Doing Dangerously Well Read Free Page A

progress with this coconut-for-brain official. An irate and weary Ubaldous collapsed back down onto a wooden seat.
    Femi Jegede stood up, scraping his chair so loudly that all eyes rotated to him. He waited in position for a few moments for the full effect of his presence to be felt. The official’s eyes turned to him and bulged. His left heel started to jiggle up and down.
    Here was one of the great orators in Nigeria, who could make the ears and eyes of even his most radical opponents prick up like an antelope’s. Femi possessed wit and style, backed by strong legal training, and so could make pounded yam out of the most logical argument. Added to this, his exchanges had an air of theatricality to them, his greatest prop being his ever-present agbada—a voluminous tunic that expanded his physical presence and gave weight to his authority—though certainly no item was too minor to employ.
    However, more than this, he had that one gift that makes even the listless adjust their clothing in anticipation. He was a beautiful man, with skin as soft as Guinness beer and gentle, transcendent eyes. All in all, he was a very qualitative guy.
    Femi started as usual, slowly, shuffling papers in his hands. “Does a man whose house is on fire worry whether his floor is clean?” His eyebrows raised in question.
    The official looked at him in total and unconditional incomprehension. Femi let the effect of these words sink in and then bob up again. Silence. He waited for an answer.
    “Em …”
    Femi continued, louder this time. “If our throats are on fire, can we afford to worry about whether the water is clean?” He turned to the other delegates, astonishment on his face. He hitched his agbada onto his shoulders.
    They erupted in raucous response. “Of course not!” “We would be crazy!”
    After some time, the official replied, “No man can quench his thirst with poison, sir.” Satisfaction was positioned on his face. He was barely heard above the din.
    “Does a river flow with snake venom?” Femi roared. “Do we wash our faces with hornet poison? Are we drinking scorpion stings today? Does a river not flow with water?”
    “It flows with water, of course, but this water is not clean.”
    “Exactly. So, if a man does pee-pee in my beer, why should I have to pay for another bottle? It is not for me to pay! Is it not for the man with the bladder of a field mouse to come and pay me?”
    “You are downy-stream, my friend.” The official drew out the words “downy-stream” as if no one would understand their import.
    Femi slapped his papers onto his chair with irritation. “Are you a polar bear?” Femi asked suddenly.
    “Pardon?”
    “Are. You. A. Polar. Bear?” Femi said, enunciating each word.
    “Of course not!” the official responded, perplexed once more.
    “Is anyone in this room,” Femi turned to face his audience, “a polar bear?”
    “No!” “Of course not.” “Not today, anyway.” They answered in an incoherent babble.
    “Well, that is a relief. I was mistaken in thinking we had a polar bear in this room. So I can assume that none of us is currently living at the North Pole, correct?”
    “Correct!” they shouted.
    “Thus, is it not true that we all live downstream?”
    “Correct!” they screamed, applauding.
    Having used his first weapons—an assault of Nigerian proverbs—he made his way towards the realm of legal jargon.
    “Given that we have now agreed on this point,” he adjusted his agbada to the left, “are you of the opinion that access to fresh water is a human right?”
    His body thrust itself off his heels to emphasize the point.
    “That is to say, an inalienable human right …”
    He left a giant pause, looking around the room to observe the effect of this legalese.
    “Or …
    “that water is …
    “simply a commodity?” These last words shot out like air expelled from a balloon. Femi had sat down by the time the last syllables had been uttered. He busily aired his