SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part II/WORK IN PROGRESS}

TROMBONE *12*

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

The office of the PARROT, Canaan city's one and only tabloid, is a beehive of activity. The time is 10:00 am; the world trade center's twin towers have just been hit by planes hijacked by terrorists, it has collapsed into a pile of burning rabble, the pentagon has also been hit, America is under attack. TV stations are all tuned to CNN, Aljazeera and BBC World News; a bevy of crisis analysts are already pointing fingers and some rather closer to home, while the death toll continues to rise in what is fast becoming the most unprecedented hostile attack on the United States of America.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" shouts the Chief Executive Director, who is also the Editor-in-Chief, Nicholas Trombone. His four Senior Deputies stare at him with dazed expressions, (didn't he understand it! 'World War III' might likely commence: an outstanding member of the G8 has just been punched in the gut, and nobody can say for sure who the opponent is! This was the U.S. of A they were talking about here; the United Nuclear Power States of America, the people with all the dollars, the mighty sons of Anak! The numero uno in the world's administrative hierarchy! Attacked with- there is no other word to describe it -IMPUNITY!)

Trombone roars, "I don't want you to be in shock, it won't sell the paper, do you get it?" it takes them about five seconds to get it.

Mrs. Ibrahim stammers, "The next issue's p-publication is scheduled for the 18th o-of S-September--"

"No, part B is scheduled for the 18th, part A is coming out tomorrow morning, and we're compiling that this afternoon! Right now-"

They bustle out of his oval office, almost tripping over themselves. He's like a Biafra Brigadier General sending his troops out to war, even following them into the common hall, his voice clearly heard above the tapping of keyboards and incessant phone calls, "I want fiction, facts, pictures," he points to the researchers surfing the net at a corner, "and Internet phone conferences with our colleagues in Washington DC." He advances the first row of leather chairs and steel rod tables, "Listen up guys; I want hotel reservations at the Waldorf Astoria, for our field agents, in thirty minutes."

The common hall literally bubbles with energy.

Suddenly the place seems smaller, hotter. He loosens the dollar sign spangled tie cuffing his neck and strains to see through the throng of reporters moving around him, "Somebody should get me Virgin Nigeria on the phone, as well as the American Embassy! It's a Special Report, so we're getting interviews with prominent key witnesses and nothing less!" his gaze zeroes in on a hunchback at the end of the room about to hobble out the back door, "Idongesit...!"

The hunchback jumps, caught in the act, "Yes sir!"

Any other day, Trombone would have berated him.

After all, lunch break is still three hours away, but there is too much to say with very little time, so he skips the lecture and holds up his fingers one by one, "I want to know how many Nigerians work in the World Trade Center, herein after referred to as the WTC, and also the number of Nigerians inside the WTC when that plane hit, finally, how many Nigerians are reported dead or missing in the WTC today, within the hour. What am I saying?"

The hunchback gulps,

"You want the PARROT on top of the action."

"-like vultures circling a fresh carcass!" he spots a tall young man stepping out of his Project Director's office, with bright red lipstick on his white shirt collar, "Usoro...!"

The young man looks up, his glasses falling from his nose and his tie askew, "Yes sir!"

"What's the Marketing department doing about this?"