But now I must give you one month’s notice from this date.
Over his breakfast, Sango tried once again to make sense out of the involved memo. One thing was clear. He had been given notice to quit. This could be more than serious. A man thrown out of his lodgings in the city could be rich meat for the ruthless exploiters: the housing agents and financiers, the pimps and liars who accepted money under false pretences. This matter needed very careful thinking out. If only his nerves had not been in that awful state last night.
Before he had lowered his third cup of coffee, the engine-driver stood at the door. He was in his blue overalls and a blue cap.
‘Going to work?’ Sango asked.
‘Yes . . . Look at this.’
‘Oh,’ said Sango. ‘You got one, too!’
Sango took the note and read:
I, A. O. Lajide, your landlord, do hereby give you notice to quit and deliver up possession of the room with the premises and appurtenances situated and being to No. 20 Molomo Street, which you hold of me as tenant hereof, one month from the service of this notice. . . .
Written in the same feminine hand, it was signed with the same bold scrawl.
‘Lajide has not been hanging round the courts for nothing.’ He handed over the note, rubbed his head reflectively. ‘This is really serious, you know. Where have I the time to search for new lodgings?’
‘It’s not easy,’ said the engine-driver. ‘I’m going on line now; I return next tomorrow.’
Sango said, ‘Now we shall see how overcrowded the city really is, with the trains bringing in more and more people every day.’
‘I’m not going to sleep in the gutter,’ the engine-driver said with confidence. ‘New houses are being built every day.’
‘For you?’ Sango sneered. ‘The owners want money, my friend! How much can you pay? A European is able to offer five thousand pounds cash to a landlord, and he gets a tenancy for five years. He takes a whole courtyard that can house one hundred Africans . . . and we are driven to slums like Twenty Molomo.’
The engine-driver said: ‘But the Africans are the brothers of the landlords. They can’t do that, surely!’
‘Brotherhood ends where money begins.’
‘I’m going to find a room, all the same.’
‘Best of luck! And if you have one to spare, think of me.’
He marched down the corridor in his heavy boots and Sam came in to clear the table. His back was expressive as usual, and he was most sympathetic. He would tell his brother and all the others, but would Master consider going to beg Lajide? He might yet change his mind and that would save a lot of trouble.
Sango smiled. ‘Not me, Sam!’
•
Almost everybody on Molomo Street had heard of the engine-driver’s behaviour of the previous night. They came to see Sango and to sympathiz
e with him. Once it was generally known that he did not send them back, yet more of them came. There was the woman who sold rice to the loco workers. Sango had often seen her sitting under the almond tree. He was surprised to find that she could be quite smart when she got out of her oily working clothes. Then there were the two sisters who lived down Molomo Street. The baby-faced one was appealing in a maternal way with folds of fat everywhere and a face that was sweet and peaceful. Sango, as more and more of them knocked and told him they were sorry he was leaving, said to himself: ‘I never knew I was the darling of Molomo Street! How the people love me – especially the women.’
He lay on his back in the night, unable to sleep. This was his usual time for work, when the city traffic had thinned down to a mere trickle and comparative silence descended on Molomo Street; but on this particular evening he did not feel like work. He rolled over and over, gazing at the ceiling. When he heard the knock, it was so faint he could not be sure. But it came again, a mere brushing of the hands against the woodwork. The lines of a poem he had composed flitted through his mind:
You who knock so secretly
Sidling up the door, your eyes in veils
Your feet on pads of silence
Your manner furtive
Your breath held in suspense
Who might you be?