Stories (55 page)

Before he could frown up and down the street again, another young African crossed the road to join him. They greeted each other, laying their palms together, then shaking hands; but there was a conscious restraint in this which the first seemed to relish, out of his innate sense of drama, but made the second uneasy.

“Good morning, Mr. Chikwe.”

“Mr. Mafente! Good morning!”

Mr. Mafente was a large smooth young man, well-dressed
too, but his clothes on him were conventional European clothes, suit, striped shirt, tie; and his gestures had none of the inbuilt delighting self-parody of the other man’s. He was suave, he was dignified, he was calm; and this in spite of a situation which Mr. Chikwe’s attitude (magisterial, accusing) said clearly was fraught with the possibilities of evil.

Yet these two had known each other for many years; had worked side by side, as the political situation shifted, in various phases of the Nationalist movement; had served prison sentences together; had only recently become enemies. They now (Mr. Chikwe dropped the accusation from his manner for this purpose) exchanged news from home, gossip, information. Then Mr. Chikwe marked the end of the truce by a change of pose, and said, soft and threatening: “And where is your great leader? Surely he is very late?”

“Five minutes only,” said the other, smiling.

“Surely when at last we have achieved this great honour, an interview with Her Majesty’s Minister, the least we can expect is punctuality from the great man?”

“I agree, but it is more than likely that Her Majesty’s Minister will at the last moment be too occupied to see us, as has happened before.”

The faces of both men blazed with shared anger for a moment: Mr. Chikwe even showed a snarl of white teeth.

They recovered themselves together and Mr. Mafente said: “And where is your leader? Surely what applies to mine applies to yours also?”

“Perhaps the reasons for their being late are different? Mine is finishing his breakfast just over the road there and yours is—I hear that the night before last your Mr. Devuli was observed very drunk in the home of our hospitable Mrs. James?”

“Possibly, I was not there.”

“I hear that the night before that he passed out in the hotel before some unsympathetic journalists and had to be excused.”

“It is possible, I was not there.”

Mr. Chikwe kept the full force of his frowning stare on Mr. Mafente’s bland face as he said softly: “Mr. Mafente!”

“Mr. Chikwe?”

“Is it not a shame and a disgrace that your movement, which, though it is not mine, nevertheless represents several
thousand people (not millions, I am afraid, as your publicity men claim)—is it not a pity that this movement is led by a man who is never sober?”

Mr. Mafente smiled, applauding this short speech which had been delivered with a grace and an attack wasted, surely, on a pavement full of London office workers and some fat pigeons. He then observed, merely: “Yet it is Mr. Devuli who is recognised by Her Britannic Majesty’s Minister?”

Mr. Chikwe frowned.

“And it is Mr. Devuli who is recognised by those honourable British philanthropic movements—the Anti-Imperialist Society, the Movement for Pan-African Freedom, and Freedom for British Colonies?”

Here Mr. Chikwe bowed, slightly, acknowledging the truth of what he said, but suggesting at the same time its irrelevance.

“I hear, for instance,” went on Mr. Mafente, “that the Honourable Member of Parliament for Sutton North-West refused to have your leader on his platform on the grounds that he was a dangerous agitator with leftwing persuasions?”

Here both men exchanged a delighted irrepressible smile—that smile due to political absurdity. (It is not too much to say that it is for the sake of this smile that a good many people stay in politics.) Mr. Chikwe even lifted a shining face to the grey sky, shut his eyes, and while offering his smile to the wet heavens lifted both shoulders in a shrug of scorn.

Then he lowered his eyes, his body sprang into a shape of accusation and he said: “Yet you have to agree with me, Mr. Mafente—it is unfortunate that such a man as Mr. Devuli should be so widely accepted as a national representative, while the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi go unacknowledged.”

“We all know the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi,” said Mr. Mafente, and his accent on the word “we,” accompanied by a deliberately cool glance into the eyes of his old friend, made Mr. Chikwe stand silent a moment, thinking. Then he said softly, testing it: “Yes, yes, yes. And—well, Mr. Mafente?”

Mr. Mafente looked into Mr. Chikwe’s face, with intent, while he continued the other conversation: “Nevertheless, Mr. Chikwe, the situation is as I’ve said.”

Mr. Chikwe, responding to the look, not the words, came closer and said: “Yet situations do not have to remain unchanged?” They looked deeply into each other’s face as Mr.
Mafente enquired, almost mechanically: “Is that a threat, perhaps?”

“It is a political observation…. Mr. Mafente?”

“Mr. Chikwe?”

“This particular situation could be changed very easily.”

“Is that so?”

“You know it is so.”

The two men were standing with their faces a few inches from each other, frowning with the concentration necessary for the swift mental balancing of a dozen factors: so absorbed were they that clerks and typists glanced uneasily at them, and then, not wishing to be made uneasy, looked away again.

But here they felt approaching a third, and Mr. Mafente repeated quickly: “Is that a threat, perhaps?” in a loud voice, and both young men turned to greet Devuli, a man ten or more years older than they, large, authoritative, impressive. Yet even at this early hour he had a look of dissipation, for his eyes were red and wandering, and he stood upright only with difficulty.

Mr. Mafente now fell back a step to take his place half a pace behind his leader’s right elbow; and Mr. Chikwe faced them both, unsmiling.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Chikwe,” said Mr. Devuli.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Devuli. Mr. Kwenzi is just finishing his breakfast, and will join us in good time. Mr. Kwenzi was working all through the night on the proposals for the new constitution.”

As Mr. Devuli did not answer this challenge, but stood, vague, almost swaying, his red eyes blinking at the passersby, Mr. Mafente said for him: “We all admire the conscientiousness of Mr. Kwenzi.” The “we” was definitely emphasised, the two young men exchanged a look like a nod, while Mr. Mafente tactfully held out his right forearm to receive the hand of Mr. Devuli. After a moment the leader steadied himself, and said in a threatening way that managed also to sound like a grumble: “I, too, know all the implications of the proposed constitution, Mr. Chikwe.”

“I am surprised to hear it, Mr. Devuli, for Mr. Kwenzi, who has been locked up in his hotel room for the last week, studying it, says that seven men working for seventy-seven years couldn’t make sense of the constitution proposed by Her Majesty’s Honourable Minister.”

Now they all three laughed together, relishing absurdity, until Mr. Chikwe reimposed a frown and said: “And since these proposals are so complicated, and since Mr. Kwenzi understands them as well as any man with mere human powers could, it is our contention that it is Mr. Kwenzi who should speak for our people before the Minister.”

Mr. Devuli held himself upright with five fingers splayed out on the forearm of his lieutenant. His red eyes moved sombrely over the ugly façade of the Ministry, over the faces of passing people, then, with an effort, came to rest on the face of Mr. Chikwe. “But I am the leader, I am the leader acknowledged by all, and therefore I shall speak for our country.”

“You are not feeling well, Mr. Devuli?”

“No, I am not feeling well, Mr. Chikwe.”

“It would perhaps be better to have a man in full possession of himself speaking for our people to the Minister?” (Mr. Devuli remained silent, preserving a fixed smile of general benevolence.) “Unless, of course, you expect to feel more in command of yourself by the time of”—he brought his wrist smartly up to his eyes, frowned, dropped his wrist—“ten-thirty
A.M.
, which hour is nearly upon us?”

“No, Mr. Chikwe, I do not expect to feel better by then. Did you not know, I have severe stomach trouble?”

“You have stomach trouble, Mr. Devuli?”

“You did not hear of the attempt made upon my life when I was lying helpless with malaria in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele?”

“Really, Mr. Devuli, is that so?”

“Yes, it is so, Mr. Chiwke. Some person bribed by my enemies introduced poison into my food while I was lying helpless in hospital. I nearly died that time, and my stomach is still un-recovered.”

“I am extremely sorry to hear it.”

“I hope that you are. For it is a terrible thing that political rivalry can lower men to such methods.”

Mr. Chikwe stood slightly turned away, apparently delighting in the flight of some pigeons. He smiled, and enquired: “Perhaps not so much political rivalry as the sincerest patriotism, Mr. Devuli? It is possible that some misguided people thought the country would be better off without you.”

“It must be a matter of opinion, Mr. Chikwe.”

The three men stood silent: Mr. Devuli supported himself unobtrusively on Mr. Mafente’s arm; Mr. Mafente stood waiting; Mr. Chikwe smiled at pigeons.

“Mr. Devuli?”

“Mr. Chikwe?”

“You are of course aware that if you agree to the Minister’s proposals for this constitution civil war may follow?”

“My agreement to this constitution is because I wish to avert bloodshed.”

“Yet when it was announced that you intended to agree, serious rioting started in twelve different places in our unfortunate country.”

“Misguided people—misguided by your party, Mr. Chikwe.”

“I remember, not twelve months ago, that when you were accused by the newspapers of inciting to riot, your reply was that the people had minds of their own. But of course that was when you refused to consider the constitution.”

“The situation has changed, perhaps?”

The strain of this dialogue was telling on Mr. Devuli: there were great beads of crystal sweat falling off his broad face, and he mopped it with the hand not steadying him, while he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“It is your attitude that has changed, Mr. Devuli. You stood for one man, one vote. Then overnight you became a supporter of the weighted vote. That cannot be described as a situation changing, but as a political leader changing—selling out.” Mr. Chikwe whipped about like an adder and spat these two last words at the befogged man.

Mr. Mafente, seeing that his leader stood silent, blinking, remarked quietly for him: “Mr. Devuli is not accustomed to replying to vulgar abuse, he prefers to remain silent.” The two young men’s eyes consulted; and Mr. Chikwe said, his face not four inches from Mr. Devuli’s: “It is not the first time a leader of our people has taken the pay of the whites and has been disowned by our people.”

Mr. Devuli looked to his lieutenant, who said: “Yet it is Mr. Devuli who has been summoned by the Minister, and you should be careful, Mr. Chikwe—as a barrister you should know the law: a difference of political opinion is one thing, slander is another.”

“As, for instance, an accusation of poisoning?”

Here they all turned, a fourth figure had joined them. Mr.
Kwenzi, a tall, rather stooped, remote man, stood a few paces off, smiling. Mr. Chikwe took his place a foot behind him, and there were two couples, facing each other.

“Good morning, Mr. Devuli.”

“Good morning, Mr. Kwenzi.”

“It must be nearly time for us to go in to the Minister,” said Mr. Kwenzi.

“I do not think that Mr. Devuli is in any condition to represent us to the Minister,” said Mr. Chikwe, hot and threatening. Mr. Kwenzi nodded. He had rather small direct eyes, deeply inset under his brows, which gave him an earnest focussed gaze which he was now directing at the sweat-beaded brow of his rival.

Mr. Devuli blurted, his voice rising: “And who is responsible? Who? The whole world knows of the saintly Mr. Kwenzi, the hard-working Mr. Kwenzi, but who is responsible for my state of health?”

Mr. Chikwe cut in: “No one is responsible for your state of health but yourself, Mr. Devuli. If you drink two bottles of hard liquor a day, then you can expect your health to suffer for it.”

“The present health of Mr. Devuli,” said Mr. Mafente, since his chief was silent, biting his lips, his eyes red with tears as well as with liquor, “is due to the poison which nearly killed him some weeks ago in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kwenzi mildly. “I trust the worst is over?”

Mr. Devuli was beside himself, his face knitting with emotion, sweat drops starting everywhere, his eyes roving, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“I hope,” said Mr. Kwenzi, “that you are not suggesting I or my party had anything to do with it?”

“Suggest!” said Mr. Devuli. “Suggest? What shall I tell the Minister? That my political opponents are not ashamed to poison a helpless man in hospital? Shall I tell him that I have to have my food tasted, like an Eastern potentate? No, I cannot tell him such things—I am helpless there too, for he would say, ‘Black savages, stooping to poison, what else can you expect?’”

“I doubt whether he would say that,” remarked Mr. Kwenzi. “His own ancestors considered poison an acceptable political weapon, and not so very long ago either.”

But Mr. Devuli was not listening. His chest was heaving, and
he sobbed out loud. Mr. Mafente let his ignored forearm drop by his side, and stood away a couple of paces, gazing sombrely at his leader. After this sorrowful inspection, which Mr. Kwenzi and Mr. Chikwe did nothing to shorten, he looked long at Mr. Chikwe, and then at Mr. Kwenzi. During this three-sided silent conversation, Mr. Devuli, like a dethroned king in Shakespeare, stood to one side, his chest heaving, tears flowing, his head bent to receive the rods and lashes of betrayal.

Mr. Chikwe at last remarked: “Perhaps you should tell the Minister that you have ordered a bulletproof vest like an American gangster? It would impress him no doubt with your standing among our people?” Mr. Devuli sobbed again, and Mr. Chikwe continued: “Not that I do not agree with you—the vest is advisable, yes. The food tasters are not enough. I have heard our young hotheads talking among themselves and you would be wise to take every possible precaution.”