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“No, but . . .”
“Make you park for outside. I go go haskam if he want see you. Wetin be your name?”
Fortunately the Minister, who was apparently relaxing with his family in the lounge came to the door, and on seeing us rushed outside and threw his arm round me. Then his wife and three of his children trooped out and joined in the excited welcoming.
“Come right inside,” said the Minister. “We have been waiting for you all morning. The house is yours.”
I hung back to pay the taxi-driver. “No, no, no!” cried my host. “Go right inside. I will settle with the driver. He na my very good friend, no be so, driver?”
“Yes, sir, master,” said the driver, who had hitherto seemed a most unfriendly man to me. Now he broke into a broad smile showing smoke- and kola-stained teeth.
For a mother of seven, the eldest of whom was sixteen or seventeen, Mrs Nanga was and still is very well kept. Her face, unlike her husband’s had become blurred in my memory. But on seeing her now it all came back again. She was bigger now of course—almost matronly. Her face was one of the friendliest I had ever seen.
She showed me to the Guest’s Suite and practically ordered me to have a bath while she got some food ready.
“It won’t take long,” she said, “the soup is already made.”
A small thing, but it struck me even as early as this: Mr Nanga always spoke English or pidgin; his children, whom I discovered went to expensive private schools run by European ladies spoke impeccable English, but Mrs Nanga stuck to our language—with the odd English word thrown in now and again.
My host did not waste time. At about five o’clock that afternoon he told me to get ready and go with him to see the Hon. Simon Koko, Minister for Overseas Training. Earlier that day one of those unseasonal December rains which invariably brought on the cold harmattan had fallen. It had been quite heavy and windy and the streets were now littered with dry leaves, and sometimes half-blocked by broken-off tree branches; and one had to mind fallen telegraph and high-voltage electric wires.
Chief Koko, a fat jovial man wearing an enormous home-knitted red-and-yellow sweater was about to have coffee. He asked if we would join him or have some alcohol.
“I no follow you black white-men for drink tea and coffee in the hot afternoon,” said Chief Nanga. “Whisky and soda for me and for Mr Samalu.”
Chief Koko explained that nothing warmed the belly like hot coffee and proceeded to take a loud and long sip followed by a satisfied Ahh! Then he practically dropped the cup and saucer on the drinks-table by his chair and jumped up as though a scorpion had stung him.
“They have killed me,” he wailed, wringing his hands, breathing hard and loud and rolling his eyes. Chief Nanga and I sprang up in alarm and asked together what had happened. But our host kept crying that they had killed him and they could now go and celebrate.
“What is it, S.I.?” asked Chief Nanga, putting an arm around the other’s neck.
“They have poisoned my coffee,” he said, and broke down completely. Meanwhile the steward, hearing his master’s cry, had rushed in.
“Who poisoned my coffee?” he asked.
“Not me-o!”
“Call the cook!” thundered the Minister. “Call him here. I will kill him before I die. Go and bring him.”
The steward dashed out again and soon returned to say the cook had gone out. The Minister slumped into his chair and began to groan and hold his stomach. Then his bodyguard whom we had seen dressed like a cowboy hurried in from the front gate, and hearing what had happened dashed out at full speed to try and catch the cook.
“Let’s go and call a doctor,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Chief Nanga with relief and, leaving his friend, rushed towards the telephone. I hadn’t thought about the telephone.
“What is the use of a doctor?” moaned our poisoned host. “Do they know about African poison? They have killed me. What have I done to them? Did I owe them anything? Oh! Oh! Oh! What have I done?”
Meanwhile Chief Nanga had been trying to phone a doctor and was not apparently getting anywhere. He was now shouting threats of immediate sacking at some invisible enemy.
“This is Chief the Honourable Nanga speaking,” he was saying. “I will see that you are dealt with. Idiot. That is the trouble with this country. Don’t worry, you will see. Bloody fool. . . .”
At this point the cowboy bodyguard came in dragging the cook by his shirt collar. The Minister sprang at him with an agility which completely belied his size and condition.
“Wait, Master,” pleaded the cook.
“Wait your head!” screamed his employer, going for him. “Why you put poison for my coffee?” His huge body was quivering like jelly.
“Me? Put poison for master? Nevertheless!” said the cook, side-stepping to avoid a heavy blow from the Minister. Then with surprising presence of mind he saved himself. (Obviously the cowboy had already told him of his crime.) He made for the cup of coffee quickly, grabbed it and drank every drop. There was immediate silence. We exchanged surprised glances.
