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“Yes, sort of,” I said.
Although what I said about marriage was true enough yet it was grossly unfair at that stage in my relationship with Elsie to call her simply a good-time girl. I suppose what happened was that Chief Nanga and I having already swopped many tales of conquest I felt somehow compelled to speak in derogatory terms about women in general. In fact I had already told the story of my first meeting with Elsie without however identifying her. Naturally Chief Nanga had five stories to every one of mine. The best I thought was about the young married woman who never took her brassière off. It was not until after many encounters that Chief Nanga managed to extract from her that her husband (apparently a very jealous man) had put some juju on her breasts to scare her into faithfulness; his idea being presumably that she would not dare to expose that part of her to another man much less other parts.
“What a fool!” I said. “And he was trying to be so clever.”
“E fool pass garri,” said Chief Nanga. “Which person tell am na bobby them de take do the thing? Nonsense.”
“But that woman na waa,” I said. “Who put that kind sense for im head?”
“Woman?” rhapsodized Chief Nanga. “Any person wey tell you say woman no get sense just de talk pure jargon. When woman no want do something e go lef am, but make you no fool yourself say e left the thing because e no get sense for do am.”
How true, I thought.
It had been a bit of a surprise to me when Chief Nanga had announced he was coming with me to the hospital. I couldn’t very well advise him coldly to stay behind and read through his speech. But I had a strong suspicion he had forgotten all about it and I felt it was only fair that I should remind him. I considered various approaches and then decided on the one that seemed to me to conceal most satisfactorily the small element of self-interest.
“I wish I could help in any way with checking your speech,” I said. “But I just cannot read in a moving car.”
“Oh! that speech,” he said wearily. “I shall finish it in ten minutes; it is not important. If I had known I should have asked my Parliamentary Secretary to go and represent me. Anyhow it’s not bad. Talking is now in my blood—from teaching into politics—all na so so talk talk.”
Actually I had no serious reason for wanting to go alone. It was true I had formed a pretty clear mental picture of how it was all going to happen, as it were, under my command; but it didn’t really matter and certainly wouldn’t hurt anyone if it happened differently. For instance, it would have been rather nice sitting between the two girls at the back. Now I would probably sit with the chauffeur. Or better, Elsie and I could sit in front—there was enough space really—and leave the back to the Minister to get acquainted with the other girl.
As it happened all my worry was wasted. The other girl—I don’t know what I’ve done with that girl’s name—couldn’t come with us on account of a sudden illness. I was very disappointed and a little angry even though Elsie had sworn it was a genuine illness. Fortunately Chief Nanga didn’t seem to mind at all, which was hardly surprising for a man who had so many women ready to make themselves available.
I remember him announcing twice or thrice on our way back, with Elsie sitting between us, that he had an important Cabinet meeting which would probably last all night tomorrow, and that he must try and get some sleep tonight. At first I thought he was just showing off to the girl and then I decided it was his wicked way of saying that the coast was completely clear for us. So in my gratitude I began to tell Elsie how little time he spared for himself and his family.
“If somebody wan make you minister,” said Chief Nanga, coming to my support, “make you no gree. No be good life.”
“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” said Elsie.
“Na true, my sister,” said the Chief.
“I think I tell you say Chief Nanga de go open book exhibition for six today,” I said.
“Book exhibition?” asked Elsie. “How they de make that one again?”
“My sister, make you de ask them for me-o. I be think say na me one never hear that kind thing before. But they say me na Minister of Culture and as such I suppose to be there. I no fit say no. Wetin be Minister? No be public football? So instead for me to sidon rest for house like other people I de go knack grammar for this hot afternoon. You done see this kind trouble before?”
We all laughed, including the driver whose face I could see in the mirror. We joked and laughed all the way back. In Chief Nanga’s company it was impossible not to be merry.
We were met outside the exhibition hall by the President of the Writers’ Society, a fellow I used to know fairly well at the University. In those days before he became a writer he had seemed reasonably normal to me. But apparently since he published his novel The Song of the Black Bird—he had become quite different. I read an interview he gave to a popular magazine in which it came out that he had become so non-conformist that he now designed his own clothes. Judging by his appearance I should say he also tailored them. He had on a white and blue squarish gown, with a round neck and no buttons, over brown, striped, baggy trousers made from the kind of light linen material we sometimes called Obey the Wind. He also had a long, untidy beard.
I had expected that in a country where writers were so few they would all be known personally to the Minister of Culture. But it was clear Chief Nanga hadn’t even heard the man’s name before.
“He is the author of The Song of the Black Bird,” I said.
“I see,” replied Chief Nanga, whose attention was clearly elsewhere at that moment.
“So your society includes musicians as well?” he asked in one fleeting return of interest. But by the time Jalio said “no”, his attention had again strayed from us.
“Hello, Jalio,” I said, stretching my hand to shake his almost in commiseration. He replied hello and took my hand but obviously he did not remember my name and didn’t seem to care particularly. I was very much hurt by this and immediately formed a poor opinion of him and his silly airs.
“You didn’t tell me, Mr—er . . .” began the Minister abruptly.
“Jalio, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Jalio. Why didn’t you tell me that you are expecting ambassadors at this function?” His eyes were still ranging over the parked cars, some of them carrying diplomatic number plates and two flying flags.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Mr Jalio, “but . . .”
