A SUDDEN MUSHROOM CLOUD

No one knew when and how it crept upon the populace, but as at Ocober 2012, almost everyone that was anyone was referred to with a three-letter shrinking of their actual names. Perhaps it was a reflection of a society more in haste than ever. Perhaps it was a reflection of how social media and its restriction of space for the written word were beginning to constrict the robustness of speech. Perhaps society has never been lazier than it is now. Perhaps names are just too long nowadays. Therefore, the Tottenham Hotspurs coach is simply known as AVB; one-time minister and current religious crackpot as FFK; the Chelsea FC coach as RDM; one-time Nigerian military ruler as GMB and current Nigerian president as GEJ. But all these men are not relevant in the unfolding events. Only one is, and his sobriquet is BRF.

In 2011, BRF, otherwise known as Babatunde Raji Fashola, won a second term as governor of Nigeria’s most important state – Lagos. To a foreigner or one who has only merely heard the word “Lagos” from a distance and never been in it, the election would appear keenly contested as the candidates campaigned. But to Lagos itself, BRF was the undisputed choice, given the turn-around Lagos had undergone in the previous four years. Now, on an October day when Nature was snivelly in most parts of Lagos, BRF sat at the head of a long table, the only long table in the Governor’s Situation Room. This room, except for where Asiwaju was concerned, is where all the decisions that the Lagos State Government make is arrived at. Where Asiwaju is concerned, BRF is simply summoned to Asiwaju Lodge in Ikoyi, one of Asiwaju’s many homes around the world, and after a few hours of sometimes frantic jaw-jawing, Asiwaju’s word became law. Asiwaju was not involved today, and the decision-making had been left entirely to the State Executive Committee. The State Executive Committee consisted of BRF himself, as Governor, Madam Kuforiji Williams, as Deputy Governor, and all the commissioners in charge of ministries in the state. Of those 23, men and women, only six, all seated facing one another in front of the governor, three on each side of the table, were here today. Five Commissioners – the

A SHORT CANTER TO FREEDOM | A Short Story

I flick my tail, once, twice, thrice. I’m preparing for action. I should have done this long ago, but I’m here, nonetheless, at this verge. I begin to move my considerable limbs, on one spot, like I’m an athlete limbering, on the verge of glory. Yes, I’ve once spied a television. Rasheed notices my sudden activity. He pulls at the bit. This time, I don’t respond in the way he’s used to. I don’t snap into submission, ready to obey the master’s will, ready to let some hapless, cowardly beach-goer, who can’t bear to stay on me without help for a mere thirty seconds mount me, like the white men mount the dirty sluts of Taqwa Bay, as he poses for pictures. Instead, as Rasheed pulls lightly on the bit, I shake my head vigorously, my diminished brown mane fluttering in the cool ocean breeze. Rasheed wasn’t holding on to the bit tight enough. 

WEDDING BELLS

There were rows upon rows of empty seats. It was like someone had spread a rumour that Area Boys from Mushin were being expected. If that was the case, a few adventurous humans dotted the auditorium, like reporters hell bent on reporting events in Homs, Syria, despite the foolhardiness of the idea. However, they were suspiciously gorgeously dressed, somewhat ruling out the foolhardy reporter option. I stepped back – momentarily dazed by the emptiness of the hall – and even further back till artificial air was replaced by its more natural, dusty counterpart. Er, wait, I only simply stepped out of the auditorium.  Was it the wrong place? It was an alien area of sorts; something could have gone wrong. Perhaps it was simply the affliction called “African Time”. Perhaps.

THE GREATEST DILEMMA EVER

I got inspired by God-knows-what to embark on a quest for the greatest dilemma ever. The problem with this quest is that Google can do only so much; it requires meticulous research, sorting, and weighing on the Baadger-Satchel Scale of Dilemmic Importance. Very tough job, but don’t take my word for it. I’ll spare you the boring gist and just give you the results of my 2-year long research.

Despite years and years of drilling, we still sometimes freeze up, if only momentarily, at crunch time. This was what happened to Neil Armstrong in 1969. As he stood in the opened hatch of the lunar capsule, he was caught in two minds. Those scientists have probably never stepped out of their laboratories or research stations; what if they were wrong? What if I disintegrate or sink immediately I step onto the moon? What if I do the jumping walk and float into space, never to see my Earth again? But then again, can I pass

INNOCENCE'S GUILTY RAMPAGE: A Tale of Libya.

DISCLAIMER: This has been made to look like it happened. It didn't. And if the names resemble names of actual people, wow, what a coincidence. I should do Nostradamus more.

Mitt Romney sat slumped in a chair in his plush office at Romney campaign office headquarters in Boston, Massachusetts. Events had come full circle in just over a year. From the euphoria of the announcement of his candidacy to the despondence over the beating he had received over the past few weeks, notably at the recently concluded conventions of both the Republican and Democratic Parties. He had strongly felt he had a chance given that unemployment was the worst it had been during President’s Obama’s administration. Many Americans had responded to his message. He had painted a bleak picture of the economy and a damning picture of a president – Obama – who lacked what it takes to take America out of the doldrums. Many Americans had responded because the effects of an economy that offered no jobs couldn’t be better told than them. He had connected – somewhat, until it all started to unravel. He wished he could excise his leadership of Bain Capital from his life because this was a stick the Democrats had continually bashed him with. They said he was corporate raider and an outsourcer of jobs. Well, yes, he had only done what he had thought expedient for the growth of a company that was tottering when he had taken over, not unlike America today. He believed he would do what it takes to get America out of the shitter. The problem, as the people that opposed his views had pointed out, was that as a corporate raider and outsourcer of American jobs, he had killed more jobs than create. Well, the only the campaign had was to try to paint that in as much white as they could. Applying some clever English had done tricks before and it could again.


However, there were more immediate problems; problems that tucked Bain Capital under one arm for him. For the opposition, Bain Capital had only just become one other stick to flog with. The Republican National Convention had achieved exactly the opposite of what he and his advisers had hoped to achieve, especially after what Michelle Obama and Bill Clinton did in the Democratic equivalent of that convention. Barack hadn’t even needed to do much attacking with his own speech. He had played it cool and calm, very presidential. He had laid out some of his plans for the next few years. Romney adjusted in his seat so that now he sat up with his shoeless feet on the table. That Barack bastard can work a crowd and knows exactly how to play events. He wished he had a former president with Bill Clinton’s credentials on his side. Reagan could try but the actor-president had died; George Bush Snr. wasn’t worth much in political clout and George Bush Jnr. had been a disaster of a president – a nuclear Armageddon on anyone smart enough to co-opt him into a presidential campaign. The highlight of the RNC had been the Clint Eastwood stunt. Hilarious, but ultimately politically ruinous. The irony was that George W. Jnr. had served two terms of four years – eight years in all – as American president. He, Mitt Romney, at this rate, would probably not hold any elective position for a very long time. He glanced up at the blue-and-red striped clock on the opposite wall. Its ornate hands said it was 12 minutes to midday. He swiveled round to check the other one just above his head. This one had white stars on a red background and was two minutes faster. After all, variety, they say, is the spice of the world. Stuart Stevens, the man he had charged with handling his campaign was due at the headquarters at 12noon. He had said something over the phone, something about having something that could stem the tide and send it back the other way, but he couldn’t say it over the phone. Am I a fool to know there’s stuff you shouldn’t discuss over the phone? In essence, Stevens was saying he could make the river flow up the hill. He’ll be heard out. After all, he is the chief strategist for the campaign and all these debacles happened under his watch. He’d better talk good game or it’s off with his head. 

In his Romney’s reverie, he had become oblivious of the bustle that went on in his campaign headquarters. Susan Peters, his pretty redheaded secretary reminded him of that fact when she opened the door leading into his office and declared that Stevens had arrived and wanted to see him.


“Let him in,” Mitt Romney replied. “And see to it no one disturbs us. That includes you. Gorrit?” 

“Yes sir.”

As was usual for creative minds with art leanings, Stuart Stevens walked into the office in a jacket that barely fit over his slight frame. When he removed the jacket to hang it on the coat rack, the sky blue shirt he wore was about two sizes too big, a conservative estimate. A ugly face, the type that was scraggly to boot – not unlike rock legend Mick Jagger – sat beneath a reasonable head of hair that had begun graying from the back. To present a more business-like image, Stuart Stevens had cropped a usually wild head of hair so that it was shorter but still a bit rough. You could tell, very easily, who was artist and who was businessman by the state of the hair on both men’s heads. Romney stood up to shake the hands of the man he had entrusted much of his electoral fortunes to. Firm grasp met firmer grasp and both men took their seats at the small conference table set off to the side of the office. 

“So, Stuart, what’s this big thing?”

So Stuart Stevens started.

It was an elaborate plan; one that Mitt Romney seemed reluctant to agree with, because of what it involved. He probed Stevens about traceability and deniability. Stevens swatted the questions away easily. “It could never be traced back to us,” he had declared

“This is election season and some officials would have even reacted before us. However, it is important that in the United States, that we are first to react. Public opinion of the president and his administration would have fallen considerably without our help, and our reaction would push public opinion in our favour.” 

Mitt Romney had stopped questioning now, but Stuart Stevens could see his body language still suggesting resistance.

“Sir, how badly do you want to be president of the most powerful nation of the world? How much do you wanna change the circumstances under which we live in this country? How much do you think America needs your policies to drive ahead in today’s world? How badly do you want your name imprinted in history as the man that turned it all around? How badly, Mitt?”

That was the clincher. 

“Set it in motion. If this is ever traced back to me, you’re the fall guy you know? And this will be worse than the fire you’ve had to face over your handling of the campaign so far. Work your magic; make all these setbacks we’ve had go away and I’ll take it from there. I never heard of this plan, understand?” 

“Got it,” Stevens said as he stood and shook hands with Romney again. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

What the world didn’t know but perhaps suspected was that the embassy protests and attacks that rocked the US embassies in Egypt and Libya were premeditated. Before Stuart Stevens had come to Mitt Romney with the plan, he had been in constant contact with elements of Israeli Intelligence – the Mossad. The feeling in the upper echelons of power in Israel was that Barack Obama hadn’t and wouldn’t bring the considerable weight he had as American president to bear on affairs in the Middle East. The sentiment was that Obama would rather pacify than be aggressive. American handling of the Iran issue was given as evidence that Mr Obama lacked the balls needed to carry out America’s sworn duty – the protection of Israel. Obama wouldn’t back Israel on the Iran issue until it became too late, until such an action would only be a waste of effort. Iran needed to be dealt with and decisively too. No way could a nation whose foreign policy thrust was the obliteration of the state of Israel be allowed to even come near building and owning nuclear weapons that could reach and destroy Israel in its entirety in three short blinks. The dynamics of power in the Middle East would change significantly if Iran was allowed to produce weapons’ grade uranium. This would be worse a whole lot worse than Saddam sending Scuds to Tel Aviv back then. Saddam had gotten what he asked for in return – Israeli airplanes had all but knocked out Iraq’s missile capabilities. There might be no chance for retaliation this time, and even if there were, the best case scenario was MAD – Mutually Assured Destruction. But if the Jewish people had rebounded from Hitler’s Holocaust stronger, if the state of Israel had resisted several attempts by belligerent neighbours – the War of Attrition, the Yom Kippur War – to conquer it militarily, what excuse could these set of leaders give to allow such a threat to the state of Israel blossom when something could be done about it? Mitt Romney was a personal friend of Bibi – Benjamin Netanyahu – and Romney had expressed hard-line views about the Ahmedinejad – the mad man in Iran – and the even more powerful shura yi nigahban led by the Ayatollah Sayyid Ali Khameini. 

Events in the US political scene are always well-monitored by Israel. Israel even had a very powerful lobby group – AIPAC – that helped shape American foreign policy to suit Israel. However, you didn’t need monitors close to the action to know that Mitt Romney was sinking fast in the presidential race and only events of a dramatic nature could reverse the slide. One option was to attack Iran’s nuclear facilities unilaterally, an event that would force America into defending Israel when the violent consequences of that action begin to happen. But Israel needed a willing ally, not a reluctant one. A reluctant ally might not appreciate events fully; a willing one would do more than appreciate and would be prone to being led on. In essence, Israel needed a US president it could use, one whose sympathies would expose him (maybe her at some point) to manipulation. Here was the chance. 

The Mossad is one of the world’s most powerful intelligence agencies. The Mossad has links and assets where none of the other powerful intelligence agencies would find very difficult to penetrate simply because of the similar physical characteristics of the peoples of the Middle East. Earlier in June, one of its agents had been up and about Hollywood when he made a discovery. Mordechay Goldstein, an American-born Jew, had stumbled upon a sign outside Vine Theatre that had advertised a movie called Innocence of Muslims which was due in 15 minutes. Twenty minutes after the movie had begun, Mordechay left the cinema. He had imagined this would be a movie that attempted to absolve Islam of the violent crimes some of its adherents committed. Instead, he had found a very badly scripted movie, sometimes with the mouth movements if the actors not matching the words that were heard over the hidden theatre speakers. It looked like those Chinese movies were translated text would be voiced over the original speech, but these actors could clearly speak English as some other scenes proved. If this movie ever made it out of the US, it would cause massive outrage in the Arab world. These actors and the directors could be killed. There would be angry protests around the world by Muslims that care enough about the Prophet Muhammed. Here was another shining example of the freedoms America afforded. He filed the experience away in one of the many compartments of his brain, with the many other nuggets of data that usually never seem useful in isolation. Experience had taught everyone otherwise. That little overlooked data could be the final piece of the jigsaw. Many a terrorist threat had been averted this way. He would file in a report at the embassy on Monday. Now was time to go cuddle up to Anna, his Czech girlfriend, at home. 

“Allah hu Akbar! The Holy Prophet has been mocked! Death to the infidels. Death to Amerika!” 

Abu Jamer a.k.a Yitzshak Bar-Lev didn’t need to do much convincing after showing the video to selected men radical clerics at the Benghazi Central Mosque. These men would do the rest. They knew exactly how to work up a crowd into an angry fury. The signal had come from Tel Aviv to begin Operation Salvage. As usual, headquarters compartmentalized information to avoid compromising and jeopardizing Mossad missions. You were only told what you needed to know and what results you must achieve. Failure in such hostile surroundings would mean a painful death. The risks in this type of mission however didn’t come from these angry ones. The risks would come later. Quickly, the word had gone around that the infidel Americans had insulted the Prophet Muhammed in unrepeatable language. That was all they needed to know. Since the Libyan civil war had only recently been concluded, weapons abounded in “free” Libya. The more radical men grabbed an AK-47 or a grenade launcher or rocket launcher and headed off to the Benghazi Central Mosque from where the mass fury would transfer itself to the front of the American embassy to protest this huge slight on Muslims all over the world. Abu Jamer had also convinced the clerics that a takeover of the American embassy would teach the infidel bastards a lifelong lesson. No one was to be hurt, just occupy. The same action would be going on in Egypt. Hard as it was, Mossad had penetrated the Muslim Brotherhood long ago and had influential sleeper agents. Organising an embassy takeover? Piece of cake. 

What happened at the American embassy later that day was much more than Abu Jamer or the Mossad bargained for. The irate crowd got out of hand and mayhem had ensued. The local security team assigned to the embassy was quickly overwhelmed, the American detail too small, shouts of Allahu Akbar, the crack of rifles, the hiss of rocket launchers and explosions from the points of impact drowning out the screams of agony from the the wounded and the dying. White smoke billowed from new outlets created from impacting explosives, brick was transformed to shrapnel that flew everywhere and injured when it came into contact with a human. Deeper within the building, the smoke swirled this way and that with nowhere to go, until a trapped human fell from inhaling too much of the obnoxious fumes. The defenders of the castle rallied and called for reinforcements. A second furious attack began and a few more bodies dropped before the Libyans finally got a hold of the situation. 

Over in Egypt, everything had gone according to plan, especially as weapons were not exactly easy to come by. The crowd there had to make do with taking down the American flag, burning it, and replacing it with a message in Arabic declaring how great Allah is. The American embassy staff in Cairo, as President Obama later pointed out in a broadcast, had assessed the situation and thought the first and most appropriate action was to appease anti-American sentiments by sending out a message condemning the film that started the protests, just as had been predicted by the Mossad people. Although officials in Washington were to later disregard the message as “not coordinated with Washington”, the in-road that Mitt Romney had been promised had arrived. Promptly, before the administration could cobble together a reaction, Mitt Romney had called a press conference to address the goings-on in Libya and Egypt. In it, he told Americans their weakling of a president had allowed this to happen, and instead of take a tough stance against the perpetrators of such evil, he had instead issued an apology to the protesters. 

However, Mitt Romney couldn’t know that Ambassador Christopher Stevens had died in the first wave of attack that hit the American embassy in Benghazi. By the time it became known the ambassador had died, Mitt Romney wished he could take back some of what Stuart Stevens had written for him to say to the American people now. Now, his statement seemed very insensitive and President Obama didn’t waste time in letting him know. To compound the woes of Romney et al, the fact that Ambassador Christopher Stevens had become known before Barack Obama reacted to the situation, who accused him of “shooting first and aiming later”. In light of new facts, Mitt Romney tried to spin his hasty reaction as best as he could but to very little avail. 

Back at the campaign headquarters, Mitt Romney tossed back an Advil pill, quickly followed by water out an Evian bottle. He set the bottle down and then glared towards Stuart Stevens. Stuart averted Romney’s gaze. I should have made him sign a non-disclosure agreement. No, if I did, then he would have something in black and white to back him should he ever feel slighted. The only place a non-disclosure agreement would hold water is in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion, he would be forever ruined. Clever administration lawyers could even find ways to have him tried for treason, for plotting against the United States. No, I think I did well by not having him sign an agreement. However, he couldn’t now remove him as common sense and vast swathes of the public agreed he should. How could the bastards screw up that badly so and murder an ambassador of the United States? But what the hell, we’re following this sinking ship till it berths at the bottom of the ocean. There’s plenty of space there at the bottom, at least. Romney smiled grimly at his own black sense of humour. 

“Take this week off and report back here next week Monday,” he said to Stevens as he swiveled to stare at neat rows of white stars on the wall clock. 

“Mitt, I’m sorry,” Stevens replied and walked away when he didn’t get an acknowledgement. 

 

A week later, a video of Mitt Romney addressing patrons at a fundraiser leaked to the internet. One more nail, perhaps even the final nail, had been hammered into the Romney coffin. The Grand Old Party groaned.