A Man of the People

“Sex means much more to a woman than to a man,” said Jean reflectively stirring her cup.

“Does it?”

“Sure. It takes place inside her. The man uses a mere projection of himself.”

“I see.”

I wished I could tell her to stop chattering but I didn’t know her enough yet. I don’t mind people talking before or during it, but I do object most strongly to a post-mortem. One should drink coffee silently or smoke or just sit. Or if one must talk then choose some unrelated subject. I think Jean sensed my feeling; she was such a clever woman.

It was about one-thirty when I caught her trying to suppress a yawn.

“I think I had better be going. Sorry to take you out at this time of night.”

“Don’t be so British,” she said almost vehemently. I wondered what was so British about what I had just said and why it should hurt her so much, but decided against pursuing the matter. As she looked for her car key she asked if I must get back right away or would I like to come with her for a short drive through the town.

“Bori at night is simply fascinating,” she said.

“But aren’t you tired?”

“You bet I’m not.”

She certainly knew the city well, from the fresh-smelling, modern water-front to the stinking, maggoty interior.

“How long have you been in this country?” I asked in undisguised admiration.

“Eleven months,” she said. “If you like a place it doesn’t take very long to know it.”

We drove through wide, well-lit streets bearing the names of our well-known politicians and into obscure lanes named after some unknown small fish. Even insignificant city councillors (Jean apparently knew them all) had their little streets—I remember one called Stephen Awando Street. Going through some of these back streets would have convinced me, had I needed convincing, that the City Clerk’s notice about pails was indeed a live issue.

I began to wonder whether Jean actually enjoyed driving through these places as she claimed she did or whether she had some secret reason, like wanting me to feel ashamed about my country’s capital city. I hardly knew her but I could see she was that kind of person, a most complicated woman.

We were now back in the pleasant high-class area.

“That row of ten houses belongs to the Minister of Construction,” she said. “They are let to different embassies at three thousand a year each.”

So what, I said within myself. Your accusation may be true but you’ve no right to make it. Leave it to us and don’t contaminate our cause by espousing it.

“But that’s another Chief Nanga Street,” I said aloud, pointing to my left.

“No. What we saw near the fountain was Chief Nanga Avenue,” she said and we both burst out laughing, friends again. “I’m not sure there isn’t a Road as well somewhere,” she said. “I know there is a Circle.”

Then I promptly recoiled again. Who the hell did she think she was to laugh so self-righteously. Wasn’t there more than enough in her own country to keep her laughing all her days? Or crying if she preferred it?

“I have often wondered,” she said completely insensitive to my silent resentment, “why don’t they call some streets after the many important names in your country’s history or past events like your independence as they do in France and other countries?”

“Because this is not France but Africa,” I said with peevish defiance. She obviously thought I was being sarcastic and laughed again. But what I had said was another way of telling her to go to hell. Now I guessed I knew why she took so much delight in driving through our slums. She must have taken hundreds of photographs already to send home to her relations. And, come to think of it, would she—lover of Africa that she was—would she be found near a black man in her own country?

“When do you expect John back?” I asked, burning with anger.

“Wednesday. Why?”

“I was wondering whether I could see you again.”

“Do you want to?”

“Sure.”

“Why not? Let me call you tomorrow?”