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The man nudged his companion and he brought forward an object covered with a red cloth and proceeded to remove the cover. It was a fearsome little affair contained in a clay pot with feathers stuck into it.
“The iyi comes from Mbanta. You know what that means. Swear that you will vote for Maduka. If you fail to do so, this iyi take note.”
Roof’s heart nearly flew out when he saw the iyi; indeed he knew the fame of Mbanta in these things. But he was a man of quick decision. What could a single vote cast in secret for Maduka take away from Marcus’s certain victory? Nothing.
“I will cast my paper for Maduka; if not this iyi take note.”
“Das all,” said the man as he rose with his companion who had covered up the object again and was taking it back to their car.
“You know he has no chance against Marcus,” said Roof at the door.
“It is enough that he gets a few votes now; next time he will get more. People will hear that he gives out pounds, not shillings, and they will listen.”
Election morning. The great day every five years when the people exercise power. Weather-beaten posters on walls of houses, tree trunks and telegraph poles. The few that were still whole called out their message to those who could read. Vote for the People’s Alliance Party! Vote for the Progressive Organization Party! Vote for PAP! Vote for POP! The posters that were torn called out as much of the message as they could.
As usual Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe was doing things in grand style. He had hired a highlife band from Umuru and stationed it at such a distance from the voting booths as just managed to be lawful. Many villagers danced to the music, their ballot papers held aloft, before proceeding to the booths. Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe sat in the “owner’s corner” of his enormous green car and smiled and nodded. One enlightened villager came up to the car, shook hands with the great man and said in advance, “Congrats!” This immediately set the pattern. Hundreds of admirers shook Marcus’s hand and said “Corngrass!”
Roof and the other organizers were prancing up and down, giving last minute advice to the voters and pouring with sweat.
“Do not forget,” he said again to a group of illiterate women who seemed ready to burst with enthusiasm and good humour, “our sign is the motor-car …”
“Like the one Marcus is sitting inside.”
“Thank you, mother,” said Roof. “It is the same car. The box with the car shown on its body is the box for you. Don’t look at the other with the man’s head: it is for those whose heads are not correct.”
This was greeted with loud laughter. Roof cast a quick and busy-like glance towards the Minister and received a smile of appreciation.
“Vote for the car,” he shouted, all the veins in his neck standing out. “Vote for the car and you will ride in it!”
“Or if we don’t, our children will,” piped the same sharp, old girl.
The band struck up a new number: “Why walk when you can ride …”
In spite of his apparent calm and confidence Chief the Honourable Marcus was a relentless stickler for detail. He knew he would win what the newspapers called “a landslide victory” but he did not wish, even so, to throw away a single vote. So as soon as the first rush of voters was over he promptly asked his campaign boys to go one at a time and put in their ballot papers.
“Roof, you had better go first,” he said.
Roof’s spirits fell; but he let no one see it. All morning he had masked his deep worry with a surface exertion which was unusual even for him. Now he dashed off in his springy fashion towards the booths. A policeman at the entrance searched him for illegal ballot papers and passed him. Then the electoral officer explained to him about the two boxes. By this time the spring had gone clean out of his walk. He sidled in and was confronted by the car and the head. He brought out his ballot paper from his pocket and looked at it. How could he betray Marcus even in secret? He resolved to go back to the other man and return his five pounds … Five pounds! He knew at once it was impossible. He had sworn on that iyi. The notes were red; the cocoa farmer busy at work.
At this point he heard the muffled voice of the policeman asking the electoral officer what the man was doing inside. “Abi na pickin im de born?”
Quick as lightning a thought leapt into Roof’s mind. He folded the paper, tore it in two along the crease and put one half in each box. He took the precaution of putting the first half into Maduka’s box and confirming the action verbally: “I vote for Maduka.”
They marked his thumb with indelible purple ink to prevent his return, and he went out of the booth as jauntily as he had gone in.
Marriage Is a Private Affair
“Have you written to your dad yet?” asked Nene one afternoon as she sat with Nnaemeka in her room at 16 Kasanga Street, Lagos.
“No. I’ve been thinking about it. I think it’s better to tell him when I get home on leave!”
“But why? Your leave is such a long way off yet—six whole weeks. He should be let into our happiness now.”
Nnaemeka was silent for a while, and then began very slowly as if he groped for his words: “I wish I were sure it would be happiness to him.”
“Of course it must,” replied Nene, a little surprised. “Why shouldn’t it?”
“You have lived in Lagos all your life, and you know very little about people in remote parts of the country.”
