No Longer at Ease Read online

  When he went into the lounge Obi nearly fell over himself at the sight of Clara. She was talking to an elderly woman and a young Englishman. Obi sat with them and introduced himself. The elderly woman, whose name was Mrs. Wright, was returning to Freetown. The young man was called Macmillan, an administrative officer in Northern Nigeria. Clara introduced herself as Miss Okeke. “I think we have met before,” said Obi. Clara looked surprised and somewhat hostile. “At the N.C.N.C. dance in London.” “I see,” she said, with as much interest as if she had just been told that they were on a boat in the Liverpool Docks, and resumed her conversation with Mrs. Wright.

  The boat left the docks at 11 A.M. For the rest of the day Obi kept to himself, watching the sea or reading in his cabin. It was his first sea voyage, and he had already decided that it was infinitely better than flying.

  He woke up the following morning without any sign of the much talked about seasickness. He had a warm bath before any of the other passengers were up, and went to the rails to look at the sea. Last evening it had been so placid. Now it had become an endless waste of restless, jaggy hillocks topped with white. Obi stood at the rails for nearly an hour drinking in the unspoilt air. “They that go down to the sea in ships …” he remembered. He had very little religion nowadays, but he was nevertheless deeply moved.

  When the gong sounded for breakfast his appetite was as keen as the morning air. The seating arrangement had been fixed on the previous day. There was a big central table which seated ten, and six little two-seaters ranged round the room. Eight of the twelve passengers sat on the middle table with the captain at the head and the chief engineer at the other end. Obi sat between Macmillan and a Nigerian civil servant called Stephen Udom. Directly in front of him was Mr. Jones, who was something or other in the United Africa Company. Mr. Jones always worked solidly through four of the five heavy courses and then announced to the steward with self-righteous continence: “Just coffee,” with the emphasis on the “just.”

  In contrast to Mr. Jones, the chief engineer hardly touched his food. Watching his face, one would think they had served him portions of Epsom Salts, rhubarb, and mist. alba. He held his shoulders up, his arms pressed against his sides as though he was in constant fear of evacuating.

  Clara sat on Mr. Jones’s left, but Obi studiously refused to look in her direction. She was talking with an Education Officer from Ibadan who was explaining to her the difference between language and dialect.

  At first the Bay of Biscay was very calm and collected. The boat was now heading towards a horizon where the sky was light, seeming to hold out a vague promise of sunshine. The sea’s circumference was no longer merged with the sky, but stood out in deep clear contrast like a giant tarmac from which God’s aeroplane might take off. Then as evening approached, the peace and smoothness vanished quite suddenly. The sea’s face was contorted with anger. Obi felt slightly dizzy and top-heavy. When he went down for supper he merely looked at his food. One or two passengers were not there at all. The others ate almost in silence.

  Obi returned to his cabin and was going straight to bed when someone tapped at his door. He opened and it was Clara.

  “I noticed you were not looking very well,” she said in Ibo, “so I brought you some tablets of Avomine.” She gave him an envelope with half a dozen white tablets in it. “Take two before you go to bed.”

  “Thank you very much. It’s so kind of you.” Obi was completely overwhelmed and all the coldness and indifference he had rehearsed deserted him. “But,” he stammered, “am I not depriving you of er …”

  “Oh, no. I’ve got enough for all the passengers, that’s the advantage of having a nurse on board.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve just given some to Mrs. Wright and Mr. Macmillan. Good night, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  All night Obi rolled from one edge of the bed to the other in sympathy with the fitful progress of the little ship groaning and creaking in the darkness. He could neither sleep nor keep awake. But somehow he was able to think about Clara most of the night, a few seconds at a time. He had taken a firm decision not to show any interest in her. And yet when he had opened the door and seen her, his joy and confusion must have been very plain. And she had treated him just like another patient. “I have enough for all the passengers,” she had said. “I gave some to Mr. Macmillan and Mrs. Wright.” But then she had spoken in Ibo, for the first time, as if to say, “We belong together: we speak the same language.” And she had appeared to show some concern.

  He was up very early next morning, feeling a little better but not yet really well. The crew had already washed the deck and he almost slipped on the wet wood. He took up his favorite position at the rails. Then he heard a woman’s light footsteps, turned round, and saw it was Clara.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling broadly.

  “Good morning,” she said, and made to pass.

  “Thank you for the tablets,” he said in Ibo.

  “Did they make you feel better?” she asked in English.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I am glad,” she said, and passed.

  Obi leaned again on the rail to watch the restless sea, which now looked like a wilderness, rock-sharp, angular and mobile. For the first time since they had left Liverpool, the sea became really blue; a plumbless blue set off by the gleaming white tops of countless wavelets clashing and breaking against each other. He heard someone treading heavily and briskly and then fall. It was Macmillan.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” the other said, laughing foolishly and dusting the wet seat of his trousers.

  “I very nearly fell myself,” said Obi.

  “Look out, Miss Okeke,” said Macmillan as Clara came round again. “The deck is very treacherous and I’ve just fallen.” He was still dusting his wet seat.

  “The captain said we will reach an island tomorrow,” said Clara.

  “Yes, the Madeiras,” said Macmillan. “Tomorrow evening, I think.”

  “And about time, too,” said Obi.

  “Don’t you like the sea?”

  “Yes, but after five days I want a change.” Obi Okonkwo and John Macmillan suddenly became friends—from the minute Macmillan fell on the wet deck. They were soon playing ping-pong together and standing each other drinks.

  “What will you have, Mr. Okonkwo?” asked Macmillan.

  “Beer, please. It’s getting rather warm.” He drew his thumb across his face and flicked the sweat away.

  “Isn’t it?” said Macmillan, blowing into his chest. “What’s your first name, by the way? Mine’s John.”

  “Obi is mine.”

  “Obi, that’s a fine name. What does it mean? I’m told that all African names mean something.”

  “Well, I don’t know about African names—Ibo names, yes. They are often long sentences. Like that prophet in the Bible who called his son The Remnant Shall Return.”

  “What did you read in London?”

  “English. Why?”

  “Oh, I just wondered. And how old are you? Excuse my being so inquisitive.”

  “Twenty-five,” said Obi. “And you?”

  “Now that’s strange, because I’m twenty-five. How old do you think Miss Okeke is?”

  “Women and music should not be dated,” Obi said, smiling. “I should say about twenty-three.”

  “She is very beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes, she is indeed.”

  The Madeiras were now quite close; two hours or so, someone said. Everyone was at the rails standing one another drinks. Mr. Jones suddenly became poetic. “Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink,” he intoned. Then he became prosaic. “What a waste of water!” he said.

  It struck Obi suddenly that it was true. What a waste of water. A microscopic fraction of the Atlantic would turn the Sahara into a flourishing grassland. So much for the best of all possible worlds. Excess here and nothing at all there.

  The ship anchored at Fu
nchal at sunset. A tiny boat came alongside with a young man at the oars and two boys in it. The younger could not have been more than ten; the other was perhaps two years older. They wanted to dive for money. Immediately the coins were flying into the sea from the high deck. The boys picked up every one of them. Stephen Udom threw a penny. They did not move; they did not dive for pennies, they said. Everyone laughed.

  As the sun set, the rugged hills of Funchal and the green trees and the houses with their white walls and red tiles looked like an enchanted isle. As soon as dinner was over Macmillan, Obi and Clara went ashore together. They walked on cobbled streets, past quaint cars in the taxi rank. They passed two oxen pulling a cart which was just a flat board on wheels with a man and a sack of something in it. They went into little gardens and parks.

  “It’s a garden city!” said Clara.

  After about an hour they came round to the waterfront again. They sat under a huge red and green umbrella and ordered coffee and wine. A man came round and sold them postcards and then sat down to tell them about Madeira wine. He had very few English words, but he left no one in doubt as to what he meant.

  “Las Palmas wine and Italian wine pure water. Madeira wine, two eyes, four eyes.” They laughed and he laughed. Then he sold Macmillan tawdry trinkets which everyone knew would tarnish before they got back to their ship.

  “Your girl friend won’t like it, Mr. Macmillan,” said Clara.

  “It’s for my steward’s wife,” he explained. And then he added: “I hate to be called Mr. Macmillan. It makes me feel so old.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s John, isn’t it? And you are Obi. I am Clara.”

  At ten they rose to go because their ship would sail at eleven, or so the captain said. Macmillan discovered he still had some Portuguese coins and ordered another glass of wine, which he shared with Obi. Then they went back to the ship, Macmillan holding Clara’s right hand and Obi her left.

  The other passengers had not returned and the ship looked deserted. They leaned on the rail and spoke about Funchal. Then Macmillan said he had an important letter to write home. “See you in the morning,” he said.

  “I think I should write letters, too,” said Clara.

  “To England?” asked Obi.

  “No, to Nigeria.”

  “There’s no hurry,” he said, “you can’t post Nigerian letters until you get to Freetown. That’s what they said.”

  They heard Macmillan bang his cabin door. Their eyes met for a second, and without another word Obi took her in his arms. She was trembling as he kissed her over and over again.

  “Leave me,” she whispered.

  “I love you.”

  She was silent for a while, seeming to melt in his arms.

  “You don’t,” she said suddenly. “We’re only being silly. You’ll forget it in the morning.” She looked at him and then kissed him violently. “I know I’ll hate myself in the morning. You don’t—Leave me, there’s someone coming.”

  It was Mrs. Wright, the African lady from Freetown.

  “Have you come back?” she asked. “Where are the others? I have not been able to sleep.” She had indigestion, she said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unlike mail boats, which docked at the Lagos wharf on fixed days of the week, cargo boats were most unpredictable. So when the MV Sasa arrived, there were no friends waiting at the Atlantic Terminal for her passengers. On mail boat days the beautiful and airy waiting room would be full of gaily dressed friends and relations waiting for the arrival of a boat and drinking iced beer and Coca-Cola or eating buns. Sometimes you found a little group waiting sadly and silently. In such cases you could bet that their son had married a white woman in England.

  There was no such crowd for the MV Sasa, and it was quite clear that Mr. Stephen Udom was deeply disappointed. As soon as Lagos had been sighted he had returned to his cabin to emerge half an hour later in a black suit, bowler hat, and rolled umbrella, even though it was a hot October day.

  Customs formalities here took thrice as long as at Liverpool and five times as many officials. A young man, almost a boy in fact, was dealing with Obi’s cabin. He told him that the duty on his radiogram would be five pounds.

  “Right,” said Obi, feeling his hip pockets. “Write a receipt for me.” The boy did not write. He looked at Obi for a few seconds, and then said: “I can be able to reduce it to two pounds for you.”

  “How?” asked Obi.

  “I fit do it, but you no go get Government receipt.”

  For a few seconds Obi was speechless. Then he merely said: “Don’t be silly. If there was a policeman here I would hand you over to him.” The boy fled from his cabin without another word. Obi found him later attending other passengers.

  “Dear old Nigeria,” he said to himself as he waited for another official to come to his cabin. In the end one came when all the other passengers had been attended to.

  If Obi had returned by mail boat, the Umuofia Progressive Union (Lagos Branch) would have given him a royal welcome at the harbor. Anyhow, it was decided at their meeting that a big reception should be arranged to which press reporters and photographers should be invited. An invitation was also sent to the Nigerian Broadcasting Service to cover the occasion and to record the Umuofia Ladies’ Vocal Orchestra, which had been learning a number of new songs.

  The reception took place on Saturday afternoon at 4 P.M. on Moloney Street, where the President had two rooms.

  Everybody was properly dressed in aghada or European suit except the guest of honor, who appeared in his shirtsleeves because of the heat. That was Obi’s mistake Number One. Everybody expected a young man from England to be impressively turned out.

  After prayers the Secretary of the Union read the Welcome Address. He rose, cleared his throat, and began to intone from an enormous sheet of paper.

  “Welcome Address presented to Michael Obi Okonkwo, B.A. (Hons), London, by the officers and members of the Umuofia Progressive Union on the occasion of his return from the United Kingdom in quest of the Golden Fleece.

  “Sir, we the officers and members of the above-named Union present with humility and gratitude this token of our appreciation of your unprecedented academic brilliance.…”

  He spoke of the great honor Obi had brought to the ancient town of Umuofia, which could now join the comity of other towns in their march towards political irredentism, social equality, and economic emancipation.

  “The importance of having one of our sons in the vanguard of this march of progress is nothing short of axiomatic. Our people have a saying ‘Ours is ours, but mine is mine.’ Every town and village struggles at this momentous epoch in our political evolution to possess that of which it can say: ‘This is mine.’ We are happy that today we have such an invaluable possession in the person of our illustrious son and guest of honor.”

  He traced the history of the Umuofia Scholarship Scheme, which had made it possible for Obi to study overseas, and called it an investment which must yield heavy dividends. He then referred (quite obliquely, of course) to the arrangement whereby the beneficiary from this scheme was expected to repay his debt over four years so that “an endless stream of students will be enabled to drink deep at the Pierian Spring of knowledge.”

  Needless to say, this address was repeatedly interrupted by cheers and the clapping of hands. What a sharp young man their secretary was, all said. He deserved to go to England himself. He wrote the kind of English they admired if not understood: the kind that filled the mouth, like the proverbial dry meat.

  Obi’s English, on the other hand, was most unimpressive. He spoke “is” and “was.” He told them about the value of education. “Education for service, not for white-collar jobs and comfortable salaries. With our great country on the threshold of independence, we need men who are prepared to serve her well and truly.”

  When he sat down the audience clapped from politeness. Mistake Number Two.

  Cold beer, minerals, palm-wine, and biscuits wer
e then served, and the women began to sing about Umuofia and about Obi Okonkwo nwa jelu oyibo—Obi who had been to the land of the whites. The refrain said over and over again that the power of the leopard resided in its claws.

  “Have they given you a job yet?” the chairman asked Obi over the music. In Nigeria the government was “they.” It had nothing to do with you or me. It was an alien institution and people’s business was to get as much from it as they could without getting into trouble.

  “Not yet. I’m attending an interview on Monday.”

  “Of course those of you who know book will not have any difficulty,” said the Vice-President on Obi’s left. “Otherwise I would have suggested seeing some of the men beforehand.”

  “It would not be necessary,” said the President, “since they would be mostly white men.”

  “You think white men don’t eat bribe? Come to our department. They eat more than black men nowadays.”

  After the reception Joseph took Obi to have dinner at the “Palm Grove.” It was a neat little place, not very popular on Saturday nights, when Lagosians wanted a more robust kind of enjoyment. There were a handful of people in the lounge—a dozen or so Europeans and three Africans.

  “Who owns this place?”

  “I think a Syrian. They own everything in Lagos,” said Joseph.

  They sat at one of the empty tables at the corner and then noticed that they were directly under a ceiling fan and moved to another table. Soft light came from large globes around which insects danced furiously. Perhaps they did not notice that each globe carried a large number of bodies which, like themselves, had danced once upon a time. Or if they noticed, they did not care.

  “Service!” called Joseph importantly, and a steward appeared in white tunic and trousers, a red cummerbund and red fez. “What will you have?” he asked Obi. The steward bent forward waiting.

  “Really, I don’t think I want to drink anything more.”

  “Nonsense. The day is still young. Have a cold beer.”