A Man of the People Read online

  I wondered whether he would also quote Rider Haggard—or whoever wrote those memorable words—to Jean, but all he said was that something urgent had cropped up. Jean was naturally very disappointed. Still she agreed with her characteristic eagerness to run me home at the end of the party, or get some other guest to do so.

  The dinner would have come into the category which Mrs Nanga called “nine pence talk and three pence chop”. But the talk wasn’t bad. Jean started us all off nicely by declaring ecstatically that one of the most attractive things about Chief Nanga apart from his handsomeness was his unpredictability.

  “If you ask him if he is coming to dinner he says I will try.”

  “How sweet!” said a middle-aged woman, I think British, matching her words with a gentle sideways tilt of the head in my direction. “I just love pidgin English.”

  “I will try,” Jean continued, “can mean a whole lot of things. It may mean that he won’t come—like tonight—or that he might turn up with three other people.”

  “How intriguing,” said the other woman again. And it was only then I began to suspect she was being sarcastic.

  Apart from Jean and me there were five others in the room—the British woman and her husband, a middle-aged American Negro writing a book about our country and a white American couple.

  Dinner was rice and groundnut stew with chicken. I found it altogether too heavy for that time of day. But the sweet was very good, perhaps on account of its being new to me. I don’t remember now what they called it. As for coffee I never touch it at night, unless I have reason for wanting to keep awake. At the University we used to call it the academic nightcap.

  The talk, as I said, was very good. My closeness to the Minister gave everything I said heightened significance. And—I don’t know whether this happens to other people, but the knowledge that I am listened to attentively works in a sort of virtuous circle to improve the quality of what I say. For instance when at a certain point the conversation turned on art appreciation I made what I still think was a most valid and timely intervention.

  One of our leading artists had just made an enormous wooden figure of a god for a public square in Bori. I had not seen it yet but had read a lot about it. In fact it had attracted so much attention that it soon became fashionable to say it was bad or un-African. The Englishman was now saying that it lacked something or other.

  “I was pleased the other day,” he said, “as I drove past it to see one very old woman in uncontrollable rage shaking her fists at the sculpture . . .”

  “Now that’s very interesting,” said someone.

  “Well, it’s more than that,” said the other. “You see this old woman, quite an illiterate pagan, who most probably worshipped this very god herself; unlike our friend trained in European art schools; this old lady is in a position to know . . .”

  “Quite.”

  It was then I had my flash of insight.

  “Did you say she was shaking her fist?” I asked. “In that case you got her meaning all wrong. Shaking the fist in our society is a sign of great honour and respect; it means that you attribute power to the person or object.” Which of course is quite true. And if I may digress a little, I have, since this incident, come up against another critic who committed a crime in my view because he transferred to an alien culture the same meanings and interpretation that his own people attach to certain gestures and facial expression. This critic, a Frenchman writing in a glossy magazine on African art said of a famous religious mask from this country: “Note the half-closed eyes, sharply drawn and tense eyebrow, the ecstatic and passionate mouth . . .”

  It was simply scandalous. All that the mask said, all that it felt for mankind was a certain superb, divine detachment and disdain. If I met a woman in the street and she looked at me with the face of that mask that would be its meaning.

  But to return to the dinner party. Having demolished the art pundit I felt my reputation soar. I became more than just someone spending his holidays with the Minister of Culture. The white American couple—especially the wife—practically hung on my every word. They wanted to know whether I had trained in Britain, what I had read at the University, what I taught at the Anata Grammar School, had I been to the United States, what did I think of Americans? etc. etc.

  But the best story of that evening came from the Negro writer. He told us how a white American had once come up to his lunch table at the International Hotel which, as everyone knows, is a kind of international mart for the sale to our people of all kinds of foreign wares, from ideologies to tractors. This white American came up and said, full of respect:

  “May I join you, sir?”

  “Sure,” replied the other.

  “What do you think of the Peace Corps?”

  “I’ve nothing against it. One of my daughters is in it.”

  “You American?”

  “Sure. I came over. . . .”

  I thought this was good. I could see the other man promptly excusing himself and searching other tables for authentic Africans.

  When dinner was over the American Negro offered to drop me off and save Jean the trouble but she wouldn’t hear of it, much to my relief I must say. She said she had promised the Minister to deliver me personally safe and sound at his doorstep and in any case she wanted a bit of fresh air before turning in.

  And so the others left—almost in a bunch. “I guess we better be going,” said Jean, clasping her hands above her head and stretching.

  “But we’ve hardly said a word to each other,” I said. Jean went and put on a record, a long-play highlife and we began to dance. I must say she had learned to do the highlife well except that like many another foreign enthusiast of African rhythm she tended to overdo the waist wiggle. I don’t say I found it unpleasant—quite on the contrary; I only make a general point, which I think is interesting. It all goes back to what others have come to associate us with. And let it be said that we are not entirely blameless in this. I remember how we were outraged at the University to see a film of breast-throwing, hip-jerking, young women which a neighbouring African state had made and was showing abroad as an African ballet. Jean probably saw it in America. But whatever the case her present effort though pleasing and suitable in the circumstances was by no means good highlife which in essence might carry the same message, but not in this heavy, unsubtle, altogether unsophisticated way.

  While we danced I had a quick lesson in psychology. Apparently Jean had noticed while we talked after dinner that I was shaking my legs, which meant that I wanted so badly to go to bed with some woman.

  “Was it me or Elsie you wanted?”

  “Elsie?”

  “Yes, the American couple—Elsie Jackson.”

  “Oh, I see. No, it wasn’t her at all. Good Lord, no. It was you.” Which was true.

  Actually the leg-shaking business was entirely news to me, the interpretation of it, I mean. As far as I could remember I had always done it and when I was a little boy Mama used to rebuke me for courting epilepsy.

  I don’t remember whether we danced more than one number on the LP—I very much doubt it. What I remember clearly was the sudden ringing of the bedside telephone. If someone had tiptoed up the stairs in the dark and stuck a knife in my back it couldn’t have hit me more.

  “Don’t move,” commanded Jean, bracing me firmly from below with a surprisingly strong pair of arms. I obeyed.

  Then with me and all on her she began to wriggle on her back towards the telephone.

  She picked up the receiver and called her name. Had she just taken holy communion and been returning to her pew her manner couldn’t have appeared more calm and relaxed.

  “Hi, Elsie. . . . No, you’re welcome. . . . I’m glad you enjoyed it. I got him home all right . . . I was just getting back . . .”

  She hung up and put all her suppressed anger in calling Elsie a bitch at which
we both convulsed with laughter.

  “All she wants to know is if you’re still here.”

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “I don’t think so and don’t care.”

  Later, much later, we went down hand in hand to the kitchen for Jean to make coffee. I didn’t mind drinking it then.

  “Sex means much more to a woman than to a man,” said Jean reflectively stirring her cup.

  “Does it?”

  “Sure. It takes place inside her. The man uses a mere projection of himself.”

  “I see.”

  I wished I could tell her to stop chattering but I didn’t know her enough yet. I don’t mind people talking before or during it, but I do object most strongly to a post-mortem. One should drink coffee silently or smoke or just sit. Or if one must talk then choose some unrelated subject. I think Jean sensed my feeling; she was such a clever woman.

  It was about one-thirty when I caught her trying to suppress a yawn.

  “I think I had better be going. Sorry to take you out at this time of night.”

  “Don’t be so British,” she said almost vehemently. I wondered what was so British about what I had just said and why it should hurt her so much, but decided against pursuing the matter. As she looked for her car key she asked if I must get back right away or would I like to come with her for a short drive through the town.

  “Bori at night is simply fascinating,” she said.

  “But aren’t you tired?”

  “You bet I’m not.”

  She certainly knew the city well, from the fresh-smelling, modern water-front to the stinking, maggoty interior.

  “How long have you been in this country?” I asked in undisguised admiration.

  “Eleven months,” she said. “If you like a place it doesn’t take very long to know it.”

  We drove through wide, well-lit streets bearing the names of our well-known politicians and into obscure lanes named after some unknown small fish. Even insignificant city councillors (Jean apparently knew them all) had their little streets—I remember one called Stephen Awando Street. Going through some of these back streets would have convinced me, had I needed convincing, that the City Clerk’s notice about pails was indeed a live issue.

  I began to wonder whether Jean actually enjoyed driving through these places as she claimed she did or whether she had some secret reason, like wanting me to feel ashamed about my country’s capital city. I hardly knew her but I could see she was that kind of person, a most complicated woman.

  We were now back in the pleasant high-class area.

  “That row of ten houses belongs to the Minister of Construction,” she said. “They are let to different embassies at three thousand a year each.”

  So what, I said within myself. Your accusation may be true but you’ve no right to make it. Leave it to us and don’t contaminate our cause by espousing it.

  “But that’s another Chief Nanga Street,” I said aloud, pointing to my left.

  “No. What we saw near the fountain was Chief Nanga Avenue,” she said and we both burst out laughing, friends again. “I’m not sure there isn’t a Road as well somewhere,” she said. “I know there is a Circle.”

  Then I promptly recoiled again. Who the hell did she think she was to laugh so self-righteously. Wasn’t there more than enough in her own country to keep her laughing all her days? Or crying if she preferred it?

  “I have often wondered,” she said completely insensitive to my silent resentment, “why don’t they call some streets after the many important names in your country’s history or past events like your independence as they do in France and other countries?”

  “Because this is not France but Africa,” I said with peevish defiance. She obviously thought I was being sarcastic and laughed again. But what I had said was another way of telling her to go to hell. Now I guessed I knew why she took so much delight in driving through our slums. She must have taken hundreds of photographs already to send home to her relations. And, come to think of it, would she—lover of Africa that she was—would she be found near a black man in her own country?

  “When do you expect John back?” I asked, burning with anger.

  “Wednesday. Why?”

  “I was wondering whether I could see you again.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why not? Let me call you tomorrow?”

  6

  Anyone who has followed this story at all carefully may well be wondering what had become of the Elsie whom I said was one of my chief reasons for going to Bori. Well, that chief reason had not altered in the least. I had in fact written to her as soon as I had arrived and then paid her a visit at the hospital on the following Saturday morning. But she was still on night-duty and had been waked up from sleep—against the rules of her hospital—to see me. So that first visit had had to be very short. Actually the reason I went at all was to confirm that she was coming to the house to spend the two free days she would earn after the night-shift and that she was bringing a friend of hers along for Chief Nanga, although we did not spell it out so crudely.

  In our country a long American car driven by a white-uniformed chauffeur and flying a ministerial flag could pass through the eye of a needle. The hospital gateman had promptly levered up the iron barrier and saluted. The elderly male nurse I beckoned to had sprinted forward with an agility that you would think had left him at least a decade ago. And as I said earlier, although it was against all the laws of the hospital they had let me into the female nurses’ quarters and waked up Elsie to see me.

  Although she was obviously very drowsy her unconcealed pleasure tempted me very strongly to stay longer than was reasonable or fair. Her sleeping head-tie hooded her face almost down to the eyebrows and completely covered both ears. But despite this and the sleep-swollen eyes she was as desirable as ever. And she was ready—it was just like her—to start rushing around looking for a soft drink and biscuits for me. I refused quite firmly.

  In fact I was already on my feet when the other girl came in to greet me. She obviously did not feel as confident as Elsie about her looks and had taken time to touch up. I tried very hard but could not recollect her face at all, even though Elsie said she had introduced us at a university party. She was reasonably good-looking but in that pointed mandibular way that made me think of the talkative weaver bird. Yet she hardly said a word; and when I finally rose to go she did not even go with us to the car outside. Strangely uncurious for one of our women, I thought.

  As Elsie and I walked to the car I said humorously:

  “I hope Chief Nanga won’t ask for a swop.”

  “For what?” she asked with a puzzled look. Then it occurred to me that she might never have heard that word and so I explained, and we laughed.

  “I thought you meant the cotton-wool we use in the theatre,” she said, and we laughed again. Then she remembered to add graciously that a swop would not be necessary as her friend was the more beautiful of the two.

  “If you are looking for flattery from me this afternoon you won’t get it,” I said, stooping at the door which the chauffeur had been holding open since I first emerged from the night nurses’ dormitory.

  “By the way,” I said backing out and straightening up again, “I met an American lady called Elsie at a party the other night. . . . Whenever her name was called—my mind went to you.”

  “Who tell am say na Elsie be im name? When you see am again make you tell am say im own Elsie na counterfeit. But Odili, you self na waa! How you no even reach Bori finish you done de begin meet another Elsie for party? Make you take am je-je-o.”

  “Relax,” I said, imitating Jean. “What is wrong in telling you I met your namesake at a party?” Actually I was pleased to see Elsie jealous. I meant to go on to say, and had in fact half opened my mouth to begin saying, that she needn’t wo
rry, that the other Elsie was no patch on her. But I quickly changed my mind for tactical reasons. Instead I said that if I wanted a second girl-friend I would pick one with a different name if only to avoid confusion.

  “Na lie,” she said, smiling her seductive, two-dimpled smile. “The way I look you eye I fit say that even ten Elsies no fit belleful you.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Abi dem take Elsie make juju for me?” I asked, laughing.

  “I know?” she shrugged.

  “You suppose to know,” I said.

  The chauffeur dropped a very broad—and rude—hint at this point by shutting my door again. I chose to ignore him.

  “Wetin be the name of your friend’s car?”

  “Cadillac.”

  “Ah! This na the famous Cadillac? I no think say I done see am before.” She was full of girlish excitement. “Na tough car! Eje-je-je! You think say these people go go another heaven after this?”

  “My sister I no know-o. Any way make we follow them chop small for dis world.” I opened the door myself and went in, and she helped close it. “I’ll be here on Thursday then—at four. Run along now and sleep, darling.” I sat back with a proprietary air unusual for me. She stood waving until we disappeared round the bend.

  That Thursday evening at six the Minister was due to open the first ever book exhibition of works by local authors. I was specially interested in it because I had ambitions to write a novel about the coming of the first white men to my district.

  He came back for lunch at around two-thirty clutching the speech they had prepared for him. Apparently he had been so busy at the office that he hadn’t had time to look at it at all. So I thought he was going to sit down now and quickly run through it; but no, he put the file away on top of a book-shelf and began to ask about our trip to the hospital. I hadn’t realized till then—and perhaps Chief Nanga himself hadn’t—that he was going with me.