As their struggle intensified to get inside each other, to melt and lose their separateness on that cramping sofa, she whispered, her breathing coming fast and urgent: “Let’s go inside. It’s too uncomfortable here.” And they fairly scrambled out of the sofa into the bedroom and peeled off their garments and cast them away like things on fire, and fell in together into the wide, open space of her bed and began to roll over and over until she could roll no more and said: “Come in.” And as he did she uttered a strangled cry that was not just a cry but also a command or a password into her temple. From there she took charge of him leading him by the hand silently through heaving groves mottled in subdued yellow sunlight, treading dry leaves underfoot till they came to streams of clear blue water. More than once he had slipped on the steep banks and she had pulled him up and back with such power and authority as he had never seen her exercise before. Clearly this was her grove and these her own peculiar rites over which she held absolute power. Priestess or goddess herself? No matter. But would he be found worthy? Would he survive? This unending, excruciating joyfulness in the crossroads of laughter and tears. Yes, I must, oh yes I must, yes, oh yes, yes, oh yes. I must, must, must. Oh holy priestess, hold me now. I am slipping, slipping, slipping. And now he was not just slipping but falling, crumbling into himself.
Just as he was going to plead for mercy she screamed an order: “OK!” and he exploded into stars and floated through fluffy white clouds and began a long and slow and weightless falling and sinking into deep, blue sleep.
When he woke like a child cradled in her arms and breasts her eyes watching anxiously over him, he asked languorously if she slept.
“Priestesses don’t sleep.”
He kissed her lips and her nipples and closed his eyes again.
“YOU CALLED ME a priestess. No, a prophetess, I think. I mind only the Cherubim and Seraphim part of it. As a matter of fact I do sometimes feel like Chielo in the novel, the priestess and prophetess of the Hills and the Caves.”
“It comes and goes, I imagine.”
“Yes. It’s on now. And I see trouble building up for us. It will get to Ikem first. No joking, Chris. He will be the precursor to make straight the way. But after him it will be you. We are all in it, Ikem, you, me and even Him. The thing is no longer a joke. As my father used to say, it is no longer a dance you can dance carrying your snuff in one cupped hand. You and Ikem must quickly patch up this ridiculous thing between you that nobody has ever been able to explain to me.”
“BB, I can’t talk to Ikem any more. I am tired. And drained of all stamina.”
“No, Chris. You have more stamina than you think.”
“Well, I certainly seem to. But only under your management, you know.” He smiled mischievously and kissed her.
“You know I am not talking about that, stupid.”
She left him in bed, had a quick shower, came back and only then retrieved her dress where she had flung it and put it back on. All the while Chris’s eyes were glued on her flawless body and she knew it. She next retrieved Chris’s things and stacked them neatly at the foot of the bed. Then she left the room to find out about lunch. Agatha seething with resentment was seated on the kitchen chair, her head on the table, pretending to be asleep. Yes, she had finished lunch she answered while her narrowed, righteous eyes added something like: while you were busy in your sinfulness.
Beatrice prepared a plate of green salad to augment the brown beans with fried plantain and beef stew. Agatha had not bothered to make any dessert no doubt expecting to have the pleasure of hearing her mistress’s complaint. Beatrice simply ignored her and quickly put together from cakes and odds and ends in the fridge two little bowls of sherry trifles. Then she went back to the room and woke Chris up.
It would appear from the way she beamed at him when he appeared at the table that Agatha did not include him in her moral censure. Girls at war! thought Beatrice with a private smile which the other apparently noticed and answered with a swift frown. Even Chris noticed the sudden switch.
“What’s eating your maid?” he asked as soon as she had returned to the kitchen.
“Nothing. She is all smiles to you.”
“Familiarity breeding contempt, then?”
“No, more than that. She is a prophetess of Jehovah.”
“And you are of the House of Baal.”
“Exactly. Or worse, of the unknown god.”
OVER LUNCH she told him about last night at Abichi. Or as much as it was possible to tell. Chris took in the introductory details warily knowing that the gaiety in her voice was hiding something awful. When she finally let it out he was so outraged he involuntarily jumped up from his seat.
“Please sit down and eat your food.” He sat down but not to eat. Not another morsel.
“I can’t believe that,” he kept saying. Beatrice’s efforts to get him to resume his lunch failed totally. He had gently pushed his plate away.
“Look, Chris, this salad is not Agatha’s. I made it specially for you.”
He relented somewhat and shovelled two or three spoonfuls of vegetables into his mouth and set the spoon down again. Finally she gave up, saying she should have known better and not shot her stupid mouth till he had eaten. She called Agatha and asked her to put the dessert back in the fridge and bring them coffee things. Without answering, she began instead to clear the table.
“Agatha!”
“Madam!”
“Leave the table alone and get us coffee, please. After that you can clear the table.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Let’s go and sit more comfortably,” she said to Chris. “We will have coffee and brandy. I insist on that. I want a little celebration. Don’t ask me for what. A celebration, that’s all. Kabisa!”
SLOWLY, VERY SLOWLY under Beatrice’s expert resuscitation his spirits began to rally. She dwelt on the amusing trivia as much as possible and underplayed the shocks. But most masterly of all she got Chris to actively participate in recreating the events.
“Who is that Alhaji fellow, Chairman, I think, of the Kangan/American Chamber of Commerce?” she asked.
“Oh that one. Alhaji Abdul Mahmoud. Didn’t you know him? I thought you did. You see, that’s the trouble with being such a recluse. If you came out to even one cocktail party a month you would know what was going on… Alhaji Mahmoud is himself a bit of a hermit though. He hardly appears anywhere and when he does, hardly says a word. Rumour has it that he has in the last one year knocked all other Kangan millionaires into a cocked hat. Eight ocean liners, they say, two or three private jets; a private jetty (no pun intended). No customs officials go near his jetty and so, say rumour-mongers, he is the prince of smugglers. What else? Fifty odd companies, including a bank. Monopoly of government fertilizer imports. That’s about it. Very quiet, even self-effacing but they say absolutely ruthless. All that may or may not be standard fare for multi-millionaires. What I find worrying and I don’t think I can quite believe it yet is that (voice lowered) he may be fronting you know for… your host.”
“No!”
“Don’t quote me. Rumours rumours rumours. I should know though. After all I am the Commissioner for Information, aren’t I? But I’m afraid I have very little information myself… Incidentally BB, how can you be so wicked? Imagine confronting me with that embarrassing catalogue of my morning’s activities including the BBC at seven! Absolutely wicked… But I suppose it could have been worse. You might have added, for instance, that while the ministry over which I preside dishes out all that flim-flam to the nation on KBC I sneak away every morning when no one is watching to listen to the Voice of the Enemy.”
“That was a good performance of mine, was it?”
“Absolutely flawless. And devastating. I don’t know why you still haven’t written a play. You would knock Ikem into a cocked hat.”
“That would take some doing. But thanks all the same.”
Before he finally left her flat a little after six she had made another pass
ionate plea to get him to agree to patch things up with Ikem.
“What I heard and saw last night frightened me. Ikem was being tried there in absentia and convicted. You have to save him, Chris. I know how difficult he is and everything. Believe me, I do. But you simply have to cut through all that. Ikem has no other friend and no sense of danger. Or rather he has but doesn’t know how to respond. You’ve tried everything in the book, I know. But you’ve just got to try them all over again. That’s what friends are for. There is very little time, Chris.”
“Little? There may be no time at all left… I should do something; I agree, but what? You see there is nothing concrete on which Ikem and I quarrel. What divides us is style not substance. And that is absolutely unbridgeable. Strange isn’t it?”
“Very strange.”
“And yet… on reflection… not so strange. You see, if you and I have a quarrel over an orange we could settle it by dividing the orange or by letting either of us have it, or by handing it over to a third party or even by throwing it away. But supposing our quarrel is that I happen to love oranges and you happen to hate them, how do you settle that? You will always hate oranges and I will always love them; we can’t help it.”
“We could decide though, couldn’t we, that it was silly and futile to quarrel over our likes and dislikes.”
“Yes,” he answered eagerly. “As long as we are not fanatical. If either of us is a fanatic then there can be no hope of a settlement. We will disagree as long as we live. The mere prospect of that is what leaves me emotionally drained and even paralysed… Why am I still in this Cabinet? Ikem calls us a circus show, and he is largely right. We are not a Cabinet. The real Cabinet are some of those clowns you saw last night. Why am I still there then? Honour and all that demands that I turn in my paper of resignation. But can I?”
“Yes, you can.”
“Well, I’ve just told you I have no energy to do it.”
“Nonsense!”
“And even if I were to make one hell of an effort and turn in my paper today, what do I do after that? Go into exile and drink a lot of booze in European capitals and sleep with a lot of white girls after delivering revolutionary lectures to admiring audiences seven worlds away from where my problem is. BB, I have seen that option; I have considered it and believe me it’s far less attractive than this charade here.”
“So?”
“So I will stay put. And do you know something else; it may not be easy to leave even if I wanted. Do you remember what he said during that terrifying debate over his life presidency? I told you, didn’t I? For one brief moment he shed his pretended calmness and threatened me: If anyone thinks he can leave the Cabinet on this issue he will be making a sad mistake.”
“Anyone walking out of that door will not go home but head straight into detention. Yes I remember that. So?”
“I am not saying that such a ridiculous threat is what is keeping me at my post. I mention it only to show how tricky things can become of a sudden. That’s why I have said a hundred million times to Ikem: Lie low for a while and this gathering tornado may rage and pass overhead carrying away roof-tops and perhaps… only perhaps… leave us battered but alive. But oh no! Ikem is outraged that I should recommend such cowardly and totally unworthy behaviour to him. You yourself have been witness to it again and again. And you are now asking me to go yet again and go on my knees and ask an artist who has the example of Don Quixote and other fictional characters to guide him…”
“Oh, that’s not fair, Chris. That’s most unfair. Ikem is as down to the ground, in his way, as either of us. Perhaps, more so… You only have to compare his string of earthy girlfriends to yours truly…”
Having said it Beatrice immediately regretted her indulgence. She should have resisted the temptation of a soft diversionary remark. Power escaped through it leaving her passionate purpose suddenly limp… They talked on desultorily for a little while longer and then parted without denting the problem. Chris merely restated his position before leaving.
“You are asking a man who has long despaired of fighting to hold back a combatant, fanatical and in full gear. My dear, all he’ll ever get for his pains is to be knocked flat on his face.”
9
Views of Struggle
IKEM’S DRIVE that hot afternoon was not in answer to Chris’s instruction to send a reporter to the Presidential Palace. A reporter was indeed sent and he must have duly reported. Ikem went for reasons of his own, in search of personal enlightenment.
He arrived on the grounds of the Palace just as the party was breaking up. So he could do no more for the present than exchange courtesies with the white-bearded leader of the Abazon delegation and arrange a later meeting with him and his group at the hotel where they were lodged.
Harmoney Hotel is a sleazy establishment in the northern slums of the capital and, judging by the ease with which Ikem’s inquiry led him to it, a popular resort in the neighbourhood. It is the kind of place that would boast a certain number of resident prostitutes; a couple of rooms used by three or four young men of irregular hours and unspecified occupation who sleep mostly by day; and a large turnover of small-time traders from up-country visiting Bassa periodically to replenish their stock of retail goods. It is busy and homely in a peculiar kind of way.
Ikem had already discovered at the Presidential Palace that the delegation was not five hundred strong as he had been told but a mere six, and that the large crowd that had accompanied it to the Palace were Abazon indigenes in Bassa: motor mechanics, retail traders, tailors, vulcanizers, taxi- and bus-drivers who had loaned their vehicles, and others doing all kinds of odd jobs or nothing at all in the city. A truly motley crowd! No wonder His Excellency was reported to have received the news of their sudden arrival on his doorstep with considerable apprehension. I would too if I were in his shoes, admitted Ikem mischievously to himself.
They were seated around five or six tables joined together in the open courtyard of the hotel, not five hundred of them now, but perhaps twenty, drinking and discussing excitedly their visit to the Palace.
As soon as they saw Ikem enter from the street through the main iron gate into the roughly cemented courtyard everybody got up including the six visiting elders and received him with something approaching an ovation. He shook hands all round and was looking for a vacant seat when someone, a kind of master of ceremonies, indicated a vacated place of honour for him beside the white-bearded elder. Then he shouted “Service!” very importantly and when a slouching waiter in a dirty blue tunic appeared, ordered six bottles of beer and three more roast chicken. “Quick, quick,” he said.
Then he surveyed the assembled group, picked up an empty beer bottle and knocked its bottom on the table for silence:
“Our people say that when a titled man comes into a meeting the talking must have to stop until he has taken his seat. An important somebody has just come in who needs no introduction. Still yet, we have to do things according to what Europeans call protocol. I call upon our distinguished son and Editor of the National Gazette to stand up.”
Ikem rose to a second tremendous ovation.
“When you hear Ikem Osodi Ikem Osodi everywhere you think his head will be touching the ceiling. But look at him, how simple he is. I am even taller than himself, a dunce like me. Our people say that an animal whose name is famous does not always fill a hunter’s basket.”
At this point Ikem interjected that he expected more people to beat him up now that his real size was known, and caused much laughter.
But in spite of the drinking and eating and the jolly laughter the speaker was still able to register his disappointment that this most famous son of Abazon had not found it possible to join in their monthly meetings and other social gatherings so as to direct their ignorant fumblings with his wide knowledge. He went on with this failing at such length and relentlessness that the bearded old man finally stopped him by rising to his feet. He was tall, gaunt-looking and with a slight stoop of the shoulders.
br /> The shrillness in the other man’s voice was totally absent here but the power of his utterance held everyone captive from his very first words. He began by thanking Abazon people in Bassa for receiving him and the other five leaders from home. He thanked the many young men a few only of whom were now present for turning out in their hundreds to accompany the delegation to the Palace and showing Bassa that Abazon had people. Then he turned sharply to the complaint of the last speaker:
“I have heard what you said about this young man, Osodi, whose doings are known everywhere and fill our hearts with pride. Going to meetings and weddings and naming ceremonies of one’s people is good. But don’t forget that our wise men have said also that a man who answers every summons by the town-crier will not plant corn in his fields. So my advice to you is this. Go on with your meetings and marriages and naming ceremonies because it is good to do so. But leave this young man alone to do what he is doing for Abazon and for the whole of Kangan; the cock that crows in the morning belongs to one household but his voice is the property of the neighbourhood. You should be proud that this bright cockerel that wakes the whole village comes from your compound.”
There was such compelling power and magic in his voice that even the MC who had voiced the complaints was now beginning to nod his head, like everybody else, in agreement.
“If your brother needs to journey far across the Great River to find what sustains his stomach, do not ask him to sit at home with layabouts scratching their bottom and smelling the finger. I never met this young man before this afternoon when he came looking for us at the compound of the Big Chief. I had never met him before; I have never read what they say he writes because I do not know ABC. But I have heard of all the fight he has fought for poor people in this land. I would not like to hear that he has given up that fight because he wants to attend the naming ceremony of Okeke’s son and Mgbafo’s daughter.