The sound of the surf rolling against the rocky shore and the cry of the terns overhead filtered through the open windows of the Great Hall of To’atep Village. Sunbeams streamed through the window, casting long rays across the polished wooden planks and woven rugs of the floor, across the great painted shields hanging from the walls in places. The decor would have appealed to Lani any other day.
Today she’d looked at it a thousand times from her seat in a small basket chair well behind the three concentric rings of similar chairs arranged around the circular fire bowl perched at the centre of the room. More than a thousand. After repeated viewings, it was still more interesting than the actual meeting unfolding before her over the past four and a half hours, with countless more to come.
That wasn’t saying much.
“I see no compelling reason to go forward with building a water treatment on Taraba,” slurred an elderly man with whispy silver hair drawn back into a short ponytail, standing and wagging a bony finger at the other couple hundred old men arranged around the circle. Lani couldn’t put a name to the face - she’d long since lost track of the names of most of the men on the Council of Councils. “Obviously such a facility needs to go somewhere where there will be no impact on the environment,” the councillor continued before clasping his hands together. “Now, if the council will consider a small facility on the islet of Oalan Tepu…”
Of course, Lani realized, lowering her eyelids a little with consternation across the clear amber-brown of her eyes. Another council member from Oalan’a playing politics with anything remotely like progress. Whittling everything down to halfway measures and trying to move even those close to home.
Another reedy old man rose waveringly from his seat, jabbing a finger. “You would seek to build more technology,” he accused with a rasp. “Our islands have sustained us since the dawn of time. We should trust in the spirits of the land to sustain our people. This project is unnecessary.”
“The councilman is right,” cried another old fossil of a representative from a rear row. “Why do we need to stain our land with technology, anyway?!”
Lani’s thoughts immediately leapt to the answer - Because, you wrinkled cretin, there weren’t two million people living on a string of small islands at the dawn of time. Now there are, and they need fresh water without draining the lakes in the process. If you don’t do this, you’ll lose the lakes and condemn our people to drought. She held her tongue, suppressing a hot, bitter surge of frustration in the back of her throat. The Speaker of the Council, ironically, had no right to speak at these Council of Councils meetings - only to convey the decisions of the Council if needed. Being an elaborate public relations spokesperson rankled her.
The young woman, sleek-figured and buxom, reached up to brush the single microbraid woven into her shoulder-length chestnut hair away from a tanned cheek. She suppressed the urge to sigh as she crossed her arms under her chest again and reclined deeply in her chair as the councillors continued to bicker back and forth before her.
I wish I knew which spirits I offended in a past life, she reflected to herself as the argument played on. I’m 25 and in the prime of my life, and I’m wasting it in this fake position of power listening to a bunch of old naked men talk themselves in tight circles without ever deciding anything.
She looked up with a small sigh, pretending to focus on the argument, letting the minutes blur together before finally, the short, long-bearded old man standing before a small pedestal picked up a conch shell, rapping it on the table to signal for order. “The speakers are out of order,” wheezed the Convener of the Council. “I rescind your time for the moment, Councillor Tepo. Councillor Jamun to speak. Please, I would appreciate it if you would try to address Council through the chair this time.”
Typical of old man Ruwan, Lani reflected - always too slow to rein in what he considered a fair exchange of valid opinions but what was actually a parochial, backwards bunfight between crusty old men dragging their petty village issues into federal politics.
Such as federal politics were in Wanamon.
It was far from the first time Lani had harboured bitter thoughts about the Council of Councils. Now, as the next handpicked old man rose from his bench to bloviate about some parochial local issue nobody except the people in his village cared about, the young government spokeswoman crossed her legs and folded her hands over her bare midriff, pretending to listen, but in fact lost in thought.
This country is going to be the laughingstock of the international community, she reflected, not for the first time. This isn’t a government. It’s a group of wrinkled old jesters who can’t see past their own villages. If we’re going to be a country, someone needs to run it like they care. Someone needs to get us modern. Someone needs to fix this country.
Another idea clicked in the back of her mind - I need to fix this country.
The thought startled Lani enough that she blinked a couple of times. Immediately she dismissed the notion.
Then she doubled back and, warily, picked it up again.