Anthills of the Savannah (11 page)

“Bloody reformist,” said Ikem, infuriated and impressed for though he may be a great writer yet when it comes to speaking off the cuff he is no match for Chris.

A pleasant-faced army major searched my handbag at the entrance and another officer took me up a wide and red-carpeted flight of stairs. At the landing a huge open door led into an enormous and opulent room where guests were already settled in. As soon as I had appeared at the door His Excellency had rushed out to meet me, planted a kiss on my forehead and led me by the hand into the room. The guests sat in scattered groups of twos and threes on chairs, settees and pouffes drinking and dipping into bowls of assorted finger-food laid out on stools and on the floor.

“Who don’t we know?” asked the host and without waiting for an answer added: “Let’s start with the ladies.” Meanwhile the men had all struggled to their feet to stand guard, as it were.

“Come and meet Miss Cranford of the American United Press. Lou is in Bassa to see if all the bad news they hear about us in America is true.” The dark-haired girl who would have fitted my stereotype of an Italian beauty if I hadn’t been told she was American was smiling and playing her hand like a pair of cymbals to get them free of salted peanuts in preparation for a hand-shake which when it came would have given her Americanness away for its over-eager firmness. Meanwhile His Excellency was literally reciting my CV. “Lou, this is one of the most brilliant daughters of this country, Beatrice Okoh. She is a Senior Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Finance—the only person in the service, male or female, with a first-class honours in English. And not from a local university but from Queen Mary College, University of London. Our Beatrice beat the English to their game. We’re very proud of her.”

“Wow,” said Lou. “That’s terrific. How did you do it Beatrice?”

The rest was routine. There were I think eight men and seven women including myself.

Of the men I knew only one reasonably well—Joe Ibe, the Commissioner for Works. When His Excellency got to him and said: “But of course you know Beatrice,” he had replied: “Me? I am sorry sir, I have never seen her before,” which must be about the most predictable and tired of Bassa witticisms and yet it always produced some laughter most of it on this occasion from the humorist himself who immediately added as if to bring everything down again to the literal level of those not bright enough for high humour: “Long time no see, Beatrice. How’s my friend Chris?” To which I replied with my own feeble effort at joke-making: “But I should ask you. You see him more often than I do. He is always at one or other of your meetings.”

“That’s what he tells you?” And that really cracked everybody up.

“Joe is right, you know,” said His Excellency with a wink. “If I were you I would do spot checks now and again.”

As soon as the introductions were over the American journalist came rushing to me to say she hoped that besides getting acquainted this evening we would be able to sit down somewhere in the next seven days over a meal or something and talk about things in general. Especially the woman’s angle, you know. To which I replied rather sharply that I couldn’t see what a reporter who could stroll in any time and get it all direct from the horse’s mouth could want to hear from the likes of me. Involuntarily perhaps her eyes narrowed into a fighting squint for the briefest moment and then just as swiftly changed tactics back to friendliness.

“I won’t leave the country now without talking to you,” she said. “Not after all the things I’ve just heard. It’s a promise!” And she moved off and left me in peace for the moment.

I knew I had been unduly shrill in our brief exchange. But I seemed not to be fully in control of my responses. Something tougher than good breeding had edged it aside in a scuffle deep inside me and was imparting to my casual words the sharp urgency of incantation. I assumed to begin with that I was still over-reacting to the abnormal circumstances of my invitation to the party and remembered Chris’s advice to remain calm. To his shade I promised now to try harder.

So these were the new power-brokers around His Excellency! I
was seeing the controversial Director of SRC at close quarters for the first time and did not, as I might have expected, like him in the least. He is youngish and good-looking, and strong in a vaguely disagreeable way. Perhaps it was those enormous hands of his like a wrestler’s which struck you at once as being oversize even for a man as big as he. I think he feels awkward about them and is constantly shifting them around from beside to behind him and then inside his pockets which of course draws more attention to them. He speaks only when spoken to and then in an absurdly soft voice. And to finish him off finally as far as I was concerned he was so excessively obsequious to His Excellency during the dinner. Was he a guest like the rest of us or some kind of superior steward? He would leave a guest in midsentence and go after the serving crew because a glass somewhere was three-quarters empty.

The Chief of Army Staff was more popularly known, more self-assured and a more agreeable person altogether.

The ladies were the most surprising. They were all over-dressed or perhaps nobody had told them about the informality of the occasion; and none of them had very much to say. These couldn’t be some of the wild and fashionable set that rumour claimed dominated His Excellency’s current party life. Perhaps this drab group was chosen on pathetically incompetent advice to impress the American girl. Wasn’t it conceivable that some daft fellow on the President’s staff seeing so many raving American and American-trained preachers on sponsored religious programmes nightly on television might actually believe that a show of Presidential decorum would be desirable!

The food was simple and tasty. Shrimp cocktail;
jollof
rice with plantain and fried chicken; and fresh fruit salad or cheese and English crackers for dessert. The wines were excellent but totally wasted on the company, only His Excellency, the American girl and myself showing the slightest interest. The Bassa men stuck as usual to the beer they had been drinking all day; one of the ladies had double gins and lime and the other two a shandy of stout and Seven Up which one of them—Irene, I think her name was—apostrophized as
Black Is Beautiful.

His Excellency was a perfect host. From the head of the oval-shaped table he dispensed conviviality and put every one at their ease. Had there been just a little less eagerness on the part of the guests to agree with everything he said and laugh excessively
whenever they thought he was making a joke the evening might have been quite remarkable really. He had placed me on his right and the American girl on his left so that we faced each other across a thin end of the oval. On my right was the reticent Major Ossai and across the table from him the Commissioner for Works. The Chief of Army Staff controlled the far end of the table like a second-class chief attentive, whenever required to do so, to the paramount chief but sometimes out on his own quietly filling the gin-and-lime girl with giggles.

The host’s efforts to get the American girl and me talking together failed dismally. I simply couldn’t muster anything you could call enthusiasm to sustain an exchange even with the Head of State chipping in to fan the failing flames. The other, after my initial rebuff was no more than merely polite. Whenever I was not talking to the host I would turn to the gentleman on my right and engage him seemingly in deep exchanges. And he was ideal for my purpose having no greater will for social courtesies than a standby generator has to produce electricity when the mains are performing satisfactorily.

The American girl drank three large glasses of Moselle in addition to the dry sherry she had had as a starter with the shrimp cocktail and whatever else she had tucked away in the lounge before dinner, all of which was clearly proving too much for her. She became increasingly voluble and less restrained as the evening wore on although she still seemed in full control of her faculties as far as giving me the widest possible berth was concerned. Which of course suited me very well. I could listen and watch without appearing to do so and without the strain of exchanging politeness for provocation.

Her manner with His Excellency was becoming outrageously familiar and domineering. She would occasionally leave him hanging on a word she had just spoken while she turned to fling another at Major Ossai whom she now addressed only as Johnson. And wonder of wonders she even referred to the Chief of Staff, General Lango, as Ahmed on one occasion. And for these effronteries she got nothing but grins of satisfaction from the gentlemen in question. Unbelievable!

But we hadn’t seen noth’n yet. Without any kind of preamble she began reading His Excellency and his subjects a lecture on the need for the country to maintain its present (quite unpopular,
needless to say) levels of foreign debt servicing currently running at slightly more than fifty-one percent of total national export earnings. Why? As a
quid pro quo
for increased American aid in surplus grains for our drought provinces!

“Have you been reading editorials in the
National Gazette
lately?” I asked in utter dumbfoundment.

“Yes, Johnson kindly showed me some comments earlier in the week. The editor who I hear is a Marxist of sorts appears to imagine he can eat his cake as well as have it, as we all tend to do this side of democracy. Admiring Castro may be fine if you don’t have to live in Cuba or even Angola. But the strange fact is that Dr. Castro, no matter what he says, never defaults in his obligations to the international banking community. He says to others, ‘Don’t pay,’ while making sure he doesn’t fall behind himself in his repayments. What we must remember is that banks are not houses of charity. They’re there to lend money at a fair and reasonable profit. If you deny them their margin of profit by borrowing and not paying back they will soon have to shut down their operations and we shall all go back to saving our money in grandmother’s piggy-bags.”

“Or inside old mattresses,” added His Excellency whose deferential attitude to this piece of impertinence had given me a greater shock than anything I could think of in recent times. Deference and a countenance of martyred justification. He seemed to be saying to the girl, “Go on; tell them. I have gone hoarse shouting the very same message to no avail.” And
them
in the context was
me.

What I did when the dancing started may need a little background. We left the dinner-table and reconvened in the greater ease of the lounge for coffee and liqueur during which His Excellency and Lou were ensconced in deep and intense conversation on a sofa.

Then suddenly I heard my name. “Beatrice, come and sit here by me,” he ordered patting the sofa on the other side of him. “African Chiefs are always polygamists.” Naturally this was greeted with an explosion of laughter. He seemed a little tipsy to me. “Polygamy is for Africa what monotony is for Europe,” he pronounced into the still raging flames of laughter stoking them recklessly to the peril of the rafters. I think the girl beside him had chipped in “And America!” but I can’t bet on it, such was the uproar.

Before his voice had impinged on my thoughts I had temporarily withdrawn into them while physically appearing to attend to the Commissioner of Works struggling overconscientiously with an almost casual comment from General Lango that our highways break up even as they are being laid unlike highways he had seen in Europe and America and even Kenya. The Commissioner who had obviously been long enough in contact with professionals to have picked up a smattering of their language was explaining to a now inattentive general something about the weight of heavy lorries not being the real problem but rather their axle weight or something to that effect.

At that point a renewed sense of questioning had assailed me and I had withdrawn to attend to it. Why am I here? Why was I sent for? Obviously the reason that had first offered itself that it might have to do with mediating between two old friends (even in the absence of one of them) could hardly stand a chance now. Why was I there then? To meet this American girl and arrange to give her the woman’s angle. That was it! I had been dragged here to wait upon this cheeky girl from Arizona or somewhere. Fine. We shall see!

And then came the master’s voice summoning me to have my turn in the bedchamber of African polygamy!

The first time it happened I was a student in England. My boyfriend had taken me to an end-of-year dance at St. Pancras Town Hall. It was crowded and we eventually had to share a table with someone my boyfriend knew who was already seated with a white girl. After a couple of dances I whispered into Guy’s ear that we should exchange partners out of politeness. After two dances with the white girl Guy went completely berserk. He would withdraw with her to the farthest corner of the huge dance-hall and stay there at the end of one dance waiting for the band to strike up another number. The white girl’s boyfriend danced a couple of numbers with me and vanished altogether. So I found myself dancing with strangers who had come to the party with no girls of their own. I became
kabu kaboo
, for the first time in my life.

When Guy and the girl finally showed up again at our table during a longish interval and he promptly took off to buy drinks, the girl said to me in her heavy Cockney as she peered into her handbag mirror to mend her rouge: “Your boys like us, ain’ they?
My girlfriend saiz it’s the Desdemona complex. Nice word Des-de-mona. Italian I think. Ever hear it?”

So I was locked in combat again with Desdemona, this time itinerant and, worse still, not over some useless black trash in England but the sacred symbol of my nation’s pride, such as it was. Corny? So be it!

So I threw myself between this enemy and him. I literally
threw
myself at him like a loyal batman covering his endangered commander with his own body and receiving the mortal bullet in his place.

I did it shamelessly. I cheapened myself. God! I did it to your glory like the dancer in a Hindu temple. Like Esther, oh yes like Esther for my long-suffering people.