This Side Jordan

by Margaret Laurence

  The huge room had a dim, cool, cave quality about it, away from the sun and shriek of the street. The walls were thick, the windows small and high. The building dated from the days when whitemen in the tropics never ventured forth without solar topee and flannel spinepad, and in their dwelling-places barricaded themselves against the marauding sun.

  But dark and dank as it was, Johnnie could almost understand James’ passion for the place. It was the Firm’s first building in the Gold Coast. Allkirk, Moore & Bright was an export-import firm which purchased cocoa and palm oil here, and sold soap, tradecloth, brass headpans, cheap enamelled pots and pans. There was a retail store in Accra and others in Kumasi and Koforidua. But the textile trade was the biggest branch of the business. Bolts of tradecloth had been piled on these low wooden platform-tables since the year of the last Ashanti War, more than half a century ago.

  James and Johnnie crossed the textile floor and entered the stockroom. Pink-faced with exertion, Cooper and Freeman were helping the African counter-clerks to unload the new bolts. The Squire called them to one side.

  ‘Gentlemen – ’ James’ voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable chill in it, ‘you are meant to be supervising these clerks – had you forgotten?’

  The two boys – they could not be more than eighteen or nineteen – blushed profoundly. They were apprentices. Ultimately, they might become branch managers, if they could stand Africa that long. But the training course was not an easy one. Johnnie felt almost sorry for them now, as they tried nervously to marshal their forces and to bark at the Africans in an authoritative manner, painfully conscious of the Squire’s cold eyes on them. They looked pitifully similar, the two of them, both fair-haired and fresh scrubbed, both maidenly in their neatness and gaucherie, both miserable in their forced and feeble attempt to achieve the bellowvoice of the sahib.

  The African clerks, understandably, were snickering, and James was annoyed.

  ‘We’re promoting young chaps far too fast these days,’ he said in a low voice to Johnnie. ‘Look at those two. It’ll be ten years before they’re any use, but I’ll wager they’ll be whipped away to more responsible posts within a year or two. When I began in this country, it was a different matter.’

  He chuckled – a dry, thin, spun-glass sound.

  ‘I worked with the Firm for fifteen years before I got my first promotion,’ James said. ‘Men were expected to prove themselves in those days.’

  He went from pattern to pattern, examining, touching, clucking approval, like a master jeweller with a collection of rare stones. At last he raised his grey-fringed head and smiled.

  ‘Seems odd to you, doesn’t it? All this fuss about a few new bolts of tradecloth. Well, let me tell you something. The prestige and stability of the Firm depend to a very large extent on the right choice of patterns for tradecloth. If the Africans don’t like a pattern, or if it offends them for any reason, they don’t buy. And if you have more than one or two bad prints in a year, the word gets round that Allkirk, Moore & Bright are no good for mammy-cloth any more. You see?’

  The two young men had gone back to the textile floor, and the African counter-clerks with them. James and Johnnie were alone now, with the gaudy bolts of new cloth.

  The cold managerial stare was gone from James’ eyes. Johnnie was startled at the expression on the Squire’s face – an almost shy pride.

  ‘I think I can honestly claim,’ James said, ‘to know as much about tradecloth as any man alive.’

  Then he seemed embarrassed. He turned away with a cough.

  ‘Well, all right, Johnnie, you’d better be getting back, I suppose. I want to look around here for a bit.’

  Johnnie left him there, stooped in intense scrutiny over the bolts of cloth, his fingers stroking lightly the black giraffe, the orange palm, the sea-monster and the serpent, the red appalling eye, the green and blue entangled grasses.

  Bedford was reading The Illustrated London News and eating an apple. He held out the paper bag to Johnnie.

  ‘Have one. Six shillings a pound – “Saleh’s” received a barrel of ’em this morning. Horrid little shrivelled things, actually, but it’s refreshing to taste an apple that hasn’t come out of a tin. Don’t tell Helen. She worries incessantly. About the fruit, you know, not having been washed in pot. permang. When Helen breast-fed Kathie she used to scrub herself with potassium permanganate. Got blazing at me when I said her energy might be low but I hadn’t known she was quite at the vegetable level.’

  Bedford rumbled with laughter, then his handsome florid face grew morose once more.

  ‘I asked the old blighter about the bungalow again this morning,’ he said. ‘Promised Helen I would. Not a bit of use, of course. Each time he simply says there isn’t another bungalow available. He won’t ask the London office for funds to build another one. Not he.’

  ‘What’s the matter with your bungalow?’

  ‘What isn’t the matter with it?’ Bedford replied peevishly. ‘It’s the oldest on the compound. Built about the year One. Everything’s falling to bits. Shutters blow off in every storm. Thousands of bats nesting in the roof. Helen can’t bear bats – she nearly passes out when she sees one, which is roughly a dozen times each evening. I tell you, Johnnie, it’s hell. I don’t mind the house myself. Matter of fact, I’m rather fond of the place. But Helen gets in such a flap about it –’

  ‘You should have had our bungalow. It’s practically new.’

  ‘Impossible. Too small. Your second bedroom wouldn’t accommodate our young. Helen, of course, thinks we ought to have been given the Thayers’ bungalow, as they haven’t children. But really, one can’t walk in to the Old Man’s office and say “Look here, you must give me your bungalow,” now can one? Women never appreciate the complexity of life. These things seem so simple to them.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Well, never mind all that. What can I do for you, Johnnie?’

  ‘It’s about the clerks,’ Johnnie began, then hesitated.

  Bedford Cunningham’s position was a little vague, but he appeared to be responsible for office supplies and for the hiring of most of the African staff – clerks, drivers and messengers.

  Johnnie, as the new Accountant for the Textile Branch, wanted to replace some of his clerks, and he wanted to hire the new boys himself. He explained it to Bedford as tactfully as he could. To his surprise, the older man did not demur at all.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Bedford said, waving one enormous paw. ‘I wish you joy of them.’

  ‘I expect you think I’m a bit of a new broom,’ Johnnie said awkwardly. ‘I’ll try not to be –’

  ‘No,’ Bedford said. ‘Don’t try. It’ll happen by itself, quite soon enough.’

  ‘Somebody is waiting to see you, sir.’

  Why was Attah smiling in that peculiar fashion? Johnnie looked sharply at his chief clerk, whose glance leapt away.

  The African caller was sitting on one of the straight chairs just inside the door of the Accounts Office. He rose to his feet so slowly and languorously that there was something almost insulting about the action. He stretched his arms lazily above his head and gave an open-mouthed yawn. It crossed Johnnie’s mind that the man might be after a job. But surely not even an African would try so deliberately to create a bad impression, nor present such a slovenly appearance. Crumpled khaki trousers, torn at one knee, sagged around the black man’s hips. His yellow cotton jersey was splattered with food and grime. He wore canvas tennis shoes with no socks, and his heavy-jawed face bore a day’s dark wiry growth.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Kestoe,’ the African said, ‘I trust I have not intruded at an inopportune moment. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victor Edusei, a journalist with the “Free Ghana Citizen”. I promise you I will only take a few minutes of your valuable time.’

  For an instant Johnnie could only look blank. He had expected pidgin English, or, at most, the heavily accented, stilted phraseology of the semi-educated African. But this man’s speech had in it more o
f Oxford than Accra.

  A clerk tittered, and Johnnie jerked himself into alertness.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘in my office, then. But it’ll have to be brief.’

  When they were seated, Johnnie looked at the African curiously.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  Edusei puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette for a moment. ‘It has come to our ears, Mr. Kestoe, that your Firm is considering a programme of top-level Africanization.’

  ‘Africanization?’

  ‘Yes. You know – the process by which Africans are reluctantly permitted to take over certain administrative posts hitherto held by Europeans only.’

  ‘Why ask me about it?’ Johnnie said. ‘Mr. Thayer is the Manager here, as I fancy you know quite well.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know. But you have only recently come from London, you see. You might perhaps have heard things there – talk around the office –’

  Johnnie stiffened.

  ‘Mr. Edusei, do you seriously imagine I would tell you anything about the Firm’s policies, even if I knew?’

  ‘You Englishmen have such high principles.’ Edusei’s smile was a little more openly menacing than it had been. ‘Never mind – relax, Mr. Kestoe – I knew you would not talk about Africanization.’

  ‘What in hell are you doing here, then?’

  The black man’s languor dropped like a snake’s sloughed-off skin. His powerfully built body seemed to coagulate, each loose limp muscle suddenly drawn together, tight and hard. He was on his feet, his face shoved close to Johnnie’s.

  ‘You visited the “Weekend In Wyoming” last Saturday, Mr. Kestoe. You remember the African girl you danced with?’

  Johnnie drew back.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing. Only – I watched you, and I didn’t like what I saw. I just wanted to let you know – that happens to be my girl. You understand me?’

  Unreasoning fear jangled along Johnnie’s nerves; quieted; gave way to annoyance at the situation’s burlesque quality.

  ‘You’re insane,’ he said coldly. ‘Why, I wouldn’t even recognize her if I saw her again.’

  The African’s muscles went slack again. He laughed and sat down.

  ‘Of course. I give you full marks, Mr. Kestoe. She was, naturally, only another black girl to you. And I am a bloody fool. How neat.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Johnnie snapped. ‘You don’t need to worry, Mr. Edusei. I’m not interested in African women.’

  As he said it, he could feel the wilful crimson staining his face. He turned away, as though to terminate the interview, but he knew the African had seen.

  ‘Indeed?’ Edusei drawled. ‘I suppose it is against your principles.’

  ‘It most certainly is. And now I’d like you to tell me why you gave me that line about Africanization.’

  ‘I thought it would do no harm to let you know that a story could always be printed – if the need arose – as having come from you. You might deny having made such a statement, but would your Firm ever feel really sure about you again?’

  Johnnie stared at him.

  ‘Are you trying to threaten me?’

  Edusei rose. Again he stretched, belly out, and yawned, flaunting coarseness.

  ‘What a suggestion, Mr. Kestoe! I would never threaten a whiteman. No, no – I am much too timid for that. I know my place. Well, this has been a pleasure, but I must be going now.’

  At the door he turned.

  ‘Another reason – I really did hear the rumour about Africanization. I have many friends in London. It will be interesting to see if it is true, won’t it?’

  He bent in a spasm of soundless laughter.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr. Accountant,’ he said. Nathaniel first met Miranda and Johnnie Kestoe at the British Council building, where an exhibition of landscapes by African artists was being shown. She was trying to persuade her husband to buy a picture.

  ‘Johnnie – this one,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Sand and palm trees and a mouldy old fishing boat. Really, Manda –’

  ‘It gets the atmosphere of the shore,’ she insisted, and turning to Nathaniel as the nearest spectator, ‘Don’t you agree?’

  Startled, Nathaniel stared at her.

  ‘Pardon? Oh – the picture. Yes, yes, it is very fine.’

  ‘You see – someone agrees with me,’ she said to her husband.

  ‘Who’s going to disagree with you, Manda?’ he said sulkily. ‘You make people agree.’

  Nathaniel felt awkward. He did not really like the picture. He had agreed only because he had been taken by surprise and could not think of anything else to say. He wondered now if the man thought he was one of those Africans who automatically agree with Europeans.

  ‘Oh no, sir, not at all,’ he said hastily. ‘I assure you – I thought the picture was very good. I thought so before this lady asked me.’

  ‘You would,’ the European said rudely.

  Of course, Nathaniel realized, the European thought he liked the picture only because it had been painted by an African. Nathaniel burned inwardly. He turned to go, wanting to get away as quickly as possible from the whiteman’s keen scornful eyes. But the woman caught at his sleeve.

  ‘Please – don’t go. We’re Johnnie and Miranda Kestoe. Do you know the artist, by any chance?’

  Nathaniel became agonizingly aware that his khaki slacks needed both washing and pressing, and that his blue shirt, although it had been clean that morning, was rumpled and transparent with sweat. He was conscious of his glasses, too. They were new, and had heavy horn rims. He had paid more for them than he could afford. He needed them – even with them, he wore the perpetual frown of myopia. But a lot of Africans wore spectacles only to give themselves dignity. Or, at least, that was what most whitemen believed. Nathaniel wondered if Johnnie Kestoe would think the glasses were an affectation. Then he became angry at himself for caring, for even bothering to think about it.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ he said stiffly. ‘I am Mr. Amegbe. I am a schoolmaster. No, I do not know this artist personally.’

  He realized too late that he had said ‘Mr. Amegbe’ and that the girl had said ‘Johnnie and Miranda’. Nathaniel’s hands tightened around his briefcase. In a moment he would say something rude, to even the score, and then he would despise himself and them.

  The white woman was chattering on, in the determined way such women had. Her husband had moved on to the next picture, his jaws clamped hard together and his eyes narrow with disgust.

  ‘I think these exhibitions are a good idea,’ Miranda was saying. ‘It must do something to encourage African artists. There aren’t many yet, are there? Of course, it’s no wonder. The early missions must have done a great deal to wipe out indigenous art here. By forbidding image-making, I mean.’

  Nathaniel hesitated, and then plunged.

  ‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘The missions tried to destroy our African culture –’

  He stopped abruptly. He had overstated the case, overstated it deliberately. Now a hundred details and qualifications came to his mind, but he knew he could never tell them to her. There was too much to say. And so much that could never be said.

  Nathaniel remembered the Drummer, and the boy who had trembled with the fear of many gods. What could be said? Not that.

  And so his tongue would play him up, once again, and he would fail to make himself clear, getting deeper and deeper into illogicalities that he himself recognized. Nathaniel felt as though he were choking.

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a slight shrug, ‘there is much more to it than that –’

  He broke off again, wondering if he should tell them that he taught a course in African Civilizations of the Past. No doubt they thought he was completely uninformed. He ought to tell them.

  ‘You’re damn right there’s something more to it,’ Johnnie Kestoe said. ‘This much-vaunted culture never existed – that’s what. The missions tried to destroy it –
nonsense! What was there to destroy?’

  Miranda turned on him.

  ‘That’s not fair, Johnnie. You don’t know.’

  Nathaniel felt anger swelling in him like a seed about to burst its pod.

  ‘I have made a considerable study of the subject,’ his voice was harsh now, and he did not care, ‘and I can assure you, Mr. Kestoe, that we in West Africa had civilizations in the past. Great civilizations. Ghana was a great civilization. I don’t suppose you have heard of Ghana. Europeans do not know much about Africa. The school where I teach has begun a course in ancient African empires. As a matter of fact, I teach it.’

  ‘How fascinating!’ the white woman gabbled. ‘I’d simply love to know more about –’

  But the whiteman was looking at him suspiciously.

  ‘What school is that?’

  All at once Nathaniel felt defeated.

  ‘One of the secondary schools,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ the expression was insulting in its implications.

  ‘I must be going now,’ Nathaniel said hotly. ‘As a matter of fact, I am already very late.’

  ‘I – I’m so sorry we’ve kept you, Mr. Amegbe,’ Miranda stumbled. ‘It’s been so interesting. I do hope we’ll see you again –’

  Her voice was young and bleak, and Nathaniel almost relented. She had meant well. Then his resentment gained command. She had tied him here, his hands damply clutching his briefcase.

  ‘I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he said.

  Home, home, home, said the hum and whir of the bus. It stopped and Nathaniel climbed out. He was in his own territory now. He had been born far inland in the forests of Ashanti, but he had lived for six years in this decaying suburb of Accra and sometimes it seemed almost his own. It was good to get away from the centre of the city, with its white shops and faces.

  But he carried the encounter with him.

  He walked quickly into the maze of streets, towards his home. The air was thick with the pungent smoke from charcoal pots and the spiced smell of food being cooked in the open, outside every hovel, beside every roadside stall. Groundnut stew, bean stew, ‘mme-kwan’ – palmnut soup, with the rich sharp smell of the palm oil and the salt-and-woodfire smell of the smoked fish. The moist yeasty odour of ‘kenkey’, fermented corn dough, steaming in black round-bellied cooking pots. The sweet half-cloying smell of roasting plantains. And over all, the warm stench of the sea.