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Sebastian now understood. “Na de same ting. Instead to give me money two times. You go give me now one time.”
Obi knew he would not get very far pursuing the matter in the abstract.
That evening he had a serious disagreement with Clara. He had not wanted to tell her about the overdraft, but as soon as she saw him she asked what the matter was. He tried to fob her off with some excuse. But he had not planned it, so it didn’t hold together. Clara’s way of getting anything from him was not to argue but to refuse to talk. And as she usually did three-quarters of the talking when they were together, the silence soon became too heavy to bear. Obi would then ask her what the matter was, which was usually the prelude to doing whatever she wanted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked when he had told her about the overdraft.
“Well, there was no need. I’ll pay it easily in five monthly installments.”
“That’s not the point. You don’t think I should be told when you’re in difficulty.”
“I wasn’t in difficulty. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t pressed me.”
“I see,” was all she said. She went across the room and picked up a woman’s magazine lying on the floor and began to read.
After a couple of minutes, Obi said with synthetic lightheartedness: “It’s very rude to be reading when you have a visitor.”
“You should have known I was very badly brought up.” Any reflection on her family was a very risky subject and often ended in tears. Even now her eyes were beginning to look glazed.
“Clara,” he said, putting his arm round her. She was all tensed up. “Clara.” She did not answer. She was turning the pages of the magazine mechanically. “I don’t understand why you want to quarrel.” Not a sound. “I think I had better be going.”
“I think so, too.”
“Clara, I’m very sorry.”
“About what? Leave me, ojare.” She pushed his arm off.
Obi sat for another couple of minutes gazing at the floor.
“All right.” He sprang to his feet. Clara remained where she was, turning the pages.
“Bye-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
When he got back to the flat he told Sebastian not to cook any supper.
“I don start already.”
“Then you can stop,” he shouted, and went into his bedroom. He stopped for a br
ief moment to look at Clara’s photograph on the dressing table. He turned it on its face and went to undress. He threw his cloth over his shoulder, toga-wise, and returned to his sitting room to get a book. He looked along the shelves a number of times without deciding what to read. Then his eye rested on A. E. Housman’s Collected Poems. He took it down and returned to his bedroom. He picked up Clara’s photograph and stood it on its feet again. Then he went and lay down.
He opened the book where a piece of paper was showing, its top frayed and browned from exposure to dust. On it was written a poem called “Nigeria.”
God bless our noble fatherland,
Great land of sunshine bright,
Where brave men chose the way of peace,
To win their freedom fight.
May we preserve our purity,
Our zest for life and jollity.
God bless our noble countrymen
