No Longer at Ease (14 page)

Obi took her hand and pulled her towards him. “Don’t misunderstand me, darling.”

That evening they called on Christopher, Obi’s economist friend. Clara had gradually come round to liking him. Perhaps he was a little too lively, which was not a serious fault. But she feared he might influence Obi for the worse in the matter of women. He seemed to enjoy going around with four or five at once. He even said there was nothing like love, at any rate in Nigeria. But he was very likeable really, quite unlike Joseph, who was a bushman.

As was to be expected, Christopher had a girl with him
when Clara and Obi arrived. Clara had not met this one before, although apparently Obi had.

“Clara, meet Bisi,” said Christopher. The two girls shook hands and said: “Pleased to meet you.” “Clara is Obi’s—”

“Shut up,” Clara completed for him. But it was like trying to complete a sentence for a stammerer. You might as well save your breath.

“Obi’s
you know
,” completed Christopher.

“Have you been buying new records?” asked Clara, going through a little pile of records on one of the chairs.

“Me? At this time of the month? They are Bisi’s. What can I offer you?”

“Champagne.”

“Ah? Na Obi go buy you that-o. Me I never reach that grade yet. Na squash me get-o.” They laughed.

“Obi, what about some beer?”

“If you’ll split a bottle with me.”

“Fine. What are you people doing this evening? Make we go dance somewhere?”

Obi tried to make excuses, but Clara cut him short. They would go, she said.

“Na film I wan’ go,” said Bisi.

“Look here, Bisi, we are not interested in what you want to do. It’s for Obi and me to decide. This na Africa, you know.”

Whether Christopher spoke good or “broken” English depended on what he was saying, where he was saying it, to whom and how he wanted to say it. Of course that was to
some extent true of most educated people, especially on Saturday nights. But Christopher was rather outstanding in thus coming to terms with a double heritage.

Obi borrowed a tie from him. Not that it mattered at the Imperial, where they had chosen to go. But one didn’t want to look like a
boma
boy.

“Shall we all come into your car, Obi? It’s a long time since I had a chauffeur.”

“Yes, let’s all go together. Although it’s going to be difficult after the dance to take Bisi home, then Clara, then you. But it doesn’t matter.”

“No. I had better bring my car,” said Christopher. Then he whispered something into Obi’s ear to the effect that he wasn’t actually thinking of taking Bisi back that night, which was rather obvious.

“What are you whispering to him?” asked Clara.

“For men only,” said Christopher.

There was very little parking space at the Imperial and many cars were already there. After a little to-ing and fro-ing Obi finally squeezed in between two other cars, directed by half a dozen half-clad little urchins who were standing around.

“Na me go look your car for you,” chorused three of them at once.

“O.K., make you look am well,” said Obi to none in particular. “Lock up your side,” he said quietly to Clara.

“I go look am well, sir,” said one of the boys, stepping across Obi’s path so that he would remark him well as the
right person to receive a threepence “dash” at the end of the dance. In principle Obi never gave anything to these juvenile delinquents. But it would be bad policy to tell them so now and then leave your car at their mercy.

Christopher and Bisi were already waiting for them at the gate. The place was not as crowded as they thought it might be. In fact the dance floor was practically empty, but that was because the band was playing a waltz. Christopher found a table and two chairs and the two girls sat.

“You are not going to stand all night,” said Clara. “Tell one of the stewards to get you chairs.”

“Never mind,” said Christopher. “We’ll soon get chairs.”

He had hardly completed this sentence when the band struck up a high-life. In under thirty seconds the dance floor was invaded. Those who were caught with a glass of beer in midair either put it down again or quickly swallowed its contents. Unfinished cigarettes were, according to the status of the smoker, either thrown on the floor and stepped on or carefully put out, to be continued later.

Christopher moved past three or four tables in front and grabbed two chairs that had just been vacated.

“Mean old thing!” said Obi as he took one. Bisi was wriggling in her chair and singing with the soloist.

Nylon dress is a lovely dress,
Nylon dress is a country dress.
If you want to make your baby happy
Nylon is good for her
.

“We are wasting a good dance,” said Obi.

“Why not go and dance with Bisi? Clara and I can watch the chairs.”

“Shall we?” Obi said, standing. Bisi was already up with a faraway look in her eyes.

If you want to make your baby happy
Go to the shop and get a doz’n of nylon.
She will know nobody but you alone
Nylon is good for her
.

The next dance was again a high-life. In fact most of the dances were high-lifes. Occasionally a waltz or a blues was played so that the dancers could relax and drink their beer, or smoke. Christopher and Clara danced next while Obi and Bisi kept an eye on their chairs. But soon it was only Obi; someone had asked Bisi to dance.

There were as many ways of dancing the high-life as there were people on the floor. But, broadly speaking, three main patterns could be discerned. There were four or five Europeans whose dancing reminded one of the early motion pictures. They moved like triangles in an alien dance that was ordained for circles. There were others who made very little real movement. They held their women close, breast to breast and groin to groin, so that the dance could flow uninterrupted from one to the other and back again. The last group were the ecstatic ones. They danced apart, spinning, swaying, or doing intricate syncopations with their feet and waist. They were the good servants who had found perfect
freedom. The vocalist drew the microphone up to his lips to sing “Gentleman Bobby.”

I was playing moi guitar
jeje,
A lady gave me a kiss.
Her husband didn’t like it,
He had to drag him wife away.
Gentlemen, please hold your wife.
Father and mum, please hold your girls.
The calypso is so nice,
If they follow, don’t blame Bobby
.

The applause and the cries of “Anchor! Anchor!” that followed this number seemed to suggest that no one blamed Gentleman Bobby. And why should they? He was playing his guitar
jeje
—quietly, soberly, unobtrusively, altogether in a law-abiding fashion, when a woman took it upon herself to plant a kiss on him. No matter how one looked at it, no blame could possibly attach to the innocent musician.

The next number was a quickstep. In other words, it was time to drink and smoke and generally cool down. Obi ordered soft drinks. He was relieved that no one wanted anything more expensive.

The group on their right—three men and two women—interested him very much. One of the women was quiet, but the other talked all the time at the top of her voice. Her nylon blouse was practically transparent, revealing a new brassière. She had not danced the last number. She had said to the man who asked her: “No petrol, no fire,” which clearly
meant no beer, no dance. The man had then come to Obi’s table and asked Bisi. But that could not be anything like a permanent settlement. Now that no one was dancing, the woman was saying for all to hear: “The table is dry.”

At two o’clock Obi and his party rose to go, despite Bisi’s reluctance. Christopher reminded her that she had originally elected to go to the films which ended at eleven. She replied that that was no reason why they should leave the dance when it was just beginning to warm up. Anyway, they went. Christopher’s car was parked a long way away, so they said good night outside the gate and parted.

Obi opened the driver’s door with the key, got in, and leaned sideways to open for Clara. But her door was unlocked.

“I thought you locked this door?”

“Yes, I did,” she said.

Panic seized Obi. “Good Lord!” he cried.

“What is it?” She was alarmed.

“Your money.”

“Where is it? Where did you leave it?”

He pointed at the now empty glove box. They stared at it in silence. He opened his door quietly, went out, looked vacantly on the ground, and then leaned against the car. The street was completely deserted. Clara opened her door and went out too. She went round to his side of the car, took his hand in hers, and said: “Let’s go.” He was trembling. “Let’s go, Obi,” she said again, and opened his door for him.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

After Christmas Obi got a letter from his father that his mother was again ill in hospital and to ask when he was coming home on local leave as he had promised. He hoped it would be very soon because there was an urgent matter he must discuss with him.

It was obvious that news had reached them about Clara. Obi had written some months ago to say there was a girl he was interested in and that he would tell them more about her when he got home on two weeks’ local leave. He had not told them that she was an
osu
. One didn’t write about such things. That would have to be broken very gently in conversation. But now it appeared that someone else had told them.

He folded the letter carefully and put it in his shirt pocket and tried not to think about it, especially about his mother’s illness. He tried to concentrate on the file he was reading, but he read every line five times, and even then he did not understand what he read. He took up the telephone to ring Clara at the hospital, but when the operator said “Number, please,” he put it down again. Marie was typing steadily. She had plenty of work to do before the next week’s
board meeting. She was a very good typist; the keys did not strike separately when she typed.

Sometimes Mr. Green sent for Marie to take dictation, sometimes he came out himself to give it. It all depended on how he was feeling at the time. He came out now.

“Please take down a quick answer to this. ‘Dear sir, with reference to your letter of—whatever the date was—I beg to inform you that Government pays a dependant’s allowance to
bona fide
wives of Government scholars and not to their girl friends.…’ Will you read that over to me?” Marie did, while he paced up and down. “Change that second
Government
to
its
,” he said. Marie made the alteration and then looked up.

“That’s all. ‘I am your obedient servant, Me.’ ” Mr. Green always ended his letters that way, saying the words
obedient servant
with a contemptuous tongue in the cheek. He turned to Obi and said: “You know, Okonkwo, I have lived in your country for fifteen years and yet I cannot begin to understand the mentality of the so-called educated Nigerian. Like this young man at the University College, for instance, who expects the Government not only to pay his fees and fantastic allowances and find him an easy, comfortable job at the end of his course, but also to pay his intended. It’s absolutely incredible. I think Government is making a terrible mistake in making it so easy for people like that to have so-called university education. Education for what? To get as much as they can for themselves and their family. Not the least bit interested in the millions of their countrymen who die every day from hunger and disease.”

Obi made some vague noises.

“I don’t expect you to agree with me, of course,” said Mr. Green, and disappeared.

Obi rang Christopher and they arranged to go and play tennis that afternoon with two newly arrived teachers at a Roman Catholic convent in Apapa. He had never really found out how Christopher discovered them. All he knew was that about two weeks ago he had been asked to come round to Christopher’s flat and meet two Irish girls who were very interested in Nigeria. When Obi had got there at about six Christopher was already teaching them in turns how to dance the high-life. He was obviously relieved when Obi arrived; he immediately appropriated the better-looking of the two girls and left the other to Obi. She was all right when she wasn’t trying to smile. Unfortunately she tried to smile rather frequently. But otherwise she wasn’t too bad, and very soon it was too dark to see, anyway.

The girls were really interested in Nigeria. They already knew a few words of Yoruba, although they had only been in the country three weeks or so. They were rather more anti-English than Obi, which made him somewhat uneasy. But as the evening wore on he liked them more and more, especially the one assigned to him.