Samuel Kolawole

The Tyrant

Two boys prevented the tyrant from crossing the infinite river. The boys, square-jawed and rugged, had painted their faces with what, to him, could well have been either calamine lotion or a generous quantity of talcum powder. The boys shoved themselves in his way, their large, bright eyes peering out from white faces. Furious, he tried to push them away, but they were as unyielding as statues. He edged sideways, and they moved to block him. Seeing they were not ready to back down, he became indignant.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he asked, his lips quivering.

The tyrant threatened to punish them, but they seemed to have the luxury of not feeling threatened by him. He spat at them. They dodged the spit of hatred he aimed at their faces and broke into laughter. They ran in circles, danced around to taunt him.

They gathered pebbles along the riverbank and lobbed them into the water. They jeered and circled the gigantic tree by the river, the tree with a trunk wide enough to swallow a house and so tall it reached the sky. Seeing that the little scoundrels were distracted, the tyrant broke into a run, heading toward the water.

Alas, the more he ran, the more the river seemed beyond his reach. When he stopped to catch his breath, he found himself by the great tree. The boys were still playing. They were still fluttering around in pirouettes of joy.

When his shock wore off, anger swelled inside him. Their nonchalance added insult to his injury. The boys looked about the same age as the pupils at the school uniform protest, those little devils, who had destroyed his good name and his regime. Who would have thought that what had started as a group of angry children throwing rocks at his Rolls-Royce as he drove home to his villa would end in a coup d’état? Who would have thought that he, the Lord Emperor, a five-star general no less, would end up trying to fend off little children?

The tyrant watched the boys holler and splash the river’s clear water on their bodies. Sometimes they plunged into the water and came out with stones sparkling like many stars, which only made them laugh louder.

Before long, darkness descended and a crescent moon rose up in the sky. The tyrant did not have the strength to do anything and did not know how else to deal with the boys, so his futile rage grew with each passing moment. He threw himself to the ground, covered his ears with his hands and yelled for a long while. When he got tired of yelling, he wondered if anyone apart from the boys had heard him.

The boys were prancing around the mighty tree. Soon, they stopped playing, yawned, and stretched, ready for sleep. The tree sent its gnarly branches down, spreading its wide leaves out for the boys. They snored so loudly that the gigantic tree shook.

The tyrant tiptoed past the sleeping boys and made for the river. Again, he found himself by the tree. He tried again and again, but nothing changed. It was as though he were in an endless loop, always returning to the same point. The night wore on, and when dawn came, one of the boys rose from his bed and went to him.

“There is no place for you here, return to the land of the living,” the boy said as if it were the only certainty in the whole universe.

When the tyrant went back to the land of the living, he almost didn’t recognize his villa. Not that he expected it to be in excellent shape—he had fled under the heavy shelling and gunfire of the French-backed rebel forces. What he did not expect was to see his precious villa so worn out by time and dereliction, so consumed by the elements of nature. How much time had passed? How long had he been by the river?

From where he stood, he could see that the entrance doors to the private quarters were gone and the roof had caved in, exposing rusted iron beams. A tree as tall as the rusted beams had grown inside the quarters. The walls of the decaying structures surrounding the quarters were riddled with bullets, black with mold, and covered with graffiti. Weeds grew from the smashed masonry and cracked concrete, filled every crevice, and claimed every patch of soil. Two stone hulks, which had once been a beautiful arched entry gate, stood surrounded by vegetation. The fountain in front of the ruined gate had been adorned with four lion sculptures. Now only two remained, and even those had been vandalized.

The tyrant was deeply distressed. He knew the greatest punishment a departed soul could suffer was to be adrift without a place to dwell. But he could not quite figure out what he was being punished for, or even if he deserved any punishment at all after his years of exile. Trying to find some silver lining, the tyrant told himself that, at least, he had been given the opportunity to reflect on his legacy. Within the ruined villa, he was sure to find something that reminded him of his glorious past, his many good deeds as president and emperor of the Republic.

“Your Excellency, if there is one thing you want to be remembered for, what would it be?” a reporter had asked him once.

After taking a moment to scratch his chin thoughtfully, he said, “I would like to be remembered for bringing glory to this Republic, for putting this nation on the map. Before my regime, no one knew us. Now we are a great country, despite being one of the smallest. Every citizen must be proud of what we have accomplished under my leadership. Every citizen of this great nation must be proud of the sacrifices we have made. Without sacrifice, there can be no greatness.”

The road to the main gate had once been lined with flagpoles to honor dignitaries and visiting heads of state. They all came to his small but great country— business tycoons, presidents and prime ministers, Hollywood stars, Muhammad Ali, the Pope.

The Department of Propaganda arranged for men, women, and children to stand along both sides of the tree-lined boulevard. They waved, smiled, and cheered whenever the tyrant led a slow-moving convoy of dignitaries through those gates. Even if a month passed with no official guests, there would still be people waiting to welcome him. He loved to wave back at the crowds from his motorcade. Sometimes, people in the crowd would get carried away and try to touch him through the window. The imperial guards were always at the ready to keep them at bay. In those days, he believed that he had the goodwill of the people and blamed the many revolts on bad elements and enemies of the state. He still believed that.

The tyrant walked through the ruined gates and his gaze fell upon something he had not seen before—a statue of himself standing proud and tall, dressed in a ceremonial military uniform, holding a walking stick. His uniform was decorated with order insignias, full-size medals, and epaulets. It must have been newly erected to commemorate him, he thought. He walked close to the statue and ran his fingers along the stone leg down to the Soviet-style boots. He touched the walking stick. How could he forget that beloved ebony stick that had been gifted to him by Papa Houphouët at his Marshal Ceremony? It was the one thing the tyrant had been able to take with him when the French invaded his land. He kept it always beside him; it was his faithful companion until he took his last breath.

He recalled how he had only addressed the nation in his military uniform when he was to pronounce a decree, a symbol of the Republic’s strength. Other- wise, he wore a gold brocade uniform festooned with medals. Knowing that the country had erected a statue to honor him filled him with pride.

The tyrant touched the base of the sculpture, upon which his name and the dates of his birth and death were etched.

1942–2012

Sadness coursed through him as he stared at the engravings. It was a feeling that came with the realization that everything could go back and remake itself but not death. It was a feeling that came with the knowledge that he would never be able to touch or smell again, at least not in the way the living smelled and touched, that he would never be able to savor the good things of life. When he read the epitaph engraved below the dates, his sadness receded and a smile appeared on his face. It read:

Descendant of the Pharaoh, Lion of the Republic, Napoleon of Africa. We will never forget you. The all-powerful warrior who, thanks to his endurance and inflexible will, went from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake.

The once-sprawling swimming pool was now an empty depression, a breeding ground for algae. Mosquitoes buzzed along the green surface. Flakes of paint and tiles that had fallen from the pool’s walls were scattered across the ground. So were ragged bits of newspaper, rotten leaves, scraps of nylon, crushed plastic bottles, shreds of toilet paper flapping in the breeze, and mounds of dry shit.

The pool had been a thing of beauty, surrounded by marbled terraces set against a backdrop of softly illuminated fountains. Revelers had been shaded by gazebos and beach umbrellas and catered for by uniformed staff.

He had rarely ever used the pool—he preferred soaking in the Jacuzzi in his private quarters. He had, however, loved lounging out in the open, surrounded by guests while he drank Chivas Regal and ogled the bikini-clad prostitutes who’d been flown in from Eastern Europe. He loved to watch, nothing more. The ladies were really for his guests, even though he could have taken any who caught his eye. For his pleasure, he had his own bevy of mistresses from around the globe, none of whom bore him any offspring, not even his favorite, Lady Marguerite, a French citizen. Rumors swirled that he was the kind of man who shot blanks. Some said he’d made a deal with the devil, exchanging his virility for power and fame.

The tyrant had always imagined creating a dynastic empire. He had dreamed that there would be songs about him as long as men had voices to sing. He had wondered who would inherit his wealth when he was gone—riches had come with power, resources had poured in from diamond mines, oil palms, coffee, and coconut plantations, orange and grapefruit groves, and beef and dairy cattle ranches. His envious, money-grubbing siblings and cousins surely would not receive anything. Nor would his lieutenants. No, it would all go to his heir, to someone he had groomed to succeed him.

His parents, who had been union leaders during the first regime, told him to never trust anyone who hadn’t descended from his loins. His father was betrayed by his own brother, who handed him over for execution. His mother had died soon afterward from what the regime referred to as a heart condition. He knew the government had taken her life.

As the tyrant hunkered down at the edge of the grimy pool, he was reminded again of his greatest failure. The later part of his life had been filled with failures. His regime was usurped and his grand dreams of a lasting empire botched—something he often looked back on with great pain. He fled the country in dis- grace and met an untimely death in exile.

But for him, of all his many failures, none was greater than his inability to sire children. It was his greatest source of pain and regret.

What would have become of his offspring had he not died childless? What would they have inherited? Would his children have been made to suffer for the sins of their father? Do Idi Amin’s or Muammar Gaddafi’s or Nicolae Ceaușescu’s children suffer for their fathers’ ruthlessness?

Although the tyrant would argue that he was nothing like Amin, Gaddafi, or Ceaușescu, he was sure his children would have been cabinet ministers or important politicians by now, if he had fathered children.

He would have given them names such as “The Light of My Eyes” and “My Right Hand” when they were born. He would have instructed his imperial guards to watch over them like hawks. He would have sent them overseas when they were old enough, far away from the evil gaze of the enemy. They would have been educated in the best universities in France, England, and the United States. Upon their return, the people would have showered them with love for his sake. They would have been elevated to the upper echelons of society on the merits of their dear exiled leader’s legacy. He would have been able to die in peace. Then he would be squatting near that filthy pool, buoyed by the knowledge that his children were doing great things in the world. That would have given his unintended trip to that decrepit villa a bright side after all.

By then, the tyrant was convinced that going there had been a terrible idea, but where else could he go? He hadn’t been able to get across the infinite river to the Land of the Beyond where his soul could finally rest. What if this was a test? What if he still had unfinished business?

The tyrant was again agitated. Something heavy suddenly collapsed behind him, and he turned to see two agama lizards scurrying out of the entrance to the private quarters. He wiped a hand across his tear-filled eyes and got to his feet.

To calm himself, he made a plan of action. He decided since he was already there, he might as well fully inspect the ruins of his villa. He would act as if he were in control of himself. He was not the kind of man who liked to be stopped or told what to do. He trampled in.

How could he forget his majestic five-bedroom suite, with its Italian marble floor, its antique French furniture, the expensive tapestries, the Venetian chandeliers, and the vases filled with flowers from Nice? How could he forget his master bedroom, with the gold-plated king-size bed and the tall stack of VHS cassettes beside the bedroom TV—pornographic cassettes, recordings of dignitaries being entertained, recordings of him cavorting with his mistresses, recordings from the torture chamber.

A wave of nostalgia seduced him for a moment. He found great pleasure in fixating on it, especially because what he was looking at was nothing like his recollection. A tree had grown through the master bedroom’s floor. The other rooms were empty, littered with chipped tiles, shards of glass, and bits of vandalized furniture. Empty cassettes, reels, and strips of clear plastic tape were strewn across the floors of the entire suite. The rain had rotted the asbestos ceiling and turned the walls dark and soggy.

Without thinking, the tyrant glanced into the bedrooms, one after the other, shaking his head in despair. Before he got to the last bedroom, he realized what he was doing and decided to skip the room. He instead walked out of the quarters to see the next building—the banquet hall.

At the banquet hall, foreign guests had been given their first taste of the Republic’s hospitality. Voices rose from banquet tables set with monogrammed silver cutlery and brimming with gastronomical pleasures. Liveried waiters served roast quail on Limoges china; pink champagne and vintage wine flowed. Live bands serenaded the guests from the stage.

His guests were politicians who often came to hunt elephants or hippos on one of his wildlife reserves. There were also government officials and chief executives with business proposals that always had something to do with diamonds or gold or uranium. There were diplomats with relief money, a small fraction of the huge profits they made from the precious minerals he had given them access to.

The tyrant knew then they did not come to him because they loved him, even if he referred to the president of France as his “dear relative.” He did not trust the president, but trust was beside the point. His regime had been propped up by Western powers, so as long as he remained a faithful ally in the Cold War and gave them access to the resources of the land, there could be no trouble, or so he’d thought.

In the end, the tyrant felt like another victim of the Cold War, a leader no longer needed by the Western world. For many years he had welcomed the president of France into his home, had given him diamonds. And how had he been repaid for his kindness? He’d been cheated and chased from his own country. So, he spent his time in exile thinking thoughts of retribution, but each passing day crucially diminished his relevance in his beloved country. Before long, he’d had to come to terms with the fact that he could neither go back home nor take vengeance for the bitterness eating him alive. His ego shrank like a deflated ball and so did his heart.

The tyrant picked up a broken piece of Limoges china and clutched it tightly. His eyes swept the hall. Blackened walls, a three-legged chair, and pieces of broken china half-buried in ash. The marble bar was still there, but its surface had been damaged and charred. What destruction had not touched, creeper plants and cobwebs had taken over.

He trudged to the door beside the bar and glanced into the kitchen. He looked through one of the windows. He walked to the stage. How could he forget his favorite song by the imperial band? He could hear it in his head––Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long.”

Lady Marguerite loved to dance to that song. He loved to dance with her to that song. Her face lit up when she danced. She tapped her fingers and jerked her body when she danced. She sang along, drifting in and out of tune, mispronouncing parts of the lyrics because of her poor command of English. That, however, didn’t seem to matter to her. It didn’t matter to him either. As a matter of fact, it made her all the more endearing.

Now, the tyrant could hear her sing in her characteristic falsetto voice. He could hear the rhythm in his head. He moved his body from side to side, snapping his fingers, whistling loudly. He absorbed the song, allowed it to soothe him inside, fill him to overflowing.

He danced like the river boys. He wondered if they would like the song, if they would ever let him cross the infinite river.

It was getting dark. He had looked at every dilapidated structure in the villa—his pool, his private quarters, his banquet hall, his private cinema, his chapel, his staff’s quarters, his office buildings, his airstrip control tower just beyond the perimeter gate. There was no more to see, so he sat on the edge of the fountain and gazed at his statue, wondering what to do next. He could go back to the river and linger there until those little miscreants allowed him to cross over. Maybe it was better to roam the town for a while, even to search for his mistresses. He wondered what had become of them. He wondered what had become of Lady Marguerite. She would have gone back to France, maybe moved in with another man.

The tyrant was drawn from his thoughts by a chime. He could not quite distinguish the song, but it was like the ones he’d heard playing in the ice cream trucks in American horror movies. At first, he was unsure whether the sound was real or if he was imagining it, but the chiming continued. He perked up his ears and listened. When he realized the sound was coming from his private quarters, he was not much surprised, although he wished his suspicions would prove to be wrong, that he’d misjudged.

The tyrant dashed to the quarters. He looked around the living room; he went into the master bedroom. He ran through the bedrooms, his heart racing faster as the sound grew louder and his suspicions crystallized. He stopped to catch his breath before walking slowly toward the last room, the only space in the villa he’d turned away from. His gaze fell on the source of the chiming: a little toy truck vibrating against the doorway, belting out the same tune over and over again.

The last room was the room he had reserved for his first offspring. In that room, he had wished to play with his child, to kiss him or her goodnight. He had instructed his servants to fill it with toys and decorate it like the nurseries in movies. He had remodeled the room many times, depending on what the prophets and witch doctors predicted. Once, a prophet told him one of his mistresses would give birth to a girl, so he ordered the blue on the walls to be scraped off and painted bright pink. The toys were also replaced. When the prophecy did not come to pass, he had the messenger executed. Once, a witch doctor swore by his gods that the tyrant would produce twins. The tyrant had personally gone to the market to get an additional crib, along with many other nursery items.

Surely, he must be caught in some awful joke, some orchestration to torment him, the tyrant thought as he stood before the singing truck.

Inhaling sharply, the tyrant kicked the truck. It sailed into the room, crash- ing against the wall. It was only silent for a few seconds before the chiming began again.

The tyrant stepped into the room, his heart pounding.

There were Russian dolls with painted-on smiles. There were rag dolls with blue button eyes, some of which had been torn to bits, straw, and cloth escaping from their ripped seams. There were three-foot-tall Barbie dolls with long golden curls, wide blue eyes, thick eyelashes, and yellow dresses stiff with bloodstains. They were arranged everywhere. They sat with their backs against the wall. They hung by threads from the ceiling.

On closer inspection, he saw that the Barbie dolls were not wearing yellow dresses. They were wearing school uniforms, his uniforms. The rag dolls were made from the same material used to make the uniforms he’d required school students to buy during his regime. He was certain he had never seen those toys before. Those were not the toys he’d purchased for the nursery. Those toys would have been wrecked long ago, like every other thing in the villa.

The imperial decree he’d pronounced during his regime, that all students must buy checkered uniforms bearing his image, had gone horribly wrong. But he blamed his detractors for inciting the people against him. They complained that the price of the uniform was exorbitant, unaffordable for the common people. They had faulted him for ensuring that the uniforms would be made at a factory owned by Lady Marguerite. How dare they say the uniform was too costly? Was there any price too high for patriotism? Students and teachers had boycotted classes. Protests had erupted on the streets.

The tyrant stepped back in horror as the Barbie dolls opened their eyes and rose up. They flopped back and forth as they marched, as though moving in rhythm with the toy truck’s chiming song. The Russian dolls bobbed their heads and sprang across the floor. A torn rag doll that was missing an eye got to its feet. He could no longer tell what was real and what was not. He turned to run out the door, but the rag dolls blocked his path. Toys closed in around him, backing him into a corner. Their mouths flapped open. The same sound issued from each mouth, as though they were providing some sort of accompaniment to the chiming.

Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat

He blinked, hoping it was a hallucination, hoping everything would dissolve. The toys became even more animated. He closed his eyes. He asked them to leave him alone. He begged them to leave him alone.

Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat

He had not ordered his guards to shoot the children. They had started it all. They came in droves, invaded his villa. They threw rocks at his motorcade, they attacked his Rolls-Royce. His imperial guards feared for his safety. The guards had only done their job. They had no choice other than to shoot.

Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat

He would never do anything to harm a child. Not when he had so desperately wanted one of his own. Yes, he had been angry. Yes, he had locked them up, and yes, he may have struck one of them with his ebony stick, but that was all. The newspapers put out a different story, all to soil his name. Before the end of that month, there were French soldiers on the streets, side by side with rebels.

Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat

He was sorry for everything. He was a horrible, horrible man. He had failed his people, he had failed himself. He had failed.

Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat Rat tatat

He now felt their touch. They were close enough to suck up the air around him, making him gasp for breath. His throat tightened, his chest rose up and up and up. How could he feel so much like he was dying when he was already dead?

The tyrant summoned courage and sprang up, blundering through the toys. He fled out of the room, out of the private quarters, down the street. As he ran, the chiming of the ice cream truck faded into a distant melody.