Anthills of the Savannah - Chinua Achebe [64]
“Yes sir.”
“Nonsense police. You think na so we do am come reach superintendent. Tomorrow make you go contravene His Excellency for road and if they ask you you say you no know am before. Scallywags. Fall out!”
BECAUSE OF HIS VISIT to the Police Traffic Department at the other end of town Ikem had had to conduct his daily Editorial Conference two hours late. In making his apologies he naturally recounted his recent brushes with the police the details of which added considerable entertainment to the proceedings of a routine conference. The only person who did not seem to find any of it in the least amusing was Ikem’s second-in-command, an earnest but previously obsequious fellow who in the last several months had struck Ikem as becoming suddenly a lot more aloof and inclined to disagree openly with whatever he said.
Back in his room Ikem’s officious stenographer gave him two messages, one from John Kent, the Mad Medico, who asked Ikem to call him back and the other from Elewa who said she would call again.
MM picked up the phone at the first ring and went straight into his business. He was wondering whether Ikem would be free to drop by for a quick drink this afternoon to meet a friend of his, a poet and editor from England. Ikem accepted most enthusiastically.
“Sure! I haven’t seen you in a long time. What have you been doing with yourself? And as for meeting a live poet and editor I just can’t believe the luck. Can I bring my girlfriend?”
“But of course. Which one by the way? Never mind bring whoever you like… Fivish. See you then. Cheerio.”
It was amazing, Ikem thought, how brief and businesslike MM could be at work. No sign of his madness once he climbed into that chair as the Hospital Administrator. Except the one near-fatal relapse—the Strange Case of the Graffiti, as Ikem called it in a famous editorial.
10
Impetuous Son
Africa tell me Africa
Is this you this back that is bent
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous son, that tree young and strong
That tree there
In splendid loneliness amidst white and faded flowers
That is Africa your Africa
That grows again patiently obstinately
And its fruit gradually acquire
The bitter taste of liberty
DAVID DIOP, “Africa”
THEY WERE JUST ABOUT LEAVING his flat for MM’s place when the doorbell rang and two strange men smiling from ear to ear faced him at the landing. Ikem stood his ground at the doorway the apprehension that would certainly have been in order relieved only by those vast smiles.
“Can I help you?”
“We just come salute you.”
“Me? Who are you? I don’t seem to remember.”
“We be taxi-drivers.”
“I see.”
Elewa had now joined him at the door. The visitors were still smiling bravely in spite of the cold welcome. As soon as Elewa came into view one of the visitors said:
“Ah, madam, you de here.”
“Ah, no be you carry me go home from here that night?”
“Na me, madam. You remember me. Very good. I no think say you fit remember.”
“So wetin you come do here again? Abi, you just discover I no pay you complete? Or perhaps na counterfeit I give you.”
“No madam. We just come salute this oga.”
At this point the normal courtesies which the prevalence of armed robberies had virtually banished from Bassa could no longer be denied, Ikem and Elewa moved back into the room and the visitors followed them in.
“Ah, madam I no know say I go find you here, self.”
“Why you no go find me here? This man na your sister husband?”
“No madam I no mean am like that.”
“Don’t worry, Na joke I de joke. Make una sidon. We de go out before but you fit sidon small.”
By this time Ikem had realized who one of the visitors was—the taxi driver who had taken Elewa home late one evening about a week ago. But why he should be back now with another man and smiling profusely like an Air Kangan passenger who has achieved a boarding pass, was still a mystery. Elewa put