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She accepted the glass and smiled her thanks. She must be about seventeen or eighteen. A mere girl, Obi thought. And already so wise in the ways of the world. They sat in silence for a long time.
“Last year,” she said suddenly, “none of the girls in our school who got Grade One was given a scholarship.”
“Perhaps they did not impress the Board.”
“It wasn’t that. It was because they did not see the members at home.”
“So you intend to see the members?”
“Yes.”
“Is a scholarship as important as all that? Why doesn’t a relation of yours pay for you to go to a university?”
“Our father spent all his money on our brother. He went to read Medicine but failed his exams. He switched over to Engineering and failed again. He was in England for twelve years.”
“Was that the man who came to see me today?” She nodded. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is teaching in a Community Secondary School.” She was now looking very sad. “He. returned at the end of last year because our father died and we had no more money.”
Obi felt very sorry for her. She was obviously an intelligent girl who had set her mind, like so many other young Nigerians, on university education. And who could blame them? Certainly not Obi. It was rather sheer hypocrisy to ask if a scholarship was as important as all that or if university education was worth it. Every Nigerian knew the answer. It was yes.
A university degree was the philosopher’s stone. It transmuted a third-class clerk on one hundred and fifty a year into a senior civil servant on five hundred and seventy, with car and luxuriously furnished quarters at nominal rent. And the disparity in salary and amenities did not tell even half the story. To occupy a “European post” was second only to actually being a European. It raised a man from the masses to the élite whose small talk at cocktail parties was: “How’s the car behaving?”
“Please, Mr. Okonkwo, you must help me. I’ll do whatever you ask.” She avoided his eyes. Her voice was a little unsteady, and Obi thought he saw a hint of tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, terribly sorry, but I don’t see that I can make any promises.”
Another car drew up outside with a screech of brakes, and Clara rushed in, as was her fashion, humming a popular song. She stopped abruptly on seeing the girl.
“Hello, Clara. This is Miss Mark.”
“How do you do?” she said stiffly, with a slight nod of the head. She did not offer her hand. “How did you like the soup?” she asked Obi. “I’m afraid I prepared it in a hurry.” In those two short sentences she sought to establish one or two facts for the benefit of the strange girl. First, by her sophisticated un-Nigerian accent she showed that she was a been-to. You could tell a been- to not only by her phonetics but by her walk—quick, short steps instead of the normal leisurely gait. In company of her less fortunate sisters she always found an excuse for saying: “When I was in England.…” Secondly, her proprietary air seemed to tell the girl: “You had better try elsewhere.”
“I thought you were on this afternoon.”
“It was a mistake. I’m off today.”
“Why did you have to go away then, after making the soup?”
“Oh, I had such a lot of washing to do. Aren’t you offering me anything to drink? O.K., I’ll serve myself.”
“I’m terribly sorry, dear. Sit down. I’ll get it for you.”
“No. Too late.” She went to the fridge and took out a bottle of ginger beer. “What’s happened to the other ginger beer?” she asked. “There were two.”
“I think you had one yesterday.”
“Did I? Oh, yes, I remember.” She came back and sank heavily into the sofa beside Obi. “Gosh, it’s hot!”
“I think I must be going,” said Miss Mark.
“I’m sorry I can’t promise anything definite,” said Obi, getting up. She did not answer, only smiled sadly.
“How are you getting back to town?”
“Perhaps I will see a taxi.”
“I’ll run you down to Tinubu Square. Taxis are very rare here. Come along, Clara, let’s take her down to Tinubu.”
