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I remember the figure of Dr Makinde the ex-Minister of Finance as he got up to speak—tall, calm, sorrowful and superior. I strained my ears to catch his words. The entire house, including the Prime Minister tried to shout him down. It was a most unedifying spectacle. The Speaker broke his mallet ostensibly trying to maintain order, but you could see he was enjoying the commotion. The public gallery yelled down its abuses. “Traitor”, “Coward”, “Doctor of Fork your Mother”. This last was contributed from the gallery by the editor of the Daily Chronicle, who sat close to me. Encouraged, no doubt, by the volume of laughter this piece of witticism had earned him in the gallery he proceeded the next morning to print it in his paper. The spelling is his.
Although Dr Makinde read his speech, which was clearly prepared, the Hansard later carried a garbled version which made no sense at all. It said not a word about the plan to mint fifteen million pounds—which was perhaps to be expected—but why put into Dr Makinde’s mouth words that he could not have spoken? In short the Hansard boys wrote a completely new speech suitable to the boastful villain the ex-minister had become. For instance they made him say he was “a brilliant economist whose reputation was universally acclaimed in Europe”. When I read this I was in tears—and I don’t cry all that easily.
The reason I have gone into that shameful episode in such detail is to establish the fact that I had no reason to be enthusiastic about Chief the Honourable M. A. Nanga who, seeing the empty ministerial seats, had yapped and snarled so shamelessly for the meaty prize.
The Proprietor and Principal of the school was a thin, wiry fellow called Jonathan Nwege. He was very active in politics at the local council level and was always grumbling because his services to the P.O.P. had not been rewarded with the usual prize-appointment to some public corporation or other. But though disgruntled he had not despaired, as witness his elaborate arrangements for the present reception. Perhaps he was hoping for something in the proposed new corporation which would take over the disposal of all government unserviceable property (like old mattresses, chairs, electric fans, disused typewriters and other junk) which at present was auctioned by civil servants. I hope he gets appointed. It would have the merit of removing him from the school now and again.
He insisted that the students should mount a guard of honour stretching from the main road to the school door. And the teachers too were to stand in a line at the end of the student queue, to be introduced. Mr Nwege who regularly read such literature as “Toasts—How to Propose Them” was very meticulous about this kind of thing. I had objected vehemently to this standing like school children at our staff meeting, thinking to rouse the other teachers. But the teachers in that school were all dead from the neck up. My friend and colleague Andrew Kadibe found it impossible to side with me because he and the Minister came from the same village. Primitive loyalty, I call it.
As soon as the Minister’s Cadillac arrived at the head of a long motorcade the hunters dashed this way and that and let off their last shots, th
rowing their guns about with frightening freedom. The dancers capered and stamped, filling the dry-season air with dust. Not even Grammar-phone’s voice could now be heard over the tumult. The Minister stepped out wearing damask and gold chains and acknowledging cheers with his ever-present fan of animal skin which they said fanned away all evil designs and shafts of malevolence thrown at him by the wicked.
The man was still as handsome and youthful-looking as ever—there was no doubt about that. The Proprietor was now introducing him to the teachers beginning with the Senior Tutor at the head of the line. Although I had not had time to scrutinize the Senior Tutor’s person I had no doubt he had traces of snuff as usual in his nostrils. The Minister had a jovial word for everyone. You could never think—looking at him now—that his smile was anything but genuine. It seemed bloody-minded to be sceptical. Now it was my turn. I held out my hand somewhat stiffly. I did not have the slightest fear that he might remember me and had no intention of reminding him.
Our hands met. I looked him straight in the face. The smile slowly creased up into lines of thought. He waved his left hand impatiently to silence the loquacious Proprietor who had begun the parrot formula he had repeated at least fifteen times so far: “I have the honour, sir, to introduce . . .”
“That’s right,” said the Minister not to anyone in particular, but to some mechanism of memory inside his head. “You are Odili.”
“Yes, sir.” Before the words were out of my mouth he had thrown his arms round me smothering me in his voluminous damask. “You have a wonderful memory,” I said. “It’s at least fifteen years . . .” He had now partly released me although his left hand was resting on my shoulder. He turned slightly to the Proprietor and announced proudly:
“I taught him in . . .”
“Standard three,” I said.
“That’s right,” he shouted. If he had just found his long-lost son he could not have been more excited.
“He is one of the pillars of this school,” said the Proprietor, catching the infection and saying the first good word about me since I had joined his school.
“Odili, the great,” said the Minister boyishly, and still out of breath. “Where have you been all this time?”
I told him I had been to the University, and had been teaching for the last eighteen months.
“Good boy!” he said. “I knew he would go to a university. I used to tell the other boys in my class that Odili will one day be a great man and they will be answering him sir, sir. Why did you not tell me when you left the University? That’s very bad of you, you know.”
“Well,” I said happily—I’m ashamed to admit—“I know how busy a minister . . .”
“Busy? Nonsense. Don’t you know that minister means servant? Busy or no busy he must see his master.”
Everybody around applauded and laughed. He slapped me again on the back and said I must not fail to see him at the end of the reception.
“If you fail I will send my orderly to arrest you.”
I became a hero in the eyes of the crowd. I was dazed. Everything around me became suddenly unreal; the voices receded to a vague border zone. I knew I ought to be angry with myself but I wasn’t. I found myself wondering whether—perhaps—I had been applying to politics stringent standards that didn’t belong to it. When I came back to the immediate present I heard the Minister saying to another teacher:
“That is very good. Sometimes I used to regret ever leaving the teaching field. Although I am a minister today I can swear to God that I am not as happy as when I was a teacher.”
My memory is naturally good. That day it was perfect. I don’t know how it happened, but I can recall every word the Minister said on that occasion. I can repeat the entire speech he made later.
“True to God who made me,” he insisted. “I used to regret it. Teaching is a very noble profession.”
At this point everybody just collapsed with laughter not least of all the Honourable Minister himself, nor me, for that matter. The man’s assurance was simply unbelievable. Only he could make such a risky joke—or whatever he thought he was making—at that time, when teachers all over the country were in an ugly, rebellious mood. When the laughter died down, he put on a more serious face and confided to us: “You can rest assured that those of us in the Cabinet who were once teachers are in full sympathy with you.”
“Once a teacher always a teacher,” said the Senior Tutor, adjusting the sleeves of his faded “bottom-box” robes.
“Hear! hear!” I said. I like to think that I meant it to be sarcastic. The man’s charisma had to be felt to be believed. If I were superstitious I would say he had made a really potent charm of the variety called “sweet face”.
Changing the subject slightly, the Minister said, “Only teachers can make this excellent arrangement.” Then turning to the newspaper correspondent in his party he said, “It is a mammoth crowd.”
