Anthills of the Savannah

10

Impetuous Son

Africa tell me Africa

Is this you this back that is bent

This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation

This back trembling with red scars

And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun

But a grave voice answers me

Impetuous son, that tree young and strong

That tree there

In splendid loneliness amidst white and faded flowers

That is Africa your Africa

That grows again patiently obstinately

And its fruit gradually acquire

The bitter taste of liberty

DAVID DIOP, “Africa”

THEY WERE JUST ABOUT LEAVING his flat for MM’s place when the doorbell rang and two strange men smiling from ear to ear faced him at the landing. Ikem stood his ground at the doorway the apprehension that would certainly have been in order relieved only by those vast smiles.

“Can I help you?”

“We just come salute you.”

“Me? Who are you? I don’t seem to remember.”

“We be taxi-drivers.”

“I see.”

Elewa had now joined him at the door. The visitors were still smiling bravely in spite of the cold welcome. As soon as Elewa came into view one of the visitors said:

“Ah, madam, you de here.”

“Ah, no be you carry me go home from here that night?”

“Na me, madam. You remember me. Very good. I no think say you fit remember.”

“So wetin you come do here again? Abi, you just discover I no pay you complete? Or perhaps na counterfeit I give you.”

“No madam. We just come salute this oga.”

At this point the normal courtesies which the prevalence of armed robberies had virtually banished from Bassa could no longer be denied, Ikem and Elewa moved back into the room and the visitors followed them in.

“Ah, madam I no know say I go find you here, self.”