More Modern African Stories

�

FONTANA

Fontana African Novels Modern African Stories Many Thing Begin for Change Many Thing You No Understand More Voices of Africa Voices of Africa The Radiance of the King A Dream of Africa The African Child Danda The Gab Boys The Naked Gods The Potter's Wheel Toads for Supper The Wanderers The Interpreters The Voice

Charles R. Larson (Ed.) Adaora Lily U1asi Adaora Lily Ulasi Barbara Nolen (Ed.) Barbara Nolen (Ed) Camara Laye Camara Laye Camara Laye Nkem Nwankwo Cameron Duodu Chukwuemeka Ike Chukwuemeka Ike Chukwuemeka fke Ezekiel Mphahlele Wole Soyinka Gabriel Okara

More Modern African Stories A Collection of Contemporary African Writing Edited and with an Introduction by

Charles R. Larson

Fontana/ Collins

For H. D. O. Chiwuzie

Contents

Introduction

page 7

Tribal Scars Sembene Ousmane The Boy Who was Wiser than His Father Wilton Sankawulo

13 28

The Prisoner Who Wore Glasses Bessie Head

First published by Fontana Books 1975 The introduction, notes and arrangement of this collection are copyright © Charles R. Larson 1975 Made and Printed in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd Glasgow coN'DmoNs OF SALE This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

42

Elder Zechariah Ernest N. Emenyonu

49

The Fig Tree Ngugi wa Thiong'o

62

Return of the Worker Mufalo Liswaniso

69

In the Hospital S. Henry Cordor

80

The Eyes of the Statue Camara Laye

93

The Farmer's Letter Nuwa Sentongo

106

A Case for Inheritance Penniah A. Ogada 113 My Cousin and His Pick-Ups Mbulelo V. Mzamane

. Opaque Shadows Solomon Deressa Girls at War Chinua Achebe

121 132 144

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS INTRODUCT ION

For permission to reprint the stories in this collection, grateful acknowledgement is made to the following: Black Orpheus Press/New Perspectives and Heinemann Educa­ tional Books for 'Tribal Scars' by Sembene Ousmane, from Tribal Scars and Other Stories Wilton Sankawulo and Pan-African Journal for 'The Boy Who was Wiser than His Father' Bessie Head and Anthony Sheil Associates Ltd for 'The Prisoner Who Wore Glasses' Ernest N. Emenyonu for 'Elder Zechariah' Ngugi wa Thiong'o for 'The Fig Tree' Mufalo Liswaniso for 'Return of the Worker' S. Henry Cordor for 'In the Hospital' Black Orpheus and The University of Lagos for 'The Eyes of the Statue' by Camara Laye Nuwa Sentongo for 'The Farmer's Letter' Penniah A. Ogada for 'A Case for Inheritance' Mbulelo V. Mzamane and Izwi for 'My Cousin and His Pick-Ups' Solomon Deressa for 'Opaque Shadows' Doubleday and Co., Inc. and Bolt and Watson Ltd. for 'Girls at War' by Chinua Achebe.

In the introduction to an earlier collection of African short stories I edited five years ago (African Short Stories, New York: Collier Books, 1970; Modern African Stories, London: Fon­ tana Books, 1971), I bemoaned the almost insurmountable conditions the African short-story writer has to confront in order to see his writing into print. There are few periodicals that publish creative material- the normal outlet for the beginning writer no matter what his origins may be. Most of the magazines that have published serious fiction have either fallen by the wayside or experienced rather erratic pub­ lishing schedules: Black Orpheus, Transition, Okyeame, Drum and The Classic to mention only a handful. The Ihnited number of African publishing houses cannot possibly pub­ lish all of those writers of merit who have collected their stories together in a single volume. Most writers have to send their works overseas for publication. These problems (and numerous others) still exist five years later, though five years may seem a very insignificant period in the history of the literary development of a -sub­ continent. For the West that would indeed be so; for Africa, however, the case is different. The last five years have been formidable ones. Nowhere is that more readily apparent than in the literature written by African writers. During these years, African writers have become harsh critics of their own social systems, no longer flaying their colonial masters with the printed word, but their own leaders instead. To mention only a few writers and their works that have been especially critical, Wole Soyinka's The Man Died, Madman and Specialists, and Season of Anomy; Ezekiel Mphahlele's The Wanderers; Ayi Kwei Armah's Fragments and Why Are We So Blest?; Bessie Head's A Question of Power; Samuel U. Ifejika's The New Religion. These works are not short stories, but in their overriding pessimism they typify much of . the recent writing that has appeared on the Afncan con­ tinent, south of the Sahara.

8

INTRODUcrION

INTRODUcrION

An examination of the twelve stories in the earlier an­ thology and the thirteen in this one immediately illustrates the shift in emphasis in the African short story during the past few years. The almost ubiquitous theme of the stories ' in the earlier volume was the conflict between Africa and the West, reflected in a variety of ways: Western religion, education, and life-styles in conflict with African traditions; or a direct exposure to the West itself, for three of the stories in the earlier collection depicted Africans in Europe (Sembene Ousmane's 'Black Girl', Birago Diop's 'Sarzan', and Sylvain Bemba's 'The Dark Room'). Those conflicts are almost completely missing here, except in the first story, Sembene Ousmane's 'Tribal Scars', which in an indirect way relates to a much earlier stage in the African/Western confronta­ tion: slavery. Ousmane's story speculates on the origins of tribal markings, suggesting that those scarifications which are often regarded as marks of great beauty were, initially at least, considered to be disfigurations - a safety check against slavery, since the European slavers did not want Africans who had been disfigured. Historically, then, 'Tribal Scars' is the oldest story 'here, and that is the reason it has been placed first. Thereafter, most of the stories in this present anthology describe African life outside of the spectrum of European influence. The social focus has moved from the colonial power' to the new elite (the new African leaders), and to the post· independent nation, trying to establish its true identity. Many of the stories here are about Africa's prob­

pitaI' and we might expect the rest of e sto� to e a strong indictment of the inefficiency of hospItals In Afnca today, but that is not what Cordor has chosen to do. Thereafter the tone is much more subtle and expressive, depicting a kind of quiet resignation, hinted at by KolIie's confusions about exactly what the hospital represents for him. This subtlety of tone can also be found in Bessie Head's 'The Prisoner Who Wore Glasses' as well as in Mbulelo V. Mzamane's 'My Cousin and His Pick-Ups'. Both are stories about life in South Africa and both mirror South Africa's apartheid policy. But their tone is different from the works of so many other South African writers who have chosen to protest much more directly. If we consider these stories as representative of South African short fiction in th� last few years, as I believe we should, then the South Afncan story has indeed undergone a rather dramatic change. Mzamane's story is decidedly comic, poking fun at the laws in a rather

lems today and her people's problems. S. Henry Cordor's 'In the Hospital', for example, is a sophisticated commentary on local amenities, on public services, and the bureaucracy that the average African often runs up against. As the nar­ rator of the story tells us, '. . . it was also apparent that Kollie could not pay the fees at the National Maternity Hospital, the only place he had to go. It was a government medical centre built by a loan from the United States of America. Yet some people could go there free, while others had to pay for treatment. ' It is this sort of tone that I find so remarkable. The passage is taken from the opening paragraph of 'In the Hos-

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9

bawdy way. Mrs Head's story (set in a prison for politi:al prisoners) ends on a humane note. Whether these two stones mean that the political situation has improved during the last few years, or rather that the South African writer has renounced his earlier, vindictive protest is uncertain. But it is clear that the South African writer is writing a different kind of short story today than he did in the past. The political situation is depicted more harshly in Nuwa Sentongo's 'The Farmer's Letter', a parable of life in any number of African or Western countries. Though the reader will immediately realize that the leader of a specific African country is being parodied here (there are allusions to a loquacious politician, a police-run state and a reign of terror), he should not conclude that Africans have a mono­ poly on this kind of political skulduggery. After all, as Sentongo states, the people may often be just as guilty as their leader: 'The leader had been bothered by the apparent apathy, coupled with the suspicion and uncertainty that prevailed in his nation.' The author appears to be suggest­ ing that people get the kind of governments they deserve. This is not the message contained in the two stories about the Nigerian Civil War included here, Ernest N. Emenyonu's 'Elder Zechariah' and Chinua Achebe's 'Girls at War'. The

10

INTRODUCTION

implication here is that things are not as they should be not because of the political situation so much as the im­ mortality of specific individuals. AChebe's story is particularly ironic because of the dubious moral position of his main character, Reginald Nwanko, of the Ministry of Justice, who shares a number of similarities with the narrator of his fourth novel, .4. Man at the People. Achebe has, of course, for much of his career been concerned with the problems of leadership, as 'Girls at War' once again shows us. Emenyonu's 'Elder Zechariah' questions the same issue of leadership, this time, however, within the framework of traditional African respect for the elders. Although Women's Lib has not had as strong an impact in Africa as it has in the United States, for example, at least one of the stories included here gently probes the issue of the African women's rights. In 'A Case for Inheritance', Penniah A. Ogada questions the nature of group solidarity and the traditional controls the extended family had over all of its members. The elders, she tells us, may remain true to their past beliefs and custOIns, but there is often little that the elders can do today to keep traditions as they were. Mzee himself realizes this when he concludes, 'We have lost control of Ana now. The government will not allow anyone to stop her job; one can't go and beat some sense into her head without riskIng being sent to jail just for a woman!' By way of contrast, one of the older stories included here, Ngugi wa Thiong'o's 'The Fig Tree', shows us the African woman in her more traditional role of quietness and endurance, sadly ac-counting the frustrations of a wife who loses her husband's favour because she proves infertile. Ngugi's sensitivity is particularly impressive, adding fuel to the fire of those who argue that a male writer can create a realistic female character, and vice versa. One has only to remember the female characters in his masterpiece, A Grain of Wheat, in order to conclude that Ngugi has often created powerful female portraits. The same can be said of Camara Laye's earliest work, The African Child , and his short story 'The Eyes of the Statue', included in this collection. Yet Laye adds an element of exoticism to make his female persona a

INTRODUCTION

II

little more mysterious. No matter what their individual merits, ultimately the reader will gain one clear indication from the stories in this anthology, and that is that there is no typical African short story. Although I have tried to draw a number of connec­ tions between some of the stories in this collection, the fact is that they are more dissimilar than similar. And that is as it should be. We may even do a work a disservice by calling 'it 'African.' This is what Solomon Deressa's 'Opaque Shadows' appears to be telling us. For example, why is the narrator three-quarters Ethiopian and one-quarter Sioux Indian? What

is the importance of the religious symbolism in the story 1 What makes the story more Ethiopian than African 1 Ques­ tions such as these are almost impossible to answer, yet the power of Deressa's story cannot be denied, nor can the com­ plexity of its philosophical overtones In the end, when we talk about African literature, we have to conclude that 'African' is simply a generic term. It is no more accurate a classification than 'European' would be for speaking about all the short stories by writers from Europe. There are cultural, geographical and linguistic diff­ erences in Africa just as there are in Europe, and the. only true similarity that the writers of these stories share in the long run is in their birth on the African continent (though there is an added irony in the fact that so many of them no longer live in the countries of their birth). Variety, then, is what we can expect when we think of the African short

story. And variety is what we will get. One or two other facts should be mentioned here - more for the benefit of non-African readers than for Africans. All of the stories here were originally written in English or French. Only one of them (Wilton Sankawulo's 'The Boy Who Was Wiser than His Father') can be classified as a

traditional African tale, the kind that has been passed down orally from generation to generation. Lastly, although stories by a number of widely-known African writers have been in�luded here (Sembene Ousmane, Bessie Head, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Camara Laye and Chinua Achebe), my primary purpose in editing this second collection has been to include work by a number of younger writers. With this intention,

12

INTRODUCfION

several short stories are published here for the first time. Charles R. Larson The American University Washington, DC

F

I

I

TRIBAL SCARS

Sembene Ousmane Translated from the French by Len Ortzen Sembene Ousmane was born in Senegal in 1923. He served in the French army during World War II, and the result of that exposure to the West has often been reflected in his writings. His first novel, Le docker nair (The Black Docker), published in 1956, was in­ fluenced by Claude McKay's Banjo, published in 1929. Both novels are concerned with black stevedores. In the

English-speaking

world,

Ousmane's

most

widely­

known novel is undoubtedly God's Bits of Wood (Les bouts de bois de Dieu), published originally in I¢O. Subsequent works include L'harmattan (1¢4) and The Money Order and White Genesis (Vehi ciosane au

blanche-senese suivi du mandat) (1965). In the early

I¢OS Ousmane began making films, and today he is more widely known as a film-maker than as a writer. 'Tribal Scars' is from a collection of short Ousmane published in 1¢2 called Voltaique.

stories

In the evenings we aU go to Mane's place, where we drink mint tea and discuss all sorts of subjects, even though we know very little about them. But recently we neglected the major problems such as the ex-Belgian Congo, the trouble in the Mali Federation, the Algerian War and the next UNO meeting - even women, a subject which normally takes up about a quarter of our time. The reason was that Saer, who is usually so stoic and serious, had raised the question, 'Why do we have tribal scars?' (I should add that Saer is half Voltaique, half Senegalese, but he has no tribal scars). Although not all of us have such scars on our faces, I have never heard such an impassioned discussion, such a torrent of words, in all the time we have been meeting together at Mane's. To hear us, anyone would have thought that the future of the whole continent of Africa was at stake. Every evening for weeks th� most fantastic and unexpected explana-

SEMBENE OUSMANE

TRIBAL SCARS

tions were put forward. Some of us went to neighbouring villages and even farther afield to consult the elders and e griots, who are known as the 'encyclopedias' of the region, ill an endeavour to plumb the depths of this mystery, which seemed buried in the distant past. Saer was able to prove that all the explanations were wrong. Someone said vehemently that 'it was a mark of nobility'; another that 'it was a sign of bondage'. A third declared that, 'It was decorative - there was a tribe which would not accept a man or a woman unless they had these distinctive marks on the face and body.' One joker told us with a straight face that: 'Once upon a time, a rich Mrican chief sent his son to be educated in Europe. The chief's son was a child when he went away, and when he returned he was a man. So he was educated, an intellectual, let us say. He looked down on the tribal trjditions and customs. His father was annoyed by this, and wondered how to bring him back into the royal fold. He consulted his chief counsellor. And one morning, out on the square and in front of the people, the son's face was marked with cuts.' No one believed that story, and the teller was reluctantly obliged to abandon it. Someone else said: 'I went to the French Institute and hunted around in books, but found nothing. However, I learned that the wives of the gentlemen in high places are having these marks removed from their faces; they go to Europe to consult beauticians. For the new rules for Mrican beauty disdain the old standards of the country; the women are becoming americanized. It's the spreading influence of the "darkies" of Fifth Avenue, New York. And as the trend develops, tribal scars lose their meaning and importance and are bound to disappear.' We talked about their diversity, too; about the variety even within one tribe. Cuts were made on the body as well as on the face. This led someone to ask: 'If these tribal scars were signs of nobility, or of high or low caste, why aren't they ever seen in the Americas?' 'Ah, we're getting somewhere at last!' exclaimed Saer, who obviously knew the right answer to his original question, or thought he did.

'Tell us then. We give up: we all cried. 'All right: said Saer. He waited while the man on duty brought in glasses of hot tea and passed them round. The room became filled with the aroma of mint. 'So we've got around to the Americas: Saer be�an. 'Now, none of the authoritative writers on slavery and the slave trade has ever mentioned tribal scars, so far as I know. I? South America, where fetishism and witchcraft as prac­ . . tised by slaves snll surVIVe to this day, no tribal scars hav� ever been seen. Neither do Negroes living in the Canbbean have them, nor in Haiti, Cuba, !\:he Dominican Republic nor anywhere else. So we come back to Black Africa before the slave trade, to the time of the old Ghana E�pire, the Mali and the Gao Empires, and the cities and kingdoms of the Hausa, Boumou, Benin, Mossi and so on. Now, not one of the travellers )Vho visited those places and wrote about them mentions t..llls practice of tribal scars. So where did it originate l' By now everyone had stopped sipping hot tea; they were all listening attentively. 'If we study the history of the slave trade objectively we find that the dealers sought blacks who were strong and healthy and without blemish. We find too, among other things, that in the markets here in Mrica and on arrival overseas the slave was inspected, weighed and evaluated lik� an animal. No one was inclined to buy merchandise which had any blemish or imperfection, apart from a small mark which was the stamp of the slave-trader; but nothing else was tolerated on the body of the beast. For there was also the preparation of the slave for the auction market; he was washed and polished - whitened, as they said then­ which raised the price. How, then, did these scars originate?' We could find no answer. His historical survey had deep­ ened the mystery for us. 'Go on, Saer, you tell us: we said, more eager than ever to hear his story of the origin of tribal scars. And this is what he told us:

14

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15

The slave-ship African had been anchored in the bay for days, waiting for a full load before sailing for New England. There were already more than fifty black men and thirty Negro

16

SEMBENE OUSMANE

women down in the hold. The captain's agents were scour­ ing the country for supplies. On this particular day only a few of the crew were on board; with the captain and the doctor, they were all in the latter's cabin. Their conversa­ tion could be heard on deck. Amoo bent lower and glanced back at the men who were following him. He was a strong, vigorous man with rippling muscles, fit for any manual work. He gripped his axe firmly in one hand and felt his long cutlass with the other, then crept stealthily forward. More armed men dropped lithely over the bulwarks, one after the other. Momutu, their l �ader, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a blue uniform with red facings, and high black boots, signalled with his musket to surroi.md the galley. The ship's cooper had appeared from nowhere and tried to escape by jumping into the sea. But the blacks who had remained in the canoes seized him and speared him to death. Fighting had broken out aboard the African. One of the crew med to get to close quarters with the leading attackers and was struck down. The captain and the remaining men shut themselves in the doctor's cabin. Momutu and his band, armed with muskets and cutlasses, besieged the cabin, firing at it now and again. Meanwhile the vessel was being looted. As the shots rang out, the attackers increased in number; canoes left the shore, glided across the water to the African, and returned laden with goods. Momutu called his lieutenants to him - four big fellows armed to the teeth. 'Start freeing the prisoners and get them out of the hold.' 'What about him?' asked his second- in-command, nodding towards Amoo who was standing near the hatchway.' 'We'll see about him later,' replied Momutu. 'He's looking for his daughter. Get the hold open - and don't give any arms to the local men. Take the lot!' The air was heavy with the smell of powder and sweat. Amoo was already battering away at the hatch-covers, and eventually they were broken open with axes and a ram. Down in the stinking hold the men lay chained together by their ankles. As soon as they had heard the firing they had begun shouting partly with joy, partly from fright. From between-decks, where the women were, came terrified

TRIBAL SCARS

17

cries. Among all this din, Amoo could make out his daughter's voice. Sweat pouring from him, he hacked at the panels with all his strength. 'Hey, brother, over here!' a man called to him. 'You're . in a hurry to find your daughter?' 'Yes,' he answered, his eyes glittered with impatience. After many hours of hard work the hold was wide open and Momutu's men had brought up the captives and lined them up on deck, where the ship's cargo for barter had been gathered together: barrels of spirits, boxes of knives, crates containing glassware, silks, parasols and cloth. Amoo had found his daughter, lome, and the two were standing a little apart from the rest. Amoo knew very well that Momutu had rescued the captives only in order to sell them again. It was he who had lured the African's captain into the bay. 'Now we're going ashore,' Momutu told them. 'I warn you that you are my prisoners. If anyone tries to escape or to kill himself, I'll take the man next in the line and cut him to pieces.' The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the bay had become a silvery, shimmering sheet of water; the line of trees along the shore stood out darkly. Momutu's men began to put the booty into canoes and take it ashore. Momutu, as undisputed leader, directed operations and gave orders. Some of his men still stood on guard outside the cabin, reminding those inside of their presence by discharging their muskets at the door every five minutes. When the ship had been cleared, Momutu lit a long fuse that ran to two kegs of gun­ powder. The captain, finding that all was quiet, started to make his way up top; as he reached the deck, a ball from a musket hit him full in the chest. The last canoes pulled away from the ship, and when they were half-way to the shore the explosions began;. then the African blew up and sank. By the time everything had been taken ashore it was quite dark. The prisoners were herded together and a guard set over them, although their hands and feet were still tied. Throughout the night their whisperings and sobs could be heard, punctuated now and then by the sharp crack of a whip. Some distance away, Momutu and his aides were reckoning up their haul, drinking quantities of spirits under the starry

SEMBENE OUSMANE

18

TRIBAL SCARS

sky as they found how well they had done for themselves. Momutu sent for Amoo to join them. 'You'll have a drink with us, won't you?' said Momutu when Amoo approached with his sleeping daughter on his back (but they only appeared as dim shadows). 'I must be going. I live a long way off and the coast isn't a safe.place now. I've been working for you for two months:

19

'He:s an odd fellow. He thinks of nothing but his village, . . his WIfe and his daughter.' Amoo could only see the whites of their eyes. He knew at these men would not think twice of seizing himself and hIS daughter and selling them to the first slave-trader encoun­ tered. He was not made in their evil mould. 'I wanted to set off tonight.' 'No,' snapped Momutu. The alcohol was beginning to take ffe t, bu� he controlled himself and softened his voice. � <; e II be m a��ther fi�ht soon. Some of my men have gone With the remammg whItes to collect prisoners. We must capture them. Then you'll be free to go.' . ' 'm going to g�t h r t? lie down and have some sleep. <; She s had a bad time, saId Amoo, moving away with his daughter. 'Has she had something to eat 7' 'We've bo� eaten w�ll. I'll be awake early.' The two disappeared mto the;; night; but a shadowy figure followed them. He's a fine, strong fellow. Worth four kegs.' More than that,' added another. 'He'd fetch several iron bars and some other stuff as well.' 'Do�'t rush it! After the fight tomorrow we'll seize him and hIS daughter too. She's worth a good bit. We mustn't let them get away. There aren't many of that kind to be found along the coast now.' A soothing coolness was coming in from the sea. Night pressed dose, under a starry sky. Now and then a scream of pain rose sharply, follo,:,ed by another crack of the whip. Amoo had se�tled down WIth lome some distance away from the ?thers. HIS eyes were alert, though his face looked sleepy. Dunng the dozen fights he had taken part in to redeem his daughter, Momutu had been able to judge his qualities, his great strength and supple body. Three times three moons ago, slave-hunters had raIded Amoo's yillage and carried off all the able-bodied people. He had escaped their clutches because that day he had been out in the bush. His mother-in-law ,,:"ho had been spumed because of her elephantiasis, had tol � hIm the whole story. When he had recovered his daughter from the slave-ship, . his tears had flowed freely. Firmly 'holding the girl's wrist

0-

said Amoo, refusing a drink. 'Is it true that you killed your wife rather than let her be taken prisoner by slave-traders?' asked one of the men, reek­ ing of alcohol. 'Ahan!' 'And you've risked your life more than once to save your

'Y

�

daughter?' 'She's my daughter! I've seen all my family sold into slav­ ery one after another, and taken away into the unknown. I've grown up with fear, fleeing with my tribe so as not to be made a slave. In my tribe there are no slaves, we're all

equal.' 'That's because you don't live on the coast,' put in a man, which made Momutu roar with laughter. 'Go on, have a drink! You're a great fighter. I saw how you cut down that sailor. You're good with an axe.' 'Stay with me. You're tough and you know what you want,' said Momutu, passing the keg of spirits to him. Amoo politely declined a drink. 'This is our work,' Momutu went on. 'We scour the grasslands, take prisoners and sell them to the whites. Some captains know me, but I entice others to this bay and some of my men lure the crew off the ship. Then we loot the ship and get the prisoners back again. We kill any whites left on board. It's easy work, and we win all round. I've given you back your d�ughter. She's a fine piece and worth several iron bars.' (Until the seventeenth century on the west coast of Africa slaves were paid for with strings of cowries as well as with cheap goods; later, iron bars took the place of cowries. It is known that elsewhere in other markets iron bars have always been the medium of exchange.) 'It's true that I've killed men,' said Amoo, 'but never to take prisoners and sell them as slaves. That's your work, but it isn't mine. I want to get back to my village.'

:

_

d

I·

20

TRIBAL SCARS

SEMBENE OUSMANE

other hand, his and clutdhing the bloodstained axe in his ten years old, or nine was who lome, heart had beat fast. had wept too. . gomg back He had tried to soothe away her feats. 'We're must do what I tell to the village. You mustn't cry, but you

you. Do you understand?' . 'Yes, father: here WIth 'Don't cry any more. It's all over now I I'm you: lay �1eep WI·th And there in the cradle of the night, lome g h� axe and unslun Amoo her head on her father's thigh. back agams� a tree, his with Sitting hand. at close it placed . the ImmedIate sur­ his whole attention was concentrated on hand we nt out to roundings. At the slightest rustle, his . to tIme. time from little a grasp his weapon. He dozed the east, Momutu Even before a wan gleam had lighted d to take the roused his men. Some of them were ordere and lome kept Amoo place. safe a to loot prisoners and t!he and was tall for . out of the way. The girl had deep-set eyes and drawn mto her age; her hair was parted in the middle ers. �he clung two plaits which hung down to her should mons from compa former her seen had she side; s to her father' kno� the the slave-ship, and although she may not .have left her In no fate in store for them, the sound of the WhIPS doubt as to their present state. . commg across 'They'll wait for us farther on: said Momutu, surprised by �he to Amoo. 'We mustn't let ourselves be . your chIld WIth keeping you are Why party. g scoutin whites' me,:: you 7 You could have left her with one of my , frighten ', 'I'd rather keep her with me. She s very movmg escort and rs prisone the answered Amoo, watching off. 'She's a beautiful girl.'

:
'Yes.' 'As beautiful as her mother?' 'Not quite: Momutu turned away and got the rest of his men, about thirty, on the move. They marched in single column. Momutu trusted was well known among slave-traders, and none of them the him. He had previously acted as an agent for some of

21

traders, then had become a 'master of language' (interpreter), moving between the forts and camps where the captured Negroes were held. They marched all that morning, with Amoo and his daughter following in the rear. When lome was tired, her father carried her on his back. He was well aware that a watch was being kept on him. The men ahead of him were coarse, sorry-looking creatures; t!hey looked ri
22

SEMBENE OUSMANE

TRIBAL SCARS

lived there, many relatives-a whole clanl We h ad meat . to eat and sometimes fish. But over the years, the VIllage de­ clined. There was no end to lamentations. Eve� sin� I was born I'd heard nothing but screams, seen mad flights l� to the bush or the forest. You go into the forest, and you die from some disease; you stay in the open, and you're captured to be sold into slavery. What was I to do? Well, I made my choice. I'd rather be with the hunters than the hunted.,

Amoo, too, knew that such was life. You were never sa�e, never sure of seeing the next day dawn. But what he did not understand was the use made of the m� n and wom�n who . were taken away. It was said that the whites used then skins for making boots.. They talked for a long time, or ra er Mom�tu �l ed without stopping. He boasted of his explOIts and hIS drinkmg bouts. As Amoo listened, he became more and more puzzled about Momutu's character. He was like some petty warlord, wielding power by force and constraint. Eventually, after what seemed a very long time to Amoo, a man came to w � the chief that the whites were approaching. Momutu gave hIS orders-kill them all, and hold their prisoners. In an inst? nt the forest fell silent; only the neutral voice of the wmd could be heard. The long file of black prisoners came into view, led y four Europeans each armed with two pistols and a culvenn. The prisoners, men and women, were joined together by a wooden yoke bolted round the neck and attached to the man in front and the one behind. Three more Europeans brought up the rear, and a fourth, probably ill, was being carried in a litter by four natives. A sudden burst of firing from up in the trees echoed long and far. This was followed by screams and confused fighting. Amoo took advantage to fell the man guarding him and, taking his daughter by the hand, slipped away into the forest.

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They crossed streams and rivers, penetrating ever deeper into the forest but heading always to the south-east. Amoo's knife and axe had never been so useful as during this time. They travelled chiefly at night, never in broad daylight, avoid­ ing all human contact. Three weeks later they arrived at the village - about thirty

huts huddled together between the bush and the source of a river. There were few inhabitants about at that hour of the day; besides, having been frequently drained of its virile members, the village was sparsely populated. When Amoo and lome reached the threshold of his mother-in-law's hut, the old woman limped out and her cries drew other people, many of them feeble. They were terrified at first, but stood uttering exclamations of joy and surprise when they saw Amoo and lome. Tears and questions mingled as they crowded round. lome's grandmother gathered her up and took her into the hut like a most precious possession, and the girl replied to her questions between floods of tears. The elders sent for Amoo to have a talk and tell them of his adventures. 'All my life, and since before my father's life: said one of the oldest present, 'the whole country has lived in the fear of being captured and sold to the whites. The whites are barbarians.' . 'Will it ever end l' queried another. �I have seen all my children carried off, and I can't remember how many times we have moved village. We can't go any farther into the forest . . . there are the wild beasts, disease . . .' 'I'd rather face wild beasts than slave-hunters,' said a third man. 'Five or six rains ago, we felt safe here. But we aren't any longer. There's a slave camp only three-and-a-half days' march from the village.' They fell silent; their wrinkled, worn and worried faces bore the mark of their epoch. They discussed the necessity to move once again. Some were in favour, others pointed out the danger of living in the heart of the forest without water, the lack of strong men, and the family graves that would have to be abandoned. The patriarch, who had the flat head and thick neck of a degenerate, proposed that they should spend the winter where they were but send a group to seek another suitable site. It would be sheer madness to leave without having first discovered and prepared a place to go to. There were also the customary sacrifices to be made. Finally, all the men agreed on this course of action. During the short time they would remain there, they would increase cultivation and hold all the cattle in common, keeping the herd in an enclosure. The patriarch was of the opinion that

24

TRIBAL SCARS

SEMBENE OUSMANE

the used to keep a watch on the old women could be village. . had put new life into them . The return of Amoo and lome weeding the . and ing clear ally, mun com They started working work fences. The men set off for ground and mending the busied themselves en wom The . ther toge together and returned t for while others kept a l�kou too; some did the cooking natlve age�ts, were rs cure (Pro rs'. cure 'pro any surprise visit by natlon orm in the colours of the recognizable by their unif called 'slavN1unte�'.) ly mon com were they . they worked for; a feelmg ction of the sea WIthout No one looked in the dire . of apprehension. gave hfe fertile, bountiful ea The rains came, and the went sown. Although the VIllagers to the seeds that had been fear, they or ry wor of sign le visib about their work with no was bound for an attack, knowing it were always on the alert . to come sooner or later. e and always slept WIth lom with hut his ed Amoo shar sent th n a harmless gust o wind . a weapon close at hand. Eve . work, his mto t hear le put hIS who girl into a panic. Amoo to rest as much ed allow was nt, eme lome, by general agre ordeal. Her ually recovered from her as possible, and she grad round her neck ed form s fold tiny n, black cheeks shone agai . began to fill out. and her flat little breasts ow, cultlby peacefully. The narr ed slipp Days and weeks nature after nched from the grip of vated strips of land, wre est. The ha ng promise of a good . � long struggles, were givi g to get nnm be e wer ple peo � bud; the cassava plants were in eve:r­ fact m ey, er, beans an hon i n stocks of palm-oil, butt prospectlng The ge. VIlla new in the thing they would need site at the discovered an excellent party returned, having ds, and not slan gras the ve abo but foot of the mountains d, there was am. The soil was goo far from a nmning stre safe from the be ld wou dren chil the plenty of pasture, and 'procurers' . The patsed with the prospect. Everyone was very plea ety in feel the � of sa departure, and riarch named the day for autlons. FIres, prec of n atio relax a to in the near future led for fear ng the hours of. darkness previously forbidden duri t; laughter rang mgh at ed glow now ge, of betraying the villa

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Yet it was �ot a sacred day, but one like any other. The . . sun was shinmg bnghtly, the tender green leaves of the trees were rustling in the wind, the clouds frolicked in the sky, the h�mming-birds wer: ga ly seeking food, and the monkeys es�eClally ,,:"ere g�mbolling In the trees. The whole village was . enJoymg thIS glonous day, the kind that can tempt a traveller to stay awhile, a long while. And it happened on that particular day! On that day the 'procurers' suddenly appeared. The frightened animals in­ stinctively fled madly into the forest; men, women and children gave terrified screarns on hearing the firing and scat­ tered in panic, having but one thought, to flee to the only retreat open to them - the forest. Amoo, grasping his axe, pushed lome and her grandmother before him. But the old, handicapped woman could make only slow progress. They had fled between the huts and the enclosure and gained the edge of the village, and then Amoo had come face to face with one of Momutu's lieutenants. Amoo was e quick�r, and struck him down. But now a whole pack was In PUrsUIt. Amoo went deeper into the forest, where the thick under­ growth and overhanging branches made progress even slower. Still, if Amoo had been alone, he could have escaped. But � he could not abandon his child. He thought of his wife. He had killed her so that she should not be taken. His mother­ in-law reminded him of his wife. To abandon the old woman would be abandoning his wife. Time and again, the old woman stopped to get her breath; her thick leg was becoming ever weightier to drag along. Amoo helped her as best he could' while lome stuck to his side, not saying a word. An dea came to Amoo. He stopped, took lome gently by the chin and gazed at her for a long time, for what seemed an eternity. His eyes filled with tears.

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out, and children dared to wander out of sight of their parents for the adults were thinking only of the departure. The could count the days now. In the council hut there were discussions on which was the favourable sign for the move. Each and everyone was attending to the household gods' the totems and the family graves.

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TRIBAL SCARS

SEMBENE OUSMANE

'Mother: he said, 'we can't go any farther. Ahead, there's death for all three of us. Behind, there's slavery for lome and me.' 'I can't go a step farther: said the old woman, taking her granddaughter by the hand. She raised a distraught face to Amoo. 'Mother, lome can escape them. You both can. Your skin is no longer any use, the whites can't make boots with it.' 'But if lome's left alone, she'll die. And what about you l' 'You go free. What happens to me is my affair.' 'You're not going to kill us?' exclaimed the woman. 'No, mother. But I know what to do so that lome stays free. I must do it quickly.· They're getting near, I can hear their voices.' A thunderbolt seemed to burst in his head and the ground to slip away from him. He took a grip on himself, seizing his knife and went to a particular bush (the Wolof call it Bantamare; its leaves have antiseptic properties), wrenched off a handful of the large leaves and returned to the other two, who had been watching him wonderingly. His eyes blurred with tears as he looked at his daughter. 'You mustn't be afraid, lome.' 'You're not going to kill her as you did her mother?' exclaimed his mother-in-law again. 'No. lome, this is going to hurt, but you'll never be a slave. Do you understand l' The child's only answer was to stare at the blade of the knife. She remembered the slave-ship and the bloodstained axe. Swiftly, Amoo gripped the girl between his strong legs and began making cuts all over her body. The child's cries rang through the forest; she screamed till she had no voice left. Amoo just had time to finish before the slave-hunters seized him. He had wrapped the leaves all round the girl. With the other captured villagers, Amoo was taken down to the coast. lome returned to the village with her grand­ mother, and thanks to the old woman's knowledge of herbs lome's body soon healed; but she still bore the scars. Months later, the slave-hunters returned to the village; they captured lome but let her go again. She was worth nothing,

because of the blemishes on her body. The news spread for leagues around. People came from the remotest villages to consult the grandm other. And over the yea� and the centuries a diversity of scars appeared on the bodies of our ancestors. And that is how our ancestors came to have tribal scars. They refused to be slaves.

I I

THE BOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER THE

B O Y WH O W AS W I S E R T H A N HI S F A TH E R

Wilton Sankawulo

Wilton Sankawulo was born in Bong County, I,iberia, in 1937. He earned a BSc. Degree in Education at Cuttington College in Liberia and then continued his

studies in the United States. He holds a Master's Degree in Divinity from the Pacific Lutheran Theological Semin­ ary and a Master of Fine Arts in English from the University of Iowa. Mr Sankawulo has published numer­ ous stories and articles in Liberian and American period­ icals. At present, he serves as Special Assistant to the Ministry of Information, Cultural Affairs and Tourism in Monrovia. He has collected a number of Liberian tales which will be published by Heinemann Educational Books. The Boy Who Was Wiser than His Father' is reprinted from the Pan-African Journal where it first appeared in 1971.

Once there was a Chief by the name of Gbor. He had many wives; his wives bore him many sons, and he used to name each of his sons after himself. This was a breach of tradi­ tion, for each child, upon arriving in the world, had to take its own name. A child could possibly be named for one of its deceased grandparents, but even this was very rare. 'How could he be so bold and immodest to do such a thing?' the people of the land wondered. 'Is he going mad?' 'It's a shameless thing for a Chief to do.' Before long, the people grew accustomed to the situa­ tion. ' A Chief is not supposed to be bound by every tradi­ tio.nal practice anyway: became the popular opinion. The only embarrassing aspect of it which everyone, including the Chief himself, had to endure was the fact that whenever you called one of the boys, all of them would come running to you. Many people resolved this problem by making

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sure' first of all, that they saw the particular boy they wanted and simply beckoned to him. But what the Chief enjoyed in spite of the embarrassment was seeing 'his heart strings' (as he considered his sons) come to him in one sweep when­ ever he called the name, Gbor. A few die-hard elders, however, took exception to this eccentric behaviour on the part of the Chief. They warned that it Inight lead to disaster, for one cannot infringe upon a tribal tradition with impunity. At length, one of the Chiefs wives, the latest he had acquired as a "gift from some quarters, bore him another son. To the amazement of the midwives, the child was born with a small black raffia bag, half the size of a fist, hanging from his neck. A midwife made an attempt to take the bag off the child's neck and fling it away, but the child said, 'Don't do that!' The Inidwives grew frightened and apprehensive. Was a real human being, they wondered? Was it an evil

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spirit turned into a child that had been born? Should they permit it to live? They consulted the Chief about it; he in tum consulted the Master medicine man of the village who told him, after consulting his charms, that the child was destined for greatness. He would be a great medicine man and his life would be a credit to his household. And so the child was permitted to live. In the evening the Inid­ wives brought it from the bush, wrapped up in a lappa, to the Chief. The Chief took the baby in his arms, watched it sInilingly and said: 'At last the ancestors have given me a father. You, my dear one, will be a credit to my household. When you grow up, you will take care of my oId bones and lead the faInily. You will be the greatest of all Gbors: 'Don't call me Gbor: the child protested vehemently. Although he had been told that the child could speak, this was the first time the Chief witnessed it. He became frightened but managed to remain composed. 'What should we call you?' he asked the baby with appre­ hension. 'My name is Wiser Than His Father: the baby said bluntly. The Chief gave it back to one of the Inidwives and walked . away quietly, perplexed and agitated. He could

WILTON SANKAWULO

THE HOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER

accept the child's ability to speak and the raffia bag he wore on his neck as normal. Medicine men, as the Master had testified, were not like other men. From their birth to their death, strange and peculiar circumstances often surrounded them. But the idea that his own child could claim to be wiser than he on the very day of his birth and refuse his name - these were affronts he could not forgive. He was a strong disciplinarian but how could he punish a day-old child ? He kept the baby and its mother in their own house and stayed away from them as much as possible. The years passed and Wiser Than His Father became a full­ grown boy. One day the Chief decided to test all his sons to find out which one of them was truly the wisest. 'Your brother, Wiser Than His Father, claims to be ex­ tremely wise; in fact, wiser than I: he told the other boys. 'I want · to give you boys a series of tests to find out which of you is really wise. 1 don't want to go by a claim.' He told the boys to make bows and arrows and hunt for rats in the forest. He who failed to get a rat would be considered the unwisest of the lot. He would be dropped. Another test would follow - and so on until it was deter­ mined which was the wisest boy. Wiser Than His Father brought his father a squirrel while his brothers brought him rats. 'Well done; the Chief told him. 'You have gone beyond my expectations. But 1 believe the other boys can do the same. 1 want all of you to bring me squirrels tomorrow.' The next day Wiser Than His Father brought his father a monkey while his brothers brought him squirrels. 'Well done: the Chief told him. 'You have again gone beyond my expectations. But 1 think the other boys can do the same. 1 want all of you to bring me monkey corpses tomorrow.' The next day Wiser Than His Father brought his father an antelope while his brothers brought him nothing. 'Well done: the Chief told him. 'You have proved beyond doubt that you are wiser than your brothers. I'll give you one last test and if you pass it, I'll believe that you are wiser than 1 myself. Bring me a live boa constrictor to­ morrow.' Wiser Than His Father accepted the challenge and promised

to bring the live boa constrictor the next day. His mother took him aside and advised him to give up the challenge. 'What's the use of trying to prove that you are wiser than your father ?' she said. 'You are all I have in the world: she pleaded. 'Please don't give yourself away. A boa constrictor is the most dangerous creature in the world. It can devour a deer twice your size.' 'Mother, don't worry:. said Wiser Than His Father. 'Take ag °ff his neck and gave is raffia ba�: he pulled the It to her. This was the first time he ha d taken the bag off his neck. 'When I go into the forest, squeeze it often. . Liquid will pour out of it. If it's white, it means I'm still alive. If it's red, it means I'm dead. Don't worry as long as the liquid is white.' Wiser Than His Father took a long stick and went into the deep forest. He spent nearly the whole day looking for a boa constrictor. Late in the evening he found one coiled up among the outcropped roots of a beleh tree. The snake raised its head and gazed at the boy with venom. When it was about to strike him, Wiser Than His Father said, 'Don't kill me, Mr Boa. I'm your good friend. I came to defend your good reputation. Everyone in my village believes that you are not that long after ail, and you claim to be the King of snakes. They told me if I find a boa constrictor as . long as this stick, they'll give him a big goat to swalJow. So come lie beside this stick.' He laid the stick on the ground. 'I want to tie you to it, and take you to the village for everyone to see with his own eyes that it is not longer than you: he continued. 'I don't want them to doubt your right to kingship over all snakes - ' 'Aren't you betraying me ?' the snake interrupted. 'No, I'm not. I'll make sure no one comes close to you. I'll lay you far from the crowd. As soon as they see that the stick is not longer than you, I'll loosen you from it, so you can grab any goat you want and bring it to your forest home.' The boa constrictor lay beside the stick and stretched full-length. The boy pulled some ropes from the bush and tied it to the stick in many places very firmly. The snake was tied up so well it couldn't twitoh. Wiser Than His Father took it to the village.

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WILTON SANKAWULO 'What a brave and wise boy I ' The Chief exclaimed when Wiser Than His Father laid the snake before him. 'You are evidently wiser than I: he admitted. 'I accept the fact, my son. It's the ancestors who schemed to humiliate me in my old age - though 1 don't know why. I've always offered them the yearly peace offering. Thank you for the snake - what a big feast we'll have: The Chief grew more and more resentful towards the boy. For many days he thought of how to get rid of him without appearing to be a murderer. One day an idea occur­ red to him. He told his sons that he felt like eating pangolin. They should get him one that was hibernating in the hollow of a beleh tree in a familiar place in the forest. The boys knew the location of the tree but had never thought a pangolin was hibernating in it. Before they left for the forest the next day, the Chief called all his sons, except Wiser Than His Father, to his house and told them : 'What I really want you boys to do is get rid of your insolent and foolish brother, Wiser Than His Father. A son should always respect his father. None of you have ever been rude to me . . . none of you have thrown insult in my face like that idiotic brother of yours. 1 don't want him in the family 1 He has refused to take my name. He believes that he is wiser than I and is prepared to go to any extreme to prove it . . . Well, my sons, 1 don't want to dwell on this matter any longer. 1 want you to push Wiser Than His Father into the hollow of the beleh tree and seal the entrance. Let him suffo­ cate to death ! If we let this terrible creature continue to live, he'll be a disgrace to the family. He will betray us. Now go and do this thing quickly . . . I don't want to see him with you when you return. Lose him in the jungle: The beleh tree that supposedly contained the pangolin stood on the crest of a hill half a day's walk from the village. The boys reached it by noon. On the way they elected Wiser Than His Father as their leader. Wiser Than His Father accepted the offer with reluctance. He said he didn't have to be their leader just because he was wise. But the boys were insistent. They said nobody else in their mi3st was better pm· pared to lead them. The tree was tall ' and dry; many of its boughs had broken off and fallen to the ground. At the bottom of the trunk,

THE BOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER

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close to the ground, was an entrance to the hollow inside it. The boys gathered sapling branches and built a smoul­ dering fire before the entrance, so that Wiser Than His Father could blow smoke into the hole in order to get the pangolin out. As the leader of the group, he had to take the first tum. When Wiser Than His Father bent down and began bloWing the smoke into the hole, the boys violently pushed him in and sealed the hole with a huge rock. They did such a good job of it that Wiser Than His Father could not push the rock away in spite of all his efforts. He cried and screamed but no one heard his voice outside. . Satisfied with a job well done, the boys hurried back home to make a report to their father. Wiser Than His Father had wisely carried a knife in his pocket. He took it out and began whittling the wood, trying to cut his way through. 'Oh, God, will 1 ever get out of here l' he cried. For three days he worked without respite. The area he was whittling grew thinner. On the morning of the fourth day, a red deer unexpectedly bumped against the whittled area and broke through. Wiser Than His Father jumped out of the hollowed tree and breathed the fresh air once again. He mustered his ebbing strength and stood erect several paces from the deer. Though he was weak he was not hungry. 'Do not kill me, little boy: said the deer. The deer ap­ peared helpless; it was within the very grasp of the boy, 'I will help you: it continued. 'A leopard was chasing me and 1 was running in a disorderly fashion to escape him when 1 bumped headlong into the tree.' 'I won't kill you, Red Deer: said Wiser Than His Father. 'You saved my life: 'Now listen: said the deer. 'Get on my back. I know you are too weak to walk.' The boy obediently sat on the deer's back. The deer took him to a well-made road in the centre of the forest and told him to get down. 'Go this way: the deer nodded westwards. 'You will reach a large town. The people there will be good to you. Be good to them, too, and never go home again: On the outskirts of the town, an old man greeted Wiser Than His Father. 'Welcome, dear one: the old man said to him. 'I know all B

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WILTON

SANKAWULO

your troubles. I'll take good care of you.' The old man gave Wiser Than His Father food to eat. They lived happily together. Wiser Than His Father cooked for the old man and himself. He fetched wood and water hunted and fished, and kept the house clean. He became a so� to the old man. For many years they lived together until Wiser Than His Father became a full-grown man and his medical power took effect. Once while he strolled about the town, he saw a little boy with a broken leg lying by a house, his parents sitting mournfully beside him. Wiser Than His Father set the broken bone in place and the boy stood up that instant and ran joyfully about the town. The boy's parents gave Wiser Than His Father some money and foodstuffs in gratitude for his service but he refused the gifts. He went about doing good to everybody without charge. The blind, the deaf, the dumb, the paralysed - people with all sorts of trouble came to him for help and he helped them. His fame spread throughout the land. The Council of Elders in the land met and decided to make him King. His reign was one of prosperity and progress. People from the neighbouring kingdoms came into his land for food during times of famine and received an abundance of food. Once he saw six of his brothers come to his town in search of food. They said they were plagued with famine. Wiser Than His Father recognized them, though they didn't recog­ nize him. He gave them all the food they needed and told them to bring their father along whenever they returned for more food. They brought their father the second time they came. He was now an old man. Wiser Than His Father provided a decent house for him and his sons and told them they could live with him. They didn't have to work and they would be well cared for. The old man and his sons could not understand this amount of generosity. One day they went to Wiser Than His Father and asked him, 'Why are you so kind to us, 0 King ?' Wiser Than His Father introduced himself to them. They fell at his feet and wept, imploring him for mercy and for­ giveness. Wiser Than His Father told them not to be alarmed - he had forgiven them. He told his father to send for all his wives so that the whole family could be together. The old man sent for his wives. Wiser Than His Father spotted

THE BOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER

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his mother among them. She looked poor and haggard as if she had been sick all her life. He embraced her with tears in his eyes. They wept on each other's shoulders. 'Did you remember to do what I told you ?' Wiser Than His Father told his mother. 'Yes, my son,' "She said. 'I always squeezed it and the liquid that poured out was always white.' 'Well, then you had nothing to fear.' 'I never thought I would ever see you again, Son.' Tears ran down her cheeks. 'Don't cry, Mother,' he consoled her. 'It's all over.' 'Be careful with that father of yours, my son.' Wiser Than His Father took his mother to his own house and told two of his wives to see to it that she took a bath and got dressed in the best clothes available. Life began again for the Gbor family. They enjoyed the fruits of the great kingdom. Wiser Than His Father did all he could to make life very pleasant for them. Unexpectedly, one day Old Man Gbor called his sons aside - except Wiser Than His Father - and told them, 'You fellows made a fool of me. I thought you had really buried the boy in the tree and sealed the hole.' 'We did, Father ! We did ! ' the boys cried in one voice. One of them stepped forward to explain with the utmost precision how they did it. 'On the way we elected Wiser Than His Father our leader and had him take the first tum to blow the smoke into the hollowed tree. As soon as he started blowing the smoke we pushed him inside the hole and sealed it with a hug rock. Not even ten men could remove that rock from the entrance of the hole. To see him still alive and ruling as King is a mystery to us.' 'In any case he is still alive,' said Old Man Gbor. 'Let us take a decisive step this time. We should lure him into going back home with us and throw him into the river on the way. Let the alligators devour him and bring an end to this menace ! ' They told Wiser Than His Father in the evening to go with them back home for a brief visit to see what life was like Over there. Their old friends and relatives would certainly be pleased to see them again.

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TIlE BOY WHO WAS WISER mAN HIS FATHER

WILTON SANKAWULO

So the boys took Wiser Than His Father half a dozen yards up the river and tied him to a tree on the riv�r bank. . Alligators swam freely in the waters. WISer Than HIS Father spent the whole day on the bank, alone. His father and brothers went away to return at midnight to execute him. He remembered the deer's advice : never go home 1.gain. But then it was too late to benefit from it. Almost at sundown a young trader with a huge bundle of cargo on his head arrived at th� riverside. . He sat do� to rest and wait for the canoe which was on the other SIde

'Regardless of how prosperous you become in the land of others: the old man added, 'don't forsake your home. Your ancestors are buried there. You can't afford to forsake them for they made you what you are today. To forsake them is to earn a curse.' The point was well taken. Wiser Than His Father agreed to go with his father and brothers to his native land. He wanted to carry a large entourage along to take gifts to his relatives and friends, but his father told him the trip would be a quick one. He shouldn't bother taking other people along as it was a family affair. Early one morning they left for home. Now there was a

big river on the way . within walking distance of their home village. When they reached it, Old Man Gbor gave the com­ mand and Wiser Than His Father's brothers jumped on him, tied him up very well and laid him on the bank. Wiser Than His Father could not believe it. He could only stare incredulously at his father and brothers over his shoulders, speechless. 'Well done, boys: said Old Man Gbor. 'Now we've finally got him! You thought you were wise, but you're now in a trap: he said to Wiser Than His Father. Jabbing his finger at him, he continued, 'Get yourself out of this trap if you are wise. You foolish boy, don't you know that a son can never

be wiser than his father ? You brought disgrace and humilia­ tion upon me with your wild and false assumption. Today is the end of all this nonsense. All the wisdom you have or think you have will not save you We'll throw you into this river and the alligators will devour you. I win take your kingdom. The ancestors will never blame me for doing this - they'll never let your blood fall on my head. You brought this bad end upon yourself : you stood against one of the most sacred traditions of the tribe - a child must always be humble, obedient, and submissive not only to his father but also to all his elders. Instead, you were rude enough to claim to be wiser than your own father and you had the audacity to name yourself in that fashion . . . boys, take him to the alligators.' According to the law of the tribe all executions must be done at midnight. The victim has to be left alone for a day or so to commune with the ancestral spirits before his ordeal.

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of the river. After a few moments he felt like relieving him­ self and went up the river with his bundle for that reason. He almost rushed headlong into Wiser Than His Father. He flinched and retreated backwards with alarm.

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'Don't be afraid: said Wiser Than His Father. 'Do what you came to do and go about your business. Nothing will happen to you.' 'You lie ! ' cried the young trader, shuddering with fear. 'You'll be killed in a ritual murder. That's why you're tied to the tree this night I I don't want to be part of it ! Oh God, what brought me this way I ' 'Nothing will happen to you: Wiser Than His Father main­ tained. 'I'm here because I want to get rich. When I get out of this situation, I'll become the richest man in the world.' The young trader became interested. He placed his bundle down and walked to Wiser Than His Father and said, 'Are you serious ?'

'You see: said Wiser Than His Father, 'if I take this until midnight, the medicine man who is working on me will perform a certain rite and send me to a strange land. I'm not supposed to return home for two weeks. After two weeks, . I'll come back to find my house full of money. I'll also get a special charm in that strange land to give me more money when the money I'll meet in my house runs out. So you see, I'll be rich for ever.'

'Now listen: the young trader pleaded. 'You are only a boy and I'm much older than you. Besides, as a trader I know how to handle money. Let me take your place and get the riches. I'll give you a large portion of it. Whenever you need more money I'll give it to you.'

38

WILTON SANKAWULO 'YOU are deceiving me: said Wiser Than His Father.

'I swear ! I swear ! Believe ! ' 'Well, I'll let you take my place. But promise me you're really in earnest.' 'Take my word for it.' 'All right. Untie me.' The young trader untied Wiser Than His Father and lay down and Wiser Than His Father tied him up. Then he . . tied him to the tree, took his bundle of cargo and disap­ peared. At midnight the executioners came. Old Man Gbor gave some last remarks : 'My dear son, this is an unnatural way to end up in life. You took yourself to be wiser than your father and that automatically denied you the right to live. We'll now throw you into the river and the alligators will devour you. Remember, however, we're not the ones killing you, but you yourself. May the ancestors have mercy on your spirit.' The young trader had been listening to the incredible utterance in silence, tongue-tied. As they loosed him from the tree to throw him into the river, he shook his head with all his might and cried out : 'Don't kill me ! Don't kill me I My name is Yorfii ! I have never done wrong to anyone. Oh, my people ! Oh, my people ! ' 'Shut up ! ' came a harsh reproach. 'You're fond of tricks. But this is the end of your tricks.' 'Oh, no ! ' the trader cried. 'I'm a trader from upriver. I . do no wrong.' The young trader was crying when he was thrown into the river. In no time the alligators tore him to pieces. Old Man Gbor and his other sons took possession of Wiser Than His Father's kingdom. Wiser Than His Father roved all over other kingdoms of the world for a whole year. At the end of the year he returned to his father who had replaced him. He dressed himself in some of the fine clothes he had taken from the young trader and carried the rest of the bundled cargo in his hand. On entering the porch of the King's house, he asked, 'Where is the King l' He sat down in a rattan chair and laid the bundle by his feet. When the King saw him, he winced. He couldn't believe his eyes.

THE BOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER

39

'Sit down: Wiser Than His Father told the King. The King sat down. 'Don't be afraid: he continued. 'I came to bring you these gifts: he pointed at the bundle. 'Your ancestors sent them to you. I'm surprised the people around here couldn't recognize me. I hope it isn't because of these rags I have on.' He glanced with disdain at the new clothes he wore. 'They're nothing compared with my good clothes at home. Well, as I said, I came to bring these gifts for you. Your grandfather and great-great-great-great-grandfathers are still living. They sent me to bring these for you to konw that they are always thinking of you. They sent you their greetings.' He handed the bundle to the King. The King quickly opened the bundle and found, to his amazement, five sheets of bed-clothes, one big gown, bottles of perfume, tins of powder, beads, a jug of rum, more than five pounds cash, a mirror, combs, headties, and so on. 'Your old people said I should give you these and tell you that they miss you: continued Wiser Than His Father. 'They hope to see you some day. They wanted to send a lot more things but I couldn't take more than these alone. I personally came to thank you for what you did for me. Had I not been executed, I wouldn't have gone to heaven and possessed the good things I own today. Of course, your ancestors are my ancestors, too. They received me with at rejoicing - ' 'Wait, my son: the King interrupted. 'Can I go there, too ?' 'Sure I The place is for everybody. But the only way to go there the first time is by going through what I went

gre

through. Afterwards you can go there and come back at will.' Wiser Than His Father spied his mother who stood in the doorway with a group of women, staring at him with horror and surprise. 'Why don't our people like to come to see us, my son l' she asked him. 'Well, they do, but as you know they usually prefer to go to other towns rather than their own. Dead people don't like to be identified, you know. It took a great deal of courage for me to come back. Furthermore, many of them have no desire to leave their wealth and comfortable homes for a place like this. Here, life is short, hard, and painful. Here you are overwhelmed by disappointment, frustration, injustice, sick-

WILTON SANKAWULO

THE BOY WHO WAS WISER THAN HIS FATHER

ness, poverty, witches, and the hostilities of the world. Here you live in constant fear, for you have no way of knowing what troubles you'll encounter tomorrow. Here no pleasure lasts; it's all too soon replaced by pain. But there is no place like heaven. The sun does not shine too hot there. The land there is always well watered, crops grow abundantly of their own accord there. All one has to do is rejoice and enjoy himself. There are no quarrels there. So nobody has to go to war there. People live in peace and love each other there. Death has no dominion there, and so nobody is bound to give it the sort of honour it is given here. There, you find no sickness - '

told the crowd the wicked plot his own father and brothers had made to kill him and take his kingdom. He was lucky to outwit them with the idea of having been to heaven. Everyone listened to the astonishing story with stupefaction, taking his side in the matter; they said the wicked plotters deserved death. Wiser Than His Father made these last remarks to his father before his own ordeal : 'Father, why did you try to kill me for saying I was wiser than you ? Every father wants his child to be better than he, to attain heights he was not able to attain. Instead, you want the best of everything for yourself. Have you ever heard of one going to heaven and coming back ? You said I was wrong in assuming to be wiser than you, but you were foolish enough to believe this impossible story. I was only lucky to fool a trader to take my place before that mid­ night ordeal. Otherwise, I would have been killed. It was some of the young trader's goods I brought to you, and you suddenly believed me when I said I brought them from heaven. Well, goodbye. May the ancestors have mercy on your spirit.'

'My son: the King interrupted again, 'do you think I can go there today l' 'I've already told you it's possible. All you need to do is pass through the same channel I passed through.' That's no problem. Kwitaa ! ' the King called his head­ wife, 'tell the strong men to come and tie me up.' The news spread through the town like wildfire. Every­ one wanted to be tied up and drowned in the river. But Wiser Than His Father ordered that the royal household (the . King and his sons) go first. Wiser Than His Father took the King and his sons, accom­

panied by a large crowd, to the river. He had them tied up. He told them he was happy they too would see their forefathers and bring back riches. They should not behave like most people who enjoyed life beyond so well they forgot about those who remained behind. They should remember their wives and children. He would take care of the king­ dom while they were away; when they returned, he would leave everything with them and go back home. As far as he was concerned, he was through with this world. As a royal family they didn't have to be abandoned until midnight to commune with the ancestral spirits before de­ parting. When he had talked long enough, Wiser Than His Father told his father that his brothers should go ahead to help prepare a royal reception for him. The King agreed. Wiser Than His Father thereupon threw his brothers into the river one by one, and one by one the alligators consumed them. When he had thrown all of them in, he

I

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Old Man Gbor cried out, 'Oh, my son, spare me I I'll never hate you again ! Oh, my son ! Oh, my son I' Wiser Than His Father paid no attention. He threw his own father into the river and the alligators tore him to pieces in no time. Then he returned home triumphantly with his people to take command of his kingdom once again.

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1liE PRISONER WHO WORE GLASSES

THE

PRISONER WHO GLASSES

W O RE

Bessie Head Bessie Head was born in July, of 1937 in Pietermaritz­ burg, South Africa. Eleven years ago she left her native country - thereby becoming a stateless �erson - and fled . to Serowe in Botswana where she has lived ever SInce, supporting herself as a teacher and as a gardener in a village co-operative. She published her first novel, When Rain Clouds Gather, in 19<)8. That was followed by two others : Maru (1971) and A Question of Power (1973), a powerful narrative concerned with the iss1l:es of women . and madness in Africa today. Its publIcatIon prompted one critic to say of Ms Head : 'With A Question of Power she has emerged as a major African novelist, almost single-handedly bringing about the inward turning of the African novel.' Most recently Ms Head has completed a work of non-fiction to be called Serowe: The Village of the Rain-Wind. 'The Prisoner Who W?re Glasses' was originally published in the London Magazme (Oct./Nov. 1973).

They were grouped together for convenience as it was one of the prison regulations that no black warder should be in charge of a political prisoner lest this prisoner convert him to his views. It never seemed to occur to the authorities that this very reasoning was the strength of Span One and a clue to the strange terror they aroused in the warders. As political prisoners they were unlike the other prisoners in the sense that they felt no guilt nor were they outcasts of society. All guilty men instinctively cower, which was why

Scarcely a breath of wind disturbed the stillness of the day and the long rows of cabbages were bright green in the sun­ light. Large white clouds drifted slowly across the deep blue sky. Now and then they obscured the sun and caused a chill on the backs of the prisoners who had to work all day long in the cabbage field. This trick the clou were playing with the sun eventually caused one of the pnsoners who wore glasses to stop work, straighten up and peer short- . sightedly at them. He was a thin little fellow with a hollowed­ out chest and comic knobbly knees. He also had a lot of fanciful ideas because he smiled at the clouds. 'Perhaps they want me to send a message to the c:hi dre : he thought tenderly, noting that the clouds were drifting In the direction of his home some hundred miles away. But before he could frame the message, the warder in charge of

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his work span shouted : 'Hey, what you tink you're doing, Brille l' The prisoner swung round, blinking rapidly, yet at the same time sizing up the enemy. He was a new warder, named Jacobus Stephanus Hannetjie. His eyes were the colour of the sky but they were frightening. A simple, primitive, brutal soul gazed out of them. The prisoner bent down quickly and a message was quietly passed down the line : 'We're in for trouble this time, comrades.' 'Why ?' rippled back up the line. 'Because he's not human: the reply rippled down and yet only the crunching of the spades as they turned over the earth disturbed the stillness. This particular work span was known as Span One. It was composed of ten men and they were all political prisoners.

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it was the kind of prison where men got knocked out cold with a blow at the back of the head from an iron bar. Up until the arrival of Warder Hannetjie, no warder had dared beat any member of Span One and no warder had lasted more than a week with them. The battle was entirely psycho­ logical. Span One was assertive and it was beyond the scope of white warders to handle assertive black men. Thus, Span One had got out of control. They were the best thieves and liars in the camp. They lived all day on raw cabbages. They chatted and smoked tobacco. And since they moved, thought and acted as one, they had perfected every technique of group concealment. Trouble began that very day between Span One and Warder Hannetjie. It was because of the short-sightedness of Brille. That was the nickname he was given in prison and is the Afrikaans word for someone who wears glasses. Brille could never j udge the approach of the prison gates and on several

44

BESSIE HEAD

THE PRISONER WHO WORE GLASSES

previous occasions he had munched on cabbages and dropped them almost at the feet of the warder and all previous warders had overlooked this. Not so Warder Hannetjie. 'Who dropped that cabbage ?' he thundered. Brille stepped out of line. 'I did: he said meekly. 'All right: said Hannetjie. 'The whole Span goes three meals off.' 'But I told you I did it: Brille protested. The blood rushed to Warder Hannetjie's face. 'Look 'ere: he said. 'I don't take orders from a kaffir. I don't know what kind of kaffir you tink you are. Why don't you say Baas. I'm your Baas. Why don't you say Baas, hey ?' Brille blinked his eyes rapidly but by contrast his voice was strangely calm. 'I'm twenty years older than you: he said. It was the first thing that came to mind but the comrades seemed to think it a huge joke. A titter swept up the line. The next thing Warder Hannetjie whipped out a knobkerrie and gave Brille several blows about the head. What surprised his comrades was the speed with which Brille had removed his glasses or else they would have been smashed to pieces on the ground. That evening in the cell Brille was very apologetic. 'I'm sorry, comrades: he said. 'I've put you into a hell of a mess.' 'Never mind, brother: they said. 'What happens to one of us, happens to all.' 'I'll try to make up for it, comrades: he said. 'I'll steal something so that you don't go hungry:

Privately, Brille was very philosophical about his head wounds. It was the first time an act of violence had been per­

petrated against him but he had long been a witness of extreme, almost unbelievable human brutality. He had twelve children and his mind travelled back that evening through the sixteen years of bedlam in which he had lived. It had

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all happened in a small drab little three-bedroomed house n a small drab little street in the Eastern Cape and the chIl­ dren kept coming year after year because neither he nor Martha managed the contraceptives the right way and a teacher's salary never allowed moving to a bigger house

45

and he was always taking exams to improve this salary only to have it all eaten up by hungry mouths. Everything was pretty horrible, especially the way the children fought. They'd get hold of each other's heads and give them a good bashing against the wall. Martha gave up somewhere along the line so they worked out a thing between them. The bashings, biting and blood were to operate in full swing until he came home. He was to be the bogeyman and when it worked he never failed to have a sense of god-head at the way in which his presence could change savages into fairly reason­ able human beings. Yet somehow it was this chaos and mismanagement at the centre of his life that drove him into politics. It was really an ordered beautiful world with just a few basic slogans to learn along with the rights of mankind. At one stage, before things became very bad, there were conferences to attend, all very far away from home. 'Let's face it: he thought ruefully. 'I'm only learning right now what it means to be a politician. All this while I've been running away from Martha and the kids.' And the pain in his head brought a hard lump to his throat. That was what the children did to each other daily and Martha wasn't- managing and if Warder Hannetjie had not in­ terrupted him that morning he would have sent the following message : . . 'Be good comrades, my children. Co-operate, then hfe Will rUl'l smoothly: . The next day Warder Hannetjie caught this old man With twelve children stealing grapes from the farm shed. They were an enormous quantity of grapes in a ten-gallon tin and for this misdeed the old man spent a week in the isola­ tion cell. In ' fact, Span One as a whole was in constant trouble. Warder Hannetjie seemed to have eyes at the back of his head. He uncovered the trick about the cabbages, how

:

they were split in two with the spade and immediat ly . covered with earth and then unearthed agam and eaten With split-second timing. He found out how tobacco smoke :ras

beaten into the ground and he found out how conversatIons were whispered down the wind. For about two weeks Span One lived in acute misery. The

BESSIE HEAD cabbages, tobacco and conversations had been the pivot of jail life to them. Then one evening they noticed that their good old comrade who wore the glasses was looking rather pleased with himself. He pulled out a four-ounce packet of tobacco by way of explanation and the comrades fell upon it with great greed. Brille merely smiled. After all, he was the father of many children. But when the last shred had disappeared, it occurred to the comrades that they ought to be puzzled. Someone said : 'I say, brother.

We're watched like hawks these days.

Where did you get the tobacco ?' 'Hannetjie gave it to me: said Brille. There was a long silence. Into it dropped a quiet bomb­ shell. 'I saw Hannetjie in the shed today: and the failing eyesight blinked rapidly. 'I caught him in the act of stealing five bags of fertilizer and he bribed me to keep my mouth shut: There was another long silence. 'Prison is an evil life: Brille continued, apparently dis­ cussing some irrelevant matter. 'It makes a man contemplate

all kinds of evil deeds: He held out his hand and closed it. 'You know, comrades; he said. 'I've got Hannetjie. I'll betray him tomorrow: Everyone began talking at once. 'Forget it, brother. You'll get shot.' Brille laughed. 'I won't: he said. 'That is what I mean about evil. I am a father of children and I saw today that Hannetjie is just a child and stupidly truthful. I'm going to punish him severely because we need a good warder.' The following day, with Brille as witness, Hannetjie con­ fessed to the theft of the fertilizer and was fined a large sum of money. From then on Span One did very much as they pleased while Warder Hannetjie stood by and said nothing. But it was Brille who carried this to extremes. One day, at the close of work Warder Hannetjie said : 'Brille, pick up my jacket and carry it back to the camp.' 'But nothing in the regulations says I'm your servant, Hannetjie: Brille replied coolly.

TIlE PRISONER WHO WORE GLASSES

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annetjie. You must say, 'l' e told you not to c� l me Baas, but Warder Hannetjle , s VOlce lacked conviction. In turn, Brille squinted up at him. 'I'l te l you something about this Baas business, Hannetjie:

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he sald. O�e of these days we are going to run the country. You are gomg to clean my car. Now, I have a fifteen-year­ old son and I'd die of shame if you had to tell him that 1 ever called you Baas.' Warder Hannetjie went red in the face and picked up his coat. On �nother occasion Brille was seen to be walking about the prISon yard, openly smoking tobacco. On being taken . before the prISon commander he claimed to have received e tobacco from Warder Hannetjie. All throughout the tlrade from his chief, Warder Hannetjie failed to defend

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himself but hi� nerve broke completely. He called Brille to one side. 'BriIle: he said. 'This thing between you and me must end. You may not know it but I have a wife and children and you're driving me to suicide.' 'Why don't you like your own medicine, Hannetjie ?' Brille asked quietly. 'I · can give you anything you want: Warder Hannetjie said in desperation. 'It's not only me but the whole of Span One: said Brille cunningly. 'The whole of Span One wants something from you.' Warder Hannetjie brightened with relief. 'I tink I can manage if it's tobacco you want: he said. rille looked at hi�, for the first time struck with pity and gUIlt. He wondered if he had carried the whole business too far. The man was really a child.

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'It's n<;>t tobacco we want, but you: he said. 'We want you on our slde. We want a good warder because without a good warder we won't be able to manage the long stretch ahead.' Warder Hannetjie interpreted this request in his own fashion and his interpretation of what was good and human often left the prisoners of Span One speechless with surprise. He had a ",:ay of slippi�g off his revolver and picking up a spade and . dlggmg alongslde Span One. He had a way of producing un-

BESSIE HEAD heard of luxuries like boiled eggs from his farm nearby and things like cigarettes, and Span One responded nobly and got the reputation of being the best work span in the camp. And it wasn't only take from their side. They were awfully good at stealing certain commodities like fertilizer which were needed on the farm of Warder Hannetjie.

ELDER Ernest

ZECHARIAH

N. Emenyonu

Ernest N. Emenyonu was born in Owerri in the East Central State of Nigeria. In 1966 he received a BA in Education from the University of Nigeria at Nsukka .. Subsequently he continued his graduate studies in the United States, earning an MA from Columbia University and a PhD. (in African Literature) from the University of Wisconsin in 1972. Mr Emenyonu has published short stories, poems and critical articles in scholarly journals in Africa, Europe, and the United States. He is the author of English Literature for Nigerian Higher Elemen­ tary CoIIeges (1965) and a critical study of Nigerian novelist, Cyprian Ekwensi (Evans Modern African Writers Series, 1974). At present he is Associate Professor and and Associate Director of Black Studies at the University of Colorado. 'Elder Zechariah' is published here for the first time. 'May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be now and always acceptable in thy sight, Oh God, our Saviour and Redeemer.i Amen l The congregation sat demurely. They had been gradually growing accustomed to their own man mounting the pulpit and preaching the sermon every Sunday for the past seven months. When the idea 'was first mentioned, every member of the church had been sceptical. Some stopped attending church when their opposition seemed to carry no decisive weight. They had been building a new church since 19 38. After thirty years of struggle and denial, St Andrew's stood, ostentatiously, an imposing edifice, on the patch of land nearest to the Owerri highway. The 'sons abroad' had sent a golden eagle lectern and other modem equipment to dignify the dedication so that they could bring their city friends home on weekends and not blush about the village church. Church services were still ' held at the old site. Everyone

50

ERNEST N.

EMENYONU

in Njam was excitedly waiting for the great day, June 29, 1968. The Bishop would come. So would the Archdeacon. For the first time, they would witness the District Pastor yielq place to a higher dignitary. Some relished this thought of Reverend Ikemu taking second, nay, third place. The arrogant nymph ! All the Njam citizens abroad would return, or at least all the Protestants, and their Catholic opponents would no longer point accusing fingers. What did they have to show for all their age-long allegiance to the Pope ? No church. They still trekked the tedious miles to a far-away village to pray every Sunday. No school. No son of the soil in any high place. No Njam Catholic had been elevated to priest­ hood. Seven years after the Nigerian independence, their priest still spoke through an interpreter and the masses chorused Latin liturgies they never understood. Let them wait. They would soon find out who's who in Njam. The painters had been doing a fine job. The near con­ troversy over the colours had been nipped in the bud when the 'sons abroad' dispatched a representative to announce that the inside would be painted yellow while the outside would be light blue on a red background. The painters had been working assiduously for several weeks. They got as much reward in cash as in kind. St Andrew's Women's Union had a roster of its members stopping by each day with kola, palm-wine, yam, rice and stew. No wonder the painting was dragging on from month to month. The inside had now been completed and the outside was progressing fast, thanks to the wisdom and second thought of the Women's Union. The next general meeting was to authori7..e the printing of invitation cards. They wanted to beat every deadline by several months. A new church is dedicated only once and for many this is the dream of a lifetime. Then the civil war set in and in one split-stroke crushed every hope. Njam changed hands three times between the Federal and Biafran armies. Peace had now been declared after thirty months of desolation and destruction. Njam people had been returning from their refugee camp in Ochi for the past three weeks. What they saw left them tongue-tied. It would take months before anyone would know for sure how many people died at the front. They had lost to hunger an average of two people every week for the duration of the

ELDER ZECHARIAH

51

war. But then these had been the old and sickly and the very young. The intellectuals and the skilled workers had been at various war fronts and it would still be months before they could count any missing persons as dead. Many people were still in hiding. Even gallant youths like Dimkpa and Azuako who had been fragmented by enemy shells and grenades were still believed by their parents to be alive. Hope was on every face despite all the depression and filth. Yet one disaster stunned every returnee. It was not the homes that were looted or the farmlands that lay barren and forlorn, or the trenches that clogged movement and impeded traffic. Rather, it was St Andrew's, the living tes­ timony of thirty years of toil and dedication that lay in ruins, the victim of the shrapnel and shelling of the com­ batants. The Lord had failed to protect even His own. The lectern was no more. The bricks lay in huge piles of broken mass and sand. The pews were nowhere in sight. The pulpit was a jumbled piece of lumber and rusty nails. Every eye that beheld this tragedy departed in blinding tears. Pa Isaiah, the oldest member of the church, took along his Prayer-Book to the site and read aloud to himself, 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in Peace: He went home and called his wife Graciana to fan him on his easy chair. She fanned him to death. The Chief Priest of the traditional religion fasted for four days. The District Pastor came and inspected the wreckage and after consultations with the Bishop, suggested to the Njam congregation that if they could find a son of the soil to assume the church duties, the District would waive their annual assessments. This would enable St Andrew's to con­

centrate on rebuilding the church. Although he would be pressed into setting a time limit, it was well known such arrangements were only for periods of emergency rarely exceeded three years without the church showing

not that and just

cause. Nobody in Njam had any doubt on whom the task would fall. There was hardly any thought of rivals. There was only one candidate : a man who had given his whole life to the service of the Lord in St Andrew's. Everyone had seen him bury two wives in quick succession at the cemetery. His first wife Belinda had died while giving birth to their sixth

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ERNEST N. EMENYONU

child. It nearly broke his heart when the fateful infant followed her mother three days later. Elder Zechariah was busy in the service of the Lord, so a year later he wed his second wife not out of lust but out of necessity. Then only two years later, Ruth died. She was coming back from the Eke market. There was a storm and a violent wind. The oldest man in the village could not remember a worse down­ pour in living memory. A huge branch of an iroko tree yielded to the ferocious lightning and Ruth fell victim to a violent death. It was a strange way to die, heavy with child, and had Zechariah been any other person, there would have been enough cause for people to wonder what he had been doing to attract such a jinx . But Zechariah was a pious and upright man who had never wavered in the service of the Lord. He did not weep. He did not moan. He forbade anyone from shedding tears. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken; the Lord is full of \Yisdom and knowledge, and knows of all our needs.' However Zechariah would never take on a third wife. He never said so but everyone saw it written all over him. The Sunday after the death of Ruth, he came to church with a tender moustachr: and a young beard. The church remembered him while praying for 'all sorts and conditions of men.' The catechist had referred to him as 'Elder Zechariah' at his request. Ever since he had been known as that. Meanwhile, he seemed since then to have increased his devotion and services to St Andrew's sevenfold. Death had had no triumph over Zechariah's indefatigable soul. Elder Zechariah became the chosen of the Lord and St Andrews. He conducted the morning prayers, represented the church at District meetings, became a permanent member of the Bishop's committee and most important of all, he preached the sermons every Sunday. Today he was going to chastise the flock for their half-heartedness, their timidity, their growing weariness and lack of vigour in the task ahead. 'No one can serve God and Mammon,' he lashed out at his congregation. 'Those who are not for us are against us . . . Whoever would prove worthy of his calling, must take up his cross and follow me . . . Today we are beset with a heavy burden . • • a heavy burden, but the good book tells

ELDER ZECHARIAH us

53

we are not alone; our burden is not without parallel. Yes, I say we are not the first and we are not going to be the last, but let us hear it directly from the rock of ages, the tongue that never falters. I refer you to the Book of Nehemiah Chapter I, verses 1 and 9 , and Chapter 2, verse 1 7. The story of Nehemiah should be familiar to every good and practising Christian. The walls of Jerusalem had been tom down. The Jews had been scattered like sheep without shepherds. Sacrilege and shame became the badge of the people. The people then, as we are now, were in great affliction and full of reproach for the temple of the Lord was in shambles and the gates of Jerusalem were burned with fire. Nehemiah wept. He was in the service of a great king. He had drinks, food, and all that money could buy. But Nehemiah sat down and wept, and mourned certain days, and fasted and prayed before the God of heaven. 'Did God forsake him ?', 1 ask you, 'did Jehovah forsake him ?' Never ! 'But if you tum unto me, and keep my commandments, and do them; though there were of you cast out unto the uttermost part of the heaven, yet will 1 gather them from thence, and will bring them unto the place that I have chosen to set my name there. 'I say to you today what Nehemiah said to his people in their hour of distress; "Ye see the distress that we are in, how Jerusalem lieth waste, and the gates thereof are burned with fire : come, and let us build up the wall of Jerusalem, , that we be no more a reproach." Elder Zechariah called upon a member to read again in a clear and loud voice Nehemiah, Chapter 2, verse 17. Then in his own articulate and inspired voice he read it over making the congregation read after him and modifying the content to drive the message home. Then I said to Njam, ye have seen the distress that we are in, how St Andrew's lieth in waste, and the gates thereof are burned with fire, will you take up your cross and follow the Lord, will you forsake mother, father, sister and brother, and look only to Jesus ?' He added the extra injunction from his head, and continued to probe his audience. 'I say, will you ? Or will I go it alone ?' The congregation roared 'Yes' to the first question and Mercy, the lead singer, began spon­ taneously to sing :

54

ERNEST N. EMENYONU 'Following Jesus ever day by day Nothing wrong can happen while he is around Following every footstep of my Lord All troubles and hardships soon fade away .

Elder Zechariah walked down from the pulpit. He was wiping his face with a large white handkerchief. It looked as if tears were trickling down his face. Elder Zechariah was a strong-willed and determined man but he often became emotional at moments like these when he had to appeal to his fellow Christians to stand up and fight for Jesus. Sam had worked till after midnight. Like that of the village barber, his� tailoring business was seasonal, busiest at Christ­ mas and Easter and the week preceding the beginning of school terms. This particular week, though out of season, had been very busy for him. He was sewing the football jerseys for Mbieri Academicals. He had gone to bed shortly after one o'clock but had worked himself into such a frenzy that he was finding it hard to fall asleep. He sighed heavily, leaned forward and blew out the light from his kerosene lamp. He lay flat on his back but hours later he was still unable to sleep. He was going over in his mind all the experiences of the past year. He was alone in the whole world. He had lost his two brothers in the war. His sister had bled to death after giving birth while fleeing to a refugee camp. He had even lost his Singer sewing-machine to the Nigerian vandals. He wasn't sure who was to blame though. The Biafran soldiers had committed many of the atrocities against their own civilians, but it was so easy to blame everything on the enemy. Indeed, such was necessary to keep the war going. The actual war was fought in the mind of the people not on the battlefields. As long as the common man in Biafra retained his animosity against Nigeria - all Nigerians - there was no need to resort to indoctrination to ensure moral support. Voluntarily, the people, men, women and children alike, would fight to the last man. Sam tried to think instead about the good things that had come his way. The assignment for the football jerseys had come as a windfall. If it hadn't, there was no doubt he would soon have been out of a job because the rental bill

ELDER ZECHARIAH

55

on the machine had accrued for several weeks and unless he could pay up soon, he would lose it altogether. Nobody could live on the goodwill of another these days. One thought kept coming to his mind above all others, try as he might to push it aside. It had haunted him day and night for several months. Should he tell ? At what price to his own life and security ? It was not so much the security of his job that mattered but the fact that he was -./ now the only surviving member of his lineage. If he died without an heir, it wouJd be a dishonour to his ancestors. He had been growing emaciated visibly recently. The burden of not telling was as tantalizing as the possible conse­ quences of revelation. It was not like betraying a confidence. In fact it was a moral duty to his village to unburden his chest but how far can a man go to please his community at the expense of his own life ? He was not even sure he would please his people. Didn't they say that it is folly to be wise where ignorance is bliss ? Better let sleeping dogs lie. But was that the solution to the mental agony he was going through ? He turned again on his bamboo bed and faced the wall. What should a man do when he knows what the public does not know, when what he knows will break their hearts ? Better let the world keep moving as if nothing were amiss, rather than spoil the apparent tranquility and felicity of the people around him. He had in his possession something that would make every heart in Njam tick. What had his people done to him that he should so recklessly spoil their new spirit of joyful gratitude at the end of this bloody war ? He turned again on his bamboo bed. He half wished to light the lamp again but decided against it and instead ' lay face downwards. Generally that was the position that quickly sent him to sleep, even in circumstances such as these. Instead, tonight more thoughts crowded his mind. Maybe he should write anonymous notes to a few people in the village. But his writing would be as easily recognized as his sewing patterns. Why didn't someone ask him what had been the matter with him these past several months ? Surely they had noticed his physical emaciation. But perhaps they had attributed it to hunger or his losses in the war and thus wanted to spare him the embarrassment of answering. Did they

ERNEST N. EMENYONU

ELDER ZECHARIAH

also attribute his absence from church services these many months to the same factors ? How naive could people get, to see such bold letters on the wall and yet appear not to see them ? He had provided clear hints once in a while but people didn't seem to think in symbols and figures of speech any more. Some of his friends had been drinking palm-wine at e baker's shop in the Eke market square. There were about SIX . men sitting around two bottles of over-fermented palm-wm� . They had emptied the two bo�tles into a g�llon and filled It . with water. You couldn't call It palm-wme m any true sense, but was anything real these days ? Who could afford a full . gallon of unalloyed palm-wi1!-e ? Sam had w�lke m . and promised a gallon of pa n:-wme on the spot If his f?ends . . could give him theIr undIVIded attentIOn for twent¥ mmutes or so. He got a deal. He thought deeply for a few seconds, cleared his throat and then began : 'In the land of Idu and Oba, no one has ever seen the hair on the head of the king. Tradition has it that no one can see it and remain alive. Over the years it has become virtually a taboo to discuss the head of the king of Idu and Oba. . Day and night, at meals, at public gat erings and in priv�te, . the king wears ' an elongated hat, remforced WIth a thIck shawl. 'The riddle of the king's head would have remained unresolved but for his palm-wine tapster. The tapster was in the tourtyard one afternoon to perform his duties. Appar­ ently he had become one of the family, and the palace guards had come to take his unscheduled appearances for granted. It was one of those tropical days of February in West Africa when people develop blisters on their feet merely by walking on the over-heated ground. People went about scantily dressed to minimize the effect of the heat on the body. Children ran half naked to nearby streams and plunged into the water to get cool. The palace looked deserted but for the guards who always remained unflinchingly at their posts come rain, come sun. Diochi looked down from the tall palm tree and saw someone emerge from the king's chamber. He gazed hard and rubbed his eyes. It was no other than the king. But where was his hat ? Diochi was looking at the king of Idu and Oba without his hat on. He

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was perhaps the first human being to set eyes on the king's head, unmasked, He shivered as he looked more deliberately and saw what his tongue could not articulate in words. The king had two horns on his head like a ram. Was this then the reason nobody could see the king's head and remain alive ? Would he be killed by the king ? What crime had he committed ? The gods and his ancestors should understand that it was the king, not he who had violated the taboo. He was merely an unwilling spectator. 'The King finished his bath and returned to his chamber as unobtrusively as he had left it a short while before. Diochi was speechless and remained perched on the tree for almost an hour and then came down nervously but noise­ lessly. He hurried out of the palace with the big burden on his conscience. 'Seven days later Diochi began to feel a strange sensa­ tion in his throat which soon clogged it entirely. He could neither speak nor eat. Bulging beneath his Adam's apple was a big boil. His wife consulted the oracle and was told that her husband would be incapable of speech 'until he told what he knew but that what he knew must be told to no man.' This solution was even more mysterious to the wife than her husband's illness. 'Now, if you were Diochi: Sam prodded his comrades, 'what would you do ?' 'Drink palm-wine ! ' they all shouted in unison. Sam awakened from his reverie, thanks to the loud crowing of a neighbour's cock. It was dawn already and he hadn't slept a wink. He got up to prepare a hot bath for himself, and maybe a cup of tea if he still had any cubes of sugar left in the house. Sam would have been content to keep his peace indefinitely but for what happened in Njam in the days ahead. A memorial service had been planned for August 1 5 for friends and relations of the late John Ubanwa. John had disappeared mys­ teriously in the last few days of the war. He was presumed dead at the hands of the enemy soldiers, possibly during a visit to Njam from the refugee camp. Often during the war, the civilians would steal back to their homes behind enemy lines and pick up some food or vegetables which they

58

ELDER ZECHARIAH

ERNEST N. EMENYONU

carried back to the camp. In this way they could manage for a while without the relief foods. John's last visit was only three days before the Biafrans surrendered. If the Nigerian soldiers had killed him, his body would still be lying around somewhere in the village. Generally the enemy never buried any of the rebel soldiers or civilians that fell from their bullets. Instead they were displayed to teach other rebels a lesson. Yet John's body was nowhere to be found despite a scrupulous combing of the entire neighbour­ hood. His family eventually accepted his death and planned the memorial service to enable friends and relatives to pay their final tribute to him. The service would be held at St Andrew's, and the congregation had been invited for refresh­ ments afterwards. A memorial service was usually shorter than the ordinary church service. Many of the unnecessary psalms and prayers were cut out. The major event was the sermon which descri highlights of the deceased's life and career. Elder Zechanah mounted the pulpit calmly as usual but he had never before been as emotional as he was this day. His sermon was based on a verse from Psalm 49 . 'Wise men die, likewise the fool and the brutish persons perish, and leave their wealth to others . . . Man being in honour abideth not : he is like the beasts that perish.' It was ruined by Elder Zechariah's uncontrollable emotions. He broke down and sobbed aloud. The congregation joined him. At the end of the service, the congregation, led by Elder Zechariah, filed out like a funeral procession to the Ubanwa family compound. Sam had stood outside throughout the service. He couldn't afford to boycott it for fear that John's family would misinterpret his motives. But as Elder Zechariah stepped out at the head of the procession, Sam looked at him steadily, without disguising his hatred and conte��t. Suddenly, with all the venom he could muster, he spat a few inches of the unsuspecting Elder. Nobody but Zechanah noticed the violence in the unspoken protest. Sam did not join Zechariah's procession but instead walked separately to John's compound. The refreshments went on as planned. There were songs, food and drinks. After considerable merriment, speakers who indicated their intentions were permitted to say a few

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Wlt?in

59

words about John's life. Several spoke of his gentleness, his generosity, his dedication to St Andrew's, his unassuming nature, his promise and 'his virtual guilelessness. He was in­ capable of speaking a harsh word to anyone. Wherever any­ thing needed to be done, John would, as a matter of course, be there first. In any emergency John was always ready to volunteer his time and services. He was a man of his age. Njam had indeed lost an illustrious son. By now Elder Zechariah had got over his emotions and therefore rose to speak. He was philosophical, even poetic. 'Death is no respecter of persons: he said. 'Death is power­ ful but it really has no victory over man. Death cannot triumph over us, for while we were yet unborn, while we were still sinners, Christ died for us and our sins and thus ensured for us immortality. Our brother John (God rest his soul) is dead, but he lives in the everlasting peace of God's presence. We must not give death and the forces of evil the satisfaction they crave when they cut short a good life like John's. Let us not allow evil to overcome us, instead let us overcome evil with goodness.' He said a short prayer for John's soul and sat down. It had all the desired effect of a funeral oration. The next speaker was Sam. He was very nervous at first but picked up as he progressed. 'I would like to tell you a story: he began. 'The war we fought these past three years has done more than our long jujus Igwekala and Ojukwu Diobu to reveal our real nature as human beings. We were able to see just how weak and greedy we were individually. We saw brothers disown each other, and parents deny their children just because of a cup of rice or a piece of stock-fish. Our priests and preachers no longer remembered to be their brothers' keepers. Many of them sold relief materials meant for the poor and the suffering. Some slept with innocent teenagers fit to be their own daughters before they would let them have a mere cup of salt or cornmeal. Others did many horrible things in the name of survival. Some of these people are today still in high places from which they tell us about God and His manifold works.' Sam paused. Many people had begun to lose interest in t is virtually unrelated subject. An undercurrent of murmunng

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ERNEST N. EMENYONU

was already drowning Sam's shaking voice but he was not discouraged. 'Yes ! ', he almost screamed, 'many of you are wondering why I am speaking about the war and not about John at a time ilke this. You will soon see the connection. We are I re today because John is dead. John is dead because of the greed of one person here in this group.' There was immediate silence. Sam was breathing fast. His eyes had turned red. He was trying to suppress his intense emotion. 'I can tell you, John was not killed by Nigerian soldiers: he resumed. 'John was not gunned down by the enemy we knew but by an Njam man here today weeping with us, per­ haps loudest of all, over John. I shall not speak in parables. I shall point out to Njam the Judas among us, the leopard in sheep's clothing who killed John and shoved his body under a grove in the middle of the thick forest overlooking the site of our former church. Why did he kill John ? Because John had caught him red-handed as he was looting a Njam house­ hold. I know, because I saw the whole thing from the top of a coconut tree where I hid myself when I thought I had walked into a group of Nigerian soldiers. This man, this murderer of John, this sinner whose crime is beyond pardon, is in our midst today. He knows himself, so let him come forward and confess to Njam. That will make a better sermon than the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem or St Andrew's ! ' Every eye turned in the direction of Elder Zechariah. No one had noticed him easing himself out of the crowd at the climax of Sam's impassioned speech. By now he was running as fast as he could. 'Get the thief ! ' Sam screamed as he darted through the crowd, pushing down a table here and a chair there. 'Stop the murderer ! Catch the infidel ! ' Unthinking, a group of young men pursued Elder Zechariah. People were confused and the gathering scattered in disbelief. Meanwhile Zechariah, quite nimble for his age, shot through the nearby bush and was heading fast towards his home. The young men followed but he out-distanced them de�pite his age and their agility. For him it was a race for life and honour. Sam, however, was much closer behind. He had one motive and that was to catch and drag back the Elder and make him tell with his own mouth how he killed John. It would be a

ELDER ZECHARIAH

61

fatal error to kill Zechariah before he had confessed to his own congregation that he was a sinner and not a saint among them. As Sam negotiated the last comer leading directly to Zechariah's house, he came face to face with a cyclist. He pushed him down, mounted his bicycle and pedalled with reckless abandon. It did not take long before he was at Zechariah's door. It was locked from inside. He pounded on it with fury but without success. He ran to the back of the house but to his frustration the dOi)r there was also bolted. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed an iron rod which the Elder had no doubt kept for security. With all his strength, Sam smashed the door and broke it open. The Elder was not in the first room. Sam dashed into the bedroom ana there, hanging from the roof was Elder Zechariah. Beneath his body was his Holy Bible opened at Psalm 5 1 . Sam IOOKea at we rod in his hand. Zechariah had denied him the one satis­ faction he had looked forward to in eight months. He fell down and wept.

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THE FIG TREE

THE

FIG

TREE

Ngugi wa Thiong'o Ngugi wa TIriong'o Games Ngugi) is often regarded as E�st Africa's most important novelist. He was born in Limuru, Kenya, in 1938. During his university years (�t Makerere University College and later at the Univer­ SIty of Lee ) he beg�n his serious work as a writer. He . editor of Zuka, a journal of East wru: the ongmal Afncan creative writing. His novels appeared shortly after he completed his early studies : Weep Not' Child ( 1964), The River Between (1965), and A Grain of Wheat (1967� . In 1968, he published a drama, The Black Hermit, and m 1973, Homecoming, a volume of critical essays . on African and West Indian literature' culture and politics. Ngugi wa Thiong'o is currently the Ch imIan of the Depart!?ent of Literature at the University of . . Narrob�. The FIg Tree' appeared originally in A Selection of AfrIcan Pro�e (Oxford University Press. 1964). edited by W. H. Whiteley.

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Great �omp1icated nude fig-tree. stemless flower-mash. Flowenngly naked In flesh. and giving off hues of life. •

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There was � flower that flowered inward, womb-ward; . like a ripe womb. Now there IS a frwt D. H. LAWRENCE

Mukami stood at the door; slowly and sorrowfully she turned her head and looked at the hearth. A momentary hesitation. . fire and the small stool by the fire-side seemed The smou�denng to be callIng. her back. No. She had made up her mind. She must go. WIth a . smooth oiled upper·garment pulled tightly o�er her otherwISe bare head. and then falling over her slim and youthful shoulders. she plunged into the lone and savage darkness. All w� quiet �d a sort of magic pervaded the air. Yet she felt It threa�emng. She !elt awed by the immensity of the darkness - unseemg, unfeeling - that enveloped her. Quickly she moved across the courtyard she knew so well, fearing to

make the slightest sound. The courtyard, the four huts that belonged to her airu, the silhouette of her man's hut and even her own, seemed to have joined together in one eternal chorus of mute condemnation of her action. 'You are leaving your man. Come back ! ' they pleaded in their silence of pitying contempt. Defiantly she crossed the courtyard and took the path '3lat led down to the left gate. Slowly, she opened the gate and then shut it. She stood a moment, and in that second Mukami realized that with the shutting of the gate, she had shut off a part of her existence. Tears were imminent as with a heavy heart she turned her back on her rightful place and began to move. But where was she going ? She did not know and she did not very much care. All she wanted was to escape and go. Go. Go anywhere - Masailand or Ukambani. She wanted to get away from the hearth, the courtyard, the huts and the people, away from everything that reminded her of Muhoroini Ridge and all its inhabitants. She would go and never return to him, her husb - No ! not her husband, but the man who wanted to kill her, who would have crushed her soul. He could no longer be her husband, though he was the very same man she had so much admired. How she loathed him. Thoughts of him came into her head like a mighty flood. Her young married life came back to her; Muthoga, her husband, a self-made man with four wives but with a reputa­ tion for treating them harshly; her father's reluctance to trust her into his hands and her dogged refusal to listen to his remonstrances. For Muthoga had (.ompletely cast a spell on her. She wanted him, longed to join the retinue of his wives and children. Indeed, since her initiation she had secretly but resolutely admired this man - his gait, his dancing, and above all his bass voice and athletic figure. Everything around him suggested mystery and power. o\nd the courting had been short and strange. She could still remember the throbbing of her heart, his broad smile and her hesitant acceptance of a string of oyster-shells as a �arnage token. This was followed by beer-drinking and the customary bride-price. But people could not believe it and many young warriors whose offers she had brushed aside looked at her with scorn and resentment. 'Ah ! Such youth and beauty to be sacri­ ficed to an old man.' Many a one believed and in whispers

NGUGI WA THIONG' O

THE FIG TREE

declared that she was bewitched. Indeed she was : her whole heart had gone to this man. No less memorable and sensational to her was the day they had carried her to this man's hut, a new hut that had been especially put up for her. She was going to the shamba when, to her surprise, three men approached her, apparently

No child to dote on, hug and scold ! No child to perpetuate the gone spirits of Her man's ancestors and her father's blood. She was defeated. She knew it. The others knew it. They whispered and smiled. Oh how their oblique slIl les of inso­ lence and pride pierced her ! But she had nothmg to fear. Let them be victorious. She had still got her man. And then without warning the man began to change, and

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from nowhere. Then she knew. They were coming for her. She ought to have known, to have prepared herself for this. Her wedding day had come. Unceremoniously they swept her off the ground, and for a moment she was really afraid, and

in time completely shunned her company and hut, confining himself more to his thingira. She felt embittered and sought him. Her heart bled for him yet found him not. Muthoga, the warrior, the farmer, the dancer, had recovered his old hard-heartedness which had been temporarily subdued by her, and he began to beat her. He had found her quarrelling with the eldest wife, and all his accumulated fury, resentment and

was putting up a real struggle to free herself from the firm yet gentle hands of the three men who were carrying her shoulder-high. And the men ! the men ! They completely ignored her frenzied struggles. One of them had the cheek to pinch her, 'just to keep her quiet', as he carelessly remarked to one of his companions. The pinch shocked her in

a

strange

manner, a very pleasantly strange manner. She ceased strug­

frustration seemed to find an outlet as he beat her. The beat­ ing; the crowd that watched and never helped 1 But that was a preamble to such torture and misery that it almost resulted in her death that very morning. He had called on her early and without warning or explanation had beaten her so much that he left her for dead. She had not screamed - she had accepted her lot. And as she lay on the ground thinking it was now the end, it dawned on her that perhaps the others had been suffering as much because of her. Yes 1 she could see them being beaten and crying for mercy. fiut she resolut�ly

gling and for the first time she noticed she was riding shoulder­ high on top of the soft seed-filled millet fingers which stroked her feet and sides as the men carried her. She felt really happy, but suddenly realized that she must keen all the way to her husband's home, must continue keening for a whole week. The first season : all his love and attention lavished on her. And, as in her youth, she became a target - of jealousy and reSentment from the other wives. A strong opposition soon grew. Oh, women. Why could they not allow her to enjoy what they had enjoyed for years - his love ? She could still recall how one of them, the eldest, had been beaten for refus­ ing to let Mukami take fire from her hut. This ended the battle of words and deeds. It was now a mute struggle. Mukami hardened towards them. She did not mind their insolence and aloofness in which they had managed to enlist the sympathy of the whole village. But why should she mind ? Had not the fulfilment of her dream, ambition, life and all, been realized in this man ? Two seasons, three seasons, and the world she knew began to change. She had no child. A thata ! A barren woman I No child to seal the bond between him and her,

refused to let such beating and misgivings subdue her WIll. She must conquer; and with that realization she had quickly . made up her mind. This was no place for her. NeIther. could she return to her place of birth to face her dear old conSIderate

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father again. She could not bear the shame. . . The cold night breeze brought her to her present condItIon. Tears, long suppressed, flowed down her cheeks as sne hurried down the path that wound through the bush, down the valley and through the forest. It was so dark that she could hardly pick her way through the labyrinth of thorn and bush . T e murmuring stream, the quiet trees that surrounded her, dId these sympathize with her or did they join wit..1- the kraal in silent denouncement of her action ? She followed the stream, and then crossed it at its lowest point where there were two or three stones on which she

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M.M.A.S.

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66

NGUGI

WA THIONG 'O

could step. She was still too embittered, too grieved to notice her dangerous surroundings. For was this not the . place where the dead were thrown ? where the spirits of the dead hovered through the air, intermingling with trees, molesting strangers and intruders ? She was angry with the world, her husband, but with herself. Could she have been in the wrong all the time ? Was this the price she must pay for her selfish grabbing of the man's soul ? But Sihe had also sacri­ . ficed her own youth and beauty for his sake. More tears and anguish. Oh spirits of the dead, come for me ! Oh Murungu, god of Gikuyu and Mumbi, Who dwells on high Kerinyaga, yet is everywhere, Why don't you release me from misery ?

Dear Mother Earth, why don't you open and swallow me up Even as you had swallowed Gumba - the Gumba who disappeared under mikongoe roots ? She invoked the spirits of the living and the dead to come and carry her off, never to be seen again. Suddenly, as if in answer to her invocations, she heard a distant, mournful sound, pathetic yet real. The wind began to blow wildly and the last star that had so strangely com· forted her vanished. She was alone in the gloom of the forest ! Something cold and lifeless touched her. She j umped and at last did what the beating could not make her do - she screamed. The whole forest echoed with her scream. Naked fear now gripped her; she shook all over. And she realized that she was not alone. Here and there she saw a thousand eyes that glowed intermittently along the stream, while to and fro she felt herself being pushed by many invisible hands. The sight and the sudden realization that she was in the land of ghosts, alone, and far from home, left her chilled. She could not feel, think or cry. It was fate - the will of Murungu. Lower and lower she sank onto the ground as the last traces of strength ebbed from her body. This was the end, the culmination of her dream and ambition. But it was so ironic. She did not really want to die. Life was sweet. She only wanted a chance to start life anew - a life of giving . and not only of receiving.

THE FIG TREE Her misery was not at an end for even as she lay on the ground, and even as the owl and the hyena cried in the dis­ tance, the wind blew harder, and the mournful sound grew louder and nearer; and it began to rain. The earth looked as if it would crack and open beneath her. But even as the lightning came and the thunder struck, she espied a tree in the distance - a huge tree it was, with the bush gently but reverently bowing all around the trunk. And she knew; she knew, without telling that this was the

tree - the sacred fig-tree that is called Mukuyu - the altar of the all-seeing Murungu. 'Here at last is a place of sanctuary,'

she thought. She ran, defying the rain, the thunder and the ghosts_ Her husband and the people of Muhoroini Ridge vanished into insignificance. The load that had weighed upon her heart seemed to be lifted as she ran through the thorny bush, knock­ ing against the trees, falling and standing up. Her impotence was gone. Her worries were gone. Her one object was to

reach the fig-tree. It was a matter of life and death - a battle for life. There under the sacred fig-tree she would· find sanctuary and peace. There Mukami would meet her God,

Murungu, the God of her tribe. So she ran despite her physical weakness. And she could feel a pleasant burning

inside that made her womb dance. Now she was near the place of sanctuary, the altar of the most High, the place of salvation. So towards the altar she ran, no, not running but flying; at least her soul must have been flying. For she felt as light as a feather. At last she reached the place, panting and breathless. And the rain went on falling. But she did not hear. She had lain asleep under the protecting arms of God's tree. The spell was on her again. Mukami woke up with a start. What I Nobody ? Surely that had been Mumbi, who standing beside her husband Gikuyu had touched her - a gentle touch that went right through her body. No, she must have been dreaming. What a strange beautiful dream. And Mumbi had said, 'I am the mother of the tribe.' She looked around. Darkness still. And there was the ancient tree, strong, unageing. How many secrets must you have held ? 'I must go home. Go back to my husband and my tribe.'

68

NGUGI

WA THIONG'O

It was a new Mukami, humble yet full of hope who said this. Then she fell asleep again. The spell . . . The sun was rising in the east and the rich yellowish streaks of light filtered through the forest to where Mukami was sitting leaning against the tree. And as the straying : streaks of lIght touched her skin, she felt a tickling sensation that went right through her body. Bloo<:l thawed in her veins and oh ! she felt warm - so very warm, happy and light. Her soul danced and her womb answered. And then she knew ­ new that she was pregnant, had been pregnant for some time. As Mukami stood up ready to go, she stared with unseeing . . eyes mto space, while tears of deep gratitude and humility trickled down her face. Her eyes looked beyond the forest, beyond the stream, as if they were seeing something' some­ thing hidd�n in the distant future. And she saw the people . ?f MuhorOlm,. her aITU and her man, strong, unageing, stand­ mg amongst them. That was her rightful place, there beside her husband amongst the other wives. They must unite and suppo� the tribe giving it new life. Was Mumbi watching 7 : Far mto the distance, a cow lowed. Mukami stirred from her reverie. 'I must go.' She began to move. And the fig-tree still stood' mute, huge and mysterious.

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RETURN OF

THE

WORKER

Mufalo Liswaniso Mufalo Liswaniso was born in Sesheko, Zambia, in 1945· He was educated in a number of different countries : Zambia, Rhodesia, Ethiopia, and the United Kingdom. He has served as the Senior Editor of the National Educational Company of Zambia and has lectured in journalism at the Evelyn Hone College of Applied Arts and Commerce in Lusaka. Presently he serves as the Public Relations Officer of the Zambia National Provident Fund. Mr Liswaniso has published numerous articles and short stories in Zambia and other countries. 'Return of the Worker' is from Voices of Zambia, edited by Mr Liswaniso and published by the National Educational Company of Zambia Ltd in 1971•

Most people were harvesting their crops in the woodlands. Only a few were still living on little pieces of highland in the flooded plain. In the woodlands, where the majority lived, a drum beat day after day; it was a means of com­ munication, telling the other villagers that there was some beer for sale in the village in which the drum was beating. That was the season, the time of the year, when Dick Mendai, a tall, slim and handsome young man of Makoka village, about seven miles north of the Zambezi plain in the southern part of Seheke, returned from Nkana mine on the Copperbelt. Makoka village stood on a piece of highland to the west of which lay a small valley. There was a motor road nearby. Twice a week, every Saturday and Sunday, a bus stopped to pick up people going to catch the Mulobezi train or going to seek employment on the line of rail; there were others who caught the bus on Sunday when it returned to Sesheko Boma. The time was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Dick arrived. He had three heavy suitcases. A few people got in the bus and soon the bus left. Dick began to look around. There were few people. The

MUFALO LISWANISO

place itself had changed quite a bit. Here there had been no huts; there had stood a big tree; it was no longer there. Of the faces he saw there were no familiar ones. Suddenly two little boys, both of whom were the same age, ran across the road from the other side, dragging wooden toys that were imitations of cars. The first one to appear, the one in front, Dick recognized. That red shirt ! It was the one that he had bought in Kitwe. 'Mendai ! ' he called. 'Mendai ! ' The little boy turned round and for a long moment stood immobile. Dick took off his hat and sun-glasses and beckoned at the boy. 'Run ! ' The two boys still stood immobile. Then he said : 'It's me' Mendai. It's me, your brother Dick.' The ·boy recognized the voice and stature. He sprang up, . . throWIng his toy across the other side of the road. 'My brother ! My brother ! ' He came panting and hurled himself at Dick, clinging to him. Dick put down his hat and glasses and embraced the boy. For a deep moment they held each other tight. Then he released the boy and turned to the other boy who was by now near too. 'Muketoi, you've grown up now ?' The little boy giggled shyly. He kissed him in the traditional style. 'Is my mother all right, Mendai ?' He turned to his little broth;r as they strutted down to their village, helped in . �arrymg SUItcases by three young men who had been linger­ mg about at the bus stop. 'Yes, she is all right,' little Mendai replied. He added : 'But she weeps terribly whenever she remembers you. Particularly when she sees your photo on the wall in our house.' 'And my father ? Is he there ?' 'He is all right too. He has gone out to herd our cattle. But he is finishing his turn today.' 'Oh, dear ! These cows . . . Come along, boys.' Wh�n they reached their village, the two boys, like dogs, l�t I?Ick and ran towards a courtyard where were people . drinking beer. Exotedly, they simultaneously knocked on the door. 'Is my mother there ? My brother, Dick, has come,' Mendai

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71

called, Shaking his little shoulders. He jump� about and ran away towards Dick, singing : 'Ndondo ! Ndondo ! ' A woman who had opened the door for a moment stood amazed at the boy's extraordinary joy. 'What did you say ?' she barked. 'You mean your brother Dick has come from the mines ? ' 'Yes,' little Mendai answered. H e had already come back to the door again. 'There he is ! ' He pointed in Dick's direc­ tion. 'Call my mother please. Or can I go and call her ? : . . Hey, we will enjoy scones and buns and bread today ! I saw them in one of the suitcases.' Dick laughed from where he stood. The woman who had opened the door was called Ma­ Muketoi, the mother of Muketoi, the little boy who was with little Mendai. She shut the door and walked over to Dick. This was the wife of Nduna Museteli, the half-brother of Dick's father and the Headman of Lyomboko village to the west of Makoka where Dick's father once lived. 'Mukowa, my relation, you have come ? ' she muttered. 'Yes, it was years ago you left us. Even our dead would be infuriated if you stayed longer without coming on leave to see us.' They kissed each other, greeting each other in the tradi­ tional style. She started, kissing him in his right palm and spitting a little saliva in his face. He kissed her right palm twice, she kissed his thrice, but he did not spit a little in her face. He was younger. That was the practice. 'Oh, rnukowa, my relation, still what you have always been ? Tall and slim. Exactly like your father, old Mendai. Even the way you stand and walk is still your father's way of standing and walking. It's more than resemblance.' 'Yes, old one,' Dick answered. "Yes, Dick . . . you remember those years when your mother and I lived on the other side of this valley ?' She pointed to a valley that ran on the western side of Makoka village. That was where Lyomboko village was. Lyomboko was an old village and it was situated near a well from which they obtained their water. 'You were a boy, a baby . . . Oh,­ how glad Nosiku will be to see you ! Let me go and call her ! ' She disappeared into the courtyard. Dick was seated on a stool in his mother's courtyard. The

72

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MUFALO LISWANISO

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door was half-closed. He sat expectantly waiting to see his mother. Suddenly the door opened ! Son and mother stood immobile, arms outstretched, and then they were together tightly. Dick felt his mother's tears trickling down her cheeks. She wept or she sobbed, not because she was grieved but because this was remarkable. He had not been with her since some seven years back and during the seven years Dick had never taken any leave to go 'home' and see them. It was as if he was a prodigal son. But during the seven years Dick had never, however, forgotten to write them letting them know how he was and also asking them how they were, particularly how little Mendai, his young brother, was. They were the only sons of their parents. This coming, this return, was unexpected. No one knew Dick would come at that hour, Dick had not written to let them know of his coming. To do so would be fatal; it would be committing suicide. These people in his village were different, full of jealousy and envy; they could do anything to him if they knew the time of his coming. Something had

73

g to any 0!1e of them, made sure that whenever he sent anythin others. To hIS father he he also sent something similar to the and shorts, strong had sent several pairs of long trousers Mendai, whose young And shirts. shoes and boots and strong did, was always others the than less even cost clothes him this through wearing a different shirt. The boy had told But the parents were the letters his mother or father wrote. elementary classes uneducated and Mendai was still in the e - not always and the letters were written for them by someon

the same person - in the village. looked at Nosiku and her son were now together. Dick when him beat to used she how recalling her a long time, would be he was a kid. He was her son, her baby. Now they pension, together. He had resigned his job, had been given his and and had returned home to look after his ageing parents

to educate that boy, Mendai. y They waited for the sun to set and Dick waited anxiousl cursed He cattle. herding of business This father. his to see do it himhimself. The old man would now stop it. He would

once happened to other young men who had also been to the white man's lands, to those who had been to the Wankie mines in Southern Rhodesia. Dick watched his mother. with love and zest, tea'rs trickling down his cheeks too. They had been poor, these people. It was he that had now made' Nosiku, his mother, win great respect from the other women in the area. Once, his mother had written a long letter which had driven him crazy and sent him weeping, That was when he had sent her bundles - or rolls and rolls - of cloth to have them made into dresses and skirts, His moth�r was now wearing a dress made from the cloth, The day she had had the materials sewn into dresses and she put one dress on, almost every woman in Makoka village had made remarks which had even made her feel her son would not live long to continue showering gifts on her. She had written to tell him this, how the women of her village - and even those in the other neighbouring villages - had admired it and remarked that her son was a real man who when he grew would become more than a man. That was not all. What about the old man ? Dick had always

RETURN OF THE WORKER

self. westSoon the sun cast long shadows and went down the perfectly ern horizon. It began to assume an outline like a in the rounded piece of molten copper and hung suspended sky. ' Dick and little Mendai walked out of the courtyard rising behind their house. To the west abominable dust came fell like smoke. It was dusty ! The bullocks climbed and on the females as they tried to mate. On the outskirts of the village, a few yards away, calves bleated like goats in their kraal. It was a call to their mothers. The cows came mooed in answer to their young. One cow shot out and young its suckle to calves the of kraal galloping towards the it one. but a knobkerry landed on its twisted horns and ai. Men old from was nearly collapsed. That .DICk Young Mendai sprang up to meet hIS father, and would watched the boy and pricked his ears to hear what he say. dusty. The old man came walking rather slowly. He was The His hair was grey and was now more grey with the dust. was He hand. one in spear barbed a had He tired. old man was a khaki tall and slim, like his son; and he was dressed in black big wore He . trousers khaki long of pair a shirt and

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MUFALO L1SWANISO

boots that _ protected him from thorns as he herded cattle. These his son had bought and parcelled to him. 'Father, Mr Dick has come: little Mendai told his father. Dick grinned from where he was. That prefix Mr. It was such a common thing. You become a Mr with a Christian name. That becomes almost your surname. The first name he was given immediately he was born, Mutemwa, 'Forest', had almost been forgotten. When you are grown up you give yourself a European name and they call you by it, at least until you have a son or a daughter and then they call you 'the father of so-and-so.' 'Who 7' old Mendai barked, pausing and eyeing his little, last-born, fourteen-year-old-son unbelievingly. 'Mr Dick, my brother. He has come from Nkana.' Old Mendai narrowed his eyes. He stuck his spear into the ground. His son. Had he really come ? Could he come without letting him know. No. 'No, my son, I don't believe you. Your brother always writes to us. We have never received any letter from him letting us know t'hat he is coming.' 'But he has come, Father ! ' little Mendai insisted. 'There he is ! ' He pointed to Dick. Old Mendai looked in the direction and there was Dick, his son, coming. The old man sighed. 'My son ! How lucky I am. You arrive when I just com­ plete my tum of herding cattle.' The old man threw his long thin arms round his son and kissed and embraced him and smothered him with saliva in the face. His was an almost toothless sunken mouth. This was a great day. Son and father eyed each other and then they hugged each other once more. In a short time almost everybody knew that Dick, the son of Mendai, who had gone to work on the mines, actually in the mines, many, many years ago, was now back. And there was that little boy, Mendai. He acted like a catalyst in spreading the news about his brother's arrival. Makoka village, in which Dick lived, was an enonnous village. Its inhabitants were mostly of one clan and they treated each other as brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers. No one in the village, however, had gone in education as far as Dick had gone - Fonn II. Few of them had reached

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Grade 6 (Standard 4 of those days). Most did not know how to write the letter A or B. Dick stood out and had become a household name. In Lyomboko village to the west they had heard about him. It was harvest time. People had plenty to eat. Most people showed their good welcome for Dick by bringing him countless foodstuffs. Some brought baskets full of mealies or millet for pounding in mortars. They felt that just for a - day he should have a change of food from the �eali�-meal ground by machines with the husk unremoved; It dId not taste nice, several young men from the town had often c�m­ plained. Those who came from families that had good mIlk­ giving cows brought with them gourds full of fresh or con­ centrated sour milk. And there was also fish, fresh and dry, breams or barbels or both. There were no strings attached and there should never be any strings attached to these things ; they were purely something given freely to someone who has come to visit you or someone whom you saw a long time back. Headman Museteli in Lyomboko sent a big

gourd of concentrated sour milk to his nephew. That was a society of families that showed - or probably pretended to show - love to people who had been away for a long time. The news had spread like the �ews about some­ one's death which does not take a long tIme to be heard no matter how far one is. Out of their homes, miles away, a number of Dick's relatives of the extended family came to greet him. There were people who had lived in th� villa�e of Makoka and then decided to move away and bUIld theIr own village; there were men who had left the village u�e of some dispute over the land as to who should fann In this place or in that place; and there were men and women "(ho had left the village because they had been accused of being wizards or witches. It would be fatal to ignore it. By the way they talked to him it was not difficult to see their hopes of him. Once in a while a man would remark about his clothing when a child tried to grab him by it : 'Hey ! child, don't you see that this is the only shirt I have ?' Dick knew what that meant. They always expected one to do it. Many young m�n from . towns had done it. They now expected him to do It too If : he didn't, they would label him a 'bad worker'. Those gifts,

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RETURN OF THE WORKER MUFALO LISWANISO mealies, milk or fish, had not in the final sense had no strings attached to them. But some of those Vl;ho claimed that what they had put on were the only clothes they had might have been telling the truth. It was true in many cases. He knew them. He saw some and they were justified. Many walked almost half-naked. Children were practically running about naked, just as they had been born ! And Dick felt he had to do something to help them. He showered on them the clothes he could afford. He gave them some money when he had it, and he did have it, the pension from the mines. But he did not give to every­ body, especially not to those who did not look to be in need.

same well. ,People were milking their cows when a boy came running, breathing fast. He made for the headman of our village who was a stone's throw from my father. I was near, holding . some milk pails. 'I have been asked to call all the elders in this village: the boy told them. His breath was short and sharp. 'They want you in Lyomboko village ! '

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That was many many years ago. My name is Mendai, the little boy, the brother of Dick. I was fourteen years old when my brother returned from the mines. I witnessed everything throughout. We had heard so much about the mines and the impact they had on the economic development of our country. In those days when my brother went there it was remarkable to do so and they thought whoever came from there was rich. That was how most people took my brother. I also thought so. Many of our relatives also thought so. My brother is dead. My brother died a mysterious death. It was just six months after his return, on one bright Saturday morning in the month of October. A day before we had been herding cattle together. Everything had gone well. In the evening we went to bed happy. Nothing suggesting that my brother was ill had been seen. He had not complained of any pain, of anything concerning his health at all. It was just a matter of going to bed and he went for good. On another bright Saturday morning, a week after Dick's death, there was great commotion in Lyomboko village from the early hours of the morning. Cocks crowed endlessly. Dogs yawned loudly and barked amazingly as they dusted off their coats the ash from the fireplaces where they had curled themselves during the night. Calves bleated madly like goats and in the cattle kraal on the outskirts of the village cows mooed more noisily in answer to their children. And the herdsmen that day shouted and cursed the noise-making cows and their owners in an unprecedented manner, but

77

the noisiest cows were those of the village headman, Nduna Museteli, my father's half-brother. Lyomboko village was not far from our village; it was near. We got water from the

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'What's all this about ?' our head asked. 'Nduna Museteli, the headman, is very ill: the boy said. Our headman unfastened the hind legs of his cow and put away his wooden milk pail. My father and others followe,
. When I got there I hid nearby and watched. The court­ yard of Museteli was quiet. It was so quiet that even the . dogs in it seemed to feel the silence. The men of the VIllage squatted in a semi-circle. So did the women. Together they formed a distinct . circle. In the centre, lying on a papyrus mat, under heavy blankets and a calabash of water near

him, was M useteli. Museteli roared and uttered a somewhat laboured breath. A quantity of white stuff issued from his mouth, and flies hovered over it. I was frightened. A short plump woman, his wife, cleared them away_ The man was . dying. No one moved. Nobody talked. Faces dropped in sadness. When a man blew his nose they seemed startled and they eyed him for some moments; then they would be quiet and motionless once again. There was no hope now for Muse­ telL His hour had come. The old man groaned and it was like

a dragon dying of asthma . . . Then the thing happened. . Museteli started to kick his legs about in the blankets. He gasped for life. Then he shouted : 'Dick ! Dick ! Mendai's son is killing me ! ' Everybody was startled. My father's eyes seemed to grow

MUFALO LISWANISO

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out of their sockets. Everybody stared at my father. I was more frightened. 'Dick, leave me ! Leave me, my brother's son ! ' Museteli roared again. Suddenly Museteli's eyes projected out of their sockets and hardened like those of a dead dog. his mouth wide open. Flies hovered over it. There was short silence; then it became a long silence. A woman screamed. It was Museteli's wife, Ma-Muketoi. The whole village then burst into a mourning cry. Headman Museteli was dead. The sun had not yet climbed the sky to midday. The mourning grew and sent echoes in all directions. The uther villagers heard it and knew where it came from. They stop­ ped what they were doing and ran down to Lyomboko village. Headman Museteli was dead. The sun climbed the sky, began to descend down the west­ ern horizon and, as the cattle returned from grazing, it went down the horizon and darkness enveloped the village of Lyomboko. Logs of wood were piled in the deceased's home and burnt with huge flames, sending sparks in the sky like stars. The night was cloudless, stars shone and the moon shone so brightly -.it was a full moon - that it too seemed to share the sorrow of the mourners. Round the fires the whole village of Lyomboko gathered. Headman Museteli was dead. Museteli's wife, Ma-Muketoi, almost killed herself; the way she mourned, the way she cried, the incantations she uttered. almost drove her crazy; it was much more than a traditional cry. Ma-Muketoi loved my father's half-brother. Now my father's half-brother was no more. . The following day, on Sunday, almost at the same hour that a week before my brother Dick had been buried, Museteli's body was put into a sledge and pulled to the grave­ yard, half a mile to the north of Lyomboko village. It was the same graveyard where my brother was buried, for our villages shared the graveyard. They buried Museteli there. I did not go there, but I imagined it must be next to where my brother lay. 'Dick! Dick! Mendai's son is killing me! Dick, leave me! Leave me, my brother'S son!' That cry. It resounded in my

ears. Nduna Museteli. my father's half-brother, of my own blood had taken away my brother's, his nephew' s - in our tradi onal society, his son's - life. No, I could not believe it. I could not believe my brother Dick had killed his uncle. Yet . . . 'Witches and wizards must learn a lesson now: many people in our village and even those in Lyomboko village said in the days that followed. 'They don't kill anyhow. These people who have been to white man's lands are strong. He was a young man, young chronologically, but he had prepared hiInself before he came back. He has done him in . . . He killed Museteli: 'Where there is too much money there is a lot of witch­ craft,' one man said. 'I have been to Wankie mines in Southern Rhodesia. I saw this. You need to be strong. You haye got to protect yourself . . , Many people usually buy medicines so that witches may not come to them. Others buy medicines which have their effects when they theIllSelves are dead; the ghost emerges, invisible, and takes its vengeance. Even in the mines of Nkana, Mufulira, Chingola or Luanshya it is like that.' My brother was a great worker. They took him and killed him because of his possessions which they caned 'riches' from the mines.

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, IN THE

H O S P I TA L

S. H enry Cordor

S. Henry Cordor was born in Voinjama, in Northern Liberia, in 1946. His education - according to his own account - has been sporadic, though he has attended several schools in Monrovia, specializing in English, African literature, and anthropology. Currently he teaches English and literature at the College of West Africa in Monrovia and works as a free-lance journalist for the Ministry of Information, Culture and Tourism in the Liberian capital where he is the producer of the Writers Forum for radio. He has been instrumental in organizing a number of literary activities in Monrovia, and has published articles and short stories in Liberian journals and newspapers. 'In the Hospital' is one of Mr Cordor's earliest short stories, scheduled for inclusion in a collec­ tion of his short works tentatively titled The African Life. It wasn't until Tanu Kollie discovered that his pregnant wife, Sonie Marwu, had been taking the wrong drugs from his

private practical nurse friend that he realized he should take her to hospital, as his neighbours had once suggested. But it was also apparent that Kollie could not pay the fees at the National Maternity Hospital, the only possible place

he had to go. It was a government medical centre built by a loan from the United States of America. Yet some people could go there free, while others had to pay for treatment. When Kollie returned home from work that evening, he

saw Marwu lying down on the mat in their bedroom, the only room his entire family owned in the house. He stared at her and then greeted her. It took a little longer than usual for Marwu to respond. 'What's wrong today?' Kollie asked her. Marwu twisted her body on the mat, taking care not to hurt her swollen legs on the hard cement floor. She turned towards Kollie and then struggled to speak.

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'My stomach, Kollie,' she said. 'Since this afternoon, it · is just like that . . ' That man did not give you an injection today?' 'Yes,' she said. 'It's hurting me now, my buttock is all swollen.' At first, Kollie was annoyed; his best friend the practical nurse had given her treatment, and now his wife said it made her worse. But he soon remembered that for a long time now his friend had been giving treatment with no good results. 'Marwu, we'll have to go to hospital, that is the only , way I see now,' said Kollie. 'Any food for me? Kollie felt tired; he wondered why he was not an employee of a government office ' that would enable him to get a slip to obtain free treatment for his wife at the National Maternity Hospital. He regretted being just an ordinary builder. 'When can we go, Kollie?' she asked. 'I think tonight,' Kollie said. .

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'Oh ! To which hospital?' 'Maternity Hospital for women with belly.' 'Ah, Kollie, how much money will it cost?' 'You talking about money? If we have to pawn our clothing, even our bed, we had better go. All the people say this is the only way you can get cured of this sick­ ness.' Marwu stared at Kollie as he explained to her. She thought for a moment and then said : 'Okay, if that is the only thing, I must agree with you.' The path Kollie, his wife and children had to walk that evening was long and muddy. They had to walk all this distance before reaching the road to take a car to the hospital. 'Shall we take the bus?' Marwu asked. 'Instead of a taxi, which is faster?' Kollie said. 'Yes, by the bus, it is cheaper; the driver might help us with the children, but the taxi, I don't know.'

Kollie looked at his watch, and patted the little girl near him who was walking slowly along. It · was about six-fifteen. 'You always get hard on money business: he said. 'But it's just as well, sometimes.' 'Yes, you can say that, KoIlie,' she replied. 'You who

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S. HENRY CORDOR

work for house builders know that when one house is finished, it can be very hard for you to get a job. Sometimes you have no work for three months. That's why 1 try to save money: 'Ay, Sonie, you're quite right usually: Marwu looked at the children. 'Kollie, you know the doctor is good in the hospital ?' Kollie, who was in front, turned around to face his wife. 'What do you say ?' 'Oh, nero, 1 just asked if you know the doctor there.' 'But why do you ask that question ?' 'Well,' she said, 'I think this is my end now, Kollie; 1 always had trouble in having babies. Sometimes I nearly lost my life - but this one is too much for me; I know it now: Marwu paused and gave a helping hand to the little girl who was still walking slowly. 'Anyway, 1 look to God; I know 1 never offended him.' She ended her statement in tears. Marwu, now in her thirties and completely exhausted from childbirth, was wor­ ried about what lay ahead of her in hospital. Kollie stopped and looked back again into her face. There had been men and women passing by them on the road who seemed not to care about their trouble at all. Kollie knew that in African towns or villages, no one would have committed such an act. But he realized that he and his family missed this traditional life when they came to the city, where they felt lonesome among so great a popula­ tion. 'I am only worried if there is any good doctor on duty tonight,' said Kollie. For the past three months, there had not been regularly assigned qualified doctors to this medical centre except the doctor-in-charge, whose duties were more administrative than medical. Kollie had learned in town that the last doctor, a European from East Africa, Edinburgh trained, had just been dismissed for not treating the daughter of the Prime Minister first even though she was the last of the twenty women admitted that night. Kollie arrived at the hospital with his wife at about 6·45 that evening. They went to the back door, the most dilapidated part of the building, with faded paint and worn

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IN THE HOSPITAL cement and wood. Many people were there rushing in and out as was usual. 'Thank God the door is open,' Kollie said to himself. He looked behind and his eyes caught M arwu's. Kollie knew that the main entrance from the back yard was always locked and guards posted there because of the confusion in the past months. It was always closed at five in the after­ noon except on Sunday, when it was open almost all day long. 'Good evening,' Kollie greeted the doorkeeper. The' keeper was sitting down cross-legged, chatting with two girls, looking completely unconcerned about what went on at the door. 'Hello, sir,' the keeper replied to Kollie, after one of the girls had called his attention to the greeting; he rose un­ steadily and looked at Kollie questioningly. 'May we go in, please ? ' Kollie asked, while Marwu and the children stood behind the crowd of people at the door. 'No, sir, riot now,' said the keeper. 'It's not visiting time. Nobody can go in yet: The doorkeeper again stared at Kollie in an attempt to avoid the error his predecessor once made. The short blue necktie that hung on Kollie's neck like a rope on a dog's neck was something to make the keeper wonder a bit. He didn't want to refuse admission to any government official who might tum out the next day to be a high-ranking official; this was what his former co-worker had done and had lost his job. Kollie missed the chance; there was no taste of officialdom in his necktie, as the keeper noted, nor in any other part of his clothing. Kollie left the keeper's seat, pushed his way through the people, and drew Marwu to the door. Then he called the attention of the keeper to her illness and how her con­ dition was deteriorating all the time. 'Oh, whose wife is that ? Is this General Wilson's wife ? He said he was sending her tonight. Come in then,' said the doorkeeper. 'No,' Kollie said hesitantly, 'this is not her: 'Then whose wife is this l' the keeper asked. 'My wife,' Kollie said. 'Okay, wait a while:

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S. HENRY CORDOR

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r gretted sayi?g no to the keeper. She IS sIck ? Why dIdn't you tell me so ?' the keeper said; and opened the door to let in a nurse with two men. A ter some questions, Kollie and his group entered the

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hospItal. 'Kollie" what is happening here tonight ? Plenty of people are here, Marwu saId, as they walked into the maternity centre. ' ave you never come here before ? ' Kollie asked.

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1 have, but not at night time like this, Kollie: SOme people were rushing to get in while others came out . humedly. arwu noticed that some of the women going out had babIes, and were walking fast. think these are women running away to escape from pa mg the fees; Kollie said. 'But I'm not sure: How can they get away with that ?'

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'How ? You want to try it yourself ?' Kollie said, laugh­ ing. 'No, not me, Tanu. 1 can't do that:

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'I swear ' he said, tha we must if necessary pawn all : our belongI s ; our tnbe IS known for its integrity, honesty . and good SPInt: It was a long way from the door to the admission office . . m the hospItal, and Kollie and his wife and children walked on steadily.

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'Tanu, wait ! Wait ! ' Marwu shouted behind Kollie' 'What's wrong, Sonie ?' he asked, turning around quickly. There was no answer. To his surprise and dismay she had already sat down on the floor and was about to lie down there. 'Marwu, is that your stomach again ?' he asked once more. As KoIlie struggled to lift her up, a nurse passed by and saw them n the floor. She asked what was the matter. . Kolhe explamed as he stood over Marwu. The nurse brought the news to the senior midwife, Miss . Karen Washmgton, who came out after a few minutes.

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There w not much interrogation by the senior midwife. S e merely l structed that Marwu be taken to the examina­ tIOn room WIthout delay. Kollie accompanied them but the nurses stopped him at the door. He couldn't go in, they

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IN THE HOSPITAL

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said. But he stood right there, hoping that he might get in soon. Ten minutes later the examination room door opened, and - Miss Washington came out. 'What are you doing here ?' she asked. Kollie looked at her, and the midwife turned away from him and moved on. She had not noticed Kollie when she came O\lt to get Marwu for the examination. 'Me, 1 am the one who brought the woman you just carried inside: Kollie said. She looked back. 'That your wife ?' 'Yes, that's my woman.' Kollie kept his eyes fixed on Miss Washington, wondering what she would say next about his wife. 'What is your n ame ?' 'Kollie: 'Kollie ?' . 'Yes, Tanu Kollie, Sinkor, near the Cooper Clinic: 'But Kollie, why did you keep the woman until her . sick­ ness was so far advanced before you brought her to the hospital ?' Miss Washington asked. 'You people make trouble for yourselves. Look at the woman lying down now: Kollie listened very keenly; he knew he had nothing to say but stood silently listening to the midwife and imagin­ ing the severity of Marwu's condition. 'Okay, Kollie, wait a bit: she said again. 'Let me go and see her and tell you how things are coming on with your wife.' While Miss Washington went inside, Kollie was told to carry the children into the Visitors' Room. He came back quickly. The senior midwife returned. 'You know what, Kollie ? We'll assign a nurse and some aides to your wife until the doctors are ready for her to· morrow. You hear ? ' 'Okay, I'll take the children home now and come back tomorrow: he told her gratefully. The next day when Kollie arrived at the hospital,

all

he was told was that Marwu was lying in the Operation Room of the Obstetricial Department and that the doctors were

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S. HENRY CORDOR

completing their final examination. The news turned his eyes red immediately. He wondered why the nurses had to tell him all that about his wife. The nurses disappeared after passing this information to Kollie. About a quarter of an hour later, Kollie was still stand­ ing at the door waiting to know if he could see his wife. He tried to pick up the slightest sound from inside. The hospital was quiet, so quiet that he thought one could hardly believe people were inside it. Later he was told that his wife was lying down and that the gynaecologists were figuring out whether to use a Caesarean operation or not. Marwu had contracted gastio-enteritis during the latter part of her pregnancy; the doctor's examination also revealed �astrorr agia. K?llie could not understand why every par­ ticle of mformatIon on Marwu had to be given in exaggerated terms. He couldn't believe Marwu had so much wrong and could still live. Was she dead now ? A nurse's aide came out to escort him to the Visitors' Room. There he sat meditating on his wife's condition. The Visitors' Room was full of visitors and patients. Kollie looked around and saw people he knew, but he could not join them for any lengthy conversation. His mind wandered whenever

?

he talked with anyone in the room. Suddenly, Miss Washington, the tall and slim senior mid­ wife, dressed in her blue uniform, her eyes shining, ap­ peared before Kollie. He had left the Visitors' Room to go down the corridor towards the Children's Department with a paper in his left hand. He encountered the midwife in the h �llway. The seriousness he noted on her face frightened him, for he thought she had a message for him. 'Hello,' she greeted Kollie.

'Good morning, Sister,' he promptly answered. Kollie tried to be cordial as well as serious.

'Are you the husband of Madam Sonie Marwu Kollie, the pregnant woman brought in here yesterday ?' she asked. 'Yes,' Kollie replied. His heart leaped when his wife's nam� was m�ntioned. 'You talked to me yesterday.' MISS Washmgton looked into his face. 'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I remember you now; we deal with so many people that it is hard for us to remember them all that quickly, you know. Kollie, the doctor wants to see you.'

I \

, \

'Just now ?' The midwife smiled and told him that it was a normal call which he had to attend, especially as he was doing nothing at the moment. She left Kollie and he returned to the Visitors' Room to get his handbag. As Kollie headed for the doctor's office, he recalled past experiences with Marwu. He remembered that his stout, short and timid wife, who was having her fourth child, had undergone an operation during the second delivery and her first nearly resulted in a miscarriage, though the last one prior to this was done very successfully by a private midwife. He had a clear picture of her medical history. His other three women had divorced him and it was now Marwu alone on whom he had to depend. He walked into the air-conditioned office of the doctor in charge of the National Maternity Hospital and greeted him. He sat down with his hands folded, wondering which aspect of Marwu's case was going to be discussed. The office was cold but Kollie felt a cold sweat going through his shirt. His lips were tightly closed as if he would never talk again in his life, but his ears were attentive. The doctor, who had been writing, turned to Kollie. 'Can you read and write ?' the doctor asked.

'Yes, doctor, 1 can try,' he replied. The doctor put two sheets of paper on the desk before

Kollie, one red and the other blue. Kollie looked at them care­ fully without taking them. 'Doctor, is that my wife's death certificate l' Kollie asked, looking at the red paper. The doctor laughed. 'You don't know what's on the papers, Mr Kollie ? Read and see,' he said. Kollie's hand moved tremulously towards the desk. His fingers fumbled with the two papers. He coughed nervously and picked up the red one first. 'Oh, doctor, I see,' he said. 'You think every red paper means a death slip ? Or that your wife might need such a slip if surgery is to be per­ formed ? Those are questionnaires, forms you will fill out to give us more information about yourself, your employment. wages, address, and so on.' . Some nurses entered and stood by the doctor.

88

IN THE HOSPITAL

S. HENRY CORDOR 'Mr KolIie ?' 'Yes, Doctor.'

'You work for a government office ? The question is on the form but I'd better ask you now, anyway.' 'No, sir, 1 am a builder, private employee in a construc­ tion corporation.' 'Well, then you have to pay some money; you hear that ?' No response; instead, silence. Kollie sighed. He became speechless and sat looking at various parts of the office. The question was a blow to him. Where could he get the money from ? 'Well, doctor, 1 will try, but money palaver is hard on me this time: KolIie said finally.

'Hard on you ? But your wife is here,' said the doctor. Kollie felt like saying, 'And so what ?' He thought for a few seconds but it made no difference. He hoped his bossman might loan him a small sum of money to make part-payment for Marwu to go home while he tried to pay the balance later. Kollie could not breathe heartily until he left the office of the doctor-in-charge. He was still full of anxiety about the future of his wife. The doctor had told him to fill out some forms which he thought were death-slips to sign for his wife. He knew that a person had to sign a death-slip for any

patient who had been carried in the the hospital needing an operation. He had been told also by some people in town that whenever the slip was requested, death could not be ruled out.

After the explanation, his hands were still trembling as he wrote, and a nurse had to be assigned to him as if he himself were a sick person. Kollie thanked the nurse and left the office, having caused much amusement to the doctor and the nurses there. The doctor had told him to go home and not worry too much about his wife; they would take care of her, but he should return the next day for further information. 'I am not happy yet: he told himself. 'I have not seen Sonie yet.' He had not received any personal message from her, but Miss Washington, who had now become Kolliels friend, whom he greeted any time he went to the hospital, assured him Marwu was being well cared for there. At noon on the following day, Kollie's negotiation for a

loan reached a climax. The sweat all over his face in the hot African sunshine created sympathy for him� He had to find two persons to sign as bondsmen before his bossman would lend him money to pay for Marwu's medical services. at the National Maternity Hospital. In fact, Kollie only needed two employees to sign for him. He was known all over the working site of the huge building, a magnificent political appy as party mansion, where he was employ . He felt he met some friendly colleagues who SIgned for hIm. Right away, he took a taxi-cab and rushed to the hospital.

�

�

'Whole three moon, no money for me: Kollie said sadly to himself. 'I am too tired now.' He really felt tired after

walking around the whole day. At the door of the nurse's office, Miss Washington ran into Kollie and he halted abruptly before her. 'Kollie, your woman has delivered: she said breathlessly. But he said nothing; he felt that this news was insufficient to create an entirely happy atmosphere. However, Miss

Washington thought that such a message would please Kollie very much. After a moment, he realized that the news that Marwu had delivered had indeed made him happy. He retired to the Visitors' Room after she left him, and . began to perspire as once more he saw an old acquamtance in the room. Miss Washington shortly returned to Kollie, smiled beautifully at him as he rose from his seat. 'Kollie, your troubles are over now: she said. 'Marwu has delivered a girl child; she and the baby are fine.' 'Thank you very much, Miss Washington: he said, smiling. 'The doctors avoided the operation; we managed it somehow, Kollie.'

'Really ?' Tm telling you the truth, man.' 'Ay, Ma Washington, thank you again: 'That's all right, Kollie.' . The senior midwife directed two midwives to take him

to his wife's room. He walked behind them to the ward down the hallway and saw Marwu lying down. It w,as the first time he had seen her since she had been admItted a few days ago. He was by the door when he began to gaze at her in the last bed. They walked to her bed.

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'Marwu ? ' he called. 'Marwu ? Sonie ? ' She did not answer him . Kollie walked closer to the bed and noted she was sleeping The nurses assigned to that ward refused to allow him t� wake her up; they said the doctor had instructed them to let �er sleep so,;!ndly be�ause she had just undergone some . hornble and paInful IncIdents. Kollie agreed without argu­ m nt though he had wanted to talk with Marwu. � , I II come back this evening,' he told the nurses. W hen Kollie left the maternity centre, he felt much relieved, but he n.oted that he could not describe his baby. He had not seen It, and he was puzzled why the baby had been separ­ ated from the mother so soon after delivery. It was the first . ti�e he had not seen any of his babies immediately after dehv�ry. Marwu had delivered once in a hospital, but it was In the country where the baby and the mother were in the same room, though not in the same bed. Here his wife's baby. ha� been stationed in the Baby Pool, a huge place in the hospItal where all babies, dead or alive, go to await their parents. T�e Bab� �ool was right under the left wing of the hospItal bUIlding, facing the Laundry Department. It was the last place · to go when a man collected his wife who had . ?ehvered there. The day they take the babies from the Pool IS usually t�e first tim � that. some mothers, like Marwu, lay eyes �:m theIr own babIes. SIck mothers particularly are not permItted to handle their babies. Marwu was sick and had been told that 'sick mothers don't play with their babies in the hospital.' On the day Marwu was to receive her baby from the Pool Kollie made certain he reported to the hospital with th� �lothes for his child because he was told that clothes used In the Pool do not leave the hospital. 'Marwu, fix the baby clothes good,' Kollie said to his . �fe. They were standing at the 'Baby Door' of the Pool; It was a doo� that looked very much like a window but was . WIder and bIgger than a window, through which all babies had to pass. 'Ay, man, what are they doing now l' Kollie asked, looking around.

IN THE HOSPITAL 'KoIlie,

91

be patient,' Marwu said. 'This i s the last stage, you

know. ' Kollie was anxious; so was Marwu, but his anxiety seemed greater than hers. They waited for about half . an hour. There were other women also waiting. Then somebody told Kollie that the midwives were looking for his baby in the Pool. Was that true ? Looking among the great number of infants there ? 'Just wait a little longer,' said Marwu. The baby was still in the wheelbasket when it was brought to them, and Kollie looked at it very carefully. He looked sceptical about the features of the baby given them. As the midwife laid it in Marwu's arms, he studied it seriously, and the nurses and midwives looked at him curiously. Nobody spoke. 'Marwu, is this your baby ?' Kollie asked as they moved away from the Pool and set off for home. Marwu laughed and looked around to see if any of the nurses and �idwives were near them. Miss Washington , who was escorting them had just left and returned after they passed the nurse's office. 'Kollie, why do you ask this question ?' 'Oh me, didn't you hear about the huge number of babies

in the Pool l' He paused and looked at the baby carefully. 'Do you think the one they gave us is our own l' he asked. 'Are you asking me ?' said Marwu. 'Yes, who else ?' Kollie's mind ran to stories he had heard some time ago that in big maternity hospitals babies were grouped to­ gether without proper labelling and then they would be given -to the wrong mothers by the midwives. But what he felt really disappointed about was the sex of the child. He had wanted a boy child and he had not got it. He told himself that an exchange might have been made in the Pool; some­ body might have taken a son and given him a daughter instead. He said he knew that kind of thing had happened in some maternity centres ; people, particularly wealthy men, would pay a huge sum of money to get a boy child should their wives fail to produce male babies. However, Kollie

S. HENRY CORDOR T H E E YES

tried to believe Miss Washington who had first told him that Marwu had delivered a girl child. But couldn't she be part of a conspiracy ? Who could tell ? Kollie looked at Marwu again. Marwu fixed the baby clothes nicely again after he had loosened some part of

Camara Laye Translated from the French by Una Maclean

the dress. 'We'd better take this one, Kollie,' she said. 'This is what God gave us.' 'You could say this is what the hospital gave us: Kollie said.

Camara Laye was born in Kouroussa, Guinea, in 1928. The events of his childhood and adolescence were re­ corded in his autobiography, The African Child (L'Enfant nair), published in 1953. The following year, Laye pub­ lished The Radiance of the King (Le Regard du roi), which many critics regard as the most significant novel to appear from Francophone Africa. A third work, A Dream of Africa (Dramouss), published in 1966, resulted in Laye's involuntary exile to Senegal where he has lived ever since. Currently Mr Laye is working on a novel, based on his experiences as a writer living in exile. 'The Eyes of the Statue' ('Les yeux de la statue') was originally published in Presence Africaine in 1957. The translation appeared in Black Orpheus, NO. 5.

Marwu laughed. 'But, Tanu, this is the modern way now, the new way of doing things. All the things we used to do have been changed by the white man.' 'I know that,' said Kollie. 'In our African villages and towns, babies and mothers are not separated from one another. Deliveries are usually 'with one woman at a time and no more.' While outside, waiting for a taxi-cab, Kollie still looked a bit sceptical but appeared to be in a different mood now.

She stopped walking for a moment - ever since she set out she had been feeling as though she had earned a moment's rest - and she took stock of her surroundings. From the top of the hill on which she stood she saw spread out before her

He had smiled a few minutes ago; he had also looked at Marwu's lappa suit and he thought it looked very mu�h like what Marwu had worn when she graduated from the lIteracy class where she learned how to read and write simple English. 'That's all right, Marwu. Maybe this is ours, but

OF T H E STATUE

a great expanse of country. Far away in the distance was a town or rather the remains

I don't

of a town, for there was no trace of movement to be seen near it, none of the signs of activity which would suggest the presence of a town. Perhaps it was merely distance which hid from her sight all the comings and goings, and

know.' 'I should know, shouldn't I ?' 'Okay;' Kollie said. 'Let's go home.' He glanced at Marwu. 'Anything wrong, Tanu ?' Marwu asked Kollie. 'No, what more ?' he replied. 'What do you want ?' 'Thank God 1 am safe again ! ' Sonie Marwu exclaimed.

possibly once within the town she would be borne along on the urgent flood of activity. Perhaps. 'From this distance anything is possible: she was sur­ prised to hear herself say aloud. She mused on how, from such a vast distance, it seere� still as though anything could happen, and she fervently believed that if any changes were to take place they would occur in the intervals when the town was hidden by the trees . and undergrowth. There had been many of these intervals and they were nearly always such very long intervals, so long that it was

! '

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CAMARA LAYE

THE EYES OF THE STATUE

now by no means certain that she was approaching the town by the most direct route, for there was absolutely noth­ ing to guide her and she had to struggle continually against the intertwining branches and tangled thorns and pick her way around a maze of swamps. She had tried very hard to cross the swamps but all she had succeeded in doing was getting her shoes and the hem of her skirt soaking wet and she had been obliged to retrace her steps hurriedly, so treacherous was the surface of the ground. She couldn't really see the town and she wasn't going straight towards it except for the rare moments when she topped a rise. There the ground was sparsely planted with broom and heath and she was far above the thickly wooded depths of the valleys. But no sooner had she finished scram­ bling up the hills than she had to plunge once more into the bushes and try to force her way through the impenetrable undergrowth where everything was in her way, cutting off her view and making her walk painful and dangerous again. 'Perhaps I really ought to go back,' she said to herself; and certainly that would have been the most sensible thing to do. But in fact she didn't slacken her pace in the least, as though something away over there was calling to her, as though the distant town were calling. But how could an empty town summon her. A silent deserted town ! For the closer she came to it the more she felt that it must really be a deserted city, a ruined city in fact. The height of the bushes and the dense tangled undergrowth about her feet convinced her. If the town had still been inhabited, even by a few people, its surroundings would never have fallen into the confusion through which she had been wandering around for hours; surely she would have found, instead of this tangled jungle, the orderly outskirts of which other towns could boast. But here there were neither

was no denying that it was grossly irrational. ' At any rate the urge must have been there for a very long time, as she could tell from the tiredness of her limbs and moreover it was still very close. Couldn't she feel it brimming up within her, pressing on her breast with each eager breath she drew. Then all of a sudden she realized that she was face to face with it. 'The urge is me,' she cried. She proclaimed it defiantly but without knowing what she was defying, and triumphantly although unaware of her opponent. Whom had she defied, and what cou.ld s e be . triumphing over ? It was not simply that she was IdentIfymg herself with the strange compulsion in order to get to know more of it and of herself. She was obliged to admit that the urge was indefinable, as her own being for ever escaped

roads nor paths ; everything betokened disorder and decay. Yet once more she wondered whatever forced her to con­ tinue her walk, but she could find no reply. She was fol­ lowing an irresistible urge. She would have been hard put to it to say how this impulse had arisen or indeed to decide just how long she had been obeying it. And perhaps it was the case that if only she followed the impulse for long enough she would no longer be capable of defying it, although there

95

�

definition. After one final struggle with the branches and obstacles, and after skirting one more morass, she suddenly emerged in front of the city, or what remained of it. It was really only the traces of a town, no more than the traces, and in fact just what she had feared to find ever since she set out, but so sad, so desolate, she could never have imagined such desolation. Scarcely anything but rough heaps of walls remained. The porticoes were crumbling and most of the roofs had collapsed; only a column here or a fragme�t of a waH there proclaimed the former splendour of the penstyles. As for the remaining buildings, they seemed to waver un­ certainly, as though on the very point �f tumbling. Trees

had thrust their branches through broken wmdows, great tufts of weeds pushed upwards the blocks and the mar le slabs, the statues had fallen from their niches, all was rumed and burst asunder.

�

'I wonder why these remains seem so different from the forests and bush I have come through already ?' she said to . herself. There was no difference except for the desolation a�d loss rendered all the more poignant by the contrast WIth wh t had once been. 'What am I searching for here ?' she asked

�

herself once more. 'I ought never to have come: . " Many people used to come here once;' said an old man who appeared out of the ruins. . , 'Many people ?' she said. 'I have not seen a smgle soul.

CAMARA LAYE

THE EYES OF THE STATUE

'Nobody has been here for a very long time: said the old man. 'But there was a time when crowds of people visited the ruins. Is that what you have come for ?' 'I was coming towards the city.' 'It certainly was a great city once. But you have arrived too late. Surely you must have been delayed on the road.' 'I .should not have been so late . but for my battles with the trees and undergrowth and all my detours around the swamps. If only they hadn't held me . back . . .' 'You should have come by the direct route.' The direct route ?' she exclaimed. 'You cannot have any idea of the wilderness round this place.' 'All right, all right: he said. 'I do have some idea of it. As a matter of fact when I saw that people had stopped coming, I guessed how it was. Perhaps there isn't any road left r There isn't even a bush path ! ' 'What a pity: he said. 'It was such a fine town, the most beautiful city in all the continent.' 'And now, what is it ?' she said. 'What is it ?' he replied dismally. With his stick he began to mow down the nettles which rose thick and menacing about them. 'Look at this,' he said. She saw, in the midst of the nettles a fallen statue, green with moss, a humiliated statue. It cast upon her a dead, grey glance. Presently she became aware that the look was not really dead, only blind, as the eyes were without pupils, and it was in fact a living gaze, as alive as a look could be. A cry came from it, an appealing cry. Was the statue bewailing its loneliness and neglect ? The lips drooped piti­ ably 'Who is it ?' she asked. 'He was the ruler who lived in this place. His rooms can still be seen.' Why don't you set up the statue over there ?' she said. 'It would be better there than amongst all these nettles.' . fhat is what I wanted to do. As soon as the statue fell from its alcove I wanted to put it back, but I simply hadn't the strength. These stone sculptures are terribly heavy.' '} know: she replied, 'and after all it is merely a stone sculpture.'

But was it merely carved stone ? Could sculptured stone have cast upon her such a piercing glance ? Perhaps, then, it wasn't mere stone. And even if it were nothing more than mere stone, the fact remained that for all the nettles and moss and the vagaries of fortune which it had endured, this stone would still outlast man's life. No, it could not be mere stone. And with this sort of distress in its look, this cry of distress . _ . 'Would you care to visit his rooms 7' asked the old man. 'Yes, take me there: she answered. 'Pay particular attention to the columns: he told her. 'No doubt there is only one hall left here now, but when you consider the number of broken and fallen columns it does look as though there used to be at least ten halls.' With the end of his stick he pointed out the marble stumps and debris of broken slabs buried in the grass. 'This gateway must have been exceedingly high: he said, gazing upwards. 'It can't have been higher than the palace, surely: she said. 'How can we tell ? I have never seen it any more than you have. By the time I arrived here it had already fallen into the grass; but those who were here before my time declared that it was an astonishing entrance. If you could put all this debris together again I dare say you would get a surprisef But who could tackle such a task ?' He shrugged his shoulders and continued : 'You would need to be a giant, to have the hands and the strength of a giant.' 'Do you really believe that a giant . . .' 'No: he replied. 'Only the ruler himself, who had it erected, could do it. He could certainly manage it.' She gazed at the niches where great tufts of grass had been bold enough to replace the statues. There was one space;:, larger than all the rest, where the weeds grew particularly ostentatiously, like a flaming torch. That is the niche, over there, where he used to stand before his fall among the nettles: he remarked. 'I see: she said. 'But now there is nothing left but wild grass and the memory of his agony.' 'He used to find this city and his palace trying enough. He personally supervised the building of the entire place. He mtended this town to be the biggest and this palace the D

M.M.A.S.

97

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CAMARA

LAYE

highest. He wanted them built to his own scale. Now he is dead his heart utterly broken .' . 'B�t could he have died any other way ?' . . . 'No I suppose he carried his own death WIthm him, hke us all But he had to carry the fate of a felled Goliath. ' . By this time they had reached the foot of a S!aIrCaSe and he pointed out a little door at the end of the comdor on

:

the left. . the old porter's 'That is where I live: he told her. , It IS . lodge. I suppose I could have found somewhere a lIttle more spacious and less damp, but after all, I am not much more than a cartetaker. In fact, a guide is only a caretaker.' So saying, he began to make his way painfully up the steps. He was a decrepit old man. 'You are looking at me ? I know I'm not much better than the palace I All this will crumble down one day. Soon all this will crumble down on my head and it won't be a great loss ! But perhaps I shall crumble before the palace.' 'The palace is older;' she said. , . . 'Yes, but it is more robust. They don t bUIld lIke that nowadays.' 'What have you been saying ?' she demanded. 'you are not stone ! Why compare your body to a palace ? : 'Did I compare myself to a palace ? I don't think so. My body is certainly no palace, not even a ruined one. Perhaps it is like the porter's lodge where I live, and perhaps I w?s wrong to call it damp and dark, perhaps I should have saId nothing about it. But I must pause for breath. These stairs . At my age no one likes climbing stai� .' . And he wheezed noisily, pressing hIS hand over his heart as though to subdue its frantic beating. . . . 'Let us go: he said at last, 'up the few remalI� mg s�eps ., They climbed a little higher and reached a landi � g ,,:th a great door opening off it, a door half wrenched from Its hmges. 'Here are the rooms: he said. She saw an immense apartment, frightfully dilapidated. e e rafters open to The roof had partly collapsed, leaving . sky. Daylight streamed in upon the debrIS of tiles and rubbIsh strewn upon the floor. But n�thing �oul� take from the chamber its harmonious proportIons, WIth Its marble panels, its tapestry and paintings, the bold surge of its columns, and

�

0

th� deep

THE EYES OF THE STATUE

99

alcoves between them. It was all still beautiful, in spite of being three-quarters ruined. The torn and rotten tapestries and the peeling paintings were still beautiful : so were the cracked stained-glass windows. And although the panelling was practically torn away, the grandeur of the original conception remained. 'Why have you let everything deteriorate so far ?' she asked. 'Why indeed ? But now it is too late to do anything about it.' 'Is it really too late ?' 'Now that the master is no longer here . . .' He tapped the panels with his stick. 'I don't know how the walls are still standing: he said. 'They may last a fair time yet. But the rain deluges through the roof and windows and loosens the stones. And then when the winter storms come ! It is those violent storms that destroy everything.'

He dislodged a scrap of mortar. 'Just look, it's no more than a bit of grey dust. I can't think why the blocks don't fall apart. The damp has destroyed everything. ' 'Was this the only room the master had ?' she asked. 'He had hundreds of them and all of them richly furnished . I've pushed the movable stuff into one of the smaller rooms which were less damaged.' He opened a door concealed in the panelling. 'Here is some of it: he said. , She beheld a jumble of carved furniture, ornaments, carpets and crockery. 'Gold dishes, please note. The master would eat off nothing but gold. And look at this. Here he is in his robes of state.' He pointed to a canvas where the face of the statue was POrtrayed. The eyes were marvellously expressive. They were so even in the statue, although the sculptor had given them no pupils, but here they were infinitely more expressiv e and the look which they gave was one of anguish. 'Is no one left near 'me ?' they seemed to ask. And the droop of the mou th replied, 'No one.' The man had known they would all forsake him, he had long foreseen it. Nevertheless she, she had come I

100

CAMARA LAYE

She had fought through the bush and she had wandered round the swamps. she had felt fatigue and despair overwhelming her, but she had triumphed over all these obstacles and she had come, she had come at last. Had he not guessed she would come ? Yet possibly this very foresight had but accen­ tuated the bitter line of his set lips. 'Yes: said those lips, 'someone will come, when all the world has ceased to call. But someone who will be unable to soothe my distress.' She swung round. This reproach was becoming unbearable, and not only this reproach, which made all her goodwill seem useless, but the cry of abandonment, the wild lonely appeal in his look. 'We can do nothing. nothing at all for him: the old man declared. And she replied : 'Is there ever anything we can do ? ' She sighed. In her innermost being she felt the anguish of this look; one might have thought it was she who cried, that the cry of loneliness welled from her own lonely heart. 'Perhaps you can do something: he said. 'You are still young. Although you may not be able to do anything for yourself, you might perhaps help others.' 'You know very well that I cannot even do that: she said. She seemed overwhelmed, as though she bore the ruins on her own shoulders. 'Are there still more rooms ?' she asked him. 'Lots of them. But it is getting late, the sun is sinking.' Daylight was fading fast. The light had become a soft, rosy glow, a light which was kinder to details, and in it the great room took on a new aspect. The paintings and panels regained a freshness which was far from theirs by right. This sudden glow was the gentlest of lights. But not even this ijght could calm a tormented heart. 'Come along: called the old man. 'Yes: she answered. She imagined that once she went out of this hall and its adjoining storeroom her heart would perhaps calm down. She thought that perhaps she might forget the great cry coming from the storeroom. Yes, if only she could get away from this palace, leave these ruins, surely she could forget it. But was not the cry inside herself ? 'The cry is within me: she exclaimed.

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'Stop thinking about it: advised the old man. 'If you hear' anything it's just because the silence has got on your nerves. Tomorrow you will hear nothing.' 'But it is a terrible cry: The swans have an awful cry too: he remarked. 'Swans ?' 'Yes, the swans. To look at them gliding over the water you might never believe it. Have you ever happened to hear th�m cry ? ut of course not, you are scarcely more than a child and WIth less sense than one, and you probably imagine that they sing. Listen, formerly tnere were lots of ,swans here, �ey were at the very gate of the palace. Sometimes the lake was covered with them like white blossoms. Visitors used. to throw scra�s to them. Once the tourists stopped commg, the swans died. No doubt mey had lost the habit of searching for food themselves and so they died. Very well, never, do you hear me, never, did I hear a single song coming from the pond.' 'W�y d� you h �ve to tell me all this 1 Have ever told you . believe m swan s song ? You didn't need to speak to me like that.' 'No, maybe I shouldn't have said it, or I should have said it less suddenly at least. I'm sorry. even believed in the swan's song myself once. You know how it is, am old and lonely an� I have got into the habit of talking to myself. I was talking to myself, then. I once believed that the lord of this palace, before he died, sang a swan song. But no, he cried out. He cried so loudly that . . .' 'Please tell me no more,' she begged. 'All right, I suppose we shouldn't think about all that. But let's go.' e carefully closed the storeroom door and they made therr way towards the exit. 'Did you mean to leave the door of the big room open l' she asked once they had reached the landing. ' 'It asn't been shut for a long time: he replied. 'Besides, .there IS nothing to fear. No one comes here now•' 'But came: He glanced at her.

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:1 keep wondering why you came: he said. 'Why did you l' How can I tell ?' she said.

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Her visit was futile. She had crossed a desert of trees, and bush and swamps. And why ? Had she come at the summoning of that anguished cry from the depth of the statue's and the picture's eyes ? What way was there of finding out ? And moreover it was an appeal to which she could not respond, an appeal beyond her power to satisfy. No, this impulse which had moved her to hasten towards the town had been mad from the start. 'I don't know why I came,' she repeated. 'You shouldn't take things to heart like that. These painters and carvers are so crafty, you know, they can make you realize things you would never have considered. Take that statue and the portrait, for instance. Have you noticed the look in the eyes ? We begin by wondering where they found such a look and eventually we realize they have taken it from ourselves; and these are the paradoxes they would be the first to laugh at. You should laugh too.' 'But these paradoxes, as you call them, which come from the depth of our being, what if we cannot find them there ?' 'What do you find within youl"gelf ?' he answered her. 'I have already told you : unbearable loneliness.' 'Yes,' he said, 'there is something of that in each one of ' us.

THE EYES OF THE STATUE

CAMARA LAYE

'But in me . . .' 'No, not more than in anyone else: he insisted. 'Don't imagine that others are any less alone. But who wants to admit that ? All the same, it is not an unendurable state of affairs. It is quite bearable in -fact. Solitude ! Listen, solitude isn't what you imagine. I don't want to run away from my solitude. It is the last desirable thing left me, it is my only wealth, a great treasure, an ultimate good.' 'Is he just saying that to comfort me ?' she wondered. 'But it is no consolation, a shared solitude can be no consola­ tion. The sharing only makes the solitude doubly lonely.' Aloud she said : That doesn't console me in the least.' 'I didn't think it would,' he replied. They had by now reached the foot of the staircase and the old man showed her the little corridor leading to his room. 'My lodge is here.' 'Yes, I know: she said. 'You've told me already.' 'But 1 haven't told you everything. 1 didn't say that my

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room is right beneath the staircase. When visitors used to climb up there in throngs they were walking over my lodge. Do you understand l' 'Yes.' 'No, you don't understand at all, y01,l don't realize that they were marching on my head, wiping their feet on my hair. I had plenty of hair in those days.' 'B ut they weren't really wiping their feet,' she said, 'they , 'Don't you think it was humiliating enough anyway 7' She did not know how to reply. The old man seemed slightly craz�d : some of what he said was very sensible but a lot of It was sheer nonsense. The solitude has gone to his head,' she told herself, and she looked at him afresh. He was certainly very old. There must be times when age and loneliness together . . . Aloud she remarked : 'I don't know.' And then, all of a sudden : 'What made you say that solitude is an ultimate good ?' 'How very young you are: was his only reply. 'You should never have come here.' He made off. towards his lodge, saying : 'I'm going to prepare a meal.' 'I shall rest here awhile: she said as she climbed the steps. 'Yes, do have a rest, you've certainly earned one. 1 shall call you when the food is ready.' She sat down and gazed at the evil weeds. The nettles were by far the most numerous and reminded her of the ocean. They , were like a great green sea which surged around the palace trying to drown it, and ultimately they wo d completely engulf it. What could mere stones do agaInst such a powerful wave ? A wave with the deceptive smoothness of velvety leaves, a wave which hid its poisons and its sorcery beneath a velvet touch. It seemed to her imagination that the wave was already rising. Or was It SImply the darkness 7 Was it night, which was burying the lowest steps 7 No, it was really the wave of nettles, im­ �rceptibly advancing in its assault upon the palace. A tran­ �ent attack, no doubt. Probably this sea of nettles had tides like the ocean. And perhaps it w.asn't merely a simple tide. Perhaps . . . She leapt to her feet. The tide was about her ankles. She . climbed several steps and the tide rose as quickly.

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CAMARA LAYE

THE EYES OF THE STATUE

'Caretaker I ' she screamed. But she could no longer see the porter's lodge. Perhaps the sea had already entered the room while she was sitting down. She couldn't be certain now whether it had a door which shut. Even suppose it did have, how could a door stop such a wave ? 'What is to become of me ?' she asked herself. She climbed a few more steps, but the tide continued to pursue her, it really was following her. She paused; perhaps jf she stopped the tide in its tum might stop rising. But instead it flowed right up to her, covering her shoes. Feverishly she resumed her upward flight and gained the landing opposite the doorway of the main hall. But to her horror she realized that the wave was there almost as soon. It was inches away. Must she

She only imagined she had shouted. At the second attempt she could not even pretend to her. self that she had shouted. She no longer even had the will to cry out. She realized that her terror was so extreme that she could never shout again. Nevertheless she continued to struggle hopelessly, she fought and struggled silently and in vain.

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And meanwhile the flood was steadily rising beyond her ankles and up her legs. Confident of its power it rose more . rapidly than ever. Then, whilst she was struggling and trying desperately to regain her voice, she suddenly caught sight of the statue. The sea of weeds had lifted it and was tossing it on its waves. She stopped struggling to watch it and at once she could see that its eyes were looking at her just as they had done when the old man had first thrust aside the nettles. It was the same look, the same cry of distress and bitter loneliness.

drown in those horrible weeds ? She rushed to open the storeroom door, only to find that the sea had beaten her and had borne everything away, literally washed off the face of the earth. There was no longer

any storeroom left I It had been engulfed beneath the flood of nettles, with its furniture and tapestrieS and dishes, and the portrait as well. Only the cry, the great cry of anguish reo mained, and it had become vaster and louder, more piercing and heartrending than ever. It swelled to fill the whole earth ! It seemed to her as though nothing could silence it any more and that whatever she did she could never escape. Her heart could never escape again. Yet at the same time she tried to bolt the door upon it as though in spite of all she knew she might evade it yet. But what could she escape to ? There was no way of escape left open, it was either the cry or the flood. She was a prey to this cry and in no time she would be the victim of the flood. She was trapped between two floods, the one which swallowed up the " storeroom ' and was lying in wait menacingly on its threshold, and the other one which had pursued her step by step up the stairs and across the great hall. She had no choice but to cast herself into one of these two floods which were soon to merge. Placed as she was, she could neither advance nor retreat. 'Caretaker ! ' she cried. But did she actually shriek ? No sound came from hel lips. Terror was throttling her; it had her by the throat.

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She longed to awake from her nightmare and she tried once more to call for help, but in vain. Must she really die alone beneath the flood of weeds, all alone ? She hid her face in her arms. A little later she felt a blow on her forehead and she felt as if her skull was bursting.

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THE FARMER' S L ETTER

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besides being a famous meeting-place with a long tradition. Thus many people were expected to attend. I will not describe Nuwa Sentongo the amount of decoration which the local and non-local residents undertook to colour the occasion or the commotion at the pre-arrangements. You may imagine these things, judg­ Nuwa Sentongo was born in Uganda in 1942. He received ing by the usual on such occasions. his BA in 1968 from Makerere University, where he was The leader had been bothered by the apparent apathy, active in the theatre. His short stories and poems have coupled with suspicion and uncertainty that prevailed in his been published in East African publications and reprinted nation. The general public did not know this feeling of the in a number of international anthologies. Mr Sentongo leader's because, needless to say, his . government usually gave atten�ed Indiana University for two years, earning an the impression that the situation was under control - except MA ill Folklore. He currently works as a mass-media that the police were quietly busy arresting innumerable tutor at Makerere University in Kampala, frequently criIninals and non-criminals; and in the court the lawyers directing and acting in theatre productions. His play, created the impression that the crimes in the nation were The Invisible Bond, is scheduled for publication by not committed by human beings by telling their clients to Heinemann Educational Books. 'The Farmer's Letter' was published originally in Dhana, for the Makerere Arts , plead not guilty. The three evils - apathy, suspicion and Festival in 1971. uncertainty - did not bypass the leader. He always claimed that he was not superl}uman, but his henchmen who wanted to create this impression, maintained he was. He Was so fed up with the praises of his colleagues and/or his non­ The leader of the nation was due to give a very important colleagues, that for once his youthful creativity grabbed speech that day. Nobody knew what had occasioned it but, him, and he decided to stage a surprise. He had not antici­ apparently, the leader had been in a jubilant mood for the pated the consequences of his action; for instance, he hadn't past few days and wanted to share his experiences with imagined that his action would cause panic and chaos. others; at least the majority of the people thought so. Besides, At the last moment, he decided to change the venue from he had already created the impression that his term of office the famous, popular confluence to a school, a rather famous Was simply an accumulation of speeches. Anyway, this school but not famous fDr political rallies and not easily particular occasion of speech exercise had been well popu­ accessible. He decided to go alone, unchauffeured, unsecuritied, larized by the news media. At the same time, the police joined and unretinued. Thus the school pupils (the school won't the bandwagon of announcers with a severe warning : be mentioned to avoid scandal or is it rumour 7) were surprised beyond repair when suddenly and stealthily somebody jived 'On the occasion of His Excellency'S ceremonial rally, on the stage in their dining-hall, open-shirt, uncombed hair we expect all of you to attend. But remember to lock and other qualities that normally go with unpreparedness, your houses when leaving. Car owners, remember to lock and declared that he was the leader of the nation and wanted your cars and don't leave tempting articles in your cars. : to talk to the students. The students quickly recognized him, The Kondos are known to be busy on such occasions.' ! and e:ccitedly sounded the drum. More pupils came to listen to therr leader and people around - this included teachers and Thus, the nation was in a mood of preparedness. For the people from the nearby market - came in to listen to their ceremonial rally, the leader chose a strategic venue, the confluence of the two most populated villages in the whole , leader. Therefore the leader suffered many interruptions in � speech from the late arrivals and from others who wanted nation; the two most trafficked highways meet in this place, to warn their friends, 'Did you lock your house ?', 'Have

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you locked your bike 7' One man was reminded by his friend 'I saw you carrying see you sitting here. Where matooke on your carrier. Now did you leave your matooke 7'

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'I left them outside, on the bike.' 'Wouldn't it be better for you to go and check if they're still there ?' And sure enough, the matooke had already dis­ , appeared. He was extremely lucky because his bicycle wasn't

stolen. He was suspicious of the man who had sounded the warning, but of course he had no proof. A man went out to check on his bicycle only to find the pump had been stolen, and another one found his bicycle stolen but the pump had either been left behind or had accidentally dropped from the bike. 'You're lucky you still have your bike.' 'Yes, have the bike, but the pump costs 4/- and I can't afford to buy one because I don't have any money at the moment. This bike is useless, don't you see ? It seems they realized there was no pressure. You see, all the tyres are flat.' 'I see they're flat, but you have the frame at least and can always repair the tubes.' I 'What're you talking about ? These tubes are all patches. You can't put patches on top of patches can you ? Besides I have no money to buy the gum.' 'Why don't you sell the bike to me 7 At least I can make use of my gum . . •1

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he fee s proud when he reads the speech he drafted, reported verbatlm - well, I mean word by word, that is, the full text; unedited. Since I decided to come alone, and in fact to change the venue, I had to leave the speech. However, I'm �ware that you expect me to say something sensible; that IS not to say that 1 can't say something sensible without a written speech. I will say something though I can't anticipate how you will take it, for I'm not sure that I know how I take it myself. Most of you are still pupils. Well, I see some old people in the audience. Maybe they're your teachers, parents and/or farmers. Anyway let me read you a

letter written by a farmer. 1 won't reveal his name, or his place of abode, or his address. I will read only those parts I regard as relevant. By the way, this letter was addressed to me as the leader of the nation. The parts I want to read are the following : 'Sir, I am a farmer who earns his living by tilling the soil. Twenty years ago I was very keen on growing coffee and I planted a lot of it. I used to think that when my coffee yielded, I would be very happy as I would be able to get some money to realize my needs. But woe is me and woe to all

successful farmers . These twenty years I've cherished my coffee with hope that it's my only salvation - and it has been. , Not that I know any new modem methods of farming or that I desire or care to know, even if I had the chance. ut this new development regarding farmers' security, sir, IS too much. Last year I sold all my harvest in one bunch, and came back home with a full pocket. I was happy because I knew then I would pay my graduated-tax, children's school 'I'm afraid I have no prepared speech to deliver on this , �, my porters' salaries and buy one or two clothes for my memorable occasion: began the leader who was now stand­ wife. But that very night I was attacked and all the money ing alone on the school stage, coolly and calculatedly facing aken by thugs. We were lucky to escape with minor his audience which included some members of the staff who , ffiJ unes. I reported the case to the police and they acted had managed to attend and had mixed with students. . UIckly. They arrested three suspects and called me to iden'There was a speech prepared for me: he went on, 'but . � ttfy them, which I did. But to my surprise, after one week, had to leave it behind, because my Private Secretary in­ the culprits were let free without even appearing before the sisted on being present if I used his speech; he wanted to . judge. When I went to complain to the police, they asked relate my manner of delivery and audience reaction and also �e o pay Shs 2000 /- if I wanted the culprits re-arrested. I find out which parts interested the audience most. He warned didn t ask what this money was to be used for but I went back me that if I delivered the speech he drafted he would bring 'home, borrowed the money and paid it to the police. They in a contingent of pressmen, including photographers, because 'ore-arrested the culprits. The purpose of this letter is to . . .� although they don't mention him as the author of the speech,

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NUWA SENTONGO

The leader hesitated, and let out a cough, after which he swallowed saliva and took out a clean white hanky to wipe his lips. His audience assumed that he had concluded his speech and they rushed on to the stage to congratulate him. They all wanted to be seen. They threw themselves on to him. Even when he fainted, they did not realize it. I will not describe what the leader looked like when he fainted; I mean you don't expect me to say such things about the leader : for instance you don't expect me to say that his eyes looked completely dead, or that saliva began to foam in his mouth or that his mouth was gaping or that I detected an unpleasant smell on him as if he had . . . Anyway, some kind person realized the gravity of the situa· tion and mounted a security operation. He pushed away the crowd and . laid the leader flat on the hard stage. Another person came up with the kindly idea that the leader should be carried into a small room and laid in a comfortable seat or bed. In the meantime the majority of the people had begun to run away because, apparently, they did not know what exactly had happened. When the need to carry him was realized, the responsibility fell on five people who had lingered behind. They too feared to carry him in case of any suspicion of an assassination attempt. They all feared to be victims. Thus the leader was dying there, unaided, unattended, unguarded until the farmer who wrote the letter braved the situation and carried the leader into the school dormitory. Meantime the Private Secretary wanted to consult with his master about the speech-business. He wanted to advise him (actually the Private Secretary would have preferred to call it instruct) what phrases or nouns or verbs to stress and how to pronounce certain things. He phoned the leader's house and was told the leader was not at home. Then he phoned the office, and the personal secretary (a woman) said the leader must be at home. Then he called the private club where they normally met, but there was no reply. He informed the Investigation Department who confessed to irresponsibility and ignorance. The Private Secretary concluded the leader must have disappeared. And since the leader could not pos­ sibly have disappeared as a matter of choice, then there was cause for alarm. The possibility of death could not be ruled out completely. Then the Private Secretary went in person

THE FARMER'S LETTER

III

to the leader's official residence and questioned His Excellency's ' wife. The wife too had no idea when her husband had dis­ appeared, nor had she yet felt his absence. After satisfying themselves that he was not available on any of his private lines, their panic increased. His bodyguards were still waiting for him at his residence; somehow, they had not seen him leaving. Soon a contingent of detectives and security men arrived, in a business-like manner. They satisfied themselves that he could not have been manhandled out of the house because there was no tnice of any suggestive marks. People had gathered at the place of the meeting where tight security had been provided. They were anxious to hear what new thing the leader had to say. Besides, they were used to the new political realities of the culture of speeches, one following another. It is no use mentioning the size of the crowd, because anybody can get such information, more realistically and professionally, from the press. Even the mood of the crowd, their reactions, response, etc., can always be found in press reports. But one thing was memor­ able : as the crowd was anxiously waiting for the leader, · more truckloads of security men arrived and surrounded the place. Before anybody could understand what was going on, tear gas was in the air. Whoever attempted to run away was beaten by the security men until all the people had to stay where they were. The situation called for calm, cal­ culated, intelligent patience. The Private Secretary had advised against any announce­ ment that the leader had disappeared. Thus even at the time When the crowd was being tear-gassed, the radio announced that the leader would be conducting his historic rally in a few moments. The announcement continued that the leader must be on his way to the rally. The farmer who wrote the letter laid the leader safely on a pupil's bed. Puzzled at what to do, he remembered a few first-aid hints. Thus he proceeded to undress the leader to allow fresh air to blow on his body. Meantime the headmaster phoned the police and explained the matter. Truckloads of policemen, army men, and detectives began to pour into the school. The school was immediately surrounded and the pupils detained in their buildings. The leader was soon dis­ Covered, in a vest and trousers halfway down his thighs, ex-

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NEWA SENTONGO

posing his pants. The only other person in the room was the farmer who wrote the letter. He was immediately arrested and taken by the police. The leader was taken in a security car to the main hospital where the security circus was repeated once more. Before the leader recovered full con­ sciousness, the farmer who wrote the letter, who was sup­ posed to have endured so. much and confessed to a big, well­ organized assassination plot was in an eternal sleep, never to see the light again.

A C A S E F O R I N H E R I T ANCE Pennia h A. Ogada

Penniah A. Ogada answered a request for biographical information about herself by replying, 'I am a member of the Luo tribe of Kenya. I am thirty years old. married, and a mother of three sons - seven, five, and two years old respectively. My husband is the Senior Maize Research .Officer with the Kenya Ministry of Agricult!lre. I teach , General Science at a government secondary school in Kitale where my husband is stationed: Mrs Ogada holds a BA in Foods and Nutrition from Simmons College in Boston. She has taught at Iowa State Univer­ sity at Ames. Of her writing, Mrs Ogada states, 'I fre­ quently respond to the social environment by scribbling something down: 'A Case for Inheritance' is published here for the first time.

Independence Day celebrations and Christmas both come during the month of December. But while Independence Day is a one-day public holiday, Christmas is understood to mean not a day, but a season of feasting and merry-making in Nyanza Province, Kenya. The season lasts from December I to January I inclusively. Each group of villagers has its own cause for feasting and as long as the feasting takes place within this particular period, it is generally referred to. as the Christmas feast - irrespective of the dates. It was, therefore, neither surprising nor unusual that the late Joji's clan planned their celebration to end the period of mourning during December. Besides, a time in December appropriately coincides with school vacation so that those who go to school are home as well as the vacationers who normally work and live in towns. To everyone in the home this was the great day that they aU had been waiting for. It was a happy occasion for all except ' Ana. She sat in her hut, motionless, with wet eyes and a bony, lifeless face, staring expressionlessly at the heap of Joji's clothes and personal belongings that she had brought home with her as required by custom. Until Achupa burst

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PENNIAH

A CASE FOR INHERITANCE

A. OGADA

into the hut, without even a knock at the door, Ana's whole world had existed within her mind. 'I just called in to say good morning and ask - how do you feel this morning l' Achupa explained. Ana hardly had time to respond before Achupa ran out to mind her duties in the kitchen, since she recognized the arrival of the head, Mzee, of the clan. He was a tall, grey-haired man in his late sixties. His form appeared statuesque from a distance as he approached with deliberate steps, loaded with determination and the assurance of who he was and what he stood for in the clan. He was clad in his military uniform proudly decorated with the medals earned in service during the Second World War. In spite of his outfit, he wore the traditional metal ear­ rings. A string around his neck that bore an old .dry hippo's tooth, and stood out singly, definitely looked incongruous with the uniform, but told everyone that he had once murdered someone violently - perhaps with justification. He was a true symbol of a hero of both worlds. Following, closely was the last and youngest of his four wives. She was barely as old as his last-born by the number one wife. She had to keep pace with him, as such a wife is not supposed to lead the way for a man and, as a matter of fact, she stopped each time he stopped to talk to anyone; she noted tones and the moods of those who talked with him although she never participated in any of the talking. He was duly met and greeted respectfully by the head of the home, in accordance with tradition. Finally, he was led into a room where he sat, with his wife sitting on the floor at his feet. He was soon to be joined by the other elders. Ana was once beautiful. Tall in stature, with protruding and solid buttocks, muscular legs, circular rings around her neck, just the right size gap between her white, well-planted upper front teeth, and naturally, she was also well-educated enough to have qualified to marry JojL She had always been the idol of the young wives and girls of the home. With all these qualities to her credit, no one really understood why her father never accepted the dowry payment for her. When­ ever Ana's father spoke of his daughter's happiness in marriage as being his only primary concern, everyone felt that he was talking of luxury. Unable to understand and accept Ana's father's stand, most people brushed the dowry

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question aside and simply referred to Ana's father as 'a Christian fanatic'. Ana's arrival from the city with her two sons the previous day had been greeted with a sense of relief by the elders in the home. It was felt that this was a sign that she could, at least, comply with requests from the home about matters of high importance. They sincerely hoped, too, that she had fully understood the implications of their letters, especially the requests for her to bring back the children to their late father's burial place. To the children, it was just another occasion to visit grandparents, this time without their dear father. But to Ana, this was perhaps the loneliest time of her life. She had to face her hut, for the first time alone, without Joji. She had many thoughts crossing her mind; wondering whether the home still respected, trusted and accepted her without Joji. She wondered how she would handle the in­ evitable questions associated with the official end of the mourning period. Was she still regarded as a member of the home with a social placement and role to play ? She so badly needed someone to whisper to, someone who could gossip with her and help her understand the mood of the home. But she found no immediate way to bridge the communication gap created not by her personality, but by her education and socia-economic placement and the fact that she worked away from home. She had often tried hard to fight and hold back her tears of loneliness and desperation, but whenever she found herself alone - like she did on this particular day - she simply _ let them flow freely. She had grown thin and old during her three-month period of loneliness and worries, but never failed in her duties to look after her sons and keep her office job. Ana soon noticed a tussle outside; it was her step-brothers­ in-law, struggling with a young, fattened steer which was to be slaughtered for the occasion. Meanwhile, the elders con­ tinued to arrive in their ranks, each one carrying his own , stool and straw for drinking. Within a short time, all the elders were gathered in Ana's mother-in-Iaw's living-room, ,respectably seated with a pot of local brew conveniently placed in their midst. Finally, they asked all tiheir companion -wives to leave them alone and go to the kitchen and mind their cooking duties. Ana, still in her hut, was tense with her thin, wet face sunken in her palms, when Achupa, the

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PENNIAH A. OGADA

messenger, walked in briskly. 'I have been sent to say that we should go to your mother­ in-law's hut: she announced. The announcement simply confirmed what Ana: had thought all along. She changed her dress, straightened her head­ kerchief, wiped her face and was soon ready to walk out with the messenger. All the murmuring and muttering stopped when the two of them walked in. The elders, most of whom were cousins of Ana's father-in-law, looked straight at her as they would not ordinarily be expected to. She was given one of the only two se;lts placed along the wall directly opposite the Mzee, head of the clan. Her heart pounded faster and louder. As far as she could remember, this was only the second such day in her life ! The first was when she had had to face her father and uncles to declare before them that she had accepted to marry jojL Now that joji was gone, she prayed and hoped that she would only open her mouth when she had to and only say what she thought was right and say it with respect before the elders. The visiting women of the clan, While competing with one another to complete their allotted cooking tasks in time, could not contain their curiosity to know who the chosen man was. 'Who, who did you say 7' 'Sh - , it's John, they say it's

john.'

At this point, Asande, the oldest and most custom-abiding of this group, raised her eyebrows and looked up at the others in surprise. 'How come 7 How can his mother agree to such an idea when john is not even married; he hasn't even got a wife of his own ! ! ' she complained enviously. 'Sh - , 1 just overheard, I'm not even sure of it: Magdalena quickly interjected. 'But perhaps it's right, john being her only child now, and knowing, my dear, what one's co-wives could do to one's household and position in polygamous homes. It is important that John's mother retains her number one wife position, which she can only do if Ana and her boys stay with her in the family. Besides, she needs Ana's continued support: Asande concluded with a sense of indifference.

A CASE FOR INHERITANCE

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In the living-room, the Mzee finally broke the momentary but intense silence that had prevailed. He was the grey haired old man and natural head of this large family tree. As he cleared his voice to call for attention and indicate that he was ready to start business, everyone looked up and put down their drinking-straws. 'Our daughter, the girl from the lake shore: he called fondly to catch Ana's attention and emotionally remind her of the ethnic customs that bound all of them together, irres­ pective of her education and socio-economic placement. 'No doubt you know why we are gathered here; we have been trying to communicate with you through your companion, Achupa. As you understand, we are greatly concerned about our dead son, your late husband. We are concerned about his property, children, and natura:lly about you. As you know, he was the first-born son of the home; it is important for all of us that everything be normalized after his death, as failure to do so would affect others in the home. We are fortunate in that he left us with two sons of whom the elder should be well brought up to take his place of leadership. As is customary, we have been waiting for you to select and approach one of your brothers-in-law, but instead, your com­ panion tells us that you do not even wish to talk about the matter as you have no such intentions. Could you tell us in person and explain your reasons ?' 'It is true as you say, Mzee, that I have not been willing to discuss this matter. It is not that I want to disobey the wishes of the elders nor is it that I look down upon the clan's young men; most definitely, it is not that I want to run away with your son's possessions and children. I only feel that it is a bit too soon for me to consider this matter. I need more time to think and have things settle down more in my mind: Ana implored. 'We do not agree with you. Why, look at how much you are crying for your late husband, look how thin you have grown, and the children, they too must be feeling very in­ secure without their father. All these things will not help you forget joji and settle down in your mind too easily. We would like you to accept john, joji's own younger brother, as your new husband. He has assured us that he will look after both the children and you very well. We were glad when

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he accepte this request because we realize how you young, educated gIrls of these days fail to appreciate being inherited by uneducated men: Mzee concluded with a deep sense of satisfaction. 'But, Mzee, I still need more time to think about this ' Ana implored desperately. 'Besides, I have helped look afte John so far and I sti!l want hi � to continue with his schooling. What of my children ? It WIll take them a long time, too, to accept John as a father - instead of the uncle he has been to them so far.' 'But my child: Mzee interjected impatiently, 'can't you see that we all agree with you about the welfare of the children ? They are our main concern in insisting that you say "yes" and welcome John into his brother's house as soon as possible. Even as we are talking, the symbolic steer is already slaughtered; the millet brew is all ready and well­ prepared; and the log of wood is ready and dry for John to light the fire in the manner taught by our forefathers. He is ready to enter his brother's house tonight at our recom­ mendation: he concluded, not expecting to be answered back. At this point Ana's mother-in-law, who until now had been sitting quietly in the comer, overtaken by her emotions, r�ognized th� meaning in Ana's determined facial expres­ SIon and gettIng up; started wailing for her deceased son once more. To her, Ana's resistance against tradition meant material loss as well as loss of social position. To face this �otal loss became too much for her to bear. It appeared as If the whole room was once more gripped by news of another death in the family. She crossed the floor to sit at the feet of her daughter-in-law as is never done. As she wailed, she assured Ana of her continued love for her and her grand­ children. 'Let Joh� take 0:ve� in our house, my child. Joji is gone, but John IS here; It IS a matter of tradition, normalization of home events. My child, let it be, let it be: she continued to wail. 'Imagine what you would be doing to me, your ol� mama, to the chil en and to the whole home ! Oh, my child, have mercy, let It be, do not deny me in my oId age.' When her mother-in-law had calmed down, Ana had made up her mind about her response to the elders and her mother-in-law.

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A CASE FOR INHERrrANCE

A. OGADA

'Mzee: she said, directing her response to the head of the family, 'I have thought much about this matter and the following is all that I can say for now : I still love John, just as much as I loved him when Joji was alive, but I cannot love him as a husband. I promise before everyone here that I will love and care for my mother-in-law, just as much as we did when her son was alive; I will continue to bring her grandchildren home as before. I will continue to support John through school and clothe him as long as I still have my job. But as for your desires, I need more time.' With these last words Ana took leave of them, got herself ready and drove off with her children heading back to Nairobi. As she drove off, some people reluctantly waved them good­ bye, but some, disbelieving their eyes, just stood agape. One of the elders, knoWll as a light-hearted, practical joker, man­ aged to say what must ,have summed up everybody's feelings

at this point. 'Well,' he said, 'Ana and her children have gone with their stomachs; even Joji went with his stomach ! Let's eat today; we have yet to struggle and see the sunrise tomorrow. She sure fouled up the occasion for everyone, shamelessly too, and typical of the girls of these days I ' As the old men solemnly munched ' their food, they won­ dered and whispered amongst themselves 'what next ?' Mzee, however, had a few words of wisdom to utter to his . audience. 'The likes of this was never heard of in my time as a young man: he declared as he cleared his throat. 'Why, we all had 'go-betweens' who, together with the woman's family, could always bring pressure to bear on a stubborn woman and make her see sense in times like this. I never heard of a woman refuse a man, a young clean "bull", and in this style ! For her to take off, drive off in our son's car, with his children, tum her back on us in my very OWll sight I swear by my forefathers' names, this woman is hard-eyed indeed ! What a wonder that schools and jobs in the cities have done for our women ! Can you tell me how in my forefathers' names are we going to know that she still belongs to this home; that she will not be running around with other strange men, unknown to us, even before normalizing the death of a father to her children in this home, according to -

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n n l t th c e n ce th and position in this ome; that another man, a foreigner, even from another tnbe, race and culture will not be the one she will allow to eat our son's wealth with her ? 'In my time; the old man continued, 'any woman this stubborn was simply presented with a strong husband who could manage her and that was that ! Oh, but this one; this one whom we call a daug hter-in-law; this one for who m not even a four-legged anim al was ever sent from this home to her home for dowry, how do we handle this one ? How far can we go our claims over her ? Why , she even has other bosses m town besid es the men of this home ! What can one ever hope to do with sucn a woman ? She and Joji and chose to speak English at school, as though they dldn ,t kno � and have a common mother-tongue, so I suppose that that IS all we know about her and her family back­ groll:nd. Oh, and we know too, that they both tripped and fell mto something called "love ", the silliest, most submissiv e and womanly word I ever heard a son utter to" his elders ! Now that "go-between" of theirs , that they called "love" is something we can't touch, or talk to for help in times like th s ! We have lost control over Ana now. The governme nt WIll not allo � anyone to stop her job; one can't go and beat me sense mto her head without � risking being sent to jail Jus� for a woman ! Our yout h must be taught and cautioned . agamst thIS type of girl ! ' 'Fo� my part: Ana's mother-in -law managed to say, 'I will not gIve up. I �ow Ana, I will keep visiting her in . town; I WIll keep sending John to visit, and who knows _ may be maybe some day . . . As for John, no one was ever to hear or know what he felt, even amongst his scho ol and classmates, as this wou ld have been yet another 'unh eard of'.

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M Y C O U S I N A N D H I S P I CK- U P S Mbulelo Vizikhungo

Mzamane

Mbulelo Vizikhungo Mzamane was born in South Africa near Johannesburg in 1948. His father - often an inspira­ tion for his stories - was an ex-serviceman who worked as a railway policeman before becoming a priest in the Anglican church. -Mzamane was educated in South Africa and in Swaziland. He is presently living in volun­ tary exile in Lesotho, completing his MA thesis • In the South African novelist, Peter Abrahams. Mr Mzamane's articles and short stories have appeared in Lesotho and South African publications. 'My Cousin and His Pick-Ups' was first published in Izwi in June 1973. My father is neither a killjoy nor an �etic. One co�ld describe him more accurately as a conventIonal, conservative man and a priest who prides himself on the preservation of healthy morals among his family and parishioners. Besides, you'll have to understand that my cousin, Mzal' uJola, is not legally married, so that his policy of fraternization across the colour line for sexual gratification is not, by any stretch of the imagination, proper. Nor is his indiscriminate woman­ izing, in general, worthy of moral applause. I cannot count the number of take-and-stay relationships he has struck

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seasonally, from as far back as my memory can stret . He must keep a time-table - the only way to ensure faIr play, I've often thought. His opportunistic pounces on deserted wives, unmarried women and widows have left a tinge on our family escutcheon, too. To have been accused of har­ bouring a man without scruples, devouring like some omni­ vorous beast, ready to cohabit with any woman who crossed his path, was as unjust as it was degrading to my family. It is not as if my father encouraged him. He never abdicated his responsibility. I have known him to adopt every corrective measure in a bid to reform my cousin. No rehabilitation centre could have done more. At any rate, let wagging tongues continue; my family is not one to leave a kinsman in the lurch.

MBULELO V. MZAMANE

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MY COUSIN AND IDS PICK-UPS

A relation in need is to be helped not blamed so we have harboured Mzal' ulola whenever some wo an's irritated tea� and ov�rdeveloped tummy have edged him out of bed. HIS taste IS truly catholic. His women come in all shapes a�d sizes, all creeds and colours. There are, in fact, a - few WIthout any shape, and of doubtful creed and colour. I thought him the riskiest of dare-devils the day he brought . home a white lady - well, slightly off-white, but recognizably no?-black all the same. An official comb stuck to her curly haIr would have definitely fallen out if proof were ever needed as to her racial origin. The two did not seem to have heard of the Im�ora1ity Act. No laws of propriety would have checked theIr recklessness. 'Conventions to the winds' they see!D to proclaim. I thought this intoxicated assertion of pefI!llssIveness some generations ahead of our time and a few mIles beyond the borders of our country. It was a smoky evening, as all evenings in our residential area a;e . apt to be. Indoors, visibility by natural light was . fast dimInIshmg. The noise of the returning traffic of the 'Y0rkmen's buses and taxis, was receding with the 'summer g t. My fath�r lay, a nebulous figure, on the sofa in the . SIttIng-room, his outlme hazily mingled with the descendi darkness. From his POSition a crouching figure could be s a med near e front door where more light from the outside ; �ll filtered mto the house. The figure seemed to be beckon­ �g to someone from outside to join it, judging from the Clrcul�� movement of the arm and the second spectre that SOOn Jomed the first. M! father, who was about to rise, postponed movement awhile to observe the curious spectacle of children at play or so he thought. But the two spectres loomed . large enoug . to be two adults. The smoky outlines crept in, one behind the other with the e�es of the leading figure darting all around the 'room searchmgly, in bobbing and weaving movements of the head' They passed through the sitting-room into the kitchen' �ured of cl�ar coasting but not before repeating the crouch� mg and pe:pmg and beckoning process at the kitchen door. It wa time to attend to confirmation classes. My father . . :' Jumped mto his shoes and disappeared through the kitchen

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e in the direction bedroom without so much as a glanc into settled in the now had of Mzal' uJola and his protegee who k and walked cassoc and collar his in eared kitchen. He reapp g behind instructions for to church across the street, leavin In our township only bath. his for water some us to warm in our house we that so ooms the very wealthy have bathr water heated on our with bath, zinc large a in baths take our . municipality-supplied coal stove. s companion. She tried All eyes were glued on Mzal' uJola' her intoxicated brow. on s missu white to wear the dignity of a of her skin, we switched r colou the to nce defere due With I mean the humble over to our white conduct, by which e whites . My younger expression we usually exhibit befor he had been wearing brother Soso pulled off his cap Which thin ashen lips, attempted indoors. The lady, all compressed, almost came tumbling and ment wledg ackno a slight bow of impossible to main­ was headlong down from the chair. It hed gem whose scratc this e befor res postu ated tain our subjug like ordinary ings, batter face bore the evidence of many mockery of a made have would s clothe Her location faces. was left of it, was not jumble sale. Her composure, or what y started dtooping diatel imme she for long, for maintained ments. move -like drowsily, her head making yoyo all. levels e natur of The call toilet, John 7' she said 'Kan you, asseblief, take me to the drunken accent. thick a in spoke She me. at g lookin n said, coming to my 'This way, please missus: my cousi

rescue. etta, asseblief.' 'Agh ! man, John, kall me Henri .' ma'am 'Yes, is it just her way of Didn't know his name was John. Or I dare say this one has ? meets she man every ssing addre met with a great many in her time. of the back yard. As Our toilet is situated in a comer Henrietta clung to door back the gh throu they walked out disappeared from they as Mzal' uJola for support. As soon door and rushed front the gh throu out d .. sight Soso and I dashe peeped round We little. to the back yard so as to miss very etta and the Henri of steps ling stumb the hear the comer to . steading tread of Mzal' uJola

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'Agh ! man, John, los the door open. Is black inside. Maar no matter. Is you still buitekant, John ? Kom nearer. I'm blurry skared.' Mzal' uJola shuffled and stumbled against the door. 'I'm finished, John. Kom my support. Do you want now ? Agh ! maar you'll do it in the house. Don't be worried, man: They were now moving. From where we stood, in the midst of thick darkness, they appeared to be coming in our direc­ tion. Soso retreated surreptitiously. I caught the receding tread of his footsteps and the banging of the front door from where I stood. My heart thumped like the piston of an unruly engine. I held my breath, fearing we'd been spotted. But for all my brother's and my heart's thudding the pair re­ mained unperturbed. Nothing short of a hurricane, which I wished could blow them off, seemed capable of disturbing them. 'Kiss me, asseblief, John. Net once, ou kerel: Henrietta's voice trembled with passion. They were leaning against the wall of the house. Henrietta was completely covered underneath Mzal' uJola's gargantuan shoulders. She was sighing hungrily. 'You don't want now, John ? . . . Agh ! maar you'll do it in the house. Don't be worried, man . . . Eina I Nee, man don't press so powerful.' She gave Mzal' uJola a shove which caught him unexpec­ tedly. He stumbled and came to the ground on one knee. 'You not broken , John? ' Henrietta's impassioned voice rang out With concern. 'It's nothing, Miss Henrietta,' he said, rising and dusting his hands on the sides of his khaki trousers. 'Let's go back now. Net one more kiss. A little bietjie . . . Okay, let's go in now. You'll ask them to make me black koffie. Your brother, a minister of religion ? Maybe he kan offer us a little bietjie church wine. We'll have koffie first and maybe one or twee sandwiches. Here God ! you not honger ? I'm starving man. Hou my hand. Nee, let me put in my hand in you.' He'll bloody well put his thing in you, I mentally com­ mented, disgust mounting in my chest and choking me blind with rage. They walked into the house. I went round and entered dis-

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MY COUSIN AND HIS PICK-UPS

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w th ereetly through the front door. My mind was working gomg raging monotony. Wherever do these two think they are . to sleep ? The thought kept pressing on me. . I walked into silly titters of laughter. Soso was pretending to pick up something from under the table to hid: his heav­ elr mo�ths, ing breast. My sisters, with hands clasped. to were a curious spectacle of shakes, rather lIke dIsturbed Jelly. Nonto, the youngest, had tears rolling down her amused

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cheeks. I threw them all admonitory glances, trying to hide my embarrassment at their silly behaviour. I looked alte� at�ly at Henrietta and Mzal' uJola. Then I saw what was pnckmg everybody. Henrietta's dress was caught at the back, between her buttocks and her off-white panty. She addressed herself to Mzal uJola : 'John, asseblief, ask .

them for . . ' Mzal' uJola interposed with an interruptive cough. He called me aside and requested me to make them coffee. He never asked favours from the others. I was always moved into a sympathetic response before his pleading, cajoli.ng eyes. I suspect I'd have been willing to exchange. places. WIth him in a prison cell, where my mother always saId he nghtly

belonged if he had ever asked me to. eeded to lay out the cups and saucers, t en dis�p­ I p peared into the sitting-room to fetch my mothe� s speo�l visitor's tray. My father's bathing water was steammg hot m a coffee a large jam tin on the stove. I poured some into pot. And then the front door burst open. . After confinuation classes my father had apparently dnven to the hospital where my mother worked t� fetch her. he walked into the kitchen, seemingly unsurpnsed after bemg briefed by my father on the way, no doubt. But then she had not bargained for the indecent exposure which met her eyes as she gazed at our guest. She emitted an involuntary 'What's this l' before passing on to her bedroom. My father followed

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close on her heels. As sanity prevailed, I hurriedly returned the cups and saucers to their place and the tray to the sitting-room. My sisters busied themselves with dishes, pots and things. Even Mzal' uJola was shifting uneasily, his alcoholic bravado be­ ginning to wear off. Only Henrietta appeared unmoved.

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When �y father reappeared, he was clad in shorts and a . S Irt hangIng loosely outside his shorts, with a towel round his neck. He passed into my bedroom and Irame out dragging . the enamel ba whIch he dropped in the kitchen. Tossing the t?wel on a chaIr, e turned to Henrietta who was looking a . . li e ImpatIent, eVIdently still awaiting her coffee. Hey, wena, go out, I want to take a bath: he addressed her . m Xhosa. 'John, ��at's he say ?' She turned inquiringly to Mzal' uJola. . en decIding It was of little consequence and hating all this �levan:e she continued. 'Agh I maak my die koffie, asse­ bUef. An John, t�ll him about the wine: ,Hey, wena, ndithe phuma, ndifun' ukubhafa: my father repeated more sternly, pointing her to the front door' 'John tell him to make me coffee. Tell him I don't speak Bantu: My- father �ho knows that my cousin understands little EnglISh or Afnkaans beyond 'Yes, missus,' thundered : 'How were you able to comprehend Jola's amorous advances when he enticed y?u into this house ? Or has it sunk to animalistic responses �Ith you, where a little purring, sniffing and a few love bItes are sufficient to precipitate the act ? Whh . . . Now, �ou won't deprive me of my inalienable right to take a bath m my own house when I please, will you ? Please' for the door: My f�ther in his anger had unconsciously switched to Eng­ . lIsh which must have soared miles above Henrietta's illiterate head. Then more decisively he said : 'Come on, out I ' 'Agh ! man, kom, John,' she s�id, rising and revealing more . of her baggy off-white panty whIch reminded me of my home­ made bermuda shorts. These people, they funny,' she continued, dragging MzaI' . uJola With her through the sitting-room. Once o:,t of my father's sight, Mzal' uJola suddenly leaped . like a spnng released, reversed the process whereby he was . bemg dragged, and pulled her desperately with him through the front exit. My fa er, who did not have the slightest intention of taking . his bath m the kitchen, now picked up the enamel bath, called

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for his water, and strode back into his bedroom. A few days later, Mzal' uJola, always a chance-taker, returned home well after midnight. Everybody had retired to bed. My mother was on night-duty and my father was expected to leave at four in the morning on a long trip to attend a con­ ference of the Interdenominational African Ministers' Associa­ tion. Mzal' uJola knew all this. As was my father's custom whenever he had an early trip to make, he was not in his bed but sleeping on the sofa in the sitting-room. Mzal' uJola had not taken cognizance of this fact. As was Mzal' uJola's habit whenever he had been locked out, he came knocking at my window. I woke up and expect­ ing he would use -the back door, went to open it. He was not there. I went to the front door, creeping quietly through the sitting-room, groping in front of me in order to avoid overtoppling any object which might disturb my father, and noiselessly opened the door. Thank you, Mzala,' he roared. for 'SSH ! ' I warned, putting my finger on my mouth emphasis. lock I was waiting for him to walk in so that I could with his th" door myself, because he was notoriously clumsy from huge hands. My mother had prohibited him from eating and drank her glass plates. He ate out of an enamel plate ory coffee out of a large enamel cup, which was a satisfact arrangement as he despised a normal-sized cup as much as of he despised the use of underwear by men. No amount scolding or persuasion could rid him of the habit of felling chairs, breaking plates and banging doors. So I waited which to shut the door after him as I thought of his limbs . t's. adolescen an as inated were as unco-ord Instead of walking in he thanked me and retired into wind the dark night, leaving me to hold the open door. A chilly ation breezed in. I felt mean at his showing such little consider , been however had, He father. my of figure sleeping · the for to disturbed already. In angry, muffled tones he demanded shut. door the have 'Mzal' uJola is coming in,' I replied softly as if afraid of disturbing him further.

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'Let him come in or else shut that door.' I was about to comply when Mzal' uJola returned with a lady companion. She muttered what must have been meant for a greeting as she walked in after him. I was too stunned to return the greeting and simply registered a blank stare. I suddenly remembered the job in hand and locked the door. hey had passed on to Mzal' uJola's bedroom without . illCldent. Apparently they had not noticed the reclining figure of my father on the sofa. As I returned to bed I was praying . that he had not notIced Mzal' uJola's companion either. Sleep was long in coming. A most plucky soul must be harboured in that broad breast. O?"ly the other day he had brought that white desperado. . DId he t mk by bringing a black one, if she was black, he was atonmg for the wrong ? . . . My father didn't notice them. Soon he would gon<: . . . If only they could stop being so fidgety, they Inlght stIll get away with it. My father would be gone before sunrise, then they might sneak out before my mo er returned from work . . . I wondered. Where does he pI�k them up ? W�men will be his death. He'll get picked up hImself by some Jealous boy friend or slighted husband one of these days . . . Fortunately my father didn't notice . . . How the springs of his mattress squeak ! . . . 'If I could but once ! ' That's Soyinka. Puts in everything to his satis­ faction. A delightful play that ! I heard some movement from the direction of the kitchen. He shou d�'t try to make her coffee, I thought. That will arouse cunoslty . . . He has gone into one of the bedrooms. My father's. Yes, that's the door to his wardrobe creaking. They are still tossing and turning in bed. Couldn't be Mzal' uJola in Dad's bedroom. Should be Dad himself. Could he be pr�paring for his trip already ? He's coming out again. Maybe gomg to get water to wash . . . He's passed into another bed­ room. Mzal' uJola's. Baam ! Baam ! Baam ! as if somebody were beating tJhe dust out of the mattress. Then Mzal' uJola's angry voice : 'What the devil do you think you are up to, whoever you are ?' 'So my house has been converted into a brothel, eh ! ' Baam I Baam ! Baam I

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An incredulous, frightened : 'Oh ! uncle it isn't you, is it 7' 'You have the cheek to distract me in my own house, to commit your adulterous monstrosities right under my room, under my very nose ! ' Baam ! Baam ! 8aam ! My father had left a candle burning in the kitchen where we now congregated, my sisters, my brother and I, listening intently to the struggle in the dark bedroom. There was the creaking sound of an opening window followed by a thud as of a man landing. The lashing continued with the same uninterrupted rhythm. 'Aaskies, boetie, let me collect my clothes . . . I can't, you're hurting me . . . Please, boetie, just my clothes . . .' a woman's ,voice intoned to the background of the strokes. She sounded more annoyed than frightened, which left one with the impression that she had met with worse misfortunes before. 'Get out ! ' 'Where's the door ?· 'Find it the same way you did when you came in.' 'Where's the door ? . . . Please, boetie, wait, what wrong have I done ?' 'You must have principles of pure elastic to find no fault with your scandalous conduct.' There was more stampeding so that you might have thought a cow had been let loose in the house. The woman seemed to have been catapulted headlong against the wall as she emitted a piercing 'Atchoweee' simultanequsly with a thud against the wall. She emerged into the kitchen clad in a petti, coat, rubbing her forehead with one hand and clinging to a parcel of clothes with the other. My father was shoving her /' in the direction of the front door the way a herd-boy drives a cow. He kept her from straying off the track with correc­ tive probings of the ribs from a sjambok, right up to the gate. My father returned and ordered us to bed. When I woke up he had already left. My mother had just returned. I was greeted by shrill cries from one of the bed­ roolDS. The family was assembled in Mzal' uJola's bedroom. My youngest sister, Nonto, would not be appeased over her missing Sunday frock. Seemingly, Mzal' uJola's girlfriend had

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collected as much of the unironed washing lying Mzal' uJola's bed as would go under her petticoat. The she had walked out with included, amongst other Nonto's dress and my mother's brassiere, two other

beside bundle things, dresses

and an apron, plus an old pair of jeans which I had scissored around the knees to make bermuda shorts. A vengeful creature, no doubt ! Mzal' uJola never used underwear which he thought effeminate. I was gazing at his rugged khaki pants, wondering how he could have walked out in his birthday suit, when he walked in. He could not have chosen a worse moment. An unsystematic, random attack was immediately launched against

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his swollen sleepless eyes. 'Here he comes, Mama, following his huge chest like a shepherd after sheep,' Nonto began. 'Hey, Jola, where are my children's clothes ?' 'I don't know, Auntie.' 'Maybe they've already sold them, Mama: Nonto sug­ gested. 'Won't ou ever learn to respect your uncle's house ? Must you bring all your long-fingered, parasitical prostitutes to my house ?' my mother lashed out.

to this house without those clothes. At any rate, I'll have arranged alternative accommodation for you. Theft is really a police case, you know.' 'I'll go with them, Ma. I want my dress,' Nonto wailed. We walked in silence until I ventured to ask : 'Where do we go from here'?' 'You'll see,' was the curt reply. I suppose all that pretence about not knowing where Alber­ tina stayed - I later discovered that was the lady's name ­ was prompted by some disinclination to meet her. She was vindictive, all right. We found her as unapproachable as a puff adder. Her home had the disagreeable atmosphere of

the breeding ground of that venomous species. It was a dingy little shack, almost a hole, near the outskirts of the location. No less than three families must have lived in that hide-out judging from the tribe of mucus-covered, puffy-bellied chil­ dren we found raining stones and sticks on one another out­ side. Albertina thrust her head through the hole and cata­ pulted heavy, unprintable insults upon the warring tribe, before her shifty eyes spotted us. She would have nothing to do with Mzal' uJola, she said, till the case she had filed that morning for assault with intent to inflict grievous bodily harm had been settled in court to her satisfaction. In fewer words, Mzal' uJola argued that theft was likely to constitute a more credible charge against her sort. After more charges and counter-charges, Albertina vanished into the shack. She took so long that I was beginning to think our case had been lost. Mzal' uJola waited, gazing into space. Albertina reappeared with a bundle under her armpits. She thrust it on Mzal' uJola, but not before shouting a last venomous jibe at him.

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'He didn't wait to see what became of her, Ma. Look, he's in borrowed or maybe stolen pants,' from Nonto. 'Where does she stay ?' 'I do!).'t know, Auntie.' 'Don't lie to me. Sabelo,' she addressed me, 'go with him to recover those clothes.' 'And, Jola,' as we walked out, 'don't bother to come back

MY COUSIN AND HIS PICK-UPS

'How was I expected to see in the dark which clothes were mine and which were not ? To take everything was the surest way of ascertaining my clothes were among the lot. I couldn't

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tell which were mine, I tell you.' . 'The texture alone would have settled the question: Mzal' uJola countered as he embraced the bundle thrust towards

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his chest. 'Talk of manliness ! ' she pursued, raising her eyes no higher than Mzal' uJola's chest, 'Sies ! ' We reached home to find my mother in bed, 'and so let sleeping dogs lie,' as Mzal' uJola jocularly whispered, his equan­ imity fully restored. Almost two years have passed since these happenings. Mzal' uJola has been wary of closing-in women, as they say, ever since.

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OPAQUE SHADOWS O P A Q U E S H AD O WS Solomon Deressa

Solomon Deressa, born. in Chutta, Ethiopia in 1937, was educated in the country of his birth and later in the United States, where he attended the Iowa Writers' School. By his own reckoning, 'he has done all· 'iOrts of odd jobs which include all types of electronic media work, translating, teaching, and reporting for a weekly magazine: He currently works in Minneapolis, Minnesota. His poems (in several languages) and short stories have appeared in Ethiopian and American publications. 'Opaque Shadows' is published here for the first time.

Lived-in places have a tendency to be dirty. Places of worship, on the other hand, are forever impeccable. The cafe where it all started has no pretence to being anything but lived-in dirty. The building in which it is housed is said to belong to His Holiness Our Father, though no one seems to be sure which one of the Holinesses is meant since we have four­ teen of them, each of the Imperial provinces being democratic­ ally entitled to its very own Holiness. The glum elderly pro­ prietress won't say whom she pays rent to, out of concern for her immortal soul. So the story goes, if you can trust Abyssinian fabulators. My distrust of such rumours as well as the attraction the cafe has for me may be due to the fact that I am not a full-blooded Ethiopian. I am part Sioux Indian. How that came about is a simple enough, though long-winded, story whose relevance to the Sunday in question is at best tenuous. Anyway such places attract their own special type of clientele. A year ago I went to Minnesota looking for the bison and for the Indian in me, and wound up in just such a place. The one bison I came across, a die-hard representative without a mate, stared me down in the Iowa City zoo. Vague distant ghosts danced in those eyes, and I turned away with· out so much as paying them the basic courtesy of a western Ethiopian ghost salute. I did not take off my left shoe and

hold the sole up to those hobbled shadows. I simply walked away arguing all sides of the issue. I argued because I am argumentative, though it may ave been a becaus� I sa� myself in those eyes as I do In the trappmgs of thlS cafe. I argue with the way traffic lights are phased, against the layout of this cafe, with the wine I drink, with anything . that anyone says even when it is not addressed to me, WIth everything that I see or read, with th� design of every car that passes, with the shape and carnage of every human face . . . dribble, dribble, dribble . . . drivelling to no purpose except that it won't stop. Such self-�enerating rage. In it I . have caught glimpses of El Shaddal s vehe�ent lonelIness though I fail to penetrate his persiste� ce. Imagme, three �ho�­ sand backsliding years in this EthiopIa of ours alone (WIthm the last couple of weeks upgraded to four thousand by the Ethiopian Tourist Organization to honour the forward lurch of the national kulrur. 'The poor of the third world have become living museums: said a left-wing French intellectual as quoted by our French language daily. 'Son et lumiere, s'il vous plait: sat up and reparteed a patron who was dozing, his torso flung across one of the tables. The . presence of one of the intelligentsia is no accident, for though the cafe is dirty as an old wino, its mann:r of . dirtiness has an imported touch not altogether Abyssiman. Perhaps it is the painful angularity of the images that come at you from the sharp edges of the plastic furnit�re in a land . still dominated by circles and cones. The stamed formIca table-tops cannot be easily mistaken for the grained grey marble that they purport to be. The brown carpet on the floor is frayed, and not just at the edges either. The preten­ tious menu is tattered. The cooking is greasy and vulgar. The two young waitresses wear what you ?'light c�ll white pantsuits a la mode - ice cream and coffee stams, that IS. Coming in, I sat at the table closest to the entrance as I always do. Were this t e temple o the Immaculate Hea� perched in a grove of timeless penCIl cedars at the sumffilt ' of the Entoto hills, I would have more securely waded through frankincense smoke and penetrated to the sanctum sanctorum. Here, however, the steamy thickness o the place, the greasy decorum of the company, imposed qUIte another

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pproach. And to an Ethiopian of the mountain country, even ? If only three-quarters pure, the approach is the thing. The younger male patrons are all dramatically grubby in colourfully spotted T-shirts under never-zipped windbreakers. They stop here on arrival from cross-Atlantic high flights taken on spaghetti western matinees at the Haile Selassie Theatre. The older males are attired in Abyssinian iInitations of Euro­ pean suits. The pointy-toed boots of the first group are un­ la�ed, rain or shine (the cowboy and the hippie have finally ffilSCegenated) and the shoes of the second group are irrevoc­ ably tilted out at the heels, having been worn beyond their �obbler-given days. The faces, tired when older and arrogant In the young. are typically Ethiopian, too well-proportioned, too refined to hold interest more than fleetingly. The women, on the other hand, have faces and dainty hands at turn the same features into temporary erotic longings, Into an im�rsonal animal palpitation. All ,are late teenagers, who look like they would give off ripe, musty aromas akin to mildew-covered winter boots on a lusty summer's day. The reality, however, is quite otlIerwise. The olfactory imagination c n barely sniff the gamut of overabundant Abyssinian con­ ? diments from under the flaking paint of tlIeir long fingernails. Heady red pepper pulsating like the church drums tlIat stabilize the trot and sway of priests drunk on Yared's wail for eternity, raw garlic, cinnamon, black pepper, coriander, cloves and nutmeg, allspice and cumin, turmeric and ginger. Under the newfangled faded jeans that so brashly display sub-navel dimples, the scholastic mind can detect tlIe heady smell of sandalwood, but no scholastics frequent tlIis place where every item is cheaper than elsewhere, and tlIose who have deviated from tlIe patlI to Sunday grace find marginal S?lace. To prove the unprovable, the male patrons some­ times look at the local papers and tlIen discuss such rele­ vant matter as women's Ii , the Sino-Soviet border disputes .: and the ChIldren of God In loud oratorical voices. 1 have had to repress more than once the urge to argue tlIe pros and cons �f the compu�erized, subterranean Mormon genea­ logy bank In Salt Lake CIty, Utah. At otlIer times a customer roblems or may decla m a newspaper article on marital real es�ate In the d:on�ng rhythm of a squinting deacon at an . EthiOPIC lectern. DIatribes that convince neither the listeners

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nor the speaker, a run-down place where those who have opted out of tlIe race still have the courtesy not to get too personal. Such is tlIe place that she, no doubt inadvertently, wandered into. She was particularly noticeable given the circumstances. The first thing that caught my eyes were her knee-high kidskin boots barely wet from the light out-of-season drizzle tlIat hac;l just let up. A brownish rabbit fur hat looked as charm­ ing on her as any foppish hat ever did on a virgin brat swing­ ing down the Boulevard St Germain in autumn. A brown suede coat clung tight to her body, and the whiteness of the blouse frill that showed around her neck only added to the fragile air of tlIis being who at first seemed so out of place. She passed me and slid into the bootlI beyond mine and sat facing the entrance and large window to which 1 had my back. Before 1 could see her face, one of the waitresses came and bent over her table. The waitress's face was visible in profile, hiding the other's as if the two of them were icons in an Ethiopic manuscript illumination where evil often hovers in profile. The waitress moved away and I saw a mass of auburn hair invade tlIe room as she flipped off her fur cap and tossed her head with a well-rehearsed flourish. The not too uncommon face of a rather slim woman in her late forties or early fifties became fully visible; and in · some corner of my mind the mystery deepened as everytlIing became patently siInple. A client of the EtlIiopian Tourist Organization, no doubt, led out of her Addis Ababa Hilton room by a whimpering call to adventure. She looked at me and smiled. Before 1 had time to smile back, she had gone searching in her bag and come out with a tiny gold pencil. 'What book are you reading 7' she pointed with her eyes at the book that lay open next to the empty boWl of soup in front of me. 'I am not reading,' 1 answered calmly. She smiled wistfully and went back to her writing, the nature of which had been obvious from the word go. The smile lingered in the crow's­ feet around her eyes. 'Who is it by ?' she ventured again with tlIe same gentle smile. 'An unknown writer,' 1 said in spite of the compulsion that

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SOLOMON DERESSA

OPAQUE SHADOWS

by now was definitely making itself felt. 'How do you know he is unknown ?' she smiled making no

work­ her girlish profile. She was smiling nervously and dental manship showed through in veins of steel. 'You don't have to read long to recognize a good book:

effort t? hide her satisfaction at the astuteness of her riposte. I sm�led back and handed her the book. There is no point . In �ghnng the compulsion or in imposing shattered specks of solItude on casual accosters. She opened it half-way into the first chapter and immersed herself in it as if that book was the reason for her pilgrimage to a greasy Addis joint. There was no reason why this woman should have spoken to me, except that I was the only human being directlv in front of her. Without in any way diminiSJhing the importance o the line of sight in communication, perhaps my appearance dId have something to do with it. I flaunt a black round­

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I she said. 'You were writing verse ?' 'How do you know ?' 'What else would allow itself to be written publicly in

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topped Indian hat with a peacock feather in it and a wig of straight black nylon hair permanently glued to the inside brim. A , drooping moustache helps to throw slightly off balance a typically Ethiopian face. Not that I have got myself up to arouse suspicion or curiosity - rather the reality of my existence is a question that malignantly gnaws at my innards. I am 'a character that I re-invent from moment to moment but never qu te manage to round off. The costume helps to

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such earnest ?' 'I was writing a poem for a friend of mine who is dying: she apologized. 'Dying ?' 'Yes, dying: she nodded, relieved that the subject of her writing was put aside. 'Are you Catholic ?' 'No, I am Lutheran. Why ?' I lied. All I know of Luther is a Lutheran aunt and the Reformer's prescription for chas­ ing away insistent devils, namely inviting them to kiss your

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sharpen the Image of me that I at times catch in human eyes. Unlike the ghosts in the bull's eyes, I succumb to a desire to be saluted. 'It's a beautiful book: she sighed closing it and handing it back to me.

'As I said, I haven't read it yet.' 'You mind if I join you ?' 'Not at all: I said since she was already up and coming oyer. You ca.n choos� not to pick up a pebble but once you . pIck It up, Its fall IS no longer a matter of decision. The choice that remains is whether to drop it out of hand' or carry it in your pocket until such time as you shed the gar­ ment. She

sa� down

not across from me as you might expect, but

at my SIde - an assumptive position of intimacy for total to me. Such a direct way of saying strangers, or so it seem . . we look In the same dIrectIOn and see the same objects in the same light. The factual inaccuracy of it bothered me a bit,

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though more for her sake than mine. Shifting on the plastic bench, I rested my right arm on the back prop and admired

arse. 'Your book is Catholic: she smiled victoriously pointing to the blurb paragraph that told of the author. 'It might have been an honest book had the autilor called it Christ Seen Through Three Layers of Illusion: I said more vindictively than I had intended. 'I thought you hadn't read it: she almost smirked at a discomfiture of her own imagining. 'A tedious, superstitious remodelling of the life of Christ by an emancipated Catholic who is an ex-journalist and has not yet become an historian. Out on three counts.' I flipped it open at the frontispiece where it screamed in ten-point bastard type, Nihil obstat 'And censored to boot ! '

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Censor Librorum Imprimatur.

'You're quite a scholar.' She raised a chiding eyebrow. That eyebrow has to be brought down, I thought and said, 'Augustus Caesar was Pontifex Maximus way before Peter the " , Simon was even a mathematicial probability, not to mention , the latter-day Popes and Holinesses in whose name obstacles I realized that there � -to this, that and the other are removed.' � was precious little to get so worked up about but I had no control over the matter. Censor Librorum etc. is a sore point

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with an Ethiopian. 'Would you recommend tile book for my friend ?' she almost whimpered.

1 38

SOLOMON DERESSA

OPAQUE SHADOWS

What could I say ? 'She is only thirty-four and she is dying of cancer: she said. The speed with which her expression changed from mundane curiosity and puerile sophistication to commisera­ tion for another's pain was admirable. 1 found it alanning. The gap between one moment and the next took on abysmal proportions as I watched her and listened, not to anything continuous but rather as if watching unrelated images flick by as a zany projector clicked on. 'Does she know she is dying ?' 'She has finally come around and is accepting it. Only a few weeks ago she was blaming her pain on the smell of her "! ! gas stove. I can't say I blame her. She is so young and such a beautiful person, it's a shame. I've spent the last l couple of months looking after her but nothing seems to � i help.' Her eyes clouded. .�' 'Why don't you let her be ? Maybe she isn't dying at all: She looked at me as if I had said, why don't you finish her off, and shook her head. 'I have spent the last three months looking after her, I took her to every church in Milwaukee. If only there were an honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth Black Baptist church ! She is black, you see ? If only she could find peace, but all she does is lie there and cry: She moved her head in a vague direction. 'Lie where and cry ?' I said, even more alarmed. 'She is at the hotel now. I left her sleeping and came out for a little walk: 'Doesn't she have a family ?, 'A mother in New York. But she is old and my friend doesn't . i want to burden her with it. Perhaps near the end. But not now. Such a beautiful person,' and she brightened up a bit and asked, 'Would you like to meet her ?' I desired neither to meet nor avoid this person who, for reasons beyond my understanding, was gallivanting around the world with tenninal cancer. I simply failed to respond. 'Are you a poet by profession ?' I asked instead. 'No, I am a nurse, an RN. Well, almost. I have only a couple of months to go/ she wavered between braggadocio and apology.

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This I saw as touching. Two or three months spent helping the dying to die, almost crying over vitality mercilessly spilled, and then such an unexpected show of pride in her near­ ness to the RN diploma. 'I'm sure you will like her,' she said. 'Oh, she has no _ formal education. She was a night club entertainer before she became ill - a beautiful dancer. And you should hear her sing ! She used to dance at my parties. Command performance, as your newspaper says. What is it called, The Herald l' 'Yes, The Ethiopian Herald: 'Forgive my saying so, but isn't it awful ? Once she came in a beautiful red see-through dress with piles of ruff around the hips. She looked so beautiful, only the dress covered too much of her. And now that I have a beautiful home she won't be coming to my Christmas party. She just lies there and cries. Such a shame.' 'Yes: 'In a way the house we just moved to isn't anywhere near as beautiful as my oId house. People would walk into the ' hallway and go "oh ! " They just went crazy over how beauti­ ful it was. But I found the beauty cold, and the neighbour- _ hood was deteriorating. The new place is quiet. My two closest neighbours are a widow who lives -alone with her cats and a retired couple: As it later turned out, her comfort was not wholly paid for by an almost RN's w:tges. Her father had set up a trust fund for her and his grandchildren, and the black musician father of the children paid child support. The waitress came over to refill her cup and the woman in­ terrupted herself to smile and thank her. 'I am glad I ran into you,' she continued. 'It would be such a shame to come all the way to Africa and not meet anyone besides the Americans who are on the same charter. I knew I could talk to you as soon as I saw you. Who does one talk to these days ? People no longer have time for each other. I have always wanted to be of assistance to others, and you'd think that nursing is just the place for that. Forget it ! Can you sit on the bed and hold a patient's hand and be human ? No, sir, that's against the rules. Can you just stay in the room and keep a lonely man company and put your arms around him while he cries ? Don't bet on it, that would

be considered making a pass at a patient, and anyway men aren't supposed to cry, are they ? Don't you sometimes cry 7 ' 'No, I don't,' I said but seeing in her proselytizing eyes a demand for a less negative answer, added, 'I've never had anything to cry for, as far as I can remember.' 'Some day I'll just pack up and leave, go to another country and serve people who are really human. I might even come here. All that hospital administrations hand out in the States is a bunch of crap and I don't take crap from anybody. I just tell them to go to hell and walk out.' 'Each place has its set of taboos,' 1 said. 'Have you ever been abroad ?' she queried. 'No,' 1 said addressing myself to the rhetorical tone of her question. 'I have travelled quite a bit: she continued. 'I went to Korea once. 1 went with a doctor friend and we spent most of our time up in the mountains - with real people: 'You must speak Korean then l' 'No, neither of us did, but he was such a sensitive artistic man. He painted several pretty pictures of those beautiful mountains and dignified old people. People are different in Korea. They respected the old and cared for one another _ not like us.' 'How long did you stay 7' 'Two weeks,' she said matter-of-factly. 'I can't seem to be able to take my mind off Violet,' she went back to her current concern. 'That's my friend. She is so artistic, so creative I But is that going to help her I What if she was once a pros­ titute ? Some stranger , needed warmth and she needed the money, what's wrong with that ? ' 'Nothing,' 1 side-stepped the challenge. 'And now she i s dying, oh, dear God,' she cradled her forehead in the cup of her hand. 'Everybody dies, 1 know, but how can you make it easy for her ? 1 put off my RN certificate until next spring to be with her. We took this charter so that she will have been in Africa at least once; she dreamed of it for so long that 1 thought she might find new strength here - she thinks her ancestors came from East Africa _ but what can 1 do to help her not to be frightened and crying all the time ?' 'Nothing:

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ri�ht 'I knew I could speak to you. I always run into the carrymg my �n don't you hope 1 people at the right time, on like thds. It's like I have ESP or something.

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'Yes.' . , eyes 'Speaking of the spirit, you know something 7 Her black � Of painting l beautifu a have 'I shone with delight. . and Christ. His features are neat and he looks so senSItive you.' like looks kind. He 'Really 7' She didn't know that under the hat my head was

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shaved clean. . 'Yeah, I got it off this black artist that I met through VIolet. th�t He is something else. 1 gave it to her . when I fou.nd out It she didn't have much time left. She Just adores It. I gave ' ' . birthday her for to her 'I guess it's good to have something to adore when you know you are going,' 1 cleared my throat. 'Since she accepted the fact a couple of .weeks ago, she back has it turned to the wall and lies there stanng at the of the picture and crying.' 'She no longer cares for it 7' 'Oh, she loves it,' she said emphatically and then after . a moment's hesitation, 'when she looks at the gentleness In , his face she says she just can't help herself, she makes love

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to it.' . . 'Isn't that rather exhausting in her condition 7 1 asked, partly to cover up my own prudish emb�rrassment. . 'She is afraid God will punISh her for It. All she wants now to is to lie there and stare at the back of it until she comes God.' of kind that in believes still She peace with God. . A whole moment passed while I looked at her and tned to understand why she was so eager to set the pace for her friend and what the basis of their friendship could have been. 'Do you think God will hold it against her 7' she con­

tinued sadly. 'What ?' .. / . 'I mean, do you think the Lord -WIll. p �msh h �r for �t, for using his picture like that ?' she said, this time philosophIcally. 'I don't know. There must be all sorts of Lords. There �re e Gnostic, Ebionite, Docetist, Essene, Pauline, Petrine, Johanmn an the Only is. one this kind � Christs, it depends on which who painted the picture or the woman who lies there stanng

SOLOMON DERESSA at it can say.' Braggingly, I rose to the occasion. 'She is so afraid: the woman whined, ignoring my showing off. For a moment she seemed lost in her thoughts. I emptied the last bit of wine out of the wicker bottle wondering whether I could have answered her more wisely. Her friend had probably lived her last few years like the same American TV soap operas that Ethiopian television brings us. Goodness always wins in the end. Between fear and frolicking, the greater need will win. And that which wins is good. There­ fore there is no need to fear reprisal. 'I so wish you'd come and meet my friend: she said, assuming a pathetically cultivated voice. Where did I fit between the dying and the living 7 'Besides, I have a book that I'd very much like you to have. I brought it along so that I can go back to it for strength.' Seeing that I was not reacting, she went on, 'I can get another copy as soon as we get home. If you're not in a hurry to go somewhere else, I left the car just. around the corner, across from the theatre. We rented it yesterday morn­ ing just in case Violet wanted to go for a drive over the weekend.' It took time for the brazenness in her voice to come through. It was touching. She paid for her coffee and the wine, for she likes paying. She yearns to give and she gives to me, locked within the moment as I am like an insect fossil in the opacity of a birthstone. 'Here, take this book: I said to her and she hesitated, but I forced it on her, putting my arm around her shoulder as ' we walked out of the cafe. That little gesture of encouragement, of subdued friendli­ ness undermined her confidence and her astringent-dried, crackling thin skin turned red as if lit up by the last rays of a setting sun. At tIhis point I saw not the street leading to her car but myself, floating without purpose or direction. The moment tightened around me and in its tightness I sensed her menopausic itch which neither my detachment nor her splintered questions could even begin to scratch. As we approached an infant-blue Peugeot 404 she asked me if the book was for her friend. It was not enough that we had lost all possibility of unity; I had to invent some sort of eschato­ logical bond.

OPAQUE SHADOWS

143

She slid behind the wheel and unlocked the other door for me. I sat in silence watching her gun the car. She ap­ peared from nowhere, wrote verse in public and wept for her dying friend but seemed to rein in her sorrow at the approach of a future Christian party without her beautiful black t, dancer and her nursing certificate and her new temple in a re­ I i �i generating neighbourhood. On the back seat of the car lay a dismal-looking brown little book, short and broad like an Ethiopian tax collector's receipt-pad . I reached back, picked it up and opened it at random. The title poem spoke of gentle­ . ness in the sweet timbre of virginal innocence. 1 read it and put the book back. Post-mid-century kitsch.

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'It's for you: she smiled generously. 'That is the book told you about.' 'I don't want to offend you but I have to be honest: said. 'I can't stand poetry; maybe it's my education.' 'I understand: she said in a sad but magnanimous voice. 'Very few people can get into poetry. Even American critics don't really understand this particular poet.' The Addis Hilton is perched on a hill to the east of the spot we were leaving, and as she headed the car up that way we passed the scattered high-rise buildings and came abreast of the green stretch of the Jubilee Palace. For a few minutes the Entoto range became visible to the north and through the incipient drizzle the forest of eucalyptus trees seemed to oscillate between Prussian blue and royal purple. The moment of silence turned into a monologue which • ": melted into the slither of the Peugeot tyres and started to my voice. � flow inwards and nothing would come forth from I :: The unbroken flow made sounds all around me that created echoes like torrents falling upon rocks in a cavern. We en­ tered the Hilton compound and the tumult became a wall that nothing could scale. And the Hilton was impeccable. I heard my very being echo against the quietness of the elevator. The 1/ clean carpet of the corridor, that seemed to unwind end­ i¥ lessly like the mysteries of Ephesus drowned my footsteps from under my very navel. The balcony window overlooked a swimming-pool in the shape of a cross. I$; !,f Violet was not in the room. There was no picture of Christ, black or blonde, so far as I could see . . .

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GIRLS AT WAR GI RLS

AT WAR

Chinua Achebe

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Chinua Achebe, often regarded as the most important of the Anglophone African novelists, was born in Ogidi in the East Central State of Nigeria in 1930. His first novel, Things Fall Apart, for which he is most famous, was published in 1958. The story describes the reactions of a group of Ibo villagers to the coming of the Euro­ peans. A sequel. No Longer at Ease, was published in 1960, followed by Arrow of God in 1964 and A Man of the People in 1966. Other works include a volume of poems, Beware Soul Brother (1971), and Girls at War and Other Stories (1972), both largely reflecting on the Nigerian Civil War. More recently, Mr Achebe has held teaching positions at the University of Nigeria at Nsukka and at the · University of Massachusetts, where he has edited the influential literary journal, Okike.

The first time their paths crossed nothing happened. That was in the first heady days of warlike preparation when thou­ sands of young men (and sometimes women too) were daily turned away from enlistment centres because far too many of them were coming forward burning with readiness to bear arms in defence of the exciting new nation. The second time they met was at a check-point at Awka. Then the war had started and was slowly moving south­ wards from the distant northern sector. He was driving from Oni�ha to Enugu and was in a hurry. Although intellectually he approved of thorough searches at road-blocks, emotionally he was always offended whenever he had to submit to them. He would probably not admit it but the feeling people got was that if you were put through a search then you could not really be one of the big people. Generally he got away without a search by pronouncing in his deep, authoritative voice : 'Reginald Nwankwo, Ministry of Justice.' That almost always did it. But sometimes either through ignorance or sheer cussedness the crowd at the odd check-point would refuse to be impressed. As happened now at Awka. Two con­ stables carrying heavy Mark 4 rifles were watching distantly

145

from the roadside, leaving the actual searching to local vigilantes. 'I am in a hurry,' he said to the girl who now came up to his car. 'My name is Reginald Nwankwo, Ministry of Justice.' 'Good afternoon, sir. I want to see your boot.' 'Oh Christ ! What do you think is in the boot 71 'I don't know, sir.' He got out of the car in suppressed rage, stalked to the back, opened the boot and holding the lid up with his left hand he motioned with the right as if to say : After you I 'Are you satisfied ?' he demanded. 'Yes, sir. Can I see your pigeon-hole 71 'Christ Almighty ! ' 'Sorry to delay you, sir. But you people gave us this job to do.' 'Never mind. You are damn right. It's just that I happen That's the glove-box. to be in a hurry. But never mind. . Nothing there as you can see.' 'All right sir, close it.' Then she opened the rear door and bent down to inspect under the seats. It was then he took the first real look at her, starting from behind. She was a beautiful girl in a breasty blue jersey, khaki jeans and canvas shoes with the new-style hair-plait which gave a girl a defiant look and which they called - for reasons of their own - 'air force base' ; and she looked vaguely familiar. 'I am all right, sir,' she said at last meaning she was through with her task. 'You don't recognize me ?' 'No. Should I 7' 'You gave me a lift to Enugu that time I left my school to go and join the militia.' 'Ab, yes, you were the girl. I told you, didn't I, to go back to school because girls were not required in the militia. What happened ?' 'They told me to go back to my school or join the Red Cross.' 'You see I was right. So, what are you doing now 7' 'Just patching up with Civil Defence.' 'Well, good luck to you. Believe me you are a great girl.' That was the day he finally believed there might be something in this talk about revolution. He had seen plenty of girls

1 47

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GIRLS AT WAR

and women marching and demonstrating before now. But somehow he had never been able to give it much thought. He didn't doubt that the girls and the women took themselves seriously, they obviously did. But so did the little kids who marched up and down the streets at the time drilling with sticks and wearing their mothers' soup bowls for steel helmets. The prime joke of the time among his friends was the con­ tingent of girls from a local secondary school marching behind a banner : WE ARE IMPREGNABLE ! But after that encounter at the Awka check-point he simply could not sneer at the girls again, nor at the talk of revolution, for he had seen it in action in that young woman whose devotion had simply and without self-righteousness convicted him of gross levity. What were her words ? We are doing the work you asked us to do. She wasn't going to make an exception even for one who once did her a favour. He was sure she would have searched her own father just as rigorously. When their paths crossed a third time, at least eighteen months later, things had got very bad. Death and starvation having long chased out the headiness of the early days, now left in some places blank resignation, in others a rock-like,

friend who ran the WCC depot at Nkwerri to get other items like rice, beans and that excellent cereal commonly called

even suicidal, defiance. But surprisingly enough there were " many at this time who had no other desire than to comer whatever good things were still going and to enjoy themselves to the limit. For such people a strange normalcy had returned to the world. All those nervous check-points disappeared. Girls became girls once more and boys boys. It was a tight, blockaded and desperate world but none the less a world ­ with some goodness and some badness and plenty of hero­ ism which, however, happened most times far, far below the eye-level of the people in this " story - in out-of-the-way refugee camps, in the damp tatters, in the hungry and bare' handed courage of the first line of fire. Reginald Nwankwo lived in Owerri then. But that" day he had gone to Nkwerri in search of relief. He had got from Caritas in Owerri a few heads of stock-fish, some tinned meat, and the dreadful American stuff called Formula Two which he felt certain was some kind of animal feed. But he always had a vague suspicion that not being a Catholic put one at a disadvantage with Caritas. So he went now to see an old

Gabon Bari.

He left Owerri at six in the morning so as to catch his friend at the depot where he was known never to linger beyond 8.30 for fear of air-raids. Nwankwo was very fortunate that day. The depot had received on the previous day large supplies of new stock as a result of an unusual number of plane landings a few nights earlier. As his driver loaded tins and bags and cartons into his car the starved crowds that perpetually hung around relief centres made crude, ungracious remarks like 'War Can Continue I ' meaning the WCC ! Some­ body else shouted '[revolu!' and his friends replied 'shum!'

'Irevolu!' 'shurn!' '[soleIi?

I

,

'shurn!' 'IsoleIi?' 'Mba!'

Nwankwo was deeply embarrassed not "by the jeers of this scarecrow crowd of rags and floating ribs but by the independent accusation of their wasted bodies and sunken eyes. Indeed he would probably have felt much worse had they said nothing, simply looked on in silence, as his boot was loaded with milk, and powdered egg and oats and tinned meat and stock-fish. By nature such singular good fortune in the midst of a general desolation was certain to embarrass him. But

what could a man do 7 He had a wife and four children living in the remote village of Ogbu and completely dependent on what relief he could find and send them. He couldn't aban­ done them to kwashiokor. The best he could do - and did do as

a matter of fact - was to make sure that whenever he got sizeable supplies like now he made over some of it to his driver, Johnson, with a wife and six, or was it seven 7,

children and a salary of ten pounds a month when Bari in the market was climbing to one pound per cigarette cup. In such

a situation one could do nothing at all for crowds; at best one could try to be of some use to one's immediate neighbours. That was all. On his way back to Owerri a very attractive girl by the roadside waved for a lift. He ordered the driver to stop. Scores of pedestrians, dusty and exhausted, some military, some civil, swooped down on the car from all directions. 'No, no, no,' said Nwankwo firmly. 'It's the young woman I stopped for. I have a bad tyre and can only take one person. Sorry.'

CHINUA ACHEBE 'My son, please: cried one old woman in despair, gripping the door-handle. 'Old woman, you want to be killed 7' shouted the driver as he pulled away, shaking her off. Nwankwo had already opened a book and sunk his eyes there. For at least a mile after that he did not even look at the girl until she finding, perhaps, the silence too heavy said : 'You've saved me today. Thank you.' 'Not at all. Where are you going 7' 'To Owerri. You don't recognize me ? ' 'Oh yes, of course. What a fool I a m . . . You are . . .' 'Gladys.' 'That's right, the militia girl. You've changed, Gladys. You were always beautiful of course, but now you are a beauty queen. What do you do these days l' 'I am in the Fuel Directorate.' 'That's wonderful.' It was wonderful, he thought, but even more it was tragIc. She wore a high-tinted wig and a very expensive skirt and. low-cut blouse. Her shoes, obviously from Gabon, must have cost a fortune. In short, thought Nwankwo, she had to be in the keep of some well-placed gentleman, one of those piling up money out of the war. 'I broke my rule today to give you a lift. I never give lifts these days.' ' 'Why ?' 'How many people can you carry ? It is better not to try at all. Look at that old woman.' 'I thought you would carry her.' He said nothing to that and after another spell of silence Gladys thought maybe he was offended and so added : 'Thank you for breaking your rule for me.' She was scanning his face, turned slightly away. He smiled, turned, and tapped her on the lap. 'What are you going to Owerri to do 7' 'I am going to visit my girl-friend.' 'Girl-friend 7 You sure ? ' 'Why not ? . . . If you drop m e a t her house you can see her. Only I pray God she hasn't gone on · weekend today; it will be serious.' 'Why ?'

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'Because if she is not at home I will sleep on the road today.' 'I pray to God that she is not at home.' 'Why ? ' 'Because if she i s not a t home I will offer you bed and breakfast . . . What is that 7' he asked the driver who had brought the car to an abrupt stop. There was no need for an answer. The small crowd ahead was looking upwards. The three scrambled out of the car and stumbled for the bush, necks twisted in a backward search of the sky. But the alarm was false. The sky was silent and clear except for two high-flying vultures. A humorist in the crowd called them Fighter and Bomber and everyone laughed in relief. The three climbed into their car again and continued their journey. 'It is much too early for raids: he said to Gladys, who had both her palms on her breast as though to still a thump­ ing heart. 'They rarely come before ten o'clock.' But she remained tongue-tied from her recent fright. Nwankwo saw an opportunity there and took it at once. 'Where does your friend live l' '250 Douglas Road.' 'Ah; that's the very centre of town - a terrible place. No bunkers, nothing. I won't advise you to go there before 6 p.m.; it's not safe. If you don't mind I will take you to my place where there is a good bunker and then as soon as it is safe, around six, I shall drive you to your friend. How's that 7' 'It's all right: she said lifelessly. 'I am so frightened of this thing. That's why I refused to work in Owerri. I don't even know who asked me to come out today.' 'You'll be all right. We are used to it.' 'But your family is not there with you ?' 'No: he said. 'Nobody has his family there. We like to say it is because of air-raids but I can assure you there is more to it. Owerri is a real swinging now, and we live tJhe life of gay bachelors.' 'That is what I have heard.' 'You will not just hear it; you will see it today. I shall take you to a real swinging party. A friend of mine, a Lieu- · tenant-Colonel, is having a birthday party. He's hired the Sound Smashers to play. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.'

CHINUA ACHEBE

GIRLS AT WAR

He was immediately and thoroughly ashamed of himself. He hated the parties and frivolities to which his friends clung like drowning men. And to talk so approvingly of them because he wanted to take a girl home I And this particular girl too, who had once had such beautiful faith in the struggle and was betrayed (no doubt about it) by some man like him out for a good time. He shook his head sadly. 'What is it ?' asked Gladys. 'Nothing. Just my thoughts.' They made the rest of the journey to Owerri practically in silence. She made herself at home very quickly as if she was a regular girl-friend of his. She changed into a house dress and put away her auburn wig. 'That is a lovely hair-do. Why do you hide it with a wig ?' 'Thank you: she said leaving his question unanswered for a while. Then she said : 'Men are funny.' 'Why do you say that 7' 'You are now a beauty queen: she mimicked. 'Oh, that ! I mean every word of it: He pulled her to him and kissed her. She neither refused nor yielded fully, which he liked for a start. Too many girls were simply too easy those days. War sickness, some called it. He drove off a little later to look in at the office and she busied herself in the kitchen helping his boy with lunch. It must have been literally a look-in, for he was back within half an hour, rubbing his hands and saying he could not stay away too long from his beauty queen. As they sat down to lunch she said : 'You have nothing in your fridge: 'Like what ?' he asked, half-offended. 'Like meat: she replied undaunted. 'Do you still eat meat ?' he challenged. 'Who am I ? But other big men like you eat.' 'I don't know which big men you have in mind. But they are not like me. I don't make money trading with the enemy or selling relief or . . : 'Augusta's boy friend doesn't do that. He just gets foreign exchange: 'How does he get it 7 He swindles the government - that's how he gets foreign exchange, whoever he is. Who is .

Augusta, by the way 7' 'My girl-friend: 'I see: 'She gave me three dollars last time which I changed to forty-five pounds. The man gave her fifty dollars: 'Well, my dear girl, I don't traffic in foreign exchange and I don't have meat in my fridge. We are fighting a war and I happen to know that some young boys at the front drink gari and water once in three days.' 'It is true: she said simply. 'Monkey de work, baboon de chop.' 'It is not even that; it is worse,' he said, his voice beginl).ing to shake. 'People are dying every day. As we talk now some. body is dying.' 'It is true: she said again. 'Plane ! ' screamed his boy from the kitchen. 'My mother ! ' screamed Gladys. As they scuttled towards the bunker of palm stems and red earth, covering their heads with their hands and stooping slightly in their flight, the entire sky was exploding with the clamour of. jets and the huge noise of home-made anti-aircraft rockets. Inside the bunker she clung to him even after the plane had gone and the guns, late to start and also to end, had all died down again. 'It was only passing: he told her, his voice a little shaky. 'It didn't drop anything. From its direction I should say it was going to the war front. Perhaps our people are pressing them. That's what they always do. Whenever our boys press them, they send an SOS to the Russians and Egyptians to bring the planes: He drew a long breath. She said nothing, just clung to him. They could hear his boy telling the servant from the next house that there were two of them and one dived like this and the other dived like that. 'I see dem well well,' said the other with equal excite­ ment. 'If no to say de ting de kill porson e for sweet for eye. To God.' 'Imagine ! ' said Gladys, finding her voice at last. She had a way, he thought, of conveying with a few words or even a single word whole layers of meaning. Now it was at once her astonishment as well as reproof, tinged perhaps

1 50

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with grudging admiration for people who could be so light­ hearted about these bringers of death. 'Don't be so scared,' he said. She moved closer and he began to kiss her and squeeze her breasts. She yielded more and more and then fully. The bunker was dark and unswept and might harbour crawling things. He thought of bringing a mat from the main house but reluctantly decided against it. Another plane might pass and send a neighbour or simply a chance passer-by crashing into them. that would be only slightly better than a certain gentleman in another air-raid who was seen in broad daylight fleeing his bedroom for his bunker stark naked pursued by a woman in a similar state !

named 'tracer' which indeed sent a flame down your gullet. The funny thing was looking at it in the bottle it had the innocent appearance of an orange drink. But the thing that caused the greatest stir was the bread - one little roll for each person ! It was the size of a golf-ball and about the same consistency too ! But it was real bread. The band was good too and there were many girls. And to improve matters even further two white Red Cross people soon arrived with

Just as Gladys had feared, her friend was not in town. It would seem her powerful boy-friend had wangled for her a flight to Libreville to shop. So her neighbours thought anyway. 'Great ! ' said Nwankwo as they drove away. 'She will come back on an arms plane loaded with shoes, wigs, pants, bras, cosmetics and wha.t have you, which she will then sell and make thousands of pounds. You girls are really at war, - aren't you 7' She said nothing and he thought he had got through at last to her. Then suddenly she said, 'That is what you men want us to do.' 'Well,' he said, 'here is one man who doesn't want you to do that. Do you remember that girl in· khaki jeans who searched me without mercy at the check-point ?' She began to laugh. 'That is the girl I want you to become again. Do you remember her 7 No wig. I don't even think she had any ear­ rings . . .' 'Ah, na lie-o. I had ear-rings.' 'All right. But you know what I mean.' 'That time done pass. Now everybody want survival. They call it number six. You put your number six; I put my number six. Everything all right.' The Lieutenant-Colonel's party turned into something quite unexpected. But before it did things had been going well enough. There was goat-meat, some chicken and rice and plenty of home-made spirits. There was one fiery brand nick-

a bottle of Courvoisier and a bottle of Scotch l The party gave them a standing ovation and then scrambled to get a drop. It soon turned out from his general behaviour, however, that one of the white men had probably drunk too much already. And the reason it would seem was that a pilot he knew well had been killed in a crash at the airport last night, flying in relief in awful weather. Few people at the party had heard of the crash by then.

So there was an immediate- damping of the air. Some dancing couples went back to their seats and the band stopped. Then for some strange reason the drunken Red Cross man just exploded. 'Why should a man, a decent man, throw away his life.

For nothing l Charley didn't need to die. Not for this stink­ ing place. Yes, everything stinks here. Even these girls who come here all dolled up and smiling, what are they worth 7 Don't I know ? A head of stockfish, that's all, or one American dollar and they are ready to tumble into bed.'

In the threatening silence following the explosion one of the young officers walked up to him and gave him three thundering slaps - right l left ! right ! - pulled him up from his seat and (there were things like tears in his eyes) shoved him outside. His friend, who had tried in vain to shut him up, followed him out and the silenced party heard them drive off. The officer who did the job returned dusting his palms. 'Fucking beast' l ' said he with an impressive coolness. And -. all the girls showed with their eyes that they rated him a man and a hero. 'Do you know him ?' Gladys asked Nwankwo. He didn't answer her. Instead he spoke generally to the party : 'The fellow was clearly drunk,' he said. 'I don't care,' said the officer. 'It is when a man is drunk

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CHINUA ACHEBE

that he speaks what is on his mind.' 'So you beat him for what was on his mind: said the host, 'that is the spirit, Joe.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Joe, saluting. 'His name is Joe,' Gladys and the girl on her left said in unison, turning to each other. At the same time Nwankwo and a friend on the other side of him were saying quietly, very quietly, that although the man had been rude and offensive what he had said about the girls was unfortunately the bitter truth, only he was the wrong man to say it. When the dancing resumed Captain Joe came to Gladys for a dance. She sprang to her feet even before the word was out of his mouth. Then she remembered immediately and turned round to take permission from Nwankwo. At the same time the Captain also turned to him and said, 'Excuse me.' 'Go ahead,' said Nwankwo, looking somewhere between the two. It was a long dance and he followed them with his eyes without appearing to do so. Occasionally a relief plane passed overhead and somebody immediately switched off the lights saying it might be the Intruder. But it was only an excuse to dance in the dark and make the girls giggle, for the sound of the Intruder was well known. Gladys came back feeling very self-conscious and asked Nwankwo to dance with her. But he wouldn't. 'Don't bother about me,' he said, 'I am enjoying myself perfectly sitting here and watching those of you who dance.' 'Then let's go,' she said, 'if you won't dance.' 'But I never dance, believe me. So please enjoy yourself.' She danced next with the Lieutenant-Colonel and again with Captain Joe, and then Nwankwo agreed to take her home. 'I am sorry I didn't dance: he said as they drove away. 'But I swore never ' to dance as long as this war lasts.' She said nothing. 'When I think of somebody like that pilot who got killed last night. And he had no hand whatever in the quarrel. All his concern was to bring us food . . .' 'I hope that his friend is not like him: said Gladys. 'The man was just upset by his friend's death. But what

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I am saying is that with people like that getting killed and our own boys suffering and dying at the war fronts I don't see why we should sit around throwing parties and dancing.' 'You took me there,' said she in final revolt. 'They are. your friends. I don't know them before.' 'Look, my dear, I am not blaming you. I am merely telling you why I personally refuse to dance. Anyway, let's change the subject . . . Do you still say you want to go back tomorrow ? My driver can take you early enough on Monday morning for you to go to work. No ? All right, just as you wish. You are the boss.' She gave him a shock by the readiness with which she followed him to bed and by her language. 'You want to shell ? ' she asked. And without waiting for an answer said, 'Go ahead but don't pour in troops ! ' He didn't want to pour i n troops either and so it was all right. But she wanted visual assurance and so he showed her. One of the ingenious economies taught by the war was that a rubber condom could be used over and over again. All you had to do was wash it out, dry it and shake a lot of talcum powder over it to prevent its sticking; and it was as good as new. It had to be the real British thing, though, not some of the cheap stuff they brought in from Lisbon which was about as strong as a dry cocoyam leaf in the harmattan. He had his pleasure but wrote the girl off. He might just as well have slept with a prostitute, he thought. It was clear as daylight to him now that she was kept by some army officer. What a terrible transformation in the short period of less than two years I Wasn't it a miracle that she still had memories of the other life, that she even remembered her name ? If the affair of the drunken Red Cross man should happen again now, he said to himself, he would stand up beside the fellow and tell the party that here was a man of truth. What a terrible fate to befall a whole generation 1 The mothers of tomorrow ! By morning he was feeling a little better and more generous

in his judgments. Gladys, he thought, was just a mirror reflecting a society that had gone completely rotten and maggOtty at the centre. The mirror itself was intact; a lot of smudge but no more. All that was needed was a clean duster. 'I have a duty to her,' he told himself, 'the little girl that once

GIRLS AT WAR

CHlNUA ACHEBE revealed to me our situation. Now she

is

Naturally their departure had become a little delayed. And when they got into the car it refused to start. After poking around the engine the driver decided that the battery was flat. Nwankwo was aghast. He had that very week paid thirty-four pounds to change two of the cells and the mechanic who performed it had promised him six months' service. A new battery, which was then running at two hundred and fifty pounds was simply out of the question. The driver must have been careless with something, he thought. 'It must be because of last night,' said the driver. 'What happened last night ?' asked Nwankwo sharply, won­ dering what insolence was on the way. But none was in­ tended. 'Because we use the headlight.'

in danger, under

some terrible influence.' He wanted to get to the bottom of this deadly influence. It was clearly not just her good-time girl friend, Augusta, or whatever her name was. There must be some man at the centre of it, perhaps one of these heartless attack-traders who traffic in foreign currencies and make their hundreds of thousands by sending young men to hazard their lives barter­ ing looted goods for cigarettes behind enemy lines, or one of those contractors who receive piles of money daily for food they never deliver to the army. Or perhaps some vulgar and cowardly army officer full of filthy barrack talk and fictitious stories of heroism. He decided he had to find out. Last night he had thought of sending his driver alone to take her home. But no, he must go and see for himself where she lived. Something was bound to reveal itself there. Something on which he could anchor his saving operation. As he pre­ pared for the trip his feeling towards her softened with every passing minute. He assembled for her half of the food he had received at the relief centre the day before. Difficult as things were, he thought, a girl who had something to eat would be spared, not all, but some of the temptation. He would arrange with his friend at the wee to deliver something to her every fortnight. Tears came to Gladys's eyes when she saw the gifts. Nwankwo didn't have too much cash on him but he got together twenty pounds and handed it over to her. 'I don't have foreign exchange, and I know this won't go far at all, but . . .' She just came and threw herself at him, sobbing. He kissed her lips and eyes and mumbled something about victims of circumstances, which went over her head. In deference to him, he thought with exultation, she had put away her high-tinted wig in her bag. 'I want you to promise me something,' he said. 'What ?' 'Never use that expression about shelling again.' She smiled with tears in her eyes. 'You don't like it ? That's what all the girls call it.' 'Well, you are different from all the girls. Will you promise ?' 'OK.!

1 57

! I !;

'Am I supposed not to use my light then ? Go and get some people and try pushing it.' He got out again with Gladys and returned to the house while the driver went over to neighbouring houses to seek the help of other ser­ vants: After at least half an hour of pushing it up and down the street, and a lot of noisy advice from the pushers, the car finally spluttered to life shooting out enormous clouds of black smoke from the exhaust. It was eight-thirty by his watch when they set out. A few miles away a disabled soldier waved for a lift. 'Stop ! ' screamed Nwankwo. The driver jammed his foot on the brakes and then turned his head towards his master in bewilderment. 'Don't you see the soldier waving ? Reverse and pick him up ! ' 'Sorry, sir,' said the driver. 'I don't know Master want to pick him.' 'If you don't know you should ask. Reverse back.' The soldier, a mere boy, in filthy khaki, drenched in sweat lacked his right leg from the knee down. He seemed not only grateful that a car should stop for him but greatly surprised. He first handed in his crude wooden crutches which the driver arranged between the two front seats, then pain­ fully he levered himself in. 'Thanks sir,' he said turning his neck to look at the back and completely out of breath.

CHINUA ACHEBE 'I am very grateful. Madame, thank you: 'The pleasure is ours: said Nwankwo. 'Where did you get your wound l' 'At Azumini, sir. On tenth of January.' 'Never mind. Everything will be all right. We are proud of you boys and will make sure you receive your due reward when it is all over.' 'I pray God, sir.' They drove on in silence for the next half-hour or so. Then as the car sped down a slope towards a bridge some­ body screamed - perhaps the driver, perhaps the soldier ­ 'They have come I ' The screech of the brakes merged into the scream and the shattering of the sky overhead. The doors flew open even before the car had come to a stop and they were fleeing blindly to the bush. Gladys was a little ahead of Nwankwo where they heard through the drowning tumult the soldier's voice crying : 'Please come and open for me ! ' Vaguely he saw Gladys stop; he pushed past her shout­ ing to her at the same time to come on. Then a high whistle descended like a spear through the chaos and exploded in a vast noise and motion that smashed up everything. A tree he had embraced flung him away through the bush. Then another terrible whistle starting high up and ending again in a monumental crash of the world; and then another, and Nwankwo heard no more. He woke up to human noises and weeping and the smell and smoke of a charred world. He dragged himself up and stag­ gered towards the source of the sounds. From afar he saw his driver running towards him in tears and blood. He saw the remains of his car smoking and the entangled remains of the girl and the soldier. And he let out a piercing cry and fell down again.

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