This book made available by the Internet Archive.

(South Africa) 118

Notes on The Master of Doornvlei 126

13 MULIKITA, Fwanyanga: The Tender Crop (Zambia) 130

Notes on The Tender Crop 146

14 MUNGOSHI, Charles: Coming of the Dry Season (Zimbabwe) 150

Notes on Coming of the Dry Season 154

15 NG' MARYO, Eric: Ivory Bangles (Tanzania) 157

Notes on Ivo ry Bangles 161

16 NGUGI WA THIONG'O: The Return (Kenya) 164

Notes on The Return 168

17 NICOL, ABIOSEH: The Truly Married Woman

(Sierra Leone) 171

Notes on The Truly Married Woman 179

18 SAIDI, WILLIAM: The Nightmare (Zimbabwe) 183

Notes on The Nightmare 190

Bibliography 195

IV

Acknowledgements

The editor and publishers wish to thank the following who have kindly

given permission for the use of copyright materials:

Ama Ata Aidoo for 'In the Cutting of a Drink'.

David Bolt Associates on behalf of Cyprian Ekwensi for 'The Ivory

Dancer' and Chinua Achebe for 'Civil Peace'.

B.B.C Publications for 'Ding Dong Bell' by Kwabena Annan published

in the Radio Times.

Maurice Chishimba for 'A Weekend of Carousal'.

Crown Publishers Inc. for 'Resurrection' by Richard Rive from The

Quartet: New Voices from South Africa, 1963, edited by Richard

Rive.

East African Publishing House for 'Master of Doornvlei' by Ezekiel

Mphahlele.

Heinemann Educational Books for 'The Return' from Secret Lives by

Ngugi wa Thiong'o, and 'Lexicographicide' from Fixions by Taban Lo

Liyong.

David Higham Associates Ltd. on behalf of Abioseh Nicol for 'The

Truly Married Woman'.

Eldred Jones for 'A Man Can Try'.

Leonard J Kibera for 'A Silent Song'.

National Educational Company of Zambia Ltd. for 'The Tender Crop'

by F M Mulikita and 'Nightmare' by William Saidi.

Eric S Ng'maryo for 'Ivory Bangles'.

Tessa Sayle on behalf of Alex La Guma for 'Blankets'.

Zimbabwe Publishing House (Pvt) Ltd. for 'Coming of the Dry Season'

by Charles Mungoshi.

Every effort has been made to trace all the copyright holders but if any
have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers will be pleased to
make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity.

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012

http://archive.org/details/africanshortstorOOgran

Introduction

EVOLUTION OF THE GENRE

Be it tales or legends, man has always loved to tell stories and it can be
said, in a way, that 'the short story was created in the night of time' 1 .
Traces of this age-long propensity for story-telling can be found not
only in contemporary societies, where orality still survives more or less
in its original form (as for instance in parts of Africa), but also in the
body of written literature which has accumulated over the centuries.
In European literature, story-telling in its written form begins in the
twelfth century with the romance (the early ancestor of the novel),
usually a long narrative in verse recalling the story of a hero who
engages in different adventures in order to reach a goal which can be
described as the discovery of some hidden and essential truth. The
romance catered mainly for the leisured class of society, the nobility,
and reflected their taste for heroic gestures and ethereal love stories
(often set in a world of fantasy). The Middle Ages also produced the
tale, a shorter and more down-to-earth (often, in fact, very crude!)
narrative in prose which appealed to the literate bourgeoisie in the
towns. Most written tales of the time still retain a close link with oral
literature, from which they borrow several features, for example the
important role given both to story-teller and audience. In the medieval
tale, it is indeed quite usual for the narrator to intervene openly in the
narrative as well as telling the story in the first person (as if he was
part of it) to an audience whose comments he appropriates and
includes in the story. Consequently, in the tale the form of the
narrative becomes much more important than the content and the
emphasis is more on how the story is told than what it is about. It does
not matter much whether the story is real or not, believable or not,
original or not, as long as the story-teller succeeds in his attempt to
catch and retain the audience's attention as well as to entertain them.
To achieve these goals, he is given complete narrative freedom. The
tale can meander as much as it likes, bring in as many strange
happenings, colourful details, lively dialogues, puns and jokes as it

wishes; anything, in fact, which can be used as fuel for the narrator's
fire! Even if in the end, and to make up for any vulgarity or crudity in
his story, the story-teller shares out rewards and punishments
according to the usual tenets of morality.

Some tales however, show wider ambitions 2 and already present

some of the features which were to become specific to the European
short story genre in the nineteenth century. In such written tales, the
story closely follows reality even if sometimes supernatural powers are
called upon to intervene. Suspense and an unexpected ending create in
the reader's mind a lasting impression which is meant to make him
ponder upon his own life's experience. Above all, however, the oral
character of the tale tends to disappear with the story-teller assuming
a more distant and neutral position with regard to the narrative (in a
way, 'hiding' behind his story) while the audience is reduced to the
status of passive and silent reader.

After the Middle Ages and through the following centuries, the
differentiation between the two forms of the tale accentuated until the
nineteenth century when the short story established itself as a separate
genre.

THE SHORT STORY AS A GENRE

It was left to Edgar Allan Poe, himself a short story writer, to define in
1842 what he then called, 'the short prose narrative' (or 'prose tale')
and to lay down the rules governing its composition 3 . Poe's first rule
concerns the length of the story. It should be short enough to be read
'at one sitting' so that 'during the hour of perusal the soul of the reader
is at the writer's control'. Much more important than the span of the
story is its objective which, according to Poe, must be the bringing out
of 'a certain and unique or single . . . preconceived effect'.
Consequently, says Poe, in the whole composition of the story 'there
should be no word written of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is
not to the one pre-established design'. Like an arrow, the story must
fly straight to the very centre of the target. Eudora Welty describes it
as something 'that begins and carries through and ends all in the same
curve' 4 .

For many short story writers, Poe's rules are still essential. They
consider that the short story must concentrate 'on a single character,
in a single situation at a single moment'^; it must be concise and
condensed both in form and content. Henry James once advised a
young short story writer: 'Make it tremendously succinct — with a very
short pulse or rhythm, and the choicest selection of detail — in

other words, summarize intensively and keep down lateral

developments' 6 .

However, if this advice is echoed by many writers, it is also rejected by

others who consider that Poe's rules are too binding and tend to
enclose the short story in a kind of formal 'strait-jacket'. Therefore,
they advocate the need to 'break the picture free from the frame' 7 and
argue that the short story can only gain in vividness and realism from
'a looseness of structure' 8 , and an 'unmitigated shapelessness of [the]
narrative' 9 . They advocate the freedom of the 'open form' which they
feel is more in accordance with the complexity of life.

Whatever approach is chosen by short story writers and critics, there is

one point on which they all agree: after poetry, the short story is 'the
most difficult and disciplined form of prose-writing' 10 . They all
endorse Graham Greene's assertion that if anybody can write a novel,
very few people indeed can write a good short story! If the short story
is such a demanding art, it is because what finally matters is the
complete accord between form and substance. Besides points of
content, technique, style and composition, the only point really worth
examining, when assessing a short story, is 'whether or not the writer
has divined the natural shape of his story', whether his story \s final as
'an orange is final' 11 , or as 'an egg is whole, and is an egg no less
because it is small or large, ostrich or robin, white or spotted' 12 . Such
images clearly underline the importance of structural unity in the
short story. In other terms, a good short story must have an organic
structure: this is to say that there should be no extraneous material
within it. An example in this anthology is Alex La Guma's Blankets
(see pages 106 to 108). Within the narrow scope of the story (a
wounded man waiting for the ambulance), Blankets succeeds in
bringing in and linking the past, present and likely future of the main
character, by using a narrative technique (the flash-back, memories
brought back through sensation) perfectly adapted to the purpose of
the story (to bring out the desperate plight of a man doomed by society
to go astray). To achieve such a perfect blend, however, to create such
a perfect shape, short story writers must reach a mastery of which very
few, like La Guma, prove to be capable.

WHA T IS THE SHOR T STOR Y?

No genre remains static and neither does a definition. When it comes

to the short story it is particularly difficult to give a fast-binding and
all-embracing definition. Paradoxically, the best way to go about it is
to look first at what the short story is not rather than what it is; in
other

words, to dwell on the differences between the short story and other
genres, and in particular between the novel and the tale.

The most obvious difference between the short story and the novel is
one of length; some writers consider that it is the only one. Kingsley
Amis calls his stories 'chips from a novelist's workbench 1 ", while
Stephen Dixon says that 'each novel I've written started off as a short
story, and when it got above 30 to 40 pages, I started calling it a
novel'". But can the terms be reversed? Is a short story nothing else
than 'a telescoped novel' n ? Most writers and critics answer in the
negative. Length alone does not differentiate between the two genres;
form and, in fact, content are more important. While the novel is
composed of intricate and interweaving plots, detailed
characterisation, shifts in space and time, and has an ambitious scope,
the short story keeps to a single narrative line, shows greater economy,
merely sketches characters, and has a very small scope. While the
ambition of the novel is to create a whole world, 'to exhibit the
complexity and the beauty of life', the short story only wants to
'suggest'"' it. The attitude of the reader is different in each genre: a
novel calls for him to identify with the theme, a short story only for his
participation 17 .

The tale 1 * can be defined as a loosely plotted story with an avowed

moral purpose, free from formal constraints, bringing in real or
strange happenings as it choses, emphasising events more than
characters, and keeping close to oral tradition. The short story, on the
contrary, models itself closely on reality (and therefore does not
necessarily draw any moral), follows a well-defined pattern and sheds
all superfluous elements. The difference between the tale and the short
story is not therefore a matter of length but one of form and content.

It would seem in the end that, to define the short story, there is no
other choice but to fall back on Edgar Allan Poe's rules and to agree
with F.C. Green that the main attributes of the short story are 'a
profound respect for form, an instinct for clarity and conciseness, and
an unerring flair for the truly dramatic situation'. A good short story is
'a miracle of condensation' 19 .

THE SHORT STORY GENRE IN AFRICA

For the past thirty years, the short story genre has been thriving in
Africa, especially in African countries using English as a literary
medium-"'. Yet critics have so far paid little attention to the production
of the indigenous short story, dismissing it as of no real literary
importance. Several factors can explain this dismissive attitude: in
Africa, short stories appear mainly in the popular press and are
therefore rated very low; they serve as a means of apprenticeship in
creative writing for aspiring writers, consequently earning the
disparaging label of 'beginner's work'; they seem to keep very much in
line with the European or western model and can then be scorned as
too 'derivative'. Therefore, critics tend to treat the short story either as
'a footnote to the novel' 21 or as an exercise in style with little
relevance to the role that they assign to literature in Africa.

It is true that, like their western counterparts, African writers often

consider — quite fittingly — the short story purely as a literary
challenge. The works of Alex La Guma, Taban Lo Liyong or Ama Ata
Aidoo prove beyond any doubt that such a challenge can be met most
successfully. It would be too restrictive, however, to look at the African
short story only from the point of view of literary mastery. It must
been seen in a wider perspective, as 'a thoroughly efficient tool for the
presentation of modern life'2 , for the production of what Ulli Beier
calls 'snapshots, revealing a terrible moment of truth' 23 , and for the
shaping of the social statement that, as much as the novelist, the
African short story teller wishes to make.

THE NEVER-ENDING CONFLICT BETWEEN TRADITION AND

MODERNITY

The needs, aspirations and anxieties of the present-day world loom

very large in the African short story, and Ulli Beier is right to point out
that 'by far the greatest number of African [short story] writers are
interested in depicting present-day situations and problems. The past
and traditions hold little interest to them' 2 '. Indeed, there are very
few stories in which the past is the only subject-matter of the
narrative; and not very many (Ivory Bangles is an example — see pages
157 to 161) which centre only on traditional values. Elsewhere,
tradition is always considered in its relationship with modernity. It
should be noted that, in the African short story, the old and the new
order of things never come to terms with each other; instead, they are
locked in a perpetual conflict of which the outcome is always negative.

In The Ivory Dancer by Cyprian Ekwensi, the traditional authority of

the village chief turns to oppression and tyranny. When young
Akunma refuses stubbornly to agree to the Chief's plans, he has her
threatened with reprisal by one of his wives:

You know your mother . . . how poor she is! Without that farm, she is
useless! Of course, those Iroko trees which your father left behind ...
the matter is still being debated. The Chief can still decide against you.
25

As for the talent and skill of the young ivory dancer and of her little
troupe, they are not meant to serve the village tradition any more but
to provide some 'exotic' kind of entertainment for a rich Hollywood
film-maker.

In the same short story, modern values do not fare any better. Despite
all their education (a religious one for that matter!), the Chief's wife
and her schoolboy lover become cheats and thieves; the young village
girl, Akunma, sacrifices the prospect of real happiness, according to
tradition, to the illusion of a love-story which is not even worthy of a
cheap novel or illustrated magazine.

In The Coming of the Dry Season by Charles Mungoshi, the news of

the mother's imminent death in the village does not prove important
enough to draw the son away from the pleasure of a weekend in town.
Unfortunately, his failure to fulfil his filial duties makes him feel so
guilty that he does not find any solace or oblivion in sex and drink. In
the end, the mother's figure, on which tradition places the most
cherished value, turns to nightmare.

He saw a gnarled old woman, thin as a starved cow, with a weak

saliva-flecked mouth and trembling limbs; very small dark eyes in
carven sockets — a monkey face — and on her spare body threadbare
rags wound as on a scarecrow stick 26 Instead of leading him to
redemption, guilt and remorse take Moab Gwati one step further on
the way to complete degradation.

Maurice Chishimba's hero, in Weekend of Carousal, does not act very

differently when he violently abuses his mother for arriving
unexpectedly from the village.
Why can't you stay at home in the village . . . You asked for

my permission to come here, did I not refuse? I don't know if it

is madness that made you people believe that I have grown a

money tree here. 27

Other short story writers such as Abioseh Nicol, Kwabena Annan

and Barbara Kimenye, bring their humour to bear mainly on the

present-day world; tradition, however, does not remain unscathed. In

Nicol's The Truly Married Woman, the white missionaries' naive

bursts of religious enthusiasm, as well as their readiness to be fooled

by

an ingenious mise en scene, are certainly amusing but so is the double

game (or is it triple?) of the jujuman whose palm can be so easily

greased! If the 'European part' of the marriage ceremony is

meaningless, so too is the strict observance of traditional rites. They

fail to hide the fact that the 'maiden chaste, beautiful and obedient'

who is about to marry, the

red, red rose

That in your beautiful garden grows,

Which never has been plucked before

So lovelier than any other is 'a woman in her mid-thirties, her hair
slightly streaked grey' 28 , a mother of three who has lived happily in
'sin' with the bridegroom for the past twelve years!

On the whole, in the African short story in English, neither the old nor
the new order of things constitute a satisfactory solution to the hero's
dilemma. On the contrary, tradition and modernity act as two negative
poles between which the hero is continually thrown back and forth. In
order to escape such an unbearable situation, he then seeks refuge in a
new world — that of the town — which to him appears to be a kind of
no-man's land, an in-between place between traditional and modern
life. Unfortunately, what he finds in the town is not a haven but a
world plagued with the very ills and contradictions from which he was
trying to escape in the first place.

RESTLESS CITY

The city is ever-present in African literature, especially in the short

story. Is this any wonder considering the rate of urbanisation of the
African continent in the last few decades? Ezekiel Mphahlele's remark
about South African writers can now also be applied to those of nearly
any African country: 'they keep digging their feet into a urban culture
of their own making' 29 .

Nature untouched is an illusion and so is the paradise of rural life,

even in Africa. Be it in Certain Winds from the South by Aidoo,
Something to Eat ... by Eric Ng'maryo or The Return by Ngugi, the
worm is already in the fruit. Either as a distant threat or as a dreaded
next door rival, the town is always present in the villager's life and
mind. More, it imposes its needs on the rural economy, it entices away
the village youth who are lured by false hopes of money, pleasure and
an easy life. Once people have entered the town, the gates are shut on
them; there is no way out any more. The young girl in In the Cutting of
a Drink (Aidoo) spends twelve years in downtown Accra before being
found again by her elder brother; her promise 'to come home this
Christmas' 30 does not mean she will settle permanently in the village.
In order to dispel his obsessive guilt, Mungoshi's Moab Gwati flees the
city; but it always hovers on the horizon of his aimless walk and, in the
end, he does not strike out into the bush but circles round the city like
a punished dog round his master.
For those who never lived in the country, like the delinquent of La

Guma's Blankets, the drunken lout of James Matthews's The Portable

Radio or the crippled and blind boy of Leonard Kibera's A Silent Song,
the city is no paradise, far from it. It is not only in Glasgow, London or
Paris but also in Lagos, Nairobi and Johannesburg that, as Gaston
Bart-Williams puts it, 'the path of a poor and lonely African youth ... is
precarious, and accessible to agony, humiliation and above all a
perpetual crucifixion' 31 . Like Saturn of old, the city eats its children;
it is what psychoanalysis calls the 'bad mother'.

Unfortunately, nature does not qualify to be the 'good mother' either,

even with those who wish to live and die in her peace, like Kamau in
Ngugi's The Return for instance. The land is exhausted, 'barren like
the crocodile's back, bare like the bottom of a monkey' 32 ; it only
brings out 'sickly-looking crops' 33 on which even a handful of people
cannot feed. In the African short story, with few exceptions such as
Fwanyanga M. Mulikita's The Tender Crop, Mother-Earth is not — as
she often is in the novel — a life-giving and protective force, the keeper
of the past and tradition. On the contrary, she is unfriendly and
ungrateful even with those who love her most; so that in the end,
people have no other choice but to abandon her. Eventually, they join
the anonymous labour-force of the city, or worse the obscure and
silent armies of the lumpen-proletariat in the shanty towns which
surround the prestigious residential areas and 'reservations' so
threateningly.

Restless City is the title of one of Ekwensi's short stories; it is typical of

many African short stories in English. It is indeed in the town that
man comes to grip with his destiny in a bitter struggle, where cultures
clash in violent conflict. It is through this confrontation that the
African short story shapes its own vision of the world.

THEMES

It is well beyond the limits of this introduction to catalogue all the

themes which can be found in the African short story in English.
However, the purpose of this anthology, through a selection of
eighteen stories, is to bring out most of the recurrent themes:

a) race-relations: R. Rive's Resurrection, E. Mphahlele's The Master of

Doornvlei, F.M. Mulikita's The Tender Crop.

b) colonialism: K. Annan's Ding Dong Bell, E. Jones's A Man Can Try.

c) war and its aftermath: Ngugi Wa Thiong'o's The Return, C. Achebe's

Civil Peace, R. Gbadamosi's Death by the Waterfall.

d) religion and witchcraft: L. Kibera's A Silent Song, W. Saidi's

Nightmare, E. Ng'maryo's Ivory Bangles.

e) country-life: The Tender Crop, Ding Dong Bell, The Master of

Doornvlei.

f) town-life with its multiple aspects of sex, alcoholism, prostitution

and violence: M. Chishimba's Weekend of Carousal, A.A. Aidoo's In
The Cutting of a Drink, C. Mungoshi's Coming of the Dry Season, A. La
Guma's Blankets.

g) love: C. Ekwensi's The Ivory Dancer, A. Nicol's The Truly Married

Woman.

There are some themes which do not appear in this anthology; for
example political corruption as in The Voter (Achebe); hunger and
poverty as Something to Eat . . . (Ng'maryo).

TYPOLOGY

In his preface to Modern African Stories, Charles Larson takes up the

short story classification as set out by E. Mphahlele in The African
Image. Short stories, according to the two critics, can be divided into
three main groupings: 'the romantic-escapist story', 'the protest story',
and 'the ironic short story', the last being a sort of 'meeting point
between protest and acceptance' 34 . This thematic typology (which
was made with the South African short story in mind) remains
unsatisfactory: themes certainly have a marked tendency to overlap
and proliferate to such an extent that there is no end to possible
subdivisions.

Ulli Beier's approach, as outlined in his preface to Black Orpheus, is

more to the point: it draws mainly on the writer's point of view and
distinguishes between two types of texts. On the one hand, there are
those in which the writer's role is limited to that of 'a reporter of events
and situations', where the writer seeks primarily 'to mirror the world
around objectively'; on the other hand, there are those texts in which
the writer sets off 'to travel along a lone road' and , through theme or
style, endeavours 'to go deeper, to unravel the mysteries that lie
behind appearance' 35 .

Richard Kostelanetz in Twelve from the Sixties looks at the short story
from the point of view of structure and distinguishes between 'the arc
story, which has a climax in the middle and then an unravelling', 'the
epiphany story . . . where near the end of the narrative there's an event
which jells everything into place', and 'the flat story, where the theme
is present from the beginning and the story just goes on, with neither a
climax nor an epiphany' 36 . This approach can be considered as the
most satisfactory attempt so far made at classification and can be used
to advantage by readers of this anthology.

However, it should be remembered that no typology is ever exhaustive.

Like any other art form, the purpose and design of the short story 'is to
give order and meaning to experience' 37 ; and since experience varies
in time and space, there is and there will always be short stories which
are impossible to classify.

THE AFRICAN SHORT STOR Y AND ORAL LITERA TURE

It is not possible to give wholehearted support either to Larson's

statement that 'the modern short story in Africa belongs to an oral
literary tradition centuries old and still very much alive in Africa today'
38 , or to Gary Spackey's that 'the contact between oral literature and
the short story has been — and must remain — minimal' 39 . The
question requires further study and all that can be done in this
introduction is to draw attention to the problem. Before doing so, it is
essential to keep in mind the distinction which has been made earlier
40 between the short story and the tale. Otherwise the obvious
relationship between the tale and folk (or oral) literature would pass
wholesale to the African short story.

The courtly tradition of the griot with his heroic tales and legends is
hard to trace in the African short story. The only two examples which
come to mind are (for content) New Life in Kyerefaso by Efua
Sutherland, and (for style) The Old Man ofUsumbura and his Misery
by Taban Lo Liyong.

It is more tempting to try to establish a link between the form of the

oral tale and that of the short story, using as an example In the Cutting
of a Drink by Ama Ata Aidoo. This very successful attempt remains a
isolated instance for, on the whole, it would seem that no real link can
be found between the two forms. The narrative of the oral tale spreads
in many directions in order not only to delay an outcome whose moral
terms are always the same but also to give the story-teller ample
opportunity to show his mastery. The African short story 'strikes
swiftly and drives home a point with economy of language and time' 41
. Whatever the African short story borrows from the oral tale is mostly
a matter of content; even that is an insignificant amount.

To establish a valid relationship between oral literature and the short

story, it would be necessary to explore and compare the respective
narrative techniques of the story-teller and of the narrator of the short
story. Though it still has to be proved, it is not impossible that in the
process similarities will appear. Then it might be said that both genres
use the same 'telling gesture' and speak with the same African
'evocative diction' 42 .

THE AFRICAN SHORT STORY WRITER

There is one aspect, however, in which the two genres — oral tale and
short story — are quite different. While the story-teller held, and still
holds, an honoured place in traditional society, the short story writer
has so far been given little recognition. It might no longer be true that
'the African short story writer remains — for the most part — almost
unknown' 43 , but he is yet to receive the due praise of literary critics.

Critics often lag behind the tastes of the reading public. The short
story is gaining more and more popularity, especially in African
countries where English is spoken. An American critic put the case for
the undoubted popularity of the short story by saying that people do
not write short stories 'because they hope to get rich, or even make a
living, from them' — all things that a novel can achieve. They write
them 'because they must' 44 . Is this because, as in South Africa, 'the
political, social climate . . . has been [making it] viciously difficult for a
non-white to write ... a poem or a novel or a play' and that the short
story 'is often used as a short-cut to prose meaning' 45 ? Is this
because there is something 'unsettled' about African city life which
makes the 'slice-of-life' kind of short story more appropriate than the
integrated and highly organised form of the novel? Or is this simply
because the short story takes less time to write and to read, and is
cheap to print and to buy?

Whatever the answer may be, it is obvious that in Africa the short
story has become one of the literary mediums 'whereby [writers] and
their immediate audience can come to terms with a world of physical
and mental violence and dispossession' 46 , be it that of apartheid or
class-struggle. Is it not one of the goals of literature to give the writer
the means of expressing his own vision of the world, and the reading
public the means of knowing and understanding the reality of its own
environment?

THE COMPOSITION OF THE ANTHOLOGY

Selection

Eighteen African short stories written in English have been selected

for the anthology. Some have already appeared in collections of short
stories, anthologies or literary journals and magazines; others were
written specially for this anthology. Their authors have either made
their mark on African literature in general, and on the short story
genre in particular, or show promise of doing so. It is hoped that this
anthology will help to bring those new talents into the limelight. Each
story can be said to represent the best of that author's work and
illustrates one or more of the major themes found in the entire body of
the African short story in English. The number of stories allocated to
countries where English is used as a literary medium is related to the
importance of the national production in the genre. It is therefore no
surprise that South Africa and Nigeria get the lion's share! It might be
in order to explain here why famous short story writers such as Doris
Lessing or Nadine Gordimer have not been included in the anthology.
This should not be seen as racism in reverse but is based on
E.Mphahlele's argument that white South African writers, in spite of
their sympathy for the plight of blacks, depict a totally different reality
from that lived by black writers.

Sadly, research into the African short story in English has as yet not
brought to light any stories from the Gambia, Liberia or Malawi; all
other African countries using English as a literary medium are
represented in this anthology. The over-riding priority has been to
present stories of the highest stylistic quality.

Level

The anthology should be found suitable for teaching students doing

African literature at O/A level or those in their first year at an
Advanced Teacher's Training College or University. Stories of various
levels of language, style and structural complexity have been selected
to cater for each of these groups. The Introduction and Notes deal with
literary concepts in language which should be familiar to all students.
The anthology can also be used by the general public simply for
reading pleasure.

Objectives

The anthology should help teachers of literature to introduce students

to:

a) extensive, silent reading of short and interesting texts to encourage

further reading in the genre;
b) basic literary concepts such as story/plot, theme, characters,
structure, etc.,

c) literary appreciation,

d) the short story genre and its characteristics in relation to the novel,
poetry and drama,

e) creative writing in the genre.

Methodology

Notes on each story are given as framework for guidance. However, in

the case of Resurrection, notes are given in much greater detail to

show teachers and students how to make a thorough study of each
story. Once students have read the story, they can look at the
Summary and at the Notes on the text in order to get a broad
understanding of the main narrative elements of the story. They will
then be in a better position to answer the Questions on the text (to
which teachers can add at will). Through more questions and answers,
students can be helped to 'discover' the plot (what can be called
'action', that is to say 'what happens' and 'why it happens') from which
the story will develop. If it is agreed that 'the concern of the good short
story is man, his values and conditions' 47 , it is obvious that the study
of characters becomes an important element in the analysing of the
story. Students should by this stage have reached a point which will
make it possible for them to bring out the theme of the story which
must be understood as meaning the general significance (ideological,
emotional, moral, etc . . .) of the story; the 'message' it wants to convey
to the readers. It should be made clear to students that all narrative
elements (plot/story, characters, etc . . .) combine to form the thematic
structure of the story. Finally, the stylistic devices (point of view,
figures, etc . . .) used to bring out the theme can then be analysed.
Students should then go beyond the text and be made to discuss topics
related to the different aspects of the story; and, why not, they should
try to write their own stories!
It is hoped that the anthology will prove to be a useful tool for the
teaching of African literature and will provide students with a better
insight and understanding of the literary value of each story as well as
of the short story genre in Africa.

/. T. de Grandsaigne University of Zambia December 1983

NOTES AND REFERENCES

Note: The Introduction embodies parts of an article published by

ARIEL, Spring 1984 issue, for which permission to reprint has been
given. The author is especially indebted to Dr G Spackey, Prof J
Moody, Dr S Crehan and Miss C Ferreira for their most useful
comments and suggestions, and to Mrs P Tait for the splendid job
done in editing the anthology. 1 Somerset Maugham in Current-Garcia
E. & Walton R.P. What Is the

Short Story?-Scott, Foresman and Company, Glenview, Illinois, 1961.

p. 62

2 Such as Boccaccio's Decameron, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, M. de

Navarre's Heptameron.

3 Edgar Allan Poe, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Vol. XI.,
Literary Criticism, Edgar Allan Poe, Vol. IV, Virginia Edition, AMS
Press Inc., New-York, 1965. pp. 104-13.

4 Eudora Welty, Interview published in Topic, issue No. 137, published

by The International Communication Agency, United States, p. 57.

5 A Modern Lexicon of Literary Terms, M. M. Liberman & Foster E. E.,

Scott, Foresman and Company, Glenview, Illinois, 1968, p. 108

6 Henry James in What Is the Short Story? op.cit., revised edition,

1974, p. 28

7 Herschel Brickell, in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974, p. 110

8 Albert Cook, The Meaning of Fiction, Wayne State U.P., Detroit.

1960, p. 174

9 Eudora Welty in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974, p. 106

10 Truman Capote in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974,-p. 133

11 Ibidem

12 William Saroyan in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974, p. 80

13 Kinsley Amis, Collected Short Stories, Hutchinson & Co Ltd,

London, Penguin Books, 1983, p. 10

14 Stephen Dixon in American Writing Today, Vol. 1., Edited by

Richard Kostelanetz, Forum Series, US, 1982, p. 288.

15 Kinsley Amis, Ibidem

16 French Short Stories of the 19th and 20th Century, Dent & Sons,
1933, introduction by F. C. Green, p. x.

17 See Frank O'Connor, The Lonely Voice, A Study of the Short Story,
Macmillan, London, 1965, p. 17; also, W. Johnson & Hamlin W. C, The
Short Story, American Book Company, New York, 1966, p. 1

18 See supra., p. 1

19 F.C. Green, op. cit. p. vii

20 To avoid cumbersome repetitions, throughout this introduction the

use of 'short story' will refer to the genre while 'African short story'
should imply 'written in English'. Therefore, it should be quite clear
that the whole introduction deals only with the African short story in
English to the exclusion of other languages, and whatever conclusions
are reached only apply to it.

21 Willfried Feuser in Jazz and Palm Wine, Longman, Harlow, 1981,

p.l
22 Henry Seidel Canby in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974, p. 53

23 Ulli Beier, Political Spider, An Anthology edited by Ulli Beier,

Heinemann, London-Ibadan, 1959, p- viii

24 Ulli Beier, Black Orpheus, An anthology of African and Afro-

American prose edited by Ulli Beier, Longman, Nigeria, 1964.

25 Cyprian Ekwensi, Lokotown and other stories, Heinemann,

London-Ibadan, 1966, p. 57 and infra, p. 77

26 Charles Mungoshi, Coming of the Dry Season, Zimbabwe

Publishing House, Harare, 1981 (first published by OUP in 1972), p. 45
and infra, p. 153

27 Maurice Chishimba in Weekend of Carousal, infra p. 68

28 Abioseh Nicol, in More Voices of Africa, Contemporary Voices from

African Literature, edited by Barbara Nolen, Fontana/Collins, London,
1972/75, p. 36-37 and infra, pp. 181-2

29 Ezekiel Mphahlele, The African Image, Faber and Faber, London,

1962, p. 246

30 Ama Ata Aidoo, No Sweetness Here, Longman, London, 1970/79,

p. 37 and infra, p. 44

31 Gaston Bart-Williams, 'The Bed-Sitter', in Black Orpheus, op. cit., p.

36

32 Eric Ng'Maryo, 'Something to Eat . . .', in Joe Magazine, Nairobi,

1974

33 Ngugi Wa Thiong'o in 'The Return', Secret Lives, and other stories,

Heinemann, London-Ibadan, 1975, p. 49 and infra, p. 167

34 Charles Larson, Modern African Stories, Fontana & Collins,

London, 1977, p. 7
35 Ulli Beier in Black Orpheus, op. cit., p. 7-8

36 Richard Kostelanetz in American Writing Today, p. 289

37 W. Johnson & Hamlin C.W., op. cit., p. 2

38 Charles Larson, op. cit., p. 7

39 Gary Spackey in 'Notes on the African Short Story' (mimeographed)

40 See supra, p. 4

41 Ezekiel Mphahlele, in Modern African Stories, op. cit., p. 9

42 A Modern Lexicon of Literary Terms, op. cit., p. 110

43 Charles Larson, op. cit., p.9

44 Herschel Brickell in What Is the Short Story? op. cit., 1974, p. 114

45 F.A. Jomey & Mphahlele E., Modern African Stories, op. cit., p. 12

46 Ibidem

47 W. Johnson & Hamlin W. C, The Short Story, op. cit., p. 42

1 Resurrection

by Richard Rive

The people sang. And one by one the voices joined in and the volume
rose. Tremulously at first, thin and tenuous, and then swelling till it
filled the tiny dining room, pulsated into the two bedrooms, stacked
high with hats and overcoats, and spent itself in the kitchen where
fussy housewives, dressed in black, were making wreaths.

'Jesu lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly . . . ' A blubbery woman in the corner nearest
the cheap, highly polished chest of drawers wept hysterically. Above
her head hung a cheap 10 reproduction of a Karroo scene. A dazzling
white-gabled farmhouse baking in the hot African sun, in the distance
kopjes shimmering against a hazy blue sky. Her bosom heaved and her
lips quivered as she refused to be placated. Her tears proved infectious
and handkerchiefs were convulsively sought.

'Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,

Till the storm of life is past;

Safe into the haven guide . . . ' sang a small boy in a freshly laundered
Eton collar who shared a stiff Ancient and Modern Hymnbook with his
mother. His voice was wiry 20 and weak and completely dominated by
the strong soprano next to him. All the people joined in and sang.
Except Mavis. Only Mavis sat silent, glossy-eyed, staring down at her
rough though delicately shaped brown hands. Her eyes hot and red,
but tearless, with a slightly contemptuous sneer around the closed,
cruel mouth. Only Mavis sat silent. Staring at her hands and noticing
that the left thumbnail was scarred and broken. She refused to raise
her eyes, refused to look at the coffin, at the hymnbook open and
neglected on her lap. Her mouth was tightly shut, as if determined not
to open, not to say a word. Tensely she sat and stared at her broken
fingernail. The room did not exist. The 30 fat woman blubbered
unnoticed. The people sang but Mavis heard nothing.

'Other refuge have I none,

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee

they began the second verse. The fat woman had sufficiently recovered
to attempt to add a tremulous contralto. The boy in the Eton collar
laboriously followed the line with his finger. Mavis vaguely recognized
Rosie as she fussily hurried in with a tray of fresh flowers, passed a
brief word with an overdressed woman nearest the door, and busily
hurried out again. Mavis sensed things happening but saw without
seeing and felt without feeling. Nothing registered, but she could feel
the Old 40 Woman's presence, could feel the room becoming her dead
mother, becoming full of Ma, crowded with Ma, swirling with Ma. Ma
of the gnarled hands and frightened eyes. Those eyes that had asked
questioningly, 'Mavis, why do they treat me so? Please Mavis, why do
they treat me so?'

And Mavis had known the answer and had felt the anger well up inside
her, till her mouth felt hot and raw. And she had spat out at the Old
Woman, 'Because you're coloured! You're coloured, Ma, but you gave
birth to white children. It's your fault, Ma, all your fault . . . You gave
birth to white children. White children, Ma. White 50 children!'

Mavis felt dimly aware that the room was overcrowded, overbearingly
overcrowded. Hot, stuffy, crammed, overflowing. And, of course, Ma.
Squeezed in. Occupying a tiny place in the centre. Right in the centre.
Pride of place in a coffin of pinewood that bore the economical legend:

Maria Loupser

1889-1961

R.I.P.

Rest in peace. With people crowding around and sharing seats and 60
filling the doorway. And Ma had been that Maria Loupser who must
now rest in peace. Maria Loupser. Maria Wilhelmina Loupser. Mavis
looked up quickly to see if the plaque was really there, then
automatically shifted her gaze to her broken nail. No one noticed her
self-absorption, and the singing continued uninterruptedly. 'Other
refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee . . .

Flowers. Hot, oppressive smell of flowers. Flowers, death, and the

people singing. A florid red-faced man in the doorway singing so that
his veins stood out purple against the temples. People bustling in and
70 out. Fussily. Coming to have a look at Ma. A last look at Ma. To put
a flower in the coffin for Ma. Then opening hymnbooks and singing a
dirge for Ma. Poor deceived Ma of the tragic eyes and twisted hands
who had given birth to white children, and Mavis. Now they raised
their voices and sang for Ma.
'Leave, ah, leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me! ... '

And it had been only a month earlier when Mavis had looked into
those bewildered eyes. 80 'Mavis, why do they treat me so?'

And Mavis had become angry so that her saliva had turned hot in her
mouth.

'Please Mavis, why do they treat me so?'

And then she had driven the words into the Old Woman with a skewer.

'Because you are old and black, and your children want you out of the
way.'

And yet what Mavis had wanted to add was, 'They want me out of the
way too, Ma, because you made me black like you. I am also your 90
child, Ma. I belong to you. They want me also to stay in the kitchen
and use the back door. We must not be seen, Ma, their friends must
not see us. We embarrass them, Ma, so they hate us. They hate us
because we're black. You and I, Ma.'

But she had not said so, and had only stared cruelly into the eyes of the
Old Woman. Eyes that did not understand. Eyes already dying. And
she had continued to torture the Old Woman.

'You're no longer useful, Ma. You're a nuisance, a bloody nuisance, a

bloody black nuisance. You might come out of your kitchen and shock
the white scum they bring here. You're a bloody nuisance, Ma!' 100
But still the Old Woman could not understand, and looked helplessly
at Mavis.

'But I don't want to go in the dining room. It's true, Mavis, I don't want
to go in the dining room.'

And as she spoke tears flooded her eyes and she whimpered like a
child who had lost a toy.

'It's my dining room, Mavis, it's true. It's my dining room.'

And Mavis had felt such a dark and hideous pleasure overwhelming
her that she had screamed hysterically at the Old Woman.

'You're black and your bloody children's white. Jim and Rosie and 110
Sonny are white, white, white! An you made me. You made me black!'

Then Mavis had broken down exhausted at her self-revealing and had
cried like a baby.

'Ma, why did you make me black?'

And then only had a vague understanding strayed into those milky
eyes, and Ma had taken her youngest into her arms and rocked and
soothed her. And crooned to her in a cracked, broken voice the songs
she had sung years before she had come to Cape Town.

l Slaap my kindjie slaap sag, Onder engele vannag . . . .

And the voice of the Old Woman had become stronger and more 120
perceptive as her dull eyes saw her childhood, and the stream running
through Wolfgat, and the brokendown church, and the moon rising in
the direction of Solitaire.

And Ma had understood and rocked Mavis in her arms like years
before. And now Ma was back in the dining room as shadows crept
across the wall.

'Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide

Shadows creeping across the room. Shadows gray and deep. As deep
as Ma's ignorance.

'The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide . . . 130

Shadows filtering through the drawn blind. Rosie tight-lipped and

officious. Sonny. Jim, who had left his white wife at home. Pointedly
ignoring Mavis, speaking in hushed tones to the florid man in the
doorway. Mavis a small inconspicuous brown figure in the corner. The
only other brown face in the crowded dining room besides Ma. Even
the Old Woman was paler in death. Ma's friends in the kitchen. A
huddled, frightened group around the stove.

'Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?'

And Mavis had shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

'Please, Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?' 140

And Mavis had turned on her.

'Do you want Soufie with her black skin to sit in the dining room? Or
Ou-Kaar with his kroeskop? Or Eva or Leuntjie? Do you? Do you want
Sonny's wife to see them? Or the white dirt Rosie picks up? Do you
want to shame your children? Humiliate them? Expose their black
blood?'

And the Old Woman had blubbered. 'I only want my friends to visit.
They can sit in the kitchen.'

And Mavis had sighed helplessly at the simplicity of the doddering Old
Woman and had felt like saying, 'And what of my friends, my 150
coloured friends? Must they also sit in the kitchen?'

And tears had shot into those milky eyes and the mother had looked
even older.

'Mavis, I want my friends to visit me, even if they sit in the kitchen.
Please, Mavis, they're all I got.'

And now Ma's friends sat in the kitchen, a cowering timid group
around the fire, speaking the raw gutteral Afrikaans of the Caledon
District. They spoke of Ma and their childhood together. Ou-Kaar and
Leuntjie and Eva and Ma. Of the Caledon District, cut off from

160 bustling Cape* Town. Where the Moravian mission church was
crumbling, and the sweet water ran past Wolfgat, and past
Karwyderskraal, and lost itself near Grootkop. And the moon rose rich
and yellow from the hills behind Solitaire. And now they sat frightened
and huddled around the stove, speaking of Ma. Tant Soufie in a new
kopdoek, and Ou-Kaar conspicuous in borrowed yellow shoes, sizes
too small. And Leuntjie and Eva.

And in the dining room sat Dadda's relations, singing. Dadda's friends
who had ignored Ma while she had lived. Dadda's white friends and
relations, and a gloss-eyed Mavis, a Mavis who scratched

170 meaninglessly at her broken thumbnail. And now the singing rose
in volume as still more people filed in.

'When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O
abide with me! ... ' they sang to the dead woman.

Mavis could have helped Ma, could have given the understanding she
needed, could have protected Ma, could have tried to stop the petty
tyranny. But she had never tried to reason with them. Rosie, Sonny,
and Jim. She had never pleaded with them, explained to them that the
Old Woman was dying. Her own soul ate her up. Gnawed her inside.

180 She was afraid of their reactions lest they should notice her.
Preferred to play a shadow, seen but never heard. A vague entity, part
of the furniture. If only they could somehow be aware of her emotions.
The feelings bottled up inside her, the bubbling volcano below. She
was afraid they might openly say, 'Why don't you both clear out and
leave us in peace, you bloody black bastards?' She could then have
cleared out, should then have cleared out, sought a room in
Woodstock or Salt River and have forgotten her frustration. But there
was Ma. There was the Old Woman. Mavis had never spoken to them,
but had vented her spleen on her helpless mother.

190 'You sent them to a white school. You were proud of your white
brats and hated me, didn't you?'

And the mother had stared with oxlike dumbness. 'You encouraged
them to bring their friends to the house, to your house, and told me to
stay in the kitchen. And you had a black skin yourself. You hated me,
Ma, hated me! And now they've pushed you also in the kitchen.
There's no one to blame but you. You're the cause of all this.'

And she had tormented the Old Woman, who did not retaliate. Who
could not retaliate. Who could not understand. Now she sat tortured

200 with memories as they sang hymns for Ma.

The room assumed a sepulchral appearance. Shadows deepened,

gray, then darker. Tears, flowers, handkerchiefs, and dominating

everything, the simple, bewildered eyes of Ma. Bewildered even in
death. So that Mavis had covered them with two pennies, that others
might not see.

7 need Thy presence every passing hour . . . sang Dadda's eldest

brother, who sat with eyes tightly shut near the head of the coffin. He
had bitterly resented Dadda's marriage to a coloured woman. Living in
sin! A Loupser married to a Hottentot! He had boasted of his refusal to
greet Ma socially while she lived, and he 210 attended the funeral only
because his brother's wife had died. This was the second time he had
been in the dining room. The first time was Dadda's funeral. And now
this. A coloured girl — his niece, he believed — sitting completely out
of place and saying nothing . . . annoying, most annoying.

'What but Thy Grace can foil the tempter's power . . . ' sang the boy in
the Eton collar, whose mother had not quite recovered from the shock
that Mr. Loupser had had a coloured wife. All sang except Mavis,
torturing herself with memories.

'I am going to die, Mavis,' those milky eyes had told her a week 220
before, 'I think I am going to die.'

'Ask your white brats to bury you. You slaved for them.'

'They are my children but they do not treat me right.'

'Do you know why? Shall I tell you why?' And she had driven home
every word with an ugly ferocity. 'Because they're ashamed of you.
Afraid of you, afraid the world might know of their coloured mother!'

'But I did my best for them!'

'You did more than your best, you encouraged them, but you were
ashamed of me, weren't you? So now we share a room at the back 230
where we can't be seen. And you are going to die. and your white
children will thank God that you're out of the way.'

'They are your brothers and sisters, Mavis.'

'What's that you're saying?' Mavis gasped, amazed at the hypocrisy.

'What's that? I hate them and I hate you! I hate you!'

And the Old Woman had whimpered, 'But you are my children, you
are all my children. Please, Mavis, don't let me die so?'

'You will die in the back room and be buried from the kitchen.'

'It's a sin, Mavis, it's a sin!'

But they had not buried her from the kitchen. They had removed 240
the table from the dining room and borrowed chairs from the
neighbours. And now, while they waited for the priest from Dadda's
church, they sang hymns.

'Heaven's morning breaks, and earth 's vain shadows flee . . . ' sang the
boy in the Eton collar.

'In life and death, O Lord, abide with me! ... ' the florid man sang
loudly, to end the verse. There was an expectant bustle at the door,
and then the priest from Dadda's church, St. John the Divine,
appeared. All now crowded into the dining room, those 250 who were
making wreaths, and Tant Soufie holding Ou-Kaar's trembling hand.

'Please, Mavis, ask Father Josephs at the mission to bury me.'

'Ask your brats to fetch him themselves. See them ask a black man to
bury you!'

'Please, Mavis, see that Father Josephs buries me!'

'It's not my business, you fool! You did nothing for me!'

'I am your mother, my girl,' the Old Woman had sobbed, 'I raised you.'

'Yes, you raised me, and you taught me my place! You took me to 260
the mission with you, because we were too black to go to St John's. Let
them see Father Josephs for a change. Let them enter our mission and
see our God.'

And Ma had not understood but whimpered, 'Please, Mavis, let Father
Josephs bury me.'

So now the priest from Dadda's church stood at the head of her coffin,
sharp and thin, clutching his cassock with his left hand, while his right
held an open prayer book.

'I said I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not in my tongue. I
will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle: while the ungodly is in my
270 sight.'

Mavis felt the cruel irony of the words.

'I held my tongue and spake nothing. I kept silent, yea even from good
words but it was pain and grief to me

The fat lady stroked her son's head and sniffed loudly.

'My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire
kindled, and at the last I spake with my tongue

Mavis now stared entranced at her broken fingernail. The words

seared, and filling, dominated the room.

It was true. Rosie had consulted her about going to the mission and
280 asking for Father Josephs, but she had turned on her heel without
a word and walked out into the streets, and walked and walked.
Through the cobbled streets of older Cape Town, up beyond the
mosque in the Malay quarter on the slopes of Signal Hill. Thinking of
the dead woman in the room.

A mother married to a white man and dying in a back room.

Walking the streets, the Old Woman with her, followed by the Old
Woman's eyes. Eating out her soul. Let them go to the mission and see
our God. Meet Father Josephs. But they had gone for Dadda's priest,
who now prayed at the coffin of a broken coloured woman. And the
back room was empty. 290

'I heard a voice from heaven, Saying unto me, "Write, From henceforth
blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit; for
they rest from their labours ..."

'Lord, take Thy servant, Maria Wilhelmina Loupser, into Thy eternal
care. Grant her Thy eternal peace and understanding. Thou art our
refuge and our rock. Look kindly upon her children who even in this
time of trial and suffering look up to Thee for solace. Send Thy eternal
blessing upon them, for they have heeded Thy commandment which is
"Honour they father and thy mother, that thy days may be long . . .'"
300

Mavis felt hot, strangely, unbearably hot. Her saliva turned to white
heat in her mouth and her head rolled drunkenly. The room was filled
with her mother's presence, her mother's eyes, body, soul. Flowing
into her, filling every pore, becoming one with her, becoming a living
condemnation.

'Misbelievers!' she screeched hoarsely. 'Liars! You killed me! You

murdered me! Hypocrites! Don't you know your God!'

NOTES ON RESURRECTION

THE AUTHOR
Richard RIVE: Born in 1931 and educated in South Africa where he
took a B.A. at the University of Cape Town, and in the USA where, in
1966, he got an MA. at the University of Columbia in New York.
Richard Rive now teaches and writes in South Africa; he is essentially
a short story writer. His major works include: African Songs (short
stories, 1963), Emergency (novel, 1964), Selected Writings (essays,
plays, short stories, 1977), Writing Black (essay, 1981). Richard Rive
has also edited Modern African Prose (1964) and Quartet (short
stories, 1963 from which this story is taken).

THE STORY

1 Summary

An old woman, Maria Wilhelmina Loupser, has died. Her funeral takes
place in the dining room of her house. It is attended by her four
children, her dead husband's relatives and friends, and her own
childhood friends.

But we are in South Africa and therefore this is a funeral with a

difference. Maria Loupser, a coloured woman, had married a white
man; and if three of her children are white-skinned, one — her
daughter Mavis — is black. The mourners who fill the dining room are
all white except Mavis. Ma's black friends keep timidly to the kitchen.
While the little white crowd pray and sing for the dead woman they
refused to accept into their fold in her lifetime, Mavis revives in
memory her mother's last days when the truth dawned on the old
woman. Ashamed of their coloured mother and black sister, the three
white children had progressively relegated them to the kitchen where
they would not be seen or heard any more. Instead of fighting back
and protecting her old mother, Mavis submitted to this racial tyranny.
She had, however taken her revenge on the poor, helpless woman by
tormenting her with reproaches and abuse.

Now, as a white priest is praying for her dead mother, Mavis is

tortured with memories of her cruelty. Remorse and guilt become so
acute that she begins to forget her own bitterness and resentment. She
finally yields to her dead mother's presence and lets it fill her soul.
It is in her mother's name, as much as in her own, that Mavis
denounces the hypocrisy of a ceremony which, under the cover of
religion, pretends to ignore the all-pervading and evil reality of racial
segregation.

2 Notes on the text

The text can be divided into three main component parts. Each one
has several sub-divisions.

I From page 16 ('The people sang . . .') to page 17 ('Please Mavis, why
do they treat me so?').

a) (lines 1 to 7): the usual kind of funeral with mourners, hymn-

singing and wreath-making.

b) (lines 8 to 45): some mourners are singled out for description ('a
blubbery woman', 'a small boy', 'an overdressed woman', Rosie, and
the silent girl with brown hands called Mavis).

Note the contrast between the mourners' noisy show of sorrow and
Mavis' apparent indifference to the ceremony.

the Karroo: semi-arid part of the Cape and Free State; a kopje: a hill in
Afrikaans; Eton collar: stiff high collar, part of the uniform worn by
the pupils of the famous English public school, Eton; soprano: highest
singing voice of women and girls, or young boys; contralto: lowest
female voice.

II From page 17 ('And Mavis had known the answer . . .') to page 22
('Please, Mavis, let Father Josephs bury me').

a) (lines 46 to 50): an important paragraph which explains the family

situation around which the whole plot of the story revolves. coloured:
legal term used in South Africa to define people of mixed blood (either
black or Indian and white blood).

b) (lines 52 to 77): the old woman's presence begins to fill the room
and the funeral atmosphere weighs heavily on Mavis's thoughts.

R.I.P. : stands for requiescat in pace (a Latin expression translating as

'rest in peace').

c) (lines 78 to 110): the relationship between the children and their

mother is spelled out in greater detail. Not only the white children but
also Mavis hate the old woman for being black.

Note that we only know of the white children's selfish and callous

behaviour through Mavis' strongly-worded accusations while at the

same

time we are made to witness her own appalling cruelty towards the old

woman.

black: used here as a very derogatory term, almost an insult.

d) (lines 111 to 123): this short paragraph comes as a 'moment of grace'

when for once mother and daughter feel at one.

Slaap my kindjie slaap sag/Onder engele vannag . . .: an Afrikaans

lullaby meaning: Sleep my little child, sleep softly. Under angels
tonight . . .

e) (lines 124 to 155): Death does not bring children or races closer, no
more than in Ma's life-time.

kroeskop: kinky hair in Afrikaans.

f) (lines 156 to 174): even in worship, racial prejudice keeps people

apart; the whites in the dining-room (carefully ignoring Mavis), the
blacks in the kitchen.

Note how much nearer to the dead woman are her black friends.
Caledon District, Wolf gat, Karwyders kraal, Grootkop: Semi-rural
locations near Cape Town where the Dutch first settled., Moravian:
from Moravia in Czeckoslovakia; kopdoek: headscarf in Afrikaans;
Tant: aunt in Afrikaans.

g) (lines 175 to 200): Mavis' own share of responsibility in her

mother's desperate plight comes out clearly.

Woodstock, Salt River: suburbs of Cape Town.

h) (lines 201 to 212): death does not bring peace to the old woman, nor
to Mavis whose feelings of guilt and remorse increase as the funeral
nears its end. Dadda: familiar name for father (like 'Daddy') in
Afrikaans. Hottentot: one of the main tribes of South Africa — also
used as a general synonym for black.

i) (lines 220 to 264): the old woman's last hope (a peaceful and
dignified funeral) is shattered by Mavis whose hate seems to know no
bounds. For the first time, we are made to realise that the white
children might not have been as bad as Mavis would like us to believe.
However, is it out of respect for their mother or because of social
proprieties that the funeral ceremony takes place in the front room of
the house?

St John the Divine, Father Josephs at the mission: In South Africa

while whites are considered true Christians, blacks still need to be
cared for by missionaries.

Ill From page,22 ('So now the priest from Dadda's church . . .') to page
23 ('Don't you know your God!').

a) (lines 265 to 300): Mavis is under considerable emotional stress.

The message of love seems at last to reach her tormented soul. She has
to accept the truth: her white brothers and sister were not entirely
blinded by racial prejudice.

b) (lines 301 to 307): The funeral is about to end. Overcome by guilt

and remorse, Mavis opens her soul at last to the dead woman's
presence and rises to the occasion. Can it not be said that the black
daughter finally (but, unfortunately, too late) redeems herself?
3 Questions on the text

1 How did the white children progressively make Ma's life an utter
misery?

2 Did Ma bring up all her children in the same way? Why not?

3 What does Mavis imply when telling her mother (line 238): 'You will
die in the back room and be buried from the kitchen', and why does
Ma reply (line 239): 'It's a sin, Mavis, it's a sin!'

4 How did Dadda's relatives and friends treat Ma in her lifetime?

5 Which of the three white children does Mavis hate most and why?

4 Characters

Mavis

A 'black' girl whose age and physical appearance remain vague. A

sister who

hates her two brothers and sister for being white, her mother's
favourites,

and for discriminating against her. But, above all, Mavis is Ma 's only
black

child.

Black: Although Mavis is in reality 'coloured' (i.e. from a white father

and a

coloured mother), she chooses to consider herself as black and, rather

than

genetics, she blames her mother for her skin-colour which she sees as
a curse.
The only black child: and therefore a shameful reminder to the rest of
the

family.

Ma 's daughter: Mavis sees the way her mother brought her up as a

particularly cruel exercise in racial discrimination (line 259: 'Yes, you

raised

me, and you taught me my place!').

Is it therefore surprising that Mavis feels justified in paying back the

old

woman in her own coin and showing such cruelty? However, it must
be

noted that Mavis' feelings toward her mother remain ambiguous: there
is

hate but also desperate longing for love; an ugly wish for revenge but
also

guilt and remorse.

Mavis is a victim of racial prejudice and discrimination. Instead of

fighting the

curse, however, she seems to yield too willingly to it. Her violence
remains

sterile even though it brings her to stand up for her dead mother and

denounce white hypocrisy in the end.

Ma

Maria Wilhelmina Loupser (note the Afrikaans connotation of the

names),

born in 1889 and whose funeral is taking place when the story begins.

She embodies the racial distinctions on which the apartheid system is

based: a

coloured woman married to a white man, having given birth to one

black and

three white children. Such an impossible position partly accounts for

her

submissive attitude and ready acceptance of racial discrimination.

As a mother, she has brought up her children according to the rules

governing South African society, therefore bringing racial prejudice

into the

family itself.

In her old age, she reaps the bitter reward of her efforts to confirm her
white

children in their racial supremacy and to keep her black daughter in

her

'right' place.

The old woman's distress and bewilderment are easy to explain. She
loved her

children dearly, all of them, she gave them the best she could
(according to

her lights). Yet she comes to suffer at their hands as much as she
would at the
hands of the worse torturers.

Ma's life ends in tragedy because she forgot all along that nothing but
evil

could come from following the rules of apartheid blindly. But is she to
be

blamed or pitied for it?

The white children

They are cheats: although they belong to the 'coloured' group as much
as

Mavis or Ma do, an accident of nature (or is it the law of heredity?)

allows

them to enjoy unduly the privileges, and to share in the prejudices, of

the

whites.

They are heartless: they make their mother's life utterly miserable;
they

frighten their sister Mavis into silence and submission.

They are despicable: they honour in death a mother whom they

refused to

acknowledge in life.

Is it not possible, however, to find some redeeming features in them?

Can it

not be said that, in a way, they also are victims of apartheid?

Relatives and Mourners

They fit into the 'usual' mould:

— arrogant and hypocritical whites,

— subdued and self-conscious blacks.

5 Theme

Racialism

I It appears in the story in its most obvious and crudest form, i.e. in
colour

discrimination.

a) The whites: theirs is a straightforward and totally inhibited form of

racialism. It does not differentiate in any way between 'coloured' and
'black'. They all belong to the same inferior race to be used at one's
own convenience but never to be given any rights or to be brought into
the fold of white society.

With whites, racialism is dogma; any encroachment on it is considered

as a 'sin' (Dadda's marriage to a coloured woman, for instance).
Therefore,

Ma's white children see nothing wrong in edging out their mother and
sister from their life once the two women (especially the mother) have
served their purpose.

b) Ma: because of her own intricate racial position, she should be

aware of the danger of racialism. However, most surprisingly, she
abides blindly by all its tenets. This serves to show how racialism can
become rooted even in those who suffer most from it. With Ma,
racialism is almost 'second nature'. Why then, does she become so
distressed when her white children apply the same yardstick to her?

However, it should be noted that Ma's position toward racialism is not

entirely one-sided. She retains a strong link with the black community
(her black friends, her wish to be buried by a black priest).
c) Mavis: her sensitivity to racialism makes her life a perpetual torture.
But Mavis does not live up to her colour. On the contrary, she adopts
the same racial attitudes as her white brothers and sister, and her
mother: she sees her blackness as a curse for which not only must
somebody be blamed (here, her mother — line 110: 'You made me
black'), but also from which there is no possible escape. What lesson
can be learned from this story as regards racialism? Certainly that it is
a devastating force which wrecks everybody's life, poisons everybody's
mind, turns society into hell. Does the story convey any message of
hope? Does not Mavis' enraged outburst come too late, when only
ashes remain and when the devil has already won the day?

II Racialism also affects the religious element of the story. There is

only one God even though men worship him in different ways. And
yet, Mavis can say to her mother (lines 261—2): 'Let them enter our
mission and see our God!', and to the whites (line 307): 'Don't you
know your God!'. Our God, your God: religion is also a tragic victim of
apartheid. It is a tool which whites use to prop up their pretensions to
racial supremacy. (The hymns they sing with so much emotion are
meant to reassure them that God is on their side. The prayers which
the white priest lavishes on Ma's coffin are meant to convince the
white children of their self-righteousness.) But how can the Lord
answer the whites' prayers and give them the same peace and solace
which they refused to give to a black woman in her lifetime? In a most
effective way, the story brings out the tragic results of apartheid as
applied to religion. It deprives blacks of their last hope — that of a just
God who could give them back their lost dignity. Is there then any
alternative other than violence?

6 Style

The narrative movement of the story revolves around the figure of Ma.
It switches from the present to the past according to a tempo which
determines the respective length of each narrative unit. It leads
progressively to Ma's presence pervading the whole story so that, in
the end, the distinction
between present and past becomes blurred, allowing for Ma's
'resurrection'.

I Narrative Note:

a) The initial contrast between mourners (a woman weeping

'hysterically', people seeking handkerchiefs 'convulsively') and Mavis
(sitting 'silent', her mouth 'tightly shut'); between the bustle of the
funeral ('Rosie . . . fussily hurried in . . . and busily hurried out again',
'People bustling in and out') and Mavis' total immersion in her own
feelings and memories ('Nothing registered'); between the easy flow of
sorrow and Mavis' bottled-up resentment.

b) The increasing influence of the funeral atmosphere on Mavis'

thoughts ('Hot, oppressive smell of flowers', 'Shadows grey and deep';
'The words seared, and filling, dominated the room').

c) The 'resurrection' brought about by the Holy Words ('My heart was
hot within me . . . and at last I spake with my tongue'); the echo which
those words find in Mavis' soul ('Mavis felt strangely, unbearably hot').

II Characters' reactions and feelings Note:

a) The mother's helplessness and despair ('Ma of the gnarled hands

and frightened eyes'; 'tragic eyes and twisted hands', 'a cracked,
broken voice', 'she whimpered like a child', she 'blubbered', 'sobbed').

b) Mavis' hate: for her mother ('You're a nuisance, a bloody nuisance,

a bloody black nuisance', 'you fool', 'she had spat out at the Old
Woman', 'she had continued to torture the Old Woman', 'she had
screamed hysterically at the Old Woman'); for her brothers and sister
('bloody children', 'white brats', 'I hate them'); for the whites ('white
scum', 'white dirt').

III Changes in focus Note:

a) The accurate description of the funeral, of secondary characters (as

seen by an impartial observer).
b) Insights in Mavis' tortured mind (see lines 285 to 290. 'A mother
married to a white man . . . And the back room was empty').

c) The unbearable violence of Mavis' words and Ma's pitiful

incomprehension of the world around her.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Write a short paragraph on each mourner.

2 Mavis shames her white brothers and sister for the way they treat
Ma. Imagine her words to them.

3 In which other stories in this anthology does racialism play a major

role and what are the consequences?

4 Find words and expressions which show Mavis' anger against her old
mother and her wish to hurt the old woman.

Imagine what Father Josephs would have said if he had been asked to

conduct the funeral.

Does Ma deserves the treatment she gets from Mavis? Justify your

answer.

A black boy/girl is schooling among whites. Racial prejudice makes

his/her

life unbearable. But instead of bowing to racialism, he/she fights

against it

and eventually wins the respect and friendship of his/her school-

mates.

Write the story.

Violence is the only way to fight racialism. Discuss.

2 Civil Peace

by Chinua Achebe

Jonathan Iwegbu counted himself extra-ordinarily lucky. 'Happy

survival!' meant so much more to him than just a current fashion of
greeting old friends in the first hazy days of peace. It went deep to his
heart. He had come out of the war with five inestimable blessings —
his head, his wife Maria's head and the heads of three out of their four
children. As a bonus he also had his old bicycle — a miracle too but
naturally not to be compared to the safety of five human heads.

The bicycle had a little history of its own. One day at the height of the
war it was commandeered 'for urgent military action'. Hard as its loss
would have been to him he would still have let it go without a 10
thought had he not had some doubts about the genuineness of the
officer. It wasn't his disreputable rags, nor the toes peeping out of one
blue and one brown canvas shoes, nor yet the two stars of his rank
done obviously in a hurry in biro, that troubled Jonathan; many good
and heroic soldiers looked the same or worse. It was rather a certain
lack of grip and firmness in his manner. So Jonathan, suspecting he
might be amenable to influence, rummaged in his raffia bag and
produced the two pounds with which he had been going to buy
firewood which his wife, Maria, retailed to camp officials for extra
stock-fish and corn meal, and got his bicyle back. That night he buried
20 it in the little clearing in the bush where the dead of the camp,
including his own youngest son, were buried. When he dug it up again
a year later after the surrender all it needed was a little palm-oil
greasing. 'Nothing puzzles God,' he said in wonder.

He put it to immediate use as a taxi and accumulated a small pile of

Biafran money ferrying camp officials and their families across the
four-mile stretch to the nearest tarred road. His standard charge per
trip was six pounds and those who had the money were only glad to be
rid of some of it in this way. At the end of a fortnight he had made a
small fortune of one hundred and fifteen pounds. 30

Then he made the journey to Enugu and found another miracle

waiting for him. It was unbelievable. He rubbed his eyes and looked
again and it was still standing there before him. But, needless to say,

even that monumental blessing must be accounted also totally inferior

to the five heads in the family. This newest miracle was his little house
in Ogui Overside. Indeed nothing puzzles God! Only two houses away
a huge concrete edifice some wealthy contractor had put up just before
the war was a mountain of rubble. And here was Jonathan's little zinc
house of no regrets built with mud blocks quite intact! Of course the

40 doors and windows were missing and five sheets off the roof. But
what was that? And anyhow he had returned to Enugu early enough to
pick up bits of old zinc and wood and soggy sheets of cardboard lying
around the neighbourhood before thousands more came out of their
forest holes looking for the same things. He got a destitute carpenter
with one old hammer, a blunt plane and a few bent and rusty nails in
his tool bag to turn this assortment of wood, paper and metal into door
and window shutters for five Nigerian shillings or fifty Biafran pounds.
He paid the pounds, and moved in with his overjoyed family carrying
five heads on their shoulders.

50 His children picked mangoes near the military cemetery and sold
them to soldiers' wives for a few pennies — real pennies this time —
and his wife started making breakfast akara balls for neighbours in a
hurry to start life again. With his family earnings he took his bicycle to
the villages around and bought fresh palm-wine which he mixed
generously in his rooms with the water which had recently started
running again in the public tap down the road, and opened up a bar
for soldiers and other lucky people with good money.

At first he went daily, then every other day and finally once a week, to
the offices of the Coal Corporation where he used to be a miner, to

60 find out what was what. The only thing he did find out in the end
was that that little house of his was even a greater blessing than he had
thought. Some of his fellow ex-miners who had nowhere to return at
the end of the day's waiting just slept outside the doors of the offices
and cooked what meal they could scrounge together in Bournvita tins.
As the weeks lengthened and still nobody could say what was what
Jonathan discontinued his weekly visits altogether and faced his palm-
wine bar.

But nothing puzzles God. Came the day of the wind-fall when after five
days of endless scuffles in queues and counter-queues in the sun

70 outside the Treasury he had twenty pounds counted into his palms
as ex-gratia award for the rebel money he had turned in. It was like
Christmas for him and for many others like him when the payments
began. They called it (since few could manage its proper official name)
egg-rasher.

As soon as the pound notes were placed in his palm Jonathan simply

closed it tight over them and buried fist and money inside his trouser
pocket. He had to be extra careful because he had seen a man a couple
of days earlier collapse into near-madness in an instant before that
oceanic crowd because no sooner had he got his twenty pounds than
some heartless ruffian picked it off him. Though it was not right that a
80 man in such an extremity of agony should be blamed yet many in
the queues that day were able to remark quietly on the victim's
carelessness, especially after he pulled out the innards of his pocket
and revealed a hole in it big enough to pass a thief's head. But of
course he had insisted that the money had been in the other pocket,
pulling it out too to show its comparative wholeness. So one had to be
careful.

Jonathan soon transferred the money to his left hand and pocket so as
to leave his right free for shaking hands should the need arise, though
by fixing his gaze at such an elevation as to miss all approaching
human faces he made sure that the need did not arise, 90 until he got
home.

He was normally a heavy sleeper but that night he heard all the
neighbourhood noises die down one after another. Even the night
watchman who knocked the hour on some metal somewhere in the
distance had fallen silent after knocking one o'clock. That must have
been the last thought in Jonathan's mind before he was finally carried
away himself. He couldn't have been gone for long, though, when he
was violently awakened again.

'Who is knocking?' whispered his wife lying beside him on the floor.

'I don't know,' he whispered back breathlessly. 100

The second time the knocking came it was so loud and imperious that
the rickety old door could have fallen down.

'Who is knocking?' he asked then, his voice parched and trembling.

'Na tief-man and him people,' came the cool reply. 'Make you hopen de
door.' This was followed by the heaviest knocking of all.

Maria was the first to raise the alarm, then he followed and all their
children.

'Police-o! Thieves-o! Neighbours-o! Police-o! We are lost! We are

dead! Neighbours, are you asleep? Wake up! Police-o!

This went on for a long time and then stopped suddenly. Perhaps 110
they had scared the thief away. There was total silence. But only for a
short while.

'You done finish?' asked the voice outside. 'Make we help you small.
Oya, everybody!'

'Police-o! Tief-man-o! Neighbours-o! We done loss-o! Police-o!

There were at least five other voices besides the leader's.

Jonathan and his family were now completely paralysed by terror.

Maria and the children sobbed inaudibly like lost souls. Jonathan 120
groaned continuously.

The silence that followed the thieves' alarm vibrated horribly.

Jonathan all but begged their leader to speak again and be done with
it.

'My frien,' said he at long last, 'we don try our best for call dem but I
tink say dem all done sleep-o ... So wetin we go do now? Sometaim you
wan call soja? Or you wan make we call dem for you? Soja better pass
police. No be so?'

'Na so!' replied his men. Jonathan thought he heard even more voices
now than before and groaned heavily. His legs were sagging under him
and his throat felt like sand-paper. 130 'My frien, why you no de talk
again. I de ask you say you wan make we call soja?'

'No'.

'Awrighto. Now make we talk business. We no be bad tief. We no like

for make trouble. Trouble done finish. War done finish and all the
katakata wey de for inside. No Civil War again. This time na Civil
Peace. No be so?'

'Na so!' answered the horrible chorus.

'What do you want from me? I am a poor man. Everything I had went
with this war. Why do you come to me? You know people who 140
have money. We . . .'

'Awright! We know say you no get plenty money. But we sef no get
even anini. So derefore make you open dis window and give us one
hundred pound and we go commot. Orderwise we de come for inside
now to show you guitar-boy like dis

A volley of automatic fire rang through the sky. Maria and the children
began to weep aloud again.

'Ah, missisi de cry again. No need for dat. We done talk say we na good
tief. We just take our small money and go nwayorly. No molest. Abi we
de molest?' HO 'At all!' sang the chorus.

'My friends,' began Jonathan hoarsely. 'I hear what you say and I
thank you. If I had one hundred pounds

'Lookia my frien, no be play we come play for your house. If we make

mistake and step for inside you no go like am-o. So derefore . . .'

'To God who made me; if you come inside and find one hundred
pounds, take it and shoot me and shoot my wife and children. I swear
to God. The only money I have in this life is this twenty-pounds egg-
rasher they gave me today

'OK. Time de go. Make you open dis window and bring the twenty

There were now loud murmurs of dissent among the chorus: 'Na lie

de man de lie; e get plenty money . . . Make we go inside and search

properly well . . . Wetin be twenty pound?

'Shurrup!' rang the leader's voice like a lone shot in the sky and

silenced the murmuring at once. 'Are you dere? Bring the money

quick!'

'I am coming,' said Jonathan fumbling in the darkness with the key

of the small wooden box he kept by his side on the mat.

170 At the first sign of light as neighbours and others assembled to

commiserate with him he was already strapping his five-gallon
demijohn to his bicycle carrier and his wife, sweating in the open fire,
was turning over akara balls in a wide clay bowl of boiling oil. In the
corner his eldest son was rinsing out dregs of yesterday's palm-wine
from old beer bottles.

'I count it as nothing,' he told his sympathizers, his eyes on the rope he
was tying. 'What is egg-rasher? Did I depend on it last week? Or is it
greater than other things that went with the war? I say, let egg-rasher
perish in the flames! Let it go where everything else has gone. 180
Nothing puzzles God.'

NOTES ON CIVIL PEACE

THE AUTHOR

Chinua ACHEBE: born in 1930 in Nigeria, graduated from the

University

of Ibadan. Successively civil servant, broadcaster and academic,

Chinua

Achebe belongs to the first generation of Nigerian writers to win world

recognition.

Novelist of great talent, his works include: Things Fall Apart{\9^),

Arrow

of God (1964) and Women at War (1971) in which the present story

appeared.

THE STORY

I Summary

The Biafran war is over. Jonathan Iwegbu is one of me lucky survivors.

Not only has he come out of the war with his life and most of his
family, but also with his precious bicycle and his little house in town.
He sets off immediately to make money out of the new 'civil peace',
first by

35

using his bicycle to ferry people from the bush to the nearest tarred
road; then by setting up a palm-wine bar while his wife and children
engage in petty-trading; and finally by taking advantage of the
Nigerian Government's benevolence to change his useless Biafran
notes for good Nigerian pounds. However, money can cause trouble.
One night, Jonathan's house is surrounded by a gang of highly
colourful thieves. Needless to say, in order to save his and his family's
lives, poor Jonathan has to kiss his Nigerian money good-bye.

But what does it matter? Life must continue and the morning finds the
Iwegbu family up and busy as usual, ready to make even more money.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 24): What is the greatest miracle, the end of the war, five
lives saved or getting back one's bicycle and house? Or is whatever
happens God's work — therefore nothing can surprise him?

The war: here the Biafran war which took place in Nigeria from 1967
to 1970. The then Eastern state of the country seceded and set up the
State of Biafra (named after the Gulf of Biafra). The Nigerian Federal
Government regained control of the territory after a three-year war
and brought it back into the fold of the Republic of Nigeria.

II (lines 25 to 67): Trust an enterprising and hard-working man to

start life afresh and make the best of the little he has.

Biafran money: the State of Biafra issued its own currency which
became progressively more and more worthless; Enugu: capital of the
then Eastern Region of Nigeria; Ogui Overside: area of Enugu; akara
ball: dough fried in palm-oil and slightly peppered. Very popular
among Nigerians.

III (lines 68 to 91): Government is always slow to pay but twenty good
pounds are certainly worth waiting for, especially where there is no
choice and one is at the mercy of the victor.

Bournvita: brand of cocoa; ex-gratia: from Latin, payment made out of

moral obligation. Coal Corporation: the Eastern Region of Nigeria is
rich in coal and many people worked in the coal mines in the 60s.

IV (lines 92 to 168): when police and neighbours desert you, what can
you do but surrender. But isn't it more fun, in the end to be robbed by
such talkative and lively thieves!

Note that the thieves' conversation is carried on in pidgin-English, a

language created by West Africans from both English and local
languages. (Oya: come on; soja: soldier; katakata: shit; anini: penny;
abi: are we?; wetin: what is?)

V (lines 171 to 181): 'Nothing puzzles God'. Wouldn't it be better to say:

nothing puzzles Jonathan Iwegbu and his family?

1 When and why does Jonathan exclaim: 'Nothing puzzles God'?

2 What is the rate of exchange from Biafran to Nigerian money?

Which is the most valuable currency?

3 How does the Iwegbu family set about making money? To whom do
they sell their wares? Why?

4 Why does Jonathan find it difficult to go to sleep on the night of the

robbery? What does the watchman do after striking one o'clock?

5 Where does Jonathan keep his money? Why does he not particularly
mind the loss of his twenty pounds?

4 Characters

Jonathan Iwegbu

Unshaken by adversity; always ready to count his blessings no matter

how

small.

Enterprising, hard-working, adaptable and above all — money-

minded. A

likeable character and a typical example of what thrift, enterprise and

faith in
life can achieve.

The thieves' leader

A 'good' thief only out for money not violence.

A 'good' leader who knows how to control his men.

A witty man and a master of pidgin-English!

5 Theme

When there is life there is hope and God will always help those who
know only too well how to help themselves.

6 Style

A good example of a story which goes in 'one curve' (See Introduction

page 2), all events working toward the end-climax which brings out
the moral of the story. The author's presence can be felt all through the
narrative:

a) his amused sympathy for the little man who refuses to bow to
adversity.

b) his admiration and pity for the victims of the war (heroic soldiers,
ex-miners).

c) his sense of humour which plays down the darker side of life and
defuses the dramatic atmosphere of a night-robbery.

A light-hearted and good-humoured account of the first days of peace

which is much more effective in describing reality than a highly
dramatised version of it.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 List those instances which show that God is on Jonathan's side.

2 War is a necessary evil. Discuss.

37

3 In which other stories of the anthology is humour a major element of

the narrative and how does it work?

4 Jonathan writes to his brother to tell him of the robbery and ask him
for money. Write the letter in pidgin-English!

5 Is criminality a social disease?

6 Compare Jonathan with Chilufya in Mulikita's The Tender Crop-

(pages 133-149).

3 In the Cutting of a Drink

by Ama Ata Aidoo

I say, my uncles, if you are going to Accra and anyone tells you that the
best place for you to drop down is at the Circle, then he has done you
good, but . . . Hm ... I even do not know how to describe it.

'Are all these beings that are passing this way and that way human?
Did men buy all these cars with money . . . ?'

But my elders, I do not want to waste your time. I looked round and
did not find my bag. I just fixed my eyes on the ground and walked on
... Do not ask me why. Each time I tried to raise my eyes, I was dizzy
from the number of cars in motion. There is something somewhere,
my uncles. Not desiring to deafen you with too long a story ... 10

I stopped walking just before I stepped into the Circle itself. I stood
there for a long time. Then a lorry came along and I beckoned to the
driver to stop. Not that it really stopped.

'Where are you going?' he asked me.

'I am going to Mamprobi,' I replied. 'Jump in,' he said, and he started

to drive away. Hm ... I nearly fell down climbing in. As we went round
the thing which was like a big bowl on a very huge stump of wood, I
had it in mind to have a good look at it, and later Duayaw told me that
it shoots water in the air . . . but the driver was talking to me, so I
could not look at it properly. He told me he himself was not 20 going
to Mamprobi but he was going to the station where I could take a lorry
which would be going there . . .

Yes, my uncle, he did not deceive me. Immediately we arrived at the

station I found the driver of a lorry shouting 'Mamprobi, Mamprobi'.
Finally when the clock struck about two-thirty, I was knocking on the
door of Duayaw. I did not knock for long when the door opened. Ah, I
say, he was fast asleep, fast asleep I say, on a Saturday afternoon.

'How can folks find time to sleep on Saturday afternoons?' I asked

myself. We hailed each other heartily. My uncles, Duayaw has done
well for himself. His mother Nsedua is a very lucky woman. 30

How is it some people are lucky with school and others are not? Did
not Mansa go to school with Duayaw here in this very school which I
can see for myself? What have we done that Mansa should have

wanted to stop going to school?

But I must continue with my tale . . . Yes, Duayaw has done well for
himself. His room has fine furniture. Only it is too small. I asked him
why and he told me he was even lucky to have got that narrow place
that looks like a box. It is very hard to find a place to sleep in the city . .
. 40 He asked me about the purpose of my journey. I told him
everything. How, as he himself knew, my sister Mansa had refused to
go to school after 'Klase Tri' and how my mother had tried to persuade
her to go ...

My mother, do not interrupt me, everyone present here knows you

tried to do what you could by your daughter.

Yes, I told him how, after she had refused to go, we finally took her
to this woman who promised to teach her to keep house and to work

with the sewing machine . . . and how she came home the first

Christmas after the woman took her but has never been home again,

50 these twelve years.

Duayaw asked me whether it was my intention then to look for my

sister in the city. I told him yes. He laughed saying, 'You are funny. Do
you think you can find a woman in this place? You do not know where
she is staying. You do not even know whether she is married or not.
Where can we find her if someone big has married her and she is now
living in one of those big bungalows which are some ten miles from the
city?'

Do you cry 'My Lord', mother? You are surprised about what I said
about the marriage? Do not be. I was surprised too, when he talked 60
that way. I too cried 'My Lord' . . . Yes, I too did, mother. But you and I
have forgotten that Mansa was born a girl and girls do not take much
time to grow. We are thinking of her as we last saw her when she was
ten years old. But mother, that is twelve years ago . . .

Yes, Duayaw told me that she is by now old enough to marry and to do
something more than merely marry. I asked him whether he knew
where she was and if he knew whether she had any children —
'Children?' he cried, and he started laughing, a certain laugh . . .

I was looking at him all the time he was talking. He told me he was not
just discouraging me but he wanted me to see how big and difficult 70
it was, what I proposed to do. I replied that it did not matter. What
was necessary was that even if Mansa was dead, her ghost would know
that we had not forgotten her entirely. That we had not let her wander
in other people's towns and that we had tried to bring her home . . .

These are useless tears you have started to weep, my mother, Have I
said anything to show that she was dead?
Duayaw and I decided on the little things we would do the following
day as the beginning of our search. Then he gave me water for my bath
and brought me food. He sat by me while I ate and asked me for news
of home. I told him that his father has married another woman and of
how last year the akatse spoiled all our cocoa. We know about that 80
already. When I finished eating, Duayaw asked me to stretch out my
bones on the bed and I did. I think I slept fine because when I opened
my eyes it was dark. He had switched on his light and there was a
woman in the room. He showed me her as a friend but I think she is
the girl he wants to marry against the wishes of his people. She is as
beautiful as sunrise, but she does not come from our parts . . .

When Duayaw saw that I was properly awake, he told me it had struck
eight o'clock in the evening and his friend had brought some food. The
three of us ate together.

Do not say 'Ei', uncle, it seems as if people do this thing in the city. 90
A woman prepares a meal for a man and eats it with him. Yes, they do
so often.

My mouth could not manage the food. It was prepared from cassava
and corn dough, but it was strange food all the same. I tried to do my
best. After the meal Duayaw told me we were going for a night out. It
was then I remembered my bag. I told him that as matters stood, I
could not change my cloth and I could not go out with them. He would
not hear of it. 'It would certainly be a crime to come to this city and not
go out on a Saturday night.' He warned me though that there might
not be many people, or anybody at all, where we were going 100 who
would also be in cloth but I should not worry about that.

Cut me a drink, for my throat is very dry, my uncle . . .

When we were on the street, I could not believe my eyes. The whole
place was as clear as the sky. Some of these lights are very beautiful
indeed. Everyone should see them . . . and there are so many of them!
'Who is paying for all these lights?' I asked myself. I could not say that
aloud for fear Duayaw would laugh.
We walked through many streets until we came to a big building where
a band was playing. Duayaw went to buy tickets for the three of us. 110

You all know that I had not been to anywhere like that before. You
must allow me to say that I was amazed. 'Ei, are all these people
children of human beings? And where are they going? And what do
they want?'

Before I went in, I thought the building was big, but when I went in, I
realised the crowd in it was bigger. Some were in front of a counter
buying drinks, others were dancing . . .

Yes, that was the case, uncle, we had gone to a place where they had
given a dance, but I did not know. 120 Some people were sitting on
iron chairs around iron tables. Duayaw told some people to bring us a
table and chairs and they did. As soon as we sat down, Duayaw asked
us what we would drink. As for me, I told him lamlale but his woman
asked for 'Beer' . . .

Do not be surprised, uncles.

Yes, I remember very well, she asked for beer. It was not long before
Duayaw brought them. I was too surprised to drink mine. I sat with
my mouth open and watched the daughter of a woman cut beer like a
man. The band had stopped playing for some time and soon they
started again. Duayaw and his woman went to dance. I sat there and
130 drank my lamlale. I cannot describe how they danced.

After some time, the band stopped playing and Duayaw and his
woman came to sit down. I was feeling cold and I told Duayaw. He
said, 'And this is no wonder, have you not been drinking this women's
drink all the time?'

'Does it make one cold?' I asked him.

'Yes,' he replied. 'Did you not know that? You must drink beer.'

'Yes,' I replied. So he bought me beer. When I was drinking the beer,

he told me I would be warm if I danced.

'You know I cannot dance the way you people dance,' I told him. 140
'And how do we dance?' he asked me.

'I think you all dance like white men and as I do not know how that is
done, people would laugh at me.' I said. Duayaw started laughing. He
could not contain himself. He laughed so much his woman asked him
what it was all about. He said something in the white man's language
and they started laughing again. Duayaw then told me that if people
were dancing, they would be so busy that they would not have time to
watch others dance. And also, in the city, no one cares if you dance
well or not . . .

Yes, I danced too, my uncles. I did not know anyone, that is true. HO
My uncle, do not say that instead of concerning myself with the
business for which I had gone to the city, I went dancing. Oh, if you
only knew what happened at this place, you would not be saying this. I
would not like to stop somewhere and tell you the end ... I would
rather like to put a rod under the story, as it were, clear off every little
creeper in the bush .. .

But as we were talking about the dancing, something made Duayaw

turn to look behind him where four women were sitting by the table . .
. Oh! he turned his eyes quickly, screwed his face into something queer
which I could not understand and told me that if I wanted to

My uncles, I too was very surprised when I heard that. I asked Duayaw
if people who did not know me would dance with me. He said 'Yes.' I
lifted my eyes, my uncles, and looked at those four young women
sitting round a table alone. They were sitting all alone, I say. I got up.

I hope I am making myself clear, my uncles, but I was trembling like

water in a brass bowl.

Immediately one of them saw me, she jumped up and said something
in that kind of white man's language which everyone, even those who
have not gone to school, speak in the city. I shook my head. She said
170 something else in the language of the people of the place. I shook
my head again. Then I heard her ask me in Fante whether I wanted to
dance with her. I replied 'Yes.'

Ei! my little sister, are you asking me a question? Oh! you want to
know whether I found Mansa? I do not know . . . Our uncles have
asked me to tell everything that happened there, and you too! I am
cooking the whole meal for you, why do you want to lick the ladle
now?

Yes, I went to dance with her. I kept looking at her so much I think I
was all the time stepping on her feet. I say, she was as black as you and
180 I, but her hair was very long and fell on her shoulders like that of a
white woman. I did not touch it but I saw it was very soft. Her lips with
that red paint looked like a fresh wound. There was no space between
her skin and her dress. Yes, I danced with her. When the music ended,
I went back to where I was sitting. I do not know what she told her
companions about me, but I heard them laugh.

It was this time that something made me realise that they were all bad
women of the city. Duayaw had told me I would feel warm if I danced,
yet after I had danced, I was colder than before. You would think
someone had poured water on me. I was unhappy thinking about 190
these women. 'Have they no homes?' I asked myself. 'Do not their
mothers like them? God, we are all toiling for our threepence to buy
something to eat ... but oh! God! this is no work.'

When I thought of my own sister, who was lost, I became a little happy
because I felt that although I had not found her, she was nevertheless
married to a big man and all was well with her.

When they started to play the band again, I went to the women's table
to ask the one with whom I had danced to dance again. But someone
had gone with her already. I got one of the two who were still sitting
there. She went with me. When we were dancing she asked me 200
whether it was true that I was a Fante. I replied 'Yes.' We did not

43
speak again. When the band stopped playing, she told me to take her
to where they sold things to buy her beer and cigarettes. I was
wondering whether I had the money. When we were there the lights
were shining brightly, something told me to look at her face.
Something pulled at my heart.

'Young woman, is this the work you do?' I asked her.

'Young man, what work do you mean?' she too asked me. I laughed.
210 'Do you not know what work?' I asked again.

'And who are you to ask me such questions? I say, who are you? Let
me tell you that any kind of work is work. You villager, you villager,
who are you?' she screamed.

I was afraid. People around were looking at us. I laid my hands on her
shoulders to calm her down and she hit them away.

'Mansa, Mansa,' I said. 'Do you not know me?' She looked at me for a
long time and started laughing. She laughed, laughed as if the laughter
did not come from her stomach. Yes, as if she was hungry.

'I think you are my brother,' she said. 'Hm.' 220 Oh, my mother and
my aunt, oh, little sister, are you all weeping? As for you women!

What is there to weep about? I was sent to find a lost child. I found her
a woman.

Cut me a drink . . .

Any kind of work is work . . . This is what Mansa told me with a mouth
that looked like clotted blood. Any kind of work is work ... so do not
weep. She will come home this Christmas.

My brother, cut me another drink. Any form of work is work ... is work
... is work!

NOTES ON IN THE CUTTING OF A DRINK

THE AUTHOR

Ama Ata AIDOO was born in 1942. She was educated at the Wesley
Girls' High School and then at the University of Ghana in Legon. In
1964 she first achieved fame as the author of a play, Dilemma of a
Ghost. Her other works include a collection of short stories, No
Sweetness Here, 1970 (from which this story is taken), and a novel,
Our Sister Killjoy, 1966. She travels widely and has been acclaimed as
a writer and an academic. Her special interests are in drama, literature
and women's rights. She was a prominent figure in the Ministry of
Education in Ghana. She is presently in Harare, Zimbabwe.

1 Summary

A young villager is sent to Accra by his family. He is to look for a

younger

sister, Mansa, of whom nothing has been heard since she left home,
some

twelve years ago.

On the very night of his arrival, he finds her in a dance-hall where she
plies

her trade, prostitution.

Back in the village, he describes his journey and breaks the sad news
to the

assembled family.

2 Notes on the text

Such a highly personalised narrative cannot easily be divided into

episodes as events and comments tend to blend and form a whole.
However, it is possible to outline a sequence of events as follows:

a) (lines 1 to 34): Arrival in the capital, Accra, and first impressions.

Accra: captial of Ghana; the Circle: the Black Star Circle built by
N'Krumah and located in the centre of Accra.

b) (lines 35 to 103): Putting up with a kinsman and wondering at the

town-people's strange way of life.

Klase Tri: corruption of class three; akatse: a Fante word for a pest
that eats cocoa pods; Ei/ee: onomatopoetic expression of surprise;
cassava: edible root from which gari is made (widely used in West
Africa).

c) (lines 104 to 196): Night-life in the capital: beer-drinking, dancing

and whoring.

lamlale: northern Ghanaian name for a non-alcoholic drink made

from

lemons

Fante: one of the languages of Ghana.

d) (lines 197 to 229): Looking for a 'lost child' and finding a loose
woman.

3 Questions on the text

1 How is the narrator dressed? Why can't he have a change of clothes?

2 What surprises the narrator at Duayaw's place? Why?

3 Why does everybody in the dance-hall find the narrator so funny?

4 To which aspect(s) of the story do the uncles' questions or

interventions relate? and the mother's?

5 Explain what the narrator means when he says: 'I am cooking the
whole meal for you, why do you want to lick the ladle now?'

4 Characters The narrator

a) A villager who wonders naively at the marvels of the big city (cars: T
was dizzy from the number of cars in motion'; streets: 'When we were
on the street, I could not believe my eyes': dance-hall: T had not been
to anywhere like that before ... I was amazed').

b) A man steeped in tradition who watches the ways of town-people in

amazement. (In the city: 'A woman prepares a meal for a man and eats
it

with him'; at the dance-hall 'I sat with my mouth open and watched
the

daughter of a woman cut beer like a man'; town-people 'dance like

white

men'). c) a wholesome youth who loathes prostitutes ('I was unhappy

thinking

about these women') and whose heart bleeds for his lost sister. The
audience

Uncles, mother, aunt, little sister: all eager to hear the story, quick to
react, interrupt and to show their feelings.

5 Theme

The shock of an encounter between two utterly different worlds.

6 Style

The story is a very successful attempt to bridge the gap between the
tale and the short story, and between oral and written literature, by
using formal elements which belong to the two genres:

a) a narrator and an audience in direct contact, reacting to each other's

presence, and both leaving their imprint on the narrative (therefore
establishing the link with tale and oral tradition).

b) a single narrative line leading direct to the bringing out of a pre-

established effect (therefore, embodying the most specific feature of
the short story).

In this story, the narrator speaks in the first person, assumes full
responsibility and control of the narrative and enforces his own point
of view. Note how the narrator, like the story-teller in the oral
tradition, appropriates the audience's comments and reactions and
integrates them into the narrative.

At first sight, the story is a plain narrative conducted in the easy

manner of a familiar conversation. In reality, however, it is a highly-
skilled exercise by a narrator who knows how to bring in every
member of the audience, how to build up suspense, and how to turn
into a personalised and dramatic account what in fact (except for the
final discovery) is an uneventful journey.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Village life makes people dull but city life makes them corrupt.
Discuss.

2 Do you agree with Mansa that 'any kind of work is work'?

3 In which other stories in this anthology does the narrator speak in

his own name and which role does he assume?

4 Imagine what happened to Mansa during the twelve years she has
been away from home.

5 What do you think of Duayaw?

6 Are parents responsible for their children's mistakes in life?

4 Ding Dong Bell

by Kwabena Annan

Not having much development in our village, we all agreed when the
Government Agent told us that we should do something about it. I
remember the occasion very well. It was towards the end of March
when the cocoa was all in, packed and sent to the coast, and Kwesi
Manu had started his house again. Every year he would buy the
cement, engage a couple of Northern Territories' labourers, lay out the
blocks, and then run out of money. The walls had been built two years
back; last year, he had managed to get the roof on, only to have it flung
off again by the great Easter storm which did so much damage. The
iron sheets were flung like a handful of pebbles across the street, 10
knocking down Ama Serwah's stall. The old lady put Kwesi before the
Native Authority Court for failing to pay for the loss, and this caused a
first-class row which lasted us all through the rains.

The village certainly needed to be improved. The roads were laterite

tracks from which the dust rose like thunder clouds whenever a lorry
went through the place. Goats, chickens and sheep wandered about its
alleys and slept in the doorway. We were always complaining of the
difficulty of getting supplies from the nearby town, and to hear the
women grumble you would think that it was unusual to walk a mile or
so to fetch water from the pool. Still, we accepted the life; it had been
20 lived a long time, as we all knew, and if there had been nothing to
complain of we might have quarrelled much more often among
ourselves than we do now.

We hadn't any local council either. The chief was well liked, and we
saw no reason to change. There had been talk of joining us up with the
next village to form a 'local authority area'. The Government Agent
was always on about it. But our neighbours were a grasping lot, always
farming our land and trying to claim that it belonged to them, and we
preferred our separate existence. I suppose it was this that made the
Government down in Accra take up the idea of development. If we 30
wouldn't join in a local council, it was because we were too set in our
ways, and 'development' would get us out of them. We understood all
that. But when the Government Agent asked us whether we agreed to

anything, we always said yes. It was easier in the long run to agree and
never did any harm. And as a matter of fact, on this occasion, we
forgot all about the idea until one Wednesday morning when the Chief
beat 'gong gong' to call us together. When we reached the palace there
was our Chief, Nana, and an educated clerk sitting in the compound. I
call him 'educated' because he was obviously a town man, in neat city

40 clothes, with a black book under his arm and pencils sticking in his
hair. It turned out that he was a new clerk in the Government Agent's
office and had been sent to talk to us.

We listened to what he had to say, although we had heard most of it

before; how we should think again about forming a local council, how
we should pay the levy on time, why didn't we help the local teacher
and send our children to the mission school, did we not know that the
Government had forbidden the making of akpeteshie because it was
dangerous to drink, why had we not cleared the bush right down to the
river. It was much like the regular routine visit, which kept the

50 Government satisfied and left us alone, with the local Native

Authority policeman standing there ready to walk round the village
looking for akpeteshie, and having a quiet drink of it with the clerk
behind the court-house — until the clerk suddenly told us that the
Government Agent had been so pleased when we had asked for his
help that he was sending a Development Officer the following week to
make a start.

We didn't quite know what to make of this, and it soon slipped our
memory — the next day being Thursday when we don't farm, and a
good week's supply of liquor is ready for use. I had business to do in
Kumasi the following week-end — I usually stock up with a few cases

60 of corned beef and sardines for the store — and did not get back
until late on Wednesday morning. The first thing I saw in the village
was a large black car with pick-axes. The whole village had turned out
to see what it was all about, and as I came up a tall, thin European in
blue shorts and shirt was standing in front of the crowd lecturing
them. He couldn't speak our language Twi of course, but you could
have told just by the way he waved his arms that he meant business.
The Chief looked as pleased as he could, but I could see that he was
worried, and the elders sat in stony disapproval.
'Great changes are taking place in the country,' the European said,

70 through a rat-faced interpreter. 'Last week I was in Accra and

everywhere I could see great buildings going up, good roads, good
schools. And what can be done in Accra can be done too in the
villages.'

Well, I could have told him straight away that he was making a
mistake. The one thing we detest hearing about is Accra and what the

city crooks are doing with our money. Then before anyone could stop
him, he was off about our neighbours: how co-operative they were,
how ready they had been for his help, how they said they were going to
extend the lorry park and the market. ('So that they can put their
prices up,' shouted a voice, but this voice was hushed down.) Then he
80 got on to us. He was worried about the water and the roads. Of
course we agreed. If you ask anybody in our town whether this or that
is good, you will always be told that everything is as bad as it can be.
We don't boast and we like to grumble. So by the time the European
had asked us about the latrines and the roads and the rains, and
whether the harvest was good, and how we liked the new mission
school, he must have thought we were ready for all the development
there was in the country.

The only time he got stuck was when he suggested that we line the
streets with deep concrete gutters, and Tetteh Quarshie stood up and
90 said no, that wouldn't do, he must have somewhere for his ducks to
get food and drink. The European didn't quite know whether to take
this seriously or not — and Tetteh stood there, bent with age and
drink, clutching his cloth to his bony ribs and muttering like someone
from the Kumasi asylum — so he left it and came to the point (which
all of us could see he had fixed on long before he set foot in the town).

There was nothing wrong with the idea in theory. We were to dig out
two or three wells by the forest path leading to the main road with the
help of some 'well-diggers', and a mason who knew how to case the
sides with special concrete rings. We might have to dig twenty or 100
thirty feet down, but there were plenty of rings and, when we were
finished, the water in each well would stay sweet throughout the year.
It took a long time to explain, but most of us soon grasped the idea.
Only, we don't care to do things in a hurry. So the chief spoke for us all
when, after politely thanking the officer for his trouble, he told him
that we would discuss it and let the Government Agent know our
decision. Up came little Francis Kofi with a basin of eggs which
Opanin Kuntor handed to the clerk with a second round of thanks.
And before the European knew what was happening, the meeting had
broken up and he was being led to his car. Off it went in a cloud of
dust, followed 110 by the Land Rover, and we settled down again.

After this, of course, the letters began to arrive — Your good friend
this, Your good friend that; His Honour was anxious to hear what we
had decided; Could we agree to Monday week for the diggers to make a
start?; and so forth. We sat quiet and said nothing. There is no post
office in our town, and the effort of getting stamps and paper is usually
enough to deter the Chief from correspondence.

Monday came and went, so did Tuesday and Wednesday; and on

Thursday we collected as usual at Kofi's bar. By three in the afternoon

120 we had started on the akpeteshie, and at half-past four no one

noticed the arrival of the Government Agent and his car until he sent
his clerk stumbling and sweating down the road to ask for Nana and
the elders. 'He is not well,' said Kofi Tandoh. 'He has travelled.' 'He is
mourning for his sister.'

'He has the measles.' This came from a young idiot of a schoolboy who
had edged his way into the group.

The clerk stood first on one leg, then on the other, and scratched his
head. He knew as well as we did that after half a bottle of

130 akpeteshie the Chief might as well have travelled for all the help he
could give. I believe the clerk said as much to the Government Agent, a
fattish European with a red face and pale eyes, who immediately flew
into a rage, cursed the Chief and the village, and then ordered the
constable with him to go and seize the still and what was left of the
liquor. But he was unlucky. We usually have two or three kerosene tins
cooling off in Opanin Kuntor's yard, but this time, with the cocoa
season over and a good number of funerals under way, we were down
to a few bottles only. By the time he had collected these, and we sat
there without raising a finger in apology or protest, Nana himself

140 appeared. He was far from normal and came roaring out of the
palace apparently thinking that he was celebrating the yearly adae
festival.

The Government Agent gave him one look and drove off without a
word. We all went back to sleep. But the next morning we were
worried. We had a hurried meeting at the palace, brought in the
school-master to advise, and agreed that something must be done to
turn away the wrath to come. The only way seemed to be
'development'. So we sent Francis Kofi on a bicycle with a letter drawn
up by the teacher, with Nana and the elders making their mark. It
seemed to meet the case, for two days later the Land Rover came

130 back, with the European. The site was cleared and we took it in
turns to dig. It was easy work and unmarred by any mishap, except on
the second night the European was with us when old Nyantechie went
out before the moon rose to obey the call of nature, stumbled over one
of the concrete rings and pitched into three feet of well. This brought
out the European, twice as brave as Lugard, from the schoolroom
where he had settled himself. He found Nyantechie on the ground
nursing his ankle, crept back to the school and was shot at by the local
escort constable who hadn't seen him go out and who fancied himself
as something of a hunter.

Still, by the end of the week, the three wells were finished, with a 160
concrete parapet and a rough awning of palm branches to keep out the
dirt. There was a shallow depth of water in each, and as a parting
gesture we all queued up, with the European and his clerk, to try it. It
tasted terrible. But then, it was rare in our village for anyone to drink
water except the children, and they complained that the water from
the wells had no taste. The women liked it all right, although I suspect
that, being women, what they liked most was the opportunity it gave
them of arguing who should have the first use of the buckets.

One might have thought that that was the end of it, with no great harm
done and everyone turning back again to a normal life. But the 170
village was uneasy. We didn't like it and wondered what might come
next. Then Opanin Kuntor fell sick, and swore beyond reason that it
was the well water which had brought him down. He told his
maidservant to fetch his water from the pool again, recovered quickly
and went round the village triumphant, warning everyone of what they
might expect. Gradually, however, matters righted themselves. And we
had something to take our minds off the Government in the
'outdooring' ceremony of Kwame Tweneboa's child. This was a high
occasion. Kwane was well over fifty, and although he had taken a
second wife, neither had brought forth until now — and the woman
180 herself was nearing forty. It called for a special celebration. We set
to work, and Opanin Kuntor had the still going night and day in his
yard. We had learned a lesson, too, from the previous occasion and
decided to post sentries at the far edge of the village who would give
the alarm should danger threaten: one shot for the local police, two for
the Government Agent.

We slept well the night before the 'outdooring'. There wasn't a great
deal to do on the farm so we ate and drank the day away, drank and
gossiped into the night until the moon went down, when we went to
bed and slept late. The next day, nearly the whole village went to 190
pay their respects to the mother. The child, a boy, was named Osei
Bonso after a famous ancestor of Kwame Tweneboa, and there was a
good deal of friendly drinking, with the result that by mid-afternoon
most of us were asleep again. The forenoon had been cloudy, with a
leaden sky, driving us into the shelter of the neem trees which
straddled the road, or to the shade of the compounds. Goats and sheep
browsed in the bush, and a stray hen scratched lazily in the scrubby
ditch by the school where you could see the children sprawled across
their desks or asleep on the veranda.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a double shot; then, to our 200
astonishment, two more. There was immediate confusion. The Chief
was still asleep;'so were most of the elders. They were shaken into
some kind of order while Opanin Kuntor hurried off to hide what was
left of the akpeteshie. The rest of us collected round the Chief's
compound and held ourselves in reserve. There was the sound of a car,
then another; the Government Agent pulled up outside the palace, and
the driver signalled to a large touring car, which followed, to do the
same. The Union Jack fluttered from the bonnet of the second car, and
the driver — a uniformed constable — carefully chaperoned from the

210 back seat an elderly European. Someone recognized him as the

Regional Officer whom most of us knew to be next in power and glory
to the Governor, if not to God Himself.

After the customary greetings had been made, with the Government
Agent trotting up and down in attendance on the big man, we were
told that the Regional Officer was interested in our town, that he had
heard of our efforts to 'improve the amenities of the district through
self-help', and had been good enough to interrupt a tour of inspection
to visit us. This was said by the Government Agent in such solemn,
satisfied tones that it was clear that, by digging the wells, we had

220 helped more than ourselves.

Nana and the elders received this with perhaps less enthusiasm than
they should have shown; they were alarmed at the second visit of the
Government Agent, distrusted his intentions, and were concerned —
as we all were — by the possible fate of the still and the rest of the
drink. So it was with relief that we heard the Regional Officer saying
that he would like to see the wells, and we led the way down the
narrow path. Of course, when we got there, the Government Agent,
with great satisfaction, thought he would like a drink. One of the
women lowered the bucket into the nearest well and hauled it up on

230 the rope. The Government Agent dipped a calabash into the half-
bucket of water and handed it with delight to the Regional Officer who
took a good mouthful, swallowed, then tried to spit it out, choking and
spluttering with an agonized grimace. The Government Agent stared
in amazement, and we looked uneasily at each other.
'Try it,' said the Regional Officer, and spat into the bush; 'try it
yourself,' and he wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief, still
coughing and spitting, his eyes watering.

The Government Agent took a cautious sip, and a look of absolute

disbelief came over his face. He turned, spat and shouted: 'Salifu,
come

240 here. Taste this.' The constable driver came forward and took a
long draught. 'Fine.' 'What is it?' 'Gin, sir. Native gin.'

'How the devil did it get in there?' said the Regional Officer.

We all tried it then, including Nana who stood between the two
Europeans. None of us said anything, however, for the few who
guessed what had happened didn't care to tell. Eventually Nana spoke;
and it says much for his presence of mind that he kept a serene
countenance and a solemn note to his voice.

'Owura,' he said, addressing the Regional Officer, 'what has been 250
done was necessary and right. The spirits are angry that we have left
our forefathers' ways and the pool from which my father and his
father's father drew their water. For this reason we have purified the
well and placated the spirits with a little gin.'

'A little!' exclaimed the Regional Officer. 'What would it have tasted
like if you had put in a lot?'

'Akpeteshie?' asked the Government Agent sharply.

'No, no,' said the Chief, with a dignified air. 'That is not allowed,
although it would have been better and cheaper.'

The Government Agent looked at the Regional Officer, who said 260
nothing. Then they turned and walked back to the village. I could see
that the Regional Officer was amused; and slowly his good humour
spread. By the time we reached the village there was a pleasant,
unspoken accord between the two sides. Beer was fetched, and a bottle
of whisky; the health of the Regional Officer, the Government Agent,
the Chief and Elders, the village, and Kwame Tweneboa, were drunk.
Finally, the two cars moved off and we went back to the palace.

'How much did you put in there?' asked the Chief.

'Nana, it was three kerosene tins full,' said Opanin Kuntor. 'I was
afraid. But I put the tins in complete. They must have leaked.' 270

'Ah,' said the Chief. 'I'm sure they did.'

NOTES ON DING DONG BELL

THE AUTHOR

Kwabena ANNAN: born in Ghana; worked for many years in

government service. This story is taken from Modern African Stories,
published by Faber and Faber in 1964.

THE STORY

The title of the story comes from an English nursery rhyme: Ding dong
bell Who put her in ?

Pussy 's in the well. Little Johnny Green.

Who pulled her out? To try to drown poor pussy cat.

Little Tommy Stout. Who never did him any harm.

What a naughty boy was that But killed the mice on his

father's farm.

1 Summary

Despite much resistance to 'development', a happy and peaceful

Ghanaian village is eventually coaxed by the Colonial Government
Agent into executing at least one 'development' project: the digging of
three water-wells. Once the task is completed, the small village returns
to merry-making and akpeteshie-drinking. But not for long! An
important Government man (the Regional Officer) arrives
unannounced to have a look at the wells. Unfortunately, the visit
occurs on a day when the whole village is busy celebrating and
drinking {akpeteshie, of course!).

Eventually, the important Government man is taken to the wells but

not before someone has lowered the tins of akpeteshie — not knowing
that they leak — into one of the wells in an attempt to hide them from
the Government Agent's eyes. Imagine the shock and amazement of
the Regional Officer when given a cup of 'well-water' to taste! With
remarkable presence of mind, the village chief, Nana, explains that 'a
little gin' had to be poured into the wells to appease the spirits of the
ancestors outraged to see the villagers abandon the traditional pool.

The Regional Officer shows enough sense of humour to accept the

chief's explanation.

All is well that ends well . . . Both sides can think they have won the
day! akpeteshie: name given in Ga language to illicit gin (alcohol made
of corn, the brewing of which was forbidden by the Colonial
Government for health reasons).

2 Notes on the text

a) (lines 1 to 55): Why change things which have worked so well from
time immemorial?

When facing the colonial 'might', always say 'yes' and do nothing. It's
the best way to defeat it!

Northern Territories: In colonial days, the Gold Coast (the name given
to Ghana before independence) was divided in several administrative
units; the Northern Territories (capital: Tamale) were then considered
rather backward; Native Authority: under the British 'indirect rule'
system, people were allowed to run their own affairs under the
authority of local chiefs or emirs; local council: in contrast to the
Native Authority, this council was an elected body; Accra: capital of
the Gold Coast; Nana: name given to a chief in Ga language; gong
gong: a sound made by the palace drums to summon villagers to
meetings.

b) (lines 43 to 111): Let the white man talk his head off . . . It's good fun
and does no harm! And yet ...

Kumasi: town in central Ghana; Twi: one of the Ghanaian languages.

c) (lines 112 to 148): akpeteshie wins the day! But don't expect a
Government Officer to see the joke and beware of his wrath! Fear is
the beginning of wisdom.

adae festival: held to celebrate the 'new yam' (i.e. the new harvest) and
usually takes place in July.

d) (lines 149 to 168): Why did the Government Agent make no much
fuss about 'development'? Aren't those wells a good case of making a
mountain of a mole-hill?

Lugard: British soldier and administrator, Governor-General of

Nigeria from 1914 to 1919.

e) (lines 169 to 198): Back to the good old life but once the worm is

in the fruit, who knows what may happen next?

'outdooring' ceremony, when a new-born child is presented to the

family and to friends and given a name.

f) (lines 199 to 271): Everybody's honour is saved! There is something

to talk about and to remember for a long time to come.

Union Jack: name given to the British flag; Regional Officer: in charge
of a region and therefore an important government official; Owura: in
Ashanti, master/big man.

3 Questions on the text

1 Why is the village reluctant to join the 'local authority area'?

2 What is the Native Authority policeman's main duty? Does he fulfil

it?

3 What opinion has the village of a) the Government Agent, and b) the
Development Officer?

4 What does the village normally do on Thursday? Why?

5 Which signs show that the Regional Officer is really a 'big man'?

4 Characters

Described in one or two sentences but always true to type. Villagers

a) Kwesi Manu whose efforts to build a house never come to anything.

b) old Ama Serwah, always ready to take people to court.

c) the chief, Nana, well-liked, well-respected and quite skilful when it

comes to dealing with the powers-that-be.

d) old Tetteh Quarshie, a bit of a village idiot.

e) Opanin Kuntor, so good at brewing illicit gin but not so good at

hiding it!

f) Kwame Tweneboa who took so long to make a child.

And all the others who make up the village crowd and show a true
community spirit. Government employees

a) the Government Agent who does not understand that the village is
playing him along but who, in the end, might have played the village

along even more, for his own professional benefit.

b) the Development Officer, so much is earnest, so easily taken in by

the magic of 'development'.

c) the Regional Officer, every bit of a diplomat and whose sense of

humour saves the day.

and:

a) in between, the Local Native Authority policeman, the clerk, the

constable driver and the local escort constable who have a foot in each
camp.

b) the narrator (see style).

5 Theme

Is it:

town versus country? Government versus people? Development, yes,

but

with a huge pinch of salt? Changes only bring problems? Africa wins
again?

or:

the pleasure that comes from a story beautifully told?

Note:

a) the insularity of the village (distrust of other villages, of Accra, of

government interference).

b) the community spirit which brings inhabitants to rally round the

chief when danger arises.

6 Style

A GOOD-HUMOURED MATCH
(Colonial Government versus People)

round

time

event

winner

result

1 end of Government Agent Government village agrees

March and village dis Agent to

cuss 'development' 'development'

2 one clerk's visit

Wednesday

none

Development Officer's visit announced

Wednesday week

Development Officer's visit

village

the village will 'think about' the project

56

one Monday

Government Agent's visit

village

but village resistance weakens

5 two days digging the wells Development three wells later Officer

6 day of the Regional Officer's both all is well 'outdooring' visit that
ends

well

The story told in the first person by a narrator who:

a) takes part in the events ('When we reached the palace', 'We

listened', 'we took it in turns to dig', etc . . .)

b) intervenes directly in the telling of the story ('I remember', 'I had
business to do . . .', 'I saw', etc . . .)

c) speaks on behalf of the village ('we were always complaining', 'the

one thing we detest', 'we were ready for . . .', etc . . .)

d) gives his own opinion ('I call him "educated" because . . .', 'a rat-
faced interpreter', 'I suppose', 'I believe', etc . . .)

e) acts as a critic (of the Government Agent: 'it was clear that, by
digging the wells, we had helped more than ourselves'; of his own kin:
'we don't boast and we like to grumble', etc . . .)

f) is a witty observer (of the Development Officer: 'you could have told
just by the way he waved his arms that he meant business'; of the
Government Agent: 'trotting up and down in attendance on the big
man'; of old Tetteh Quarshie: 'bent with age and drink, clutching his
cloth to his bony ribs and muttering like someone from the Kumasi
asylum'; of the 'outdooring' ceremony which 'called for a special
celebration' as 'Kwame was well over fifty' 'and the woman herself was
nearing forty', etc . . .)

Above all the narrator is a consummate storyteller (restricting his

point of view only to what he knows, keeping to the time-sequence,
managing suspense, sympathetic to both sides, humorous).

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 People do not know what is good for them; they have to be told and
forced to do it. Discuss.

2 Which delaying 'tactics' do the villagers use when dealing with the
colonial authority?

3 (line 190): 'The next day . . . whole village went to pay their respects
to the mother' (the 'outdooring' ceremony). Imagine what people like
the chief, old Tetteh Quarshie, and the narrator himself would say to
the mother.

4 Compare community life in Ding Dong Bell and The Tender Crop.

5 The story gives the lighter side of colonisation. What was the darker
side, in particular with reference to village life? Draw your examples
from other stories in the anthology.

6 Make a list of the 'tongue-in-cheek' statements which give a

humorous tone to events.

5 Weekend of Carousal

by Maurice Chishimba

It was pay-day and Mutale did not get tired of announcing to his
friends that he would knock off before time. As soon as he got the fifty
kwacha, he would jump onto his bicycle and sneak away.

And that was what everybody was going to do. They had always done
so. It had become the custom of all workers in the company to slip
away in this manner; after all even the personnel officer himself would
take some time off to drive to the bank in his brown car. This was the
system.
Having got his five ten-piece notes, Mutale very carefully folded 10
them and flipped them into the pocket of his mechanic's over-attire.
He pulled the zip over it and ran to his bicycle.

In spite of being only a mechanic's apprentice in Zambia Engineers

and Fabricators, Mutale's most cherished belief was that by the time
he left the company he would have become a full mechanic. This, he
always argued, was the advantage of working for an engineering
company. If you told him that there were better paid and cleaner jobs
around town, you would see him either leap or heave before he said
you were a typically ignorant person. Mrs Phiri Shamoya, a shebeen
queen in Mukanda township, once lost patience at 20 seeing him
arrive dirty and charcoal-black after work. So she said, 'Luka, your
body will one day stop sweating because of these oils. Why don't you
choose another job, say a scavenger?' Mutale did not reply instantly.
He first gave her a long and searching look before he said, 'You have
no head, you Maria. My mother at home has been scavenging morning
and evening since her birth but has she produced even a bicycle? And
you want me to take over from her?'

This idea of producing something from metal even after he left the job
was all that Mutale had on his mind.

30

All that afternoon, Mutale sat with his friends drinking beer at
Buyanuma Tavern. There were many more people there, most of
whom sat in groups of three or more sharing beer from drinking

vessels. As was the order of the day, the place was flooded with music
and shouting voices. Those like Mutale who were used to the din did
not mind for they were accustomed to speaking at the tops of their
voices as a means of communicating with each other.

That very afternoon, for example, Mutale was saying, 'A good woman,
babwana, is the one who knows how to be a good wife.' He said this
just as he was bowing to pick up the plastic container of beer. 40 After
this statement, he looked at the surface of the oily liquid and then gave
it a shake. Blowing the suds aside, he sipped first and then gulped
continuously against the to-and-fro movement of the throat. He
stopped and passed it on to another man on his left. Everyone who
drank at the taverns knew this system of drinking as 'over to you'.

Then somebody said, 'You are wrong there, bambo.' It was Banda who
had spoken. 'By telling us that a good woman is the wife are you saying
something that we do not know already? Say something else.'

Everyone in the ten-man beer panel said that Mutale had only
repeated what everybody knew. Mutale himself turned his eyes around
50 and saw that they really disagreed with him. Passing his hand over
his lips to wipe away the lingering beer froth, he said, 'So tell me what
you think.'

'That is what you should have said in the first place, instead of
pretending that you know something just because you have been
flirting with a shebeen queen,' said Banda.

Everybody laughed, except a one-eyed man who was still serving

himself from the vessel. 'To my mind,' he said, 'a good woman, a good
wife here in town, is the one who knows how to use money.'

'Yes,' said Banda, 'you have spoken sense and you have made me 60
remember to buy more beer. A good woman is not the one who eats
too much herself before the children or visitors.'

Mutale grimaced at hearing his friend say these words. 'And you
include visitors?' He rose to his feet and pulled at the legs of his over-
attire. When he sat he continued, 'People like you seem to take things
with laughter. You never know, perhaps, that there are some visitors
who need two loaves of bread per breakfast. So if you still say that it is
a good wife who knows how to feed and save money, will you give her
compliments for spending all the money on bread? You people!'

The members of the group quickly changed sides. Many of them said
70 Mutale was right on this point. However, the single-eyed man and
Banda still disagreed with Mutale. Banda said, 'I refuse what you say.
Bread here in town is not something that people count as food. It eats
money, surely, but only very little as compared with that which goes
on beer.'

He did not'finish because his voice quickly became lost in the loud
laughter from his friends. After this one of them said, 'Maybe we can
take that for a truth. But I knew a woman who used to fake what she
fed her children on. She would make porridge or tea and bread, and
80 then she would rub drops on the lips and cheeks of the children so
that it would appear as if they had eaten. What do you think she did
with the rest of the food?'

'She gobbled it,' Mutale said, joining the others in laughing.

It was at this point that Mutale realised that he should visit the toilet
again. These beer discussions never actually came to an end. As was
the custom, Mutale said 'zikomo' to the others and was let past. He
was not like those who, when they drank, staggered while walking. He
looked as if he had been drinking for a long time; he walked quite
stably through the small, meandering paths that were left by the many
90 other drinkers. There seemed to be a foot at every point he stepped.
Soon it became necessary for him to repeat his 'zikomo ' with each step
he took.

Finally, Mutale arrived at the two doors, one for women and the other
for men. He had last read many years before and that was in the lower
grades of school. For a moment, he seemed to be flooded with
confusion, something of a spider's web having formed across his face.
So without noticing where it read AKAZI, he pushed the door and
entered. He was doubtful, however, for he did not remember whether
the men's toilet was on the left or right. But then there were two 100
alternatives. If he found himself in the wrong toilet, he would leave
and enter the next.

As it turned out, Mutale did not do this. For as he entered he saw a

woman just tying the last knot of her chikwembe the Zairean way
before she could come out. Although there was a second person inside
him in the form of alcohol, Mutale did realise his mistake. But go back
he could not, especially as she herself appeared not to be moved by his
unusual entry. From experience, he knew that a sensitive woman
would in such a situation turn her back to him and then shout for help.
This one even said boldly, 'Why, is the men's toilet fully engaged?' 110
Then, from a zone of fabricated flesh on her face came a smile, one like
Mutale had always seen on the face of Mrs Phiri Shamoya in Mukanda.
Her face looked as if it had been bleached during the very hours of that
morning.

'Is anything the matter here?' said Mutale as he looked around.

Without saying anything, the woman moved nearer him and gave him
a grin. Resting her hands on her hips, she said with surprise, 'Are you
too drunk to know that this place is for women? Why don't you

people drink less?'

Again Mutale searched around, turning his eyes in each direction four
or five times. He realised, although he was drunk, that the place 120
was really feminine. There was less smell there than he was supposed
to find in the men's toilet. But he could not go back once he was
already there. He must do what he came for because the thing was
becoming more urgent each time he delayed. So he said, 'You want me
to drink like a woman, eh? Out of my way!'

With that Mutale pushed the door of the toilet open.

He emerged out of the toilet, but only to find the woman still waiting
where he had left her. There she stood doing nothing other than watch
him zip up his trousers. He decided not to talk to her but walk straight
to the door. But just as he got hold of the handle of the 130 door, she
swung at him from behind and held him back, saying, 'If you go out
they will shout at you.' He almost shook her off but decided against it.
He turned and looked straight into her shifting eyes. 'Look,' he said, 'I
cannot drill a door another way to get out of here, and if I wait here
what will happen to me? My dear, I have to go back the same way I
came in.'
'You can't,' she said, almost shouting.

In an attempt to detect where the voice came from, his eyes at last
settled on her face. Her forehead once had been obviously massed with
pimples and freckles which were now fading away, apparently with
140 continued use of skin-toning creams. The lower line of her teeth
met at a point in front where a tooth must have fallen off or been
forced out. But the lips! Just like the body of a centipede — all rings
and cracks. Only the eyes glared and sparkled.

Yet how was he to get out of that place without her troubling him?
There was no doubt she feared that she would be scolded and jeered at
by people if seen coming out of the toilet with a man. At this point,
Mutale found himself holding the ghostlike woman. She responded
and without resentment received his entire tongue including some
portion of his lips into her own mouth. In his mind, the aim was to
find a way 150 of escape. He was surprised to find that the woman was
holding every available inch of him. She was stretching thin against
him and even seemed to rise taller than him.
A minute or so later, things changed inside Mutale's mouth. So cold
and bitter! He started to doubt whether it was a human mouth at all.
The woman's breath had become fast and warm vapour stinking of
alcohol and cigarettes came to his nose with a nauseating effect. He
must pull himself out, and fast. When he had actually pulled himself
free, he heard the woman groan and stoop down. He was not
interested

160 in finding out whether she was playing a trick or vomiting.

Without wasting time, Mutale reached for the door. First he tried to
plan. He must be careful. So he walked breezily through the door into
the same congestion of wailing drunkards, as before penetrating and
announcing 'zikomos' at each point. As soon as he got out, it did not
occur to him that his friends needed his farewell. He made straight for
his bicycle. Stopping by it, he checked his pockets for the key. The
right pocket was not closed! The zip had been worked down to the root
and a one-kwacha note peeped halfway out. It was not his heart that
ran cold first but his entire body before it gave off power to the heart.
170 He checked the other pocket. It was closed, thanks to the gods that
had advised him to separate the money between two pockets. How
much had there been in the open pocket, he asked himself. He did not
answer because a blue vision suddenly came across his face. Slowly, as
he looked up in the sky, it gave way to green and red. Then suddenly
an idea popped up: why not search? He turned to face the direction he
had come, sending his eyes along the ground below the many legs and
stools of people who sat drinking.

Just as his eyes reached the main entrance to the tavern, he saw the
same woman appear with a band of men behind her shouting. One of
180 them, holding a vessel of beer in his hand, said, 'I saw that
monkey take this direction.'

Whoever they were looking for, Mutale did not wish to find out! Like a
dove ambushed on a heap of grain, he jumped onto his bicycle. Only
when his face met with the hard ground did he realise that the bicycle
was locked. Quickly, he picked himself up and reached for the key in
his pocket. Between checks and shakes of fear, he unlocked the wheel
and rode off.

Behind him came the shouts of pursuers. He followed the old belief
that if you were being chased and you looked behind to see how much
190 less or more you were doing than your pursuer, you were making a
fruitless effort. So with the experience of riding to and from work
every morning and evening, Mutale made sure that the whizzing of the
wind carried the awful memory away with it.

In town, especially in the masses of huts that together made up the so-
called compounds, all you had to do if you were being chased was turn
at every corner. Squeezing and pushing legs on the pedals with a
tireless frictioning on the saddle, Mutale soon disappeared behind the
houses.

When he knew that he was well away from his pursuers, he stopped

200 in order to check the remainder of the money more carefully.

Even

now, he did not quite know what had happened and still wondered
why

he was doing what he was doing right then. He had heard of thieves of
every kind and trick, but nobody had told him that there were women
pick-pockets.

It appeared as if the woman had taken much of his money. But even
Mutale himself could not tell exactly how much. For in the beer tavern,
one just threw money like that according to the changing rates of
consumption and degrees of pleasure. However, all that Mutale knew
was that he remained with just over thirty kwacha or so. With the
same care as before, he folded the notes in two groups, the partition
210 being just to avoid being drained of the whole lot by another
bloodsucker. He placed one fold into the right pocket. As he was about
to place the other his wife suddenly came to mind. 'Oh, yes!' he said to
himself. 'Folonika will also need something. Not more than a woman
normally requires, anyway say about ten. That can buy enough salt,
mealie-meal and bread. Relish?' he thought for a moment. 'There are
always a lot of vegetables which cost very little. These women are
clever animals.'

That was as far as he could go in his thoughts before they turned to

beer. And quickly he jumped onto his bicycle. 220

In the whole town, Mutale chose to drink at at Buyanuma tavern or

late at night at Mrs Phiri Shamoya's. She was a large woman who used
to change men like clothes. When his days were better, her home had
once been shared with Mutale. He used to live with her, at that time
known as Maria or 'Mama Lion Lager'. The nickname was for her bad
temper, which made some people think that her birth into a woman's
world was an accident.

Mutale's chances of staying longer with Mrs Phiri were thwarted one
day by a spry man with criminal-looking eye-glasses. He found him
patronising affairs in the evening in the house. As a live-in boyfriend,
230 Mutale quickly realised that his contract had expired. However, he
hoped that he would one day go back.

The chance never came, for, soon afterwards, Mutale was unable to
hold his legs in one position. He and Folonika, an anti-school-minded
but leisure-loving young woman, found it difficult to hide their
relationship. They declared themselves man and wife.

Mutale had the curse that comes to any man who believes that a
woman is married only in order to become the security guard at home.
He stringently controlled the finances, letting his wife manage only
such affairs as went with the home. He was an imperialist over his wife
240 and he rarely touched anything unless he was sure his wife had
cleaned it. She, for her part, accepted things the way they came. What
could she do when society itself had denied her the right to earn an
income.

So, even when' he cycled down the slope to the river, all he had in
mind was that there was a guard at home. All the while, the thought of
the toilet vampire so haunted him that, to forget it, he took up a song:
Beer you are ages old but new Every hour it's you we brew For
excitement, joy or gloom 250 Which result in drink all moon.

Soon he was climbing the effortless incline that ended with the first
line of houses in Mukanda. He came to a stop at Mrs Phiri's house. The
sun was already at the periphery of the horizon but Mrs Phiri emerged
from the house with the dark glasses she always wore and met Mutale.
As she said 'Come in Luka', her smile extended far back to the back of
her cheeks.

Joyfully, he received her heavy arms and set himself against the never-
ending heat from her huge thorax. It must have been a kiss that she
intended to give him for her tongue just slipped out and caressed 260
his left cheek. Maybe she just missed because Mutale appeared to be
concerned with meeting both hands at her back. With difficulty, she let
herself loose and led him to the inner room. Several men and women
already sat in what looked like the reception room or the lounge and
were talking wildly. 'There is enough beer already, my dear Luka.'

But Mutale was concerned with something else. 'You have fattened,
Maria,' was his reply and he added jovially, 'Last time we met, you
looked like a queen bee; this evening you look like a ... a

'A round pumpkin,' she said, and both of them laughed.

She showed him a soft armchair and he sank in it. After a short 270
period of disappearance, she came back with a tumbler and poured
some beer in it. With a wide smile, Mutale accepted it and took it to his
mouth.

Beer continued to come in the same way, different beer. There was
brandy and chibuku, most and muchinga and even coca cola and
fanta. For all these Mutale did not pay like the other customers did. He
was a special patron and therefore paid like at the hotel — after
drinking. Mrs Phiri would come and mention the bill. Then there
would follow some bargaining until settlement.
In this way Mutale drunk until he began to doze. One could not 280
survive such a mixture of drinks. Even if you were as strong as a reed
on water, you could not always stand against every type of current.
Mrs Phiri came in occasionally and each time gave him a gentle slap
and something like a kiss. Mutale would then open his eyes and drain
the remaining liquid in the tumbler. Since the door to the adjoining
room was closed, he was not disturbed by the noise from the other

drinkers.

Night got thicker and colder and the usually congested Mukanda
township became as quiet as Lake Bangweulu at the break of the
firmament. He no longer heard the little noise from the other room as
before. This meant that the patrons had gone to sleep. 290

At this time he thought that he should perhaps also go to sleep. By

then, he thought, Folonika must be feeling very cold and worried
about him. The unfortunate thing was that Mrs Phiri had not yet come
to claim her money. Who knows, perhaps she wanted him to stay on
for the night — something he had had to do before. But . . . no, what
about Folonika? Would she not be weeping?

Still brooding over this question, Mutale heard Mrs Phiri suddenly
laugh outside. The door creaked and there was also a man's voice.
Next the inner door opened and Mrs Phiri entered, followed by a fat
man with a neck as wide as the head itself. 300

'You have delayed me very much, Maria,' Mutale said as both Mrs
Phiri and the fat man, presumably Shamoya, looked at him.

'Did you hear that? You have delayed him inside the bedroom,' the
man cut in.

'No, I haven't, have I?' she said.

'Have I paid you, Maria? Did I not drink as I always do?' Then Mutale
stood up, dipped his hand in his pocket and emerged with a ten-
kwacha note. 'Here you are! I hate troubles with women who do not
think or remember what they do.' And he started to move.

The fat man held him and said, 'Wait and tell us why you came in 310
here. I have never heard of a man who can wait late into the night
inside someone's bedroom just because he wants to pay his debt to a
woman who belongs to another man. Weren't you just looking for
something else?'

If you shot a duiker at a distance and then saw a lion emerge from
nowhere and pick it up, all you had to do was either fight or run away.
But Mutale was too tired to fight such a man. As he saw him set his
eyes alight and breathe like a filter throwing water in all directions,
Mutale became aware that the going was no good. All signs showed
that this man was determined to save his Mrs Phiri. She herself stood
320 there, aloof, indifferent and apparently waiting for the moment.
Caught in a puzzle of this kind, Mutale chose to remain quiet, though
he still threw his eyes from the fat man to Mrs Phiri.

'There is my wife,' said the man. 'Tell her what you were waiting for
here.'

Mutale raised the flesh on his face and said, 'You ask her what I was
doing here. She will say why I have drunk all the beer which was in

those bottles lying there. I am leaving now and please don't lie to the
police tomorrow that I did not pay you.'

330 Like an elephant whose child has been snatched away by another,
Mrs Phiri travelled across from where she was standing and held
Mutale by the shoulders. Using the same mouth with which she had
earlier kissed him, she hissed, groaned and then collected air from the
sky. Before she could spit at him, Mutale pushed her backwards.
Luckily for her she landed in the ready arms of the fat man. But the fat
man was not as lucky because Mrs Phiri spat perhaps having lost her
sense of direction, and most of the slimy salivary stuff landed on the
face of the man, the vapour flowing over. Probably the man wanted to
fight more than save the woman. All the same, the fact that he had to
340 wipe off the spittle gave Mutale some time to run out. He
slammed the door behind him and went for his bicycle.

It was locked, but this time he could not waste time looking for the
key. At the same time he could not afford to lose it. So he raised it
shoulder-high and tumbled around the corners of houses in the
direction of his house.

He was already a great distance away when he stopped. Flesh above

and below the left shoulder was now aching. Across his face ran white

350 dots in all directions, signifying want of sleep. He fetched the key
and unlocked the bicycle. In his mind he was wondering what had
become of him that day: two incidents against him both involving
women? 'No', he said, 'although I'm drunk I know that this thing is
unusual. First a ndumba picked away my money and then this . . . No,
it cannot be that I am just too drunk to understand things. If I have
had accidents with women, certainly, then Folonika must be having
peace with men. That is the only truth.' (Mutale never admitted that
anything he did was a result of drunkenness. As a custom, he always
said, 'Although I am drunk ...'.)

360 With these words on his lips, Mutale walked with his bicycle
towards the house. Near the house, he started to sing his song. He
always sang it so that if Folonika were asleep, she would hear him and
open the door before he arrived.

Tonight, it seemed as if he had miscalculated the distance at which he

started to sing. After only singing the first verse twice over, he reached
the house. The door was still closed and there came no sound of
footsteps from inside. Certainly, Mutale thought, Folonika must have
gone with men or they might be inside. This was proof. But just in case
she was in, he angrily pounded leg, fist and elbow on the small

To his surprise or anger, Folonika's voice came from within in as timid

a manner as any woman left alone by the husband. He knocked again,
this time on the door and the iron roof.
Then he heard her say, 'Is this the time a normal husband should
return home?'

'Open! What am I who have arrived this time ... a beast, a billy-goat?'
The door opened and he staggered in, not noticing his wife pass by
him as she went out to take the bicycle in. 'A woman who compares me
to a hyena might as well leave my house. Me, a cheetah that moves all
night and knows no home.' He must have been thinking 380 that his
wife was somewhere in the dark sitting room. But he heard her
speaking from outside, 'Did I come on bended knees to ask you to
marry me? Was it not you who came creeping like a crippled beggar?
And tonight you come to say such things after you have had a better
evening. You escape and deceive me as if you did not follow me like a
hound. You . . . don't let me say words which would be too big for a
hen to swallow. In fact, I wasn't supposed to talk like this tonight.'

'Shut up, you!' Mutale shouted as he staggered into the bedroom

where a small candle was burning. At the door to the bedroom, he
stopped and shouted, 'Look after my bicycle well, you hear? There is
390 no other one of its type in Zambia; I ordered it from Jo'burg long
before you became a woman. If you have it stolen, your flat-nosed
father will pay for it.' She did not answer.

On the bed, their child, the first life they had manufactured together,
lay stiff as if it was a corpse. This baby was the outcome of the
excitment that followed their unceremonious wedding a year before.
The marriage, like most others undertaken those days, was a unilateral
affair. Like a thumb, it stood unsupported by both sets of parents.
Folonika used this as the whip with which to calm down the noise of
her husband each time he came home drunk and was talkative. So that
400 was why Mutale did not mind about her words that night. But as
he watched his child, he noticed that it was only covered with a towel.
This upset him and he shouted, 'Folonika!'

A faint 'MukwaV came from the verandah.

'Come here quickly,' he called. When she came he said, 'Why is my

child covered with a towel? A towel which you and I rub between our
thighs! Don't we have enough better clothes and blankets?'

Her eyes shot up his across the small candle between them. 'Why do
you always ask angrily? A man who should be a gentle husband must
have patience at times. With that kind of temperament, you may even
410 disappoint guests.'

67

'Who? Your'husbands?' he snorted, throwing arms about as drops of

saliva caught against her face. 'I know you receive other husbands here
in my absence. Women of the town, pure whores all of them . . . how I
wish!'

'Please, bashi-Chanda , can't you be patient?'

She advanced and whispered, 'Nothing of what you have accused me

happens here . . . The blankets are with my mother-in-law; she has
come. You don't want to be patient to understand all this.' 420
'Mother-in-law? You mean my mother? But who has said she should
come? Has she brought a funeral?'

Folonika felt her body shrink at hearing her husband's words. She
quickly placed her hand on his mouth and said. 'Sssh, bashi-Chanda.
Are these words really coming from your mouth? Is a devil residing
somewhere in you?'

He threw her aside and she fell into a bathing basin, her legs pointing
up. 'Come on, show me where she is. My mother?'

She could not rise up quickly enough, so he held her and pushed her

forward through the door connecting the kitchen and the main house.

430 Between sobs and hisses, she said, 'In the kitchen. You are a
beast.'

'Bastard, child born on the grass!' He turned away and soon came to
the kitchen. There he repeatedly shouted, 'Mother! Mother!' at the
door. Folonika winced with pain inside her body but she could not let
him greet her mother-in-law while he was drunk. She would have liked
him to sleep and then, since tomorrow was a Saturday, greet and talk
with her then. But still he kicked the door and shouted in the same
manner.

"Bashi-Chanda, Imwe, please,' she pleaded.

He knocked again and then turned to her. 'What? Is she your

440 mother or mine? Mother, are you there?' He moved about. 'You

people in the villages don't know that bread and butter cost money.

You just come as you wish, pouring in any time. Open and tell me why

you came.'

His mother's voice came from inside with the message that she could
not open from inside because the boy who knew how to open was
asleep.

'And you cannot open the door?' Mutale said, his nose rustling with
the violent passage of air that moved to and from his chest. 'Why can't
you stay at home in the village where grass doors are easy to open. 450
You asked for my permission to come here, did I not refuse? I don't
know if it is madness that made you people believe that I have grown a
money-tree here. I suffer too.'

At this point embarrassment filled Folonika's heart. She could not

fight him but could try to have him shut his mouth. When she touched
him, he repelled her with his heavy arm. As she tried to bow in order
to ecape another slap, she met with a fist on her neck. Later she was
being kicked in every place until she could not stand it. She ran back
into the house and hid in a corner. He tried to search but it was too
dark. Meanwhile his mother wept silently in the kitchen.

Saying any kind of word at a time, Mutale searched around. 460

Suddenly, his knee hit against the pedal of his bicycle. He held it,
cursing his wife. Things changed immediately in his mind and he
started taking out his bicycle. 'Why should I be in conflict with three
women in the same day? Why should even Folonika attempt to fight
with me on a matter so simple as this? And you, mother,' he shouted
this time, 'why should your unwelcome arrival be augured by the
things I have seen today and tonight, things which do not know
baptism? We talk about this tomorrow.' But his mother just wept.

As soon as he had got out his bicycle, his mind turned towards his
friend's house, Kabali's. But in actual fact, he took the direction of the
470 town. More power had returned now, and soothed by the
freshness of midnight air, he cycled even more vigorously. He cycled
on and on like some fuelled vehicle. Soon it started to seem as if he
would not stop going. Memories of the ghostlike woman came back to
him and, to forget about it, he began a song:

Apaikala Chanda wandi pali nolwenge-enge; Mwandi catiile akamuupa

akalyamo utwamabwenge!

The bicycle gathered speed and flew like a kite swooping on helpless
chicks. The ground sloped and, facing the slope, Mutale felt the
moisture from the river come to his face like a morning breeze. He 480
sang and cycled on.

Suddenly it stopped with a cracking sound. It jammed and sent him

flying to a splashing fall. He rose and complained, 'But why should it
happen when I'm already in the house. This after all is my home I have
returned to again. What a mistake! But the fools, I know there are
fools in there with Folonika. Spirits! They have pulled me back to my
home. I wanted to sleep somewhere else. Folonikaa!'

Believing that he was home, he sang again: 'Apaikala Chanda wandi

pali nolwenge-enge.' This time the Chanda he had in mind was his
little son. 'Mwandi catiile akoopa akalyamo utwamabwenge. ' 490

In front of him, the river shimmered against the reflections of the sky.
This, to Mutale's mind, was a vision of the corrugated iron roof of his
house. And he shouted even harder, 'Hodi, are there some men in
there, Folonika?. Mind you, you've made me return. If I open you'll
see. Warn your husbands. If I open I'll chop their things off . . . Pali

nolwengeenge ! . . '

By the time he realised it was water he was in, he had already sunk to
the waist. Before he could shout, he had sunk.

The body was bruised and pale when it was found deposited on the
banks of the dirty water river. It now shone and glistened like a
jellyfish.

NOTES ON WEEKEND OF CAROUSAL

THE AUTHOR

Maurice Mulenga CHISHIMBA: born in 1948 in Zambia; educated in

Zambia and the United States where he got a Ph.D. in Linguistics; he is
now lecturing at the University of Zambia. He has had four plays
performed by Zambian theatre groups and several short stories
published in Zambian literary magazines. He is now engaged in
writing a novel. He has translated Wole Soyinka's The Lion and the
Jewel into Bemba. The present story was first published in New
Writing from Zambia, in 1974 and re-written in part for this
anthology.

THE STORY

1 Summary

On pay-day, Mutale, the mechanic's apprentice, sets out on his bicycle

for a

weekend of drinking and merry-making; unfortunately, right from the

start,

everything seems to go wrong.

In the bar where he spends the afternoon drinking and talking with
friends,

he enters the women's toilets by mistake and has his pocket picked by
a

prostitute to whose 'close' embrace he succumbs too easily.

At the shebeen, where he stays drinking until late at night, he gets

involved

in a fight with the proprietress' husband-of-the-night.

Back home, he has a major row, not only with his wife but also with his

mother on whom he pours violent abuse when he learns that she has
arrived

unannounced from the village, no doubt to ask for her son's help.

By then, Mutale is totally drunk. Disgusted with the situation at home,

he

decides to ride his bicycle once again toward the town. Instead, he
heads for

the river whose silvery surface looks to him like the corrugated iron
roof of

his house. Thinking he is back home, he enters the water only to

realise his

mistake too late. He is drowned.

70

2 Notes on the text

The text can be divided into three main parts with introduction and
conclusion.

I (lines 1 to 28): Introduction: Portrait of Luka Mutale, the Zambian

'servant to mechanic'.

kwacha: Zambian currency denomination; shebeen: illegal bar open all

through the night and usually located in a woman's private dwelling.
Very popular in Southern Africa.

II (lines 31 to 218): first episode: at Bunyanuma Tavern

a) drinking and talking with friends.

b) encounter in the women's toilets and aftermath.

babwana: (or bwana) master in Bemba; bambo: Sir, in Nyanja (one of

the main Zambian languages); shebeen queen: shebeen's proprietress
(in this case: Mrs Phiri Shamoya), zikomo: please in Bemba;
chikwembe: wrapper in Bemba; AKAZI: women in Nyanja.

III (lines 219 to 345): second episode: at Mrs Phiri Shamoya's bar

a) Mutale's drinking, sexual and married habits.

b) drinking at Mrs Phiri's.

c) fight with Mrs Phiri's lover.

Mukanda: imaginary name for an area of the town; chibuku: home-

made (or locally brewed) beer made of maize; mo si, muchinga (or
mchinga): brands of Zambian beer; Lake Bangweulu: situated in the
north-east of Zambia.

IV (lines 348 to 477): third episode: at home

a) a rather noisy home-coming!

b) argument with his wife.

c) abusing his mother.

ndumba: prostitute in Zairian KiSwahili; Jo 'burg: abbreviation for

Johannesburg in South Africa; bashi-Chanda: father of Chanda in
Bemba; mukwai: Sir, in Bemba; Imwe: please in Bemba.

Apaikala Chanda wandi pali nolwenge-enge:/Mwandi catiile

akamuupa akalyamo utwamabwenge . Where my girl is, there is
always plenty to eat/Behold, as people say, the man who has married
her, eats well.

V (lines 478 to 503): Conclusion Fatal mistake and death.

3 Questions on the text

1 How much does Mutale get a month? How does he share out his
money? Which pocket is picked? By whom? Where?

2 What makes a good wife according to Mutale's friends? What does

Mutale expect from his wife Folonika? How does he see his role as a
husband?

3 List the words, expressions and comparisons which give the story an
African flavour.

4 How does Mrs Phiri treat her customers? How do we know that
Mutale is one of her regular customers?

5 How much money is left when Mutale reaches home? Why does he
think his mother has come because of a funeral?

4 Characters

Luka Mutale

A worker whose commitment to work does not match his love of

things

mechanical.
A man who does not allow his sense of responsibility to stand in the
way of

his pleasure and freedom.

A wage-earner whose income is mostly spent on drinking.

A husband for whom marriage means next to nothing and who treats
his

wife as a house-slave.

A son whose respect for his parents is all but gone.

Above all, a man whose all life is centred on drinking.

Mutale is very much a product of his time and social environment. His
life

follows the usual pattern of the urban proletariat in Africa: (see

Introduction

page 8) he has little hope of professional betterment, is cut off from his
roots,

deprived of love, and lives in miserable surroundings. For Mutale,

there are

only two ways in which he can assert himself: sex and drink.

With this kind of life, degradation is a continuous process and reaches

a point

where even death becomes meaningless.

Women

These are of two kinds:

a) those who bow to fate and accept their wretched condition (wife,
mother).

b) those who refuse to live in bondage and use their only weapon (sex)
to win their freedom and even rule over man (prostitute, shebeen
queen).

5 Theme

Beware of women ... or is it of drinking? or both?

6 Style

The story has a single narrative line along which episodes are arranged
in chronological order. It ends in a climax when the three themes of
drinking, women and money come to bear all together on the main
character with tragic consequences. The key-word in this story is
'realism'.

a) setting: a public bar where people drink from the same plastic
containers; toilets with their filth and smell; a shebeen complete with
loud customers;

a fat proprietress and her night 'customer'; Mutale's home without

electricity, no bedsheets; not enough blankets for everybody.

b) characters: Mutale in his stained mechanic's over-attire; the

prostitute in her wrapper, with her cracked lips, pimples and freckles,
and a front tooth missing; Mrs Phiri with her dark glasses, hugh
thorax; her night lover, a fat man with a neck as wide as his head.

c) events: kissing the prostitute who receives Mutale's 'entire tongue

including some portion of his lips into her own mouth'; the woman's
breath 'stinking of alcohol and cigarettes'; the vomiting; Mrs Phiri's
spit — 'slimy salivary stuff.

d) images and similes: the towel which covers the child and which 'you
and I rub between our thighs'; Mutale's threat to 'chop their things off;
Folonika's supposed lovers; the prostitute's lips 'just like the body of a
centipede — all rings and cracks'; Mutale's marriage 'like a thumb, it
stood unsupported by both sets of parents'; etc ...

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Compare the role of drinking in Weekend of Carousal and Coming of

the Dry Season.

2 Why is Mutale's marriage a failure?

3 What are the advantages and disadvantages of the 'extended family'

system ?

4 In which other stories in this anthology is urban life an element of

the narrative and how is it described?

5 Imagine a story around the weekend activities of a 'town-girl'.

6 Are you for or against drinking and why?

6 The Ivory Dancer

by Cyprian Ekwensi

A shadow fell across the table in the market stall and the girl behind
the rows of candles, match-boxes and tinned provisions displayed on it
looked up. Across the motor park a young man was striding briskly. It
was Chibo and he did not pause as usual to chat with the drivers, to
leave orders with the wine hawkers and make eyes at the bean sellers.
He appeared to be in some haste, and was coming towards her stall.

She could not look at this splendid local youth without a feeling of
guilt and remorse. In his simple yellow singlet and scarlet lappa, he
was every bit as manly and honest as any girl could desire. She could
not 10 deny that her parents had made a good choice, but she was
afraid that after fifteen years, things were going wrong. No longer did
she look upon their marriage as inevitable.
He did not smile. A few yards from the table, he paused and hitched up
his lappa impatiently. 'Er . . . Akunma, the Chief said I should call you

'Ah, Chibo! Not even a smile! Why, is there something? Or is it just

that -'

'No,' said Chibo. 'What else can there be? I was sent to call you and I've
done so.' His eyes were hard. 20 'Mm! ...' sighed Akunma. 'I wonder
what the Chief wants me for?'

'I don't know,' said Chibo. 'He saw me passing by and said: "Go to the
market and call me the ivory dancer." And I came. Are you not the
ivory dancer, the best dancer in the village of Nankwo?'

Akunma's eyes become coy. 'So they say . . . but, if it is to do with

dancing, er ... I promised someone

'You mean Peters?' Chibo laughed. There was no joy in his laughter.
'But he's away, isn't he?'

'When he comes back, he'll know. You know how the girls of 30
Nankwo run after him . . . they'll do anything to get him.'

'That's fine!' said Chibo. 'Do you blame them? He's from the
University, and he wears a rag round his neck and sees through pieces
of broken bottles. His father talks of sending him to England. Why

shouldn't all the girls, including you, my fiancee, run after him?'

'Chibo!' Her eyes glinted resentfully, but, as she arranged her head-tie
her unsteady fingers betrayed her. 'You're just jealous, that's all. Look
after the stall for me, please! Or are we such enemies now?' She
pinched his forearm. 'I shan't be long.'

'Remember I have work on the farm. I'm not a college boy; I earn my
living by hard work, not wearing glasses and ties!' 40

The Chief kept Akunma waiting long enough for her to count the
number of rafters on the ceiling. This room where the elders met
seemed to be decorated with the horns and skins of strange animals.
And there were old clocks too, some of which had stopped ticking.
Akunma was following the lazily swinging pendulum of the oldest one
when the door opened abruptly.

Framed in the doorway stood a big man in a flowing cloth. His eyes
fixed her in a drunken stare. She said, 'Long may you live' and knelt 50
down respectfully before him, and he called her 'my daughter' and
bade her rise.

'Rise, my daughter,' he said, walking into the middle of the room. 'I
sent for you, because I want you to know that you will be dancing
tonight . . .'

'But, Chief —'

'What is it? Are you taking the words from my mouth? Is that all the
training you've had?'

'Forgive me, Chief.'

He went on as if nothing had happened, but she could see that her 60
interruption had annoyed him. This was the wrong thing to do to a
man like Chief Nanka.

'Two important men are coming to this village tonight,' he said. 'Sir
Ajumobi, our representative in the Senate, the highest government
council in this country, is arriving today on a tour of inspection. For a
long time now I have been pressing for good water supply for the
village and nothing has happened. Now I want to reach the heart of
this our son who has never been home since he became a wealthy and
important man in Pitakwa fifteen years ago. I want to exhibit your
dance tonight to impress him and get him to get the minister to give us
70 water. Your dance is the best in these parts and will put him in the
mood to listen to me. Besides Sir Ajumobi is bringing his friend, an
American something, I don't know . . . when he comes he'll tell us
more about him. It is very important to me and the village that you
dance your best. Do you hear me? Go now and gather your dance
troupe together —.'

Akunma did not rise to her feet. 'Chief, can we not leave this till
tomorrow?'

'Go and stop answering back to your seniors!' 80 'Chief, I beg you,
listen! I made a promise to my ... my betrothed . . . never to dance
again in public —'

'Who? Chibo?' snarled the Chief.

'No, not him. I mean — Peters, the boy from college. You know him . .
.'

'The one who always puts on tie ... You let me lay my hands on him! ...'

'Er ... you know he has been spending his holidays here.'

'I don't know, no man in this village knows either. Only you women
do! Now, go and gather your little girls before I use my authority.' 90
'Chief, when Peters came here, he took on a job as mechanic with one
of those lorries ... the ones that go to the coal city every day and fetch
coal for the steamers on the Niger ... he did that to show me he is a
good boy. Now he is gone back to the coal city. His relatives live there
and he is gone to consult them. This night they are coming back and
will ask my mother for my hand. Oh, Chief! Do you not see that I must
keep myself decent and respectable till everything is settled?'

'You are mad! In Nankwo here no one knows Peters. Chibo is the one
we know you are betrothed to . . . You cannot just throw him aside like
that here! The elders must know. You are wasting your time, 100 my
girl. Leave this matter to me and your mother. Now go! There is little
time between now and evening. In a moment, our guest and his friend
will arrive.'

'Chief, I shan't do it! I shan't dance! . . .' She was weeping now. The
Chief glared at her for a moment before leaving the room. Akunma
heard him talking in rage to his wives. She was afraid. This man was
noted for his sheer wickedness. What had she done? What was she
going to do now? Some moments passed. Everywhere was silent, yet
she could sense a strange restlessness beneath.

A side-door opened. Two masked men came in. They took her by

110 the wrists and led her, as gently as they could, to the back of the
house.

There was a sort of inner courtyard, lined on one side by a row of

rooms from each of which a woman stared curiously out. This was the

Chief's harem.

The masked men guided her to one of the rooms, pushed her in, and
left. It was not an unpleasant room. It was well lighted, with an
expensive-looking four-poster bed in one corner and a table lined with
books in the other. The frocks which hung from pegs on the wall were

well cut, and Akunma wondered whose room this might be. The door
opened and a young lady in a smart frock came in. She was the Chief's
youngest wife, and she was smiling. 120

'Mmm!' she said. 'So you are the girl! I thought as much! The Chief has
sent me to persuade you to change your mind. It's a waste of time
trying to be loyal to Peters! He's no good, that one. He's merely
deceiving you. Just think of it! A boy who is going to be one of the
country's leaders very soon . . . what do you think he'll do with you?'

Akunma said: 'I know you are the right woman for him! Because you
have been to St Anne's Convent. Isn't that so? But the Chief can't read
or write properly, and yet he married you!'

'I'm here to help him,' she said. 'Though his other wives dislike me, I
am not sorry.' 130

'You are selfish and wicked,' Akunma said. 'That's why it suits both of
you. But I know that you are deceiving the Chief. One day, when you
have saved up enough money, you are going to pack away all his goods
and escape!'

'Nonsense! Don't talk to me like that!'

'What have you come to do?'

The Chief's wife sat on the bed. 'This is my room,' she said. 'But I came
to tell you that the Chief is threatening to take away your mother's
farm if you do not dance tonight. You know your mother . . . how poor
she is! Without that farm, she is useless! Of course, 140 those Iroko
trees which your father left behind . . . the matter is still being debated.
The Chief can still decide against you. But what does it all matter? So
long as you have Peters, you can run away and leave your mother to
starve!'

Akunma's head dropped. 'Wicked . . . both of you . . . very wicked.'

In a few hours, the Chief's wife had painted such a miserable picture
that Akunma sat huddled in a corner of the room, a silent, helpless
prisoner. Occasionally, a little girl came in with a garland of flowers.
There were twenty girls in all who formed her troupe — splendid, 150
graceful girls aged five to thirteen. They knew the movements in their
most intricate form, and dancing was to them a never-ending source of
joy. Seeing one of them come in, her anklets jingling, her body painted
with camwood, Akunma knew the Chief would spare no pains to
present this show to the Senator. What a scheming scoundrel he was!
And while under the influence of the delightful spectacle, he would
strike home, get a good water system for Nankwo, while she lost her
best chance in life.

The Chief looked in at dusk. 'When are you going to start

160 rehearsals? Is your troupe ready yet? What dance are you going to
perform? Let it be the dance of the elephant, the one that earned you
the name of the ivory dancer. That's the best of them all. Have you
polished your ivory bangles yet?'
'She has been sitting in that corner, moping!' said the Chief's wife.

Akunma flared up. 'Leave me alone! Oh, why do things go against me

in this way? Here in the village, they think I'm too sharp. Nobody
wants me as a wife. Even Chibo is afraid of me. And when a decent
man comes along . . .'

The Chief interrupted her. 'Shut your mouth! I've had enough of 170
this! Since you are so obstinate, you'll force me to do what I don't like!
When the Senator comes I'll tell him how your Peters killed a man on
the road to the coal city. Can't help that now!'

'He . . . killed ... a man?' Akunma stammered.

But the Chief had gone leaving the two women to themselves.

'So, you didn't hear of it?' the Chief's wife asked. 'It was all hushed up,
of course. Your Peters was actually at the wheel, but to save him, the
owner of the lorry took the blame and paid the fine. A very nice man.
He didn't want them to know that Peters had no driving licence

180 'Do you mean that . . . Peters was responsible and not the other
man? I heard of the accident. About a month ago. Just after Peters
came to Nankwo.'

'You did not hear the truth.'

'Oh, Lord! I beg you . . . can't you tell the Chief to drop the matter? You
know how he loves you . . . even made you head over much older
women . . . please beg him not to dig up the past.'

'I am powerless,' the Chief's wife said. 'Unless, of course, you are
prepared to dance?'

'No! . . . That's impossible! I would rather die!' 190 The sun had
vanished behind the trees when the Pontiac, followed by a crowd of
hooting boys, drove into the village. Sir Ajumobi, dressed in an
impeccably cut dark-grey flannel suit, lit his pipe as he came out
followed by the American who wore a light gabardine suit and a green-
lined helmet.

'Sam Billings, the film producer,' he said introducing his friend, his
expansive wave embracing the palm trees and the thatched huts under
the banana groves. 'He's shooting a film on Africa and wants a dance
sequence for a scene . . . perhaps you have the answer here, Chief

'Perhaps so!' The chief sounded uncertain. 'And now ... er ...

200 the Rest House is ready. I think you need a wash and change after
that

journey. Since you say you are leaving tomorrow morning I will try

and arrange a dance for tonight. But it will not start before nine since
the dancers would want time to prepare.'

The car moved towards the Rest House and the Chief went back at
once to the courtyard and saw Akunma. But all the response he got
was: i shall not break my word to Peters.'

'You'll have to dance if he doesn't come back before eight. It's seven
now!"

Half an hour later Chibo brought back the market stall keys. He had
sold a piece of cloth for twenty shillings. He was like that, always 210
dependable.

'Akunma.' he said anxiously. 'It's all over Nankwo that you said you are
not dancing. What is this foolishness?'

'It is nothing.'

i beg you. Akunma. Whatever you do. think carefully. Chief is too
dangerous for that.'

In the forest glade, the sweepers were clearing away the leaves that
littered the dance square. Women arranged chairs and dusted up the
lamps. In the Chief's senior wife's room, twenty young and graceful
girls, scented and painted, were donning their anklets and bangles.
220 Only Akunma remained aloof from the throbbing excitement that
was stirring the village. Drums were sounding now.

The Chief's wives had assembled in front of her door and were
chattering impatiently. Still Peters had not returned. Time was
running out. The Chief's wives trooped away towards the glade,
colourful and excited.

Every strange sound took Akunma to the door. And now her calm gave
way to anxiety, and anxiety to a strange dread of what might happen to
her if she failed the Chief. Along the path a party of old men hobbled,
called. 'Akunma. where are vou?" 230

Not long after the old men went by a youth, tattered, bruised and torn,
broke into the room where Akunma was held prisoner. It was Peters.

'Oh!' exclaimed Akunma. 'What happened? Where are your relatives?'

'An accident . . . Akunma. you must dance . . . The Chief plans evil
Dance, hear me? I permit you! Dance and save me!'

'What about . . . seeing my people?'

That can wait! Your people will be at the dance. Put on your ivory 2
bangles. Dance! Don't be late!'

He hurried off. Akunma was trembling. Would she still be as supple

and graceful as she used to be? The ivory bangles felt heavy on her

wrists and her neck seemed too frail to support the bridal mask of the
spirits. But when she entered the ring, her eyes were dancing with a
thousand lights. The lightness returned to her feet as they wove
intricate patterns on the ground. A forest of eager eyes followed her.
She felt, rather than saw the important group under the mantle lamp:
250 the Chief in the centre, Sam Billings sucking his cigar on one side,
the Senator leaning over to shield a flame from the wind . . .
Next morning, her limbs still ached. Her heart still fluttered with fear;
anklets still tinkled in her ears. Sam Billings' encore topping the
thunderous applause woke her dreams and plunged her back again.

Somewhere in front of the house she could hear Chibo's voice. She
struggled out of bed. He had brought her a basket of fresh oranges and
bananas from his farm. He praised her so lavishly that she concealed
her initial disappointment at not seeing Peters. Only the fear of
hurting him kept her from asking about Peters. 260 Chibo told how
the Senator had promised to get them the long-needed pump water,
but he feared that some people might not like to pay rates. He had also
heard that Sam Billings, the film magnate, was arranging to put the
ivory dancer into his film on Africa. And all because Akunma had
shone last night.

'But I can't understand how some people act,' he said. 'I mean — that
boy, Peters

Akunma held her breath. The smile vanished from her face. 'Peters?'
she echoed. In the icy stillness her voice was scarcely audible.

'Yes 270 'Well, you were wasting your time! Last night, while you were
dancing to save him, Peters and the Chief's most senior wife ran away
together! No, don't waste your tears! It suits them . . . can't you look on
the bright side?'

'Leave me for a while,' said the ivory dancer.

She did not wipe her tears or restrain her sobs as she walked back to
the bed.

NOTES ON THE IVORY DANCER

THE AUTHOR

Cyprian EKWENSI: born in Nigeria in 1921, graduated from the

University of Ibadan. Successively school-teacher, broadcaster and
civil servant, now retired and living in Nigeria. Cyprian Ekwensi was
one of the first writers to bring fame to Nigerian literature.

His works include novels like: People of the City (1954), Jagua Nana
(1961) and Beautiful Feathers (1963) and collections of short stories:
Restless City and Christmas Gold (1975) and Lokotown and Other
Stories (1966) from which the present story is taken.

THE STORY

1 Summary

In the village of Nankwo, young Akunma is known as 'the ivory dancer'

because of her dancing skill and ivory bangles.

From an early age, she has been engaged to Chibo, a village youth
entirely devoted to her. But Akunma has now become infatuated with
Peters, a university student spending his holiday in the village. As a
sign of love, she has promised him that she will not dance in public
any more without his permission.

Some influential people whom the local Chief hopes to win over with a
night-dance come to the village. He naturally expects Akunma to shine
in the dance.

To keep her promise, Akunma refuses stubbornly to dance despite the

Chief's wrath and his threats of reprisals conveyed to her through his
youngest and best-educated wife. It takes Peters' return and his urgent
plea to dance to make Akunma finally change her mind.

The night-dance is a complete success for the Chief but a disaster for
the young ivory dancer. While she was enchanting the crowd with her
'dance of the elephant', her lover Peters has run away with the Chief's
wife. Despite Chibo's tender care, Akunma is left with a broken heart.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 40): love is blind to reason and if all that glitters is not
gold, a young village girl can still be excused for falling for it.
lappa: loin-cloth in Igbo language.

II (lines 41 to 108): Traditional authority turns to oppression but love

is stronger than duty and fear.

the coal city. Enugu; Niger: river which flows through Nigeria.

III (lines 109 to 146): Should everything be sacrificed in the name of

love? Iroko tree: tall kapok tree which gives good timber and planks.

IV (lines 147 to 230): the suspense is mounting but nothing and

nobody can make Akunma change her mind (except Peters of course!).

Pontiac: big American-made car.

V (lines 232 to 274): love is blind . . . even to true love!

Note the Chief's 'most senior wife' here is, in fact, his youngest wife
whom,

3 Questions on the text

1 What is Akunma's usual occupation? and Chibo's?

2 How much does the story tell us about Peters?

3 Who is Sir Ajumobi? Why does he come to the village? What does
the Chief hope to get from him?

4 How many girls make up the dance-group? How do they dress? Who
is in charge of them? Why?

5 What do we know of the Chief's youngest wife?

4 Characters

Akunma

A village girl brought up according to tradition and yet ready to oppose

it for

love (her parents' choice of Chibo as her future husband, the Chief's

authority which is supreme, her duty to the community).

A girl in love who is ready to sacrifice everything to remain faithful and

keep

her promise (family freedom and even her lover's safety).

A simple girl who is deceived by the glamour of a well-dressed and

educated

young man.

Is Akunma a foolish girl who earns the lesson she is given by life? Or is
she a

pitiful example of how love-dreams can be shattered by reality?

Chibo

A stolid and devoted village youth who knows that time and life are on
his

side.

Peters

Unscrupulous young man whom education does not make any better.

The village Chief

A loathsome character.

5 Theme

Love is blind to reality and is an incurable disease.

6 Style

A simple story which keeps closely to the natural order of the narrative
(chronology) and in which the elements all tend to bring out a 'pre-
established design' (see Introduction page 2), i.e. to illustrate the
conflict between love and reality.

The narrative unfolds mainly through two stylistic devices: 1

descriptions of:

a) places: the room in the Chief's palace (silent, dark and forbidding,
and yet failing to instil fear in Akunma); the wife's room (comfortable
and almost welcoming, and yet in sharp contrast with Akunma's
plight); the dance-square (busy, noisy and brightly-lit, and yet an ill-
adapted setting for Akunma's sacrifice).

82

b) characters: Chibo (strong, handsome and reliable, and yet failing to

win Akunma's heart); the Chief (evil-looking and frightening, and yet
failing to impress his will on Akunma); the masked men; the VIPs, etc

2 dialogues between:

a) Akunma and Chibo: light, playful and 'sweet' (on Chibo's part) to
underline the intimate relationship between the two young people.

b) the Chief and Akunma: threatening and violent to enhance

Akunma's courage (or is it stubborness?).

c) the Chief's wife and Akunma: spiteful, typical of two women who are
rivals for the same man!

d) Peters and Akunma: as dramatic as love-stories always are.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Compare Chibo and Peters.

2 In which other stories in this anthology is love also doomed to
failure?

3 Akunma's mother comes and begs her daughter to change her mind.
Imagine what she says.

4 Is it possible to argue that the Chief has a right to impose his will on
Akunma?

5 Sam Billings writes to his wife about the night-dance.

6 Where does the author's sympathy lie in the story? Why?

by Rasheed A. Gbadamosi

The ground was sloping down fast and as Amos Akinbo limped along
he could hear the bubbling sound of the tiny waterfall down in the
valley. He had followed the disused footpath which was strewn with
the dead leaves of the harmattan. He felt tired in his mouth and dry in
his throat and apart from the bleeding cut on his ankle which, to his
relief had by now clotted, his only other consolation was the cascading
noise of the waterfall below.

Amos Akinbo knelt down beside the stream. It was clear but brownish
against the clayish bed. Gulping down two palmfuls of water 10 made
him gasp with relief. For he had walked through the hilly countryside
for two days without water.

He dipped his hands into the pool end of the stream and splashed it on
his head and all over his face. He shook his head and threw off
droplets of water buried in his hair. The droplets made ripples in the
stream and at the same time something rustled the dense foliage of the
ageless trees that cast their protective shadows over the sluggish
stream.

The creature shrieked and hopped between the trees, and looking up,
Amos caught the frightened face of a young monkey which quickly 20
leapt down and disappeared into the thicket.
Amos took off his shoes and he loosened his belt and as he dropped it
down carelessly he felt a sharp pain on his left ankle where the bayonet
case attached to the belt had pricked his cut. The pain subsided but he
felt his trousers moist around the wound and he knew he was bleeding
again.

Amos sat down on a tiny boulder beside which the stream flowed
down through the dense foliage. He emptied his pockets of a dirty ten
shilling note, his identity card crumpled and smeared with mud, two
blank bullets and butts of cigarettes. He pulled down his weather -30
beaten trousers to his ankles whereupon he lay on his back and rolled
the trousers down his right foot. Gently and slowly he sat up and
wriggled the left foot out, pulling the trousers by the bottom and
noticing them drench gradually by the trickles of blood coming out of

84

the injury.

Downstream, where the sloping ground levelled off to a plain, two

wearied men appeared. They were holding cutlasses and clad in
peasants' danshiki and shorts. One of the men was thick-set, heavy-
necked and he had a round waistline that wasn't flabby but muscular.
His disproportionately tiny legs suggested he walked flat-footedly and
his square and mango-shaped head that was wide at the back and 40
pointed at the forehead betrayed a kind of congenital malformation.

The other man was of medium height and his other noticeable feature
was his rounded face that contoured into laughs rather easily.
Otherwise, he looked pretty ordinary.

'Eji, look over there! See a man?' the round-faced man, called Odere,
said to the other.

'What? A man? I don't see him,' Eji said to Odere.

'How can you see? You're not only dumb, you're blind. Look at the
man in khaki shirt lying on that stone.'
Eji squinted his short-sighted eyes. Then he said: 'Yes, I see him, 50
Odere.'

'What is he wearing?'

'Nothing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sorry, Eji, I don't see him.'

'Why didn't you say so at first?'

'I didn't want you to be angry with me.'

'You promised to tell the truth always, Eji.'

'Are you angry? 1 don't want you to be angry. Please.'

'One more lie and I'll send you back . . .' 60

'Please don't send me back. I won't ever lie. Please, please.'

'All right. That's a soldier lying there. Let's go over to him.'

Odere moved forward but Eji did not follow him.

'What's the matter?' Odere asked. 'Won't you come?'

Eji stood there, his eyes fixed on the stream.

'Eji! You follow me now or I'll leave you right here.'

His mango-shaped head slowly lifted up; Eji rolled his bulging eyes to
a far-away distance. His eyes were by now slightly blood-shot as they
always were whenever he was agitated.

'Come on, Eji, or else I'll ...' 70

Eji's lips quivered and his eyes softened and came out of the
tormented void back to the bulging vacant and dependent look of his
personality. 'Who is he?' he asked.

'A soldier,' Odere told him.

'Who is a sold . . . ier?' Eji stuttered a little.

'A soldier is a soldier. He fights in wars.'

'What wars?'

'The war in the country for instance.'

'I never knew there was a war!' 80 'Oh God! I tell you, you're really too
dumb for me! After our next job together you'll go your way and I'll go
my own way, too.'

'I don't know where I'll go. I'll go wherever you go. And if you tell me
what a war is and you ask me next time and I tell you, then you'll let
me stay, won't you?' ^

'You won't remember next time.'

'I'll remember. By God, I will.'

'Alright. A war is where people fight and kill each other.'

'Like two rams we saw on the field that day?'

'Yes. Oh yes. Except that only soldiers fight in wars. And that man 90
over there is a soldier.'

'War,' Eji reflected. 'And that man is a soldier!'

'Shut up now,' Odere told him.

Amos Akinbo, the soldier, was now bent over the pool mopping the
dirt from the surface of his raw ankle and he was not aware of the two
intruders until he saw the dark patches of their shadows in the water.

He jerked himself up, again twitching his wound which gaped open
and gave him a stinging pain.

Odere smiled. The soldier nodded his head. Eji said nothing.

'Look, there's blood running down your foot,' Odere said. 100 'Yes. I
got cut up on the hill in the dark last night.'

'It must be painful. Why don't you sit down and I'll rub something on
it to stop the bleeding.'

'Like what?'

'A leaf or something. Eh, Eji if you go back a little down the path we
took you'll see on your right some of those leaves I ground and put on
your wound that day you cut your finger. Do you remember?'

Eji didn't answer. He walked away.

'He's a strange fellow, isn't he?' Amos Akinbo asked.

'Yes.' 110 'Is he dumb?'

'Only in the head. Now, you better lie back on the rock and let me tie
this string above your wound so that it stops bleeding.'

'Thanks.'

'What's your name, soldier?'

'Amos Akinbo.'

'What're you doing around here?'

'I've come from the war front.'

'To this place? Nobody lives here.'

'I don't want where anybody lives.'

'Then you should come with us. We also go about our own way, Eji 120
and I.'

'The dumb fellow?'

'He isn't dumb. He's just that way sometimes. I have to protect him
from people because they don't understand him.'

'Why?'

'He's different. For instance, he doesn't know there is a war.'

'That's strange.'

'Yes. He came out of the asylum two months ago. He'd been there
three years. And we've been living on cutting grass and rooting trees
for land-owners in these parts. I don't allow him to get involved with
130 people. Once we finish with a land, we move on to another.'

'It must be an exciting life.'

'I'll like to go somewhere though. A city where I can work as a

labourer. But you see, Eji is so helpless on his own. Or you have ideas
what I can do?'

'I'm a deserter. I don't have any ideas.'

'What's that?'

'A soldier who ran away. We were to attack and I was afraid to die. So I
ran away.'

'Eji is a strong fellow. Too strong. He's not afraid of anything.' 140

Just then Eji appeared from the thicket around where the little
monkey had disappeared out of sight. On his head was a bundle of
leaves as huge as a pile of cattle hay. The two men started when they
saw him and for a moment he stood there anticipating a remark, a
smile, a flicker of the eyes, anything at all to acknowledge his
superhuman effort in getting so much of the leaves.

Disappointed, he tilted his head forward and the bundle thudded

down. Amos was now in a sitting position, aghast at the incident. Eji
kept his eyes fixed on the floor, like a child caught with stolen sweets.

'He's certainly a strong man,' Amos said. 150

'That's about all he's got,' Odere added. 'His muscular hands and his
empty, mango-shaped head. I tell you, I'll send him away if I can find
someone else to go around with.'

'I still think he's a strong man.'

'Yes, but how about you and I going together? We can go to the city,
get a job at the port, rent a room and live a decent life.'

'I can't go to Lagos,' Amos said.

'Why?'

'I tell you I'm a runaway soldier.'

160 All this time Eji's eyes had sized up the two men, figuring in his
small mind what had transpired between the two of them when he was
getting the leaves.

Odere picked up the soldier's belt, and he pulled out the bayonet from
its sheath.

'What's this?'

'It's a bayonet. A kind of knife we attach to the tip of the gun.'

Odere felt the blade of the bayonet and he smelt its tip. 'I can smell
blood on it,' he said.
'I used it several times to kill the enemy.' 170 'Did you kill many?'

'I never counted them.'

Methodically, Odere plucked a leaf from the bundle, rubbed it between

his palms and dabbed it on the soldier's wound.

Amos gave a throaty groan and he passed out. Eji stood where he was,
his eyes fixed on the pained soldier.

'Eji,' Odere called him. 'He's a runaway soldier. You stay here with him
and I'll go and find something to revive him. Don't let him go yet.'

Eji did not say a word. Odere had told him from the beginning to 180
shut up and characteristically he would remain unspeaking.

Presently, Amos woke up. He rubbed his eyes for a moment. Then he
remembered the dense vegetation, the bubbling sounds of the
waterfall, his painful ankle and of course Eji.

'Where's the other man?'

Eji didn't answer.

'You hear me, mango-head. Where's your friend?'

Silence.

'Oh well I feel better now. I'm going.'

Amos Akinbo stood up. Eji did not move. Amos wore his trousers 190
carefully and he fastened on his belt. As he moved forward, Eji
dropped his cutlass and positioned himself so that he barred Amos
Akinbo's way.

Amos pushed him out of his way, but with a flash Eji knocked him
down and assailed Amos on the head with his heavy fists. He couldn't
have realised Amos had sustained a slight brain haemorrhage when he
fell and cut his ankle way back on the hilly grounds the previous night.
Odere returned and he saw Eji bent over the stone-dead body of the
soldier.

'You've had it. You've killed a man.' 200 'War. Soldier. We fight. I kill .
. . You said to stay with him. He mustn't go. War. Soldier . . . You were
leaving me . . . You were

going with him . . . War . . . Soldier

Odere quickly realised Eji was now round the bend and he took to his
heels. He was still running when Eji twisted the soldier's bayonet into
his lungs.

NOTES ON DEATH BY THE WATERFALL

THE AUTHOR

Rasheed A. GBADAMOSI: Nigerian journalist and writer (Echoes from

the Lagoon, novel, 1973; Behold My Redeemer play, 1978). Death by
the Waterfall comes from the Festac Anthology of New Writing in
Nigeria 1977.

THE STORY

1 Summary

Somewhere, in a valley, by a waterfall, three men meet by chance. One

is a runaway soldier who has injured his ankle while walking in the
dark. The other two are casual labourers moving around the
countryside, thrown together by life rather than by fate. But for one of
them, a madman, this companionship is all his life. When he senses
that his friend is planning to strike up a new relationship with the
soldier and betray him, he kills first his rival and, then, himself. A
chance-encounter which develops into an absurd tragedy.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 34): A soldier resting by a stream. Where does he come

from? Why is he there? How did he get his wound? No answer to these
questions so far. Note how the description of nature (waterfall, stream,
forest) adds to the peace and quiet of the place and gives the
impression of welcoming the wounded soldier.

harmattan: dry wind coming from the Sahara.

II (lines 35 to 92): Two men walking along talking.

Who are they? What binds them together? Why does one seem so
afraid of

the other?

Few answers but we learn that one of the two men is a half-wit and
that there

is a war in the country.

Note how behind the words of the conversation one can sense that
there must

be something wrong with Eji.

danshiki: shirt

Note how Odere seems to dominate the scene, right from the
beginning.

IV (lines 107 to 140): Getting to know about each other. Just small talk
or is there an ulterior motive?

Note how through simple conversation the two men come to reveal
their true personalities and inner thoughts.

V (lines 141 to 175): What lies behind Odere's offer? And what exactly
does go on in Eji's clouded mind?

Note how the focus of the story shifts to Eji.

VI (lines 176 to 205): Why do things suddenly go wrong? Is it because
each man distrusts the others or fails to communicate with them?

Note how the pace quickens and brings the story to a dramatic end.

3 Questions on the text

1 Which elements of the description show that Amos is a soldier and

that he did not sustain his wound in fighting?

2 What binds Eji to Odere? How does Odere make sure of his power
over Eji?

3 Why is Odere so anxious to strike up a relationship with Amos?

4 Why does Odere's behaviour, after Amos has fainted, seem rather
odd? What interpretation can we give to it?

5 Is Eji really responsible for Amos's death? Why then does he kill
himself?

4 Characters

Vague figures which hardly exist except Eji who comes alive through
the other two men's words.

Amos Akinbo, a soldier afraid to die; Odere, a man dissatisfied with

his life; Eji, a madman, so terrified of being left alone and sent back to
the asylum that he prefers to take his own life.

5 Theme

A world which remains indifferent to man's plight and where values

such as duty, friendship and trust have lost their meaning except in
the clouded mind of a madman.

6 Style

Both Amos and Eji have got the same pre-occupation: to hide or keep
away (from the war or the asylum). They fear for their own safety and
are suspicious of other people; and when they sense betrayal, they are
then spurred to action. Both Amos and Eji follow their own trend of
thought till the end of the story when it brings them to oppose each
other with a fatal result.

90

Odere's motives stem from his feeling of dissatisfaction with the world
and his present condition. He accepts Eji's devotion as long as it serves
the purpose but is ready to abandon his companion for what he feels
would be a more fruitful friendship.

Note how effective are the stylistic devices used in the story to bring
out a 'single effect'.

a) length of the text: very short.

b) content: one place, time and action.

c) author's presence: kept to a minimum.

d) language register: familiar even in choice of similes.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Is there any justification for war?

2 Do you agree that madness is only another way of looking at things?

3 Amos tells Odere what life is like at the front and why he has run
away.

8 A Man Can Try

by Eldred Durosimi Jones

'Well, I think this is very satisfactory' — old Pa Demba, the Paramount

Chief of Bomp, looked at D.C. Tullock with genuine admiration. 'I
think you have been very generous to Marie. I really do not see how
anyone could have been fairer than you have been — one hundred
pounds a year for Marie and a good secondary school education for the
boy.' Pa Demba turned to Marie: 'You should count yourself lucky to
have had D.C. Tullock for your husband. I have seen many girls who
have lived with men like the D.C. for many years, only to be
abandoned at the end without any provision. According to this

10 paper, you and your child have been well provided for. And now
you are free to marry anyone you wish. I am going to sign as a witness.
Do you agree to the terms?'

As Marie nodded in dumb agreement the tears which had stood poised
on the corners of her eyes rolled down her chubby brown cheeks.
Tullock looked away through the open office window, and gazed
unseeingly at the town beyond. The figure of Marie sitting there
stroking the hair of her son Tambah, who stood between her knees,
was to him a silent indictment. She sat scarcely moving except for her
hands which moved so slowly and tenderly along the boy's head that

20 she looked perfectly still. She was like a statue of maternity —

mother and child. Tullock thought, she and I have shared in the
miracle of creation and here I am about to desert her and the boy. But
he persuaded himself that it had to be, although even in the moment of
decision he could not avoid condemning himself.

As for Marie, she just sat there stroking her little boy's hair — he had
fine silky hair — she was glad that he resembled Tullock in that feature
at least. She would always remember him by it. She felt no bitterness
at Tullock's departure, only sorrow — intense sorrow. She had known
from the first that this moment would come. In their type

30 of relationship, parting was as inevitable as death; but like death,

when it actually came, it was still something of a shock. She had served
her turn with Tullock. They had been happy within the limits of their
relationship for eight years. All the women had called for Marie

Tullock, although there was no legal bond between them. Now, Tullock
was leaving the service to join his father's law firm — the richer for his
experience in Africa. Of course he could not take Marie with him. So
he had devised this settlement.

In spite of his generosity by prevailing standards, Tullock felt rather

cheap in his own eyes. For unlike some others in his position, he had
the uncomfortable habit of judging everyone by a single standard. He
40 could not have disentangled himself from a girl of his own race so
easily. He knew this, and the very fact that he could shake off Marie
without any complications with a gratuity of his own naming, made
him ill at ease with himself.

He, too, had been happy with Marie, at least, quite content with her.
She was pretty, cooked well, was affectionate but unobtrusive. True
she couldn't read Shakespeare — couldn't read anything at all in fact.
The world situation left her completely unmoved, for she knew
nothing about what happened outside the town of Bomp where she
had lived all her life. In fact to quote Prothero — Old Prothero, the
father of the 50 provincial administration — 'a barbarian, a pretty
barbarian, but a barbarian like the rest of them'. It was he who had
helped Tullock solve his little problem, although he did not see what
the fuss was all about. He saw no problem. He had laughed at Tullock's
solemnity. 'Look, my boy!' he had said, with his hand on Tullock's
shoulder, 'I've had a woman — and children — in every district I've
worked in. The only rules are — never get your heart involved and
never move with a woman from one district to another; creates no end
of trouble. After each station, I just paid them off; no problem at all.
Glad of the money they were, too. They were soon snapped up by the
native 60 burghers of the district. Don't let this worry you, Boy. Pay
Marie off. She'll forget you soon enough. And as for you, once on the
boat you'll soon forget about her.'

Tullock had secretly wondered how one who was so meticulous over
jot and tittle of colonial regulations could be so casual over matters of
the heart. But he checked his flow of self-righteousness. Who was he to
judge anyway. He was no better than Prothero — in fact he was worse.
For while Prothero had never thought his relationship with African
women came within his ordinary moral code, he knew that what he
was doing was wrong. He had, however, taken Prothero's advice and
70 had arranged a settlement for Marie. He had taken infinite trouble
to make it legal — an inadequate sop to his conscience — but he
thought it was the least he could do. So here they were signing the
agreement.

Pa Demba signed his name, rose and took his leave, still commending
Tullock's generosity. The three who were left sat on in

silence. There seemed to be nothing to say. Tullock was overcome with

shame, Marie with grief. Tambah was just bewildered. He knew his
mother's tears were caused by Tullock but he did not know how.

'Well, Marie, this is good-bye.' 80 Marie's eyes welled, her bosom

heaved, but she uttered not a sound. She had dreaded this moment
almost as soon as she realized how much she liked the feel of TuHock's
hair; how longingly she listened for the honk of his horn as he swerved
madly into the compound from the office. In her moments of greatest
happiness with him she had always felt the foretaste of this parting in
her mouth. Now it was here.

T have got the court messengers to take your things to your uncle's
house. Good-bye, Marie; you know I have to go, don't you?'

Marie nodded and tried to smile. She turned suddenly to the door,
grasped Tambah's hand and hurried away. Tullock watched her 90
disappear down the drive without once turning to look back. He knew
that a part of his heart had gone with her.

Trevor Tullock's decision to return home was not as sudden as it

seemed — the reason had been on his mind for quite some time. He
had been engaged for three years, to the daughter of his father's oldest
friend — a London stockbroker. Only the omnivorousness of the
human mind could have accommodated two such different women as
Marie and Denise, even at different times. Marie, African, illiterate,
soft and melting, was entirely devoted to Tullock — she lived only for
him. Denise was English, sophisticated, highly educated and a very
100 forward member of the central office of her political party. She
was intensely alert and held strong convictions on almost every
subject, particularly the rights of women. She had made it quite clear
that she had no intention of leaving her life in England and burying
herself in the wilds of Africa. She was too engrossed in what was going
on in England. In her own country she was part of the scene. She was
always addressing women's gatherings, organizing demonstrations,
canvassing on behalf of the party from door to door, and this sort of
work she could not bear to leave. So Trevor had to make up his mind
to return home if he wanted to marry her. He had put it off long
enough already 110 and had just been helped to make up his mind by a
long pleading letter from home. 'What would people think?' his
mother had pleaded . . . So Trevor had decided that he could decently
put it off no longer.

In the whirl of official farewells and the thousand and one things he
had to do to catch the boat, Trevor Tullock had had little time to think
of his future life. He had taken it all for granted. On the boat, however,
he could not stop himself from thinking. But it was the image of Marie
that kept coming to his mind, pushing out that of Denise — Marie

sitting with Tambah between her knees. He did not think very much
about the boy and even this worried him, for after all he was his own
flesh and blood. He tried to shut off thoughts of Marie, but he found it
120 difficult. He tried because he thought it was his duty. But he could
not. He tried to drown his thoughts in drink, but that only made him
morbid. He began to look forward to his arrival in England — England
with its distractions and Denise!

Denise! This intrusion of Denise into his thoughts startled him. Now
that he started thinking about her, doubts about their relationship
came rushing into his mind. Doubts of the most fundamental kind.
Did he really want to marry Denise? He brushed the question aside. It
did not matter. He had to. So the boat bore him speedily along to a fate
from which his mind equally speedily shrank. 130

At Liverpool. Trevor leaned over the rails and peered into the Mersey
mist, trying to discern the faces of the visitors on the balcony. There
was his mother and yes — beside her was Denise.

His mother waved enthusiastically and Denise put up her right hand in
a jerky, almost official act of welcome. Her trim tweeded businesslike
figure, through sheer force of contrast, brought back the image of the
brown, loose-robed, welcoming frame of Marie. His life with her had
been relaxed and easy. His home life in Africa had been so
dramatically different from his office life. He had never had to argue
with Marie. He was always sure of her willing obedience. Denise, on
140 the other hand, had a quicksilver mind. Life with her was a
constant mental tug-of-war. That was in fact the very quality in their
relationship which had so exhilarated him during their undergraduate
days. Now. the thought of a lifetime with her gave him a chilly feeling.
The change from one woman to the other was like the physical change
he had just made — exchanging the warmth and relaxation of Africa
for the chill, bracing air of England. That economical wave of Denise's,
symbolic of her detachment and her control over herself, made Trevor
realize with horrid clarity that while he had changed, she had not. How
had he changed? He tried to think. He had not lost his love for books;
150 he still read them though, now, with a less belligerent attitude
towards their authors than before. No doubt Denise, with whom he
had cut many an author to pieces, would say that he was less acutely
critical; but he still enjoyed reading — probably even more than
before. What else? He certainly drank more, and more often than
before. His drinking action was now a hearty swallow compared with
the old sip and savour of those rather pretentious wine-tasting parties.
He was now more concerned with the contents of the bottle than with
the suggestions on the label. No doubt Denise would say his palate had

160 coarsened. The more he thought, the more Trevor saw that life
with Denise would now have to be one long never-ending effort to live
up to a life he no longer believed in ... 'till death us do part.'

He braced himself, picked up his bags, and strode down the gangway.
'A man can try,' he muttered to himself, already aiming a peck at
Denise's proffered cheek.

NOTES ON A MAN CAN TRY

THE AUTHOR

Eldred Durosimi JONES: A Sierra Leonean, born in 1925, educated at

Fourah Bay College, Freetown and Corpus Christi College, Oxford. He
has taught English Language and Literature at Fourah Bay College
since 1953 and written mainly academic books including Othello's
Countrymen (O.U.P.), The Writing of Wole Soyinka (Heinemann), The
Elizabethan Image of Africa (University of Virginia Press) and with
C.N. Fyle, A Krio-English Dictionary (O.U.P.). He edits an annual
review of African Literature, African Literature Today published by
Heinemann.

THE STORY

1 Summary

A British colonial civil servant is leaving Africa to go back home and

marry. He leaves behind the African woman with whom he has lived
for eight years and the little boy he had with her.

Through the parting and the journey back, the young man mentally
compares his African 'wife' with his English wife-to-be, takes stock of
himself and ponders on his future married life in England now that he
has been so deeply changed by Africa.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 78): A 'fair' deal entirely worked out and imposed by men
on a helpless woman.

'Money can buy everything', or so say those who have it . . . Paramount

Chief, first-class Chief given recognition by the Colonial Government;
D. C: District Commissioner

II (lines 79 to 91): A man leaving with sorrow and guilt in his heart; a
woman bowing to fate.

III (lines 92 to 130): Love-life of colonial civil servants for whom an

African woman is mere convenience to be used and discarded when
necessary. Trevor may react differently from his colleagues but be it
callousness or pity, the end result remains the same.

burgher: bourgeois in German.

Who ever said that parting could be a sweet sorrow?

Portrait of Denise: strong-willed, independent minded and a woman

for whom

marriage is a give-and-take affair.

A mind adrift between past and future, assailed by doubts and

questions.

IV (lines 131 to 165): When 'home' is not home any more. Should not a
man try first and foremost to be true to himself? Liverpool: English
port used by shipping lines plying the West African route; Mersey: the
river on which Liverpool stands.

3 Questions on the text

1 What settlement does Tullock offer to Marie? Who advised him in

this matter? How do the different characters consider it?

2 Why does 'the thought of a lifetime* with Denise give Trevor Tullock
'a chilly feeling'?

3 What are Denise's main activities?

4 Which elements influence Tullock's decision to go home?

5 Compare the life Tullock had in Africa with the life awaiting him in
England.

4 Characters

The text provides its own analysis of the main characters. Trevor
Tullock

a) his moral code: 'he had the uncomfortable habit of judging everyone
by a single standard'; 'He was no better than Prothero — in fact he was
worse. For ... he knew that what he was doing was wrong.'

and therefore:

b) his sense of guilt: 'he could not avoid condemning himself: 'Tullock
felt rather cheap in his own eyes'; 'ill at ease with himself: 'Tullock was
overcome with shame'.

but also:

c) his propensity to self-delusion: 'he persuaded himself that it had to

be (i.e. deserting Marie and his son)'; 'you know I have to go, don't
you?'

d) his ready acceptance of racial and social prejudices: 'Of course he

could not take Marie with him"; 'Did he really want to marry Denise?
It did not matter. He had to.'

Is Trevor Tullock a man with a conscience but unable to live up to it?

Or a man with convictions which he cannot help betraying? Is he
despicable or just weak? Does he earn our scorn or pity? or both?
Marie

a) her love for Tullock: 'how much she liked the feel of Tullock's hair';
'how longingly she listened for the honk of his horn'.

and therefore:

b) her intense sorrow at Tullock's departure: 'tears . . . rolled down her

chubby brown cheeks'; 'Marie was overcome with grief; 'Marie's eyes
welled, her bosom heaved'.

but also: »

c) her realism bordering on fatalism: 'She had known from the first
that this moment would come'; 'parting was inevitable as death'; 'She
had served her turn with Tullock'; 'In her moments of greatest
happiness with him she had always felt the foretaste of this parting in
her mouth'.

A simple woman who is so used to being treated as a sexual object that

she

does not even dream of questioning the right of a man to take her, use
her

and discard her at will.

A victim of her race but much more of her sex.

In sharp opposition, Denise stands out as the liberated woman who

makes it

clear that she is equal to any man if not better! But is she not also
lacking in

feminine qualities?

5 Theme

Racial and socio-cultural prejudices are stronger than true love.

6 Style

The movement of the narrative results from the relationship which the
text establishes between:

a) present and past (parting/life with Marie/parting/engagement to

Denise and family pressure/departure) and,

b) events and characters (parting/Trevor: Marie/parting/Trevor:

Denise/departure).

The main narrative units follow these two lines which join in the end
to bring Trevor Tullock's future into focus. This narrative technique
(which reveals the author's presence within the text) helps to show
effectively Trevor Tullock's psychological dilemma (between two
women, two life-styles) and his reluctance to face the future.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Of Marie and Denise, which one do you prefer and why?

2 Tambah is now twenty and meets his father again. Imagine what he
says to him.

3 Using words and expressions found in the text, describe Marie.

4 Are you for or against equality in marriage? Justify your position

with sound arguments.

5 How do Marie and Denise see their respective roles as housewives?

6 Follow up the main character's lives after the end of the story.

9 A Silent Song

by Leonard Kibera

Slowly the youth groped towards the door of the hut. He crawled
weakly on his knees and elbows. The pain in his spine and stomach
rapidly gathered violence. Suddenly, sharp pangs from his navel tore
into his body and for one short, tormenting moment he was paralysed.
Then the pain disappeared. It vanished with the same savage fury of
its onslaught; left him cold with sweat; left no other mark really, as if it
had never been there. But he knew it had only recoiled for another
attack. Once more, he gave up the fight, let go his chin, and hit his
forehead on the dirt of the flea-ridden floor.

He did not know what time it was but he was hungry. Not that time 10
ever mattered. In the gloom of his eternal night, such things as time,
day, or beauty, had no meaning. Flat and almost imperceptible, they
were for him impossible and lay beyond the bitter limits of darkness.
His world only responded to what he could feel and hear, and run
away from. For it seemed to Mbane now as he slumped his youth in
horror under the weight of closing death, that his short life had been
one of retreat. Crawling away on his lameness, he tackled the world
around him negatively and never hit back.

He thought about his new life away from the streets of the City. His
brother, a preacher, had picked him up there, bringing him to this hut
20 which felt so serene, yet so suspicious. It was not just the lack of the
urban ruggedness and noise; or the lack of quick footsteps of busy
people prancing away fitly to business he never understood, but who
would occasionally answer his plea to keep him alive with a drop of
copper in his hat. It was not just the feel of the air and wind whizzing
through the trees around his new confinement. He could tell that there
was meaning in his brother's silence of late, something strange, and
yet perhaps well intentioned in his voice when he spoke. He could tell
it too, when his brother repeatedly said, 'I rescued you from that
barbaric City so that you can see the light of God.' 30

Somehow, however, he did recall the City with a kind of nostalgia. Not
that he really knew it. In fact he had earned his living on one street
only, retiring to the back lane when the street became deserted.

But the street had come to mean his life. It is true that he could not tell
how long, how wide, how beautiful, how big it was. These were things
which would not matter. He had become used to the talk of bright
weather, lovely morning, or beautiful sunset, small talk which he could
never share. Pedestrians would sing to the blue sky, whistle to the gay
morning as their footsteps sang their way down the pavement,

40 and this would taunt him. Still, he would be happy. For it was the
gay people who mostly answered his plea. He had come to know how
money was the essence of urban life. Dull people, heavy tired footsteps
and voices, betrayed anxiety, empty pockets. He had come to know,
too, what day and night meant to them. When the sun poured its heat
too generously upon him and the flies crawled along the edges of his
lips, good men and women spent their time working inside the
building next to him and many more up the street. It would be a dead
night when the sun withdrew he knew not where, to yield the street to
hostile cold. He would then steal into the back lane, unsheltered but

50 undisturbed, to surrender his vulnerability to sleep and,

occasionally, the basest of thieves. From somewhere at the top of the
building, the night would burst alive with drums beating strange
rhythms that tempted him. Voices would sing, bottles would crack,
and men would curse. This, he knew should not worry him. It was only
the voices of the good men and women turned drunk in the refuge of
the night brothel after a hard day's work. It was also the turn of pimps
and whores galore to smile their way into the good men's pockets after
a hard day's rest, scratching one another's faces in the process.

He never knew why they were considered so bad. The good men and

60 women woke up when the sun's warm rays pushed out of his back
lane the reluctant cold of dawn. The whores and pimps went to their
own beds then, so what? In a way he thought of the men with that
curious envy of the ignorant. He remembered having once asked his
brother how old he was. He had been told 'fourteen'. For all he knew,
Mbane could be much older. He could not tell — did it matter? But his
brother must have been married around his own age. And yet he
himself would never be able to reach out his hand in fulfilment of his
life in the same way. He could only yearn impotently beyond the reach
of darkness and lameness. At such times when bitter self-pity
overcame

70 him, he thought of his own light and then he would smile broadly
and bravely.

'Take this medicine.' It was his brother's wife, Sarah, breaking into the
hut. Slowly and tenderly she raised his head and put the cup to his
mouth. The bitter fluid explored down his throat and another attack of
pain tore through his stomach.

'You will be all right soon,' Sarah said. 'God will be good to you.'

He knew she did not hold out much hope for him. She withdrew after
laying him on the bed to which he had tried to accustom himself since
being 'rescued' from the hard pavement. Heavier footsteps told him
that his brother, Ezekiel, had come in. He sat on his bed. No one 80
spoke for a long time. He himself could not be expected to start a
conversation. All his life he had been speaking to himself in his
thoughts, and for a long time on the street, except for his mechanical
plea of 'Yes?', he had no one to address but himself. Now, if anyone
spoke to him, he could only carry the subject on a line of
uncommunicative thought in his own mind.

'Mbane, do you believe in God?' Ezekiel asked.

He saw no reason why his brother should ask him this. He only 90
answered to himself, 'I don't know. I don't think it matters.'

He remembered their religious mother who was now long dead. She
used to say that all men were one stream, one flow through the rocks
of life. Twisting and turning the pebbles, they would get dirty in the
muddy earth. They cried in the falls and whirl-pools of life, laughed
and sang when the flow was smooth and undisturbed. And while some
cried and whirled in the pot-holes of life's valley, others laughed
triumph elsewhere. But it seemed to Mbane that he was not only
crying. He was not even a part of that stream whose waters branched
out into a narrow valley towards the heavenly pool. He was not even
flowing down the wide gulf into the eternal deluge and chaos of Satan's
burning sea. No, he was like the bitter liquid in his own throat, not the
100 good water. He saw no reason why he should believe in God.

'God gives us everything,' he had often heard. But did he? 'God is white
cleanliness, eternal light.' But what was that cleanliness? What did
light mean to a blind man? Did not his life contain a darkness, a
blackness no one would understand? Did the Christmas morning
procession of good men and women in the City mean anything more to
him than that the generous in yesterday's mean men would be evoked,
meaning more money for his hat? As they sang and whistled the carol
and hallelujah down the morning street; as they got drunk and cursed
at one another earlier than usual, he felt he did not belong, and they
110 had forgotten him. But had they ever remembered or ever actually
noticed him? True they would pray for him as a matter of course, and
drop him a coin. But instead of bringing the knowledge of Christ to
him, much as he wished that he should be left alone, some good
Christian men and women would once again curse, call him able-
bodied, only crippled more every day by the idleness of leisurely
begging.

He could tell this, too, in the way the authority in the City handled
him. It sometimes surprised him that the big vehicle which emptied
the 120 dustbin had never swept him away in the raucous noise. And
yet, Mbane was convinced, it was a glorious thing to believe, to cling,
to dream of a future life. It was glorious this feeling, that far, far away
beyond the pangs of darkness lay light, bigger and more meaningful
than that which his eyes were denied. There someone would
understand and raise the innocence of his crippled life along with the
chosen. It gave him hope, and he sang his own happy song, silently to
himself, secretly. To the passer-by let his face appear discernible. Yet
this happy thought filled his time. It was his refuge at night too, as
they found theirs in the brothel above him. His soul, like the letters
which 130 they dropped in the pillar box which he sometimes made
the mistake of leaning against, had a destination. Often as he sat there
on the pavement, he wished for his journey's end. He wished that his
soul were free, flowing everywhere and not incarcerated in a body
which smelt of sweat, unwashed except in rain, and which he could but
feel.

'Mbane, I asked do you believe in God?' It was Ezekiel again.

'And I said I don't know,' he anwered weakly.

'No, you did not. You only lay there sobbing.'

He lay there, knowing another attack was coming.

'Mbane — I — I want Christ to save you. Do you know where 140

sinners go when they die, do you know where those who are saved go?
There was once a man called Jes
'Yes, I know,' Mbane swallowed painfully. 'That is why you brought me
here.'

'And do you accept him?'

'I do not know. But I now see the light I have often thought about in
my own way.'

'You are worse than Judas!' Ezekiel hissed in suppressed anger. 'Will
you never stop thinking about your god even in your dy —, in this
hour? I want you to be baptised.' 150 He had become more calm now,
and he smiled distantly. Ezekiel saw it was hopeless to go on. Still, he
would never give his brother to the devil.

'Mbane, will you not follow the way of good men and women?'

His strength waned fast. There was no pain, only weakness. Then his
head jerked down to the bed.

Ezekiel bent down and touched the cold forehead with a shaking hand.

'He is gone,' he said aloud to himself.

'Yes, he is gone,' Sarah whispered.

'Yes, he was smiling.'

NOTES ON A SILENT SONG

THE AUTHOR

Leonard J. KIBERA: Born in 1942 in Kenya: died in 1983. Brother of

author Samuel Kahiga. Leonard Kibera was educated in Kenya and in
the USA and taught in the Universities of Zambia and Nairobi.
Published: in 1968 Potent Ash, a book of short stories (with his
brother S. Kahiga); in 1970 Voices in the Dark, a novel about post-
independence Africa, and several articles of literary criticism.

THE STORY
1 Summary

A lame and blind boy (Mbane) is dying in a lonely hut where his
brother, a preacher, has brought him. He remembers the street of the
city where he used to beg for a living, the people who passed by, day
and night life around him, his loneliness and misery.

At the moment of death, urged by his brother who wants to save his
soul, Mbane ponders on God's place and meaning in his life. The gap is
very wide between him and his brother's beliefs. When he dies,
salvation comes to him not because he has upheld the tenets of
Christianity, but because of his life of suffering.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 18): past misery of a life spent in the prison of blindness;

but somehow less painful and frightening than present suffering and
loneliness.

II (lines 19 to 71): a blind beggar's perception of the world around

where a destitute boy is starved of human fellowship and made to fight
for survival all alone.

III (lines 72 to 86): When life has been spent in utter loneliness,
communication becomes impossible.

IV (lines 87 to 134): The God of the Gospel and religion are luxuries
beyond the reach of a wretched cripple. His God is his only hope of
deliverance from pain, despair and destitution.

V (lines 135 to 161): Salvation is not a matter of rites; it always comes

to those who have suffered in life. Blessed are the lame and the blind
because the kingdom of God is theirs by right.

103

1 Find in the first two paragraphs words and expressions showing that
Mbane is blind.
2 How does Mbane feel in his present abode? and why did his brother
bring him there?

3 Summarise Mbane's life in the city.

4 How did Mbane's mother visualise life and death?

5 Why is Mbane smiling when he dies?

4 Characters

Mbane

Hardly a human creature to those who either give him alms or curse
him for

his begging.

Lack of any saving grace for his brother who tries to force salvation
through

baptism on him.

And yet, within his own narrow confines, Mbane is immensely good at
heart

and worthy of a better life.

In the 'castle' of Mbane's blindness, there is a light which shines

brighter

than the light which is supposed to guide 'good men and women' in
their life.

'Good men and women'

For Mbane's brother (who is one of them), those who follow the letter
of the
Bible but not the spirit.

For Mbane, those who, no matter the way they live, show some pity to
him

and give him money.

5 Theme

There are many ways of knowing and reaching God and a 'silent song'
might be worth His listening much more than vain and meaningless
clamours.

6 Style

Present events bring back memories of the past until death puts an
end to the

narrative and gives it full meaning.

Except for the few opening and closing sentences, the focus is on
Mbane's

perception of the world ('His world only responded to what he could

feel and

hear') through:

a) sensations

noise: voices ('voices would sing', 'voices betrayed anxiety, empty

pockets'), footsteps (footsteps 'sang their way down the pavement',

'heavy

tired footsteps'), songs, curses, etc ...

feeling: ('urban ruggedness', 'hard pavement', 'the feel of the air', 'the
sun poured its heat too generously on him').

pain: ('sharp pangs', 'savage fury', 'pain tore through his stomach').
Note that smell hardly accounts for Mbane's perception of the world
around him.

104

b) emotions

'self-pity', courage (Mbane would smile 'broadly and bravely", he

would sing 'his own happy song, silently to himself, secretly'), his
crying.

c) thoughts

'for it seemed to Mbane . . . that his short life had been one of retreat",
'he thought about his new life', 'he remembered their religious
mother', 'he saw no reason why he should believe in God.'

d) longing

'he could only yearn impotently beyond the reach of darkness and
lameness', 'he wished for his journey's end", 'he wished that his soul
were free'.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Explain what is meant by: 'For it seemed to Mbane . . . that his short
life had been one of retreat.'

2 Why does Mbane regret his life in the city?

3 Begging stems from necessity, not choice. Discuss.

4 How could the gap be bridged between Mbane and his brother's
conception of God?

5 Compare Mavis' (in Resurrection, pages 16 to 23) and Mbane's

attitude towards religion.

6 A crippled boy is rescued from begging by good Samaritans. Imagine

what happens to him and his reaction to his new life.

10 Blankets

by Alex La Guma

Choker lay on the floor of the lean-to in the back yard where they had
carried him. It was cooler under the sagging roof, with the pile of
assorted junk in one corner; an ancient motor tyre, sundry split and
warped boxes, an old enamel display sign with patches like maps of
continents on another planet where the enamelling had cracked away,
and the dusty footboard of a bed. There was also the smell of dust and
chicken droppings and urine in the lean-to.

From outside, beyond a chrome-yellow rhomboid of sun, came a

clatter of voices. In the yard they were discussing him. Choker opened

10 his eyes, and peering down the length of his body, past the bare,
grimy

toes, he saw several pairs of legs, male and female, in tattered trousers

and laddered stockings.

Somebody, a man, was saying: '. . . that was coward . . . from behind,
mos.'

'Ja. But look what he done to others

Choker thought, to hell with those baskets. To hell with them all.

Somebody had thrown an old blanket over him. It smelled of sweat

and having-been-slept-in-unwashed, and it was torn and threadbare

and
stained. He touched the exhausted blanket with thick, grubby fingers.

20 The texture was rough in parts and shiny thin where it had worn
away.

He was used to blankets like this.

Choker had been stabbed three times, each time from behind. Once in
the head, then between the shoulder blades and again in the right side,
out in the street, by an old enemy who had once sworn to get him.

The bleeding had stopped and there was not much pain. He had been

knifed before, admittedly not as bad as this, but he thought through

the

pain, The basket couldn't even do a decent job. He lay there and

waited for the ambulance. There was blood drying slowly on the side of

30 his hammered-copper face, and he also had a bad headache.

The voices, now and then raised in laughter, crackled outside. Feet
moved on the rough floor of the yard and a face not unlike that of a

brown dog wearing an expiring cloth cap, looked in.

'You still awright, Choker? Am'ulance is coming just now, hey.'

1 off,' Choker said. His voice croaked.

The face withdrew, laughing: 'Ou Choker. Ou Choker.'

He was feeling tired now. The grubby fingers, like corroded iron
clamps, strayed over the parched field of the blanket . . . He was being
taken down a wet, tarred yard with tough wire netting over the 40
windows which looked into it. The place smelled of carbolic
disinfectant, and the bunch of heavy keys clink-clinked as it swung
from the hooked finger of the guard.
They reached a room fitted with shelving that was stacked here and
there with piled blankets. 'Take two, jong,' the guard said, and Choker
began to rummage through the piles, searching for the thickest and
warmest blankets. But the guard, who somehow had a doggish face
and wore a disintegrating cloth cap, laughed and jerked him aside, and
seizing the nearest blankets, found two and flung them at Choker. 50
They were filthy and smelly and within their folds vermin waited like
irregular troops in ambush.

'Come on. Come on. You think I got time to waste?'

'It's cold, mos, man,' Choker said. But it wasn't the guard to whom he
was talking. He was six years old and his brother, Willie, a year senior,
twisted and turned in the narrow, cramped, sagging bedstead which
they shared, dragging the thin cotton blanket from Choker's body.
Outside the rain slapped against the cardboard-patched window, and
the wind wheezed through cracks and corners like an asthmatic old
man.

'No, man, Willie, man. You got all the blanket, jong.' 60

'Well, I can't mos help it, man. It's cold.'

'What about me?' Choker whined. 'What about me. I'm also cold mos.'

Huddled together under the blanket, fitted against each other like two
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The woman's wiry hair got into his mouth
and smelled of stale brilliantine. There were dark stains made by
heads, on the crumpled, grey-white pillow, and a rubbed smear of
lipstick, like a half-healed wound.

The woman was saying, half-asleep, 'No, man. No, man.' Her body 70
was wet and sweaty under the blanket, and the bed smelled of a
mixture of cheap perfume, spilled powder, human bodies and infant
urine. The faded curtain over a window beckoned to him in the hot
breeze. In the early slum-coloured light a torn under-garment hanging
from a brass knob was a spectre in the room.
The woman turned from him under the blankets, protesting, and

Choker sat up. The agonized sounds of the bedspring woke the baby in
the bathtub on the floor, and it began to cry, its toothless voice rising
in a high-pitched wail that grew louder and louder . . . 80 Choker
opened his eyes as the wail grew to a crescendo and then quickly faded
as the siren was switched off. Voices still splattered the sunlight in the
yard, now excited. Choker saw the skirts of white coats and then the
ambulance men were in the lean-to. His head was aching badly, and
his wounds were throbbing. His face perspired like a squeezed-out
wash-rag. Hands searched him. One of the ambulance attendants
asked: 'Do you feel any pain?'

Choker looked at the pink-white face above his, scowling. 'No, sir.' The
layer of old newspapers on which he was lying was soaked with his
blood. 'Knife wounds,' one of the attendants said. 'He isn't bleeding
much,' the other said. 'Put on a couple of pressure pads.' 90 He was in
mid-air, carried on a stretcher and flanked by a procession of
onlookers. Rubber sheeting was cool against his back. The stretcher
rumbled into the ambulance and the doors slammed shut, sealing off
the spectators. Then the siren whined and rose, clearing a path
through the crowd.

Choker felt the vibration of the ambulance through his body as it sped
on its way. His murderous fingers touched the folded edge of the
bedding. The sheet around him was white as cocaine, and the blanket
was thick and new and warm. He lay still, listening to the siren.

NOTES ON BLANKETS

THE AUTHOR

Alex LA GUMA: born in 1925 in South Africa. Journalist by profession

and engaged in the anti-apartheid struggle; once accused in a treason
trial and thereafter kept under house arrest. Alex La Guma now lives
in exile and is an active member of the ANC (African National
Congress). Alex La Guma has written several novels: And a Threefold
Cord, 1964, In the Fog of the Season 's End, 1972, The Stone Country,
1974; poems and short stories: A Walk in the Night and other Stories,
1968.

THE STORY

1 Summary

A criminal called Choker has been wounded in a street-fight by an

enemy seeking revenge. While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, he
lies under a shed covered with a blanket which brings back to him
memories of the past.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 53)

A typical slum scene:

a) setting: a shed full of junk, a yard

b) people: tattered clothes

c) Choker: dirty

d) atmosphere: violence

Note the people and Choker's matter-of-fact reaction to violence,

fighting and crime as if they were common occurrences; but also the
spirit of fraternity which unites all of them.

mos: isn't, in Afrikaans; Ja: yes, in Afrikaans; those baskets: slang for
clumsy idiots.

II (lines 54 to 79)

Memories of a grim past: prison, miserable childhood, squalid love-

life. But despite it all, a feeling of human warmth. jong: lad, in
Afrikaans.
III (lines 80 to 98)

The world of whites: efficient but also indifferent to pain and

suffering; striking an ominous note.

3 Questions on the text

1 Who wounded Choker? Where did it happen? What weapon was

used?

2 Which memory comes first to Choker? Why? Who does the guard
look like?

3 Which sensation brings back Choker's childhood? How do we know

that it was spent in poverty?

4 How does the narrative switch back to the present? Which words/
expressions are used to bring out the squalor of the woman's room?
What kind of woman is she?

5 Why does Choker call the ambulance men 'sir'? Where does the
ambulance take him? What do 'murderous fingers' and 'the sheet . . .
white as cocaine' mean?

4 Characters

Choker

A man hardened by poverty, prison, violence and crime.

A criminal lacking in glamour and style.

But despite his 'murderous fingers', Choker can be said to win our
sympathy.

He is a pitiful and moving figure and belongs to that down-trodden

part of

society which is doomed by fate right from the start.

5 Theme

Sensation brings back the past in all its vivid reality and man can only
go

astray in such hostile environment.

6 Style

Through sensation (the touch of the blanket) the past is brought on to

the same plane as the present. Choker's memories can thus be said to
be part of the narrative as much as present events. With past and
present blending into a kind of 'ideal' time, the narrative can then be
seen as moving along a single line and as bringing out Choker's
desperate condition in life. After the first paragraph, which gives us a
panoramic view of the scene, the narrative is restricted to Choker's
point of view:

a) what he sees, hears and feels of the reality around him.

b) what he remembers through fever and sensation. Note that:

a) sensation brings back memories according to their relevance to

Choker's present condition and not according to a normal time-
sequence (as would 'voluntary memory').

b) a few minutes (the time necessary for the ambulance to arrive)

stretch to encompass a whole life (underlining the relativity of time).

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 List those words and expressions in the text which give a description
of Choker.

2 Prison grooms criminals. Discuss.

3 To which other character (or characters) in the anthology can Choker

be compared and why?
4 Write a short paragraph describing the room in which you used to
sleep as a child.

5 There has been a car accident. The victim is lying on the road,
dangerously injured and waiting to be rescued. Imagine what passes
through his/her mind.

6 What impression does the text convey of Choker's life? Which

words/expressions are used to achieve this effect?

11 Lexicographicide

by Taban Lo Liyong

For Amos Tutuola from whom I have learnt many important things,
the greatest being that the most important virtue is courage. The
following six notes were found by the bed of the victim (found dead).
Here is his biographical background: At the age of seven he left school
on the ground that being in school was a waste of time. In the next
three months he wrote articles which appeared even in The Light and
drew a lot of deserved praise. You need not be reminded that The
Light is our equivalent of The Times. For some unknown reason, he
abandoned writing and was never heard from for quite a while. The 10
next piece of information comes from me. I got it because I used to go
to visit him. He said that he had written plenty of short stories, on the
average of four in a day. Why weren't they published? Editors wouldn't
dare print them. When I failed even to have a look at them, I turned to
cursing our editors who are so sales-conscious and government-
control conscious that they would never print an extraordinary, or
extraordinarily written, story.

But he was busy, he said. He planned to become the ruler of our island
— a total dictator of it. Once a dictator, he would personally supervise
the writing of our Zed dictionary. Zed is the only language of 20 our
island. It is spoken by practically all the island's 125 000 people. It has
about 50 000 words. Communications between our people and yours
are very, very infrequent, for no commerical and other interests pull
foreigners to our island. And we are so proud, the last thing an
islander would do is to go out. In fact, even without a dictator, the
island was almost already sealed off from the outside world. While in
office, he would make it complete: the sealing off, I mean. Now about
the dictionary, before I forget. It was (he used the word is, while telling
me) to be different from all others on these grounds: it was going to be
the only dictionary for our island; everybody was to be issued with a
30 copy at the beginning of our year — in May, that is; everybody was
to use only words (even grunts) printed in the dictionary or else face
death. It was easy to find out defaulters. Every Saturday our people go

to the market to receive their weekly rations of food. The market has
instruments which read minds, and can detect the presence of a new
word, a different idea in anybody's head. At the end of each year, that
year's edition of the dictionary was to be returned by everybody to the
government and exchanged for the current one. But every year, five
hundred words were withdrawn from the dictionary.

NOTE I

11 p.m. Been to the sports house today. Saw fighters: boxers. Didn't

like it.

4 a.m. Had a bad dream. Dreamt was a boxer. The ordeal! First, you

drive to the sports house. Second, you get in. Third, you go to the

dressing room. (Wonder why called dressing room, when you actually

undress there.) However, those are some of the inconveniences of

living in this obsolescent regime.

30 NOTE II

10 p.m. Was at the beach today — bathing. Lots of women and men
too, exposing their bare flesh to the water, sun and air! Sizes varied;
shortness and height. Frankly, all those people may never be able to
reclaim their bodies if lost and found!
NOTE III

3 a.m. Feeling tired after writing my theory — nay, gospel — went out
for a walk. Slid into a room. Many people there. Music. A lady came on
stage — I had thought we have no 'lady' left. But here was 60 one right
on the stage. And with an umbrella, too. Walked about gracefully.
Music. Drops umbrella — walks — drops hat — walks, music — take off
gloves. I wondered what. But she continued doing what she was doing.
Quite oblivious of my questioning looks. Even the dress was now
coming off. Her hair reached her back; when bobbed forward, they just
covered the breasts, but the breasts had brassieres, and therefore, did
not need concealment by the hair. Had underwear. Danced. Frantic.
(Narration to be continued.)

NOTE IV 70 3.30 a.m. Fell asleep. Cannot continue narration above

coherently and chronologically. Can remember this very well: was
evicted from above house at 4.30 a.m. prompt.

NOTE V

4.30 a.m. Being evicted, walking home, halfway through the journey,

112

accosted by four masked men. Said they have no clothes, no money, no

writing things, and had never experienced the joy of dispossessing a
man for two whole days. If I pleased, I might oblige them with my coat
and its pockets, my eyeglasses and the handles (and case too, if I had
any), my watch, its winder, and straps, my shoes and the strings as 80
well, my socks (the holes and smell too are good for them), my
trousers (buttons and buttonholes included), the zip too was worth
their trouble, if I had a belt, that was also one of their specialties, my
shirt, tie, tie-pin, my vest, and my underwear. I did not understand
their language.

NOTE VI
5 a.m. Had a long dream tonight. Dreamt was in a classroom —
professor (my ambition in childhood). Right there before my pupils,
had a most singular intrusion from vandals. A horde of them had the
guts to come to my classroom, and call me a debtor, to my face! 90
Within no second they had reclaimed every thread I owed them; every
one I owed them; every synthetic unit I owed them; every piece of
wood or grass they claimed I had taken from them. Then they
proceeded to gnaw away at my skin, cubic millimetre by cubic
millimetre, beginning from toes and fingers. I felt the reduction
coming inevitably, but surely. Fortunately, it was quick — they were
numerous. They made a special point to stop before attacking my
heart. They even had the common sense to draw the attention of my
bewildered students to my heart and saying that this organ 'could have
saved me, but. . .' The class jeered before that fateful sentence was
completed. Then they 100 set to work again, with renewed vigour, with
claws and teeth, and enlarged swallowing throats. They spent more
time there. It was then an easy matter passing from lungs and liver to
throat and neck. When they reached my head, they had instructions to
the owners of my bushy hair to reclaim their things and go. That done,
those who wanted my eyelashes, eyebrows, whiskers, moustache,
beard (I am an intellectual intelligentsia-convertible, you should
know) and any other hair on my face was taken. The skin was removed
(together with the ears and the nose), the lower jaws were disengaged,
with tongue, teeth, and palates. Two creatures (I think man and wife)
sucked my eyeballs 110 at a go. Now the skull was eaten away, and
earthworms given the privilege to gobble my brain.

Epilogue: I have remembered a man who used to dodge paying taxes

by behaving as if he was mad. He would sing a song, and proceed to
drum, and to dance and finally end by watching himself sing-drum-
and-dance.

NOTES ON LEXICOGRAPHICIDE*

THE AUTHOR

Taban LO LIYONG: Born in 1939 in Uganda, graduated from Howard

University, USA. Well-known, versatile and controversial Ugandan
author who has built up a reputation for experimentation through the
medium of writing stories, verse and articles. His major works are:
The Last Word (literary criticism, 1969); short stories: Fixions 1969.,
Eating Chiefs, 1970, The Uniformed Man, 1971; poetry: Another
Nigger Dead, 1972, Ballads of underdevelopment , 1976. He has taught
at the University of Papua, New Guinea and is now lecturing at the
Faculty of Literature, Juba, Sudan.

THE STORY

1 Summary

A man has died. According to a friend (first narrator), he was a literary

genius and his greatest ambition was not only to become dictator of
his

country but also to rule the world of words . . . and kill both!

The six notes which were found after his death retrace his activities,
thoughts

and dreams during the last days of his existence.

*Lexicographicide: killing the science which compiles words according

to

form and meaning in dictionaries.

2 Notes on the text

Introduction and epilogue told by a first narrator. Six notes written by

the 'victim' (second narrator). Note that the story can be read in two
ways:

a) as an adventure in language,

b) as a political protest. Introduction (lines 4 to 39) Biographical

information on the victim:
a) a child who shows great independence of mind and early promise of
literary talent.

b) a writer of short stories who finds no outlet for his production.

c) a man with a destructive political and linguistic ambition.

Note that beyond the exaggeration and humour of the text (a child of
seven writing articles in a famous newspaper! stories which are so
good that nobody wants to publish them! a dictionary including
grunts! etc . . .) some pertinent points are raised:

— Why does the victim refuse to go through the usual system of

education? Too formal? Too colonialist-oriented? Too much under
government control?

— Why can his stories not be published? Too critical of the

government? Too daring in their subject? Too different stylistically
from the usual literary productions?

— Why does he want to suppress all freedom in Zed island when there
is already so little left (no communication with the outside world, no
freedom of movement, of speech, of opinion)?

Times: famous British daily newspaper.

NOTE I (struggle for life) To fight, one must prepare for it and it is not
worth the bother. Or has this dream got a political significance?
(Remember that Taban Lo Liyong is a Ugandan and Amin Dada — of
sinister memory! — was a boxer before becoming Head of State) In
such a light:

— fighters would refer to soldiers,

— sports house would be the presidential palace,

— dressing room would refer to military uniform (and How much did
Amin like medals!)
— obsolescent would mean corrupt, depraved.

NOTE II (leisure) The body is an anonymous envelope.

Or again on the political plane: deprived of clothes (and gaudy

uniforms) all

men are equal and none can claim a higher status.

NOTE III (sex) Mystery of eroticism (Why do people crowd into a

room to

see a 'lady' undress? Is it because in a regime which forbids any other

form of

entertainment, sex — or drink — is the only one left?)

Could a link be established with NOTE I? The boxer (the dictator) is

parading

before the crowd like an overdressed lady and offers his body to the

admiration of the public.

NOTE IV (sex continued) Is sex boring ... or exciting?

NOTE V (violence) When man hunts man and dispossesses him of all

earthly possessions. Insecurity is a specific feature of regimes where

the rule

of law has become arbitrary.

NOTE VI (death?) Dispossessed of one's own body by . . . death?

The victim's dreams:

— to be a dictator and rule men.

— to be a professor and rule men's minds.

Who are those vandals? The forces of nature? Or the forces of

repression?

Epilogue (lines 113 to 116) Definition of a writer.

Or: in a dictatorship, everybody suffers from split personality.

3 Questions on the text

1) How many years will it take for the Zed dictionary to lose all its
words and how will people then communicate?

2) Gather all the information available on the island.

3) Draw a chart showing the days, hours and activities of the victim's
last days.

4) With what aspects of society does the author of the NOTES get in
contact during his last days? What is his reaction to them?

5) List those stylistic elements which give the story its humour.

4 Narrative voices

The two nameless Ts who share the telling of the story cannot be
described

as characters in the usual sense of the term. Indeed, we have no

information whatsoever on the personality of the first narrator (a he? a
she?). As for the author of the notes, despite his biography, he belongs
to the realm of symbolism. Therefore, each narrator should be
considered only in his (her?) relationship to the structure of the story,
i.e. as a 'narrative voice' to which can be attributed at most some sort
of idiosyncrasy.

I First narrator
At first sight, a mere informant, highly accurate but also extremely
gullible. However, several questions should be asked with regard to his
(her) position in the narrative:

a) who decided to dedicate the story to Amos Tutuola? and why?

b) who tells the story?

c) who is responsible for the arrangement of the narrative sequence?

d) who proposes an interpretation of the NOTES?

The answers to these questions could make us revise our opinion of

the role played by this first narrator.

II Second narrator (author of the NOTES)

The following factors should be taken into account when deciding on

the position of this narrator:

a) he is explicitly described as a short-story writer

b) the bulk of the narrative is his own writing (NOTES)

c) the focus is on him

d) the 'plot' (if there is any) mainly concerns him

How, then, do we decide who is the 'real' author of the story? Or do we

say that, because of the double narrative presence, Lexicographicide is
a story within a story?

5 Theme

Political theme: there is no room for independent writers in a

dictatorship. Literary theme: the story of a writer who wants to 'kill'
those 'dead' words which crowd the 'graveyard' of dictionaries and
who then wants to write short stories to bring words back to a new and
more meaningful life. The word is dead! Long live the word!
6 Style

See 'narrative voices'. Also note that:

a) the first narrator uses a style of reporting with very few direct
interventions (to clarify a point, to give an opinion, to draw the
conclusion).

b) the second narrator (author of the notes) makes use of a highly

personal kind of style (his peculiar sense of humour, for instance) and
in the usual form of diary-notes.

1) Analyse in detail NOTE V and show how it draws both on reality and
on imagination.

2) According to Amos Tutuola, the greatest virtue is 'courage'. Courage

to do what? and why?

3) Write down as accurately as you can a dream you had recently.

4 In what way(s) is this story different from others in the anthology? 5)

What makes the story difficult to read and understand? Why is it
worth the effort?

117

12 The Master of Doornvlei

by Ezekiel Mphahlele

The early summer rain was pouring fiercely.

In the mud-and-grass church house a bird flitted from one rafter to

another, trapped. All was silent in the church except for a cough now
and again that punctuated the preacher's sermon. Now and then, to
relieve the gravity of the devotional moment, a few members of the
congregation allowed themselves to be ensnared by the circling
movements of the bird.
But only a few of them. Most of the people had their eyes fixed on the
elderly preacher, as if they were following the motion of every line 10
on each lip as he gave his sermon. In any case, he did not have a
booming voice, like his deacon's (a point on which the old man was
often plagued by a feeling of inferiority). So his listeners always
watched his lips. One or two older women at the back screwed up their
faces to see him better.

A nine-year-old boy was particularly charmed by the lost bird, and his
eyes roved with it. Then he felt pity for it and wished he could catch it
and let it out through the window which it missed several times. But
the preacher went on, and his listeners soared on the wings of his
sermon to regions where there was no labour or sweat and care. 20
Suddenly the boy saw the bird make straight for a closed window and
hit against the glass and flutter to the floor. It tried to fly but could not.
He went to pick it up. He hugged it and stroked it. He looked about,
but the people's faces looked ahead, like stolid clay figures. Why are
they so cold and quiet when a bird is in pain? he asked himself.

It lay quiet in his hand, and he could feel the slight beat of the heart in
the little feathered form.

'And so, brothers and sisters,' the preacher concluded, 'the Holy Word
bids us love one another, and do to others as we would that they do to
us. Amen.' He asked his flock to kneel for prayer. 30 At this time
Mfukeri, the foreman of Doornvlei Farm on which the makeshift
church was built, came in. He looked around and spotted his target —
a puny wisp of a boy with scraggy legs, the boy with the bird in his
hand.

When he took the boy out the people continued to kneel, unperturbed,
except for the raising of a head here and there; perhaps just to make
sure who the victim was this time. As the two went out the boy's rather
big waistcoast that dangled loosely from his shoulders, flapped about.

It was common for Mfukeri to butt in at a prayer session to fetch a

man or woman or child for a job that needed urgent attention. The 40
congregants were labour tenants, who in return for their work earned
the few square yards of earth on which they lived, and a ration of
mealie-meal, sugar, and an occasional piece of meat.

When they complained about such disturbances to the farmer, Sarel

Britz, he said: 'I'm just to my labourers. I favour nobody above the
rest. Farm work is farm work; I often have to give up my church
service myself.'

The boy tried to protect the bird. He could not keep it on his person, so
he put in under a tin in the fowlrun before he went about the work
Mfukeri had directed him to do. The rain continued to pour. 50

The following day the boy took ill with pneumonia. He had got soaked
in the rain. On such days the little mud-and-grass houses of the
labourers looked wretched: as if they might cave in any time under
some unseen load. The nearest hospital was fifty miles away, and if the
workers wanted to see the district surgeon, they would have to travel
25 miles there and back. The district surgeon could only be seen once a
week.

The boy ran a high temperature. When he was able to speak he asked
his mother to go and see how his bird fared in the fowlrun. She came
back to tell him that the bird had been found under a tin, dead. 60
That same night the boy died.

When the news went round, the workers seemed to run beserk.

Tt has happened before

'My child — not even ten yet . . .!'

'Come, let's go to Sarel Britz . . .!'

'No, wait, he'll be angry with us, very angry . . .'

'Yes, but the White man is very powerful . . .'

'And truly so — where do we get work if he drives us off the farm . . .?'
'He wants our hands and our sweat — he cannot do that . . .' 70

'He beats us, and now he wants to kill us

'Send him back to Rhodesia — this Mfukeri . . .!'

'Yes, we don't do such things on this farm

'By the spirits, we don't work tomorrow until we see this thing out . . .!'

'Give us our trek-passes . . .! Save our children . . .!'

'Ho friends! I am not going with you. I have children to look after !'

'That is why we are going to Sarel Britz .. .!' 80 'Come, friends, let's talk
first before we march to the master of Doornvlei.'

Tau Rathebe, who could read and write, rallied the workers to an open
spot not far from the main gate. Grim and rugged farm workers;
shaggy; none with extra flesh on him; young and old; with tough
sinewy limbs. Those who were too scared to join the march kept in the
bushes nearby to watch. Women remained behind.

The men were angry and impatient. 'We want Mfukeri away from
Doornvlei, or we go, trek-pass or none!' was the general cry, echoed
and re-echoed. 90 And they marched, as they had never done before,
to the master's house.

Britz and Mfukeri were standing on the front verandah, waiting. It was
to be expected: the foreman had already gone to warn Britz. Apart
from what knowledge he had about Tau Rathebe, it was plain from the
early morning that the workers were not prepared to work.

'What is it, men?'

'The people want Mfukeri sent away,' said Tau. 'He has been using his
sjambok on some workers, and now old Petrus Sechele's son is dead,
because Mfukeri took him out in the rain. I've warned him about 100
this before.'
'I'll think about it. You're asking me to do a difficult thing; you must
give me time to think.'

'How long?' asked Tau.

Sarel Britz felt annoyed at the implied ultimatum and Tau's insolent
manner; but he restrained himself.

'Till noon today. Just now I want you to go to your work. I'm just, and
to show it, Mfukeri is not going to the fields until I've decided.'

They dispersed, each to his work, discontented and surly. When

Mfukeri left Sarel Britz in conference with his mother, the usually 110
smooth and slippery texture on the foreman's face, peculiar to
Rhodesian Africans, looked flabby.

'I've told him not to use the sjambok, but he insists on doing it, just
because I forbid it,' said Britz when he had gone.

'Reason?' Marta Britz asked.

'Just to make me feel I depend on him.'

'He never behaved like this when your father was alive. Once he was
told he must do a thing or mustn't he obeyed.'

There was a pause during which mother and son almost heard each
other's thoughts.

'You know, Mamma, when I was at university — on the 120

experimental farm — I knew many Black and Coloured folk. Thinking
back on the time, now, makes me feel Pa was wrong.'

'Wrong about what?'

'About Kaffirs being children.'

'But they are, my son. Your father himself said so.'

'No, one has to be on the alert with them. One can't afford to take
things for granted.'

'How are they grown up?'

Sarel went and stood right in front of her. 'Yes, Ma, they're fully grown
up; some of them are cleverer and wiser than a lot of us Whites. 130
Their damned patience makes them all the more dangerous. Maybe
Mfukeri's still somewhat of a child. But certainly not the others. Take
today, for instance. A coming together like this has never been heard
of on a White man's farm. And they've left everything in the hands of
their leader. No disorder. They're serpent's eggs, and I'm going to
crush them.' He paused.

'I didn't tell you that Mfukeri has been keeping an eye on this Tau
Rathebe. We've found out he was deported from Johannesburg.
Somehow slipped into this farm. And now he's been having secret
meetings with three or four of our Kaffirs at a time, to teach them 140
what to do — like today.'

'So! Hemel!'

'So you see, Ma, Papa was wrong. I'm going to keep a sharp eye on the
black swine. But first thing, I'm ready now to drive Rathebe away; out
with him tomorrow.'

At noon the master of Doornvlei made his double decision known: that
Tau Rathebe was to leave the farm the following morning, and that
Mfukeri had been warned and would be given another chance — the
last.

This caused a stir among the labourers, but Tau Rathebe asked them
150 to keep calm.

They wanted to leave with him.

'No. The police will take you as soon as you leave here. You can't go
from one farm to another without a trek-pass,' he reminded them.
He left Doornvlei . . .

Sarel Britz felt confused. He kept repeating to himself what he had

said to his mother earlier. These are no children, no children . . . they
are men ... I'm dealing with the minds of men . . . My father was wrong
... All my boyhood he led me to believe that black people were

160 children . . O Hemel, they aren't . ..!

He had begun to see the weakness of his father's theory during his
university years, but it was the incident with Rathebe that had
stamped that weakness on his mind.

Harvest time came, and Doornvlei became a little world of intense life
and work. The maize triangle of South Africa was buzzing with talk of a
surplus crop and the threat of low prices.

'A big crop again, Mfukeri, what do you say?' said Britz.

'Yes, baas,' he grinned consent, 'little bit better than last year.'

'You know you're a good worker and foreman, Mfukeri. Without 170
you I don't know how I'd run this farm.'

'Yes, baas. If baas is happy I'm happy.'

'Since Rathebe left there's peace here, not so.'

'Yes, baas, he makes too much trouble. Long time I tell baas he always
meet the men by the valley. They talk a long time there. Sometime one
man tell me they want more money and food. I'm happy for you baas.
The old baas he say I must help you all the time because I work for him
fifteen years. I want him to rest in peace in his grave.'

Britz nodded several times.

The Rhodesian foreman worked as hard as ever to retain the 180

master's praise. He did not spare himself; and the other workers had
to keep up with his almost inhuman pace.
'Hey you!' Mfukeri shouted often. 'You there, you're not working fast
enough.' He drove them on, and some worked in panic, breaking off
mealie cobs and throwing them with the dexterity of a juggler into
sacks hanging from the shoulder. Mfukeri did not beat the workers any
more. On this Sarel Britz had put his foot down. 'Beat your workers
and you lose them,' his father had often said. But every servant felt the
foreman's presence and became jittery. An the army of black sweating
labourers spread out among the mealie stalks after the systematic 190
fashion of a battle strategy.

Sometimes they sang their songs of grief and hope while reaping in the
autumn sun. Sometimes they were too tired even to sing of grief; then
they just went on sweating and thinking; then there was a Sunday
afternoon to look forward to, when they would go to the village for a
drink and song and dance and lovemaking.

Sarel Britz became sterner and more exacting. And his moods and
attitude were always reflected in his trusty Mfukeri. Britz kept
reminding his tenants that he was just; he favoured no one above the
others; he repeated it often to Mfukeri and to his mother. He leant 200
more and more on his foreman, who realized it and made the most of
it.

Back at university the students had had endless talks about the Blacks.
Britz had discussed with them his father's theory about allowing the
Black man a few rungs to climb up at a time; because he was still a
child. Most of his colleagues had laughed at this. Gradually he
accepted their line of thinking: the White man must be vigilant.

Often when he did his accounts and books, Sarel Britz would stop in
the middle of his work, thinking and wondering what he would do if he
lost much of his labour, like the other farmers. What if the towns
continued to attract the Black labourer by offering him jobs once 210
preserved for the White man. Would the Black workers continue to
flow into the towns, or would the law come to the farmer's rescue by
stopping the influx?

Sarel Britz lived in this fear. At the same time, he thought, it would
break him if he paid his workers more than forty shillings a month in
order to keep them. A mighty heap of troubles rose before his eyes,
and he could almost hear the shouts and yells of labour tenants from
all the farms rising against their masters . . .

The threat became more and more real to Britz. But Mfukeri consoled
him. Britz had lately been inviting him to the house quite 220 often for
a chat about doings on the farm. If only that Kaffir didn't know so
much about the farm so that he, Britz, had to depend on him more
than he cared to . . . 'Come to the house tonight, Mfukeri, and let's
talk,' he said, one afternoon in late autumn.

'All right, baas.'

Mfukeri went to see his master. He wondered what the master had to
say. He found him reclining comfortably on his chair. Mfukeri could
not dare to take a chair before he was told to sit down — in the same
chair he always sat on.

'Thank you, baas.' 230

After a moment of silence, 'What do you think of me, Mfukeri?'

'Why do you ask me, baas?' — after looking about.

'Don't be afraid to say your mind.'

'You're all right, baas.'

'Sure?'

'Yes, baas.' They smoked silently.

'You still like this farm?'

'Very much baas.'

'I'm glad. You're a good foreman — the only man I trust here.'
Mfukeri understood Britz. He wanted to assure his master that he 240
would never desert him, that he was capable of keeping the tenants
together. Hadn't he spied cleverly on Tau Rathebe and avoided an
upheaval?

The foreman felt triumphant. He had never in his life dreamt he would
work his way into a White man's trust. He had always felt so inferior
before a White man that he despised himself. The more he despised
himself the sterner and more ruthless he became towards his fellow-
workers. At least he could retain a certain amount of self-respect and
the feeling that he was a man, now that his master looked so 250
helpless.

As the foreman sat smoking his pipe, he thought: 'How pitiable they
look when they're at a Black man's mercy ... I wonder now . . .'

'All right, Mfukeri,' said the master. The Rhodesian rose and stood
erect, like a bluegum tree, over the White man; and the White man
thought how indifferent his servant looked; just like a tree. To assert
his authority once more Britz gave a few orders.

'Attend to that compost manure first thing tomorrow morning. And

also the cleaning up of the chicken hospital; see to that fanbelt in the
threshing machine.' 260 'Yes, baas, goodnight.'

He was moving towards the door when Britz said, 'Before I forget, be
careful about Donker mixing with the cows. It wasn't your fault, of
course, but you'll take care, won't you?'

'Yes.' He knew his master regarded his bull Donker as inferior stock,
and felt hurt.

It was a bewildered Britz the foreman left behind. The farmer

thought how overwhelming his servant was when he stood before him.

Something in him quaked. He was sensitive enough to catch the tone

of the last 'baas' when Mfukeri left: it was such an indifferent echo of

270 what 'baas' sounded like years before.

Mfukeri kept a bull with a squatter family on a farm adjoining

Doornvlei. Labour tenants were not allowed to keep livestock on the
farm on which they themselves worked, because they were paid and
received food rations. Mfukeri's friend agreed to keep Donker, the bull,
for him. It was a good bull, though scrub.

Two days later Sarel Britz was roused from his lunch hour sleep by
noise outside. He ran out and saw workers hurrying towards a
common point. In a few moments he found himself standing near
Mfukeri and a group of workers. In front of the barn Britz's pedigree
280 stallion, Kasper, was kicking out at Donker, Mfukeri's bull.
Donker had the horse against the barn wall, and was roaring and
pawing the earth.

Kasper kicked, a quick barrage of hoofs landing a square on the bull's

forehead. But the stocky Donker kept coming in and slashing out with
his short horns. Normally, there would be ecstatic shouting from

the workers. They stood in silence weaving and ducking to follow the
movements of the fighters. They couldn't express their attitude
towards either side, because they hated both Britz and Mfukeri; and
yet the foreman was one of them.

The stallion tried to turn round, which was almost fatal; for Donker
290 charged and unleashed more furious lightning kicks. Master and
foreman watched, each feeling that he was entangled in this strife
between their animals; more so than they dared to show outwardly.
Sarel Britz bit his lower lip as he watched the rage of the bull. He
seemed to see scalding fury in the very slime that came from the
mouth of the bull to mix with the earth.

He didn't like the slime mixing with the sand: it looked as if Donker
were invoking a mystic power in the earth to keep his fore-hoofs from
slipping. Once the hoofs were planted in the ground the bull found an
opening and gored Kasper in the stomach, ripping the skin with the
300 upward motion of the horn.

Sarel Britz gave a shout, and walked away hurriedly.

When Mfukeri saw Kasper tottering, and his beloved bull drawing
back, an overwhelming feeling of victory shot through every nerve in
him. What he had been suppressing all through the fight came out in a
gasp and, with tears in his eyes, he shouted: 'Donker! Donker!'

There was a murmur among some of the onlookers who said what a
pity it was the horse's hoofs weren't shod; otherwise the ending would
have been different.

Kasper was giving his last dying kicks when Britz came back with a 310
rifle in his hand. His face was set. The workers stood aside. Two shots
from the rifle finished off the stallion.

'Here, destroy the bull!' he ordered Mfukeri, handing him the gun. The
foreman hesitated. 'I said shoot that bull!'

'Why do you want me to shoot my bull, baas?'

'If you don't want to do it, then you must leave this farm, at once!'

Mfukeri did not answer. They both knew the moment had come. He
stood still and looked at Britz. Then he walked off, and coaxed his bull
out of the premises.

'I gave him a choice,' Sarel said to his mother, telling her the whole
320 story.

'You shouldn't have, Sarel. He has worked for us these fifteen years.'

Sarel knew he had been right. As he looked out of the window to the
empty paddock, he was stricken with grief. And then he was glad. He
had got rid of yet another threat to his authority.

But the fear remained.

NOTES ON THE MASTER OF DOORNVLEI

THE AUTHOR

Ezekiel (now known as Es' Ka) MPHAHLELE: Born in 1919 in a

Pretoria 'location' where he underwent many early struggles for
emancipation. He has worked as a teacher, social worker and a
journalist. He was a reporter with Drum magazine while studying for
his B.A. and M.A. at the University of South Africa. He left South
Africa in 1957 for Nigeria where he taught at the University of Ibadan,
and has until recently lived in the USA and Zambia where his writings
have championed the African cause. He has now returned to South
Africa and teaches at the University of Witwatersrand.

THE STORY

1 Summary

A farm in South Africa. On one side, the black labour-force who toil
and live in poverty; on the other, the white owner of the farm (young
Sarel Britz) who distrusts and fears blacks, and the black foreman
(Mfukeri), entirely devoted to his master's interests and therefore
hated by his fellow-workers. The two men are brought closer by labour
unrest. Sarel Britz comes to rely more and more on his foreman,
whose farm-skills exceed his own, so that Mfukeri can begin to believe
that he has at last gained his master's confidence. But Britz continues
to see Mfukeri as a black man and therefore yet another and even
more dangerous threat to his supremacy. The day of reckoning
between the two men finally comes when Mfukeri's bull kills Britz's
stallion in a fight which the white man sees as a symbol of things to
come between the two races in South Africa. He forces his foreman to
choose between killing his bull or leaving the farm; Mfukeri opts to go.
Victory remains with the Master of Doornvlei but also a growing
feeling of fear . . .

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 61): Religion can give hope but the harsh reality of life does
not even spare such innocent creatures as bird and boy.

II

a) (lines 62 to 117): When a group feels powerless, finding a scapegoat

is easier than tackling the real problem, that of naked exploitation.

Note the 'biblical' way in which Sarel Britz uses the word 'just'.
Rhodesia: former name of Zimbabwe; trek-pass: in South Africa,
blacks need a special police document to move from one location or
one job to another one; sjambok: whip made of either elephant or
hippo hide (Afrikaans).

b) (lines 118 to 145): Paternalism versus racialism, two different ages

in white rule in South Africa.

Apartheid, be it mild or oppressive, breeds its own evils.

Note: to buttress their supremacy, the first white settlers in South

Africa held

the view (which they based on a wrong interpretation of the Bible) that
blacks

were like children and therefore should be brought up and treated as

such.

When this paternalistic attitude failed to keep the blacks down, the
next

generations of whites resorted to apartheid which aims at depriving

blacks of

their basic rights.

black, coloured, kaffir: see Resurrection, pages 24-5; Hemel: heaven in

Afrikaans.
c) (lines 146 to 163): Might is not right and justice denied leaves
everyone

dissatisfied.

Sarel Britz begins to doubt his parents' theory.

Ill

a) (lines 164 to 195): The gap widens even more, if possible, between
the destitute farm-workers and Mfukeri. How can one alienate oneself
so completely from one's own race and class?

the maize triangle of South Africa: the three maize-growing states of

Transvaal, Free State and Natal; baas', master in Afrikaans.'

b) (lines 196 to 218): There is no end to fear for those who refuse to
adapt to changes.

c) (lines to 219 to 270): in search of an ally . . . but when a tyrant shows

his weakness, he can only earn scorn.

Trying to win over Mfukeri does not allay Sard's fear. The writing is
now on the wall.

IV

a) (lines 271 to 309): A symbol of the fate which awaits racist whites in
the hands of blacks, in South Africa.

b) (lines 310 to 327): the two 'allies' come face to face. One might lose
but the other senses that ultimate defeat is embedded in his present
victory.

3 Questions on the text

1 What do the farm-labourers find in religion?

2 How did Tau Rathebe come to assume a special role on the farm?
What is this role?

3 Why does Sarel Britz come to rely more and more on his foreman?
4 Of Sard's and his mother's attitude towards blacks, which one seems
to you most humane? Why?

5 In what way is the bull/stallion fight an eye-opener to both Britz and

Mfukeri?

4 Characters

They remain sketchy: master, foreman and farm-hands are mere

'types' meant to represent races and classes, not to achieve
individuality.

Sarel Britz: typical of the South African Boers for whom apartheid is
dogma; representative of the capitalist farmers who exploit their
labour-force and refuse to adapt to economic changes. Sarel Britz sees
nothing wrong with his own behaviour; on the contrary, he considers
himself a 'just' master whose hard work warrants the inhuman
treatment to which he subjects workers. Sarel Britz simply forgets that
he reaps all the profit and leaves nothing for sharing out with his
workers.

However, there is a flaw: if Sarel Britz is yet to doubt his racial

superiority and his right to oppress people, he doubts more and more
his power to keep blacks in bondage. His life is dominated by fear and
it is possible to imagine that one day this fear will exacerbate the
situation and lead him to make fatal mistakes.

Mfukeri: typical of the 'petty-bourgeois' class which, contrary to its

natural vocation, alienates itself from the masses and allies with the
exploiters. Rejected by both master and farm-workers, Mfukeri sees
his hopes and illusions come to an end. But he has regained his pride
and taken a further step in discovering his role in the class-struggle.

Farm-hands: represent the long-suffering and exploited masses

(peasants, workers) which are yet to achieve class-consciousness.
Weak and fearful of the master's power which they hardly dare
challenge; indifferent or even hostile to Mfukeri, they remain
spectators of the struggle although it can be said to foreshadow theirs
to come.

5 Theme

Apartheid not only establishes an unbridgeable gap between people

but sets them increasingly against one another so that everyone ends
up living in a world of misery, fear and hate.

6 Style

Events and the characters' reactions to events are set along a line
which ends with the climax of the bull/stallion fight bringing into
focus the subject-matter of the story. The story can be read at two
different levels:

a) literal: following the lead given by the title, to envisage the story as
that of the 'Master of Doornvlei', his views of society and in particular
of the relationship between blacks and whites. On a more general
plane, to look at the story as an illustration of the growing
deterioration in race-relations in South Africa.

b) symbolic: relating symbols to meaning, for example:

the 'circling movements of the bird', its attempts to escape, the

consequent result as symbols of the farm-workers' fate — (confined to
the farm which they cannot leave without a trek-pass). the coincidence
between the bird's and the boy's deaths as a symbol of the fate which
awaits those who cannot stand cruelty and the loss of freedom, the
fight between the bull and the stallion as a symbol of the struggle to
come between the two races.

The whole narrative can then be seen as a slow progression towards

the liberation of South African blacks, and more generally of the
oppressed masses.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Write a short paragraph on Sarel Britz: his life, his views of society.

2 Compare life on Britz's farm with that on Van Zyl's (in The Tender
Crop).

3 Imagine what Tau Rathebe tells the farm-hands when he has secret
meetings with them

4 Write a short commentary on this sentence: 'He didn't like the slime
mixing with the sand: it looked as if Donker were invoking a mystic
power in the earth to keep his forehoofs from slipping.'

5 On a farm, practical knowledge is better than theory. Discuss.

6 Once Mfukeri has gone, what is likely to happen on the farm?

13 The Tender Crop

by Fwanyanga M Mulikita

Early on Sunday morning Mateyo Chilufya said goodbye to the friends

he had worked with for thirty years on Paul van Zyl's farm. His friends
were very sorry to see him go. But they knew that there was nothing
they could do to stop his going. Paul van Zyl had told Chilufya to pack
and go. That was the previous day, after Mateyo had returned from
one of the Saturday 'sundowners' so common among farm labourers
and Soli villagers east of Lusaka.

Thirty years on van Zyl's farm ended just like a dream for poor
Chilufya, who was now in his late sixties. 10 'My boy,' that was how
van Zyl addressed his African labourers. 'My boy,' this time he
accosted Chilufya, 'I have come to tell you that your job on this farm is
finished. You have got to go away. I don't care where, but you have got
to leave, if not tonight, tomorrow morning.'

'Bwana, what wrong have I done?' Chilufya asked van Zyl whom he
had faithfully served for thirty years as a farm labourer.

'My boy, don't argue with me!' his boss said. 'It is finished. I haven't
come here to argue. You understand, my boy!' Van Zyl strode away
from Mateyo Chilufya — half drunk but fully aware of what had
happened. To ask why he was summarily dismissed from the job he 20
had done for thirty years was to 'argue' as far as van Zyl was
concerned. Indeed many another whiteman would have said the same
in a similar situation.

'Mary, I have dismissed Chilufya from work. I don't want to see him on
this farm any more!' Paul van Zyl told his plump wife who was busy
supervising preparations for dinner. The van Zyls were expecting some
guests whom they had invited to supper.

'Paul, have you paid him for this month?' Mary van Zyl asked.

'Why should I, Mary?'

'Do you think it is fair?' 30 'Do you think it is unfair?'

'Of course, Paul, I do. You have got to pay him, considering what he
has done for us for all these thirty years.'

'What these people have got to understand is that you just can't mix

politics with business. If I were to pay Chilufya the other boys will get
it fixed in their heads that they can dabble in politics and expect to be
paid when dismissed from work. To teach Chilufya and company a
lesson that it doesn't pay to talk politics on my farm, I decided I
shouldn't pay old Chilufya.' Paul van Zyl, one of the most prosperous
farmers in the area, spoke emphatically.

Paul van Zyl exaggerated the political role Chilufya had played on 40
the farm. Once or twice Chilufya had just shouted 'Kwacha — Ngweee!'
That was all. But van Zyl had said: 'What business has Chilufya to
'kwacha' and 'ngweee' on my farm?' He was getting spoiled by these
politicians. Time had been when Chiufya and his fellow farm labourers
said 'Yes bwana' to everything the master said, even when he insulted
them. But now there was some resistance, some impudence on the
part of these labourers. Van Zyl's cook, Desmond Atata, had reported
to his master what Mateyo Chilufya was doing during his spare time.
Reading the African Mail and admiring what the big political guns in
African society were doing. Atata even said 50 that Chilufya had
shaken, nay, pumped the hand of these big guns. 'Bwana, Chilufya was
pumping their hands — these African politicians.' It was after this
report that Chilufya was heard to have shouted 'Kwacha — Ngweee!'

Old Atata had also told van Zyl, 'Bwana, I am with you. That Mateyo
Chilufya is dangerous, 'but he would not explain in what way Mateyo
was dangerous. That he left for van Zyl's imagination to magnify and
ponder. Paul believed the only wise course of action to follow was to
dismiss Chilufya from his farm. He had to nip the trouble in the bud.
60

At dinner, Paul van Zyl and his guests talked about the intolerable
situation that was developing in the country. It was fear of the coming
change that dominated their talk. It was the same fear that made van
Zyl fire Chilufya from the job he had done so well for thirty years. They
were fighting mere shadows. The political storm that was gathering
momentum was irresistible, inevitable and destined to change and
sweep away the old pattern of life.

The Sunday morning that saw Chilufya part with his old friends on van
Zyl's farm brought many memories to his mind. This farm had become
his own home. Chilufya thought about the menial and 70 unrewarding
job. Was that the payment for his dedication? 'For years I have
laboured for him,' he mused. 'Our meagre and miserable earnings — a
mere pittance. Look at our soaring expenses. We have to pay school
fees, uniform fees. And colonial taxes too. Add to that, money for our
food, our beer and clothing.' He felt that the situation

had driven them to find some means to eke out their wages. 'There was
nothing we could do but brew beer — men and women — and organise
"sundowners" where we could dance and enjoy ourselves.' His
thoughts went back to one of these 'sundowners' when his wife 80
eloped with another man. But that was twenty years back and he had
decided to forget marriage and concentrate on his work on van Zyl's
farm. 'Thirty years I have sweated it out on this back-breaking job!' He
sat down, overcome by emotions, his legs wide apart and his drooping
head crowded with memories of this farm.

He could not forget the year when his wife eloped because that was the
year when van Zyl bought a tractor as a first step in the mechanisation
of his farm. A lot of farm labourers became the victims of
mechanisation: they lost their work, and the tractor took over.
Chilufya survived this event, on account of his honesty and industry.
90 The labourers at first welcomed the arrival of the tractor as one of
those miraculous inventions of the whiteman. But when they saw the
machine take over their work they hated it and they even planned to
put it out of action. One evening when van Zyl and his family were
safely out of the way they surrounded the tractor, determined to
smash it and scatter the pieces over the farm. But they failed
miserably. The following morning there it was, roaring and groaning
as it did the work normally done by scores of farm labourers.

Before the tractor arrived on the farm Chilufya had supervised the
operations of the other workers who were making a dam for van Zyl.
100 They sang, these African men as they delved into the ground with
an assortment of implements. They sang in unison. They dug in unison
to give a psychological boost to their tired and aching muscles. Their
black sweaty bodies glistened in the glaring African sun. The singing
made them forget their miserable wages. It also made them forget
their human miseries which seemed to date from the days of Adam
and Eve; from the loss of Paradise. The rhythm of song and of the hoes
striking the ground in unison blended.

Van Zyl was amused, and glad to see these poor people furthering his
economic domination, his prosperity built on their sweating and 110
aching backs. His thoughts went back to the days of the Pharoahs who
rejoiced to see slaves toiling to produce pyramids conceived in their
comfortable imagination. But he was different. He paid for his labour.
He refused to believe that he typified the human oppressor and
Chilufya the oppressed — the process that has gone on in human
history since the days of Methuselah; indeed since time immemorial.
He disliked to believe that the fact that he was white and Chilufya
black was incidental. He seemed to remember someone saying that the

struggles between the haves and the havenots, the struggle between
the exploiter and the exploited — was the central issue and that when
colour and race are added the issues go beyond the realm of normality
120 and border on psychosis. No, no! He liked to believe that the
whiteman was destined to rule and the blackman doomed to servitude.
The master race and the slave race — that is the meaning.

Chilufya got out of his farm hut. With one hand he lifted the small
bundle that contained his possessions. He could not go away without
pursuing the question of his pay. He knew it wasn't much, but he had
laboured for it; he deserved it. He therefore made for van Zyl's house,
half a mile away. 130

Old Desmond Atata was already up clearing up the remains of last

night's supper. Desmond Atata, as the cook, finished off the remains of
the supper — a chicken leg half chewed by one of the guests; some fruit
salad half consumed. These people, he wondered, they just touched
this or that dish, leaving a lot of food untouched! He thought of his
own meals, where the children had to scrape the plate clean with the
pointing finger! He recollected that after the process the well-licked
finger was left cleaner than when it started.

When Chilufya appeared at the back door of the house — he dare not
approach the front door — Desmond Atata said: 'Shh — the master is
still asleep. These people are gods, ka!'

Chilufya made it clear that gods or not he had to disturb them. He 140
wanted his pay for the services rendered. Desmond advised: 'Azunga,
amanga, ka! — Europeans can arrest, mind you.' Chilufya brushed
Desmond aside and hammered with terrible force on the kitchen door.
Paul van Zyl appeared in his dressing gown, obviously annoyed by the
hammering on the back door. When he saw Chilufya, he composed
himself. 'What do you want, my boy?'

'I want my pay,' Chilufya said without adding the customary 'Bwana'.
Van Zyl looked at him for a moment. Then he said; 'Wait a minute!'
He withdrew. He went back to consult with his wife. It must have 150
occurred to him that people don't shout 'Kwacha — ngweee' for
nothing. When this is coupled with a demand for their wages, their
rights, even if they are farm labourers, one had to take note.

'It is not fair, Paul. It is not fair.' That was Mary van Zyl taking the side
of the underdog. She appeared at the front door with some money for
Mateyo Chilufya. The old man's record of thirty years' faithful work on
the farm came into her mind. She said farewell to Chilufya and
thanked him for his past services. She gave him a packet of biscuits
and a bottle of orange squash. That did not please old Desmond Atata
who

160 eyed Mary van Zyl so viciously that she had to cut short the
ceremonies and return to her bedroom after waving Chilufya goodbye.
He gave Desmond a contemptuous look as if to say 'You dog', and
Atata recoiled and disappeared indoors.

As he walked away from the house Mateyo Chilufya asked himself

where, at his age, he could make a home. He knew from letters that his
parents were long gone. He had lost touch with his own home people
in the Northern Province. He would have loved to continue living and
serving on this farm until his death. Those farmers talked about
welfare schemes for the old people in South Africa where the aged
ones were

170 provided with homes, supported by their government. Here, he

thought, the Colonial Government did nothing of the sort for the black
people. He had heard of such homes for the white folk at Ndola and
Lusaka. Where did the money he paid in taxes go, he asked himself.
Old Chilufya must leave his home on the farm and face the
uncertainties of the future.

He looked at van Zyl's farm. His eyes feasted on the young maize crop
that scintillated in the early Sunday morning sun. The maize field
stretched far and wide until it touched the bush some distance away.
He had seen van Zyl's farm grow from nothing. To begin with it was
180 all virgin bush. Chilufya and his fellow labourers cleared the bush.
The first year van Zyl brought five acres under cultivation. Now it was
more than a hundred acres of scintillating maize. There were some
more acres of tobacco. There were herds of select breed. Only last year
van Zyl had harvested thousands of bags of maize. The money he had
made over the period of years, it is said, was so much that the banks
had refused to accept any more from him. Chilufya looked at the
miserable bundle containing his possessions acquired after thirty
years. He had no penny in the bank. He had seen van Zyl grow from a
poor farmer to whom government had lent money and given so many
acres

190 of land virtually free of charge to a rich man.

He recollected that van Zyl had borrowed money from government to

buy that tractor which was responsible for the dismissal of his fellow
labourers. Then followed another loan to buy a harvester. That was
another machine which led to the dismissal of more labourers. Before
its arrival on the farm, van Zyl employed the wives of his labourers in
addition to the normal labour force, to harvest the maize for him. That
brought in extra pennies to the pockets of the labourer's families.
Besides, one could always pinch a cob or two of maize while
harvesting. But now that evil machine did the harvesting, putting them

200 out of business.

But there were other jobs on the farm that needed human labour.

Chilufya was convinced that his dismissal had nothing to do with the
mechanisation of the farm. Van Zyl still needed human beings to look
after his cattle. Out of consideration for the services he had done, van
Zyl, if he were grateful, would have assigned him to the work of
looking after cattle. However clever or versatile the whiteman's
machines may be, surely they could not invent one that could look
after cattle. He knew of the machines that could milk. That was a
different matter. But a machine that could take the cows for grazing
and return them safely to the kraal! Such a machine, if it was made,
210 would kill cows instead of looking after them, if it did not end up
in a ditch. So Chilufya was convinced that there was still plenty of
scope for human labour on van Zyl's farm. But he must leave the farm.

Soon Chilufya found himself on the Great East Road. He had made up
his mind to go to Lusaka, some thirty miles away. He decided to hitch-
hike into town. He had seen his friends get a lift that way. As a matter
of fact he himself had done it once or twice before.

For one hour he tried his luck to get a lift. Twice or thrice he nearly
managed to get one. But when he told the drivers that he could not
afford to pay the fare they demanded, they drove off. 'Are you crazy?'
220 one of them said, 'expecting a free lift to town?'

It was now about half past nine. A familiar car approached him. He
recognised it as van Zyl's vehicle — a station wagon he had seen so
often on the farm. He frantically flagged to stop it. No doubt van Zyl,
who was behind the wheel, recognised his old farm labourer Chilufya.
He turned his eye from him and drove away. But Mary van Zyl had
also recognised Mateyo Chilufya.

'It is not fair, Paul,' she said. 'You should stop and give him a lift. I am
sure he is going to town.'

'Sorry; but if we stop we'll be late for church.' By now they were a 230
mile away from the spot they had passed Chilufya.

Suddenly van Zyl stopped. He turned the vehicle round. At first he was
at a loss what to do next — how to face the man he had just dismissed
from his farm. Had some human feeling touched his conscience? But
something within him had told him to stop. It seemingly melted his
indifference, his hard heart. There was a fellow human being in need.
It was more than this — it was a human being who had contributed to
his prosperity, his farm management and to his happiness. He had
dismissed him. But this was done out of political necessity, maybe. He
realised that Chilufya had been made a scapegoat. 240 The thought
made him uncomfortable. His real enemies were the political guns in
the African society who were determined to upset the status quo, his
comfortable life, his future. Chilufya was not a threat to
his life, to his future. But then, he convinced himself, he had become
political. 'Ngweee' on somebody's farm! There was, however, room
enough for eight people in his station waggon. There were only two of
them in it — himself and his wife. Their four children were at school in
South Africa. He had to relax his views on apartheid, herenvolkism
and baasskap for once, for Chilufya's sake. His thoughts on a Sunday

250 had become godly. Feeling for a fellow human being melted the
hard line of his racial ideologies.

He returned to where they had passed Chilufya. They picked him up.
Mateyo sat at the back of the station waggon — his first and last ride in
this vehicle. He looked at his clothes and the clothes of his former
employers. They were in their Sunday best. He was in his oversize
dilapidated Mokambo jacket and kalela (cheap) trousers. His
shrunken cheeks and ill-nourished body looked cadaverous in
comparison to their plump, smooth bodies which radiated vigour and
health. He was aware of his dirty shirt. He was equally aware of the

260 pleasant perfume coming from Mary van Zyl's dress.

There was dead silence as they drove to town. Each one of them kept
their thoughts to themselves. Before they reached the Church van Zyl
stopped and said, 'This will do, my boy'. He told Chilufya to climb
down. Neither Paul nor Mary van Zyl wished to be seen by their
friends in company with Chilufya. Kindness has its limits. They waved
Chilufya goodbye. Their employer-employee relationship ended
without ceremony, just as it had started thirty years back.

Chilufya got another lift which brought him to Kabwata, which was
then still called the 'Main Town Location'. He paid a shilling for the

270 transport. He began to look for his relatives, and he found them
two hours later. With one hand he greeted them; with the other he set
all his worldly possession on a little stool by the door. His thoughts
were still with the farm he had left. His new life had just started.

Chilufya had no plans. He was faced with the problem which always
faces retired men: what to do to keep themselves profitably occupied.
In Chilufya's case this problem was more acute since he found himself
without employment overnight. He had never planned his future, as he
had no fear of losing his job. His services to his master had always
been loudly praised.

280 Chilufya's relatives took care of him and were very kind to him. In
one of those Kabwata huts it was crowded existence. There was
Mulumendo Mulenga, his host, plus his wife Agnes and their seven
children. All these in a single-roomed hut. With the arrival of Chilufya
the hut had to accommodate ten people. There was no privacy at all.
Some of Mulenga's children were old enough to have rooms to

themselves. Take their eldest daughter Anna. She was doing her form I
and her brother was in grade VIII. All these had to share one room.
The children slept on the floor, some of them underneath their
parents' bed.

The young children were left to cry, and the mother did not bother to
keep them quiet. Their noses, which were always wet, made 290
Chilufya uncomfortable. To add to his moral discomfort the young
children were naked, while Agnes Mulenga wore very expensive
dresses. Chilufya had to sacrifice. He bought two of the youngest
children some clothes, out of the last meagre wages he had received
from van Zyl. This put Mulumendo Mulenga and Agnes to shame. But
they did not like the way Chilufya was lecturing them on how to look
after their children. He was thrusting his nose too much into their
private affairs. They resented it immensely. Chilufya soon noticed that
when Mulenga and his wife returned from the crowded beer parties
300 they treated him with disrespect. Not so much what they said, but
what they did not say. That kind of communication which makes itself
felt by intuition made him believe that he was not wanted. Besides,
from his peri-urban life he had come to know that guests are welcome
for a day or two. Their idle stay beyond two days becomes a bother and
a source of discomfort to their hosts. He was also dying to do
something for himself. The sheer force of habit developed over a
period of thirty years of continuous service made him think of finding
something to keep him occupied.

He decided to return to his village. Mulumendo Mulenga 320

approached his friends to help the old man with bus fare to enable him
to go back to the Northern Province. The spirit of generosity, often
eroded among town dwellers, had not been completely destroyed.
Mulenga received contributions from his friends both in cash and in
kind to assist the old Chilufya to get back to the home he had left some
forty years back.

Before he left for the Northern Province he had told Mulenga and his
friends of his life on van Zyl's farm. They were dismayed at van Zyl's
ingratitude. But they did not bother to pursue the matter because they
were fully occupied with their own personal and professional 310
problems. One had said, however, that things were bound to change
when Independence came.

Three days of motoring brought Chilufya back to his old village. His
worldly possessions were now more numerous than when he left van
Zyl's farm. Some friends and relatives in Lusaka had added their
contributions. But as his bus tore along the road his thoughts went
back once again to his days on van Zyl's farm. He saw, without seeing,

the green vegetation along the Great North Road; the trees that grew
taller and taller the nearer the bus brought him to home. The sight of

330 chitemene gardens held little fascination for him. Thirty years of
work on someone's farm. That farm had virtually become his home. As
the bus screeched to a stop in Kasama he was told that was the end of
his journey.

He got out of the bus but did not know where to go. The red sun,
looking larger than usual, was half sunk in the western sky. The
pigeons pecked their last at their evening meal on the ground,
overshadowed by eucalyptus trees. The last crow shot across the sky,
straight homeward bound. But old Chilufya had no home to go to this
day as he arrived back in the area he was born, some sixty years ago.
340 He spent the night at the bus station, curled on the ground in the
open waiting room.

The following morning, after many enquiries, he came across someone

who knew where his village had been. They directed him where to find
it. The village he had known as a boy was almost deserted. Only four
huts stood where before more than thirty houses had been. It was now
a hamlet, overgrown with grass and bush. The present inhabitants
were as strange to him, as he was strange to them, although they had
heard of his name. He tried to reconstruct the village in his mind as it
had been when he was a small boy. Someone

350 assisted him to find the place where his father's house had stood.

There was nothing there now but thick grass and shrubs. There
Chilufya must stand, revolving many memories of his youth. Here his
father, Mutale, used to tell him of things past and great. Here he had
learnt of the Arab slave trade that had carried away many a man into
slavery. Here he was told of the great battles his ancestors had fought
with the ferocious Ngonis. Here the great Chindungu dancers swayed
their hips to the rhythm of the drums — in this village they danced.
Here the old men sat and drank katata and chipumu, passing the
calabash from hand to hand after one had drunk with a straw. Here
the

360 great chitemene workers had originated and heaved their axes at
the trees, balancing themselves precariously on the highest branches.
And so Chilufya stood on the site his father's house had occupied. 'On
this site will I build my house,' Chilufya said. Soon he came to learn
that the fate that his village had suffered was the fate other villages
also had suffered. There was Kasama village, that used to teem with
hundreds of children — it used to be the pride of its inhabitants and
the talk of its neighbours. It was now a tiny village compared to the
sprawling township it used to be. Bwembya too, had seen a similar
change. All the villages in Itinti had been depopulated to

some extent, so was Namusoma and Henry Kapata's village. All 370
through the land able-bodied men left their villages to seek
employment in towns. One man commented:

'Ah Africa, we complain

To see the indigenous grain

Wallowing in misery and pain.

Where Titihoya sang wolves howl;

Where village stood, now deserted homes;

Where children played, old men groan

Where girls loved, divorce thrives.'

[From 'Salutations Graduates' by F. Mulikita.] 380 Here then must

Chilufya make a new home, hundreds of miles from van Zyl's farm,
which he had made his home. Now he must build where his father's
house had stood.

Mateyo Chilufya shared his few possessions with the new friends he
had found in his father's village. It is not nice for one man to have and
for others not to have. Things must be shared; sacrifices must be made
for the sake of others. That is communalism; that is socialism. It is the
same spirit that makes us call 'cousin' 'brother', 'uncle' 'father', and
'aunt' 'mother'. It is a kind of 'togetherness' that makes a man hold a
relative to his bosom 'with hoops of steel'. 390

Together Mateyo Chilufya and his relatives and new friends built his
new home. Together they went into the forest to fetch poles. Together
they drove the poles into the ground. Together they ate and rejoiced.
Together they suffered and mourned. Each genuinely appreciated
what the other had done for him.

One day Mateyo Chilufya visited Mr Shikapite, a veteran farmer in the

neighbourhood. Long before the short-lived, unwanted, federation was
thought of, Shikapite had become a well established farmer. Colonial
politicians, the provincial and district commissioners, came to
Shikapite's farm to drink coffee 'with half shut eyes'. Coffee with the
400 semi-literate Shikapite! It was quoted as an example of no racial
discrimination, by the colonial racial discriminator! The gulf that
existed between the blacks and the whites, they argued was an
economic one. But the gap was left to bridge itself!

Chilufya was impressed by what he saw on Shikapite's farm. Two or

three acres of vegetables. There were cabbages there. There was
spinach, there was lettuce there. There were beans and peas there.
There was African corn — nothing Kaffir about it! And acres of maize.
He saw sheep moving slowly with their cricket bat-shaped, ponderous
tails. They bleated, their helpless appearance demanding sympathy.
410 There were agile, clever-looking goats with tight bellies. The
female

pigs with their cylindrical bodies stood admiring the beautiful faces of
their males. There was a cock that danced around the hens, thrusting
aside his left leg and wing in a complicated love affair — a kind of run-
after-me-first-if-you-love-me affair!

Shikapite was away from the farm at the time. But what Chilufya had
seen on the farm was enough. 'If Shikapite can do it, I can do it,' he
convinced himself. If Paul van Zyl can do it, he too could do it, even if
on a smaller scale, he thought. There was no harm in trying. Failure

420 after trying, he said, is nobler than not trying at all!

First he surveyed the land, accompanied by a few of his friends. He led

the way through the tall grass that reached up to his chin. He cleared a
path by pushing the grass aside with his hand, and, left and right, he
did the same with his feet. He skirted round the rocky places until he
reached a flat piece of land. His experienced eye told him that this was
a good piece of ground. In fact this was the land his ancestors used to
till, but which now had fallen into disuse.

'Let us revive this land. Give it life again so that it can sustain our own
lives,' he told his relatives. 'We shall try. We shall combine our
energies together in a common enterprise. We must cultivate not only
430 for our stomachs but also for sale, to enable us to get the other
things we require in life. It is a pity that the foundation our ancestors
made on the land has fallen into disuse. But the accumulated fertility
which the soil contains will reward our labours.'

Some of his relatives were sceptical. Why should they embark on this
major enterprise, they wondered.

Chilufya felt that in order to enlist their support, he had to convince

the villagers of the necessity of what he was aiming at. So at night he
assembled them by the fireside that was cheerily burning away in the
open. He discussed the matter, allowing them to participate freely in

440 the discussion. Persuasion, he felt was preferable to compulsion.

He realised also that even after convincing them of the necessity of the
scheme, the work was not yet done. He must demonstrate with his
own hands. Show them by example how best to do the job, for the old
methods were unequal to the task ahead.

Chilufya's enthusiasm for work, despite his age, was infectious. He

soon inspired his fellow villagers with hard and devoted work. They
cleared the bush. They combined their strips of land into bigger
farming units. Two, four, eight acres were brought under cultivation,
using ordinary indigenous hoes. That was how Paul van Zyl had

450 started. In the end he had brought acres and acres of land under
the plough. Chilufya laboured with his new-found friends and
relatives. It was communal work. It was co-operative.

He supervised the operations in his rusty Bemba. He told them what

to do; how to plant maize in rows. He applied the knowledge he had
acquired on van Zyl's farm.

Soon Chilufya's enterprise became the talk of the neighbourhood.

News about his indefatigable work spread to distant places, as well.
People flocked to his village to see what the old man was doing. Some
said he was likely to do much better than Shikapite — at least in the
460 long run. Others scoffed at this, saying Chilufya's enthusiasm
would soon be spent.

The chief in his area was immensely impressed to see what Chilufya
was doing on the land. He had come to see for himself; to see the talk
of the day. Briefly Chilufya told him about his experiences on van Zyl's
farm. In particular he emphasised the hopelessness with which he had
faced the world on the day he was dismissed from his work. Now he
was confident that, barring unforeseen circumstances, he would make
a success of his new life even though he was old. He said it was his
duty to pass to his people the knowledge and experience he had gained
in 470 farming abroad.

He also told the chief about his other sad experience on van Zyl's farm,
when his wife deserted him. In spite of this, he said, he got comfort
from his fellow workers and he decided to concentrate on his work.

The chief invited him to visit his court to give an account of his
experiences, and in particular about his plans for the future: his new
venture.

'I would be delighted to come. But, if the chief doesn't mind, let us
postpone the visit until I have achieved a reasonable measure of
success 480 on the land. Maybe, after that, my visit could be profitable
all round. But I feel greatly honoured to have been invited to visit your
court.'

'Just as you wish, Chilufya. But meanwhile I will send my councillors

to come over and see for themselves the tremendous work you are
doing.'

'That would be another great honour, though it may not be compared

to the one I have received by your presence on this farm.'

Even in the initial stages of Chilufya's farm, the amount of work being
done was impressive. A dozen men and women were at work. They
sang in unison, and their hoes struck the ground in unison. The 490
song of the men at work and the sound of their hoes striking the
ground, blended to make the workers forget their physical strain, to
give them a psychological boost to sustain them for many a day. Just
as the men on van Zyl's farm had sung, just as their ancestors had
done before them.

One evening one man approached Chilufya in his house as he was

preparing to join his friends at supper.

'Sir, I have been instructed to let you know that you shouldn't go to
Insaka for supper.' He squatted on the ground. 500 'What is the
matter?'

'The headman says that there is going to be a meeting there.'

'You mean, my presence is not required at the meeting?'

'It would amount to that, Sir.'

'Who gave you the instructions?'

'The headman himself.'

'You didn't ask why?'

'How could I? You know our custom.'

'Is this a joke, man?'

'The headman didn't seem to be joking when issuing the in-510

structions.'

'Very well, then.'

The man left. Chilufya was puzzled. He could not think of anything
amiss that he could have done to merit this treatment. They knew he
was a bachelor. Besides he was an old man. What could be the reason?
Surely his own people couldn't treat him so uncivilly! All along they
had professed their affection for him and appreciated what he was
doing for the whole village. They had told him that since his return
from Lusaka things had improved in the village and that they felt sure
more improvements would come. But what were they trying to do by
520 barring him from their company? And what a time of day to do it!
Had he over-worked them on this day? Were they going to dismiss
him from the village after his dedicated service? Not again!

This behaviour of theirs, did it stem from personal jealousies? Chilufya

sat on a stool outside his house, his shoulders drooping, and his face
wrinkled as he tried to puzzle out this unexpected situation. His chin
rested upon his bended knee. The silent night was fast closing in and
soon the darkness would swallow him.

He had challenged van Zyl for not giving him his pay when he was
dismissed from the farm. These were his own people. He was going to
530 challenge them too. He was going to find out why he was being
treated with such incivility. He rose to go, his ankles creaking with old
age. As he made his way to the meeting place he could hear snatches of
conversation issuing from the crowd. 'We certainly can't allow him any
longer . . .' 'We must stop him.' 'Yes it's high time we did 'Chilufya can't
go on . . .' He saw a man approaching him. 'Yes, I am going to tell him .
. .'

What is the meaning of all this, Chilufya wondered. These people

speaking in agitated voices, mentioning his name! They say I must

stop. But what must I stop doing?' he asked himself. These were his
own people. Surely, if they had spotted any untoward behaviour on his
540 part they should have openly pointed it out, instead of making
him the subject of an unseemly public meeting. Were they revolting
against his enterprise?

'Sir, I have been instructed to ask you to join us at the meeting place.'
It was the same man who an hour back had told him not to join the
meeting.

'Tell me, what is being discussed?'

'I'm not permitted to tell you.'

'Man, be reasonable. I am barred from my friends, to begin with. And
then I am being asked to join them! What does this mean?' 550

'I don't know.'

When the two men eventually joined the rest of the village there was
utter silence. The evening fire burned, the flames leaping upwards.

'We have decided,' the village headman at last spoke. But what was his
decision, Chilufya had time to wonder, before the headman continued
speaking. He fixed his eyes on Chilufya, to see the effect of his
preliminary remarks.

'We have decided not to allow you to continue the way you have done,
Mateyo Chilufya.'

'I'm listening,' Chilufya said in a characteristically African fashion. 560

'We have decided that from now onwards you will be exempted from
the onerous task of tilling the land. You know, I'm younger than you
are, but the strain of the work on the land is already telling on me. You
don't show it yourself, but that is no reason to ask you to continue to
do this strenuous work.'

The rest of the crowd echoed the headman's sentiments. Chilufya was
touched. And so the discussion about him amounted to this!

The headman continued: 'You have laboured so long, not only here but
also elsewhere. And I think that is enough. The whole village shares
my views.' 570

'Headman, those are very kind words, indeed. But, if I may say so,
there is yet a bit of strength left in me. I would like to utilise it
profitably.'

'I am sure we understand. But time has come for you to conserve that
energy, tremendous though it is — for other things, other enterprises
less demanding than tilling the land.' Again the crowd echoed the
headman's sentiments.

'I have another matter to talk about,' the headman cleared his throat.
Chilufya became even more attentive.

580 'We have decided by consensus that the communal farm we have
made becomes your personal property. It is yours.' There was clapping
and applause. The headman continued: 'We have learnt enough from
you. We shall make our communal farms.' There was more thunderous
applause. Chilufya was overwhelmed. The sacrifice of his people. 'This
is too generous,' he said inwardly.

'Headman, I have no words with which to thank you and the rest of

the village. I will accept this offer on one condition. You will permit me

to work with you on your farms, at least in the preliminary stages. Not

so much because of my farming experience, which is very little; but so

590 that I can escape the boredom of working alone on my farm.'

This condition was accepted. But, they said, it was on the

understanding that Chilufya would do only supervisory duties,
advising where necessary.

Then the women brought the supper to the meeting place. They all ate
with relish.

They asked him about life in the towns and the growing political power
among the Africans. He told them how crowded the cities were, and
how some Africans no longer paid attention to their traditions. He told
them how they were no longer enthusiastic about going to church. 600
He told them about the congested African beerhalls where even
women with babies on their backs went, little caring for the welfare of
their families. He said that divorce was common and that men and
women had lost touch with their high traditional moral code. He
described how some children went without schooling, and how most of
these turned into juvenile delinquents, ending up in remand homes
and reformatories.

He also told them about the pleasant and attractive aspects of town

life. He talked of some Africans owning shops, and other businesses.

He talked about the cinema and electric lights in some houses and

610 streets. He talked about motor transport. He said that the streets
were

crowded with bicycles and cars.

They all listened with enthralled attention until midnight, when they
dispersed and retired to bed.

Early the following morning, Chilufya roused them from bed. He was
an energetic as ever. 'It is time to go to work. Time for work!' All the
men and women in the village got up and followed him to the fields.
They were to make another farm as the first one had been given to him
the previous night by common consent. As soon as they had found a
suitable site, another communal farm was in the making. Soon 620
they all settled down to work. They needed no prompting from old
Chilufya. In unison they struck the ground with their flashing hoes.

They worked with determination. They laboured the whole day, except
for a short break to stretch their backs and have a drink of water or
some light beer in the polished brown calabashes. Chilufya was
overjoyed to see their enthusiasm for work. 'Tremendous!
Tremendous!' he said.

To enable them to do their work more quickly, they later thought of a

new scheme to enlist the support of their neighbours. They brewed
large quantities of beer. On the day the beer was ready, they invited
about thirty guests from the neighbouring villages. First they had to
630 help on the land. From the morning till afternoon they worked the
land, and in the evening they did justice to the beer. So that while they
hoed and sang, they knew the reward was bubbling in the pots.

This communal work with other villagers was organised two or three
times. Soon the land was ready for the seed.

Chilufya decided to write to his old friends on van Zyl's farm. He

wasn't sure that they were still working for van Zyl. Nevertheless he
wrote to them, telling them what he was doing. He wrote a glowing
account of the enthusiasm of his people for the new methods of
farming. He said that had he known this he wouldn't have waited for
640 van Zyl to dismiss him from the farm. He said that there was
prosperity in the rural areas waiting for the enterprising people. He
told them that all indications were that he was going to have a very
successful crop. He told them how his chief came to pay him a visit on
his farm and that he even invited him to visit his court. He told them
how overwhelmed he had been when his villagers decided to give him
a co-operative farm in recognition of the 'little' he had done for them.

He wrote a similar letter to Mulumendo Mulengo in Lusaka. He told

him about his experiences at home and urged him to return to his
village. 'Please, come and help your people,' he ended his letter. 650

In due course Mateyo Chilufya saw the results of the villagers'

collective labour. He could not believe that his developing farm was all
due to his initiative and industry — advanced in age though he was. He
stood on the edge of his own farm, looking at the young maize crop
that fluttered in a morning breeze. He saw the leaves of the young crop
sparkling with the morning dew: tender crop that he could call his
own. It gave him a sense of belonging . It gave him a sense of
achievement. It was purposeful; it was meaningful. He began to
understand fully what van Zyl meant when he used to say 'my farm'.
Chilufya now had his farm too. There he stood on the edge of his farm,
660 admiring the tender crop.

He reflected on the years he had worked on van Zyl's farm. Thirty

years of his youth and middle age. If he had devoted all those years to

self-improvement, he too would have been visited by the provincial

and district commissioners — like old Shikapite. He would have been
free to 'kwacha' and to 'ngweee' without fear of annoying anybody. He
looked at his tender crop dancing in the breeze, covering ten acres. He
knew he hadn't much longer to live but there was no doubt in his mind
that this farm represented a foundation for future prosperity for the

670 people. He had shown them how to make their land more
productive. The green of his maize crop; the dark soil of his farm — it
was a rewarding sight to him. It was also an inspiration to his people.

At Independence he might get a loan from the new government to

improve the farm — to purchase implements, fertilisers, a plough —
even a tractor. There was no harm in trying to do that, either!

After many years in the wilderness, Mateyo Chilufya found his land of
promise — a real home, a flourishing farm where he could say 'Kwacha
— Ngweee' without the fear of avenging hand. He was free to cast his
strength into the struggle for human liberty which, like a

680 growing fire, was warming the imagination of the oppressed.

NOTES ON THE TENDER CROP

THE AUTHOR

Fwanyanga M. MULIKITA: Born in Zambia in 1928, educated in

Zambia, South Africa and the US where he took an MA degree at
Stanford University. After teaching for some years, became first
Zambian Ambassador to the United Nations (1964-66); joined the civil
service as Permanent Secretary before being nominated Minister of
Education and thereafter Member of the Central Committee (1976-
78). Has now retired from active politics and lives on his farm while
practising as a psychologist in Lusaka. Besides A Point of No Return
(1967), a collection of short stories in which The Tender Crop
appeared, Fwanyanga Mulikita has also published folk tales (A Wise
Fool and Other Stories, 1974), a play in English {Shaka Zulu, 1967),
and another one in Losi (Simbilingani Wa Libongani, 1975).
THE STORY

1 Summary

After thirty years of service on a white man's farm, old Chilufya is

summarily dismissed and left to face the world with only one month's
pay. He makes his way to the capital where relatives give him shelter
and food. But he soon finds that he is outstaying his welcome and
decides to go back to his village although he left it many years ago.

Like so many others, the village is dying. With skill and determination,
Chilufya rallies the villagers to develop a successful co-operative farm
which is later given to him in appreciation of his hard work. Another
farm is then started and soon the village springs back to life. The
'tender crop' which now covers the land will serve as a beacon for all
those who eventually will come and help develop the rural areas of the
country.

2 Notes on the text

The text outlines three different aspects of life in Zambia (then called
Northern Rhodesia) under British colonial rule.

I (lines 1 to 267): Life on a whiteman's farm.

a) Paul Van Zyl's success story; his racialism; his abuse of power; his
fear of political changes.

b) The destitute condition of the farm-labourers.

c) Chilufya's inhuman dismissal hardly tempered by Marie Van Zyl's

charitable intervention.

sundowners: gathering of people in the evening to dance, sing and

drink; Lusaka: capital of Zambia; Bwana: term widely used all over
Central Africa and meaning 'master'; Kwacha, Ngweee: political slogan
meaning 'the fire will catch' (or the light will soon shine) in Bemba.
The two terms are now used as currency denominations in Zambia and
Malawi, replacing pounds and shillings; the African Mail: newspaper
run by Africans advocating independence; Azunga, amanga, ka:
whiteman can arrest, beware, in Lingala; Northern Province: one of
the eight provinces making up Northern Rhodesia at the time; Ndola:
town in the Copperbelt; kraal: cattle enclosure in Afrikaans;
herenvolkism: belief in the superiority of the Afrikaner people, in
Afrikaans; baasskap: mastership in Afrikaans.

II (lines 268 to 309): Life among African city-dwellers:

Crowded living; loss of traditional values; but compassion towards the

poor and the old.

Kabwata: part of Lusaka; form I: first year of secondary school; grade

VIII: last year of primary school.

III (lines 310 to 680): Life in a village community.

a) Past and present condition of the village.

b) The success-story of a local farmer, Mr Shikapite.

c) Communal approach to farm-work.

d) Expression of gratitude from the village toward Chilufya.

e) More communal effort and hope of a bright future.

chitemene: system by which trees are cut and burnt to make room for
fields and gardens, in Bemba; Kasama: main town in the Northern
Province; Ngonis: Zambian tribe; katata, chipumu: local brew made
from maize; the federation: under British guidance, Northern
Rhodesia (Zambia), Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and Nyasaland
(Malawi) were federated (19331963). It

was seen as a means of preserving white supremacy (especially for

Southern Rhodesian whites) when independence came. Both Kenneth
Kaunda and Dr Hastings Banda opposed it and it was soon dissolved
to allow the setting up of three national states. Kaffir: derogatory term
used by whites to describe things African; Bemba: one of the main
Zambian languages, often used as a lingua franca.

3 Questions on the text

1 Retrace Van Zyl's career as a farmer.

2 Who is responsible for Chilufya's dismissal? Why?

3 Compare the life of masters (white) and farm-labourers (black) on

Van Zyl's farm.

4 How does city-life affect the Mulengo family?

5 What means does Chilufya use to win over the villagers to his plans?

4 Characters

Mateyo Chilufya

a) A dedicated worker who has identified himself for more than thirty
years with his master's interests and who reaps nothing for it except
sudden dismissal and destitution.

b) An old man whose wealth of experience is his main asset.

c) An enterprising man who knows the value of hard work.

d) A humanist who believes in his fellow-men and in the betterment of

society.

In his own way, Chilufya tries to overcome the contradictions brought

about in Africa not only by colonialism and racialism but also by
capitalism. In organising the villagers into a co-operative, he lays the
foundations on which African socialism can be built once the country
has achieved independence. Paul Van Zyl

As his name indicates, he is an Afrikaaner. Therefore racialism (in the

form of apartheid) is for him the ultimate justification for:
a) his social tenets (apartheid divides society into the master and the
slave race).

b) his economic domination (since he belongs to the master-race).

c) his oppression of the blacks (who belong to the slave-race).

d) his inhuman treatment of Chilufya (black workers are mere

commodities).

e) his refusal to accept socio-economic changes (which would upset

the 'natural' balance).

In reality, as the text points out (line 118): 'the struggle between the
exploiter and the exploited — was the central issue'), Van Zyl typifies a
class of people which can be found all over the world, the capitalist
class. When it comes to Africa, colour and race only add another
dimension to the struggle. City-dwellers, villagers, headman and chief

In different ways and at different levels, they all embody the values
(family, community, etc.) which structured African society before
colonisation.

However, it must be noted that it requires the presence of a 'leader', a

'father-figure' (in this case, Chilufya) to bring those values back to life.

5 Theme

Greed, callousness and exploitation can be overcome if individuals

agree to come together and work for the betterment of man and
society.

6 Style

The story consists of two parts (life on Van Zyl's farm, life in the
village) with a brief interval in between (life in the capital) with
Chilufya as binding link. First part: the focus is on Chilufya/Van Zyl
relationship and on Chilufya's memories of the past which are
interwoven with present events (dismissal/life on the
farm/departure/the making of the farm, etc.).

Interval: the focus is on the Mulengo family which is seen as symbolic

of the new class of African city-dwellers.

Second part: the focus is on Chilufya/village relationship. Chilufya's

actions, thoughts and feelings blend in with those of the villagers to
bring out the spirit of communalism. Glory of the past, pitiful present
conditions, bright hopes for the future are all enhanced by the use of a
more colourful and romantic style. Note in particular the use of poetry
to give a mythical dimension to the past.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Compare Van Zyl with Britz in The Master of Doornvlei.

2 Write a short description of a farm in your country.

3 Why is Chilufya a good leader?

4 Which do you prefer, and why? town or country.

5 Which system seems to you best suited to rural African society:

private or communal ownership of the land?

6 What do you think of Mary Van Zyl?

14 Coming of the Dry Season

by Charles Mungoshi

One Wednesday Moab Gwati received a letter fom Rusape. His mother
was seriously ill. He decided to wait till he got his pay on Friday:
Saturday he would go home.

He had his pay on Friday afternoon, and, as always happened with his
money when he had it, it seemed to fly in all directions.

That Friday night he got hopelessly drunk with a girl he had picked up
in Mutanga's earlier in the evening. Her name was Chipo but he did
not know it till Sunday. They slept together in his room till eight
o'clock Saturday morning. 10 He was still drunk and, after a cold
shower he took together with Chipo, he ordered two quarts of Castle
lager to take with their breakfast of fried liver and eggs.

After breakfast, with five other friends they drank till they dropped
unconscious and their friends dumped them on the bed.

Early Sunday morning they had a beer and breakfast. They stayed in
bed all morning. Moab felt his head beginning to ache. He had no
more money and he did not want Chipo to know it.

At two o'clock he accompanied her to the bus station. He gave her a

shilling for bus fare and a two-shilling piece for the fine weekend and
20 patted her back in farewell. She said she had never been so happy
in all her life. She stood in the queue to get on to the bus to Mufakose.
Moab left before the ticket checker punched her ticket. As he was
going away, the bus Chipo had taken passed him. He heard her yell
and saw her wave to him. But he did not wave back. The black mood
was on him.

When he felt this way Moab would walk for miles completely blind. It
started always at the same emotional point, when, after a good time
and he had no more money, he saw a gnarled old woman, thin as a
starved cow, with a weak, saliva-flecked mouth and trembling limbs;
30 very small dark eyes in carven sockets — a monkey face — and on
her spare body threadbare rags wound as on a scarecrow stick. He
would hear over and over the small mousy voice that was full of tears
and self-pity, the voice that was a protest: 'Zindoga mwana'ngu,
remember

where you come from.' A warning, a remonstrance, a curse and an

epitaph. With it, he could never have a good time in peace. Guilt,
frustration and fury ate at his nerves.

When he spent four years without employment she had almost died
from despair. She had cooked beer to the ancestors and then he told
her he was working. And her health had improved. He knew that she
had stood on her thin little legs and danced the mbavarira, which is
both a 40 praise to the ancestors and a prayer for the dead. He knew
she had burned good luck roots for him.

It seemed he could never do enough for her. He had sent her money
and clothes and a hundred-pound bag of mealie meal with his first
pay. After this he had promised himself he would send her some more
money — which he had done — yet there seemed no end to the things
she needed. Her voice asked for far more than he could give. She had
said once, when he had let her come to the city, 'Couldn't you find
work somewhere near me? You know it won't be long and as you are
my first born you must know all that you must do for me — for your 50
own good — before I am gone. When I am gone you won't ever set
anything right by yourself.' There were many things wrong with the
family, she had told him. And she had been glad that he was working
now because he would be able to set them right and release her from
bondage.

It had so depressed him that, wishing her gone, he had told her that
one day he would take a leave and she would say all she wanted done
and he would do it. He had told her to console herself and remember
that she would be always in his thoughts. She had cried, whether for
joy or sorrow, he had not known. But her tears had stayed with him 60
and a guilt — about what he could not say — had dogged him like his
shadow.

He smelled a sudden familiar smell. Dry, harvest-time smoke of

burning maize-leaves. A shiver. Across the vlei the sun danced on the
late red rapoko heads which nodded in the slight wind. In a pond of
rust-coloured water rice was turning yellow and grass rotting in the
pond stank. There had been unusually heavy rains this year. It was still
raining, even now, in April. Another shiver. Why it should remind him
of his mother, now very ill — at death's door as the letter had said — he
did not know. He walked along the vlei, at the edge of Highfield 70
Village. When he thought he should turn back, he entered Highfield
from the west, having left it from the east.
He walked round and round Highfield. Night caught him still on the
streets. Soon people left for bed and the dogs began their restless
barking that would end with the coming of day.

In the northern sky he saw the bright arc of light that was the city. It
reminded him of a veld fire at home. Only there was not the familiar
smell of burning grass. If there had been, he knew he would have
cried.

He watched the dogs trotting, mating, overturning bins in search of 80

left-overs, and relieving themselves on the streets. When he felt tired
he went home.

The severe yellow light of his room, mixed with the strong smell of
onions in dripping and rotting sofa sackcloth brought before him a
prison cell and his mother. She was there now, imprisoned by life,
trapped by her conscience, holding on tight till he was there to leave
whatever it was she wanted to leave him. Her little cell, probably.

But she would have to let go without him. He had no money now. It
was all finished. He switched off the light and lay on the bed unable to
sleep till the milkman's bell. Lying in bed he heard rain falling.
Thinking of his mother and a childhood belief he thought: 90 Soft
earth

Wide spade Are good friends.

He was listless the whole of the next day, a sunny Monday. His boss
told him to take aspirin and go to bed, but he said he was all right. The
boss, an understanding jovial man, had advised him not to take these
weekends so severely.

Afraid of his yellow room, he slept at a friend's that night. On Tuesday,

while walking to work, a bush-tailed squirrel crossed and then
recrossed his path. His heart sank. He asked for a sick leave that day
100 and went home.
He found a telegram waiting for him next door where the postman had
left it with his neighbours.

His mother had died on Saturday night.

Moab walked dazedly into his room. He sat in a chair and looked into a
mean backyard of motorcar scraps and hen manure. He was thinking
of nothing.

'Hello.'

It came weak and faraway as if it were his own mother's voice greeting
him from the grave. He turned towards the bed. 110 Chipo lay naked
under a pink sheet. She smiled at him. For a long time he looked at
her, dumb.

'I came yesterday evening. Your door was unlocked. I waited for you all
night. Where have you been?' She sounded exactly like his mother. He
hated her.

'Why have you come here? What do you want with me?'

Chipo looked confused, as if she had found herself, by mistake, in the

Gents.

'But . . . but . . . you slept with me.'

'So what's that? Haven't you slept with many others? Why do you 120
come to me?'

'But you are different. Moab, I wish you would marry me. I ask for
nothing else.'

She looked at him sadly and her mouth twisted as if she had a pain
somewhere. 'I have been alone too long.'

Suddenly he felt helpless, trapped. He said weakly, 'I did not ask you
to come back.'
'I know. I just came back. You were so kind to me.'

He wondered what he had done for her. She was talking like his
mother, suffering and saying things he did not understand. Why must
130 they receive something else from what he intended to give — and
then come back later to ask him for more of what he did not know how
to give? He despised her. She had come back only to complicate his
world.

'I don't have any more money,' he said harshly. 'That's what you want,
isn't it? I don't have even a penny.'

'I know that, Moab, I didn't come for your money. I have too much of
that.'

'Then why did you come back? Your type always comes back for
money!' He glared at her. 140

She looked at him and did not answer. Her mouth twisted again, and
there was a whiff of dry season air in the room. Moab's eyes filled.

'Go back where you come from! I didn't call you here!'

He stood up and yanked the sheet off her. She gasped but did not
scream. She covered her private parts and hastily put on her dress.
Moab noticed that her body was pitifully thin and starved.

He slumped back into his chair.

When she had finished putting on her clothes she took her handbag
from a peg above the bed. From it she took a purse. Tilting the purse
towards the light, so that Moab saw the thick wad of pound notes in it,
150 Chipo extracted a shilling and a two-shilling piece and slapped
them on the table beside Moab's right elbow. Then quietly she went
out of the room.

Alone, Moab stared at the three shillings on the table. The ragged
figure of his mother moved into focus. He felt damned.
His hand reached down for the money. He looked at it, wondering
whether he should throw it out of the window on to the scrap heap.
His head tightened and untightened with indecision: unclean money.
But he had not even a penny in his pocket.

160 And his cheeks burning with shame, he furtively put the money
into his pocket. He stood up and flung himself on the bed. He cried for
something that was not the death of his mother.

NOTES ON COMING OF THE DRY SEASON

THE AUTHOR

Charles MUNGOSHI: Born in 1947 and educated in Zimbabwe.

Worked as a forestry research assistant and a clerk in a bookshop
before becoming literary director with a leading Zimbabwean
publishing firm in 1981. Charles Mungoshi's major works are both in
Shona {Makunun' unu Maodzamwoyo, 1970, a novel; Inongova
Njakenjake, 1981, a play); and, in English (Coming of the Dry Season,
1972, Some Kinds of Wounds, 1981, short stories; The Milkman Doesn
7 only Deliver Milk, 1980, poetry). Coming of the Dry Season appeared
in the collection of short stories bearing the same title.

THE STORY

1 Summary

News of his mother's illness reaches Moab Gwati in Town. Instead of

going home as planned during the weekend, he spends it indulging in
drink and sex with a girl, Chipo, to whom he gives his last coins before
she leaves him. Left alone with nothing and feeling terribly depressed,
Moab Gwati wanders aimlessly around the countryside. Memories of
his mother and of her constant demands and nagging, but also of his
own failure to fulfil his filial duties, assail and pursue him in his
solitude.

A few days later he learns of his mother's death during the weekend
and, at the same time, he finds Chipo back at his room, longing for
love. Rejecting it as he rejected his mother's love, Moab Gwati throws
the girl out but takes back the 'sex-money' he had given her and which,
in anger, she returns to him.

2 Notes on the text

The text can be divided according to the time-sequence.

I (lines 1 to 3) Wednesday: waiting for pay-day is a good excuse to

shield one from one's responsibility.

II (lines 4 to 25) Weekend (Friday night, Saturday, Sunday morning):

when callousness takes a tragic dimension.

Castle lager: brand of beer very popular in Zimbabwe. 154

III (lines 26 to 93) Sunday afternoon and night: guilt is an ever-lasting

feeling and a mother, no doubt unwillingly, can wreck her son's life in
the name of duty and tradition. Nature does not bring any solace to
Moab Gwati. Zindoga mwana'ngu: Zindoga, my child, in Shona;
mbavarira: Shona traditional dance 'praise to the ancestors and a
prayer for the dead'; vlei: plain in Afrikaans; rapoko: maize; veld:
grassland in Afrikaans.

IV (lines 94 to 97) Monday: the 'black mood' lingers on.

V (lines 98 to 162) Tuesday: from mother's to wifely love, it would still

be the same prison.

The last step toward total degradation.

3 Questions on the text

1 What is Moab's idea of a good weekend? Why can he not enjoy it

fully?

2 Why does the mother feel entitled to money, clothes and care from
her son?
3 Analyse Moab's guilt-complex towards his mother.

4 Explain what the 'childhood belief means: 'Soft earth/Wide

spade/Are good friends.'

5 How does Chipo see Moab and how does he see her?

4 Characters

Moab Gwati

Debased by excessive drinking and promiscuity; degraded by money

for which he is ready to sacrifice his self-esteem and dignity. Moab
Gwati nurses a deep feeling of resentment but also a strong guilt-
complex toward his mother.

In the end, he is left only with abject self-pity.

And yet, do we not sympathise with Moab Gwati? Do we not feel pity
for him?

No doubt, drinking is mostly responsible for his 'black mood', his self-
pitying and his loneliness. But Moab Gwati is also a tragic example of
those city-dwellers (see: Introduction, page 7) unable to overcome the
contrasts between the old and the new ways of life. The mother

Seen only through her son's eyes and memories (and God knows the
son does not spare the mother!). An old woman:

a) whose body bears the marks of a long life of suffering and misery.

b) with little time left and therefore anxious to reap the benefits of
rearing, bringing up and helping to establish a son.

c) whose last wish is to hand over to her first-born the family 'burden'.
From her point of view, she is fully justified in her never-ending
demands,

remonstrances and warnings. It is all for the good of her son and the
family so

that, when she dies, he will have peace, having fulfilled his duty.

Why then does she loom so large over her son's life? Why is she for
him a

nightmare figure?

Chipo

A lost girl of the kind that the city breeds by the hundred: craving for a
little

love and security.

She earns our contempt for being so 'cheap', but does she not also win
our

esteem for showing dignity?

In the end, mother and son are damned for lacking in love; Chipo, on
the

contrary, might be saved.

5 Theme

Love can be an unbearable burden and man can be driven to

degradation and despair by those who want to trap him in their love.

6 Style

The movement of the story follows closely the moods of the main
character,

Moab Gwati, and presents a double-climax: the 'black mood', and the

reaction to his mother's death and Chipo's return. Narrative units are
set

along a time-sequence with a flash-back in the middle of it.

Events and behaviour are recorded objectively without comment or

judgement.

Memories and moods are coloured by the main character's feelings

and

emotions.

The difference in stylistic treatment of the narrative elements

underlines the

gap between Moab Gwati and his environment, his own and other
people's

existence. It brings into focus Moab Gwati's tragedy: his incapability to

communicate and relate to others and therefore his desperate solitude.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 How does the title relate to the story?

2 Moab Gwati is 'damned' not so much because he failed as a son but

more as a man. Discuss.

3 Describe what the place where you live looks like in the dry season.

4 Compare Moab Gwati with Mbane in A Silent Song (pages 99-103).

5 In what way do those words: 'Zindoga mwana'ngu, remember where

you come from' constitute a warning, a remonstrance, a curse and an
epitaph?

6 A girl has married against her father's wishes. Now the old man is
dying and calls for her. She fails to go. Imagine what happens.

15 Ivory Bangles

by Eric Sikujua Ng'maryo

His legs walked, taking him to his house and its compound and the
surrounding banana grove, but his mind wandered. He stepped out of
the path to relieve himself, but only a small trickle washed the trunk of
the tree in front of him.

The words of the seer were alarming. He had a deep-seated suspicion

of the seer, but he was a tribal seer, a priest of the people, and he had
to go to him for consultations after he noticed the blood specks on the
liver of a goat he had slaughtered. The seer's pebbles said someone
was going to die. The pebbles said a wife was going to die. The pebbles
said the spirits were jealous of a happy wife, a woman unmolested by
her husband until old age, until she was called 'Grandmother'. 10

He immediately knew it was his wife. 'What can I do to avert this?'

The pebbles said he had to give her a thorough beating. The pebbles
said he had to send her to her parents after the beating.

'They can be appeased in another manner. I will give any number of

goats.'

The pebbles said he had to give his wife a thorough beating. The
pebbles said he had to send her to her parents after the beating.

His wife came and unstrapped his leather sandals and led him behind
the house to the lean-to, bathed him and rubbed him with sharp-
smelling unguents. His taut back and shoulder muscles stopped being
20 like dogs with bared teeth.

'Girl,' the old man said to his elderly wife, 'Girl, I have something I
heard today.'

'We'll talk about it after the meal.'

They came back from the evening into the house and sat facing each
other, the hearth between them. The woman pulled a piece of
firewood, cracked it in two slivers, pulled off some loose shavings and
arranged the tinder and the firewood over the coals. Small flames lept
at the shavings, caught the wood and illuminated the worried look on
the old man's face. 30

'How is the child?' he asked of the boy whose father, their only son,
had agreed to let them spoil.

'He is asleep.' The boy slept in his grandmother's bed. Soon, however,
he would be too old for that. 'Eat your food. It is getting cold.'

'Do you know where I went this evening?' he started again, chewing
his food nervously. 'The seer,' she said. 40 'How did you know?' He
had stopped eating.

'I guessed,' simply. The leaping flame of the dying fire caught her smile
and her white teeth were made whiter by the beauty gap of two lower
teeth. She could still be like a girl.

The old man grunted. This was not the atmosphere for discussing

the words of the pebbles. He continued eating, slowly now, savouring

the hidden nuances of taste and smell in the pottage made of mashed

green bananas and finely shredded meat and stock and vegetables and

herbs and — the touch of her hand. This was not like any other meat

and bananas pap. He took a bite at the roasted sweet potato, chewed it

50 with care and washed it down with a draught from the pottage
bowl.

'You cook, woman,' he thanked, stretching himself and yawning.

'Have a long life, son of the Chief,' she answered. She collected the

wooden bowl and platter from the old man, the woodcarver, son of a

woodcarver, A good warrior. A very brave warrior.

He had been made the Chief's councillor when he was relatively young.
That had been during the time of the present Chief's father. He still
was the Chief's councillor, much respected, but also much talked about
because he had only one wife, and a councillor was a small chief, and
whoever heard of a chief with one wife? 60 When the ageing Chief told
him to get himself another wife, this was shortly after he was made
councillor as a reward for bravery shown in the Battle of Five Rainy
Days, he had answered with a riddle: A woman went to the riverside
The woman wanted to fetch water The woman had one waterpot The
woman arrived at the waterpoint The woman found another waterpot
The woman came back home with a pot The woman brought back a
waterpot with potsherds in, not 70 water.

The old Chief roared with laughter. 'A wife, a co-wife, withcraft, and
death!' he shouted. 'But wait!' he countered, 'Wait! How big would a
chief's "potsherspot ,, be?'

'Your pots are unbreakable, Chief,' answered the young warrior, 'Your
pots are made of iron!'

'I will sleep now,' the old man said.

The woman got up. She was tall and still firmly built. As she moved the
twenty-four ivory bangles she wore clanked like many castanets. She
was remarkable in them: eight in either hand and four heavy ones on
each leg. The ones on her hands were etched with mnemonic marks 80
for a long love poem. He had presented the bangles to her when their
first born child, now their only son, was given a name. She had looked
like a chief's bride.

'Your wife is comely,' the Chief had told him.

'We are your subjects, Chief.'

'She is very comely in the many ivory bangles she wears.'

'I made them, Sir, and the ivory was from the elephant I shot with a
poisoned arrow. I brought you one of the tusks as is the custom.'

'People say you bought the bangles.'

'They forget that I am a carver, and furthermore, where would I get 90

the cowries?'

The woman washed the utensils and sprinkled the water on the earth
floor, threw a piece of cowdung into the coals; this would preserve the
fire until morning, and instead of going to sleep with her 'husband',
the young boy, she took off her skins and stretched herself beside the
old man.

'I went to the seer,' he started, but her hand was on his chest. She was
almost hot to touch — or was it he who was getting colder, dying
slowly? She gave a little shudder as he moved closer to her in answer
to her touch. He unsprung slowly, but when it came, it was like an 100
intricate tattoo on a drum, coming unexpectedly and stopping
suddenly, leaving the air quiet and pure. He languidly wondered how
soon it would be before they had to be careful, lest the boy noticed.

'Tell me about the seer,' she asked.

'The spirits want me to give you the ritual beating.'

'Ah,' she said. 'The seer wants you to beat me?'

'The seer is only the mouthpiece of our departed fathers, woman!'

'I know the seer,' the old woman said.

The man kept quiet.

'He once wanted to marry me. He said he would put a spell on me.' 110
This was an oft repeated story. During happier moments, he would
answer, 'But I got you,' but now he said angrily, 'It wasn't he who put
the blood specks on the goat's liver!'

'That old vulture,' she murmured.

'There must be some way,' he said, shifting uncomfortably.

'There is and I will tell you,' she said. Can't she see that her life is
involved? he wondered. She continued talking, carried away by the

simplicity and ingenuity of her scheme. Later, she noticed that he was
fast asleep. Quietly, she stole back to her 'husband'. The boy was fast

120 asleep too.

The next morning, the man went to his place of work and she, later in
the day, went to the market. She heard people saying something about
elephants which had been near the forest. 'The herd is coming down to
the plains now,' one man said. Another commented on how
devastating the beasts would be to the young plants. 'People who know
how to use poisoned arrows have followed them. With poisoned
arrows several can be killed,' another was saying.

A marketplace: many are its people and thrice as many its words. The
woman moved on, her bangles clanking softly, a loved woman

130 emblazoned with ivory. She was thinking: I will first go home,
cook for the man, then later, I will go to my brother's place. This
brother, her elder brother, was the one who took their late parents'
homestead and was now standing in the place of her father. Her plan
had been to go there weeping, complaining that her husband had
beaten her without any reason. She would stay until her husband came
to ask her to go back to him; she would refuse, forcing her clan and her
husband's clan to meet and reconcile them. The fine would be imposed
on the irascible husband and the beer of reconciliation drunk. The
spirits would certainly be fooled and life would continue as before.
140 She hurriedly bought various things with the cowries she had,
bartered a satchelful of peas for a big hen, got a length of sugarcane to
give the boy, some snuff for the man, salt and soda and some monkey
nuts which she loved to eat cooked — not roasted. As she slowly made
her way home, she heard the cries. They came from scouts who were
perched on top of trees, observing the elephants and warning people of
the beasts' movement. The cries were relayed from one scout to
another, the elephants being escorted by these human noises until
they moved out of the populated area. 'Beware! Beware!' they were
crying, 'Beware! Six elephants, one bull and five cows are going down
the hill

150 at Sangeyo's! Beware! They have crossed River Marwe!' . . . Pause .

. . 'Beware! Beware! People of Mtorobo's homestead! The five she
elephants are now in your banana grove! The bull is on the path
coming from the stream!'

The woman hurried home. The cries were now fainter, and taking into
account that the criers were on top of tall trees, the elephants were
now quite a distance away. I will go and cook, then go to my brother's,
she thought.

After finishing cooking and carefully covering her husband's food, it

was not even near sunset. The boy had eaten and quickly skipped off to

go to play with the neighbour's children. Why hurry, she thought, I 160
will do a bit of hoeing in the part of the grove the man said was very
weedy. Then I start squeezing tears out of my eyes and go to my
brother's house. She had to laugh at herself.

This is the weedy place, she thought as she bent, the small hoe going at
a fast, practised speed despite the heavy load of ivory bangles on the
hand. The sound was now a steady rhythm.

She was disjointedly thinking of this and that, her hoe missing a big,
fat millipede. 'You don't want to die so soon, you silly thing, you!'
Chuckle. She sang a small lullaby. Ah. What will old Makusaro, my
sister-in-law, say? Oh, this area is really weed-infested. Only four, no,
170 three weeks ago I weeded it with Leveri, my daughter-in-law. Her
husband had beaten her to a fingernail's distance to her grave. Why is
my son so different from his father? Now, who is that crying? It is
Kabanda. He asked for it. Why go to play with people who make you
cry? The boy is always crying. People will say I don't feed him well. The
smell of the moist earth, warm with the day's sun.

It was short. She heard the crash, then turned and saw it. It was a dark
house, and it was madly trumpeting. She was lifted bodily. At this, she
was very indignant, and she struggled to pull her skins to cover her
nakedness. That was all. 180

After bashing her on trees and banana plants, the wounded bull
elephant put her on the ground and repeatedly stamped on her.

They found her thus in her shallow grave: a mass of flesh and blood
and shattered ivory bangles.

NOTES ON IVORY BANGLES

THE AUTHOR

Eric S. NG'MARYO: Born in Tanzania in 1955, took a law degree at the

University of Dar es Salaam in 1981, and is presently working on a
government sugar estate near Mount Kilimanjaro.

Several of Eric Ng'Maryo's poems have been anthologised in Summons

and Second Summons, New Poetry for Africa, have appeared in
literary journals {Bananas, KiSwahili) or read on the BBC African
Service. He is at present engaged in writing a novel. The present short
story was specially written for this anthology.

THE STORY

1 Summary

Despite social pressure, a man has remained faithful to his only wife
and has been rewarded with her love and devotion. But now that the
happy couple is getting old, the ancestral spirits are seeking their
revenge. They predict the wife's death unless the old man bows to
tradition, i.e. gives his wife a ritual beating and sends her back to her
own people.

But women are full of craft! The woman devises a scheme which will
keep their love intact while pretending to sacrifice to the gods and to
tradition. However, no one can alter the course of destiny. The 'happy'
wife will eventually die, trampled by one of those elephants whose
ivory used to grace her arms and ankles with so many bangles.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 14): For the spirits of the departed fathers, a happy wife
means a weak husband.

II (lines 15 to 54): A good wife knows that the way to her husband's
heart passes through his stomach!

III (lines 55 to 75): A clever way of disentangling oneself from an

awkward situation.

IV (lines 76 to 91): Where the title of the story becomes clear.

Be it with diamonds, stones or ivory, husbands all over the world

express their love in the same way.

V (lines 92 to 120): A loving woman knows how to soften a man and

bring him to agree with whatever she says . . .

VI (lines 121 to 139): It needs a woman to believe that illusion can be

as strong and convincing as reality!

VII (lines 140 to 157): Are those elephants peaceful animals moving to
new pastures or irate instruments of the gods' will?

VIII (lines 158 to 184): A weak husband and a crafty woman earn
punishment but should love and happiness be rewarded with death?
3 Questions on the text

1 How does the husband realise that something has gone wrong in his
life?

2 What steps does the wife take when her husband comes back at the
end of the day?

3 How does 'the touch of her hand' make the wife's cooking different?

4 Why doesn't the wife believe the seer's prediction?

5 Retrace the different activities of the wife on the fatal day of her
death.

4 Characters

They must be considered in relation to each other.

The 'old man': 'a woodcarver', 'a very brave warrior', 'the Chief's

councillor . . . much respected, but also much talked about' because,

first and

foremost, he is a faithful husband.

The 'happy wife': a loving and devoted woman but also a wife who
knows

how to play on her husband's weakness for her and whose self-
confidence

brings doom to both of them.

5 Theme

No one can fool the gods (or is it death when time comes?)

6 Style
The author's point of view predominates. The author remains in full
command of:

a) the narrative (selecting, bringing in and structuring events).

b) the characters (their reactions, inner thoughts).

c) the style (choice of comparisons and metaphors).

Note in particular how such elements as the dialogues, the riddle, the
scouts' cries, etc. enhance the traditional aspects of the text.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Compare the role of the seer with that of the witch-doctor in

Nightmare by W. Saidi.

2 All went well and the woman is now back with her own people.
Imagine the husband's speech to his wife's family when he comes to
settle the matter.

3 Explain the answer to the riddle: 'a wife, a co-wife, witchcraft, and
death'.

4 In which other stories does the same conflict between the individual
and society (tradition) appear?

5 Have you ever consulted a seer (a diviner)? For what reason?

Describe the man and his house/room, and your encounter with him.

16 The Return

by Ngugi wa Thiong'o

The road was long. Whenever he took a step forward, little clouds of
dust rose, whirled angrily behind him, and then slowly settled again.
But a thin train of dust was left in the air, moving like smoke. He
walked on, however, unmindful of the dust and ground under his feet.
Yet with every step he seemed more and more conscious of the
hardness and apparent animosity of the road. Not that he looked
down; on the contrary, he looked straight ahead as if he would, any
time now, see a familiar object that would hail him as a friend and tell
him that he was near home. But the road stretched on.

10 He made quick, springing steps, his left hand dangling freely by the
side of his once white coat, now torn and worn out. His right hand,
bent at the elbow, held onto a string tied to a small bundle on his
slightly drooping back. The bundle, well wrapped with a cotton cloth
that had once been printed with red flowers now faded out, swung
from side to side in harmony with the rhythm of his steps. The bundle
held the bitterness and hardships of the years spent in detention
camps. Now and then he looked at the sun on its homeward journey.
Sometimes he darted quick side-glances at the small hedged strips of
land which, with their sickly-looking crops, maize, beans, and peas,

20 appeared much as everything else did — unfriendly. The whole

country was dull and seemed weary. To Kamau, this was nothing new.
He remembered that, even before the Mau Mau emergency, the
overtilled Gikuyu holding wore haggard looks in contrast to the
sprawling green fields in the settled areas.

A path branched to the left. He hesitated for a moment and then made
up his mind. For the first time, his eyes brightened a little as he went
along the path that would take him down the valley and then to the
village. At last home was near and, with that realization, the faraway
look of a weary traveller seemed to desert him for a while. The

30 valley and the vegetation along it were in deep contrast to the

surrounding country. For here green bush and trees thrived. This
could only mean one thing: Honia river still flowed. He quickened his
steps as if he could scarcely believe this to be true till he had actually

set his eyes on the river. It was there; it still flowed. Honia, where so
often he had taken a bathe, plunging stark naked into its cool living
water, warmed his heart as he watched its serpentine movement round
the rocks and heard its slight murmurs. A painful exhilaration passed
all over him, and for a moment he longed for those days. He sighed.
Perhaps the river would not recognize in his hardened features that
same boy to whom the riverside world had meant everything. Yet as 40
he approached Honia, he felt more akin to it than he had felt to
anything else since his release.

A group of women were drawing water. He was excited, for he could

recognize one or two from his ridge. There was the middle-aged
Wanjiku, whose deaf son had been killed by the Security Forces just
before he himself was arrested. She had always been a darling of the
village, having a smile for everyone and food for all. Would they
receive him? Would they give him a 'hero's welcome'? He thought so.
Had he not always been a favourite all along the Ridge? And had he
not fought for the land? He wanted to run and shout: 'Here I am. I 50
have come back to you.' But he desisted. He was a man.

'Is it well with you?' A few voices responded. The other women, with
tired and worn features, looked at him mutely as if his greeting was of
no consequence. Why! Had he been so long in the camp? His spirits
were damped as he feebly asked: 'Do you not remember me?' Again
they looked at him. They stared at him with cold, hard looks; like
everything else, they seemed to be deliberately refusing to know or
own him. It was Wanjiku who at last recognized him. But there was
neither warmth nor enthusiasm in her voice as she said, 'Oh, is it you,
Kamau? We thought you . . .' She did not continue. Only now he 60
noticed something else — surprise? fear? He could not tell. He saw
their quick glances dart at him and he knew for certain that a secret
from which he was excluded bound them together.

'Perhaps I am no longer one of them!' he bitterly reflected. But they

told him of the new village. The old village of scattered huts spread
thinly over the Ridge was no more.

He left them, feeling embittered and cheated. The old village had not
even waited for him. And suddenly he felt a strong nostalgia for his old
home, friends and surroundings. He thought of his father, mother and
— and — he dared not think about her. But for all that, Muthoni, just
70 as she had been in the old days, came back to his mind. His heart
beat faster. He felt desire and a warmth thrilled through him. He
quickened his step. He forgot the village women as he remembered his
wife. He had stayed with her for a mere two weeks; then he had been
swept away by the Colonial Forces. Like many others, he had been
hurriedly

screened and then taken to detention without trial. And all that time
he had thought of nothing but the village and his beautiful woman.

The others had been like him. They had talked of nothing but their
homes. One day he was working next to another detainee from 80
Muranga. Suddenly the detainee, Njoroge, stopped breaking stones.
He sighed heavily. His worn-out eyes had a faraway look.

'What's wrong, man? What's the matter with you?' Kamau asked.

'It is my wife. I left her expecting a baby. I have no idea what has
happened to her.'

Another detainee put in: 'For me, I left my woman with a baby. She
had just been delivered. We were all happy. But on the same day, I was
arrested

And so they went on. All of them longed for one day — the day of their
return home. Then life would begin anew. 90 Kamau himself had left
his wife without a child. He had not even finished paying the bride-
price. But now he would go, seek work in Nairobi, and pay off the
remainder to Muthoni's parents. Life would indeed begin anew. They
would have a son and bring him up in their own home. With these
prospects before his eyes, he quickened his steps. He wanted to run —
no, fly to hasten his return. He was now nearing the top of the hill. He
wished he could suddenly meet his brothers and sisters. Would they
ask him questions? He would, at any rate, not tell them all: the
beating, the screening and the work on roads and in quarries with an
askari always nearby ready to kick him if he 100 relaxed. Yes. He had
suffered many humiliations, and he had not resisted. Was there any
need? But his soul and all the vigour of his manhood had rebelled and
bled with rage and bitterness.
One day these wazungu would go!

One day his people would be free! Then, then — he did not know what
he would do. However, he bitterly assured himself no one would ever
flout his manhood again.

He mounted the hill and then stopped. The whole plain lay below. The
new village was before him — rows and rows of compact mud huts,
crouching on the plain under the fast-vanishing sun. Dark blue 110
smoke curled upwards from various huts, to form a dark mist that
hovered over the village. Beyond, the deep, blood-red sinking sun sent
out finger-like streaks of light that thinned outwards and mingled with
the grey mist shrouding the distant hills.

In the village, he moved from street to street, meeting new faces. He

inquired. He found his home. He stopped at the entrance to the yard
and breathed hard and full. This was the moment of his return home.
His father sat huddled up on a three-legged stool. He was now very

aged and Kamau pitied the old man. But he had been spared — yes,
spared to see his son's return —

'Father!' 120

The old man did not answer. He just looked at Kamau with strange
vacant eyes. Kamau was impatient. He felt annoyed and irritated. Did
he not see him? Would he behave like the women Kamau had met at
the river?

In the street, naked and half-naked children were playing, throwing

dust at one another. The sun had already set and it looked as if there
would be moonlight.

'Father, don't you remember me?' Hope was sinking in him. He felt
tired. Then he saw his father suddenly start and tremble like a leaf. He
saw him stare with unbelieving eyes. Fear was discernible in those
eyes. 130 His mother came, and his brothers too. They crowded
around him. His aged mother clung to him and sobbed hard.
'I knew my son would come. I knew he was not dead.'

'Why, who told you I was dead?'

'That Karanja, son of Njogu.'

And then Kamau understood. He understood his trembling father. He

understood the women at the river. But one thing puzzled him: he had
never been in the same detention camp with Karanja. Anyway he had
come back. He wanted now to see Muthoni. Why had she not come
out? He wanted to shout, 'I have come, Muthoni; I am here.' He looked
around. His mother understood him. She quickly darted a 140 glance
at her man and then simply said:

'Muthoni went away'.

Kamau felt something cold settle in his stomach. He looked at the

village huts and the dullness of the land. He wanted to ask many
questions but he dared not. He could not yet believe that Muthoni had
gone. But he knew by the look of the women at the river, by the look of
his parents, that she was gone.

'She was a good daughter to us,' his mother was explaining. 'She
waited for you and patiently bore all the ills of the land. Then Karanja
150 came and said that you were dead. Your father believed him. She
believed him too and keened for a month. Karanja constantly paid us
visits. He was of your Rika, you know. Then she got a child. We could
have kept her. But where is the land? Where is the food? Ever since
land consolidation, our last security was taken away. We let Karanja go
with her. Other women have done worse — gone to town. Only the
infirm and the old have been left here.'

He was not listening; the coldness in his stomach slowly changed to

bitterness. He felt bitter against all, all the people including his father

160 and mother/ They had betrayed him. They had leagued against
him, and Karanja had always been his rival. Five years was admittedly
not a short time. But why did she go? Why did they allow her to go? He
wanted to speak. Yes, speak and denounce everything — the women at
the river, the village and the people who dwelt there. But he could not.
This bitter thing was choking him.

'You — you gave my own away?' he whispered. 'Listen, child, child —'

The big yellow moon dominated the horizon. He hurried away bitter
and blind, and only stopped when he came to the Honia river.

170 And standing at the bank, he saw not the river, but his hopes
dashed on the ground instead. The river moved swiftly, making
ceaseless monotonous murmurs. In the forest the crickets and other
insects kept up an incessant buzz. And above, the moon shone bright.
He tried to remove his coat, and the small bundle he had held on to so
firmly fell. It rolled down the bank and before Kamau knew what was
happening, it was floating swiftly down the river. For a time he was
shocked and wanted to retrieve it. What would he show his — Oh, had
he forgotten so soon? His wife had gone. And the little things that had
so strangely

180 reminded him of her and that he had guarded all those years, had
gone! He did not know why, but somehow he felt relieved. Thoughts of
drowning himself dispersed. He began to put on his coat, murmuring
to himself, 'Why should she have waited for me? Why should all the
changes have waited for my return?'

NOTES ON THE RETURN

THE AUTHOR

NGUGI WA THIONG'O: Born in Kenya in 1938, took his degree at

Makerere College in Uganda and then taught at the University of
Nairobi. Because of his political and ideological stance, Ngugi was kept
in jail for a year, in 1977, and has now chosen to live in exile in Europe.
Major works: novels: Weep Not, Child, 1964, A Grain of Wheat, 1967,
Petals of Blood, 1977; plays: The Black Hermit, 1967, Devil on the
Cross, 1982; short stories: Secret Lives, 1975.
THE STORY

I Summary

Barely two weeks after marrying, Kamau has been detained by the
British Colonial forces trying to suppress the Mau Mau uprising in
Kenya. After five

years in detention, he returns to his village, his family and his wife,
Muthoni. On the way back, he meets some village women who seem
strangely restrained in their welcome.

He soon finds out the reason: the news of his death had been spread
by a rival who later was allowed by the family to take away Kamau's
wife and child. Left with nothing but despair, Kamau is about to drown
himself when he realises the futility of it all. Why should the world
have waited for him to come back?

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 42): Is nature hostile or friendly according to its own

whims or does man project his own feelings on it? The changing
moods of a man journeying back home.

Mau Mau: Gikuyu secret society in Kenya. Rebelled against British

Colonial

Government in 1952.

Gikuyu: one of the main ethnic groups of Kenya.

II (lines 43 to 66): Kamau gets a kind of lukewarm welcome which

does not augur well for the final reunion.

First signs that the world Kamau knew has changed.

Security Forces: Colonial forces used to combat the Mau Mau

uprising; the Ridge: long and narrow stretch of high land along the
tops of a line of hills. Typical of the highland landscape in Kenya.
III (lines 67 to 106): bitter memories of the past; bright hopes of a new
life and happy future.

askari: guard in KiSwahili; Wazungu: plural form of Mzungu, meaning

whiteman in KiSwahili.

IV (lines 107 to 157): the greater the expectations the heavier is the
blow. Rika: age-group which undergoes initiation at the same time.

V (lines 158 to 183): 'It is impossible to swim twice in the same waters,'
said a philosopher. And life, like a river, flows continuously toward its
mysterious end.

3 Questions on the text

1 What is Kamau's mood like as he travels along the road?

2 Why do Kamau's eyes 'brighten' as he goes along the path?

3 Which words and expressions show that the village women are
uneasy and reluctant to acknowledge Kamau?

4 What was the worst humiliation Kamau suffered while in prison?

5 Why does Kamau feel a sense of relief at the end of the story?

4 Characters

Kamau: a man who has suffered in his body and soul and whose only
hope of

happiness is shattered by those he loves most.

Village women, family and wife: in a world where hunger rules

people's

lives, can they be blamed for their grievous mistake?

5 Theme
Life does not wait and it is impossible to 'return' even to what was
once the most cherished reality.

6 Style

The narrative movement underlines the widening gap between

Kamau's

growing hopes and the harsh reality which faces him on his way back
home.

It works towards a suspense to which Kamua's final gesture gives full

meaning.

The focus is primarily on Kamau's feelings as he returns home:

a) 'the faraway look of the weary traveller' on the road.

b) his 'painful exhilaration' as he reaches the river.

c) 'feeling embittered and cheated' after meeting the village women.

d) 'desire and a warmth' as he remembers his wife.

e) his 'rage and bitterness' toward whites.

f) 'annoyed and irritated' with his father who fails to recognise him.

g) his despair when finding 'his hopes dashed on the ground'. h)

feeling 'relieved' that it is all over.

The world around only exists inasmuch as it reflects Kamau's moods:

a) nature: 'hardness and apparent animosity of the road', 'the whole

country was dull and seemed weary' while Kamau travels in strange
land; 'perhaps the river would not recognize him', 'the river moved
swiftly, making ceaseless monotonous murmurs', etc.
b) village: 'the old village had not even waited for him'.

c) people: village women who stare at him 'with cold, hard looks', who
seem 'to be deliberately refusing to know or own him', his father's
'strange vacant eyes', 'unbelieving eyes'.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Compare Kamau with Akunma in The Ivory Dancer (pages 74-80).

2 What role does the river Honia play in the story?

3 Kamau's mistake was to stake his whole future on one single dream.
Discuss.

4 Muthoni hears that Kamau is alive and comes back to him. Imagine
what she says to him (to explain her conduct, to convince him to take
her back, etc.) and Kamau's attitude.

5 Besides The Return, in which other stories in the anthology does

nature appear as an essential element?

6 Kamau's parents failed to do their duty. Discuss.

17 The Truly Married Woman

by Abioseh Nicol

Ajayi stirred for a while and then sat up. He looked at the cheap alarm
clock on the chair by his bedside. It was six-fifteen, and light outside
already; the African town was slowly waking to life. The night
watchmen roused from sleep by the angry crowing of cockerels were
officiously banging the locks of stores and houses to assure themselves
and their employers, if near, of their efficiency. Village women were
tramping through the streets to the market place with their wares,
arguing and gossiping.

Ajayi sipped his cup of morning tea. It was as he liked it, weak and
sugary, without milk. With an effort of will, he got up and walked to 10
the window, and standing there, he took six deep breaths. This done
daily, he firmly believed, would prevent tuberculosis. He walked
through his ramshackle compound to an outhouse and took a quick
bath, pouring the water over his head from a tin cup with which he
scooped water from a bucket.

By then Ayo had laid out his breakfast. Ayo was his wife. Not really
one, he would explain to close friends, but a mistress. A good one. She
had borne him three children and was now three months gone with
another. They had been together for twelve years. She was a patient,
handsome woman. Very dark with very white teeth and open sincere
20 eyes. Her hair was always carefully plaited. When she first came to
him — to the exasperation of her parents — he had fully intended
marrying her as soon as she had shown satisfactory evidence of
fertility, but he had never quite got round to it. In the first year or so
she would report to him in great detail the splendour of the marriage
celebrations of her friends, looking at him with hopeful eyes. He would
close the matter with a tirade on the sinfulness of ostentation. She
gave up after some time. Her father never spoke to her again after she
had left home. Her mother visited her secretly and attended the
baptismal ceremonies of all her children. The Church charged extra for
illegitimate children as a 30 deterrent; two dollars instead of fifty
cents. Apart from this, there was no other great objection.
Occasionally, two or three times a year, the pastor would preach
violently against adultery, polygamy, and

unmarried* couples living together. Ajayi and Ayo were good

churchpeople and attended regularly, but sat in different pews. After
such occasions, their friends would sympathize with them and other
couples in similar positions. There would be a little grumbling and the
male members of the congregation would say that the trouble with the
Church was that it did not stick to its business of preaching the Gospel,

40 but meddled in people's private lives. Ajayi would indignantly

absent himself from Church for a few weeks but would go back
eventually because he liked singing hymns and because he knew
secretly that the pastor was right.
Ayo was a good mistress. Her father was convinced she could have
married a high-school teacher at least, or a pharmacist, but instead she
had attached herself to a junior Government clerk. But Ayo loved
Ajayi, and was happy in her own slow, private way. She cooked his
meals and bore him children. In what spare time she had she either
did a little petty trading, visited friends, or gossiped with Omo, the
woman

50 next door.

With his towel round his waist, Ajayi strode back to the bedroom,
dried himself and dressed quickly but carefully in his pink tussore suit.
He got down the new bottle of patent medicine which one of his
friends who worked in a drug store had recommended to him. Ajayi
believed that to keep healthy, a man must regularly take a dose of
some medicine. He read the label of this one. It listed about twenty
diseased conditions of widely differing pathology which the contents of
the bottle were reputed to cure if the patient persevered in its daily
intake. Ajayi underlined in his own mind at least six from which he
believed

60 he either suffered or was on the threshold of suffering; dizziness,

muscle pain, impotence, fever, jaundice and paralytic tremors.
Intelligence and courage caused him to skip the obviously female
maladies and others such as nervous debility or bladder pains. It said
on the label too that a teaspoonful should be take three times a day.
But since he only remembered to take it in the morning and in any
case believed in stock treatment, he took a swig and two large gulps.
The medicine was bitter and astringent. He grimaced but was satisfied.
It was obviously a good and strong medicine or else it would not have
been so bitter.

70 He went in to breakfast. He soon finished his maize porridge, fried

beans and cocoa. He then severely flogged his eldest son, a ten-year-
old boy, for wetting his sleeping-mat last night. Ayo came in after the
boy had fled screaming to the back yard.

'Ajayi, you flog that boy too much,' she said. 'He should stop wetting
the floor, he is a big boy,' he replied. 'In any case, no one is

going to instruct me on how to bring up my son.' 'He is mine too,' Ayo

said. She seldom opposed him unless she felt strongly about
something. 'He has not stopped wetting although you beat him every
time he does. In face, he is doing it more and more now. Perhaps if you
stopped whipping him he might get better.' 'Did I whip him to begin
80 doing it?' Ajayi asked. 'No.' 'Well, how will stopping whipping him
stop him doing it?' Ajayi asked triumphantly. 'Nevertheless,' Ayo said,
'our own countrywoman Bimbola, who has just come back from
England and America studying nursing, told us in a women's group
meeting that it was wrong to punish children for such things.' 'All
right, I'll see,' he said, reaching for his sun helmet.

All that day at the office he thought about this and other matters. So
Ayo had been attending women's meetings. Well, what do you know.
She would be running for the Town Council next. The sly woman.
Always looking so quiet and meek and then quoting modern theories
90 from overseas doctors at him. He smiled with pride. Indeed Ayo
was an asset. Perhaps it was wrong to beat the boy. He decided he
would not do so again.

Towards closing time the chief clerk sent for him. Wondering what
mistake he had made that day, or on what mission he was to be sent,
he hurried along to the forward office. There were three white men
sitting on chairs by the chief clerk, who was an ageing African dressed
with severe respectability. On seeing them, Ajayi's heart started
thudding. The police, he thought; heavens, what have I done?

'Mr. Ajayi, these gentlemen have enquired for you,' the chief clerk 100
said formally. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ajayi,' the tallest said, with a
smile. 'We represent the World Gospel Crusading Alliance from
Minnesota. My name is Jonathan Olsen.' Ajayi shook hands and the
other two were introduced.

'You expressed an interest in our work a year ago and we have not
forgotten. We are on our way to India and we thought we would look
you up personally.'
It transpired that the three Crusaders were en route and that their ship
had stopped for refuelling off the Africa port for a few hours. The chief
clerk looked at Ajayi with new respect. Ajayi tried desperately to 110
remember any connection with W.G.C.A. (as Olsen by then had
proceeded to call it) whilst he made conversation with them a little
haltingly. Then suddenly he remembered. Some time ago he had got
hold of a magazine from his subtenant who worked at the United
States Information Service. He had cut a coupon from it and posted it
to W.G.C.A. asking for information, but really hoping that they would
send illustrated Bibles free which he might give away or sell. He hoped

for at least large reproductions of religious paintings which, suitably

framed, would decorate his parlour or which he might paste up on his

120 bedroom wall. But nothing had come of it and he had forgotten.
Now here was W.G.C.A. as large as life. Three lives. Instantly and
recklessly he invited all three and the chief clerk to come to his house
for a cold drink. They all agreed.

'Mine is a humble abode,' he warned them. 'No abode is humble that is

illumined by Christian love,' Olsen replied. 'His is illumined all right, I
can assure you,' the chief clerk remarked drily.

Olsen suggested a taxi, but Ajayi neatly blocked that by saying the
roads were bad. He had hurriedly whispered to a fellow clerk to rush
home on a bicycle and tell Ayo he was coming in half an hour with

130 white men and that she should clean up and get fruit drinks. Ayo
was puzzled by the message as she firmly imagined all white men
drank only whisky and iced beer. But the messenger had said that
there was a mixture of friendliness and piety in the visitors' mien,
which made him suspect that they might be missionaries. Another
confirmatory point was that they were walking instead of being in a
car. That cleared up the anomaly in Ayo's mind and she set to work at
once. Oju, now recovered from his morning disgrace, was dispatched
with a basket on his head to buy soft drinks. Ayo whisked off the wall
all their commercial calendars with suggestive pictures. She propped
up family
140 photographs which had fallen face downwards on the table. She
removed the Wild West novels and romance magazines from the
parlour and put instead an old copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim 's Progress
and a prayer book which she believed would add culture and religious
force to the decorations. She remembered the wine glasses and the
beer-advertising table-mats in time and put those under the sofa. She
just had time to change to her Sunday frock and borrow a wedding
ring from her neighbour when Ajayi and the guests arrived. The chief
clerk was rather surprised at the change in the room — which he had
visited before — and in Ayo's dress and ring. But he concealed his
feelings.

150 Ayo was introduced and made a little conversation in English. This
pleased Ajayi a great deal. The children had been changed too into
Sunday suits, faces washed and hair brushed. Olsen was delighted and
insisted on taking photographs for the Crusade journal. Ayo served
drinks and then modestly retired, leaving the men to discuss serious
matters. Olsen by then was talking earnestly on the imminence of
Christ's Second Coming and offering Ajayi ordination into deaconship.
The visit passed off well and soon the missionaries left to catch their
boat. Ajayi had been saved from holy orders by the chief clerk's timely
explanation that it was strictly against Government regulations for
civil

servants to indulge in non-official organizations. To help Ajayi out of

160 his quandary, he had even gone further and said that
contravention might result in a fine or imprisonment. 'Talk about
colonial oppression,' the youngest of the missionaries had said,
gloomily.

The next day Ajayi called at the chief clerk's office with a carefully
wrapped bottle of beer as a present for his help generally on the
occasion. They discussed happily the friendliness and interest the
white men had shown.

This incident and Ayo's protest against flagellation as a specific against

enuresis made Ajayi very thoughtful for a week. He decided to marry
Ayo. Another consideration which added weight to the thought 170
was the snapshot Olsen took for his magazine. In some peculiar way
Ajayi felt he and Ayo should marry, as millions of Americans would see
their picture — Olsen had assured him of this — as 'one saved and
happy African family.' He announced his intention of marrying her to
Ayo one evening, after a particularly good meal and a satisfactory bout
of belching. Ayo at once became extremely solicitous and got up
looking at him with some anxiety. Was he ill? she asked. Was there
anything wrong at the office? Had anyone insulted him? No, he
answered, there was nothing wrong with his wanting to get married,
was there? Or had she anyone else in mind? Ayo laughed, 'As you 180
will,' she said; 'let us get married, but do not say I forced you into it.'

They discussed the wedding that night. Ajayi wanted to have a white
wedding with veil and orange blossom. But Ayo with regret decided it
would not be quite right. They agreed on grey. Ayo particularly wanted
a corset to strap down her obvious bulge. Ajayi gave way gallantly to
this feminine whim, chucking her under the chin and saying, 'You
women with your vanity!' But he was firm about no honeymoon. He
said he could not afford the expense and that one bed was as good as
another. Ayo gave way on that. They agreed, however, on a church
wedding and that their children could act as bridal pages to 190 keep
the cost of clothes within the family.

That evening Ajayi inflamed by the idea and arrangements for the
wedding, pulled Ayo excitedly to him as they lay in bed. 'No,' said Ayo,
shyly, pushing him back gently, 'you mustn't. Wait until after the
marriage.' 'Why?' said Ajayi, rather surprised, but obedient. 'Because it
will not somehow be right,' Ayo replied seriously and determinedly.

Ayo's father unbent somewhat when he heard of the proposed

marriage. He insisted, however, that Ayo move herself and all her
possessions back home to his house. The children were sent to Ayo's
200 married sister. Most of Ajayi's family were in favour of the union,

except his sister, who, moved by the threat implicit in Ayo's improved
social position, advised Ajayi to see a soothsayer first. As Ayo had got
wind of this through friends at market on Saturday, she saw the
soothsayer first and fixed things. When Ajayi and his sister called at
night to see him, he consulted the oracles and pronounced future
happiness, avoiding the sister's eye. The latter restrained herself from
scratching the old man's face and accepted defeat.

The only other flaw in a felicitous situation had been Ayo's

210 neighbour Omo, who had always on urgent occasions at short

notice loaned Ayo her wedding ring. She had suddenly turned cold.
Especially after Ayo had shown her the wedding presents Ajayi
intended to give her. The neighbour had handled the flimsy nylon
articles with a mixture of envy and rage.

'Do you mean you are going to wear these?' she had asked. 'Yes,' Ayo
had replied simply. 'But, my sister,' she had protested, 'you will catch
cold with these. Suppose you had an accident and all those doctors
lifted your clothes in hospital. The will see everything through these.' 'I
never have accidents,' Ayo answered, and added, 'Ajayi says

220 all the 'Ollywood cinema women wear these. It says so there. Look
— "Trademark Hollywood".' 'These are disgraceful; they hide nothing,
it is extremely fast of you to wear them,' the jealous girl said, pushing
them back furiously over the fence to Ayo.

'Why should I want to hide anything from my husband when we are

married?' Ayo said triumphantly, moving back to her own kitchen and
feeling safe in future from the patronizing way the wedding ring had
always been lent her.

The arrangements had to be made swiftly, since time and the corset
ribs were both against them; Ajayi's domestic routine was also sorely

230 tried, especially his morning cup of tea which he badly missed. He
borrowed heavily from a moneylender to pay the dowry and for the
music, dancing, and feasting, and for dresses of the same pattern
which Ayo and her female relations would wear after the ceremony on
the wedding day.

The engagement took place quietly, Ajayi's uncle and other relations
taking a Bible and a ring to Ayo's father and asking for her hand in
marriage, the day before the wedding. They took with them two small
girls carrying on their heads large hollow gourds. These contained
articles like pins, farthings, fruits, kola nuts and cloth. The

240 articles were symbolic gifts to the bride from the bridegroom, so
that

she might be precluded in future marital disputes from saying, 'Not a

pin or a farthing has the blackguard given me since we got married.'

On arrival at Ayo's father's house, the small procession passed it

first as if uncertain, then returned to it. This gave warning to the

occupants. Ajayi's uncle then knocked several times. Voices from
within shouted back and ordered him to name himself, his ancestry,
and his mission. He did this. Argument and some abuse followed on
either side. After his family credentials had been seriously examined,
questioned, doubted, and disparaged, Ajayi's uncle started wheedling
and cajoling. This went on for about half an hour to the enjoyment and
250 mock trepidation of Ajayi's relations. He himself had remained at
home, waiting. Finally, Ayo's father opened the door. Honour was
satisfied and it was now supposed to be clearly evident to Ajayi's
relations, in case it had not been before, that they were entering a
family and household which was distinguished, difficult, and jealous of
their distinction.

'What is your mission here?' Ayo's father then asked sternly.

Ajayi's uncle answered humbly:

'We have come to pluck a red, red rose

That in your beautiful garden grows. 260

Which never has been plucked before.

So lovelier than any other.'

'Will you be able to nurture our lovely rose well?' another of Ayo's
male relations asked.

Ajayi's family party replied:

'So well shall we nurture your rose Twill bring forth many others.'

They were finally admitted; drinks were served and prayers offered.
The gifts were accepted and others given in exchange. Conversation
went on for about thirty minutes on every conceivable subject but the
270 one at hand. All through this, Ayo and her sisters and some young
female relations were kept hidden in an adjoining bedroom. Finally
with some delicacy, Ajayi's uncle broached the subject after Ayo's
father had given him an opening by asking what, apart from the
honour of being entertained by himself and his family, did Ajayi's
relations seek. They had heard, the latter replied, that in this very
household there was a maiden chaste, beautiful and obedient, known
to all by the name of Ayo. This maiden they sought as wife for their
kinsman Ajayi. Ayo's father opened the bedroom and brought forth
Ayo's sister. Was this the one? he asked, testing them. They examined
280 her. No it was not this one they replied, this one was too short to
be Ayo. Then a cousin was brought out. Was this she? No, this one is
too fat, the applicants said. About ten women in all were brought out.
But none was the correct one. Each was too short or too fat or too fair,
as the case was, to suit the description of the maiden they sought. At
this

point, Ajyai's uncle slapped his thigh, as if to show that his doubts
were confirmed; turning to his party, he stated that it was a good thing
they had insisted on seeing for themselves the bride demanded, or else
the wrong woman would have been foisted on them. They agreed,

290 nodding. All right, all right, Ayo's father had replied, there was no
cause for impatience. He wanted to be sure they knew whom they
wanted. Standing on guard at the bedroom door, he turned his back to
the assembly, and with tears in his eyes beckoned to Ayo sitting on the
bed inside. He kissed her lightly on the forehead to forgive the past
years. Then he led her forth and turned fiercely to the audience. Was
this then the girl they wanted, he asked them sternly?

'This is the very one,' Ajayi's uncle replied with joy. 'Hip, hip, hip,
hooray,' everybody shouted, encircling Ayo and waving white
handkerchiefs over her head. The musicians smote their guitars

300 instantly; someone beat an empty wine bottle rhythmically with a

corkscrew; after a few preliminary trills the flutes rose high in melody;
all danced round Ayo. And as she stood in the centre, a woman in her
mid-thirties, her hair slightly streaked grey, undergoing a ceremony of
honour she had often witnessed and long put outside her fate,
remembering the classic description of chastity, obedience, and
beauty, she wept with joy and the unborn child stirred within her for
the first time.

The next morning she was bathed by an old and respected female
member of her family and her mother helped her to dress. Her father

310 gave her away at the marriage service at church. It was a quiet
wedding with only sixty guests or so. Ajayi looked stiff in dinner jacket
with buttonhole, an ensemble which he wore only on special
occasions. Afterwards they went to Ayo's family home for the wedding
luncheon. At the door they were met by another of Ayo's numerous
elderly aunts, who held a glass of water to their lips for them to sip in
turn, Ajayi being first. The guests were all gathered outside behind the
couple. The aunt made a conveniently long speech until all the guests
had foregathered. She warned Ayo not to be too friendly with other
women as they would inevitably steal her husband; that they should

320 live peaceably and not let the sun go down on a quarrel between
them. Turning to Ajayi, she told him with a twinkle in her eye that a
wife could be quite as exciting as a mistress, and also not to use
physical violence against their daughter, his wife.

After this they entered and the Western part of the ceremony took
place. The wedding cake (which Ayo had made) was cut and speeches
made. Then Ajayi departed to his own family home where other
celebrations went on. Later he changed into a lounge suit and called
for

Ayo. There was weeping in Ayo's household as if she were setting off
on a long journey. Her mother in saying goodbye, remarked between
tears, that although she would not have the honour next morning of
330 showing the world evidence of Ayo's virginity, yet in the true
feminine powers of procreation none except the blind and deaf could
say Ayo had lacked zeal.

They called on various relations on both sides of the family and at last
they were home. Ayo seemed different in Ajayi's eyes. He had never
really looked at her carefully before. Now he observed her head held
erectly and gracefully through years of balancing loads on it in
childhood; her statuesque neck with its three natural horizontal ridges
— to him, signs of beauty; her handsome shoulders. He clasped her
with a new tenderness. 340

The next morning, as his alarm clock went off, he stirred and reached
for his morning cup of tea. It was not there. He sprang up and looked.
Nothing. He listened for Ayo's footsteps outside in the kitchen.
Nothing. He turned to look beside him. Ayo was there and her bare
ebony back was heaving gently. She must be ill, he thought; all that
excitement yesterday.

'Ayo, Ayo,' he cried, 'are you ill?' She turned round slowly still lying
down and faced him. She tweaked her toes luxuriously under the
cotton coverlet and patted her breast slowly. There was a terrible calm
about her. 'No, Ajayi,' she replied, 'are you?' she asked him. 'Are 350
your legs paralyzed?' she continued. 'No,' he said. He was puzzled and
alarmed, thinking that her mind had become unhinged under the
strain.

'Ajayi, my husband,' she said, 'for twelve years I have got up every
morning at five to make tea for you and breakfast. Now I am a truly
married woman you must treat me with a little more respect. You are
now a husband and not a lover. Get up and make yourself a cup of tea.'
NOTES ON THE TRULY MARRIED WOMAN

THE AUTHOR

Abioseh NICOL: Born in 1924 in Sierra Leone, attended schools in

Freetown and studied medicine in Britain. He taught at the University
of Ibadan, served as Principal of Fourah Bay College and Vice-
Chancellor of the University of Sierra Leone, as well as holding
numerous other medical and governmental appointments in Freetown
before becoming the Executive Director of UNITAR in New York. He
has published several scholarly

articles on scientific and medical topics, and his stories, poems and
essays appeared frequently in the 1960's. His publications include:
Africa: a Subjective View (London, Longmans, 1965); The Truly
Married Woman and Other Stories (London, Oxford University Press
— Three Crowns, 1965); Two African Tales (London, Cambridge
University Press, 1965).

THE STORY

1 Summary

For twelve years, Ajayi has lived happily with Ayo who has borne him
three children (with another soon to come) and has served him
faithfully in the house. And yet, for no good reason whatsoever, Ajayi
has never got round to marrying his 'mistress' Ayo.

Three American missionaries happen to pass through the country.

They call on Ajayi simply because he had once written to their
organisation in the hope of getting a free gift from it! Ajayi invites the
three men to his house and, thanks to Ayo's swift preparations, the
visit goes very well indeed. In particular, the missionaries delight in
the sight of a 'truly Christian family' whose photograph they take to
publish in their magazine. However, the visit leaves Ajayi with an
uneasy conscience so he finally decides to 'marry' Ayo. The traditional
engagement ceremonies and the church-wedding are a complete
success and make Ayo very happy. But now that she is a 'truly married
woman', she takes a very different view of her position in the house
and of her duties toward her husband: gone are the days of slaving for
Ajayi; to start with no more bringing him morning tea in bed. He can
jolly well get up and make it himself!

2 Notes on the text

It's good fun from the beginning to the end.

I (lines 1 to 93) Ajayi's 'married ' life : Morning ritual and family
problems. A good example of a very gullible mind in a very sound
body!

tussore: strong coarse silk cloth.

II (lines 94 to 163): The missionaries' visit

Whitemen when naive are no match for a crafty African woman. How
to pull wool over people's eyes! Minnesota: one of the fifty American
states; Bunyan 's Pilgrim 's Progress: English Christian book.

III (lines 164 to 181) Aftermath of a memorable visit: At long last, after
twelve years, Ajayi's conscience stirs him to action.

enuresis: urinating in bed; Hollywood: a suburb of Los Angeles (a city

in the USA) famous for its film-making.

IV (lines 182 to 340) Engagement and Wedding: Tradition must be

followed even when it has no bearing on reality.

farthing: one-quarter of an old English penny, a small coin no longer

in use.

V (lines 341 to 357) A Truly Married Woman The longer the waiting,
the stronger the revenge!

3 Questions on the text

1 What is Ajayi's normal morning routine?

2 Why did Ajayi never marry Ayo? What makes him change his mind?
How does Ayo react to her position of 'mistress'?

3 What changes does Ayo bring to the house? Why?

4 Summarise the main events leading to the marriage, once Ajayi has
made up his mind.

5 Why does Ayo need a corset to get married in? How does she 'fix
things' with the soothsayer? Does the poem really apply to Ayo?

4 Characters

Ajayi

Self-centred and used to having things his own way. Calculating but
also naive and easily taken for a ride. An easy-going, good-natured
man who tends to take things for granted too long and who is in the
end outwitted by his wife. Ayo

She embodies the usual virtues of African womanhood: obedient,

patient, devoted, faithful and . . . prolific! But she has also a mind of
her own and knows her rights. A good woman who bides her time in
order to achieve victory.

5 Theme

Never take a woman for granted, especially when you make her your
wife!

6 Style

Narrative units are loosely arranged along a time-sequence which

gives unity

to the story. Each unit could be considered as a story on its own

although the

marriage-theme connects one to the other and brings out the final
denouement.

Different stylistic devices are used to give the story its humorous tone:

a) understatement: for instance when Ajayi suggests 'a white wedding

with veil and orange blossom', Ayo replies that 'it would not be quite
right' (remember that she is three months pregnant and has already
got three children!).

b) exaggeration: the medicine Ajayi takes in the morning is reputed to

cure 'twenty diseased conditions of widely differing pathology' and
Ajayi himself is supposed to be 'on the threshold of suffering' of 'at
least six'

diseases (Which is of course quite impossible!).

c) gap/opposition between word and reality: 'the night watchmen' are

'roused from sleep' by morning noises (when they are supposed to
keep awake all through the night).

d) erroneous belief: 'six deep breaths' every morning are supposed to

'prevent tuberculosis'. A medicine is good because it is bitter!

e) false logic: whipping did not make Oju wet his sleeping-mat, so to
stop the whipping will not stop him from wetting his mat.

Many other examples can be found and in particular the 'red, red rose .
. . Which never has been plucked before' (remember Ayo has been
'married' to Ajayi for twelve years) and which well-nurtured, 'Twill
bring forth many others' (Ayo has already got three children and is
expecting another one).

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 Do you agree with Ajayi that a man should not marry before the
woman he has chosen has shown 'satisfactory evidence of fertility'?

2 Should one marry for love or for money?

3 In which stories in the anthology do women in love appear? Analyse
their respective attitudes toward love.

4 Describe a traditional engagement ceremony among your own

people.

5 Compare the humour of The Truly Married Woman with that of Ding
Dong Bell (pages 47-53) and Civil Peace (pages 31-35).

6 Your best friend is about to marry. You write to him/her to

congratulate him/her and to advise him/her on future married life.

18 The Nightmare

by William Saidi

This time he had to contend with seven frenzied, weird and

indomitable witchdoctors. Their myriad feathers, multi-coloured and
multi-evil to his eyes, fluttered in the slight breeze as they danced
around him. Occasionally they pointed their bony, sweaty fingers at
him, all the time chanting some eerie incantations which seemed to
increase in volume with the breeze.

It was a macabre scene, which in other circumstances the

sophisticated Mr Benjamin Chadiza would have carelessly attributed
to his rather flamboyant imagination.

But this scene was real. His presence there in the middle of these 10
emaciated skeletal creatures was indisputable. Even his cynical nature
could not cast off the nauseating feeling that these people, if such
indeed they were, were real and that the danger they collectively
constituted to his life was just as real.

The seven came towards him, the eerie music and the breeze swelling
in volume. Their fingers were no longer bony; they were stubby, short,
nail-broken, sweat-drenched monstrosities which seemed to have evil
powers of their own.
Suddenly, only one of the fingers stood out, as if the others were out of
focus. That one finger came nearer . . . nearer . . . until it was 20
pointing straight at his face. He was incapable of motion. His whole
being was focused on that finger. It held a mystic power over him. He
felt that he could have done anything it commanded him to do. But it
did not command him to do anything. It merely touched his nose, ever
so slightly. But the effect was fantastic.

Chadiza felt his soul leap out of his body through his mouth and his
body go limp, like an emptied sack of potatoes. Death. So this was
death. When you stood on a high peak and looked at your own body
from a distance. You saw it as if it were near, as if you were using
powerful binoculars to look at it. But you knew one thing, that you 30
could never return to it. It had been a strong body, he mused
irrelevantly. Now it was no more. Without its life-giving motor, it was
nothing.

He found himself crying for his body, crying for his spirit to return to
it. When it did not, he cried some more.

'Ben! Ben! Ben!'

He heard the familiar voice from far away. He was breathing very
heavily, like a man who had witnessed a great tragedy for the first time
in his life and did not believe that he could live to tell about it. 40 'Ben!
Ben! Ben!'

The familiar voice again. Whose was it? Where was he? With a sinking
feeling, he realised he was still crying out aloud for his spirit to return
to his body. He cried like a small child, monotonously and without any
particular desire to be heard.

He stopped crying abruptly but his mouth remained open as if he

would resume crying at any moment. The desire subsided and he
heaved a sigh. He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of his wife.

He gave a shrill scream of terror, remembering the macabre faces of

the seven witchdoctors. His wife put her arms around him and soothed

50 him with her warmth, pressing her breasts to his chest and
whispering

comfort close to his ear. At last he was quiet, breathing steadily but

still afraid of opening his eyes.

'I have never known you to have such wild nightmares. In fact, I have
never known you to have any nightmares at all,' Maria said when they
were seated at the breakfast table. Her husband looked fresh and
infused with a new strength that she found rather disconcerting. He
was normally a very energetic man; it had taken a man of his

60 singular energies to change the school from what it had been before
he arrived here. But this morning he seemed all too powerful for her.

'There is always a first time, I understand. A man can live up to fifty

without having a single nightmare and then bang! he finds himself
panting in the night like a six-year-old. It is nothing that I should
worry about, if I were you. The fact that I do not recollect quite what it
was all about does not make it any more sinister, as far as I am
concerned. It was just a bad dream.'

A bad dream? Maria did not think so. Not taken in conjunction with
what she knew. She thought he was making a great effort to minimise

70 the significance of the experience — for her sake. But he must

realise what it means. He must. She cried out to him in her heart.

The little village was about twenty-five miles from Lusaka. You could
not call it entirely rural or primitive, because a bus stopped there once
a week to deliver the school mail. But even though it was close to
modern civilisation it retained the aura of mysticism which had

pervaded it even before the days of the trousered white man.

Benjamin Chadiza had been born in Chipata, then Fort Jameson. He

was a dedicated nationalist and the fact that this little village in the
Central Province was not his birthplace did not detract from the
formidable fact that it was part of the country in which he lived and 80
which he loved. He was a teacher with exceptional talents. The head of
his department in the Ministry of Education, back in Lusaka, had been
enthusiastic about his new posting.

'The people are apathetic to the educational advances we are trying to

make in this country. They pay their school fees but in most cases a
school cannot run entirely on its school fees. It needs the spiritual
support of those whose children it is intended to benefit. They do not
give us their spiritual support. No. They are practically indifferent to
every effort we have made to teach their children.

'Mind you, the children attend school. But that in itself is not 90
enough for success. The children have no idea whatsoever what they
stand to gain by availing themselves of this opportunity. Their parents
have, by their indifference, given them the idea that they can do
without this education. And that is dangerous. You cannot teach a
child anything if that attitude prevails. I hope you will remedy the
situation.'

Chadiza's presence had changed the situation, probably remedied it. It

had changed the situation so much that it had changed his and Maria's
lives.

The witchdoctor had had nothing to do with it. His had been a 100
personal and entirely materialistic war against Chadiza. The fact that
Chadiza had accepted the challenge rather dubiously had not made it
seem any more patriotic in the eyes of the villagers. The villagers were
indifferent to the feud between teacher and witchdoctor. They did not
particularly like the witchdoctor but it cannot be said that they loved
Chadiza either. They feared the witchdoctor but they had no sympathy
for Chadiza.

The witchdoctor was an old man of about seventy-five. His body was
withered and he suffered perennially from all the afflictions of senility.
But it never seemed to daunt his spirit. He was everywhere in the 110
village, invincible and imperturbable. He moved among the villagers
during the day, spoke to few and was spoken to by none. During the
night he prowled the village like an unpaid sentry. He had delegated to
himself the duties of overseeing the lives of the villagers. He watched
over them, but there were those who looked at his philanthropic
nocturnal vigils with great scepticism. They thought he was naturally
up to no good. Witchdoctors' reputations throughout the country were

not respecteci by anyone.

Chadiza understood that the villagers had accepted the witchdoctor

120 as something to be feared but something they could do absolutely
nothing about. He was there, omnipresent and almost omnipotent,
and nobody questioned his presence. Several people had died,
according to stories Chadiza had heard. It was not just by coincidence
that these men and women had, at one time, crossed verbal swords
with the witchdoctor. That they had died under the most unusual
circumstances also made it difficult for Chadiza to believe that Nature
had actually taken her course.

Chadiza was at first indifferent to the witchdoctor and his alleged

powers. He had settled down to do his job, changing the attitude of the
130 villagers towards the school. He did not wish to disappoint the
head of his department in Lusaka. He had never disappointed his
masters before. That was why they had sent him to Oxford to take a
special diploma in teaching. He was now back with enthusiasm and
dedicated to the noble cause for which his profession stood.

He was friendly with the villagers. Maria, who set out to do so, found
the womenfolk of the village prepared to accept her as one of them.
Slowly, the village's attitude towards the school changed until now,
five years later, every child in school was proud to be there. Every
parent whose child was at the school was also proud of it. 140 It was
long after the villagers had accepted the school as something beneficial
to them and their children that the vendetta between Chadiza and the
witchdoctor developed in earnest. Chadiza had, of course, foreseen
that his presence would not be taken for granted by the witchdoctor.
You could not expect a man who had held the position of a minor king
to accept relegation to second place without any disapproval. But the
disapproval, like everything else about the old man's trade, was subtle.

It became apparent one very dark night, so dark you could not imagine
that at times the black sky was illumined by a million stars. 150
Chadiza and Maria were asleep in their house. It was a modern house
by the village standards. It was the only house built of burnt bricks.
And it had proper windows. The interior was even more surprising to
the villagers. The furniture was highly polished and the floor was
covered with an expensive carpet on which the villagers treaded with
awe whenever they visited the house.

Maria was loved by practically every woman in the village. She taught
some of them the things she had learnt while at Chipembi Girls' School
near Lusaka. They were eager to learn from her and soon she was
running a small domestic science class for them.

Maria slept peacefully, her head nestling comfortably in the crook of

160 her husband's arm. Then she stirred slightly and made a childish
sound in her sleep. Chadiza was fast asleep.

Then Maria woke up. She left the bed carefully and made for the door
without bumping into any of the bedroom furniture.

There stood the witchdoctor, his aging face wreathed in humourless

wrinkles. He stood there immobile and apparently not startled by
Maria's sudden appearance. He looked at her with yellow eyes that
reflected nothing whatever of the emotions running through his
withered body.

It was only after he had turned and walked away, without any 170
change of expression on the old face, that the scream suddenly tore out
of Maria's heart and blasted the dark silence of the village.

Chadiza was out of bed and standing beside her before she had
finished screaming. He rushed after the receding figure of the old man,
but did not catch him up. The old man did not seem to have been in a
hurry to get away, but Chadiza lost sight of him in the darkness. He
returned to find Maria now surrounded by a group of concerned and
jabbering village women.

Chadiza let his anger lie low for three days before he went to the
witchdoctor's small hut on the outskirts of the village, 'to warn him
180 off, as he put it to Maria. On that day two people visited the
witchdoctor's hut, each at different occasions and for entirely different
reasons. The first was Chadiza himself. The second was his wife,
Maria.

Chadiza visited the lonely hut one dark starless night. As he strolled to
it, the anger he had suppressed during the past three days surged to
the surface. He clenched his fists. He made a great effort to steel
himself against the seemingly insurmountable desire to smash the old
man's face at first sight. The consequences could either be disastrous
or downright ridiculous. The witchdoctor could cripple him; that 190
would be tragic. Then again the witchdoctor could make him the
laughing stock of the village — a young man hitting a defenceless old
man.

There was no door on the witchdoctor's hut. It was dark inside,

although Chadiza saw later that an old candle cast lame light in the
hut.

'Come in, my son,' the strong, faintly sneering voice said from
somewhere near the flickering light of the candle. For a moment, a
small chill ran down Chadiza's spine. My son? Chadiza wondered. Why
'my son'?

That voice! It seemed to drip with evil, with multiple innuendoes of

200 wicked intentions. But he could not allow such ridiculous
superstitious

nonsense to influence him. Here he was, a twentieth century educated

and intelligent African who had no ties with the forgotten past of his
people's dark ages. What could the witchdoctor do to him? What,
indeed, could anybody — the witchdoctor or anybody else in the
village, except God — do to him that he could not do to them?
Chadiza thought there was nothing. So he stepped into the little dark
hut, sensing as he did that it would be very difficult to see the old man
in the restricted light. He also sensed, rather than saw, the

210 paraphernalia of the man's trade. They hung from the soot-
blackened grass roof, like their master's guardians. They swayed
slightly, although the night was still and windless. Chadiza had vague
ideas about the wares of the witchdoctor in his beloved country. But he
had never come face to face with them. Now he consoled himself with
the thought that in the doubtful light he was not going to see them at
close quarters.
The whole interview was a 'shambles', as far as Chadiza was
concerned. Instead of being the aggressor that he had intended to be,
he ended up cowering before the vitriolic abuse the old man poured
out

220 at him from his old toothless mouth.

'You are not one of us. You do not understand. You are educated. You
think you know better. You despise me. You think I cannot harm you.
You think I am just a spent old man playing a game that has long
become obsolete.'

The witchdoctor's voice rose. 'I am not! I tell you, I am not! I can do
things to you that your white people cannot do to you. I am an old
man. That is true. But I am only old in my body. Not in my mind. I still
have the power bestowed upon me by my forefathers, the powers that
have made these people in the village fear me, respect me. And

230 you come here and think you can lower their respect for me. I am
telling you here and now that before you leave this village — whether
before or after I have joined my distinguished ancestors — you will
learn a few things.'

He paused. Chadiza could not see him. He himself had not said a
word. After that outburst, he had no wish to say anything either. All he
wanted to do was to leave the hut.

The old man said, his voice softening imperceptibly: 'You would not
know about this, but do you know what it feels to be disowned by your
own daughter because of the powers bestowed on you by your

240 forefathers? Never mind, it is something you will not understand.

You think you are too educated. But I am telling you . . .'

Chadiza could not laugh at the threats. He had intended to take them
lightly. But as he walked back to his own house he found it
increasingly
difficult to do so. And what about the daughter who disowned her
father? He was not supposed to understand that. He did not
understand it.

The intense feeling with which the old man had infused his voice
during the one-sided interview had gone right to his heart. The old
man was not to be dismissed perfunctorily like a medical charlatan.
There was nothing Bacchannalian about him, or about his hut, for that
250 matter. The village did take him seriously. Maybe Chadiza should
start taking him seriously too.

But his wife refused to let it worry him. 'It cannot be that serious. That
old man is just a ranting old weasel with nothing useful to do around
here.'

Maria said this before she herself went to visit the old man. She
thought she would come to no harm. She did not come to any harm at
all. But when she left the old man she wished he had cast a spell on
her.

She held the secret from her husband, much against her will. She held
it until the witchdoctor, unable to use his wares to postpone an 260
appointment with his own Armageddon, died.

For five years she lived with it. And for five years, her husband lived
quite happily, with thoughts of the vendetta with the old man carefully
shelved into the back of his mind. Occasionally, however, a shadow
crossed his mind as he remembered the hate with which the old man
had spoken to him. And he was convinced that the reference to the
daughter who disowned her father had had nothing whatsoever to do
with him.

It was, however, just five years after the witchdoctor's death that
Chadiza began to have bad dreams. On the day of his first nightmare,
270 Chadiza was unfortunate. He was unfortunate because only his
wife knew that he had cried and ranted in his sleep. He had no
recollection of the experience whatsoever. It pained Maria to see him
so happy, so unaware of the ordeal he was going through. She was
disturbed because she knew something that he did not know about the
deceased old man. She suggested they leave the village.

'What? Leave all this? All these things we have done for the villagers?
You must be out of your mind. Back to the maddening confusion of the
town? No. I am afraid I must disagree with you. We shall remain here
until we die.' 280

They died. Both of them. They died in a raging inferno which the
villagers, watching helplessly from a distance, knew to have been their
peaceful and well-furnished house.

'If only they had known. At least, if only he had known . . .'

'But how could he? She obviously never told him. Never told him

that she was the witchdoctor's granddaughter. You cannot blame her,
probably, for she loved her husband. She feared to lose him.'

They chatted on about the tragedy. They — the whole village — had
known. They had known that Maria had been watched by the old man
290 on the first day she arrived at the village. The old man had
boasted quite publicly that his granddaughter — the child of a
daughter who had forsaken him because of his sorcery — was going to
live among them.

'But he swore he would do her in because his daughter forsook him.

And now he has done it. Poor girl. She was such a beautiful and kind
woman. And that husband of hers! Such a wonderful man.'

The villagers walked slowly away from the charred debris.

'I wonder if she told him that she was born right here in this village,'
said one villager. 300 'Oh, I do not think so. They would have left right
after they arrived here,' another countered.

The smoke rose high in the early morning sky. It faded into
nothingness as if signing an epitaph on the lives of the occupants of
the house from which it originated.

NOTES ON THE NIGHTMARE

THE AUTHOR

William SAIDI: Born in Marondera, Zimbabwe, in 1937, educated in

Plumtree; worked in Harare for African Newspapers, left for Zambia in
1963 to work on newspapers there; helped found New Writers' Group
which published New Writing from Zambia, first literary magazine in
Zambia; won joint first prize in nationwide short story writing contest;
returned to Zimbabwe in 1980 to join Zimbabwe Newspapers where
he is now working as Group Features and Supplements Editor. Major
works include The Hanging, a novel published by NECZAM in Zambia;
Return of the Innocent, a novel published by TEMCO in Zambia; Day
of the Baboons, a novel to be published this year by NECZAM; short
stories include A Man 's Heart, published in a Soviet literary magazine;
Garden of Evil, published in Okike, Nsukka, Nigeria; The Judge,
published in an anthology of East and Central African short stories by
Sida (Stockholm); The Inadequate Priest, published in Black World,
Chicago, USA.

THE STORY

I Summary

Because of his successful role in the village, a school-teacher,

Benjamin

Chadiza, finds himself at war with the local witchdoctor. The feud
becomes

acute when the old man frightens the school-teacher's wife, Maria and,
later,

threatens the husband for opposing his power.

However, what the school-teacher does not know — and what his wife
comes

to learn — is the witchdoctor's family secret. The old man has been
disowned

by his daughter because of his sorcery; and Maria happens to be the

woman's

daughter and therefore the witchdoctor's own granddaughter.

Needless to

say that from the time that the Chadiza couple settles in the village, the
old

man has sworn to take his revenge.

Five years after the witchdoctor's death, Benjamin begins to be

plagued with

horrible nightmares which he dismisses as fancies of his mind. But

Maria,

who knows better, tries to convince her husband to leave the village
before

the worst happens.

It eventually does happen and both husband and wife die in a fire
which

engulfs their house.

The witchdoctor had his revenge, say the villagers who knew the whole
story

all along but dared not oppose the power of witchcraft.

2 Notes on the text

I (lines 1 to 52): Nightmare or reality? Witchcraft or fancies of a
troubled mind? Are dreams forerunners of things to come?

II (lines 53 to 71): How can a school-teacher, whose task is to educate

and enlighten, believe in nightmares? But a wife who knows what lies
behind them can rightly feel afraid.

Lusaka, Chipata (Fort Jameson): towns in Zambia; Central Province:

one of the nine Zambian provinces.

III (lines 72 to 147): witchdoctors might not be liked but they are
certainly feared!

Only fools dare cross their path . . .

Oxford: famous British university town; vendetta: feud.

IV (lines 148 to 252):

a) Always strike when the enemy is asleep! Why did Maria so willingly
answer the witchdoctor's call? Did the witchdoctor come to cast a spell
on Maria or claim her as his own?

b) Is it as simple as Benjamin would have it? Does the power of

witchcraft only lie in superstition?

c) How can someone relate to what he does not understand?

Bacchannalian: noisy and drunken.

V (lines 253 to 280): Why does Maria not tell the truth to her
husband? Is she still under the spell?

Armageddon: death (from the Bible: the last battle to be fought

between the forces of good and evil).

VI (lines 281 to 304): are the Chadizas victims of witchcraft? Or of

their own failure to take the witchdoctor's threat seriously? Or of the
village's indifference?
3 Questions on the text

1 Is it Chadiza's first nightmare? Why does it frighten him so much?

Can one experience death?

2 Why does Maria not think that it is only a 'bad dream'? What exactly
does she know that her husband does not?

3 What are the main goals of the Ministry of Education in sending

Chadiza to the village school?

4 Why does the witchdoctor come to the Chadizas' house? How can
Maria's strange behaviour be explained?

5 Does the title really make justice of the story? Can you think of any
other (and better) title?

4 Characters Benjamin Chadiza

New breed of African whose values are widely different from those of
his forefathers:

a) faith in the civilising influence of western education.

b) trust in the power of intelligence and reason to explain the world.

c) devotion to nation rather than tribe.

But if Chadiza is scornful of the past, he is open-minded and observant

enough to realise that witchcraft is much more than mere

charlatanism

and/or superstition; but not enough, unfortunately, to take it seriously

and

guard himself against it.

In the end, his tragedy stems from his alienation from his own culture
and

traditions; he has adopted a world-view — that of the white man —

which

leaves no room for the supernatural and in particular, witchcraft.

Is Chadiza's life wasted through no fault of his own? Or because he

refused to

take into account those elements which constitute the socio-cultural

reality of

Africa?

The witchdoctor

a) a powerful man whose long life of evil work has been devoted to
establishing his supremacy over the villagers. How can he then accept
that this supremacy — which was bestowed on him by his forefathers
— might be challenged and snatched away from him by an outsider?

b) a spiteful man who does not hesitate to take his revenge on

innocent victims.

c) a devious man who bides his time and strikes unexpectedly.

d) an evil man whose power unleashes death.

But is not the witchdoctor also a pitiful old man, disliked and feared by
the villagers, disowned by his own daughter, ignored by those who
should love him most (the Chadizas), and whose ultimate fate is 'to
despair and die'?

Maria

Victim of a family feud and of a vendetta in which she has no part. A

loving
wife mainly concerned with protecting her husband's happiness even
at the

expense of a continuous agony of mind. Maria is a complex character

whose

psychology and attitudes raise many questions. Why did she withhold
the

secret from her husband? Was she afraid of losing him? Was she
under a

spell? Why did she not try to fight the curse? Why did she not
endeavour to

win over the old man?

Should she then be held responsible for the tragedy?

The villagers

Is it 'mysticism' or 'fatalism' which pervades their life?

a) They dislike the witchdoctor and fear him and yet bow passively to
his power.

b) They gain tremendously from the Chadizas' good work and yet they
fail to protect them even though Maria is one of them, having been
born in the village.

They remain spectators while the tragedy unfolds and their pity comes
too late when the Chadizas 'fade into nothingness' although it can be
said that they gave their lives to the village.

5 Theme

The power of witchcraft, especially in rural areas, where it makes both

villagers and witchdoctor live in fear and misery.
6 Style

A narrative which can be said to move in 'fits and starts': starting at a

high pitch (the nightmare), taking thereafter a much quieter course
(past and present life in the village), moving again toward a climax
(the witchdoctor's night call and Chadiza's visit to the old man),
summarising a five year stretch of uneasy peace (considering Maria's
knowledge of the truth), to end with another climax (the fire). Such a
narrative technique:

a) helps re-enforce the atmosphere of confusion (in Benjamin and

Maria's minds), of fear, suspense and horror which the story tends to
create in the reader's mind.

b) reveals the presence of the author in the text:

— as an insider: Chadiza's nightmare ('Chadiza felt his soul', 'he mused

irrelevantly', etc.), Maria's inner feelings ('She cried out to him in her
heart', etc.), the villagers' reactions ('they had no sympathy for
Chadiza', 'They had known'). Note that the witchdoctor is only 'seen'
from the outside; his mind and inner thoughts remain secret (another
sign of the power of witchcraft?).

— as an outsider: Chadiza's life and work, portrait of the witchdoctor,

meeting between the two rivals, etc.

— as a commentator: of people ('the sophisticated Mr Benjamin

Chadiza',

'Here he was, a twentieth century educated and intelligent African'), of

places ('You could not call it entirely rural or primitive'), of events ('the
whole interview was a "shambles'"), etc.

7 Topics for discussion, essay and creative writing

1 What are the usual 'wares' of a witchdoctor? Describe them.

2 Compare the villagers' attitudes toward community problems in The

Nightmare, Ding Dong Bell (pages 47-53) and The Tender Crop (pages
130-146).

3 Benjamin Chadiza brought doom on himself. Discuss.

4 Imagine a story in which supernatural power can help people instead

of crushing them.

5 What do you think of Maria? Justify your judgement.

6 Witchcraft is evil and should be stamped out. How far do you agree?

Bibliography

ANTHOLOGIES

Only those anthologies marked with an asterisk are entirely devoted to

the short story. The others consist of texts drawn equally from poetry,
fiction, drama, etc.

1 Consisting of works front several countries

BEIER Ulli, An Anthology of African and Afro American Prose,

Longman, Nigeria, 1964; Political Spider (an Anthology of Stories
from Black Orpheus), Heinemann, London and Ibadan, 1969.

* BROWN Lee & ROSE Brian Waldron, Commonwealth Short Stories

(an Anthology for Schools), Nelson, London & New York, 1965.

COOK David, Origin East Africa, A Makerere Anthology, Heinemann,

London and Ibadan, 1965.

DATHRONE O.R. & FEUSER W., Africa in Prose, Penguin Books,

Harmondsworth, 1969.

*DENNY Neville, Pan African Short Stories, Nelson, London, 1965/67.

FREMONT I.V., Stories and Plays from Africa, OUP, Nairobi, 1968.

*GRANDSAIGNE J. & SPACKEY G., La danseuse d'ivoire (and other

novels), Hatier, Paris, 1982.

HUGHES Langston, An African Treasury, Crown Publishers, New

York,

1962.

*KOMEY Ellis Auitey & MPHAHLELE Ezekiel, Modern African

Stories,

Faber & Faber, London, 1964.

* LARSON Charles R., Modern African Stories, a Collection of

Contemporary African Writing, Fontana/Collins, Glasgow, 1977; More
Modern African Stories, Fontana/Collins, Glasgow.

MPHAHLELE Ezekiel, Writing Today in Africa (an Anthology),

Penguin

Books, London, 1967.

NOLEN Barbara, Voices of Africa, Fontana/Collins, Glasgow, 1974;

More

Voices of Africa, Fontana/Collins, Glasgow, 1972/75.

RIVE Richard, Modern African Prose, an Anthology, Heinemann,

London,

1964.

* RUTHERFORD Anna, Commonwealth Short Stories, Macmillan,

London, 1979.

SCANLON Paul A., Stories from Central and Southern Africa,

Heinemann, London, 1983.

Ten African Short Stories, Chemchemi Cultural Centre, Nairobi, 1964.

WATKINSON E.J., Star of Africa and Other Stories, Shuter & Shooter
Ltd., Pietermaritzburg, 1963.

2 Consisting of works from one country only

Ghana

Creative Writers Association — Talent for To-morrow, an Anthology,

Ghana Publishing Corporation, 1966.

Voices of Ghana (Literary Contributions to the Ghana Broadcasting

system) Government Printers, Accra, 1958.

Liberia

*CORDOR S.M.H., an Anthology of Short Stories by Writers from the

West African Republic of Liberia, Liberian Literary and Educational
Publications, Monrovia, 1974.

Nigeria

ADEMOLA Francis, Reflections, Nigerian Prose & Verse, African

University Press, Lagos, 1962.

EKWENSI Cyprian, Testae Anthology of Nigerian New Writing,

Cultural

Division, Federal Ministry of Information, Lagos, 1977.

1 'Insider, stories of war and peace from Nigeria, Nwankwo-Ifejika &

Co.

Publishers, Enugu, 1971.

'OKOTONKWO Eze, The Verdict and other Stories, Daystar, 1965.

South Africa

*DODD A.D., Short Stories by South African Writers, East African

Literature Bureau, Nairobi.

*GRAY S., On the Edge of the World, Southern African Stories of the

Seventies, Donker Publishers, Johannesburg, 1974.

* HOOPER A.G., Short Stories from Southern Africa, OUP-SA, Cape

Town, 1970.

MATTHEWS James, Black Voices Shout, BLAC Publishing House,

Cape

Town, 1974.

*RIVE Richard, Quartet, New Voices from South Africa, Heinemann,

London-Ibadan-Nairobi, 1963.

*SEARY E.R., Southern African Short Stories, OUP-SA, Cape Town,

1970.

*SHORE Herbert & SHORE-BOS Mechelina, Come Back Africa! 14

Short

Stories from South Africa, International Publishers, New York, 1968.

Zambia

LISWANISO M., Voices of Zambia, Neczam, Lusaka, 1971.

Zimbabwe

McLOUGHLIN T.O., New Writing in Rhodesia. Mabobo. 1976.

AUTHORS

Listed here are only the collections of short stories published by each
author.

Ghana

AIDOO Ama Ata. No Sweetness Here. Longman Drumbeat. 1970/79.

APPIAH Peggy. A Smell of Onions. Longman Drumbeat, Harlow, 1979.

ASHONG-KATAI S.. Confessions of a Bastard and other Stories.

Ghana

Publishing Corporation. Tema. 1976.

DOKU G.. The Cowrie Girl and other Stories. Ghana Publishing

Corporation. Tema. 1971.

Kenya

KAHIGA Sam. Flight to Juba. Longman. Nairobi. 1979.

KIBERA Leonard &: KAHIGA Samuel. Potent Ash. East African

Publishing

House. Nairobi. 1968.

MWAGIRU Gugu. The Day the Music Died and other Stories.
Transafrica,

Nairobi, 1978.

MWANIKI Ngure. The Staircase. Longman. Nairobi. 1979.

NGL'GI Wa Thiong'o. Secret Lives and other Stories. Heinemann.

London-
Nairobi-Ibadan-Lusaka, 1975.

OGOT Grace. Land without Thunder. East African Publishing House.

Nairobi. 1968: The Other Woman and other Stories. Transafrica.

Nairobi.

1976.

Liberia

CORDOR S.M.H.. The African Life. A Collection of Short Stories. Liber

ian

Literary and Educational Publications. Monrovia. 1975.

Malawi

ZELEZA P.. Night of Darkness and other Stories. Popular Publications.

Limbe. 1976.

Nigeria

ACHEBE Chinua. Girls at War and other Stories. Heinemann.

London-Ibadan-Nairobi. 1972.

AJUBA E.. Mish-Mash and other Stories. Onibon-Oje Publishers.

Ibadan. ANIEBO LN.C, Of Wives. Talismans and the Dead.
Heinemann. London-Nairobi. 1983.

BALOGUN Ola. Lagos Days and other Stories. Onibon-Oje Publishers.

Ibadan. COLE Akintola. African Short Stories. Vantage Press. New
York. 1971.

EGBUNA Obi, Daughters of the Sun and other Stories, OUP, London,

1970; Emperor of the Sea, and other Stories, Fontana/Collins,

Glasgow,
1974.

EKWENSI Cyprian, Restless City and Christmas Gold, Heinemann,

London-Ibadan, 1975; The Rainbow-tinted Scarf and other Stories,

Evans,

Ibadan, 1975; Lokotown and other Stories, Heinemann, London-

Ibadan-

Nairobi, 1966.

GBADAMOSI Rasheed, The Mansion and other Stories, Onibon-Oje

Publishers, Ibadan.

MOMODU A.G.S., The Course of Justice and other Stories, Onibon-

Oje

Publishers, Ibadan, 1973.

NVVAPA Florence, This is Lagos and other Stories, Nwamife

Publishers,

Enugu, 1972; Wives at War, Tana Press Ltd., Enugu, 1980.

OMOTOSO Kole, Miracles and other Stories, Onibon-Oje Publishers,

Ibadan, 1978.

OYEWOLE D., Seven Short Stories, Northern Nigerian Publishing Co.

Ltd.,

Zaria, 1969.

Sierra Leone

EASMON R. Sarif, The Feud, Longman Drumbeat, Harlow, 1981.

NICOL, Abioseh, The Truly Married Woman and other Stories, OUP,

London, 1965.

ROWE Ekundayo, No Seed for the Soil and other Stories, Vantage
Press,

New York, 1968.

South Africa

ABRAHAMS Peter, Dark Testament, G. Allen & Unwin, London, 1942.

LA GUM A Alex, A Matter of Taste, Heinemann, London; A Walk in

the

Night and other Stories, Heinemann, London-Ibadan-Nairobi-Lusaka,

1967.

MATSHOBA Mtutuzeli, Call Me Not A Man, Longman Drumbeat,

Harlow, 1979.

MATTHEWS James, The Park and other Stories, BLAC Publishing

House,

Cape Town, 1974; Azikwelwa, Cavefors, 1962.

MPHAHLELE Ezekiel, In Corner B, East African Publishing House,

Nairobi, 1967; Man Must Live and other Stories, African Bookman,
Cape

Town, 1947; The Living and the Dead and other Stories, Ibadan
University

Press, Ibadan, 1961.

MZAMANE Mbulelo, My Cousin Comes to Jo 'burg, Longman

Drumbeat,

Harlow, 1980.

RIVE Richard, African Songs, Seven Seas Publishers, Berlin, 1963;

Selected

Writing, Stories, Essays, Plays, Donker, 1977, Johannesburg.

Tanzania

ANDURU Agoro, Temptation and Other Stories, Press and Publicity

Center, Dar es Salaam, 1979; This is Living and Other Stories, Press
and Publicity Center, Dar es Salaam, 1982.

Uganda

KIMENYE Barbara, Kalasanda, OUP, London, 1965.

LO LIYONG, Taban, The Uniformed Man, East African Literature

Bureau,

Nairobi, 1971; Fiction and other Stories, Heinemann, London-Ibadan-

Nairobi, 1969.

Zambia

MULIKITA M. Fwanyanga, A Point of No Return, a collection of short

stories, Neczam, Lusaka, 1968.

Zimbabwe

MARECHERA Dambudzo, The House of Hunger, Heinemann,

London,

1978.
MUNGOSHI Charles, Coming of the Dry Season, OUP, Nairobi, 1972;

Some Kinds of Wounds, Mambo Press, Harare, 1980.

\& 3 9999 Qiawrrirf

AFRICAN SHORT STORIF.S IN ENGLISH PR9348 35/1985

86023064-/7

IB

Boston Public Library

WEST ROXBURY BRANCH LIBRARY

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