That afternoon Sango began to search for new lodgings. He found little luck. After cycling miles and miles, he met Dele on the crest of a hill. He had not seen Dele since college days and now he found him virtually unchanged, carrying a Bible, smiling and shy.
‘Dele, I’m looking for a room,’ Sango told him when they had overcome their mutual surprise.
‘A room? Now let me see . . .’ He stroked his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘Would you like to live in this area?’
Sango looked around him, and saw the logs floating on the lagoon. Logs that would soon be loaded into cargo boats and sent on their journeys to Europe and America. Logs that trapped the still waters and made a happy breeding ground for mosquitoes and malaria.
‘I’m looking for a room, Dele, not an area!’
‘Then come along! I’m just back from the office. But we may be lucky enough to meet the man I want.’
Sango followed him and learnt that, as the time for the Town Council elections was very near, candidates were willing to consider any proposals that might win them votes. As it happened, the man they were going to see was an election candidate and might help them. He was also an intimate friend of his father’s. Dele pushed his bicycle and talked of old days.
So wrapped up were they in comparing notes that Dele overshot his mark and they had to wheel back to find the right door. Dele knocked. While they waited Sango had a glimpse of an expensive cap not unlike Lajide’s. But the man who wore it was much darker, stouter and more pleasantly disposed.
‘Dele, is that you? Ha, ha! Come in!’
Sango’s heart warmed towards the man. He was at a table littered with small cards, labels, posters, pamphlets. Sango could read the inscription on some of them:
YOUR CANDIDATE FOR ‘A’ WARD IS . . . VOTE FOR HIM: WE WILL DELIVER THE GOODS . . . OUR POLITICAL MANIFESTO . . . AFRICANIZATION OF THE CIVIL SERVICE . . . SELF-GOVERNMENT NOW . . . AWAY WITH EXPATRIATES
The words seemed to shout frantically from the very pages. On a large poster was a photograph of the candidate himself, looking dignified in his robes.
Dele said, ‘This is my friend, Amusa Sango. We were at school together, after which he went to teach for some time; now he is a journalist.’
‘How are you, Mr. Sango?’
They shook hands. It was a warm, confident hand, Sango thought. Dele smiled.
‘Yes, sir, as I was saying, he’s a journalist. I would like you to help him. Maybe he can write something good about you in the West African Sensation. You see, sir, he’s looking for a room. As a man who reads a lot, he would like a place that is not noisy; that’s why I have brought him to you. Because I know you can help him.’
Sango admired Dele’s acting. In his loose but well-cut English suit, he looked boyish. He spread his palms upwards, rolled his eyes, bent his head this way and that in an appealing manner. His gestures were expressive. One would think that Sango was not the one in need but Dele himself.
He paused now, his eyes focused on the election picture. To Sango he said: ‘He’s the candidate for your ward. The elections are coming on. He’s very busy as you can see.’
‘Yes,’ said the Councillor, beaming. ‘I pray I get in. My party fights for the people, for the poor. There are poor men in every tribe and race, therefore my party is the Universal Party. But my rivals!’ Here he snorted. ‘They’re out to line their own pockets! They’re out to capture all the highest posts. We must defeat them and have things our own way – for the people’s good.’
‘I think you’ll get in, all right, sir!’
‘It’s not so easy: the candidate for the other party is not sleeping. He says he stands for the workers – the liar! He tells them I am deceiving them, that I am an aristo. And he gives them money, so they believe him – that’s the worst of it! They do not know they are selling their freedom, their birthright, everything decent in them! Oh!’
‘He will not get in,’ Dele assured him. ‘We are voting for people, not parties. The British have given us a new constitution. It is for us to select the best men to work it. That is our first and last step towards self-government. You have done a lot for this area. Look at Grave Street. Two years ago, it was all swamp. Not a light anywhere. Now we have water, electricity . . .’
‘Oh yes! but when people pass along Grave Street, they don’t bother to think. Still, one does not have to wait for thanks. That’s a politician’s lot. Do the right and leave it at that; that’s my motto. And it gets things done.’
He rubbed his chin and beamed. He was pleased. His work was appreciated by the two young men. Sango thought guiltily of his assignment for the West African Sensation. But the politician would not come straight to the point.
‘I remember when I was a teacher some years ago, things were quite different.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
‘No African Education Officers, Principals . . . where would you find them? But now things are different. Yes, things are gradually passing into African hands. Soon all the power will be in our hands. It’s worth fighting for.’
‘You love politics, I can see that,’ Sango said.
‘Politics is life. Look at it now. After these elections, life will be different. With every election things change. And so it will go on changing, all the time, and one day we’ll get what we’re fighting for: complete autonomy!’
‘Things can’t be the same,’ Dele said.