The Final World Order, by Joseph Wanshe

The Final World Order

By Joseph Wanshe (Nigeria)

Chapter One

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE FINAL WORLD ORDER is Joseph Terna Wanshe’s second book. He wrote his first major story, PASSIONS OF PATRIOTS, when he was twenty-one and researched it while studying history at the University of Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria, the setting of the story. The Final World Order, an international story, has also passed through diligent research and advice from one of his editors, Carmen McCain, an American from New York.

Terna Wanshe’s other interests include touring, researching on historical events, music and politics. Back in his secondary school days where his career as a writer had begun to manifest through the essays, plays, poems, songs and short stories he wrote, he had been the founder of a musical band and his days at the university saw him writing articles and contesting for various student union offices. He is presently the vice-president of his Alma Mater and lives in Makurdi, Benue State, Nigeria with his parents, brothers and sisters.

DEDICATION:

To my parents, Michael and Elizabeth Wanshe, from whose collection I read the first novels of my life at an early age, and who have always been encouraging

CHAPTER ONE

At the Bolade Karim Memorial Hospital in Garki, one of the most developed areas in the Federal Capital Territory of Nigeria, Abuja, with the most attractive architectural monuments, Isabel Altar, formerly known as Sheba Abdulaziz, lay in her bed waiting for her time of death. As the moment was approaching, she reflected on her life without any self-delusion; she gradually came to terms with who she really was.

Isabel Altar remembered herself as a little girl growing up in Karachi, Pakistan. She had grown up with her parents. All her life she had looked at the world through the eyes of her parents. Now she asked herself, what if she had grown up with other parents? Would she still have been the person she was, or gone through the same experiences she went through?

Her parents had been very poor, and at the young age of twelve she had left school, her education incomplete. She went to the market to take care of the small family-owned provision store that raised next to nothing for them. Her only siblings, two elder brothers, got themselves involved in doing odd jobs which they lived on. They both got jobs on a ship and then disappeared. Where they were today she had no idea. That is how it was all her life. Everybody she loved seemed to disappear in one way or another, even her husband who had died five months ago. And her daughter, who after assuring her she was going to come over to Africa and see her as soon as she got e-mail from her, had refused to come. Jacqueline, her daughter, replied to her mother's e-mail, of course, but kept procrastinating about her visit. How did she come to have such a daughter? Isabel Altar wondered.

She remembered how she came to know her husband. He had been a young diplomat working at the U.S. embassy in Pakistan. He was a vulnerable man, pleasant in attitude and with a face any woman could admire. He was handsome and had green eyes.

Isabel remembered herself young and beautiful, too. She had an attractively narrow face that was even prettier when she smiled and exposed her well-arranged white teeth.

The man who was to be her husband had come to her small shop in the market and looked through the window.

"Excuse me," he said uncertainly, not sure that she could understand English. "Where can I get clothes, a suit for instance?" He seemed in a hurry.

Sheba – now Isabel – smiled without the slightest intention of getting him hooked on her. She knew he was an American and at that moment there seemed something funny about him.

"Down this way," Isabel said. "You go to the end of this lane and then turn right." Her English was very good and she had learned it by reading novels by Western writers aloud.

"Thank you," the man had said and disappeared. She only saw him again passing in front of her shop, going back with a large polythene bag in his hand, waving at her and smiling happily. She thought that was the last of him she would see, but he was back the next day.

"Good afternoon," he said leaning at the window of the shop. "Remember me?"

"Yes," Isabel said simply.

"We were in the midst of holding a meeting with a government official from the United States yesterday and I spilt red wine on my suit and there was no time to go back home for a change of clothes so I rushed to the market, since it was closer. You know, you don't have to offend your superiors if you want to stand a good chance in your career."

She noticed that he was gaining confidence before her because she kept smiling. She knew the effect of her beauty on men and was confident that it could transport a man across social and religious barriers.

"Is it the suit you bought yesterday that you have on?" she asked.

"Ah – yes," He seemed to have just realized he was in his new black suit as he took a look at himself. "I am Desmond. And who could you be?"

"Call me Sheba."

"That's a nice name. Like Queen Sheba in the Bible?"

Isabel laughed. "I am a Muslim."

"That's good," he said appreciatively. "I am a Christian. I work with the U.S. embassy here in Pakistan. I'm a bit lonely away from home, you know. I would be happy if we could spend sometime together. Perhaps this evening."

And that was the beginning of the relationship. They had, in a modest and platonic manner, dated each other for a year. Desmond took care of all her financial needs and even part of her family's life became a little easier. Desmond Altar was later transferred back to America and she went with him. Her poor parents were happy to let her go. They hoped she was only visiting U.S and would be back in a month or two. She never went back. That -had been twenty-seven years ago.

But just before she left she received a letter from a secret organization she had never heard about. It was shocking at first, but she soon pushed it out of her mind as a trick played by one of her jealous friends. The letter reminded her of her duties to her God. The concluding part of it warned her that she might be called upon to perform certain services later and that while she was married to an American she should remember where she belonged.

This was going to be of no consequence as soon as she went to the United States of America, she believed mistakenly.

As soon as she got to the U.S. with Desmond Altar they organized a court wedding after which she took the name Isabel to replace Sheba. She thought her new name enabled her to fit into her environment better. Desmond turned out to be a career man. In the morning about six he got up and prepared for work. When he left, he did not turn up again until nine at night. It wasn't that he was going out with other women. He was just work-obsessed and not interested in having a proper family. He got his promotions and was later appointed a personal assistant to the Virginia State governor. When he was not working he was heavilly smoking.

Isabel was happy for him, but she was lonely and when she complained the result was the birth of Jacqueline who was born three years after they started dating. And that was their one and only child.

The birth of the child was a blessing, but horrible fears rose in her mind when she received a second letter from the secret organization called Enujamin. They warned her not to be converted. They told her the moment they needed her service was at hand and that she had no cause to be afraid if she obeyed. And if she failed, the life of her two-year-old child, Jacqueline, was in peril. In Arabic inscriptions they reminded her that they were everywhere and that there was no point in running.

They gave her instructions. She was to get information from her husband who was a government official and worked closely with top politicians. They wanted to know the structure of the Virginia State government. They requested information about government institutions, their locations, functions and those manning them.

For Isabel who had hardly known a better life, that was a small price to pay for the safety of her life and her child's. It even took away her loneliness. She had someone to communicate with, someone from home, or so it felt. Her too-busy husband did not get overly curious about his wife taking an interest in the American nation; it was after all a fascinating country.

The intervals between her communications with Enujamin were long so she could not be easily detected. As she was instructed, she burnt all correspondence from the organization.

For twenty years she watched her daughter Jacqueline grow up. Just as she could not open her mind to any American, Isabel found herself distant from her daughter. She was cold to her own child, though deep inside her she felt a pride and love that burned triumphantly; her child was going to live a life her own childhood upbringing would not allow her to live freely. Isabel loved her daughter.

As if her daughter perceived that she was determined to live a secret life, she noticed her child slipping away from her. The hours her husband, Desmond, spent at home were so short, but Jacqueline was more attracted to her father and behaved more freely in his presence. She proved intelligent in school and speedily pursued her education.

It was a sad turn in Isabel's destiny when her husband Desmond fell ill with lung cancer from which he was never to recover. She had always expected it, had always warned him. He lay in his bed waiting for his last breath. He said no words; he only looked at her. His eyes communicated, they said a lot. In those hours she stood by his bedside watching his face she realized it was a long time since they had communicated from the bottom of their hearts. He loved her and his eyes said it all. The silent communication of their souls was better than words. If she were to speak with her mouth, her tongue would betray her. She would have to say the things she was doing which she did not like. It would come out of her mouth unexpectedly that she was working for a secret fundamentalist organization.

But she had never really believed she was doing any damage to America until after her husband's death when she got a document from the fundamentalist organization. It could have mistakenly sent to her, but the threats encoded in it were definately real to her.

Her husband had died gently and maybe happily.

Isabel was now truly alone. She wanted to leave America for various reasons. She wanted to start a new life, she wanted to see another world, she wanted her mind to develop in a new dimension, wanted to own herself, wanted to escape the movement that claimed to be everywhere. One country where they would not expect her to run to was Nigeria. She wrote and told them she was heading back to Pakistan since her husband was now dead, and then had spirited herself away to Nigeria where she had presented herself as a tourist in order to get through immigration.

She had planned that her daughter should come with her to Nigeria and had taken a month to persuade her to come with her, but Jacqueline had refused, giving all kinds of excuses. She was schooling there in America. That was a reasonable excuse, and sure enough she was emotionally tied to social relationships. Her daughter had promised to come to Nigeria to visit her. Now, four years after that time, she still had not turned up, in spite of her assurances in e-mails that she was coming. She never said anything personal about herself. If she was married her letters did not say.

Isabel remembered parting with her daughter at the Dulles International Airport in Virginia. Time was running out; something terrible, more terrible than the World Trade Center attack was going to be visited on America.

She remembered Jacqueline, clad in a white sleeveless dress, a brunette of twenty with innocent eyes.

"Mom, don't try to persuade me again. I'm not happy to let you go alone, and I still can't understand why you suddenly want to leave. When you get to Nigeria, please, don't forget to write and send me your address."

"I'll write, Jackie. I can't forget you. One day you will understand why I am leaving. I hope you'll come to me soon, but for now I know you are too emotionally tied up."

"Oh Mom, don't talk like that. I love you. If you don't come back here I'll go searching for you."

They both knew she was lying. Jacqueline knew how hatred for America was on the increase all over the world and that she would not feel safe anywhere but in her country, America. Apart from Jacqueline's xenophobia, she was going out with Bradford Waters, the son of the U.S. president, a relationship that was as secret as possible, even to her mother.

Now Isabel wished so much that her daughter would be with her, for the time of evil was coming. Something terrible was going to happen in America and she did not want her daughter there when it happened. She was badly afraid for her daughter now.

Isabel had written and informed her daughter Jacqueline that she was dying slowly and soon she would be no more. She tried to persuade Jacqueline to come before she was gone, but now she knew her daughter would take the news lightly as a tactic to move her emotionally to Nigeria.

A sad mother, Isabel realized she was going to die an unhappy death. She would not see her daughter, and not her mother or father whom she was sure would be dead by now. She was going to die hoping against hope that her daughter who knew no relatives in the world but those that came from her father, would be safe when Enujamin struck. The organization had promised that the attack on the World Trade Center would only be a peak of the iceberg and that all the evils the United States had perpetrated in its whole history as a nation was going to be visited in revenge upon it in one fell swoop. It was all clearly spelt out in the document, which was handed to her because of her long-term service to the organization. She was trusted and had been promoted to a high position which she did not cherish. She did not have a mind that craved to see the blood of others, and not even their tears.

She had only a few hours left to live; she felt it. The white doctor who was taking care of her was an American. She had been able to tell from his accent and had learnt that from the snatches of conversations they had had together in brief moments. He had told her sincerely that her heart disease was going to overcome her within months. The time had swiftly passed and now she could feel her spirit dying away.

This was the moment to carry out her plan; the move that would save her daughter and her nation, her husband's nation, and then the entire world, from changing. Isabel did not want the world to change, or America to be destroyed.

But the energy in her to even turn her head in her hospital bed was so little she could hardly move; her heart was beating weakly. "For the sake of my daughter,'' she said, summoning up the last reserve of strength in her body to turn toward the nurse that stood by the door of the long ward. "Come quickly," she said to the dark-complexioned nurse who had already turned in the direction of her bed.

The atmosphere was quiet except for the nurse's heels, clicking on the floor, echoing lightly as she moved toward Isabel. "Come quickly," Isabel said again, her voice strained.

(Revised 5/20/05)

It was past six in the evening in Virginia and Jacqueline was back from her office to her secret service-guarded house. She was now the wife of the First Son of America’s first black president. It was what she had always expected to happen; she trusted him and his love for whatever she wanted. The marriage was a milestone in her life and made her feel complete. Bradford had hurried the marriage up as if to make up for the long period of dating when their school was a hindrance.
A year after the wedding, their son, Leonard, was born. There had been testing obstacles and difficulties, but she had passed them all. One of them was the contact with the other members of the First Family. Bradford, her spouse, had been tactful about introducing her to his family. He had not allowed them to know that she was his intended wife at first. Jacqueline’s background could likely have caused some friction. Bradford had allowed all the members of his family to get used to Jacqueline and adroitly brought about terms of interaction that were as equal as was possible.
That was the first phase. The second phase was letting his family know his intention. It had been easier than he and Jacqueline had expected. Bradford knew his parents very well. He had predicted that once he got his mother on his side, half the work was done. His mother’s influence on his father was like the effect of a trigger on a bullet, and once his mother started the fire his father would fan it until it became an uncontrollable flame.
As Jacqueline had foreseen, Bradford’s father, President Lionel Waters had been uncomfortable with Jacqueline’s link with a Pakistani parent. He had asked questions, but had at last had to accept the fact that the United States had no room for such discriminations and he had no reason to be so paranoid, even if he was such a highly placed individual. There was not the slightest doubt that Jacqueline’s father, Desmond Altar, was an American with a very respectable background. The wedding also came very fast. It was the center of attraction for not only America but also the entire world. The presidents of seventeen countries around the world were present. Many who were not present sent representatives. Many colorful personalities graced the rare occasion; kings and queens came. The Queen of Jordan, Renia al-Abdullah was also there in person. Since the wedding was a Catholic one, special priests were sent from the Vatican to officiate over it. Top government officials were present at the wedding of the president’s son. The entire First Family was there. Jacqueline’s father’s relatives were also proudly present. The event made headlines all over the world. There were pressmen and women who came to the Untied States one month before the occasion and stayed in hotels, waiting. America was described in the papers as the busiest spot on earth on the day of the wedding. The First Wedding was a day for the whole world. The love between a single young couple spread across the world and changed lives both temporarily and permanently. Husbands and wives fell in love with each other all over again. Bachelors and spinsters were glued to TV sets to watch the model wedding they could not even begin to imagine they could imitate. They could get one or two ideas, but not imitate. That was all in December, four years ago. Things had moved fast soon after the relationship went public in the middle of the year. Bradford immediately opted to move out of the White House, which was a very exciting idea for Jacqueline. She wanted an environment she could call her own; a place they would create private memories that would not one day be left behind. Bradford and Jacqueline had searched America and had decided Virginia, one of the places they had made memories before their wedding, was the best place to find a house: There Jacqueline was also going to be living close to her father’s relatives. There was only one regret Jacqueline had about her wedding. It was that her mother was not present. Now she wondered if her mother Isabel had heard about it. Her mother was a woman she had never understood.
She had not gotten any of her e-mail recently and she was wondering whether it was that her mother had actually been as ill as she had written in her last letters. If it was true that she was sick, was it that by now she was dead? The turn of thoughts made her feel sad and guilty. She was a bad child. A wicked one, but it was not her fault. That is what she had always told herself. She had always argued her mind out of compunction, believing that if her mother had not been such a reserved woman who kept to herself and did not really mean to affect the life of her daughter, she could have been able to feel other emotions for her apart from remorse, a mood she hated.
Even the memory of her mother presently made her feel what she was refusing to believe was hate. She had always denied it before, but now she was finding it difficult, now that she should have felt the guilt more because of the probable death of her mother. Oh, what kind of girl was she, having such wicked and inhumane thoughts? Or was it that she wanted to punish her mother for leaving her parents, Jacqueline’s grand parents, in Pakistan and never going back to see them? Was the hate of parents or children a genetic quality? A sort of fear of her own self rose momentarily in Jacqueline. She longed to believe that was not what she was. Her body ached for Bradford’s comforting embrace. Then she remembered her father.
He, Desmond Altar, had been a loving man. She remembered the many gifts her father returned to the house with, the collection of dolls and tricycles he gave her as presents. He was not always present, but the few short times they shared were lively and natural communication took place. She came alive in his presence. He was always full of praise: “That’s a nice dress you have on,” he would say, believing it himself. “Don’t you think you should become a star – a musician?” she heard her father say one evening when he came home and found her singing God Bless America. She had taken her father’s implied compliment to mean that she could sing, but now she saw a different person in the young girl in whom he had seen a musician. She saw that the love of her country, her father’s country, began from her first days on earth.
She loved America. Was this why her mother could not get close to her? she asked herself and her thoughts began to disturb her again. She did her best to push them away and provide room for happier thoughts. Jacqueline was presently sitting in front of the dresser in her matrimonial bedroom. She was looking into the mirror, still in the clothes she wore to the office, a tight blue dress that gave away the contours of her lithe and dainty figure. She looked at her face in the mirror and decided that beauty was one of her blessings.
Her brown hair made heavy curls around her head, and matched the dark brown of her eyes. She was happy to have picked her slender nose from her father and to have passed it to her son, Leonard, who was born about a year after the wedding. Leonard was three years of age now. From all that Jacqueline could see of him, he was an intelligent and promising child. She would train the boy and nurture him to be like his father. She believed in her husband, Bradford. He was her idea of what a man should be like: Responsible, caring, humble, strong, honest and honorable.
Thinking of Bradford now, she remembered where he would be. Bradford, at that very moment was at the Las. Vegas Strip addressing a crowd of thousands. She knew her young husband to be a unionist, a patriot and a humanitarian. He was an extrovert, always ardently concerned with issues that affected the general public. And unlike most men of his type, these activities in the service of the public never really affected his inclination towards being a family man. He was careful the way he scheduled appointments so that they never dominated his family life. He was always ready to cancel any appointment at Jacqueline’s demand. She could not guess what destiny his nature was going to take him to, but in her own opinion, Bradford would make a better president for America than his father.
The phone on the nightstand rang and Jacqueline had no doubts about who was calling; it was Bradford, she knew. She got up from the stool at the dresser and went to the bed where she could use the phone more comfortably.
“Hello,” she said. “Bradford?”
“Yeah,” came the response. “I’m calling from Las Vegas at a place not very far from the rally. You may even be hearing the crowd cheering.”
“How is the crowd responding?” she asked.
“Very well. It looks as if they had been waiting for UYAV to come to them.” UYAV – United Youths Against Violence was a newly created organization founded by Bradford Waters with the assistance his childhood friend Derek. Nevada and New York were the remaining states that had not had a branch of the organization and Bradford was making sure UYAV was established in all states.
“How do you think the association is going to affect your father’s re-election bid? I’ve been wondering.”
“Well … I’ve thought about that, but Americans have seen too much of violence at this point in time for me to think of other issues. The violence of criminals, the violence perpetrated by youths against youths, minors possessing guns, indiscriminate shooting in the streets, wars… I mean it’s about time someone spoke loudly against this. The Americans of this generation are not out for bloodshed but to represent the meaning of the word civilization in its most extensive meaning.”
“Is that what you have been telling them in Nevada? That’s brilliant of you,” Jacqueline complemented him.
“I’ve not yet given my speech here, Jackie,” Bradford said. “I’ll be speaking to the crowd as soon as I finish this discussion.”
“I wish I were there with you, Brad,” Jacqueline said sadly. “I feel like I am missing out on all the fun.”
“I understand,” Bradford said. “But don’t worry. You can try and be at the next launch in New York. I know you are tied down by other commitments. How is Leonard doing?”
“He is fine.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“Oh, he is sleeping in his room. He was complaining of a slight headache when I came back from the office and I put him to sleep a while ago. I think he will soon be all right. Don’t bother yourself.”
Jacqueline knew that Bradford was always sensitive to his boy’s moods. They were both aware that the child represented the love between them. Leonard was their happiness and a symbol of a successful marriage to them. They could carry on and live in love with each other without him, but they were not sure they would not be lonely and bored if he was not in their lives.
“When he wakes up tell him I’ll be coming home by night and that he will see me around tomorrow morning. He shouldn’t stay awake waiting for me.”
“I’ll do that. And could you please get another storybook for him. He knows too well all the stories in the one I’m using for his bedtime stories currently.”
“I’ll love to do that,” Bradford said. “How was work at the office today?”
“Very fine.” She worked as an accountant at the prestigious Cardinal International Bank. She had majored in accounting and the knowledge was now paying off. She was making money enough to take care of the small family and with the amount Bradford earned as a lecturer at the University of Virginia they were very comfortable. He had gained the employment after completing his Masters degree, having previously graduated as a first-class student from the Economics Department. He was looking forward to a Master’s degree and a Ph. D to enhance his position as a lecturer. His plans, which were not very different from Jacqueline’s, pleased her. She intended to further her education to consolidate and improve her position at the bank.
“I’ll call again as soon as the rally is over before I come back home,” Bradford said. “And since you aren’t here, what do you want me to say to the young men and women of Nevada?”
Jacqueline laughed. She liked Bradford’s question; it was more endearing than it was necessary.
“Tell them to keep believing in America. We have a nation that looks like the capital of the world. Tell them I am sending my greetings.”
“Very good,” Bradford said. “I’m needed out there now. Remember, I’ll call in about an hour’s time and then I’ll take a plane back.”
“Wish you a very nice presentation,” Jacqueline said. “Thank you. But you’ve got me thinking,” Bradford was extending the conversation.
“What?”
“What you asked me concerning my father’s re-election bid. Many people have started wondering if UYAV is a disguised campaign intended to enhance my father’s acceptability. But the truth is that I had no thought about his politicking when I was seized by the inspiration to begin the association. I’m just doing my own thing and trying to be my own man as much as I can. If it turns out my activities work things out for his good, that would be my pleasure, and if it turns out the other way round, we can say it’s God’s doing. I’m not about to quit the little adventures that spice up my life. I believe in what I am doing; I hate violence and will oppose it anywhere, any day and anytime, Jackie.” He paused, considering what he had just allowed out of the deepest part of his mind, which was the real him, what he really was and that could not be bottled up for long. “Have I spoken correctly or wrongly?” he asked his wife.
“Correctly, darling,” Jacqueline said. “The crowd will love it if you say that to them. Please include it in your speech.”
“Thank you. It’s time to go.”
2
Bradford had just dropped the phone and was moving back to the Las Vegas Strip where the large crowd of over fifty thousand was gathered. Their bodies were pressed together as everybody wanted an unimpaired view of the stage. In the neighboring streets surrounding the gathering, movement was difficult. Cars were closely parked and people jostled against each other.
As Bradford returned to the stage he could hear his friend’s voice blaring out through loud speakers to the roaring crowd. Derek Brant had been very instrumental in bringing into existence the organization they had agreed on naming United Youths Against Violence. Bradford, being the president, had chosen Derek as his vice. The association was less than a year old but had the support of all the youths of America, it seemed; no individual or body had spoken in public against it and it was the largest youth body in terms of membership, the most influential. UYAV had the children of many governors of the United States as its members. The twenty-seven-year-old son of the Vice-President of the United States Horace Church was the secretary. The many youths belonging to the organization felt a sort of social security by joining the movement.
Those who were generally attracted were mostly immigrants. Italian, German, Jewish, African, Polish, Russian, Asian and Japanese Americans were moved to become members.
There were also plans underway by the executive to spread the branches of the association worldwide, to internationalize it so that its influence would be universal. Youths from other parts of the world were already writing to indicate their readiness to welcome the establishment of the organization in their countries. Some mistook it to be a political body and others rightly knew it had humanitarian leanings.
“The United Youths of America stand against violence of any nature,” Derek Brant was speaking ardently. “It may be the violence of the policeman in the street, it may be bomb explosions, it may be the violence of the thug who slaps a girl…”
The girls now cheered wildly. “…it may be the scream of a mother at a child, the armed robber who shoots at an innocent witness… We the youths of the United States stand against all these. There has been enough taking of lives. Hate has existed among us for too long.” He stopped as the young people before him hailed.
Derek, who was twenty-five years old and of average height, adjusted his dark blue tie which matched the color of his two-piece suit perfectly. His self-esteem was evident. He looked round the stage and his eyes met Bradford’s. The First Son was standing with a group of five members of his executive who had earlier spoken at the occasion. There were also two men in black clothes that seemed too casual to be uniforms and only a careful look could tell an observer that they were secret service men who were Bradford’s bodyguard. To their ears were attached small earpieces. They were casual in operation and Bradford could easily slip through their hands and have a private moment with someone on phone or might even tell them to hang around until he came back.
Bradford was impressed with the general attitude of the crowd and their response to the speeches of his subordinate. It seemed Derek had rounded up his speech and would soon call on him to present his. He prepared himself emotionally. He had deliberately worn an immaculately white suit for the occasion, which signified peace and innocence, the opposite of violence.
“I will now call on the President of United Youths Against Violence to come forward and present his speech,” Derek was saying. “Ladies and gentlemen, President Bradford Waters.” He gestured in Bradford’s direction.
The crowd roared wildly and the few who had been previously sitting stood up. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming. There was a sudden rustle and flurry of activity on Bradford’s right where reporters, cameramen and photographers were gathered. All cameras were now focused on him.
There was quietness when Bradford got to the lectern and adjusted the microphone as a signal that he was about to speak. The atmosphere, which had, a few seconds ago, been noisy and full of movement and activity, assumed a graveyard-like stillness, even the trees on the far sides of the open-air strip. When he started his speech the clapping began again and lasted all through, heightening at the end of every paragraph.
Bradford Waters’ speech: “The great youths of Nevada who are hosting this great occasion very ardently, youth associations of the state who have made this event possible and fellow Americans, I am very happy to be with you here this evening. I must commend your enthusiasm and cooperative attitude towards this event. I must express my appreciation on behalf of United Youths Against Violence for all the necessary logistics put in place for this gathering to hold.
“Every one present here must have heard or read about United Youths Against Violence (UYAV) sometime in the past ten months. By now I’m sure you have a vague impression of what the association is all about. Your presence here this afternoon indicates that you want to know more about it and, possibly, join as members. We had intended to launch the association here earlier, but due to unavoidable delays, we could not. I must thank you for you patience in waiting for this day.
“I begin with how this organization came into existence. United Youths is a creation that began with an inspiration I got at one of my most meditative moments and which I can confidently say has divine dimensions to it. I see myself as a concerned citizen of this great country. I think a lot about her day and night. But my mind does not stop there. I see the rest of the world, not through the eyes of a racist or a religious fanatic, or through the vision of any ideologist – Fascist, Nazist or totalitarian.
“I am a philanthropist by nature and when I look back in the history of the world in general, I see a lot of violence, bloodshed, wars. It used to be the arrows and the spears, now the guns, bombs and gases. The most marketable kind of technological invention seems to be the one fashioned for the destruction of humanity. Diseases, in the Third World countries particularly, are the creations of human hands in scientific labs. Where is the world heading to?”
“For years I asked myself what I could do for humans all over the earth and a solution came to my mind at one of my most composed (moment-moments) when I was thinking deeply. The solution is America. The United States of America.
“We have a nation here that is like the capital of the world. We set the pace. We are the most civilized nation in the world. But how do we define civilization?
“Civilization means advancement in the process of human development. As simple as that. The advancement is social, technological, economic and in every other sphere of life. If we all seek to be advanced or developed, then what are we advancing to or developing toward? Is it self-destruction or is it self-preservation? Is it the creation of insecurity everywhere, or is it protection? These are very crucial questions at this point in time.
“The answers to these questions depend on the direction in which we propel ourselves – and the rest of the world. And we, who are members of United Youths Against Violence, and those who support the organization, have made up our minds on which way to go. We have chosen the path of self-preservation and I believe this decision suits all who believed in humanity.
“When you look around the world today, there are all kinds of democracies, all sorts of institutions hiding under the name of democracy. Even the most cruel, brutal governments. Military men at the head of power claim to be operating democratic institutions. The young people of such nations want a change. They have called on us and we must not fail them. By responding to them we will also be protecting our own democracy. We all want to see a new world and we must set the pace.
“Younger generations coming have to be prepared to face a world of freedom where violence, as they will be made to understand, would be an obsolete nature. Violence does not have anything to do with self-preservation or civilization and not even self-defense. To be civilized is to do away with brutality, wickedness, racidivism, color discrimination and all that does not favor your fellow human being here in America and beyond.
“United Youths is an anti-violence and pro-American organization and its aim is to stop violence wherever it may be. We have started achieving results already within the few months of the existence of the association. Two months ago we prevailed on Congress to enact strict laws against the sale of small arms to civilians here in the United States and more recently we were able to influence the United Nations to promulgate sanctions against nations involved in secret mass production of lethal weapons.
“The measures are not to satisfy any power ego. They are the steps of those here in America and abroad that believe in civilization and not barbarism or savagery. If we were wrong we would not have gotten the compliments we have received from friends in Asia, Africa, the Middle East, Europe and South America.
“The intention of our organization at the moment is that as soon as we are through with the establishment of branches in every state in the U.S., we will build a secretariat in Washington D.C. After that, we will go ahead to join hands with our friends in other parts of the globe to create an international body so that we will be able to attain higher goals. And in countries where this plan is not possible, we will connive with the youth organizations of such nations, no matter how suppressed the youths may be, and no matter what extent they have been driven underground.
“Already there is a controversy generated by people wondering if this organization is a political one. Some people have even gone to the extent of calling it a political party. I must say here very emphatically that this organization is not a partisan one. We are in no way political and we do not intend to evolve into being political. But this statement does not mean that we will fail to use any political tool at our disposal to fight insert our cause. We shall be affecting all spheres of life, socially, economically, educationally, religiously and even politically. The world must hear us.
“Thank you all once again for attending this event this evening. Let us all keep the flame of civilization going. I will leave you with a quotation from the speech of George Washington Bush to the U.S. Congress and the people of the United States of America a few days after terrorists attacked the World Trade Center: “‘This is not, however, just America’s fight. And what is at stake is not just America’s freedom. This is the world’s fight. This is civilization’s fight.’
“I must urge you not to believe that our mission to change the world will be accomplished with a single stroke. We must be determined to carry it on and on, passing it from one generation to another. But as this mission endures we will achieve results and successes every minute of everyday. We shall be winning at all times.”
There was an ear-splitting applause. Bradford had held them transfixed from the first word to the last.
“Shortly before I came before you to speak,” Bradford said, “I called my wife who is in Virginia at the moment. She is also a member of United Youths. She is unavoidably absent and has asked me to extend her greetings to you.” Loud clapping interrupted him. “She has a message for you. The message is: ‘Believe in America; Live America.’”
Bradford withdrew to the background of the stage amidst the ovation. Derek was back on the soapbox.
“You have heard for yourselves from the President of United Youths Against Violence,” Derek said. “While you were listening I know many of you have questions on your mind you wish to be clarified. Any one with a question she or he wants answered will be given a microphone to present his question. Just raise your hand up if you have a question and I will send the microphone to you.”
About fifteen hands went up; these were those who wanted to be heard. The others seemed contented with sitting or standing around watching and listening. Young men and women presented their questions.
Bradford Waters listened carefully. Some of those who raised their hands asked, in different words, questions that had already been asked by those who came earlier. Only few of the questions were new; most of them were those that the youths of other states at the earlier launches had asked. When the first fifteen people were about finishing, more hands were raised up and Derek Brant announced: “I will allow only four questions more; two from the boys and two from the girls,” he said looking at his watch. It was a few minutes past five. “We are short of time.”
Derek stood there at the stage and waited for the remaining four questioners. When they were through he went to the stand again. “The President has been listening to your questions. Just give him your ears now and hear what he has to say in response.”
Bradford went forward smiling confidently. He had been making a succinct mental list of the questions that represented the rest many: “You said this organization which has begun here in America will become international and will have branches in other nations. How is this possible without being involved in espionage or without turning the association into an intelligence body?”
“Can you make it clear to us how this association which you claim is not political will be involved in all spheres of life including politics without being a political organization?”
“Do you, Mr. President, really believe that violence can be wiped out completely? Don’t you think you are dealing with a problem that can better be solved by geneticists?”
“I’ve heard you all, fellow Americans,” Bradford began. “Thank you all for the questions. They reflect the intelligence and concern of this generation. I will answer them all at once.” He paused and stared at the crowd with frank eyes.
“It is possible to carry out our task of educating the youths and emancipating them from violent mentalities without rivaling the CIA because most of the youths in those violence-oppressed nations are already willing for a change. They are more than willing to volunteer information concerning the secret evils of their leaders. Some of them are willing to do more than that; they are ready to fight for a change, even though we are not looking at violence as a means of fulfilling our goals,” Bradford paused, indicating that he had come to the end of a single answer to a set of similar questions.
“And as I said earlier in my address to you,” he continued, “it is possible to be involved in using politics as a tool for our anti-violence cause without becoming politicians or losing focus of our aims and objectives. We are not going to be sponsoring candidates for political offices; we will not be called a political party. If we oppose a candidate for a particular office it may be because that candidate has some leaning towards violence or a dangerous ideology. If we campaign for a candidate in any country, it will be because such an individual is more mentally fit and pro-UYAV.
“However, politics is not going to be our major tool. We as United Youths are going to do more than that. We are going to be felt in the educational sectors, in religious circles and, most especially in the economic and social aspects of society. I said most especially because the economic and social pyramids of society have been the causes of violence in most societies as the past has taught us. We saw it in the Russian and French revolutions. We have learnt enough lessons.
“And lastly,” to another group of questions, Bradford continued, “I want to say that in any mission concerning beliefs about the future, it could take the visionaries a long way to go. We must not give up now at the beginning part of our assignment. We cannot tell what we will miss. The willingness of youths to hear someone speak up against violence and unfairness has already been indicated by the numerous associations which they have in every nation of the world. To tell you the truth, these associations are not enough. “By our principles of non-violence we shall also hold debates on which group to ride with, which to consider hostile and which to regard as friendly. We have already gotten commendations from Amnesty International, the National Front of Britain and a lot others.
We will soon be debating which of these to put on our official list of friends. “And again, we must not be discouraged by the genetic factor. Some sorts of violence may not be due to violent upbringing, but this does not mean such cases should be solved by violence. A medical solution may be a better way. Thank you all once again for your questions,” Bradford said good-manneredly as he withdrew from the stand. Derek Brant went forward. “I believe the President,” Derek was saying, “has cleared all reasonable doubts about United Youths and anyone who is interested in joining will not have any hesitations. All supporters who wish to become active members should give their names at our office here in Las Vegas. You can get us on the Internet at WWW. United-Youths. org. “It’s time now for the presentation of the United Youths’ flag, the symbol you will get familiar with and will easily recognize. The flag will be flying for twenty-four hours at our national secretariat to be built in Washington D.C.” There was an air of expectation and the crowd became more alert.
“This is the concluding part of the event. As the flag goes up we will sing the national anthem and then close the occasion,” Derek said and looked to his left, to the far side of the stage, waiting for the flag to go up. A man dressed in all-white clothes went to a pole with a white cloth neatly folded-up in his hands. He attached the cloth to the rope skillfully as all the men and women at the Strip looked on, fascinated, waiting to see what the cloth would reveal. The man at the mast pulled the rope as the cloth turned out into a rectangular flag and went up the pole, slowly and in a dignified manner.
A gentle breeze that made the flag open out and fly triumphantly, revealing the impressions on it. In the center of the flag’s white background was a globe that, no doubt, represented the entire world, and at the top of it was a bright shining star. The globe was cradled by the yellow heart symbol of love, which was then surrounded by two olive branches. All present were impressed, both those standing close to the stage and those who were very far away. The national anthem was sung with vigor and passion. Derek Brant moved over to the place Bradford stood with friends and well-wishers as the crowd was dispersing. He stood by as Bradford quickly but adroitly disposed of his numerous friends.
“Thank you very much, Derek,” Bradford turned to Brant as they made their way to their cars, followed by two super-build secret service men. “It would not have been possible to hold the rally without you. Your usefulness is priceless. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention,” Derek said. “It has been becoming easier and easier. The media is doing all the work for us. Before we get to the next state to launch UYAV the people there are already waiting for us. I expect bigger successes. And there is the rest of the world waiting for us.”
“I’m expecting a friend from South Africa tomorrow. It’s an unofficial visit, but he wishes to discuss United Youths and possibilities of establishing a chapter in his country.”
“Are you referring to Craig Mbatu, son of the President of South Africa?”
“Yes. Have you met him before?”
“No, but it looks like he’s a guy we can trust. I heard he has Western inclinations.”
They got to the two long jeeps parked beyond the line of trees. Bradford and Derek got into the back seat of one of the white-painted jeeps with one of the bodyguards who took the front seat beside the chauffeur. The other bodyguards went to the other car. The jeeps, Grand Ford 8s, the latest cars designed by the Ford car company, drove out to town in a line with the one that was carrying Bradford and Derek coming behind.
“The airport,” Bradford said to the chauffeur. “But before that you will stop at a supermarket so that I can get a story book for my boy.”
Derek was a Virginian. It was while he was still a boy his parents had gone to live in California where he met Bradford who was also a kid. They had both attended the University of Washington. They were both people who were not eager to let go of the past but loved to surround themselves with familiar faces that kept the memories alive. They had supported each other in pursuing their goals and found each other perfect allies. Bradford was living with his new family in Richmond while Derek lived with his wife Alice in far away Lynchburg. Bradford’s decision to stay in Richmond had in the main been influenced by Jacqueline. She loved the place.

When Doctor Carl Harvey got back to his residence at Asokoro District it was thirty minutes past three. He drove in through the gate and maneuvered the car along the concreted drive to the small car park in front of his rented house. He grabbed the brown hard-covered book from the passenger seat as he got out of the car and then locked the door.

It had been very easy to locate Isabel's house which was somewhere between Abuja Parkway and Herbert Macauley Way. It was an apartment with about three rooms. Dust was on all the furniture and cobwebs hung everywhere. The atmosphere was thick with a stale odor. He had walked straight to the large cabinet, one of the few furniture pieces. All the drawers were already open except one that unlocked as soon as he turned the key in the keyhole. The book was the only item in it.

Without wasting time, he had quickly taken the document out and made his way out of the house. None of the neighbors seemed to have taken note of his visit to the house when he drove away.

He turned the doorknob and the door gave way to his push as he entered his sitting room furnished expensively and decorated with little art works from different parts of the world.

His wife, Dr. Barbara Harvey was the first to welcome him. She was in a yellow sleeveless dress and with a smile on her pretty face as she walked into the sitting room barefooted on the tiled floor. She had managed to keep her teenage charm till now that she was fifty. Through dying, her hair, which cascaded down to her shoulders, was beautifully black. Her lips were thin and with the red color of a fruit. Carl had never regretted marrying his German wife.

She had come to America to read archeology at the University of South Carolina where they had met each other. They had mixed their education with romance and had known happiness since then.

"Welcome back," Barbara said, hugging him as they kissed briefly. She was about a foot shorter than him and fitted perfectly in his arms. "What kept you away so long today?" she asked.

"I got involved in some other business." Carl felt it was not yet time to tell his wife about the book he was holding in his hand. It would be a long story. "How was work today?"

"Fine," Barbara said with a smile. The stress of her work never seemed to tell on her. "And how was it for you?"

"Fine, a great day," Carl said.

"Your meal will be ready in a minute."

"I'll take a cold bath first and be at the dinning table just now," Carl said. As he let his wife out of his arms and turned into the large arched door that led to the bedrooms section of the house he came across his daughter.

"Hello daddy," said Pamela, excited. "We've been expecting you home."

"Welcome, dad," said Patricia. She was holding a newspaper in her hand. She was a bookworm at particular times and at other times turned out to be surprisingly extroverted.

The two twins embraced their father, each giving him on peck on the cheek.

"How are you all doing, Pam and Pat?" Carl asked. "I hope you are enjoying your holiday."

"Very much dad," said Pamela.

"We're having a wonderful time," Patricia assured.

Carl left the two girls and went into his large bedroom furnished to high taste. Unlike most of his age mates, he was astonishingly romantic in thought and it showed in the way his bedroom was decorated.

He walked over the soft-padded carpeting to the nightstand by the side of the large wooden bed and pulled out a drawer into which he dropped the book he was carrying. By the time he had taken his bath, had his meal and then gotten himself involved in communication with his daughters, his wife and in other family activities, he had completely forgotten about the book.

"Dad it seems to me you love your work too much," Pamela, the one who was majoring in architecture accused just by way of aimless conversation.

"Sure I do?" Carl Harvey said in the same manner.

The entire family was seated around in the upholstered chairs, watching a short musical interlude, and waiting for the Nigerian Television Authority's network news at nine. Carl was in a white short and a short-sleeved T-shirt while his wife and two girls were in colorful and simple evening dresses.

"It takes a different kind of mind to be a doctor," Pamela pushed forward her argument. "It takes a charitable mind to be able to care for people without getting irritable. And you never seem to be fed up with people's problems."

"Why should I when they are paying me," Carl said jocularly to his daughter.

"I just can't imagine myself becoming a doctor."

Barbara came to the defense of her husband's profession. "Imagine that everybody refused to be doctors on the ground that they can't deal with other people's problems."

"Some people are born doctors; they can't help it, they just run to it," Patricia said. "They can't help being humanitarians."

"I don't think it is humanitarianism that drives doctors to their profession," Pamela interposed. "It takes an evil and wicked mind to be able to take a scalpel to cut through the flesh of a human being, seeing the blood and flesh."

Carl laughed, bemused.

"So you are saying impliedly that it would take a lot more kindness to fold ones arms and watch somebody, say a patient suffering from appendicitis, die instead of going ahead to carry a scalpel and perform an appendectomy?"

Pamela laughed at her own doltish argument.

"That's not what I meant to say, but Doctors must be something else," she said.

"Yea, doctors must be something else," Carl Harvey admitted. "There was a girl I encountered while we were at the University of South Carolina. You remember Kate?" he asked his wife.

"Yes – very well," Barbara said.

"Kate could never go through operating on a guinea pig without fainting and in the end she had to change course from medicine to Food and Nutrition. She had all the brains, all the intelligence, she knew her theories well, but when it came to the practical work she found herself in a fix. So when you say Doctors must be something else I have to agree with you."

"Society has to be diverse," said Pamela who was a sociology student and very proud of her course. "That's one of the first things you learn as a sociologist. You become able to understand different people of different religions and walks of life."

Carl was watching his daughter who sat directly opposite him. From what she had just said he new that she was not very different from him; she had his thinking. He believed people should be different and the world should be diversified. It was what made the world interesting. You have enough choices, after all it was said that variety is the spice of life.

Physically, Pamela possessed some of his facial features; dark brown eyes and a nearly aquiline nose. He never thought of himself as an introverted person so he considered Pamela's moments of reserved behavior and bottled up secret emotions as qualities alien to him.

Patricia had a more outgoing personality even though she had a tendency to get depressed and withdrawn in the face of adversity. She had a political mind and even wanted to become a politician, a field in which the number of females was still very limited. She looked like her mother and her facial characteristics were softer. Her red lips and blue eyes were no doubt from her mother.

Carl Harvey loved his daughters equally. What he did not find in one he found in the other. His deep love for his wife, Barbara, transmitted to his children.

Time came for the nine o'clock network news. The news about Nigeria was basically about a conference held in Benue State concerning the Middle Belt region. The Middle Belt Union was an organization formed by some states in the southern part of Northern Nigeria. These central states which were formerly not distinguished from other states in the North but generally referred to as Northern Nigeria, were now organized in a dense body called the Middle Belt Union of Nigeria, MBUN. They were discernible from the other areas in the North through geographical features of the mass of land the states occupied, through religion and the higher level of westernization. The peoples of the Middle Belt were also tribes who were clamoring for self-representation as opposed to the influence of the larger groups who – particularly before 1999 – wielded political influence.

But the concepts of Nigerians changed during the civilian rule that took over from 1999 and then it seemed that it was the militarism of the past that had been the strong point and instrument of the North.

The news on the rest of the world began with a report on an anti-globalization rally that was held in a stadium in Tehran, the capital of Iran. Pictures of the demonstrators were shown on the screen and the interpretation of their speeches given verbally. It turned out they were not actually anti-globalization but anti-United States.

"America is spreading her dirty culture to other parts of the world. All peoples around the world must oppose this…"

"America is evil and corrupt. They do all that is abominable in the eyes of God, but the world is blinded from their damnable ways of life simply because of its power. The only solution to the influence of America on the direction of civilization is to take away the power of America and create a new world order."

"The Internet, Voice of America and their international media are used as instruments of Americanizing the world. Anybody who loves the culture of his people must resist Westernization."

"America is not God's own country; it is the devil's own country…"

Carl was looking at the faces of those who appeared on the screen speaking with hate streaked faces and wondered if all those anti-Americans were motivated by religious emotions and not their nationalistic, political or social shortcomings. He concluded within himself that these people had a talent for mixing up religion with politics and a lot of other aspects of human existence.

By the time the news was over at ten o'clock, Pamela was asleep, but Patricia was awake, listening. She was the politically minded one presently involved in politicking at her school and was a member of parliament in the student's union. She had the intention to contest for the highest office of the union and had made herself quite popular at the Catholic University of America.

"Have they started the movie?" Pamela asked, suddenly getting up from her slumber, her voice incoherent, except to Patricia who sat next to her. She always waited for the last attraction. She had a near-addiction for entertainment. Parties and discotheques fascinated her.

"It's my bedtime now," Carl said as he stood up. "I can't wait to go to bed now. I terribly need rest. Goodnight." He was already heading in the direction of the bedroom.

"Good night," his daughters responded.

Barbara got up immediately after her husband had reposed. "I won't be able to watch the movie with you," she said. "I need enough sleep if I'm to work efficiently tomorrow. Night," she offered.

"Night," her two girls responded.

"The film has not begun yet," Patricia answered her sister after the interruption by their parents. "It should be starting soon."

They had finished watching all the films they had on disks and had neglected borrowing from the video club nearby. But apart from that, they enjoyed what many other viewers were watching. It made them feel more in union with others in their new environment.

They sat up, waiting expectantly for the pastime that would take them to the usual bedtime, twelve midnight.

Carl Harvey was putting on his nightclothes when his wife walked into the bedroom. The way she walked in told Carl that she had something to say to him, the kind of discussion he called "pillow talk". He climbed into his bed and watched her put on her nightdress. A moment later she was in bed beside him.

"Tomorrow," Barbara said and that was enough; he knew all that the eighth of August every year meant to them.

It was the day they first met, the day they fell in love – or something stronger – infatuation. It was the same day they had their first kiss. And they had never regretted having their ways with each other so easily and so fast. They had almost completely abandoned their studies for a month and from that day on they seemed never to have separated from each other. The sight of one of them meant the other was no more than a yard away.

The eighth of August was a festive day for them and they celebrated it each year in its own way, but one ritual they never failed to perform was making love. They always ended the feast with impassioned and exhaustive lovemaking.

"So it is not going to be a surprise after all," Carl said. "I have plans for tomorrow."

"Then sorry for reminding you, dear," Barbara said with a smile. "But that is no excuse for you not to give me whatever it is you planned to offer me."

"Sure," Carl grabbed her and gave a smacking kiss. He felt her respond generously, expecting him to do more than that. Her right hand found its way into his nightclothes and started frisking the hair on his chest with the aim of stimulating him into action. He felt waves of excitement running down his spine; she was giving him a hardened phallus.

"But do you know what?" Carl pulled his mouth away from the kiss and watched her eyes looking at his lips longingly, and her mouth parted beseechingly.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you know the best kind of sex?"

"Tell me."

"The best king of sex is the one hunted for, anticipated before it finally comes."

"So what has that got to do with me or us now?"

"Let's save it all for tomorrow." He was deliberately going to starve her and make her really want him the next day.

"Hmh," Barbara heaved a sigh of bewilderment, but without a temper. "What's that?"

There was a growing humming sound coming from outside. It increased until it changed into a loud pattering noise.

"Rain," Carl answered.

There was a smile on Barbara's face. She pulled her hand out of her husband's clothes and regained her dignity. The rain was going to do it for her after all. She knew Carl very well; even when the weather was not cold, he always had an uncontrollable erection at precisely four o'clock in the morning, talk more of when there was rain. If he insisted on being resistant he would be the one to suffer more. She pulled the bedclothes up to her shoulders as she slid down into them. She'll wait for the best.

Carl closed his eyes but did not fall asleep immediately as he had anticipated that his tiredness would make him do. He was thinking of Barbara; she had started a fire inside him with her hand. Now he was wondering if he could keep the rules of the game he had begun. He turned to his wife, his hand going over the curves of her body.

"Barbie … Barbie," he whispered in her ear.

Barbara heard him but pretended to be sleeping.

"Barbie," Carl called a little louder.

"Yeah?" she answered in a soft lascivious voice

"Shouldn't we break the rule?"

"God, I didn't expect to win so soon," she exclaimed, turning eagerly to him and entering his arms.

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