The following day Mother writes: Up at dawn. Smell of the Niger upon waking. In the cheerful blueness of the sky I see a kite. It was white, like the djellabahs Moslems wear. Bright sunlight and the air fresh. We go down to the river, a broad, silvery expanse flowing slowly between low banks. Spiky acacias, tamarind, neem and I think mahogany trees of a great height. In one short avenue their branches intertwine, making arches. They call this place the Cathedral. – 20th November. We take an excursion in a dugout canoe, big enough for a half-a-dozen more besides Rex and myself. The water is the colour of polished steel and the clouds shine upwards from the surface. Rex is obsessed with shooting. We pass a Goliath Heron with a speckled breast. It is sitting on a log and Rex takes a shot at it, but the vibration of the boat makes him miss and it flies off the way we had come. – 25th November. From Jebba via Minna and Kaduna on the narrow-gauge railway and into Zaria province. The heat in the carriage is intolerable. Arrive Zaria late. Sick. This morning a fearsome racket. Sick again.
On the 28th of November Mother noted that her sickness was almost over. The following day, she writes: We have taken a truck north-west through flat farmland dotted with baobab trees. Villages frequent. After the first twenty miles the green country changes into arid scrub. In several places, bush fires rage close to the road. Rex restless after the long stay in Zaria. All are happy to be on our way again. The sun is large and orange and is very different to the sun in England. Dawn and dusk are the pleasantest hours. The sun peeps out over the horizon and then it seems to rise all at once. At dusk there is supposed to be a blue flash, which you can just see as the sun disappears and then it gets dark very quickly. Always we have a campfire. Then the mosquitoes arrive. You must have had your bath by then, or you’ll be bitten. Next you get into your trousers and mosquito boots and a long-sleeved shirt and you sit by the campfire and have your drink of gin and bitter. The night closes around you and you are very aware of the stars.
The following day they reached Gusau. From here – writes Mother – we go by horseback. Rex excitable as he is keen to see the bush. Spends the whole day gathering porters. I wander through the town with the Resident, a General. Children follow us everywhere. At the market the noise is terrific. The General persuades a merchant to wave a spear in the air and, unbeknownst to him, takes his photograph. Decorated calabashes and spoons made from gourds. Food sellers. English cotton. We’re followed everywhere by the rabble of inquisitive children and also disappointed traders. The General seemed very set on buying me some antimony. That evening at the club, without anyone asking, Rex said that the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen was a drawing of a pelican. She had a gash in her side, and her young fed boisterously from the wound.
– 3rd December. I knew that it was true because again this month it hasn’t come. I feel neither gladness nor pain, only dazed.
– 4th December. At every village we approach now the district head arrives with a company of horsemen. He goes with us to our rest hut and exchanges greetings in Hausa. Sannu da ruwa, he says, which means, Welcome with the rain. And, Ranka ya dade, which means, May your life be long. One of the chief pleasures of touring is going for a walk between five and sunset. You stop and talk to people. Then someone might want to show you something. A bush with fragrant leaves, or a black and turquoise centipede, or their new baby. At night we hear voices calling and chatting and there is drumming. And wherever we go there is a dance laid on. The dancers wear magnificent head-dresses of sisal. Rex sits on his camp chair like a village Chief. Declares his approval, calling, Yâuwaa. And, Bàllee bàllee. At Maradun, a tiny outpost, with a police sergeant and no other Europeans, they were going to do us a dance called the Bòorii but they got so frightfully drunk they couldn’t perform it. The sergeant left and came back with his men from the jail and all these jailbirds solemnly stripped in the moonlight and started to dance. The sergeant danced in the middle. I could see his bald head bobbing up and down. It reminded me of England. But that is another life. I can scarcely believe I am the same person, and in Africa.
It is clear from Mother’s notes that they were travelling west. At times her handwriting is indecipherable, and pages are left entirely blank. The diary continues: Here the tiniest detail takes on enormous importance. One must establish a routine. After breakfast, if not travelling overland, a wash, a letter to be written, perhaps an entry in my diary, then a walk into the village. Rest during the hottest hours of the day, then a book, perhaps as yesterday a visit to the mosque, the evening glass of gin, dinner with the residents, bed. Equally the things one normally worries about seem quite trivial. This afternoon, for instance, we met a Scotsman, a small trader, and his son. Rex thought it was the 14th of December, the trader swore it was the 9th, and his son the 13th. We had lost the days of the week altogether. Haircut from Ben. Slept only for two hours, then lay awake imagining that the distant voices from the village meant danger.
– We have stopped in the forest town of W. Rex is gathering information about a group of ex-soldiers who are causing all manner of trouble in Sokoto province. Our house is no more than a hut. Of wattle and mud. It’s round with a single room and mud floors. It is next to the village Mosque, which doubles as the courthouse. The coolness of the forest is welcome relief. And the silence is strange. It is not flat silence but everywhere the chirping of insects and the stirring of branches. This morning, Ben found a mongrel puppy and brought it to me. It was hurt. Rex said I should keep it and was terribly excited and went to fetch some meat. It was so afraid, it kept shivering away from my touch. When it had retreated a foot it would dip its head and weakly wag its tail. Eventually I shooed it away and Rex came in and said, Dammit, Eve, can’t you give the little mite a chance, and I said nothing and walked out of the hut. Rex followed me and said, What’s wrong? And suddenly I knew I hated him, standing there with healthy red cheeks, clear eyes. Every day they grow clearer.
– 14th December. It is remarkable how Ben manages to produce such delightful meals. He cooks with a debbie, a four-gallon paraffin tin with its top cut out and coals underneath. He mixes flour, yeast and water in the morning and has it carried in cloths. As soon as the fires are made in the evening out comes the dough, which he bakes at night in a hole in the ground, with cinders. Without our porters, eight in total, as well as Ben and Talle, it would be impossible to make headway in this terrain. One realizes the world is designed as one great work-pit so that certain people don’t have to think about everyday affairs. What is done with our nightsoil, I wonder? Apart from suitcases, which contain our clothing, there are campbeds to be carried, tents, chairs and tables, the canvas bath, Lord’s lamps, kerosene, cases of china, gas, cutlery, linen, even fireworks. And, of course, the chop box.
– 26th December. Everything suddenly changes. Woken in the afternoon to the sound of a sharp, persistent rattling on the roof. Like being in a tent during a downpour. The clouds, instead of disappearing after a while, as on previous days, all at once increased in size and advanced towards us, blotting out the sky. Ben and Talle appeared from nowhere and began to rush around the residence, pulling in curtains and shutting windows and banging doors. We were only just in time, for suddenly came a roaring wind. Then the dust. It battered violently against the window panes. Inside the house, the temperature dropped like a stone, and I found myself searching in my trunk for something warm to wear. The harmattan. It gusts in from the desert, lifting sand and insects and god knows what, then comes spinning south in a choking red cloud. I’m writing this from the house of the District Commissioner at Sokoto. The sun shines feebly through the window. It looks like an English fog, but instead of feeling clammy, it’s harsh and stinging. Frequent applications of salve do not prevent our lips from cracking. This morning Rex left with Ben to check on the supplies. They returned, and for a terrible moment I thought they were coughing up blood. It was only the sand that had got through their scarves and into their mouths. We have been stuck indoors for three days. But we have only to wait until the wi
nd passes. Then we’ll press on.
Last night Rex, the Commissioner, Ben, Talle and I sat in the living room. The Commissioner told us about suicide among expats, a common phenomenon. But it is Ben’s story I remember most clearly. He told us about the people of the Saharan desert and the tribes of the Sahel, who for centuries have practised a form of commerce known as silent trading. The inhabitants of the Sahara trade salt and receive gold in return. The salt is carried from the desert to the Niger River, where the transaction takes place. The Saharans leave a mound by the riverbank and then retreat. The Sahels deposit gold of equivalent value beside the mound. Once they have gone, the salt traders return. If they think the gold is sufficient, they take it, leaving the salt. If not, they take neither and retreat. The Sahels return and either increase the amount of gold or retrieve it. This process is repeated until both parties are satisfied and in this manner they conduct their commerce, never seeing one another and never speaking.
– And then, on the third evening of our confinement, the Commissioner stood up and raised his glass. Happy Christmas! he cried. We hadn’t known! We sang carols. Played endless rounds of Bridge. Toasted George VI. Though not Talle, who doesn’t recognize our King.
It is past twelve. I am writing this in near darkness, from the rest house where we are staying. I want to set down faithfully the events of the evening. We had been invited to the compound of Tanimu Usman. I had expected an official in his senior years. But the man who met us after the servant-boy had led us into the hall was young, in his early thirties, not much older than Rex. That was the first surprise. The second was that he was dressed in a sports suit, a Denman and Goddard, which, I learned, he had bought in Savile Row. His face was large and fine-boned, and his skin wonderfully reflective. He had round horn-rimmed spectacles, which he wore slightly tinted. Rex shook his hand and gave the traditional greeting. Tanimu Usman held his right hand up. Let us speak in English, he said. His voice was remarkably deep. I felt it in my stomach when he said, And this lovely lady must be your wife. He clasped my hands in his. He was not a big man, although his shoulders were very wide. I hope you like our country, he said. And he led us into the sitting room. There were several armchairs, a couch, a bookshelf and a handsome bureau, besides indigo cloths hanging on the walls. Standard lamps stood in three corners of the room. They gave off a warm yellow light. Tanimu Usman opened a drinks cabinet and took out several bottles. He turned to Rex and poured a drink. I believe you are from Scotland, he said. I have been there. I travelled all over the United Kingdom after my studies. France and Belgium too. He paused. Since you are from Scotland you will understand something of our national aspirations. He poured a second drink and handed the glass to me. And you, he said, are from Oxford. I spent three happy years there as an undergraduate. Please, he said, gesturing to a side table, where a plate of gadgets lay. He himself didn’t touch a morsel the entire evening. In the semi-darkness of the room Tanimu Usman got up from his chair and crossed to the bureau. I looked at his bookshelf, Marlowe, Orwell, Lincoln, Machiavelli, The New History of Music, as well as various mystery novels. Reading is my passion, he said when he returned. But I have another, even greater hobby. Music. I listen to music all the time. He held up a pile of records. There was a gramophone on a small table beside the couch. Tanimu Usman placed a record on the turntable and lowered the arm until we heard the speakers crackle. Then the sound of a piano. I knew the piece. It was Beethoven’s Les Adieux. Strange! My favourite of the sonatas. Tanimu Usman unbuttoned his jacket. He offered Rex a cigar, and they walked to the bureau and began to smoke. I listened to the music. It was make believe. One couldn’t listen to that melancholy piano in the middle of the bush without one’s ideas of Africa being swept from under one. After some time the record came to an end. Tanimu Usman looked up from his conversation with Rex. He said, You can turn the record over. Or perhaps you would like to play another. I wanted to hear something other than piano music. But I turned the record and set down the needle. Rex said, Are you feeling all right? I said, Yes, and joined them beside the bureau. Tanimu Usman said, How do you like the music? I said, Very much. Tanimu Usman said, You know, every time I go to Europe I bring back some records. I have quite a collection. All the classics. But I also collect phonographs. I have nine in total. My prize piece is very old, one of, I believe, only seventeen still in existence. He pulled open a drawer on the bureau and revealed a wooden box, lifted its lid and brought out a pale, strangely expressionless doll. Her hair was blonde, almost white, as was her dress. She doesn’t work any more, he said, but her mechanism is intact. She’s an Edison talking doll. He turned her so that she was lying face down on the bureau. Then he unbuttoned her dress and exposed a metal torso. He lifted a panel on her back and carefully pulled from her chest a tiny piece of machinery. It looked like the mechanism of a simple clock. But it was in fact a phonograph. It consisted of several cylinders connected by springs, a handle and finally a horn from which, he explained, a voice reciting ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ once played. Isn’t she beautiful, he said. There was a silence. We all looked at the doll. Tanimu Usman sat her on the edge of the bureau, buttoned her dress, put her back in the box and lay the mechanism at her feet. He shut the lid and closed her once again in the bureau. Then he said, Perhaps I seem uneasy to you. I confess to that. Just now, when we were looking at the Edison doll, I started to think that understanding between us, we Africans, you Europeans, might be an impossibility. I believe, he said, what has happened over the last one hundred years has been a great misunderstanding. Rex said, I don’t believe it for one minute, Mr Usman. In time we will come to view Nigeria as a demonstration of great cooperation between two quite different breeds of men. Tanimu Usman smiled. Then he said, That universal restorer, time! Restoring us to ourselves. Revealing the truth of the past. But I find myself questioning this most pervasive of ideas. What have we learned from you? Have you really something to offer us? There was a pause. Rex said, We have helped hundreds of separate and hostile communities to live peacefully together. And this peace has allowed free movement for the first time, not only for commerce but also for ideas and men. Tanimu Usman tilted his head from side to side. He took his spectacles off, rubbed his eyes and gestured wearily towards the couch. It was then, as he turned away, and Rex and I sat on the couch, the thought came to me that had we not come into Africa, then this room, the house, would have been very different, no record player, no doll, only certain of the books, and, of course, Tanimu Usman himself would have been different, without his beautifully tailored suit, his horn-rimmed spectacles. The fabric of the couch rubbed uncomfortably against my legs. Rex shifted his weight and leaned into the stiff-sprung backrest. The music had come to an end, and Tanimu Usman placed a new record on to the turntable. Again, we heard the hum and crackle of the needle on the disk. Immediately a large orchestra began to play. I said, What is the music? Tanimu Usman said, Haydn’s Symphony number 45. No one spoke. I concentrated on the music. It filled the room. I became very aware of myself, sitting next to Rex and in front of Tanimu Usman, who stood to the side of the couch, slightly back, so that he was out of sight. After some time Rex said, What concerns me are those boys in the bush. Tanimu Usman didn’t hear him, or he chose not to answer, because from his position beside the couch he said, You know, five or six years ago I might have agreed with what you say. I thought that Empire was a necessary phase in my country’s history, in spite of the indignity. But the war has changed everything. The boys you refer to fought in Burma. They became used to a regular income, martial respect and killing. They returned to the North and there’s nothing here for them. Rex said, But you could stop them if you chose. Tanimu Usman said, Perhaps I could. Perhaps it would be impossible. But if I managed it they would only strike up again, or else another group would take their place. He paused. I don’t think it’s sufficiently understood how important it is to consider the larger picture. Rex straightened his back, then said, Once we have reined in those marauding boys I will con
sider the larger picture. No one spoke. The orchestra became quiet. The performance might have been recorded at a concert hall because I thought I heard a cough from a member of the audience. Now the violins sounded, high, fast notes, and the orchestra answered, fell quiet, answered again. Tanimu Usman lowered himself into the armchair opposite the couch. He said, The boys are unimportant. Or rather, the boys alone cannot trouble you greatly. What they are searching for is change. Those boys fought for the British Empire, for democracy. Instead they hear Churchill say the Atlantic Charter is a guide and not a rule, that it is not applicable to the colonies. This leads them, and many others in the country, I myself am no exception, to ponder whether we should not prepare our own blueprint for self-government. I can see no hope for a prosperous and contented Nigeria under the present rule. In the half-light of the room I felt very awake. No one spoke. The music was quiet. I heard an insect drumming against the window. Rex stood and began to look at the books on the shelf. Now only the lower string section played, then the rest of the orchestra joined in. Tanimu Usman had crossed his legs, leaned his head against the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. After some time he lowered the volume. He opened his eyes, and it seemed he was about to say something. But he only turned the volume up and closed his eyes again. At one point the white-jacketed boy came into the room. He said that a telegram had arrived, but Tanimu Usman didn’t stir. He was lost in the music. But only a little later he opened his eyes and said, This piece, the Haydn symphony. There is a story behind its composition. Rex looked up from his book. The year was 1772. Every summer Prince Nicolaus holidayed at his castle at Eszterháza, which was remote from the capital. His court, of which Haydn and his musicians formed a part, were forced to leave their families behind. One year, because of a strange sickness, marked by a bruise on his chest, which looked like a set of tiny teeth, the prince decided to stay on past summer. Haydn wanted to return to his family, and so he composed a symphony at the end of which, one by one, the instruments fell silent. The musicians were instructed to extinguish their lights as soon as their part had come to an end and leave with their instruments under their arms. The prince at once understood the point of the performance, and, despite his sickness, he prepared to leave. Tanimu Usman finished speaking and closed his eyes. I tried to concentrate on the music, which was growing steadily quieter. I became aware of the crackle of the needle on the disk. After some time, without opening his eyes, Tanimu Usman said, The reed instruments have stopped playing and are leaving the stage. A little later he said, The horn players are putting out their lights and departing. Rex had returned to looking at the book. The double bass fell silent. Now only two violins were left, sounding faintly. Then they too died. After a moment, Tanimu Usman said, I wish our evening could be longer, but unfortunately I must bring it to an end. He stood up. I have work to do. I was reminded of this as we listened to the music. It gave me an idea for a speech I am writing for a gathering of emirs. This speech has been troubling me for a while, and now I see what I must write. He began to move towards the door. He looked exhausted. He stopped and said, I am sorry that I wasn’t able to help you. I see that you are disappointed. You must understand that, when one is attempting to do something new, something that has never been done before, it calls for a great singleness of mind. The European countries arrived at nationhood naturally, over many years, although there too was a great unleashing of violence. Perhaps this violence is necessary for the birth of a nation. Here, in Nigeria, as with all African nations, we have very many obstacles to overcome. One cannot create something new without destroying the old. The affirmation of the former requires the negation of that which came before. The emirs, for example, to whom I will speak tomorrow, have an interest in keeping Nigeria divided. But the process has begun. There is much anger and much enthusiasm among our people. It will take a bit of time. But independence will come. It must come. He ended abruptly, turned and left the room, leaving us in silence. – Later, walking to the rest house, with our backs to the small white moon, diffused by clouds, I slipped my hand into Rex’s hand. He had said little since leaving the compound, and I knew he was very disappointed. We walked through the narrow streets. On either side were tall buildings, with white turrets. I squeezed Rex’s hand. How are you feeling? I said. He didn’t reply. Then he said, Did you notice Mr Usman didn’t take his jacket off. When we were standing by the bureau I asked him to take it off, but he wouldn’t. We walked a little more slowly. I heard a faint drumming sound. Rex said, I know why he refused. It was because his sleeves were dirty. I saw the dirt on his cuffs. He has dirty sleeves. I felt a tingling in my eyelids and when I closed them I saw bright lights. I took my hand back. In fact, Rex said, Mr Usman is in a spot of bother. He is well regarded in the South. But here, in the North, he has little power. He’s one of only a handful of Northerners to have had a European education and is out of touch with the people. He takes orders from Nnamdi Azikiwe. But things in the South are happening very much quicker than here. Mr Usman will not accept this. And he is hated for it. We walked on through the still dark. Sometimes the clouds dispersed and we saw more clearly. We turned a corner and came across a young girl. She was standing in front of a latrine that served the adjoining compound, beating out a rhythm on an aluminium barrel. In spite of the drumming, I heard the agony and struggle of a man behind the latrine door. We walked on. The beating stopped. I heard the man in the latrine swallow painfully. Then the sound of pouring water and unhooking of the latch. I stopped walking, and Rex stopped beside me. I looked back, and a small boy emerged from the door. We walked on through the deep dark. In the middle of a square we saw two pigeons kicking up dust. The tips of their beaks were locked together. They were kissing or trying to bite one another or passing food from one to the other. Then one of the pigeons, the smaller, lighter one, hopped up on to the other’s back and flurried her wings. After a spell of this she jumped to the ground and took flight. The other pigeon, startled, followed her up at a different angle but with an identical arc. Suddenly I felt faint. Let’s stop a minute, I said. The clouds had cleared, and the light was very white. I looked up at Rex’s face. It was pale, and I wanted to touch it. But I didn’t feel able. Rex said, Are you feeling well? I said, Yes. And I was. I was feeling wonderfully light. I skipped forward five paces. Then I stopped. A large black cat became visible before us. It was crossing the road. Clasped between its jaws, and dragging on the road, was a hollow yellowy-white arrangement of bone. The cat reached the road’s edge and stopped. Exhausted with the effort, it dropped its load and looked at me. It looked right at me. I lowered my eyes and saw a sheep’s skull. When I looked up the cat, and its load, had disappeared. We forged on through the mostly dark. The buildings had become taller, cleaner, and the street broader. We came to our rest house. To enter we had to pass through a tall anteroom. I took Rex’s hand and led him through. We arrived at a courtyard which rain had converted into a lake of mud. We tiptoed around the lake and walked through the hall. We entered the main room, which had vaulted ceilings. Barely visible at the end of the room was a metal stairway. The dome at its summit had become my sitting-place at night. I stood absolutely still in the middle of the room. My heart rose like a balloon. I cried out as deeply as I could, Heellooo. And again, this time in a high voice, Heelloooo. The words came back at me. Rex stared, I knew he thought me silly, but I didn’t care. I twisted round and looked at him and I had crossed my eyes. I said, Where’s dignity in feeding the ducks. I don’t know why I said it. Those words echoed too. It was like a voice four rooms away in my head. I began to laugh. I couldn’t stop, and I didn’t want to. Suddenly I became scared. I closed my eyes. In the tallness of the room I felt very small, and the space felt enormous. Rex said, I’ve never seen you like this. I couldn’t answer. Instead I turned to face him and laughed. Rex said, Why are you laughing? I didn’t know. I was laughing for no reason. But I was laughing so hard I felt I had to sit down. I sat on the floor. It was cold, and I stopped laughing. Rex came
and bent over me. His eyes were watery, pale blue in colour. I saw them widen, the lids blink, but he didn’t say anything. He was a kind man, I always knew he was a kind man. He said, I’m not asking much, Eve, just tell me you are all right. I remember so clearly. He wanted to help me. But I didn’t want him to touch me. I pushed him away. I was all right where I was. Then I said something under my breath. What did you say? Rex said. I didn’t say anything, I said. You said something just now, Rex said. But I didn’t catch it. Catch? I said. You said something a moment ago, Rex said, I want to know what you said. I looked up at him. I said to you, I said. Louder, Rex said. I said that, I said. I can’t hear you, Rex said. I said to you, I said, that you must tread softly. He brought his face close to mine. Tread softly for you tread on my dreams. When I opened my eyes Rex had taken a step back. – Later, in the silence of the night, I felt something stir in my belly. I lay still and thought of my mother, who had once carried me. I thought of her not as Julia but as Mother, who must also have faced this confusion in the night. Rex stirred from his sleep. Are you sleeping, Eve? he whispered. I didn’t reply. I was thinking about the time in Oxford when we were watching a game of cricket. How Rex was trying to explain the difference between an off-break and a googly. How all at once I stopped listening to his explanation because I wanted to write something down. ‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams.’ That is what I wanted to write. But at the time I didn’t have a pencil, and it didn’t occur to me to say it aloud. But then, there, lying in that bed in Africa, thinking about what I had wanted to write at the cricket match, and finally spoken in the room with the vaulted ceiling, and saying it again, this time to myself, I understood that I had got it wrong, that the line ought to have had ten syllables but the way I said it, it only had nine. I took out my diary because I wanted to note down this fact. I wrote, It is past twelve. I am writing this in near darkness, from the rest house where we are staying. I want to set down faithfully the events of the evening. And I have managed it, albeit it has taken several subsequent evenings to write. It has come to me that I ought not to keep this secret any longer. It is for Rex also. And he too had his pleasure that brought this about. It is settled. I’ll tell him tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow.
The Echo Chamber Page 8
