Anthills of the Savannah - Chinua Achebe [35]
“Bloody reformist,” said Ikem, infuriated and impressed for though he may be a great writer yet when it comes to speaking off the cuff he is no match for Chris.
A pleasant-faced army major searched my handbag at the entrance and another officer took me up a wide and red-carpeted flight of stairs. At the landing a huge open door led into an enormous and opulent room where guests were already settled in. As soon as I had appeared at the door His Excellency had rushed out to meet me, planted a kiss on my forehead and led me by the hand into the room. The guests sat in scattered groups of twos and threes on chairs, settees and pouffes drinking and dipping into bowls of assorted finger-food laid out on stools and on the floor.
“Who don’t we know?” asked the host and without waiting for an answer added: “Let’s start with the ladies.” Meanwhile the men had all struggled to their feet to stand guard, as it were.
“Come and meet Miss Cranford of the American United Press. Lou is in Bassa to see if all the bad news they hear about us in America is true.” The dark-haired girl who would have fitted my stereotype of an Italian beauty if I hadn’t been told she was American was smiling and playing her hand like a pair of cymbals to get them free of salted peanuts in preparation for a hand-shake which when it came would have given her Americanness away for its over-eager firmness. Meanwhile His Excellency was literally reciting my CV. “Lou, this is one of the most brilliant daughters of this country, Beatrice Okoh. She is a Senior Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Finance—the only person in the service, male or female, with a first-class honours in English. And not from a local university but from Queen Mary College, University of London. Our Beatrice beat the English to their game. We’re very proud of her.”
“Wow,” said Lou. “That’s terrific. How did you do it Beatrice?”
The rest was routine. There were I think eight men and seven women including myself.
Of the men I knew only one reasonably well—Joe Ibe, the Commissioner for Works. When His Excellency got to him and said: “But of course you know Beatrice,” he had replied: “Me? I am sorry sir, I have never seen her before,” which must be about the most predictable and tired of Bassa witticisms and yet it always produced some laughter most of it on this occasion from the humorist himself who immediately added as if to bring everything down again to the literal level of those not bright enough for high humour: “Long time no see, Beatrice. How’s my friend Chris?” To which I replied with my own feeble effort at joke-making: “But I should ask you. You see him more often than I do. He is always at one or other of your meetings.”
“That’s what he tells you?” And that really cracked everybody up.
“Joe is right, you know,” said His Excellency with a wink. “If I were you I would do spot checks now and again.”
As soon as the introductions were over the American journalist came rushing to me to say she hoped that besides getting acquainted this evening we would be able to sit down somewhere in the next seven days over a meal or something and talk about things in general. Especially the woman’s angle, you know. To which I replied rather sharply that I couldn’t see what a reporter who could stroll in any time and get it all direct from the horse’s mouth could want to hear from the likes of me. Involuntarily perhaps her eyes narrowed into a fighting squint for the briefest moment and then just as swiftly changed tactics