1. An underestimation (dismissal almost) of Africa’s pre-colonial history — a little like Trevor-Roper.
2. Failure to acknowledge the potential of Africa’s new leaders (e.g. Senghor, Kenyatta and Nkrumah).
3. The belief that independence was granted too swiftly to African states (here is where you might reference Achebe). I’ve also corrected one or two grammatical errors — you’ll see them marked in red. Well done and très bien!
Reading your review has made me think more about what we discussed vis-a-vis my own journalistic writing. Perhaps I should write more, and especially this year with no exams. If Isis is still looking for an Arts Reviewer, I’ll apply for the position and, if I’m accepted, be prepared to accompany me to films, exhibitions and jazz.
I’m off to lunch now with Jane and some French men, so you’d better write soon! Loads of love, kisses, hugs and anything else you dare to imagine.
Nessa
x
6 Aberdeen Road, Bradford
30th June, 1965
My dear Vanessa,
Thank you so much for your letter and I’m glad to hear that you’re having such a splendid holiday. Now as for those men at the café, I hear that French men can be quite romantic so don’t let them woo you with their sweet talk and philosophy! Remind them that you have a sweeter man waiting for you in England and, in the meantime, I will do my best to ward off all these northern lasses.
So here I am in Tunde’s small but cosy house with the evenings to myself when Yusuf and Tunde are working. I realise more than ever how fortunate I’ve been to receive a Balliol scholarship. Most African students spend long hours working to make ends meet, and I wonder how they manage to pass their exams with so little sleep. Tunde works from 10.00 at night until 6.00 in the morning at the local bakery. Yusuf also takes night shifts, at the hospital. There are apparently many Africans working as orderlies, and most are assigned to the geriatric ward where others are not so willing to work. I find this sad because in Africa old people are respected and their families look after them. We never put old people in homes so maybe that’s why Nigerians always staff these geriatric wards, and I hear that the matron also favours Africans because she used to live in Nigeria as a missionary.
Northern England seems very different from the south. People are friendlier, on the whole, although one does occasionally see those signs: ‘No Dogs. No Irish. No Coloureds’. It’s disappointing, but the Africans here don’t seem too bothered — they know they are here for just a limited time.
Yesterday, I accompanied Tunde to the bakery. One of his mates was sick, and I offered to take his place loading bread. It was an interesting experience and it gave me some insight into Bradford society. I found that the Pakistanis and Indians are the ones working the ovens, which is the hardest and messiest job because the ovens get very hot and dirty. Many of them don’t speak English but they have a translator by the name of Samir, who loves to talk politics. The Africans, mainly students (all of whom speak English) have the slightly better task of loading freshly baked breads, scones and teacakes onto the carts and wheeling them to the loading zone. This, by the way, was my job. The least strenuous job of all, which is packing the goods and loading them onto the dispatch trucks, is reserved for the English. So that’s the pecking order: Pakistanis and Indians on the bottom, Africans in the middle, and English on top.
Last week I visited York. Have you been? It’s full of history and I enjoyed walking along the old Roman wall. There is also the Minster, which is magnificent. At times, when I see things like this, I wish we had similar marks of history in West Africa; there’s so few visual reminders of our past remain. This is when I realise how important it is for us to record and preserve our oral histories for future generations. But, by now, you must be tired of this letter that has become longer than intended, although you did ask for a long letter!
Oh, and I mustn’t forget to thank you soooo much for reading my Perham review and providing the helpful feedback. I’ve entitled it: An African’s Response: Reflections on Dame Margery Perham’s Colonial Reckoning. What do you think? I miss you dreadfully, Vanessa, but I’ll sign off for now and await your reply.
Kind regards to your mother and father,
Yours truly,
Tayo
Chapter 13
Tayo’s cousin Tunde lived in a small terraced house close to St. Luke’s hospital. It was the sort of house known as a “two up, two down”, with a living room and kitchen on the bottom floor, two bedrooms upstairs, and a toilet outside. Bathing was done in a tin bath in the kitchen or at the public baths down the road. Tunde had one of the upstairs bedrooms, which he now shared with Tayo, and Yusuf used the downstairs living room as his bedroom. Normally there were two other Nigerians who shared the second bedroom, but as they were out of town on this particular weekend, Yusuf and Tunde decided they would have a party. Yusuf and Tayo spent the afternoon clearing out Yusuf’s room for space to dance. They took the mattress away and lifted the wardrobe into the hallway so that the room looked like the lounge it was designed to be. As they worked, Yusuf muttered about how unfortunate it was that Tunde refused to serve drinks at the party. He blamed this on Tunde’s new church. Tayo said nothing, but he’d also noticed that his cousin seemed a little over zealous at times. Tayo put away the carpet sweeper and began to help Yusuf sort through the mess of records strewn across the floor.
‘He thinks parties are ungodly, and worries about drinkin’ and smokin’,’ Yusuf added.
‘What’s drinkin’ and smokin?’ Tayo laughed. ‘Have you become a Yorkshireman Yusuf?’
‘Yorkshire Yusuf, Yoruba Yusuf, Yankee Yusuf — pick any one you like as long as it gets me the girls.’ Yusuf laughed. ‘It’s just too bad there’s gonna be no boozing tonight,’ he sighed. ‘Hey! What’s wrong with Cilla Black?’ Yusuf grabbed the vinyl that Tayo had tossed to one side. ‘What do you have against her? The English girls love it, you know, and yours truly,’ Yusuf paused to take a bow, ‘aims to please the ladies. Anyway, what do you people listen to at Oxford? Beethoven? Opera?’
‘Ahh, come on. We have all the latest stuff.’
‘And you drink, too, abi? Don’t tell me you don’t drink at that university of yours.’
‘Of course we drink. Now where’s the Highlife?’
‘Hold your horses, Oxford man.’ Yusuf hopped over discarded records. ‘Here. I keep them in a special place. Dairo, Bobby Benson, Sunny Ade … Just name it, I have it.’ He fanned out the sleeves between his arms in demonstration, causing all the records to fall to the floor. ‘Ahh shit,’ he laughed, bending down to gather them up and inspect each for damage. ‘Arinze,’ Yusuf muttered peering at a name on one of the sleeves. ‘Hey, wasn’t there an Arinze at Oxford?’
Tayo nodded, hoping Yusuf would leave it at that.
‘It was that Igbo woman, wasn’t it? Someone said it was suicide and not an illness like they were saying in the papers.’
‘Who said that?’ Tayo frowned. ‘Look, my friend, I don’t know.’ The last thing he wanted was for Yusuf to ask if he knew Christine, so he steered the conversation back to Yusuf. Was Yusuf intending to marry his current girlfriend?
‘Oh no,’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘But don’t get me wrong, I do like Joyce. We dance, we go to the pictures, we have a good time; there’s naught wrong with an English lass for a bit of fun, but marriage, that’s different. When I’m ready, my friend, it’s gonna be a one hundred percent Nigerian woman. Yes, most definitely and a good northern Muslim one too. I don’t care what Spear is saying these days about Nigerian women. The fact remains that, at the end of the day, and in the middle of the night,’ Yusuf winked, ‘they are the best.’
Tayo shook his head, impatiently.
‘No, no, no. Listen to me, Tayo. Nigerian women know how to care for us, how to cook our food, and maintain the culture for our children. That’s right. But the English women … dem no fit do dat. Besides, have you seen English woman after they reach thirty years old
?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tayo, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean. Haba! After they pass thirty, they look old. No tell me say you no dey see am? They get all those wrinkles.’ Yusuf scrunched up his face in demonstration. And their bottoms just go flat like ironing board; whereas our African woman remains young and smooooth and curvy, man.’
Tayo laughed as Yusuf dusted the surface of his cheeks with his fingertips in exaggerated gestures.
‘But Nigerian women are no use for girlfriends. I no fit take Nigerian girlfriend,’ Yusuf insisted, eyeing himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s too much palaver. Wallahi! Dem just go dey talk wedding, wedding, wedding. But white woman, eh henh - dat’s where man fit relax well-well!’ Yusuf grabbed his crotch.
‘You’re foolish.’ Tayo laughed in spite of himself.
‘But it’s true. Don’t tell me you don’t know white women.’
‘Of course, but I don’t agree with your stereotypes.’
‘What stereotypes? White is nice for us. Black is nice for them. It’s exotic, that’s all. Pure, one hundred percent ex-o-ti-cism.’
‘Okay, maybe the first time with a white woman is something new … well, just because it’s new. But after that, there’s no difference. You love the woman for who she is, not for her colour,’ Tayo insisted, recalling a similar but less jocular debate with Christine.
‘Tayo, my friend, you’re fooling yourself. Why do you think they like you? Because you get Oxford mind? And no tell me say you no think white woman be kule like expressway. And you treat am different to African one now, no be so?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Anyway, as for me, I’m gonna marry a Nigerian. It’s my patriotic duty. And then, if I want, I can even marry up to four. Yes now! And they’re gonna be natural ones too. No make-up. No wigs. No mini-skirts.’
‘Haba Yusuf, you wan go back for caveman age?’
‘Look, I have the right to marry four women, and it’s the same for you.’ Yusuf stepped away from the mirror. ‘Look at your father. How many wives he get? Plenty no be so? And he’s happy. His wives are happy.’
‘That’s his business.’
‘So you go marry English woman?’ Yusuf laughed. ‘This Oxford don brainwash you, ba? And what about Master Tunde?’
‘What about what?’ Tunde asked, standing in the doorway, with an armful of paper cups and plates.
‘How many wives you go take, and English or Nigerian?’
‘What do you mean “how many”? One, of course,’ Tunde replied. ‘The Bible says a man shall take one wife. Genesis chapter two, verse twenty-four.’
‘Uh-oh, here we go,’ Tayo thought, exchanging a knowing look with Yusuf. ‘The Lord spare us!’ But Tunde had already launched into scripture.
‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife and they shall be one. It doesn’t matter what nationality, as long as my wife is born again.’
‘But what about Abraham and Moses?’ Yusuf asked. ‘Didn’t they have plenty of wives?’
‘Only two, and that was in Old Testament times.’ Tunde squeezed the paper plates hard against his chest.
‘And what’s wrong with Old Testament?’ Yusuf persisted.
Tunde stood in bewildered silence, gazing at the now squashed stack of cups in his arms, so that Tayo felt obliged to intervene on his cousin’s behalf.
‘Yusuf, those were in the times before Jesus Christ. Things have changed since then. Don’t you even know that?’
‘Ahh, that’s your Christianity,’ Yusuf laughed. ‘Na too confusing for me. Anyway Tayo, what about that French lady writing to you? You didn’t read it to us. Who is she now?’
Tunde sighed and left the room.
‘Don’t vex him with his religion,’ Tayo whispered, punching Yusuf on the arm. ‘And she’s not French. She’s just a good friend, whom I’ve accompanied to …’
‘Good friend? Girlfriend, you mean?’ Yusuf laughed, striking back with a jab in the ribs. ‘Don’t use those fancy-fancy Oxford words with us. “Accompanied,” what does that mean? Accompanied to the sack? Anyway, I’m off to change my shirt, and don’t accompany me-o!’
Alone in the room, Tayo straightened the records that still lay scattered across the floor. ‘Such a joker,’ Tayo mumbled to himself, thinking of Yusuf’s nonsense talk. Yet perhaps he was right about some things, if not about race. Tayo reasoned that if he behaved differently with Vanessa than he did with Christine it was because they came from different cultures. And the same thing would apply to any other woman from a different culture — any woman not from Nigeria. But how did Vanessa see things? Were Yusuf and Christine right to say that English women only liked black men because they were ‘exotic’? Though why was he troubling his head with all of this? Tonight he wanted to have a good time — dance and enjoy some sweet vibes.
Joyce, and her two friends, Norma and Jean, were the first to arrive. They wore matching pink mini-skirts with high heels, which reminded Tayo of the three Supremes, except that these Supremes were white and carried wicker baskets of food instead of tambourines.
‘Now we’re ready to party!’ Yusuf announced, clapping his hands while Tayo saw to the women’s baskets and carried them to the kitchen.
‘Mo mbo,’ Tunde called from upstairs.
‘Oh, what language was that?’ Joyce asked. ‘Is it Nigerian?’
‘Yes,’ Tayo smiled.
‘I’ve never heard you speak it.’ Joyce turned accusingly to Yusuf. But Yusuf didn’t hear. He was too busy peering into the baskets.
‘Custard pie. Scotch egg,’ Yusuf mumbled. ‘Cheese straws. Swiss roll. Treacle tart. Ah-ha! Now that’s what I’m talking about. Sausage rolls!’
‘Yusuf!’ Joyce shouted.
‘Bloody hell, woman!’ Yusuf jumped, one hand hovering guiltily over the sausages. ‘Why are you shouting?’
‘I said I haven’t heard you speak Nigerian.’
‘Nobody speaks Nigerian, you daft thing,’ Yusuf laughed.
She waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. The boys from the bakery had arrived and she’d lost Yusuf’s attention to Samir, who wanted to know what they were celebrating.
‘It’s a party for my cousin,’ Tunde explained, ‘and also in honour of Gambia’s independence.’
‘But you chaps aren’t from Gambia.’
‘Yeah, but we’re all African,’ Yusuf replied, ushering people back to the front room.
‘And India’s our inspiration,’ Tayo added. ‘We’re hoping for an African Nehru.’
‘Well, stop hoping.’ Samir laughed.
‘Why?’
‘Only wish for your Nehru if you want trouble. You want religious divisions? You want poor people to remain poor and for power to stay within one family? If that’s what you’re after, then by all means pray for a Nehru. No disrespect to the deceased, of course.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Tayo raised his voice against Samir’s. ‘Look, the man might have failed a little with the economy, but you can’t accuse him of siding with landed interests, or for condoning religious differences. Read his autobiography, and you’ll see what he has to say on religion.’
‘Why should I read his stuff when I lived it? And you think his daughter will make things better?’
‘Aren’t women always cleverer than men?’ Tayo turned to Joyce, who’d been leaning against the kitchen worktop listening. The others were busy arranging food, but Joyce seemed to be interested in what they were discussing.
‘So, why doesn’t Yusuf speak Nigerian too?’ she asked, picking up a knife and a cake.
Tayo glanced at Samir and then back to Joyce. Where was Yusuf when needed?
‘There are many languages in Nigeria, Joyce. Yusuf speaks Hausa and I speak Yoruba.’
‘How many languages?’ Joyce asked, with the serrated knife now poised above the large Victoria sandwich.
�
�Hundreds.’
‘Crikey!’ She stabbed the cake and sliced it rapidly into triangular pieces. ‘Yusuf never told me that. He’s taking me to Africa after we’re married.’
‘I see,’ Tayo nodded, wondering just how many girls Yusuf had promised that to. Samir had left them talking and the music had started. ‘Come ladies, I think you’ve worked hard enough. Let’s join the party.’
The front room was crowded, and Tayo recognised only a few people. Some were from the bakery, others from the hospital, and Mr. and Mrs. Winter came from across the road. Tunde was introducing Tayo to others when Yusuf announced the first dance.
‘Distinguished ladies and gentlemen,’ he boomed. ‘Welcome to our party and let’s see some dancing. The first is ladies’ choice and, please, don’t all rush for our Oxford gentleman because there are others in the room, too. Yorkshire men, Yoruba men, Yankee men, you name it!’ Yusuf laughed, winking at Tayo.
Soon Tayo was twisting and jiving to Sam Cooke’s Saturday Night, and enjoying the attention of several women. Booze appeared from somewhere (contrary to Yusuf’s prediction) and the dancing improved. Yusuf was demonstrating the wild jitterbug better than Elvis, and then showing all the girls how to do the twist to Highlife. He concocted fancy Hausa names for the two-step and the cha-cha-chá, and called himself a cool cat after Victor Olaiya’s band. It made the girls laugh and soon the whole room was spinning from side-to-side, arms in the air, skirts swishing back and forth. Girls reached for Tayo’s hands. He held one, and then another, until at some point in the evening he found himself standing in the hallway with one hand pressed against the wall, and the other wrapped around a woman’s waist.
‘Easy does it,’ Yusuf winked, brushing past them to open the front door, and then there was a shout and a thud and something struck hard against Tayo’s jaw.
In Dependence Page 8
