This Side Jordan (6 page)

Think, now.

‘I think she said it,’ the boy whispered.

No flaming sword descended to cut him down for the lie.

He did not know if he had saved her from the deep pit and from the lion’s mouth, that hell engulf her not. He did not know how they had finally settled the argument. She lay in consecrated ground and how she got there he did not care.

Because, chiefly, the words he remembered from the time alone with her were not words either of obscenity or prayer. From amid the shuddering sobs and the animal paingrunting had come suddenly the clear Irish girlvoice, surprised and frightened – ‘Oh God, my guts won’t stop bleeding – what am I going to do at all?’

When he was a little boy, there was a night prayer he used to say, a prayer to the Mother of God. He never said that particular one again. But he dreamed it sometimes.

‘O Mary, my dear Mother, bless me, and guard me under thy mantle –’

T
he sun sucked everything into itself. The circle of gold, Nyankopon’s image, which shot its arrows of life into man and leaf, now shrivelled the life it had made. The sun was everywhere, and men, dying miniature deaths before it, turned away and slept.

Only a few challenged the Lord of Creation, dimly aware in their liquid-feeling bones that they did so, fighting off His drug of sleep, angry at the melting of their minds in the golden fire of noon.

Nathaniel, sitting at his desk, fought to keep his eyes open and his attention from wandering. He looked at Jacob Abraham Mensah, scarcely seeing him. The big man, always slow-moving as a puff-adder, seemed unaffected by the noon lethargy. He stood huge in front of Nathaniel’s desk, like a giant whose dignity is half ridiculous or a clown whose absurdity is sometimes transformed into nobility.

For the benefit of a wealthy but illiterate cocoa-farmer parent from Ashanti, Jacob Abraham was dressed today in an
impressive Kente cloth. Normally he never wore African dress. But today he was all a man of the Ancient Land.

‘We are Africans,’ the headmaster was saying ponderously, as though he had just discovered the fact. ‘We are Africans, Amegbe. We must remember the greatness of the past. As I was saying to Mr. Amponsah, we must remember our responsibility to our past. The great kings – Osei Tutu, Opoku Ware, Mensah Bonsu, Prempeh the First –’

Nathaniel wondered uneasily if this apparently pointless recital were to have a political twist. It would be like Mensah to bait him about his politics. Nathaniel imagined fleetingly a life in which he did not have to worry all the time about Mensah. He gazed at the big man dully, hating him.

But Jacob Abraham was soaring above politics today.

‘We have a responsibility to this country,’ the clown-giant continued, ‘to turn out men who can govern it. States-men and professional men. On every side, we need education and more education.’

Nathaniel nodded. Jacob Abraham was like Ananse, the Giant Spider, who, full of conceit and cunning, drew in the unsuspecting to his web. Nathaniel, who had harboured similar thoughts about responsibility, fought against agreement, trying to untangle the web and discover what the big man was really after.

‘I don’t see –’

‘What I mean,’ Jacob Abraham said, ‘is that the time is approaching for Futura Academy to take the next step.’

Nathaniel looked at him blankly.

‘I refer, of course,’ the headmaster said, ‘to the application for government inspection, which, if we pass it, will put us on the list of accepted Secondary Schools.’

Nathaniel gasped audibly.

The headmaster fixed him with an angry glance.

‘Don’t you think we could pass inspection, Amegbe?’

Nathaniel could not find the courage to reply. Did Mensah really believe that the school would pass muster? Mensah was capable of believing anything. To have government acceptance would mean financial aid. Mensah wanted that. But he did not seem to realize it would have to be earned and that it would not, in any event, be a personal gift to himself. Nathaniel waved his hands feebly, despising the weakness of the gesture.

‘There are certain things –’

‘What things?’ Jacob Abraham demanded.

Nathaniel tried to judge how far he could go without giving offence. He wondered for a moment if Mensah had any real conception of how poor the school was.

‘Well,’ he said tentatively, ‘the syllabus – perhaps a standard one should be drawn up – you know – more in accordance with government schools, instead of leaving it to each teacher to do as he wants –’

‘Anything else?’ Mensah said icily.

Nathaniel sweated.

‘I do not mean any disrespect,’ he stammered, ‘but – the attendance –’

‘It is up to you,’ Mensah said, ‘to hold their interest so that they attend your classes.’

Nathaniel felt sick. He lowered his head and did not speak.

‘I thought you believed in Futura Academy,’ Mensah sounded almost hurt.

‘Oh, I do,’ Nathaniel breathed.

He loathed himself, but he could not take back the words. He was afraid.

Then Mensah did a surprising thing. He put his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, and when Nathaniel looked up, startled, he saw the other man’s eyes were pleading with him.

‘Maybe not next term, then,’ Mensah said, ‘but soon. Soon we will pass inspection. It will grow into a fine school, eh?’

Mensah would not spend money on more teachers or equipment. He would not have the buildings repaired. He believed that Futura Academy would, of itself, grow and improve. Nathaniel remembered a saying of his people – ‘God is growing cocoa’. Not the people. God. One did not have to do anything except sit and wait for it to happen.

And yet – something was there, apart from the simple desire for wealth. Looking at Mensah now, Nathaniel saw a man whose eyes were aflame with dreams.

Nathaniel felt in himself, too, the terrible hunger to believe. Perhaps it would happen so. Perhaps the school would grow, slowly, into something fine.

Nathaniel thought of the boys who would be writing their examinations next week. Most of them would fail School Certificate, not because they were stupid but because they wrongly believed that Futura Academy had adequately prepared them to sit the government examination.

‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘what happens to the boys who fail?’

Jacob Abraham pulled his cloth tightly around him.

‘How should I know?’ he snapped. ‘I am not running an employment agency. They take their place somewhere.’

Nathaniel wondered where that place could possibly be, the place for the semi-educated, the boys who failed and did
not know why they failed, the hopeful applicants for engineering and medical scholarships who did not realize they must be able to do more than simple arithmetic, and could not write a business letter without making a dozen mistakes.

Because they had more education than the majority in this country, they wanted important and significant jobs, jobs for which they were not qualified. The past was dead for them, but the future could never be realized. Nathaniel felt a despairing kinship with them.

On his way home that afternoon, Nathaniel met Lamptey. The Highlife Boy wore a haggard face.

‘What’s the matter?’ Nathaniel asked.

Lamptey jerked up his draped trousers with a defiant tug on the embossed leather belt.

‘Everything go wrong, man,’ he said. ‘Can you lend me a quid, Nathaniel?’

‘Sorry,’ Nathaniel said coldly.

Lamptey grinned.

‘Don’t be sorry, boy, I never thought you could. Some life, eh?’

‘Lamptey,’ Nathaniel said on impulse, ‘do you ever hear anything from any of the boys after they leave Futura?’

‘Hear from them?’ Lamptey shrilled. ‘You crazy, man?’

‘I mean –’ Nathaniel regretted having spoken of it, ‘what happens to them?’

‘What do I care what happens to them?’ Lamptey said irritably.

Then the sharp face softened. Leaning back on his heels, he gave Nathaniel a sad smile.

‘I don’t worry about those boys,’ he said. ‘They got their education. Let ’em go. The ones I worry about, Nathaniel, are
the boys who leave before they finish. It’s bad, man. It’s very bad.’

Nathaniel was slightly taken aback at the other’s concern. But he nodded his agreement.

‘I was sorry when Cobblah had to go,’ he said. ‘He was a smart boy.’

Lamptey snapped the fingers of both hands, lightly and delicately.

‘Oh, Cobblah –’ he sniffed. ‘He’s not the one I’m worried about. You know Lartey?’

‘I never thought he was much good.’

Lartey skipped most of Nathaniel’s classes. He was a chunky, sullen boy of sixteen, utterly uninterested in education, and desperately homesick.

Lamptey hugged his green and gold spotted shirt tightly around him.

‘No good,’ he moaned, ‘you said it, man. True as God. You remember about a week ago, that night I took some of the fellows out? Well, that Lartey was one. That bush boy finally made up his mind he wants to see Accra. Jesus, he was a real fancy man! Dressed real fine, buying drinks for us all. I had it fixed with this girl – Comfort, her name is. You should see her – fine girl. And clean, too. I could guarantee he wouldn’t pick up a thing. Wha-at? Like a ripe paw-paw, she is, that’s the truth. Man couldn’t help biting her, she taste so sweet. Lartey say he’ll see me next day. That’s it. Finish.’

‘So?’

‘Next morning he was gone,’ Lamptey said. ‘He planned to leave all the time and I didn’t know it. Hopped a mammy-lorry in the middle of the night. Went back to his village. Just like that. Twenty miles the other side of Koforidua.’

Lamptey flung out both arms and flapped them disconsolately.

‘He just fly off like that, neat as a sparrow,’ he said, ‘and never a penny I get from him, the fancy bugger.’

Nathaniel stared at the other schoolmaster, the Highlife Boy, the pimp. Then he threw back his head and laughed. And after an injured moment, Lamptey joined in. The two of them stood in the street howling with laughter, until they were weak, until they had almost forgotten why they laughed.

Aya was resting on the bed when Nathaniel came in. He still could not see the bed without a glow of ownership, for it had been the first piece of furniture they had bought in Accra and it was still the most splendid. It was a big brass bed, with a heavy frame above it for curtains or a mosquito-net. At the four corners, large brass knobs gleamed like gold, and the railings at foot and head were embellished with metal flowers and bows. Into the centre rail at the head was set a small mirror, and all four posts, enamelled black up to the knob, were painted with blue and pink flowers. Nathaniel had slept in it for six years, but it had never ceased to surprise him that he actually owned its magnificence.

Aya looked tired, and yet there was excitement in her eyes.

‘My friend came today,’ she said. ‘You remember – Charity Donkor. Victor spoke of her. She is staying with her aunt at Teshie.’

Nathaniel began to wash, pouring the water carefully from the earthen vessel into the tin basin that stood on the dresser.

‘You still haven’t told me why she’s in Accra.’

‘She has been very unfortunate,’ Aya said, giving him a quick appraising glance. ‘She wants a child. She has been married five years.’

‘Too bad,’ Nathaniel said without enthusiasm.

‘That is why she came here,’ Aya went on. ‘Her aunt was writing to her all the time about this new “suman” –’

Nathaniel swung around to face her.

‘This new – what?’

‘Fetish,’ Aya repeated patiently. ‘Its priests have brought it down here from the Northern Territories. Its home is near Tamale –’

‘All right – go on.’

‘Well, Charity said she tried her best with the “abosom” at Koforidua. And she prayed to her husband’s “ntoro,” and to Tano, Son of Nyame, who is the god of her people – as of ours. I mean – as it used to be. Also, Charity is a Baptist, and she said she prayed every day for a child. But nothing worked. So she is going to –’

‘Aya!’ Nathaniel cried. ‘That’s enough. She’s a Baptist and a pagan, and she hasn’t even the decency to stick to one pagan god. She’s like a woman in the market – which piece of fish is the cheapest, the freshest? Which god shall I buy today?’

‘She is my friend,’ Aya said with dignity. ‘It is not necessary for you to insult her. Victor was right, for once. I should not have told you.’

‘Look –’ Nathaniel said patiently, ‘I’ve told you, Aya. We went into this long ago, when you miscarried. There are many reasons for a woman not having a child. I don’t understand them all, but doctors do. Charity could pour libation every day for ten years, but it still wouldn’t –’

‘What harm does it do to try? You don’t understand what it is, Nathaniel. You don’t know how it feels to want a child, and not be able – but I know.’

Nathaniel’s throat ached.

‘And what “suman” did you try,’ he said slowly, ‘before, when you thought you couldn’t hold a baby? What one did you go to, without telling me?’

She turned away.

‘None,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I was afraid. You would not let me, and – oh, Nathaniel – I am ashamed of it now, but sometimes I hated you for it. For not letting me try.’

He believed her. But his desire to hurt could not be suddenly quenched.

‘And when you were pregnant,’ his voice ground out, ‘I suppose you thought you wouldn’t take any chances this time. I suppose you saw the “sumankwafo” to get charms so no one could harm the child by witchcraft –’

He laughed harshly.

‘You couldn’t have the cuts made on your forehead for the “boto” to be rubbed in,’ he said. ‘I would have seen it.’

Aya buried her face in the pillow.

‘Why do you speak of it?’ she cried. ‘I would not go – where you said. We are Christians.’

‘I am nothing!’ he stormed. ‘A man is better off to have no gods. They’re all the same. They take, take, but they never give.’

She raised her head and looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘You are a Christian,’ she insisted. ‘You went to Mission School. You go to church, sometimes anyway.’

‘That makes me a Christian,’ he said bitterly. ‘Good.’

‘It is Victor,’ Aya said. ‘He is a bad influence on you. How can anyone live without a god?’

‘I knew you would say that. It isn’t him. Sometimes I believe. Sometimes – I can’t. But in the old gods – never. Not any more. That’s gone. Don’t you understand? It’s gone.’

‘For me, also,’ she said. ‘I would not go to the fetish priest.’

He looked at her, exasperated, and yet moved by her loyalty, which was loyalty to him.

‘You lie like a child,’ he said. ‘Like a little girl.’

‘I am not the right wife for you,’ Aya cried. ‘Why did you not marry someone who could read?’

He took her hands in his, and held them tightly, so she would not think the same question had ever occurred to him.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

She clung to him.

‘You will not take a second wife, Nathaniel? I do not want that.’

‘We are Christians,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t you remember?’

She struck at his hands, half angrily, and he laughed.