Anthills of the Savannah - Chinua Achebe [37]
The American girl drank three large glasses of Moselle in addition to the dry sherry she had had as a starter with the shrimp cocktail and whatever else she had tucked away in the lounge before dinner, all of which was clearly proving too much for her. She became increasingly voluble and less restrained as the evening wore on although she still seemed in full control of her faculties as far as giving me the widest possible berth was concerned. Which of course suited me very well. I could listen and watch without appearing to do so and without the strain of exchanging politeness for provocation.
Her manner with His Excellency was becoming outrageously familiar and domineering. She would occasionally leave him hanging on a word she had just spoken while she turned to fling another at Major Ossai whom she now addressed only as Johnson. And wonder of wonders she even referred to the Chief of Staff, General Lango, as Ahmed on one occasion. And for these effronteries she got nothing but grins of satisfaction from the gentlemen in question. Unbelievable!
But we hadn’t seen noth’n yet. Without any kind of preamble she began reading His Excellency and his subjects a lecture on the need for the country to maintain its present (quite unpopular, needless to say) levels of foreign debt servicing currently running at slightly more than fifty-one percent of total national export earnings. Why? As a quid pro quo for increased American aid in surplus grains for our drought provinces!
“Have you been reading editorials in the National Gazette lately?” I asked in utter dumbfoundment.
“Yes, Johnson kindly showed me some comments earlier in the week. The editor who I hear is a Marxist of sorts appears to imagine he can eat his cake as well as have it, as we all tend to do this side of democracy. Admiring Castro may be fine if you don’t have to live in Cuba or even Angola. But the strange fact is that Dr. Castro, no matter what he says, never defaults in his obligations to the international banking community. He says to others, ‘Don’t pay,’ while making sure he doesn’t fall behind himself in his repayments. What we must remember is that banks are not houses of charity. They’re there to lend money at a fair and reasonable profit. If you deny them their margin of profit by borrowing and not paying back they will soon have to shut down their operations and we shall all go back to saving our money in grandmother’s piggy-bags.”
“Or inside old mattresses,” added His Excellency whose deferential attitude to this piece of impertinence had given me a greater shock than anything I could think of in recent times. Deference and a countenance of martyred justification. He seemed to be saying to the girl, “Go on; tell them. I have gone hoarse shouting the very same message to no avail.” And them in the context was me.
What I did when the dancing started may need a little background. We left the dinner-table and reconvened in the greater ease of the lounge for coffee and liqueur during which His Excellency and Lou were ensconced in deep and intense conversation on a sofa.
Then suddenly I heard my name. “Beatrice, come and sit here by me,” he ordered patting the sofa on the other side of him. “African Chiefs are always polygamists.” Naturally this was greeted with an explosion of laughter. He seemed a little tipsy to me. “Polygamy is for Africa what monotony is for Europe,” he pronounced into the still raging flames of laughter stoking them recklessly to the peril of the rafters. I think the girl beside him had chipped in “And America!” but I can’t bet on it, such was the uproar.
Before his voice had impinged on my thoughts I had temporarily withdrawn into them while physically appearing to attend to the Commissioner of Works struggling overconscientiously with an almost casual