Anthills of the Savannah

“Y
OU’RE WASTING
everybody’s time, Mr. Commissioner for Information. I will not go to Abazon. Finish!
Kabisa
! Any other business?”

“As Your Excellency wishes. But…”

“But me no buts, Mr. Oriko! The matter is closed, I said. How many times, for God’s sake, am I expected to repeat it? Why do
you
find it so difficult to swallow my ruling. On anything?”

“I am sorry, Your Excellency. But I have no difficulty swallowing
and
digesting your rulings.”

For a full minute or so the fury of his eyes lay on me. Briefly our eyes had been locked in combat. Then I had lowered mine to the shiny table-top in ceremonial capitulation. Long silence. But he was not appeased. Rather he was making the silence itself grow rapidly into its own kind of contest, like the eyewink duel of children. I conceded victory there as well. Without raising my eyes I
said again: “I am very sorry, Your Excellency.” A year ago I would never have said it again that second time—without doing grave violence to myself. Now I did it like a casual favour to him. It meant nothing at all to me—no inconvenience whatever—and yet everything to him.

I have thought of all this as a game that began innocently enough and then went suddenly strange and poisonous. But I may prove to be too sanguine even in that. For, if I am right, then looking back on the last two years it should be possible to point to a specific and decisive event and say: it was at such and such a point that everything went wrong and the rules were suspended. But I have not found such a moment or such a cause although I have sought hard and long for it. And so it begins to seem to me that this thing probably never was a game, that the present was there from the very beginning only I was too blind or too busy to notice. But the real question which I have often asked myself is why then do I go on with it now that I can see. I don’t know. Simple inertia, maybe. Or perhaps sheer curiosity: to see where it will all… well, end. I am not thinking so much about him as about my colleagues, eleven intelligent, educated men who let this happen to them, who actually went out of their way to invite it, and who even at this hour have seen and learnt nothing, the cream of our society and the hope of the black race. I suppose it is for them that I am still at this silly observation post making farcical entries in the crazy log-book of this our ship of state. Disenchantment with them turned long ago into detached clinical interest.

I find their actions not merely bearable now but actually interesting, even exciting. Quite amazing! And to think that I personally was responsible for recommending nearly half of them for appointment!

And, of course, complete honesty demands that I mention one last factor in my continued stay, a fact of which I’m somewhat ashamed, namely that I couldn’t be writing this if I didn’t hang around to observe it all. And no one else would.

I could read in the silence of their minds, as we sat stiffly around the mahogany table, words like:
Well, this is going to be another of those days
. Meaning a bad day. Days are good or bad for us now according to how His Excellency gets out of bed in the morning. On a bad day, such as this one had suddenly become after many propitious auguries, there is nothing for it but to lie close to your
hole, ready to scramble in. And particularly to keep your mouth shut, for nothing is safe, not even the flattery we have become such experts in disguising as debate.

On my right sat the Honourable Commissioner for Education. He is by far the most frightened of the lot. As soon as he had sniffed peril in the air he had begun to disappear into his hole, as some animals and insects do, backwards. Instinctively he had gathered his papers together and was in the very act of lifting the file-cover over them and dragging them into his hole after him when his entire body suddenly went rigid. Stronger alarms from deeper recesses of instinct may have alerted him to the similarity between his impending act and a slamming of the door in the face of His Excellency. A fantastic thing happened then. He drops the file-cover in such panic that everyone now turns to him and sees him perform the strangest act of all: the scattering again of his Council Papers in panic atonement and restitution for the sacrilege he has come so close to committing. Inadvertently. Then he glances round the table until his eyes meet His Excellency’s and fall dead on the mahogany. The silence had not been broken since my second apology. I was quite certain that the poor fellow (never a strong one for originality) was getting ready to speak my very words, strictly in the same sequence. I swear it. He had drawn his upper arms tight to his sides as though to diminish his bulk; and clasped his hands before him like a supplicant.

But His Excellency speaks instead. And not even to him the latest offender but still to me. And he is almost friendly and conciliatory, the amazing man. In that instant the day changes. The fiery sun retires temporarily behind a cloud; we are reprieved and immediately celebrating. I can hear in advance the many compliments we will pay him as soon as his back is turned: that the trouble with His Excellency is that he can never hurt a man and go to sleep over it.

That’s one refinement, by the way, we’ve not yet lost: we do wait for his back to be turned. And some will add: That’s a pity because what this country really needs is a ruthless dictator. At least for five good years. And we will all laugh in loud excess because we know—bless our dear hearts—that we shall never be favoured with such an undeserved blessing as a ruthless dictator.

“Do you realize what you are asking me to do, Chris?” he said. I say nothing, make no motion, not even of the head. At these
moments my head assumes the gravity of granite and though my thinking might remain perfectly clear and logical it seems to emanate from afar taking in these happenings through a telescope. I note for what it’s worth that he has dropped the icy distancing of
Mister Commissioner
and
Mister Oriko
. But I no longer allow such niceties to distract me. He misread my quietude I think as either agreement or disagreement. It was neither. Pure, unadulterated disinterest.

“You are telling me to insult the intelligence of these people,” he says, his tone mollified and rather superior. I shake my head then, slowly. “Yes, that’s precisely what you are telling me to do,” he says spiritedly, spurred to battle by my faint resurgent opposition. “These people believe in rainmakers and so let’s go ahead and exploit their ignorance for cheap popularity. That’s exactly what you are telling me to do, Chris. Well I can’t do it. You all seem to forget that I am still a soldier, not a politician.”

He is in mufti as he now tends to be more and more within the precincts of the Presidential Palace: a white
danshiki
tastefully embroidered in gold, and its matching trousers. By contrast many of my colleagues, especially the crew from the Universities, aspire to the military look. Professor Okong wears nothing but khaki safari suits complete with epaulettes. It is amazing how the intellectual envies the man of action.

I think His Excellency noticed the faint smile brought to my face by that reminder that he was still a soldier; he has such a knack for reading faces. I could see him hesitate ever so briefly between taking me up on that smile and ignoring it. What he ended up doing was neither of those but something really quite proficient. Fixing his gaze on me he yet managed at the same time to convey by his voice that I was excluded from what he was now saying; that his words were too precious to waste on professional dissidents.

“Soldiers are plain and blunt,” he says defiantly. “When we turn affairs of state back to you and return to barracks that will be the time to resume your civilian tricks. Have a little patience.”

At this point he is boldly interrupted by the Commissioner for Justice and Attorney-General and then by everybody else with an assortment of protests. Actually it is His Excellency’s well-chosen words that signalled the brave interruption, for despite the vigour in his voice the words themselves had sounded the
All Clear
and
told us it was all right now to commence our protestations. So we began to crawl out into the open again. In his precise manner the Attorney-General says: “Your Excellency, let us not flaunt the wishes of the people.”

“Flout, you mean,” I said.

“The people?” asked His Excellency, ignoring my piece of pedantry.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” replied the Attorney-General boldly. “The people have spoken. Their desire is manifest. You are condemned to serve them for life.” Loud applause and shouts of “Hear! Hear!” Many voices in contest for the floor.

“I am no lawyer,” says His Excellency, his slightly raised tone breaking up a hand to hand tussle among the voices, “only a simple soldier. But a soldier must keep his word.”

“But you, I beg pardon, I mean Your Excellency, cannot break a word you never even said. The nonsense about one hundred per cent was only the machination of a newspaper editor who in my judgement is a self-seeking saboteur.”

“No obligation, Your Excellency, to keep faith with heretics,” boomed the Reverend Professor Okong’s voice.

“On point of order, Your Excellency.” He glares at me now, and then nods to the Attorney-General, who had been interrupted by Okong and myself, to continue.

“Your Excellency, three provinces out of four is a majority anywhere.” More applause.

“Your Excellency I wish to dissociate myself from the Attorney-General’s reference to a saboteur and to appeal to my colleagues not to make such statements against public servants who are not present to defend themselves.” I liked the look of terror on my colleagues’ faces when I used the word
dissociate
and the relaxation that followed when they realized that I was not saying what they feared I was saying. Even His Excellency was thrown off his poise momentarily. But, unlike the rest, knowing that he has been teased does not amuse him or offer him relief; rather it fills him with anger. He swings his head sharply to his right where the Chief Secretary sits on the edge of his chair.

“Any other business?” The way he says it this time it no longer is an idle formula. It had the ring of a rebuke: something like
How many times do you want me to ask this question
?

This unexpected convergence of the crisis on his person threw the Chief Secretary into utter confusion and inelegance of speech.

“Oh no sir. Nothing at all, sir. Your Excellency.” And then he looks across the table and our eyes meet. I don’t like to take credit for this kind of thing but I think that the derisive smile on my face at that moment may have turned the bureaucrat right about. Perhaps he saw in my face a foreshadowing of peer taunts and ridicule lying in ambush for him beyond the massive doors of this citadel. He is very sensitive about accusations of boot-licking especially when they come from me because I think he has a lot of respect for me. And in a way I don’t dislike him, either. He is after all, unlike the rest of us, a career civil servant who would have served a civilian president… or indeed the British raj… as well as he now serves His present Excellency. But whatever it was that did it he now shows totally untypical spirit that for him almost borders on recklessness. He picks up his fallen words again: “But Your Excellency, if I may—erm—crave your indulgence—erm—Your Excellency’s indulgence—and—erm—put in a word for the Honourable Commissioner.”