Targeted

I didn’t know how to reason with them. They had never invested in an election before. They didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps they had thought they would see a giant rally on the back of a truck with LED screens flashing and megaphones blasting. That hadn’t been part of the team’s plan. Measuring the impact of elections work is a complicated task, and, having been a part of the company for just over a month, I couldn’t explain to them right then and there why everything SCL had done wasn’t more obvious to the naked eye. The fruits of SCL’s labors might be borne out only on Election Day in March, and they needed to be patient.

But they wouldn’t listen to me. It wasn’t just that I was young; it was also that I was a woman. This attitude was eminently clear, and made me incredibly uncomfortable. It even began to feel threatening. These were powerful, wealthy men, the kind who thought nothing of filling a jet with naira, the Nigerian currency. What might they be capable of if they were unhappy with how that money had been spent?

When I put them on a conference call with Alexander, they were calmer, and much more respectful. They didn’t yell, but they weren’t assuaged. Yet Alexander seemed oblivious to how serious the situation was.

I arranged for John Jones to come over and visit with them. Perhaps they could find a way of working together. We discussed strategies for showing up Buhari in the press and making his alleged war crimes known, but when I left the Nigerians with him to head back to our apartment, I had the sinking feeling that there would be no second contract after February 14. The Nigerians hadn’t said as much, but the way they’d treated me was demeaning. How could I possibly return to them and close another contract? Things were trending in a bad direction, and even worse, while taking care of them, I’d had no time even to pursue any SCL leads, so the trip would not even result in new business.

As if all that weren’t bad enough, that morning the website Business Insider published a story about the evening before: “Davos Party Shut Down After Bartenders Blow Through Enough Booze for Two Nights,” the headline read.8

When the phone rang, it was Alexander. Maybe he had seen the article. Even if my name wasn’t in it, it could look bad for SCL. Maybe the Nigerians had called to give him a piece of their minds.

But he was buoyant. Neither had happened, it seemed.

“Brittany,” he said. “Davos was wonderful. Thanks to you and Chester for the excellent hosting! I’m calling to let you know that I’m offering you a permanent position with SCL that you’ve been waiting for!” he said, likely winking on the other end of the phone. “No more consulting. You’ll be a full member of the team.”

There’d be a bonus, he added: ten thousand dollars more per year; a regular salary, benefits; a company credit card. I could pursue the types of projects I liked, as long as they brought in the same kind of money as the Nigerian campaign. It was a high bar, but it had been an auspicious start.

Welcome aboard, he said.

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