Anthills of the Savannah - Chinua Achebe [57]
“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