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.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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.