Authors: Margaret Laurence
He hesitated, one hand digging into his shirt pocket.
‘And we pray our cases meet approval for selection of these posts,’ Kumi finished.
Nathaniel did not speak.
On the desk-altar, Kumi laid his offering. It was a gold necklace, made locally of yellow Ashanti gold, beaten links decorated in the traditional geometric designs.
Nathaniel could tell at a glance, from its colour, that the gold content was high. Instinctively, he tried to assess its value. Not less than ten or twelve pounds, surely. Maybe more.
Awuletey shuffled forward then and laid his package beside the other, neatly undoing the wrapping paper and exposing the contents.
Two silk shirts. Nathaniel felt his fingers tingle with desire to touch. One was a pale gleaming green and the other the colour of rich cream. At least three pounds ten apiece. A muscle jerked in Nathaniel’s hand, but he did not move.
Kumi and Awuletey waited. They were in no hurry. They seemed to understand his need for time.
Nathaniel’s mind willed his eyes to move from the objects on the desk, but his eyes refused to obey.
The only sound was the fretful clucking of chickens in the compound. The wind was holding its breath, and the air was heavy and still. Nathaniel could feel the sweat welling up on his temples and beginning to make little rivulets down his cheeks. But he did not move or speak.
Gold, colour of the sun, colour of the king. Ghana, ancient city, city of gold. The king of Ghana had a golden nugget that weighed a ton. Ghana was an empire of gold. And in Asante, in olden times, at high festivals the chief’s body was sprinkled with gold dust. No wonder. Life was in it, and it was a symbol of life.
Old empires, ancient darkness, the days when men were warrior-children, when men were bought and sold as though a man were a thing that could be owned by another. Perhaps, in those times, if a man sold himself for gold or silk, there would be no damnation in it, for he had not looked on the evil face, nor called the whore by her name.
But the new land – that was a different matter. A man could not say ‘I did not know.’ He knew. Nathaniel knew. He knew the face of evil. He was a modern man, and knew many things. Too many, for his own peace.
Could health grow from disease? If the cocoa tree was diseased, it had to be cut away. The government was always giving this advice to the cocoa-farmers. The sick tree may infect the whole plantation, so the sick tree must be destroyed. The new way. And so it must be in all things.
And yet – and yet –
Was he a fool, the object of clever men’s laughter? Other men did not resist. Mintah the contractor, whom Adjei had talked about – he was a respected man. There were many others, men in high places, important men, officials.
He had often thought that if he could afford to dress better, his classes would show him more respect.
It occurred to Nathaniel that Johnnie Kestoe believed he had taken a fee already. The whiteman would never be convinced that an African would not insist on some fee. The thought angered him. If he was believed to be a taker of dash, he might as well profit from it.
Still he did not speak.
The boys’ subtle flattery, that of placing him in the same category as a chief, had not escaped him. He knew it for what it was. And yet it was true. Strangers might have their own customs. But here, you would not claim even a man’s time
without bringing some token of appreciation. It was courtesy. It did not mean Kumi and Awuletey expected any further return.
Three pounds ten plus three pounds ten plus – let us say – twelve pounds. Equals nineteen pounds. Who would not expect a further return, for that? How could they have afforded it? Relatives, most likely. It was thought of as a worthwhile investment.
They were intelligent as most, weren’t they? All they needed was opportunity.
The sweat trickled down Nathaniel’s nose and around the rims of his glasses, steaming the lenses until he was looking at the objects on the desk through a blur of mist.
So many voices. ‘How many nights I weep and pray and still you never come or send Some Small Thing for help –’ ‘Again he refused you more money and yet you stay with him – are you his slave?’ ‘There are good pickings here now – you’re crazy, Wise-boy, always broke.’
And others. I will be somebody. Not a fish, not a spider on the wall, but a man among men. I will do something – you will see. Rise up, Ghana. Free-Dom.
He could sell the necklace. That would be Kwaale settled for a while.
He had only two shirts good enough to wear to work. Both were cheap cotton, and both were mended.
Nathaniel glanced up at the boys. Their faces were patient, impassive.
Then, slowly, he reached out one hand and placed it on the necklace and the shirts.
‘I thank you,’ Nathaniel said quietly.
When they had gone, he picked their applications from the pile. The others he tore into small pieces and burned.
‘Hey, Nathaniel!’ Lamptey greeted him. ‘Hey, Wise-boy, what’s all this I hear? You gonna be some competition for the Labour Exchange?’
‘Who told you?’ Nathaniel asked sourly.
Lamptey jigged up and down in the street, loosely clenching his hands as though they held sticks, while he beat out a rapid rhythm on air.
‘Talking drums,’ he said. ‘You know those things.’
‘No,’ Nathaniel said obligingly, ‘never heard of them.’
Lamptey shrieked with delight.
‘You know – like a telephone, only you can’t hang up. I’m a true African. Yes, man. Get all my news that way, didn’t you know?’
‘Who told you?’ Nathaniel repeated.
‘You really want to know? Why, the old bastahd himself. Who else?’
Nathaniel was relieved. It didn’t matter, of course. It didn’t matter at all. It was nothing. But all the same he was glad that Kumi and Awuletey hadn’t been talking to Lamptey.
‘Sa-ay, how about getting me a job there, too?’ Lamptey went on. ‘Futura’s not getting any better, that’s sure. What if it folds?’
‘I thought you had another line.’
‘Now what line could that be?’ Lamptey grinned. ‘I don’t know any other line. If you mean I like going on the town sometimes with the boys, why – sure, sure. But I’m no big boy, man. No capital. Couldn’t start my own business. I’d miss my students if this place folded. It would ruin me. No more happy time then. No soul to show the sights and the lights, man. What I do then?’
‘You wouldn’t starve, don’t worry,’ Nathaniel said. ‘You’d find another line. How’s business?’
Lamptey sighed, throwing his head back and hissing the air out through his teeth.
‘I tell you, true as God, business never been worse. Most boys gone home. And the ones who stay – whasamatter with these youngmen? Not interested in geography this time.’
‘They’re just keeping the gun loaded for Independence night,’ Nathaniel suggested.
‘Lord God,’ Lamptey said gloomily, ‘it won’t be no gun by then; atom bomb more like it.’
When they had stopped laughing, the Highlife Boy pulled at Nathaniel’s arm.
‘You come along one of these Saturday nights, Nathaniel? You live too quiet, man.’
‘I got no money, Highlife Boy.’
‘Sa-ay, what’s that stuff?’ Lamptey looked offended. ‘For you, Nathaniel, not one penny. Everything arranged. Not one penny for you, my friend. Except the young lady, of course. Say, I know a man who’s got ten girls from the north coming down next week. I tell you true, man. New ones. Hand-picked desert flowers, I been told. How about it?’
Nathaniel hesitated. He had kept the necklace with him, looking at it from time to time. He could not bring himself to part with it yet. But soon he would sell it. He could use some of the money. He need not send it all to Kwaale. He owed himself a celebration. What would those desert girls be like? Very young – almost children, probably. Young and stupid, cow-eyes blinking at the lights, the highlife, the city. Bodies ripe and tender, untouched. No. Not for him. He wanted a city girl. A girl wise in the rites. Perfume, nylon, knowing laughter. A lovely drunken girl in high heels.
‘No bush-girl for me,’ he said laughingly.
‘Wait till you see them,’ Lamptey said. ‘Anyway, something fine I can fix. I swear I’ll do well for you. So? You gonna come along?’
‘Well –’ Nathaniel said. ‘Look, I’ll wait and see how the boys get on. If they get the jobs, we’ll celebrate, Lamptey, you and me. How’s that?’
Lamptey thumped him on the shoulder.
‘Never thought you’d do it, Nathaniel!’ he cried. ‘Hey, that’s good, that’s fine!’
Nathaniel grinned self-consciously. He felt happy. Well, why not? Why shouldn’t he? He had lived frugally here all these years. He had had to. Now, if only for a little while, he would be a proper city man at last. He would put on one of the new silk shirts and go with Lamptey.
– I am the City, boy. Come and dance.
– Sasabonsam, you lie. Lucifer, you lie.
At the head of the parade there was a girl. She must have been about sixteen and she was beautiful. Her hips undulated and her breasts bounced gently to the hymn’s jazz rhythm. In her hand she held a ribbon attached to the church banner – white and purple satin fringed with gilt, carried by two younger girls. The banner billowed out like a sail without a boat, and the lead-girl tugged lightly on the ribbon while she nodded and smiled to the street crowds like a young queen honouring her subjects.
After the banner came the girl children, thirty or forty of them, bony little hips swaying imitatively. And behind them charged the ranks of women, four abreast, all wearing the same blue mammy-cloth, the fishes and the sea nightmares leaping as the hips like wheels spun round and round and the soft brown shoulders lifted.
The music, shrill and deafening, came from the fifes and drums of the boys’ band. Reborn, the old hymn tunes had a syncopated beat, a highlife beat, compelling as night drums, the voice of darkness now strangely calling the words of Light.
The parade flowed unevenly down the street. Mammy-lorries pulled to the side of the road and the passengers watched and laughed and clapped their hands. Cars bearing exasperated tense-faced Europeans honked and honked to get past. From the streets, from the gutters, from shacks and shops, the children tumbled out to join in the excitement, hopping around the parade like ragged moulting sparrows, prancing and contorting their skinny tatter-clad bodies to the music.
The sun poured its lava down upon earth; the palm trees dropped in the breezeless heat; the fife players sweated and tootled; the city shouted and the women danced before their God.
Nathaniel tried not to look for Aya. But his eyes refused to stop searching. Then he saw her. She carried the weight of her body easily, almost gracefully. She did not look grotesque. Her new cloth swathed her, and her face showed an exaltation that made Nathaniel ashamed of his embarrassment. He turned to go.
It was then that he saw Miranda Kestoe. She was pointing to the kerb, instructing her driver to pull up the car. Nathaniel tried to slip away into the crowd. A few paces away was the Paradise Chop Bar. Sanctuary. But she had seen him. She leaned out of the car window.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘Wonderful,’ Nathaniel said with a sinking heart.
‘I love these parades,’ Miranda continued happily. ‘They’re so colourful, aren’t they?’
Nathaniel felt an overpowering desire to spit. He managed to swallow the flood of saliva.
‘Yes,’ he said without expression, ‘so colourful.’
He wondered what she would think if she knew one of those jiving women was his wife. She would probably think it was very interesting. Everything was interesting to her. She was crazy about quaint customs – she collected them like postage stamps. If this parade had been a pagan one, now, Mrs. Kestoe would have been in ecstasies.
‘I’m glad I happened to see you,’ Miranda said. ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you how glad I am that you saw my husband about those boys. They’re going to see him tomorrow, aren’t they?’
She knew they were.
‘That is what I have arranged.’
She looked at him gravely.
‘I do hope it works out well,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it will.’
‘Your husband,’ Nathaniel said on impulse, ‘he is not so sure, I suppose?’
She flushed.
‘He’s not doing it as a favour to me,’ she said emphatically. ‘He’s very much hoping that they’ll be all right. He told me so.’
‘You did not tell him I was going to see him,’ Nathaniel said abruptly.
She twisted her hands together, and her eyes betrayed her anxiety to please.
‘I – well, no, I didn’t. I thought you might prefer it if I didn’t.’
Nathaniel wondered if she had expected him not to tell Johnnie Kestoe who it was that had prevailed upon him to go. She wanted it both ways. If her husband was impressed, then
she would take the credit. If not, then she hadn’t had a thing to do with it.
‘Really, I thought you would tell him,’ he said.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I – I never thought – I guess it was stupid of me – I’m so sorry –’
There was no limit to their self-humiliation, these broad-minded whitepeople. They thought they could gain a man’s trust by grovelling.
‘How many boys are you sending?’ Miranda asked timidly.
‘I have selected two.’
‘Good – I’m sure they’ll be keen and bright –’
‘Naturally they are bright,’ Nathaniel replied rudely, ‘or I would not have selected them.’
For an instant the gold necklace seemed to burn through his shirt pocket onto his skin, a tiny irritating scorch-mark.
‘Oh – of course,’ Miranda said apologetically. ‘Well – I do hope it works out all right.’
How many times had she repeated that? Couldn’t she think of anything else to say? All at once Nathaniel felt compelled to say the exact opposite.
‘It may not work out,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t. He will think my students are no good.’
Purposely he emphasized the word ‘he’, implying a blindness on Johnnie Kestoe’s part.
‘Don’t say that,’ she begged. ‘I’m sure he won’t think that.’
‘Yes he will,’ Nathaniel was by now more than half convinced by his own words. ‘It is quite likely. Extremely likely. He will probably think I am no good, too –’