Tinubu staggers as he navigate his way out of the toilet. Sitting on the royal looking bed, he wondered if old age could be less unkind to his waist. He could feel how stiff his waist has become. Sometimes, like this morning, his back aches, his joints feel sore and he often wonder if these health issues won’t scuttle his Presidential ambition. Despite his numerous visits to that German hospital, he is not faring better. A situation that has made him conclude that those doctors are good-for-nothing white men.
Remi walks into the room with the home-made fruit juice Tinubu had religiously ordered to be brought to his room every morning. Remi doesn’t allow the maid to enter Tinubu’s room, so she painstakingly brought him the juice everyday.
“Asiwaju, here is your juice.”
Tinubu doesn’t say anything. He’s rubbing his knee with the aboniki balm Remi bought for him -after much persuasion by her, he decided to use it. Remi drops the little tray bearing a glass cup filled with juice on the stool beside the bed. She walks round to the other side of the bed and reached for Tinubu’s phone. It’s ringing. Tinubu looks at her direction as he picks up the glass of juice beside him.
“Tell Mr. President that I’m on my way!” He snaps.
“It’s not the President.”
“Then who is calling?”
Tinubu doesn’t care much. He has not been speaking to Fashola and Buhari lately. Infact, since that small boy, Saraki, became the Senate President, he hasn’t spoken to Buhari. He blames Buhari for not doing enough to prevent Saraki’s emergence. As for Fashola, did he ever think he would become a minister? After building boreholes for that outrageous sum? Tinubu chuckles. This is his kind of game.
“Asiwaju, for our sake, please patch things up with the President.” Remi pleads with him. He nodes his head as a sign of approval.
“There is so much lemon in this juice,” he complains.
Buhari has been trying to reach Tinubu for some weeks now without success. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have bothered -people like Tinubu are those he would love to jail- but he is now a wiser politician, and so, he must embrace Tinubu. After all, he wouldn’t have won the last election without him. He had to call Remi, who later convinced Tinubu to meet him.
Buhari hates when people don’t show up early for meetings. He has been sitting in the conference room for about fiften minutes now, there is still no sign of Tinubu. He allows his thought to wander. There has been a lot of criticism against his government lately and he wonders what Femi has been doing about it. He is beginning to dislike that boy. How could he be making more enemies for him by calling people wailing wailers? Infact, he is beginning to doubt the boy’s Lagos capability -Lagos people are good image makers- and he is thinking of getting someone from Abuja if the boy doesn’t step up his game.
Finally, Tinubu saunters into the conference room. Buhari glances at his wrist watch, it’s twenty-five minutes behind schedule but he doesn’t complain.
“Ah, Asiwaju, welcome.”
“General, it’s good to see you.”
They discuss politics and lots of politics. They finally agree on how to share the remaining vacant positions. Tinubu vows not to forgive that small boy, Saraki. Buhari begs him to forget Saraki. Their meeting is finally coming to a close.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Buhari said, picking up an A4 size paper and stretches it to Tinubu. Tinubu takes it and studies it for a while. His stomach aches. He feels like taking his fruit juice. The title of the write up was “Ministerial Nominees.” A burning sensation develops in his heart -a feeling of anger. One of the names on the list reads “Babatunde Fashola!”
This is basically the work of fiction. Where it coincides with anyone living or dead, it’s mere coincidence. Follow me on Twitter @ChidiArua