‘Don’ worry, Jagua. Let me go firs’. Den when I return you kin see for yousself. Ah never gone yet. Why you begin worry how I goin’ to return?’
‘Is true,’ Jagua sighed. ‘But sometimes I use to fear. You men! Woman will put all her trust in you. Den you go and disappoint her.’ She began powdering away the tear-stains. ‘But ah jus’ tellin’ you in case …’ She looked appealingly at him, a twinkle in her eyes. When she looked away, she was talking half to herself. ‘When you come back now with you title, den you will begin to chase de small gals with standin’ breast. You won’ see me den, only now when you strugglin’. Dat time, Jagua go be too ol’ for you.’
‘Too ol’? Nonsense!’ Freddie said easily. ‘Jagwa no go be too ol’.’
She was glad. She finished in silence, her painting and powdering, and when she was finally ready they stepped out into the sun, their heads raised proudly.
As soon as they entered the public lecture room a mild sensation swept through the audience. The speaker had already begun his lecture, but it seemed to Jagua that all eyes turned in their direction, and this was what she always liked. She knew Freddie did not care for this tribute to her beauty and fashion sense. One day he would know how much she was ‘raising’ him by being so dashing. With satisfaction she saw the whispering lips, shielded, the heads lowered behind the programmes.
A guide darted forward to take them to their seats. Even before they found places, Freddie pinched her and whispered: ‘Dis man – he kin lecture wonderful.’
‘So you say about everythin’ in de British Council,’ she whispered back. ‘Wonderful!’
She looked at the lecture platform, noting the tarnished hairs piled up above each ear and around the high bald skull.
The lecturer’s suit was rumpled, saggy at elbows and knees, yet had a kind of careless elegance. Perhaps this one would be different from the others, but to Jagua all lecturers were the same: boring.
She took her seat and peered hard at the programme Freddie was offering her.
2
Once when she caught the lecturer’s eyes Jagua was surprised to find that they watered and gleamed against the light. She could not understand why. The old man kept wiping his face with a handkerchief though the evening was quite cool. His black face, a trifle oily at the cheeks, was unlined and quite young looking. The voice was authoritative but hoarse, probably from drinking too much whisky-soda Jagua thought, in the too humid heat of the Lagos Lagoon.
The breeze blowing offshore from the lecture hall made her feel drowsy and the hum of the ceiling fans deadened her sensitiveness. Freddie sat near the window looking out towards the jumble of cargo vessels and fast mailboats from Europe and America that cluttered up the lagoon. Local yachts, motorboats and canoes occasionally sped by, chugging up the water.
The lecture was entitled Some Personal Recollections on the Passing of White Imperialism in Nigeria. It seemed to be progressing satisfactorily. It was obvious to Jagua on glancing round that these were the intellectuals of Lagos City. The same group always met at cocktail parties: the American and Swiss Consuls, the oil prospectors and the public relations men, the managing directors in the merchant houses. They always wore the same suits, and the Nigerian intellectuals wore fez caps or turbans and cotton or damask robes in technicolour.
Jagua closed her eyes, striving hard not to offend so élite a gathering by simply shouting at them to stop all the fuss. In the distance the voice came:
‘Times have indeed changed … Yesterday, the Legislative Council was composed entirely of white men. They made all the laws and the Governor looked on …
Talking of Governors reminds me of that first Governor Sir Dalton Thomas. He was a man who loved ceremonials. He would issue circulars: “His Excellency the Governor will attend Divine Service at Holy Cross Cathedral on Sunday the 15th of March … His Excellency will officiate at the opening ceremony of the new Railway Terminal …
Now, Sir Dalton Thomas (bless his memory) fostered in our Colonial minds the idea that a Governor must ALWAYS be seen in uniform. So when he retired, we expected the new Governor to behave in the same way. But no! What happened?
The new Governor, Sir David Arlington, HATED uniforms. Absolutely. He was a Cambridge man, an easy-going sort of chap and he was scheduled to visit the great Moslem town of Kano for some opening ceremony or other, you see …
The town had a holiday, the streets were hung with flags; a durbar was arranged, and everyone turned up at the railway station.
The train came in late. There was a guard of honour mounted at the station in full colours. Everyone looked round for the new Governor. Out of the special railway car came a young white man, wearing a battered old felt hat, flannel trousers, and – oh dear me! – a college blazer!
As he walked down the ranks, the Emir of Kano shouted: Governor Banza! which means, Governor of no value. Tell the King of England to send him back! He has no uniform. Nigeria demands a real Governor, not an APPRENTICE, one unfit to wear uniform …’
Laughter burst from every throat. Jagua did not catch the joke. She glanced at Freddie, noting his taut brow, the intent admiration in his eyes. The lecturer went on, now humorous, now serious, now satirical … Jagua studied his fine head, felt the mobility of brow and eyes, followed the gestures … the old man appeared to her to be reliving his younger days when there were few roads or railways and the white man lived on quinine or died in fevered swamps.
Freddie appeared restive. He raised his hand, interrupting the old lecturer who immediately nodded at him. Freddie jumped to his feet and asked a question. For a moment there was silence. It seemed to Jagua that Freddie had asked either a clever question or a dangerous one. She saw the lecturer raise his handkerchief to his face and mop the sudden outbreak of sweat. His brow furrowed and he shot back a reply, raising his right arm the way Jagua had often seen preachers do. Laughter broke from the audience. While they were laughing, Jagua decided that she no longer belonged to the group. She felt ostracized by the chorus of inhibited enjoyment and that herd instinct she always sensed among intellectuals. She rose and began walking away, while Freddie was still on his feet.
She clicked her high-heeled shoes, but the listeners were still convulsed with laughter and few male eyes followed her wiggle. She cared little for the mixture of anger and embarrassment which she knew must be gnawing at Freddie’s guts.
3
Jagua stood outside the Lecture Hall, searching the street for a taxi. She saw Freddie emerge and come straight to her, shouting at her all the while. She ignored the scowl on his face and the ceaseless flow of harsh words he was hurling at her. She had learnt that men had best be left uncontradicted when they lost their tempers. She saw the taxi and stopped it.
‘Tropicana Club.’
‘We use meter, or we don’ use meter?’ grinned the taxi driver.
Jagua distrusted the new meters on the taxis. They always seemed to cheat her. ‘No use meter.’