No Longer at Ease (13 page)

As soon as he finished his lunch he immediately set about introducing sweeping economy measures in his flat. His new steward boy, Sebastian, stood by, no doubt wondering what had possessed his master. He had started off his
lunch by complaining that there was too much meat in the soup.

“I am not a millionaire, you know,” he had said. God knows, Clara used twice as much meat when she made the soup herself! thought Sebastian.

“And in future,” Obi continued, “I shall only give you money to go to the market once a week.”

Every switch in the flat lit two bulbs. Obi set about pruning them down. The rule in future was to be one switch, one bulb. He had often wondered why there should be two lamps in the bathroom and lavatory. It was typical Government planning. There was no single light on the flight of concrete stairs running through the middle of the block, with the result that people often collided with one another there or slipped one step. And yet there were two lamps in the lavatory where no one wanted to look closely at what one was doing.

Having dealt with the lamps, he turned to Sebastian again. “In future the water heater must not be turned on. I will have cold baths. The fridge must be switched off at seven o’clock in the evening and on again at twelve noon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. But meat no go spoil so?”

“No need to buy plenty meat at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Buy small today; when he finish buy small again.”

“Yes, sir. Only I tink you say I go de go market once every week.”

“I said nothing of the sort. I said I would only give you money once.”

Sebastian now understood. “Na de same ting. Instead to give me money two times. You go give me now one time.”

Obi knew he would not get very far pursuing the matter in the abstract.

That evening he had a serious disagreement with Clara. He had not wanted to tell her about the overdraft, but as soon as she saw him she asked what the matter was. He tried to fob her off with some excuse. But he had not planned it, so it didn’t hold together. Clara’s way of getting anything from him was not to argue but to refuse to talk. And as she usually did three-quarters of the talking when they were together, the silence soon became too heavy to bear. Obi would then ask her what the matter was, which was usually the prelude to doing whatever she wanted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked when he had told her about the overdraft.

“Well, there was no need. I’ll pay it easily in five monthly installments.”

“That’s not the point. You don’t think I should be told when you’re in difficulty.”

“I wasn’t in difficulty. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t pressed me.”

“I see,” was all she said. She went across the room and picked up a woman’s magazine lying on the floor and began to read.

After a couple of minutes, Obi said with synthetic lightheartedness:
“It’s very rude to be reading when you have a visitor.”

“You should have known I was very badly brought up.” Any reflection on her family was a very risky subject and often ended in tears. Even now her eyes were beginning to look glazed.

“Clara,” he said, putting his arm round her. She was all tensed up. “Clara.” She did not answer. She was turning the pages of the magazine mechanically. “I don’t understand why you want to quarrel.” Not a sound. “I think I had better be going.”

“I think so, too.”

“Clara, I’m very sorry.”

“About what? Leave me,
ojare
.” She pushed his arm off.

Obi sat for another couple of minutes gazing at the floor.

“All right.” He sprang to his feet. Clara remained where she was, turning the pages.

“Bye-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

When he got back to the flat he told Sebastian not to cook any supper.

“I don start already.”

“Then you can stop,” he shouted, and went into his bedroom. He stopped for a brief moment to look at Clara’s photograph on the dressing table. He turned it on its face and went to undress. He threw his cloth over his shoulder, toga-wise,
and returned to his sitting room to get a book. He looked along the shelves a number of times without deciding what to read. Then his eye rested on A. E. Housman’s
Collected Poems
. He took it down and returned to his bedroom. He picked up Clara’s photograph and stood it on its feet again. Then he went and lay down.

He opened the book where a piece of paper was showing, its top frayed and browned from exposure to dust. On it was written a poem called “Nigeria.”

God bless our noble fatherland,
Great land of sunshine bright,
Where brave men chose the way of peace,
To win their freedom fight.
May we preserve our purity,
Our zest for life and jollity
.

God bless our noble countrymen
And women everywhere.
Teach them to walk in unity
To build our nation dear;
Forgetting region, tribe or speech,
But caring always each for each
.

At the bottom was written “London, July 1955.” He smiled, put the piece of paper back where he found it, and began to read his favorite poem, “Easter Hymn.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Obi was now on the best of terms with Miss Tomlinson. He had begun to lower his guard “small small” from the day she went into raptures over Clara. She was now Marie to him and he was Obi to her.

“Miss Tomlinson is rather a mouthful,” she had said one day. “Why not plain Marie?”

“I was going to suggest that myself. But you’re not
plain
Marie. You are the exact opposite of plain.”

“Oh,” she said with a delightful jerk of the head. “Thank you.” She stood up and executed a mock curtsy.

They talked, frankly, of many things. Whenever there was nothing urgent to do, Marie had the habit of folding her arms and resting them on her typewriter. She would wait in that posture until Obi raised his eyes from what he was doing. Mr. Green was usually the subject of discussion, or at least the occasion for starting it. Once started, it took whatever direction it pleased.

“I had tea with the Greens yesterday,” she might say. “They are a most delightful couple, you know. He is quite different at home. Do you know he pays school fees for his
steward’s sons? But he says the most outrageous things about educated Africans.”

“I know,” said Obi. “He will make a very interesting case for a psychologist. Charles—you know the messenger—told me that some time ago the A.A. wanted to sack him for sleeping in the office. But when the matter went up to Mr. Green, he tore out the query from Charles’s personal file. He said the poor man must be suffering from malaria, and the next day he bought him a tube of quinacrine.”

Marie was about to place yet another brick in position in their reconstruction of a strange character when Mr. Green sent for her to take some dictation. She was just saying that he was a very devout Christian, a sidesman at the Colonial Church.

Obi had long come to admit to himself that, no matter how much he disliked Mr. Green, he nevertheless had some admirable qualities. Take, for instance, his devotion to duty. Rain or shine, he was in the office half an hour before the official time, and quite often worked long after two, or returned again in the evening. Obi could not understand it. Here was a man who did not believe in a country, and yet worked so hard for it. Did he simply believe in duty as a logical necessity? He continually put off going to see his dentist because, as he always said, he had some urgent work to do. He was like a man who had some great and supreme task that must be completed before a final catastrophe intervened. It reminded Obi of what he had once read about Mohammed Ali of Egypt, who in his old age worked in frenzy to modernize his country before his death.

In the case of Green it was difficult to see what his deadline was, unless it was Nigeria’s independence. They said he had put in his resignation when it was thought that Nigeria might become independent in 1956. In the event it did not happen and Mr. Green was persuaded to withdraw his resignation.

A most intriguing character, Obi thought, drawing profiles on his blotting pad. One thing he could never draw properly was a shirt collar. Yes, a very interesting character. It was clear he loved Africa, but only Africa of a kind: the Africa of Charles, the messenger, the Africa of his gardenboy and steward boy. He must have come originally with an ideal—to bring light to the heart of darkness, to tribal headhunted performing weird ceremonies and unspeakable rites. But when he arrived, Africa played him false. Where was his beloved bush full of human sacrifice? There was St. George horsed and caparisoned, but where was the dragon? In 1900 Mr. Green might have ranked among the great missionaries; in 1935 he would have made do with slapping headmasters in the presence of their pupils; but in 1957 he could only curse and swear.

With a flash of insight Obi remembered his Conrad which he had read for his degree. “By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded.” That was Mr. Kurtz before the heart of darkness got him. Afterwards he had written: “Exterminate all the brutes.” It was not a close analogy, of course. Kurtz had succumbed to the darkness, Green to the incipient dawn. But their beginning and their end were alike. “I must write a
novel on the tragedy of the Greens of this century,” he thought, pleased with his analysis.

Later that morning a ward attendant from the General Hospital brought a little parcel to him. It was from Clara. One of the most wonderful things about her was her writing. It was so feminine. But Obi was not thinking about writing just now. His heart was pounding heavily.

“You may go,” he told the ward servant who was waiting to take a message. He started opening the parcel, but stopped again, his hands trembling. Marie was not there at the moment, but she might come in at any time. He thought of taking the parcel to the lavatory. Then a better idea occurred to him. He pulled out one of the drawers and began to untie the parcel inside it. For some reason he knew, despite the size of the parcel, that it contained his ring. And some money too! Yes, five-pound notes. But he didn’t see any ring. He sighed with relief and then read the little note enclosed.

Darling,

I’m sorry about yesterday. Go to the bank straight away and cancel that overdraft. See you in the evening.

Love, Clara.

His eyes misted. When he looked up, he saw that Marie was watching him. He hadn’t even noticed when she returned to the office.

“What’s the matter, Obi?”

“Nothing,” he said, improvising a smile. “I was lost in thought.”

Obi wrapped up the fifty pounds carefully and put it in his pocket. How had Clara come by so much money? he wondered. But of course she was reasonably well paid and she had not studied nursing on any progressive union’s scholarship. It was true that she sent money to her parents, but that was all. Even so, fifty pounds was a lot of money.

All the way from Ikoyi to Yaba he was thinking how best he could make her take the money back. He knew it was going to be difficult, if not impossible. But it was quite out of the question for him to take fifty pounds from her. The question was how to make her take it back without hurting her. He might say that he would look silly taking an overdraft today and paying it off tomorrow, that the manager might think he had stolen the money. Or he might ask her to keep it until the end of the month, when he would really need it. She might ask: “Why not keep it yourself?” He would answer: “I might spend it before then.”

Whenever Obi had a difficult discussion with Clara he planned all the dialogue beforehand. But when the time came it always took a completely different course. And so it did on this occasion. Clara was ironing when he arrived.

“I’ll finish in a second,” she said. “What did the bank manager say?”

“He was very pleased.”

“In future don’t be a silly little boy. You know the proverb about digging a new pit to fill up an old one?”

“Why did you trust so much money to that sly-looking man?”

“You mean Joe? He’s a great friend of mine. He’s a ward servant.”

“I didn’t like his looks. What is the proverb about digging a new pit to fill up an old one?”

“I have always said you should go and study Ibo. It means borrowing from the bank to pay the insurance.”

“I see. You prefer digging two pits to fill up one. Borrowing from Clara to pay the bank to pay the insurance.”

Clara made no answer.

“I did not go to the bank. I didn’t see how I could. How could I take so much money from you?”

“Please, Obi, stop behaving like a small boy. It is only a loan. If you don’t want it you can return it. Actually I have been thinking all afternoon about the whole thing. It seems I have been interfering in your affairs. All I can say is, I’m very sorry. Have you got the money here?” She held out her hand.