No Longer at Ease

by Chinua Achebe

  “I had tea with the Greens yesterday,” she might say. “They are a most delightful couple, you know. He is quite different at home. Do you know he pays school fees for his steward’s sons? But he says the most outrageous things about educated Africans.”

  “I know,” said Obi. “He will make a very interesting case for a psychologist. Charles—you know the messenger—told me that some time ago the A.A. wanted to sack him for sleeping in the office. But when the matter went up to Mr. Green, he tore out the query from Charles’s personal file. He said the poor man must be suffering from malaria, and the next day he bought him a tube of quinacrine.”

  Marie was about to place yet another brick in position in their reconstruction of a strange character when Mr. Green sent for her to take some dictation. She was just saying that he was a very devout Christian, a sidesman at the Colonial Church.

  Obi had long come to admit to himself that, no matter how much he disliked Mr. Green, he nevertheless had some admirable qualities. Take, for instance, his devotion to duty. Rain or shine, he was in the office half an hour before the official time, and quite often worked long after two, or returned again in the evening. Obi could not understand it. Here was a man who did not believe in a country, and yet worked so hard for it. Did he simply believe in duty as a logical necessity? He continually put off going to see his dentist because, as he always said, he had some urgent work to do. He was like a man who had some great and supreme task that must be completed before a final catastrophe intervened. It reminded Obi of what he had once read about Mohammed Ali of Egypt, who in his old age worked in frenzy to modernize his country before his death.

  In the case of Green it was difficult to see what his deadline was, unless it was Nigeria’s independence. They said he had put in his resignation when it was thought that Nigeria might become independent in 1956. In the event it did not happen and Mr. Green was persuaded to withdraw his resignation.

  A most intriguing character, Obi thought, drawing profiles on his blotting pad. One thing he could never draw properly was a shirt collar. Yes, a very interesting character. It was clear he loved Africa, but only Africa of a kind: the Africa of Charles, the messenger, the Africa of his gardenboy and steward boy. He must have come originally with an ideal—to bring light to the heart of darkness, to tribal headhunted performing weird ceremonies and unspeakable rites. But when he arrived, Africa played him false. Where was his beloved bush full of human sacrifice? There was St. George horsed and caparisoned, but where was the dragon? In 1900 Mr. Green might have ranked among the great missionaries; in 1935 he would have made do with slapping headmasters in the presence of their pupils; but in 1957 he could only curse and swear.

  With a flash of insight Obi remembered his Conrad which he had read for his degree. “By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded.” That was Mr. Kurtz before the heart of darkness got him. Afterwards he had written: “Exterminate all the brutes.” It was not a close analogy, of course. Kurtz had succumbed to the darkness, Green to the incipient dawn. But their beginning and their end were alike. “I must write a novel on the tragedy of the Greens of this century,” he thought, pleased with his analysis.

  Later that morning a ward attendant from the General Hospital brought a little parcel to him. It was from Clara. One of the most wonderful things about her was her writing. It was so feminine. But Obi was not thinking about writing just now. His heart was pounding heavily.

  “You may go,” he told the ward servant who was waiting to take a message. He started opening the parcel, but stopped again, his hands trembling. Marie was not there at the moment, but she might come in at any time. He thought of taking the parcel to the lavatory. Then a better idea occurred to him. He pulled out one of the drawers and began to untie the parcel inside it. For some reason he knew, despite the size of the parcel, that it contained his ring. And some money too! Yes, five-pound notes. But he didn’t see any ring. He sighed with relief and then read the little note enclosed.

  Darling,

  I’m sorry about yesterday. Go to the bank straight away and cancel that overdraft. See you in the evening.

  Love, Clara.

  His eyes misted. When he looked up, he saw that Marie was watching him. He hadn’t even noticed when she returned to the office.

  “What’s the matter, Obi?”

  “Nothing,” he said, improvising a smile. “I was lost in thought.”

  Obi wrapped up the fifty pounds carefully and put it in his pocket. How had Clara come by so much money? he wondered. But of course she was reasonably well paid and she had not studied nursing on any progressive union’s scholarship. It was true that she sent money to her parents, but that was all. Even so, fifty pounds was a lot of money.

  All the way from Ikoyi to Yaba he was thinking how best he could make her take the money back. He knew it was going to be difficult, if not impossible. But it was quite out of the question for him to take fifty pounds from her. The question was how to make her take it back without hurting her. He might say that he would look silly taking an overdraft today and paying it off tomorrow, that the manager might think he had stolen the money. Or he might ask her to keep it until the end of the month, when he would really need it. She might ask: “Why not keep it yourself?” He would answer: “I might spend it before then.”

  Whenever Obi had a difficult discussion with Clara he planned all the dialogue beforehand. But when the time came it always took a completely different course. And so it did on this occasion. Clara was ironing when he arrived.

  “I’ll finish in a second,” she said. “What did the bank manager say?”

  “He was very pleased.”

  “In future don’t be a silly little boy. You know the proverb about digging a new pit to fill up an old one?”

  “Why did you trust so much money to that sly-looking man?”

  “You mean Joe? He’s a great friend of mine. He’s a ward servant.”

  “I didn’t like his looks. What is the proverb about digging a new pit to fill up an old one?”

  “I have always said you should go and study Ibo. It means borrowing from the bank to pay the insurance.”

  “I see. You prefer digging two pits to fill up one. Borrowing from Clara to pay the bank to pay the insurance.”

  Clara made no answer.

  “I did not go to the bank. I didn’t see how I could. How could I take so much money from you?”

  “Please, Obi, stop behaving like a small boy. It is only a loan. If you don’t want it you can return it. Actually I have been thinking all afternoon about the whole thing. It seems I have been interfering in your affairs. All I can say is, I’m very sorry. Have you got the money here?” She held out her hand.

  Obi took her hand and pulled her towards him. “Don’t misunderstand me, darling.”

  That evening they called on Christopher, Obi’s economist friend. Clara had gradually come round to liking him. Perhaps he was a little too lively, which was not a serious fault. But she feared he might influence Obi for the worse in the matter of women. He seemed to enjoy going around with four or five at once. He even said there was nothing like love, at any rate in Nigeria. But he was very likeable really, quite unlike Joseph, who was a bushman.

  As was to be expected, Christopher had a girl with him when Clara and Obi arrived. Clara had not met this one before, although apparently Obi had.

  “Clara, meet Bisi,” said Christopher. The two girls shook hands and said: “Pleased to meet you.” “Clara is Obi’s—”

  “Shut up,” Clara completed for him. But it was like trying to complete a sentence for a stammerer. You might as well save your breath.

  “Obi’s you know,” completed Christopher.

  “Have you been buying new records?” asked Clara, going through a little pile of records on one of the chairs.

  “Me? At this time of the month? They are Bisi’s. What can I offer you?”

  “Champagne.”

  “Ah? N
a Obi go buy you that-o. Me I never reach that grade yet. Na squash me get-o.” They laughed.

  “Obi, what about some beer?”

  “If you’ll split a bottle with me.”

  “Fine. What are you people doing this evening? Make we go dance somewhere?”

  Obi tried to make excuses, but Clara cut him short. They would go, she said.

  “Na film I wan’ go,” said Bisi.

  “Look here, Bisi, we are not interested in what you want to do. It’s for Obi and me to decide. This na Africa, you know.”

  Whether Christopher spoke good or “broken” English depended on what he was saying, where he was saying it, to whom and how he wanted to say it. Of course that was to some extent true of most educated people, especially on Saturday nights. But Christopher was rather outstanding in thus coming to terms with a double heritage.

  Obi borrowed a tie from him. Not that it mattered at the Imperial, where they had chosen to go. But one didn’t want to look like a boma boy.

  “Shall we all come into your car, Obi? It’s a long time since I had a chauffeur.”

  “Yes, let’s all go together. Although it’s going to be difficult after the dance to take Bisi home, then Clara, then you. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “No. I had better bring my car,” said Christopher. Then he whispered something into Obi’s ear to the effect that he wasn’t actually thinking of taking Bisi back that night, which was rather obvious.

  “What are you whispering to him?” asked Clara.

  “For men only,” said Christopher.

  There was very little parking space at the Imperial and many cars were already there. After a little to-ing and fro-ing Obi finally squeezed in between two other cars, directed by half a dozen half-clad little urchins who were standing around.

  “Na me go look your car for you,” chorused three of them at once.

  “O.K., make you look am well,” said Obi to none in particular. “Lock up your side,” he said quietly to Clara.

  “I go look am well, sir,” said one of the boys, stepping across Obi’s path so that he would remark him well as the right person to receive a threepence “dash” at the end of the dance. In principle Obi never gave anything to these juvenile delinquents. But it would be bad policy to tell them so now and then leave your car at their mercy.

  Christopher and Bisi were already waiting for them at the gate. The place was not as crowded as they thought it might be. In fact the dance floor was practically empty, but that was because the band was playing a waltz. Christopher found a table and two chairs and the two girls sat.

  “You are not going to stand all night,” said Clara. “Tell one of the stewards to get you chairs.”

  “Never mind,” said Christopher. “We’ll soon get chairs.”

  He had hardly completed this sentence when the band struck up a high-life. In under thirty seconds the dance floor was invaded. Those who were caught with a glass of beer in midair either put it down again or quickly swallowed its contents. Unfinished cigarettes were, according to the status of the smoker, either thrown on the floor and stepped on or carefully put out, to be continued later.

  Christopher moved past three or four tables in front and grabbed two chairs that had just been vacated.

  “Mean old thing!” said Obi as he took one. Bisi was wriggling in her chair and singing with the soloist.

  Nylon dress is a lovely dress,

  Nylon dress is a country dress.

  If you want to make your baby happy

  Nylon is good for her.

  “We are wasting a good dance,” said Obi.

  “Why not go and dance with Bisi? Clara and I can watch the chairs.”

  “Shall we?” Obi said, standing. Bisi was already up with a faraway look in her eyes.

  If you want to make your baby happy

  Go to the shop and get a doz’n of nylon.

  She will know nobody but you alone

  Nylon is good for her.

  The next dance was again a high-life. In fact most of the dances were high-lifes. Occasionally a waltz or a blues was played so that the dancers could relax and drink their beer, or smoke. Christopher and Clara danced next while Obi and Bisi kept an eye on their chairs. But soon it was only Obi; someone had asked Bisi to dance.

  There were as many ways of dancing the high-life as there were people on the floor. But, broadly speaking, three main patterns could be discerned. There were four or five Europeans whose dancing reminded one of the early motion pictures. They moved like triangles in an alien dance that was ordained for circles. There were others who made very little real movement. They held their women close, breast to breast and groin to groin, so that the dance could flow uninterrupted from one to the other and back again. The last group were the ecstatic ones. They danced apart, spinning, swaying, or doing intricate syncopations with their feet and waist. They were the good servants who had found perfect freedom. The vocalist drew the microphone up to his lips to sing “Gentleman Bobby.”

  I was playing moi guitar jeje,

  A lady gave me a kiss.

  Her husband didn’t like it,

  He had to drag him wife away.

  Gentlemen, please hold your wife.

  Father and mum, please hold your girls.

  The calypso is so nice,

  If they follow, don’t blame Bobby.

  The applause and the cries of “Anchor! Anchor!” that followed this number seemed to suggest that no one blamed Gentleman Bobby. And why should they? He was playing his guitar jeje—quietly, soberly, unobtrusively, altogether in a law-abiding fashion, when a woman took it upon herself to plant a kiss on him. No matter how one looked at it, no blame could possibly attach to the innocent musician.

  The next number was a quickstep. In other words, it was time to drink and smoke and generally cool down. Obi ordered soft drinks. He was relieved that no one wanted anything more expensive.

  The group on their right—three men and two women—interested him very much. One of the women was quiet, but the other talked all the time at the top of her voice. Her nylon blouse was practically transparent, revealing a new brassière. She had not danced the last number. She had said to the man who asked her: “No petrol, no fire,” which clearly meant no beer, no dance. The man had then come to Obi’s table and asked Bisi. But that could not be anything like a permanent settlement. Now that no one was dancing, the woman was saying for all to hear: “The table is dry.”

  At two o’clock Obi and his party rose to go, despite Bisi’s reluctance. Christopher reminded her that she had originally elected to go to the films which ended at eleven. She replied that that was no reason why they should leave the dance when it was just beginning to warm up. Anyway, they went. Christopher’s car was parked a long way away, so they said good night outside the gate and parted.

  Obi opened the driver’s door with the key, got in, and leaned sideways to open for Clara. But her door was unlocked.

  “I thought you locked this door?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said.

  Panic seized Obi. “Good Lord!” he cried.

  “What is it?” She was alarmed.

  “Your money.”

  “Where is it? Where did you leave it?”

  He pointed at the now empty glove box. They stared at it in silence. He opened his door quietly, went out, looked vacantly on the ground, and then leaned against the car. The street was completely deserted. Clara opened her door and went out too. She went round to his side of the car, took his hand in hers, and said: “Let’s go.” He was trembling. “Let’s go, Obi,” she said again, and opened his door for him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After Christmas Obi got a letter from his father that his mother was again ill in hospital and to ask when he was coming home on local leave as he had promised. He hoped it would be very soon because there was an urgent matter he must discuss with him.

  It was obvious that news had reached them about Clara. Obi had written some months ago to say the
re was a girl he was interested in and that he would tell them more about her when he got home on two weeks’ local leave. He had not told them that she was an osu. One didn’t write about such things. That would have to be broken very gently in conversation. But now it appeared that someone else had told them.

  He folded the letter carefully and put it in his shirt pocket and tried not to think about it, especially about his mother’s illness. He tried to concentrate on the file he was reading, but he read every line five times, and even then he did not understand what he read. He took up the telephone to ring Clara at the hospital, but when the operator said “Number, please,” he put it down again. Marie was typing steadily. She had plenty of work to do before the next week’s board meeting. She was a very good typist; the keys did not strike separately when she typed.

  Sometimes Mr. Green sent for Marie to take dictation, sometimes he came out himself to give it. It all depended on how he was feeling at the time. He came out now.

  “Please take down a quick answer to this. ‘Dear sir, with reference to your letter of—whatever the date was—I beg to inform you that Government pays a dependant’s allowance to bona fide wives of Government scholars and not to their girl friends.…’ Will you read that over to me?” Marie did, while he paced up and down. “Change that second Government to its,” he said. Marie made the alteration and then looked up.

  “That’s all. ‘I am your obedient servant, Me.’ ” Mr. Green always ended his letters that way, saying the words obedient servant with a contemptuous tongue in the cheek. He turned to Obi and said: “You know, Okonkwo, I have lived in your country for fifteen years and yet I cannot begin to understand the mentality of the so-called educated Nigerian. Like this young man at the University College, for instance, who expects the Government not only to pay his fees and fantastic allowances and find him an easy, comfortable job at the end of his course, but also to pay his intended. It’s absolutely incredible. I think Government is making a terrible mistake in making it so easy for people like that to have so-called university education. Education for what? To get as much as they can for themselves and their family. Not the least bit interested in the millions of their countrymen who die every day from hunger and disease.”