12

‘I will make you governor,’ Otunba said, scanning his guests.

Ojo was next to him on the sofa. Servers were carting in food and drinks for the other politicians in the room who were standing or sitting in groups, chatting and drinking, eating and politicking.

Ojo kept his eyes on the old man as one would a coiled viper. He was confused. He had expected to feel the wrath of the kingmaker; instead he was being elevated to the echelons of power – or at least that was what was being offered.

‘They said they didn’t want Ishola or Michael,’ Otunba said. ‘They said I cannot nominate my own son. They forgot that I have one more son. Ishola is a senator; his brother is commissioner of works. Now you are going to be governor. I have said it.’

Ojo’s hands were clasped over his knees, his body tilted towards the old man. He was not a politician; he wasn’t even registered with any party – that dream had died with Matilda’s brother mocking him. If he had more time to think, he would have pointed this out to Otunba, but the kingmaker had just held his son-in-law’s hand up in front of all the big names in the party and declared, ‘If this boy is fine enough for my daughter, he is fine enough for Lagos state,’ and the assembled bigwigs had cheered and clapped.

‘You heard about what happened to that boy?’

‘That boy’ was Douglas.

‘Yes, sir. It’s quite sad. It says a lot about the state of aviation…’

‘It is not sad. It is unfortunate. Are you sad? Did you know him as a friend? Me that I knew him, I am not sad. Don’t say sad. I warned the boy. I told him, ‘They no longer want you,’ what did he do? Did he listen? No. He started going on radio stations, inviting journalists, telling them this and that. That me, I gave him a list of people he must give contracts to. It is unfortunate, not sad. Say it: It is unfortunate.’

‘It is unfortunate.’

‘Yes. Your own case will not be unfortunate.’

‘Amen.’

‘It is not amen. You have to make sure of it yourself. Do you know why they killed that boy?’

‘I thought it was a plane crash.’

‘What kind of plane crash is that? How can a plane carrying you crash into your own house? It is not an accident. They planned it. Someone planned it. And do you know why?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I warned him. I said, ‘the opposition have your skeletons; they will use it against you.’ You know what he said to me? He said, ‘Is it not right that we will rig the election?’ Can you imagine?’

Ojo shook his head. Had Matilda not told her father about the picture on her phone and the stuff on the memory card? If she hadn’t, what would happen when she did? Would this dream, that he was still trying to comprehend, suddenly be snatched from him? The feeling in the pit of his stomach returned. Would he also find himself a passenger in a plane about to crash?

Otunba continued. Ojo had missed some of what he said ‘…He is a stupid boy. When they brought him to me I said, ‘Are we sure we want this boy?’ They said he is modern. See what happened to him? Slaughtered like a fowl, and his wife too. His family wiped out like that. Only God knows whom he offended. Anyway, your own will not be like that.’

It was obvious who he offended. The Lion of Yorubaland. The kingmaker himself. The man once referred to by a Supreme Court judge as ‘The only Nigerian you cannot take to court.’

‘Amen,’ Ojo said.

‘Not amen. It is up to you. From now on, till the party officially announces you, you must not talk to the press. You and your wife. Let them speculate. We have leaked the news to our papers this night, but you must avoid any form of statement, do you understand? It has to come from the party.

‘It is here in this parlour that the party chairman will come and meet you. I am going to make you the next governor of this state, but there is one thing you must first do for me. Can you do it?’

Ojo nodded. He braced himself.

‘Do you have any skeletons?’

Surely he was referring to the memory card. What had Matilda told him? Had he seen the contents of the card himself? Was the copy of it safely stored on his phone, an example of his skeletons?

‘Everybody has skeletons,’ Otunba said. ‘There is one thing I want you to know: right now, from this moment on, you do not have any friends. You don’t have any family. Everyone you know will try to use you. Anyone who knows your secret will control you.

‘I want you to go home and talk to your wife. Tell her that you are now referred to as His Excellency. It is me, Otunba, that has said it. I want you to go into your room or to any other quiet place, and I want you to get a pen and paper and write down every skeleton that you have so that we can deal with it. We must make sure that what destroyed that boy will not destroy you too.’