Mack Reynolds: Blackman' Burden

His counselor, Ahmadu Abdullah, had already procured the information necessary to locate the source of the Emir’s ire and now scurried before his chief, leading the way to the suite occupied by the mysterious strangers. He banged heavily on the door, then stepped behind his master as it opened.

One of the strangers, clad western style, opened the door and stepped aside, courteously motioning to the large inner room. The Emir strutted arrogantly inside and stared in high irritation at the second and elder stranger who sat there at a heavy table. This one came to his feet, but there was no sign of acknowledgment of the Emir’s rank. It was not too long a time before that men prostrated themselves in Alhaji Mohammadu’s presence.

He looked at them. Though both were of dark complexion, there seemed no manner of typing them. Certainly they were neither Hausa nor Fulani, there being no signs of Hamitic features, but neither were they Ibo or Yoruba from farther south. The Emir’s eyes narrowed and he wondered if these two were Nigerians at all!

He barked at them in Hausa and the older answered him in the same language, though there seemed a certain awkwardness in its use.

Emir Alhaji Mohammadu blared, “You dare summon me, Kudo of this city? You presume …”

They had resumed seats behind the table and the two of them looked at him questioningly. The older one interrupted with a gently raised hand. “Why did you come?”

Still glaring, the Emir turned to the cringing Ahmadu Abdullah and motioned curtly for the counselor to speak. Meanwhile, the ruler’s eyes went around the room, decided that the couch was the only seat that would accommodate his bulk, and descended upon it.

Ahmadu Abdullah brought a paper from the folds of his robes. “This lying letter. This shameless attack upon the Galadima Dawakin!”

The younger stranger said mildly, “If the charges contained there are incorrect, then why did you come?”

The Emir rumbled dangerously, ignoring the question. “What is your purpose? I am not a patient man. There has never been need for my patience.”

The spokesman of the two, the older, leaned back in his chair and said carefully, “We have come to demand your resignation and self-exile.”

A vein beat suddenly and wildly at the gigantic Emir’s temple and for a full minute the potentate was speechless with outrage.

Ahmadu Abdullah said quickly, “Fantastic! Ridiculous! The Galadima Dawakin is lawful ruler and religious potentate of three million devoted followers. You are lying strangers come to cause dissention among the people of Kano and…”

The spokesman for the newcomers took up a sheaf of papers from the table and said, his voice emotionless, “The reason you came here at our request is because the charges made in that letter you bear are valid ones. For a quarter-century, you, Alhaji Mohammadu, have milked your people to your own profit. You have lived like a god on the wealth you have extracted from them. You have gone far, far beyond the legal and even traditional demands you have on the local population. Funds supposedly to be devoted to education, sanitation, roads, hospitals and a multitude of other developments that would improve this whole benighted area have gone into your private pocket. In short, you have been a cancer on your people for the better part of your life.”

“All lies!” roared the Kudo.

The other shook his head. “No. We have carefully gathered proof. We can submit evidence to back every charge we have made. Above all, we can prove the existence of large sums of money you have smuggled out of the country to Switzerland, London and New York to create a reserve for yourself in case of emergency. Needless to say, these funds, too, were originally meant for the betterment of the area.”

The Emir’s eyes were narrow with hate. “Who are you? Whom do you represent?”

“What difference does it make? This is of no importance.”

“You represent my son, Alhaji Fodio! This is what comes of his studies in England and America. This is what comes of his leaving Kano and spending long years in Lagos among those unbeliever communists in the south!”

The younger stranger chuckled easily. “That is about the last tag I would hang on your son’s associates,” he said in English.

But the older stranger was nodding. “It is true that we hope your son will take over the Emirate. He represents progress. Frankly, his plans are to end the office as soon as the people are educated to the point where they can accept such change.”

“End the office!” the Emir snarled. “For a thousand years my ancestors …”

The spokesman of the strangers shook his head wearily. “Your ancestors conquered this area less than two centuries ago in a jehad led by Othman Dan. Since then, you Fulani have feudalistically dominated the Hausa, but that is coming to an end.”

The Emir had come to his feet again, in his rage, and now he towered over the table behind which the two sat as though about to physically attack them. “You speak as fools,” he raged. “Are you so stupid as to believe that these matters you have brought up are understandable to my people? Have you ever seen my people?” He sneered in a caricature of humor. “My people in their grass and bush huts? With not one man in a whole village who can add sums higher than those he can work out on his fingers? With not one man who can read the English tongue, nor any other? Would you explain to these the matters of transferring gold to the Zurich banks? Would you explain to these what is involved in accepting dash from road contractors and from politicians in Lagos?”

He sneered at them again. “And do you realize that I am church as well as state? That I represent their God to my people? Do you think they would take your word against mine , their Kudo?”

In talking, he had brought a certain calm back to himself. Now he felt reassured at his own words. He wound it up. “You are fools to believe my people could understand such matters.”

“Then actually, you don’t deny them?”

“Why should I bother?” the Emir chuckled heavily.

“That you have taken for personal use the large sums granted this area from a score of sources for roads, hospitals, schools, sanitation, agricultural modernization?”

“Of course I don’t deny it. This is my land, I am the Kudo, the Emir, the Galadima Dawakin. Whatever I choose to do in Kano and to all my people is right because I wish it. Schools? I don’t want them corrupting my people. Hospitals for these Hausa serfs? Nonsense! Roads? They are bad for they allow the people to get about too easily and that leads to their exchanging ideas and schemes and leads to their corruption. Have I appropriated all such sums for my own use? Yes! I admit it. Yes! I admit it. Yes! But you cannot prove it to such as my people, you who represent my son. So begone from Kano. If you are here tomorrow, you will be arrested by the same men of my bodyguard who even now seek my son, Alhaji Fodio. When he is captured, it will be of interest to revive some of the methods of execution of my ancestors.”

The Emir turned on his heel to stalk from the room but the older of the two murmured, “One moment, please.”

Alhaji Mohammadu paused, his face dark in scowl again.

The spokesman said agreeably, “It is true that your people, and particularly your Hausa serfs, have no understanding of international finance nor of national corruption methods such as the taking of dash . However, they are susceptible to other proof.” The other man raised his voice. “John!”

From an inner room came another stranger, making their total number three. He was grinning and in one hand held a contraption which boasted a coglomeration of lenses, switches, microphones, wires and triggers. “Got it perfectly,” he said. “You’d think it had all been rehearsed.”