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“We give three pound ten to that policeman so that he go spoil the paper for our case. Then we give one-ten to Court Clerk because they say as the matter done reach him eye the policeman no kuku spoil am just like that. Then we give another two pound . . .”
“All right,” I said. “What do you want the twenty-five pounds for?”
“They no tell you say Chief Nanga done return back from Bori yesterday?”
“So you wan give am money too?” I asked.
“This no be matter for joke; we wan the money to pay certain porsons wey go go him house for night and burn him car.”
“What! No, we don’t need to do that.” There was a minute’s silence.
“Look my frien’ I done tell you say if you no wan serious for this business make you go rest for house. I done see say you want play too much gentleman for this matter . . . Dem tell you say na gentlemanity de give other people minister . . . ? Anyway wetin be my concern there? Na you sabi.”
• • •
My father’s attitude to my political activity intrigued me a lot. He was, as I think I have already indicated, the local chairman of P.O.P. in our village, Urua, and so I expected that his house would not contain both of us. But I was quite wrong. He took the view (without expressing it in so many words) that the mainspring of political action was personal gain, a view which, I might say, was much more in line with the general feeling in the country than the high-minded thinking of fellows like Max and I. The only comment I remember my father making (at the beginning anyway) was when he asked if my “new” party was ready to give me enough money to fight Nanga. He sounded a little doubtful. But he was clearly satisfied with what I had got out of it so far, especially the car which he was now using nearly as much as myself. The normal hostility between us was put away in a corner, out of sight. But very soon all that was to change, and then change again.
We were sitting in his outbuilding one day about noon reading yesterday’s newspapers which I had just bought from the local newsagent and hairdresser, Jolly Barber, when I saw Chief Nanga’s Cadillac approaching. I thought of going into the main house but decided against it. After all, he was walking into my own lair and if anyone was to feel flustered it shouldn’t be me but the intruder. I told my father who was peering helplessly at the car that it was Chief Nanga and he immediately reached for a singlet to cover the upper part of his body, re-tied his enormous lappa nervously and went to the doorstep to receive the visitor wearing a flabby, ingratiating smile—the type our people describe so aptly as putrid. I sat where I was, pretending to read.
“Hello! Odili, my great enemy,” greeted Chief Nanga in the most daring assault of counterfeit affability I had ever seen or thought possible.
“Hello,” I said as flat as the floor.
“Did you see Chief the Honourable Minister yesterday?” asked my father severely.
“Let him be, sir,” said Chief Nanga. “He and I like to say harsh things to each other in jest. Those who don’t know us may think we are about to cut off one another’s heads . . .”
I settled farther back in my cane chair and raised the newspaper higher. He tried a few more times to draw me out but I stoutly refused to open my mouth, even when my father foolishly shouted at me and drew near as though to strike me. Fortunately for both of us he didn’t do it; for me it would have spelled immediate disaster; a man who hit his father wouldn’t have had much of a hearing thereafter in my constituency. It was interesting to me—thinking about it later—how Chief Nanga who had been so loudly interceding for me (or appearing to do so) suddenly withdrew into expectant silence, praying no doubt that my father’s rage would push him over the brink. When he realized that his prayer would not be answered after all he said, without the slightest hint of falseness, “Don’t worry about Odili, sir. If a young man does not behave like a young man who is going to?”
“He should wait till he builds his own house then he may put his head into a pot there—not here in my house. If he has no respect for me why should he carry his foolishness to such an important guest . . . ?”
“Never mind, sir. I am no guest here. I regard here as my house and yourself as my political father. Whatever we achieve over there in Bori is because we have the backing of people like you at home. All these young boys who are saying all kinds of rubbish against me, what do they know? They hear that Chief Nanga has eaten ten per cent commission and they begin to break their heads and holler up and down. They don’t know that all the commissions are paid into party funds. . . .”
I had lowered my newspaper to half-mast, so to speak.
“That’s right,” said my father knowingly, but I could tell by watching his face that his final state of knowledge was achieved through an effort of will. At first he had seemed puzzled by Nanga’s explanation and then I suppose he felt that as a local chairman of P.O.P. he could not admit to ignorance of its affairs so he immediately knew. As in breaking the law, what one knows and what one ought to know come to the same thing.
“I suppose your new four-storeyed building is going to be the party headquarters,” I asked, putting down the newspaper altogether.
“Chief the Honourable Minister was not talking to you,” said my father lamely.
“Naturally he wouldn’t because he knows I know what he knows . . . The buses, for instance, we all know are for carrying the party, and the import duty . . .”
“Shut up!” shouted my father.
“Leave him alone, sir. When he finishes advertising his ignorance I will educate him.”
I wanted to say he should go and educate his mother but decided against it.
“Have you finished, Mr Nationalist? He that knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool.”
“Don’t mind him, Chief. He is my son but I can tell you that if I had another like him I would have died long ago. Let us go into the house.” My father led the way to the dark parlour of the main house—a stone and cement building which was once the best and most modern house in Urua. But today nobody remembers it when buildings are talked about. It has become old-fashioned with its high, steep roof into which had gone enough corrugated iron sheets for at least two other houses. Some day someone will have to replace the wooden jalousie of its narr
ow windows with glass panes so as to let in more light into the rooms. And most likely the someone will be me.
I stayed on in the outbuilding exulting in my successful onslaught which had driven my father and his important guest from this airy comfortable day-room into the dark stone house.
About half an hour later my father came to the front door of the main house and called my name. “Sir!” I answered full of respect but without getting up or stirring in any way.
