The Governor of the Northern Province
PRAISE FOR RANDY BOYAGODA’S
GOVERNOR OF THE NORTHERN PROVINCE
Nominated for the 2006 Scotiabank Giller Prize
“[A] scathing portrayal of Canadian smugness and naïveté; brilliantly funny and meant to sting … Boyagoda’s language is colourful and alliterative, and his long sentences often dance with a storyteller’s rhythm. The characters and their interactions are vividly depicted with choice details … This is a sharply intelligent novel, both entertaining and disquieting. It tells us a lot about ourselves, more than we might want to know.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
“Randy Boyagoda’s Governor of the Northern Province is that rarity: a very funny Canadian novel. Boyagoda takes a satirical machete to contemporary Canadian society and politics in his fearless debut.”
—Nick Pashley in Quill & Quire’s Best of 2006 issue
“Boyagoda moves between past and present; each juxtaposition between African atrocity and the cud-chewing Canadian provincials arrives as a giddy jolt … Boyagoda faces up to atrocity through savage comedy … Boyagoda’s prose is exhilarating to read in hummingbird bursts; each paragraph flashes with inventive scorn.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Nice liberal Canada skewered for dinner: A T.O. smartypants creates a war criminal to send up smug Canuck hypocrisy and gets a Giller Prize nod for his trouble … [A] boisterously irreverent first novel … Boyagoda zeroes in on various targets without slackening pace: colonialism, foreign aid, Anglo reserve and the exalted status of hockey all take stinging hits.”
—Toronto Star
“An auspicious debut.”
—National Post
“There is real bravery in approaching such dark, emotionally charged subject matter with humour … Very funny … the book shines with artistic certainty … Boyagoda is to be commended for raising difficult issues and tackling them in such a wonderfully ambitious manner. Governor of the Northern Province is a worthwhile addition to the literature of political absurdity.”
—Literary Review of Canada
“Like any accomplished satirist, Boyagoda has a great time with language … His evocations of human beings … are completely vivid, full of humour, insight and compassion. Boyagoda really is one of those writers who makes you laugh and cry at the same time.”
—The Gazette (Montreal)
“A chilling and very funny satire on politics, Canada and—for that matter—human nature … Mordecai Richler was one of a kind, a composer of often outrageous satires that barbequed most of the sacred cows in our midst, and his death appeared to mark the end of that sort of writing in this country. Not so fast, Randy Boyagoda seems to be saying. I liked this book a lot.”
—The University of Toronto Bookstore Review
“Richler’s successor?”
—Embassy
“In Boyagoda’s hands literary satire isn’t dead; it just might have a fighting chance.”
—Torontoist.com
“Scathing and unpredictable, Governor of the Northern Province is a novel of considerable accomplishment; Randy Boyagoda’s merciless prose marks him as a talent to watch.”
—Trevor Cole, author of The Fearsome Particles
and Norman Bray in the Performance of His Life
PENGUIN CANADA
GOVERNOR OF THE NORTHERN PROVINCE
RANDY BOYAGODA is a professor of literature at Ryerson University. He has written for Harper’s, The New York Times, The Walrus and The Globe and Mail, and he is a frequent guest on CBC Radio.
GOVERNOR
OF THE
NORTHERN
PROVINCE
a novel
RANDY BOYAGODA
Thank you to Ellen Schlosser, Ken Alexander, Bruce Westwood,
David Davidar and Nicole Winstanley. —RB
PENGUIN CANADA
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),
a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2006
Published in this edition, 2007
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)
Copyright © Randy Boyagoda, 2006
Author representation: Westwood Creative Artists
94 Harbord Street, Toronto, Ontario M5S 1G6
“Water Spider,” the first chapter of this novel, originally appeared in The Walrus magazine.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in Canada.
* * *
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Boyagoda, Randy, 1976–
Governor of the Northern Province : a novel / Randy Boyagoda.
ISBN 978-0-14-305092-6
I. Title.
PS8603.O9768G69 2007 C813’.6 C2007-904895-1
* * *
ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305092-6
ISBN-10: 0-14-305092-3
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For Anna and Mira,
the grace and wonder of my life
Anything—anything can be done in this country. That’s what I say; nobody, here, you understand, here, can endanger your position. And why?
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
The measure you give will be the measure you get back.
—Luke 6:38
1
WATER SPIDER
I.
He laughed at what passed for tragedy in his new country. Last week, the body of a little girl was found pressed against a sewer grate. She had been catching water spiders on a creek swollen by the spring thaw. A floating barrette alerted a m
an walking his dog.
Little Caitlin. In the newspapers at the convenience store where he currently worked, and on the televisions at the laundromat where he attempted to wash his new clothes, and during the elevator chatter at the apartment where he now lived, so high above the earth. Little Caitlin. She was everywhere, as was talk of public safety committees and the need for a protective barrier around the creek when it rose too high. Bokarie would attend the memorial service planned for that Sunday, intent upon fitting in but also a little curious. His manager told him that hundreds were expected, perhaps even a thousand. Each had been asked to wear something pink. That was Little Caitlin’s colour. If the petition circulating was successful, the town crest would gain a sash, in loving memory.
His old country occupied a corner of the Friday newspaper’s front page. Sopping with sweat, Bokarie carried in the stack at the start of his morning shift. It was April northwest of Ottawa, but he remained suspicious of Canadian sunlight. Because his back and shoulder muscles were still in scar tissue atrophy (an unexpected help during his asylum hearing) he stooped over and twined his arms around the bundle to pick it up. Hunched, he shimmied through the door. His wet cheek pressed against the topmost paper, smearing across a thumbnail picture of his old leader, the General. Peeling away the damp smudge, he saw the dark sunglasses and the counterfeit medals and the smart beret that, he had been taught, displayed the elegant monstrosity of blood-and-coin patriotism. The General was smiling. He might have been on his way to prison for crimes against the People, or to the People’s Palace for finally disposing of the President. Bokarie did not turn to page A-20 to find out, just as he switched the radio dial to music whenever he heard “According to UN monitors, the situation in west central Africa today became …”
This was the gift of immigration. The past, even if it never became past, remained over there. He was happier this way, safer, over here. He understood that the General, whether as convict or President, had to blame him for what were now known as the Upriver Massacres, even if they happened under his orders, because Bokarie escaped. INTERPOL, RCMP, FBI—they might be searching for him already, depending on what deals had been struck. He dragged cinder blocks against his apartment door each night.
He was not angry with the General for his betrayal, or for trying to have him killed, or even for the men he bribed to do it. This was the way in their country.
The scorpion got across the river on a turtle’s back and stung it just before the shore. A fish swallowed the scorpion. If the fish didn’t choke on the stinger, if the fish wasn’t speared, if the fish swam hard enough, sometimes it reached clearer waters. Then a bird swooped down.
A woman walked into his store just as he finished stacking the papers. Her eyes, he thought, were like this country. Big and empty. She had a kerchief tied around a sweep of straw-coloured hair. Buttons sprayed with slogans and symbols fanned out across her wide skirt. She wore the indignantly pink T-shirt that he often saw these days on the bus and at the supermarket. She was holding a pink box shaped like a dollhouse. Her lips pursed. She was about to make a speech. He knew this. He had made speeches in his old country. Oh, such speeches.
There will always be growing pains when a great nation is reborn! If a few sandals fall into the fire, or a little woman blood mixes into the ashes, what great loss is this? My brothers, it is no loss. My own mother, my own woman, my own child—they have fled, have starved, have been killed in the first wars of the new history, after the British and the French and the Germans left us to fight amongst ourselves for the right to tend our own fires. Meanwhile, the tribes Upriver have guns and electric and water and maize. They have as many goats in their fields as we have vultures above our huts. Do you wonder why? They worship the swine that squeals in the capital city, our self-appointed President-for-life, who sells our wives and daughters to Nike Red Cross U.S. of A. Who protects the Upriver villagers and fills their troughs because they are all of that snub-nosed, mongrel tribe.
There is one man who can put an end to this. The General. And he has told me that only the eldest and purest people of our beloved homeland can help him cleanse what has been soiled. This is why he has asked us to reclaim our ancient lands as part of his National Restitution Campaign. This is why we must crush the chirping locusts that sing of the President’s greatness and slaughter the dancing baboons that step to his orders. This is why we will at last greet rosy pink morning from the moist earth that your fathers’ fathers left to you. Brothers! When they desire mercy, you shall make of them a sacrifice! For our sons, for our General, for our nation!
Bokarie remembered his speeches while adding cherry syrup to the Slushie machine. In his new country, he picked out scratch cards for old ladies. They treated him with pity and fear and kindness and curiosity. They gave him zoological stares. He answered their question each time with a different country. This was for practical reasons, though it was also a satisfying entertainment. Yes, I am from Haiti. Indeed, I was in Rwanda. Madam, you can tell that I lived in Sierra Leone. In truth, I did flee the Congo. He confirmed their vaguely Christian, blandly Canadian sympathies. The civil war was even worse than what is shown on television here. The earthquakes swallowed my home and family. When the Americans came in their tanks looking for more oil, we had to flee from their boasts of freedom.
II.
Her lips opened.
“Good morning. Will you put this on your counter? It’s a donation box for the Little Caitlin Fund. This is my charity certification card. It says my name is Jennifer. If you agree, this establishment will be added to a growing list of local business sponsors. I will give you one of these official ribbons. Little Caitlin’s family and friends will be very appreciative. We need all the help we can get to raise awareness. I’m honoured to be in charge of the community’s response to this tragedy. I recently quit my job in the field of human resources management to devote myself fully to making sure Little Caitlin is never forgotten and her tragedy never repeated. The government has recognized my efforts with monthly support. Will you join me, join us?” He responded to her slow loud words with the pidgin English he had practised with a friend in the oil tanker’s hold while heaving across the Atlantic. Towards this little pageant of Canada, convenience stores, and Caitlin.
“Thank you. It is much worthy cause. You show courage in giving yourself to it, and your government is very kind to you. I know this truth. In my old country, the heavy rains and the heavy boots bring much death to our children.”
The woman tilted her head, thoughtful like a dog hearing a new sound.
“Oh, you poor man. So you must know what’s it like to lose a loved one. And to come to your new country to escape such things and find them here too. Little Caitlin isn’t the only one, but with your support, we can help make sure she’s the last.”
“Yes. But I must ask manager if allowed to put box here. I like much the pink ribbon. Is it okay, you give? Where I come from, pink means the colour of the dawn.”
Her fingers pressed against the walls of the dollhouse, her mouth turning with impatience, forethought.
“Such eloquence! You’re probably one of those brilliant foreign intellectual types who can’t get a job when you come over, so you get stuck doing this kind of stuff. Last week I was in Ottawa, visiting the Parliament Buildings. I do that now and then. I was late to catch the bus back to town and needed a ride—”
“Ottawa?” he interrupted, eyes mooning extravagantly.
“Yes, that’s the capital.”
He nodded and smiled for her to say more.
“Anyway, my taxi driver was from Bangladesh. He said he was a doctor. You should do ESL at night school. It’s funded. You just need to believe in yourself. Like Little Caitlin did. How about the box?”
“Ottawa is the capital.”
“Yes, it is. You should probably visit it at some point. Next time I’m going, I could let you know. But I don’t plan to go there until enough awareness has been raised around here of what Little
Caitlin means to all of us. So, the box?”
“I ask boss man. My ribbon?”
“Sign this petition. And come to Centennial Park this Sunday for the memorial rally. I’ll look for you there. How come you’re still wearing your parka?”
III.
Bokarie would send his young and hungry men off to each raid with a speech given from the flatbed of a derelict aid truck and later arrive to crunch an elder’s jaw plate against a gutter or to shoot a lingering dog. To proclaim victory. He would inspect remnants of the burnt-out villages reinvented as cities of the new nation, dividing the charred land into lots for squadron leaders baptized as local constables. On the General’s behalf and in the name of peace, he attended muggy prayer vigils for the souls of the dead travelling to the cool gardens of the afterlife. The Promised Land. He would spindle his copper-wire arms around the shuddering survivors in sympathy, those who had had enough time to flee into the brush when they heard the rebel anthems sounding up the road. Husbands and mothers and wives and fathers, they had no choice but to accept his comfort though they knew who and what Bokarie was. The terror of possibilities blunted their knowledge of his crimes.
After each visit, he would report to the General. They spoke by satellite phone to make plans for the next incursion. He would receive instructions and then a reminder of how he had been raised up, how his help was needed to bring order to their nation. Mention would be made as well of future rewards. Bokarie would then return to the corrugated shed where he lived with two brothers and a cousin. He had promised each of them a village, a television with DVD, and local virgins, once the General named him governor of the northern province.
But men’s plans are in agreement for the space between a butterfly’s wings, or, as in his old country, the span of a razor blade. His militia was only awaiting a final order, poised southeast for its triumphant entry into the capital city. He imagined that the General would greet him personally, that he might even be asked to address the National Assembly, but by the time Bokarie took the last village, bones and rumours of the first raid had reached the demilitarized zone and the foreign press pool. Soon, donor nations were murmuring. In the light-bulb cafés and at the dust-whorled checkpoints, strange words began squawking out of the transistors. Power-sharing and reconciliation and sanctions and multilateral intervention. Suddenly the General was on CNN embracing the President. A smiling American peacebroker was standing behind them, his hands pink meaty grips on their shoulders. When the General stepped forward and addressed the nation, his tongue was hot and sharp with the language of the new world politics.