‘Jesus is God!’ sang the choir.
All about Jagua people were talking in undertones. Some of it she heard, some floated away and mingled with the singing.
‘You’ll see how they’re going to vote now …’
‘I think O.P. 2 made a mistake to beat up Freddie … Now the public is against them, especially the women voters, Jus’ see the number of women at the funeral …’
‘Jesus is God! …’ sang the choir. Jagua looked and saw that it was really true. There were ten women to every man, especially the kind of market women she had spoken to, not long ago.
‘May his soul rest in peace …’
‘Freddie was a fine man …’
‘At least we’re giving him a decent Christian burial, though he died at the hands of the devil.’
Jagua heard it all with a feeling of pride. The hearse turned under the mango trees into the burial ground.
22
Jagua followed Uncle Taiwo out early on Polling Day. Freddie’s death had not disturbed the polling or altered the fact that the election was a straight fight between Other Party Two and Other Party One. Of the sixty constituencies, she was most interested in one – Obanla – where Uncle Taiwo was representing O.P. 2 and a new candidate, a nonentity, had been chosen overnight in place of Freddie Namme. Jagua’s one fear was that the women might react against the killing of Freddie Namme outside the Tropicana. Nigerian women, she knew, do not listen to election promises. Their minds are often made up in advance and it takes a little thing to swing it the other way. She knew they voted for party symbols, not for people. Thus, the death of Freddie Namme would not alter the sum total of the votes for O.P. 1 by a single vote. When she thought of Nancy’s face at the funeral, and again heard the words: ‘You can have the seat in Obanla now,’ the way Nancy said them, she felt even more terrified. It seemed as if a curse would go with the seat. But suppose they lost? The shame would be quite unbearable.
Early in the morning she and Uncle Taiwo drove around the town, watching the women who had already begun trooping to the little grey sheds marked POLLING STATION. But the electoral officers did not turn up until nearing eight o’clock when the women, grimly, checked their registration numbers against a long roll, some distance from the box. They went in, one by one, dipped their fingers in ink, and vanished into the loneliness of the polling booth.
When they came out, Jagua could not guess where the vote had gone – whether to Freddie Namme’s O.P. 1 or Uncle Taiwo’s O.P. 2; but she thought that most of the women who came to that particular station looked like the market women she had addressed that evening. She stole a glance at Uncle Taiwo’s face. It was tense and aggressive. For him, so much depended on this election. If he won, he would become a Councillor, able to use his influence the way others had done before him. His position would be very much higher in the City. She too, would benefit as a result. She would be the mistress of a Councillor. He would use his influence to establish her as a Merchant Princess. She would have to give up her present style of living, and be loyal to him alone.
She watched them quietly checking the names in Obanla Polling Station. The Electoral Officer for this constituency had been specially chosen because Obanla was the hottest spot of all. He was a white man, a Broadcasting Officer, from an organisation noted for its fair play. He smiled and looked round benignly at the other representatives of political parties. Jagua saw Uncle Taiwo fidgeting nervously around. He could not keep still for more than a few seconds. He was like a sentry who has been warned of housebreakers in the neighbourhood. jumping up at the slightest provocation. Suddenly he shouted: ‘I object!’ and pointed at a voter. There followed a hum of voices, then the voter was allowed to cast his vote. Uncle Taiwo said he had observed this man vote twice, but the man explained that he had returned to vote for a friend who was ill. The law did not disallow that, so the Electoral Officer had to allow him to vote. Jagua watched the man come out of the booth, but that was not the last time. Each time he voted a new finger was dipped in indelible ink. A few moments later, he was back again, till all his fingers had been inked. He had voted for all his nine friends. Jagua heard Uncle Taiwo cursing him under his breath.
She had brought along sandwiches which she passed round and also two flasks of coffee. Uncle Taiwo would neither eat nor drink. By afternoon the voting had slackened, but towards evening the men began to return, and they continued to flow into the booth until sundown when the Electoral Officer went in and – before their eyes – sealed off all th
e boxes.
Jagua, Uncle Taiwo and all the others followed him to the counting hall where dozens of polling boxes had already been assembled. Uncle Taiwo sweated and wiped his face and paced about. Jagua felt sorry for him. He would not let her speak with him; he snapped out angry words if anyone approached him. She had never known how much the election meant to him. Suppose the ghost of Freddie Namme should suddenly appear in that counting hall, the ghost of Freddie, laughing at Uncle Taiwo: a remote ghost, all powerful, multiplying the O.P. 1 votes so that Uncle Taiwo not only lost the election, but also lost his deposit. And suppose all the people who had received money from him came out now into this hall and laughed and said: ‘Uncle Taiwo! … we done chop all you money, but we don’ vote for you. You can’t buy our vote, which is a secret thing. De greates’ power dat democracy give we poor people! After all your talk we kin enter de secret box an’ use our vote to cut your neck …’ Foolish imaginings, Jagua told herself. But it was possible that all these things would be haunting Uncle Taiwo now.
The counting officers were breaking the seals now. Jagua saw them tying the votes in bundles of fifty. Long before the last bundle had been tied, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Uncle Taiwo.
‘Le’s go.’
‘You no go wait till dem finish? Or you wan’ lissen from de radio? I wan’ to see how dem will count de vote …’
‘Le’s go, Jagua.’ There was something brutal in his gruffness. She felt a deeper fear then.
She followed him into the streets, crowded with traffic police in grey shirts and white shorts, waving their arms to divert the traffic from the counting hall. Some of them were holding truncheons and shields and wearing steel helmets. Jagua heard them call silently, ‘Uncle Taiwo’, as they passed. ‘The man for the job.’ He waved at them, and walked more briskly. While he fidgeted with his keys, Jagua asked him something which had been worrying her.
‘Uncle T., I been wantin’ to ask you somethin’. Who kill Freddie Namme?’
The keys dropped from his hands, but he picked them up and for one nervous moment could not find the right one for the car. ‘Why you ask me? Is dose wild boys. Dem always beat de opponent.’
‘Why dem beat de opponent?’
He laughed. ‘Is de instruction. When de wild ones of O.P. 1 see any O.P. 2 man dem will beat him, and vice versa. De V.I.P. in any party pay de wild ones £ 1 a day to start fight. Is what dem get paid for. And if dem beat any important candidate, dem get bonus.’ He laughed. ‘You still thinkin’ about dat Freddie? I tol’ him politics not game for gentlemen …’ He found the right key at last and held the door open for her.
She slipped into the car. ‘So as you goin’ now, your life is in danger? De O.P. 1 ruffians dem lookin’ for you?’
‘Jus’ so; but I don’ fool so much, you know. See dis!’ From under the seat of the car, he drew out a cutlass. The blade was so sharp that it could have cut off a person’s ear with the painlessness of an anaesthetic.
‘I beg,’ said Jagua, as he started the car. ‘Hide am! Don’ let de police see am!’
He pulled away, and she looked at his face. She knew the truth now. He did not want to remain there in the counting hall because he had lost. And because he had lost he was grey with terror. All that money, all those promises, all the energy lavished on campaigning and paying hired thugs one pound per day, and driving along every road with a blaring loudspeaker, and haranguing the people, all that had been wasted. But most terrifying of all, she knew that Uncle Taiwo was terrified of the retribution. His party did not stand for failures. And as Secretary of O.P. 2 he must carry full blame. That fatal beating-up of Freddie may have done something. She suspected that the ruffians had not been sent to kill Freddie, but the result of the beating-up had been death, and now the case was in court and O.P. 2 would answer for it. Freddie had been a lawyer and the Law Association was standing behind him with all their brains massed against the party.