‘But did I ever promise to marry you?’ He left her abruptly and mingled with the crowd. He wished he could have seen Beatrice, but she was not here, neither was she at the funeral which took place in the afternoon.
•
Because of the death at Number Twenty, Sango was not allowed to practise with his band at the Muslim School on Molomo Street. The manager of the school, a good friend of Lajide’s and a devout Muslim, told Sango that practice was out of the question for a long time to come. There were ceremonies still to be performed at Number Twenty, and again the Ramadan, their own festival, was very near and the school premises would be used for rehearsals during the next month or two.
The boys in Sango’s band had already begun to disperse to undertake free-lance assignments. Another door had been closed in his face.
11
By polling day all energy had been spent. The politicians were now tired of making promises and had taken their proper places – in the background. Clerks, motor drivers, butchers, market women, shopkeepers, who as responsible citizens had previously registered their names, went to the polling stations that dotted the city, and cast their votes. For that single day, the power was in their hands and the politicians waited with beating hearts and speculating eyes for the results.
It turned out that out of the fifty seats in the Town Council the Self-Government Now Party had won thirty-nine, leaving eleven seats for the Realization Party. This meant that the government was now in the hands of the S.G.N. Party and that they would elect a mayor from one of their leaders.
There had never been a mayor in the West African city and now the first one was to be an African. It was a great triumph for the S.G.N. Party. The West African Sensation had been working hard on the elections with such leaders as:
WHO WILL BE MAYOR?
CHOICE OF MAYOR CAUSES SPLIT IN SELF-GOVERNMENT NOW PARTY
TIME TO REDEEM ELECTION PROMISES
REALIZATION PARTY THROWS BOMBSHELL
NATURAL RULERS AND THE NEW CONSTITUTION
Sango found himself with less and less work to do. Lately he had developed a habit of leaving the office for longer than he should, searching for a place of his own, and a place for his band. Money was the limiting consideration. They were asking for too much, and he had very little.
The crime boys seemed to be taking a rest and the pages of the Sensation were losing their spice. McMaster called him into the office and told him to turn his hand to other assignments. There was a shortage of good men and it was a loss to the paper to have a man of Amusa Sango’s calibre counting the minutes and doing nothing.
Then the great opportunity came. It was on a morning when the rain had added to his irritations and he had come into the office soaked. He remembered stamping his shoes as he entered the office. Layeni, the night editor, had not left. They were all discussing a subject of national importance.
‘A great shock for the nation . . . but anyway, he was an old man . . . Good-bye to the wizard of statesmanship, the inspiration for the new movement . . .’
‘Without him, there would be no nationalism today on the West Coast . . .’
Sango knew they were talking about De Pereira, the greatest nationalist of all time. He was eighty-three and though he did not involve himself now in the physical campaigns and speech-makings he was the brains of the S.G.N. Party. For the last twenty years he had been the spiritual leader of the party and the party dramatized his ideals. Sango listened to the idle talk. He did not know as he stood in the Sensation office what this would mean in his life. How could he? He was not detailed to cover the item: McMaster selected a special political correspondent. Most offices broke off for the day, and Sango could have gone home if he chose. Instead, he listened.
And as he heard more and more he found what he had missed by not being an active nationalist. The city, the whole country, rose together to pay tribute to De Pereira. Almost within the hour the musicians were singing new songs in his name; merchants were selling cloth with imprints of his inspiriting head. Funeral editions of the Sensation featured his life story from the time of Queen Victoria of England to Queen Elizabeth II, in whose reign he died. They asked the question: in view of De Pereira’s death at so critical a time in the history of the S.G.N. Party, who would guide them to ultimate victory for the whole nation? This was too much of a loss for African nationalism. Who else had the experience, the wizardry, the insight, the centuries-old diplomacy of this man who had so long defied death?
During the funeral not a single white man was to be seen in the streets of the city, or anywhere near the Cathedral Church of Christ where his body lay in state. Even those who lived near the Cathedral were shut off by those overflowing crowds that vied for one peep at the magnificent coffin. In the trees above and around the Cathedral people hung like monkeys. Some had even defied the captains of ships anchored in the lagoon and climbed on deck, bravely trespassing, unmoved by the heavy smoke pouring from the funnels.
Sango
was seeing a new city – something with a feeling. The madness communicated itself to him, and in the heat of the moment he forgot his worldly inadequacies and threw himself with fervour into the spirit of the moment.
He was one of the suffocated and crumpled men who groaned and gasped to keep alive in the heat and the pressure of bodies half a mile from the Cathedral. He strained to get nearer, and though it was barely two o’clock and the funeral service would not be due for another two hours, he knew he could never get near the coffin.
‘Since morning, I stand here!’ groaned a man in the crowd. ‘I don’ know that people plenty like this for this city!’
The heat made time stand still. It was baking hot. It was irritating and unbearable. Two hundred thousand people forming themselves into an immovable block of fiery nationalists who jammed the streets, waiting, hoping to catch one glimpse of the coffin. Death had glorified De Pereira beyond all his dreams.
And Sango was there, more dead than alive, completely stifled by the sweat and squeeze of bodies. He was almost raving mad with irritation. When the wave of movement began from the foot of the Cathedral it came in a slow but powerful wave and beat against the spot where Sango stood. The current reminded him of a river overflowing its banks. Before this pressure the strongest man was flung irresistibly backwards like cork on an angry sea. Amusa staggered, off balance. At the same time he heard a faint cry. A girl in an immaculate white dress was in trouble. She had slipped, and if he did not do something about her that merciless crowd would trample her to death. And she would be the day’s sacrifice to the spirit of De Pereira.
He sweated. He tried to disentangle his limbs. The pressure never relented. With his veins almost bursting he managed to bend over, to draw her to her feet. His eyes bulged so much he feared they would burst. His head cracked with pain. He stuck his elbows out so as to receive the surging crowd on a sharper point, shepherded the girl to a lane. Even the lanes were overflowing with people. He managed to push her into a little crevice and then looked at her face. It was tired, but attractive.
She was breathing in short gasps. ‘Oh! . . .’
She held her sides. ‘I hope you’re not hurt,’ Sango said quickly. ‘Smooth out your dress – they’ve made a mess of it.’