Anthills of the Savannah - Chinua Achebe [20]
The worst threat from men of hell
May not be their actions cruel
Far worse that we learn their way
And behave more fierce than they.
A bad hymn, as most hymns tend to be. But people sang it up and down the street of Bassa. Chris was critical of my tone and of my tactlessness in appearing to command His Excellency. But when the said Excellency proceeded to do exactly what I had demanded Chris had to come up with a new tune. My editorial suddenly had nothing whatever to do with the new decree. His Excellency had quite independently come to the conclusion that he could earn a few credits by reversing all the unpopular acts of the civilian regime. And the Public Executions Amendment Decree was only one of them. And this was the same Chris who had just rebuked me for not knowing that public executions were such a popular sport.
In the one year or more since those particular events I have successfully resisted Chris’s notion of editorial restraint. But for how much longer?
“I CALLED YOUR OFFICE three or four times,” he says as soon as I enter. He is not looking at me but at the sheaf of typed papers he is bouncing up and down on the table between his palms to line them up.
“I take it you are asking me to explain why I was not on seat.”
“Oh don’t be silly, Ikem. I’m only telling you…”
“Well, sir. I had to go to GTC to hire a battery and have them place mine on twenty-four hour charge. I am sorry about that.”
“I was calling you about this morning’s editorial.” He is still not looking at me but the irritation on his face and in his voice is clearly mounting despite the quietness. I don’t seem to be able to arouse anger in him these days; only irritation.
“What about it?”
“What about it! You know, Ikem I have given up trying to understand what you are up to. Really, I have.”
“Good! At last!”
“How can you go about creating stupid problems for yourself and for everybody else.”
“Come on now! Speak for yourself, Chris. I am quite able to take care of myself. As for my editorials, as long as I remain editor of the Gazette I shall not seek anybody’s permission for what I write. I’ve told you that many times before. If you don’t like it you know what to do, Chris, don’t you? You hired me, didn’t you?”
“Firing could be the least of your problems just now let me tell you. You had better have some pretty good explanations ready for H.E. The only reason I called you is that he is likely to ask me first and I want to tell you now that I am sick and tired of getting up every Thursday to defend you.”
“Defend me? Good heavens! Who ever asked you to defend me? From what, anyway. Sounds to me like busy work, Chris.”
“Well, never mind. I shan’t do it any more. From now on you can go right ahead and stew in your own water.”
“Thank you, sir. If there is nothing else, may I leave now?”
“You certainly may!”
“That was short and sweet,” says his little painted doll of a secretary in the outer office. At a loss I simply glare at her and then slam her door after me. But a few steps down the corridor what I should have said comes, too late, to me. Something like: I’ve heard that you like it long and painful. I stopped; weighed it; changed my mind and continued walking.
That young lady has a reputation for never putting Chris on the telephone until the secretary at the other end has put on the boss. Apparently she considers it a serious breach of protocol for the Honourable Commissioner to say hello to an assistant. I wonder why everything in this country turns so readily to routines of ritual contest. The heavyweight champion must not show his face but wait in his locker until the challenger has cooled his heels in the ring. I must say the whole charade is so unlike Chris that it must be done without his knowledge. But when will