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“As a matter of fact, my nose still runs. They say it’s hay fever.”
“And then,” said Joseph, “you wrote that letter to Hitler.”
Obi laughed one of his rare loud laughs. “I wonder what came over me. I still think about it sometimes. What was Hitler to me or I to Hitler? I suppose I felt sorry for him. And I didn’t like going into the bush every day to pick palm-kernels as our ‘Win the War Effort.’ ” He suddenly became serious. “And when you come to think of it, it was quite immoral of the headmaster to tell little children every morning that for every palm-kernel they picked they were buying a nail for Hitler’s coffin.”
They went back to the lounge from the dining room. Joseph was about to order more beer, but Obi stoutly refused.
From where he sat Obi could see cars passing on Broad Street. A long De Soto pulled up exactly at the entrance and a young handsome man walked into the lounge. Everyone turned to look at him and faint sibilant sounds filled the room as each told his neighbor that it was the Minister of State.
“That’s Hon Sam Okoli,” whispered Joseph. But Obi had suddenly become like one thunderstruck gazing at the De Soto in the half-darkness.
The Honorable Sam Okoli was one of the most popular politicians in Lagos and in Eastern Nigeria where his constituency was. The newspapers called him the best-dressed gentleman in Lagos and the most eligible bachelor. Although he was definitely over thirty, he always looked like a boy just out of school. He was tall and athletic with a flashing smile for all. He walked across to the bar and paid for a tin of Churchman’s. All the while Obi’s gaze was fixed on the road outside where Clara lounged in the De Soto. He had only caught a lightning glimpse of her. Perhaps it wasn’t her at all. The Minister went back to the car, and as he opened the door the pale interior light again bathed the plush cushions. There was no doubt about it now. It was Clara.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I know that girl, that’s all.”
“In England?”
Obi nodded.
“Good old Sam! He doesn’t spare them.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Obi’s theory that the public service of Nigeria would remain corrupt until the old Africans at the top were replaced by young men from the universities was first formulated in a paper read to the Nigerian Students’ Union in London. But unlike most theories formed by students in London, this one survived the first impact of home-coming. In fact, within a month of his return Obi came across two classic examples of his old African.
He met the first one at the Public Service Commission, where he was boarded for a job. Fortunately for Obi, he had already created a favorable impression on the board before this man made him lose his temper.
It happened that the Chairman of the Commission, a fat jolly Englishman, was very keen on modern poetry and the modern novel, and enjoyed talking about them. The other four members—one European and three Africans—not knowing anything about that side of life, were duly impressed. Or perhaps we should say in strict accuracy that three of them were duly impressed because the fourth was asleep throughout the interview, which on the surface might appear to be quite unimportant had not this gentleman been the sole representative of one of the three regions of Nigeria. (In the interests of Nigerian unity the region shall remain nameless.)
The Chairman’s conversation with Obi ranged from Graham Greene to Tutuola and took the greater part of half an hour. Obi said afterwards that he talked a lot of nonsense, but it was a learned and impressive kind of nonsense. He surprised even himself when he began to flow.
“You say you’re a great admirer of Graham Greene. What do you think of The Heart of the Matter?”
“The only sensible novel any European has written on West Africa and one of the best novels I have read.” Obi paused, and then added almost as an afterthought: “Only it was nearly ruined by the happy ending.”
The Chairman sat up in his chair.
“Happy ending? Are you sure it’s The Heart of the Matter you’re thinking about? The European police officer commits suicide.”
“Perhaps happy ending is too strong, but there is no other way I can put it. The police officer is
torn between his love of a woman and his love of God, and he commits suicide. It’s much too simple. Tragedy isn’t like that at all. I remember an old man in my village, a Christian convert, who suffered one calamity after another. He said life was like a bowl of wormwood which one sips a little at a time world without end. He understood the nature of tragedy.”
“You think that suicide ruins a tragedy,” said the Chairman.
“Yes. Real tragedy is never resolved. It goes on hopelessly forever. Conventional tragedy is too easy. The hero dies and we feel a purging of the emotions. A real tragedy takes place in a corner, in an untidy spot, to quote W. H. Auden. The rest of the world is unaware of it. Like that man in A Handful of Dust who reads Dickens to Mr. Todd. There is no release for him. When the story ends he is still reading. There is no purging of the emotions for us because we are not there.”
“That’s most interesting,” said the Chairman. Then he looked round the table and asked the other members if they had any questions for Mr. Okonkwo. They all said no, except the man who had been sleeping.
“Why do you want a job in the civil service? So that you can take bribes?” he asked.
Obi hesitated. His first impulse was to say it was an idiotic question. He said instead: “I don’t know how you expect me to answer that question. Even if my reason is to take bribes, you don’t expect me to admit it before this board. So I don’t think it’s a very useful question.”
“It’s not for you to decide what questions are useful, Mr. Okonkwo,” said the Chairman, trying unsuccessfully to look severe. “Anyhow, you’ll be hearing from us in due course. Good morning.”
Joseph was not very happy when Obi told him the story of the interview. His opinion was that a man in need of a job could not afford to be angry.
