s head.
“Sir, if I may say so, you seem sanguine about this ija igboro.”
The mentor looks at Jack with the sad eyes of a dying man. “Disgraceful if, in this life where your body does not fail, your soul should fail you first.”
He quotes Marcus Aurelius, but he is talking about Jack.
“Sir, please come and spend a weekend with me in Rosewater.”
He shakes his head.
“You are going to die,” says Jack. He feels crushed by the sorrow and certainty of it.
“I surely am. You know, when the British colonisers wrote about our pacification, they put it about that we did not resist. They killed our brave men and women, silenced our griots, destroyed our records. They made us out to be cowards and collaborators. Granted, seeing a Sikh redcoat with a drawn sword issuing a battle cry is a terrifying thing to behold, but that doesn’t mean we gave them a pass. Jack, you are giving these Homians a pass, and that goes against everything I taught you. That is a failure of the soul. That is disgraceful. Life doesn’t always put individuals in a position to affect history. You are in such a position. Why become what our entire belief abhors? ‘Self-rule or death’ is the motto. No foreign powers, no global corporations, no vested interests. We rule ourselves.”
“I’m sharing the wealth, protecting the disenfranchised—”
“Stop dissembling.”
“I’m not. I’m trying to bring about the kind of society we always wanted, that you dream of, with representation. You have to see the aliens as a resource.”
“A resource that’s killing you slowly.”
“And what national resource doesn’t? Oil? Coal? Nuclear power? Even solar power requires storage in batteries that we have to detoxify. This is how resources work, sir. We use them, they kill us, until we find the next one, or completely fuck up the environment and all die.”
“Boy—”
“Come to Rosewater, sir. Get healing, live. You can berate me when you’re alive enough to do so.”
Jack wheels out of the melee to where Lora awaits.
Later, in the hotel bar, while he drinks watered-down Johnnie Walker, a woman sidles up to him. He knows her from his time in Lagos.
“Jack,” she says, “will you work with me when I am president?”
“Yes, ma’am. As long as you don’t send me pictures of your genitals.”
She turns, then looks back with a ghostly smile. “You never know. The sight might tempt you away from your skinny wife. Give me a call when you want to try ampleness for a change.”
And, of course, she is only half joking. He is not sure if she is talking about being president of the Tired Ones or of the country.
He pays his bill over the protestations of the bar staff, and wheels to his room.