A Kind of Homecoming

by E. R. Braithwaite

  He knew that neither of us was a native of Sierra Leone, but may have supposed that our dark skins were sufficient guarantee of immediate sympathy with everything African.

  “Let’s look at it this way, friend,” Dr. Bond replied. “I’m an American Negro, which makes me part of a minority group wherever I am. Even here in Africa, although I’m black, I am American, so I am again in the minority. It would hardly become me to speak, act or even think adversely about any other minority group. I would presume that these engineers are here because they are needed, at least they seem to be getting on with something very needful. If I started thinking badly about them merely because they are Jews, how do you know I would not soon think as badly of you merely because you are an Arab? By the way, I’d like to visit your country one day to learn something about your educational system.” And thus, without causing any hurt or embarrassment, he steered the conversation into more general waters.

  One evening I dined with an Englishman, his wife and a group of his friends; he was a staff member of Fourah Bay College, in the English department, and asked me to address a group of education students at the college. A few days later I addressed the group of young Africans in one of the lecture rooms; they were mostly Sierra Leoneans, and a few from Nigeria and Ghana. I spoke about my own experiences as a teacher, and of the urgent need for teachers to develop a broad outlook which acknowledged and examined all the educational processes to which children are consciously or otherwise exposed, including radio, newspapers, conversation with adults, or their own ilk, books, cinema, church. I expressed the view that the classroom was most effective when everyone, teachers and pupils alike, was involved in conscious interchange of ideas and experiences.

  I told them the following story from my own teaching days: One of my students, a mischievous boy named Tich Jackson, one day interrupted a lesson in geography by waving aloft a magazine folded to show a cartoon of a group of savages sitting round a large cooking-pot, licking their lips in anticipation. Never one to miss any opportunity for having fun at my expense, he asked loudly, “Is this how it is where you come from, sir?”

  Many of those sitting in his immediate vicinity saw the cartoon and laughed, as he had hoped. Watchful from numerous previous occasions of the same kind, I took the magazine from him and held it open so that everyone could see the drawing. I said, “I’ll answer Tich after everyone has seen the cartoon and had his laugh.”

  Naturally there were merely a few giggles. I was quickly trying to think of some way of taking the play from him without embarrassing either him or myself. Then something occurred to me. “No, Tich, that’s not how it is where I come from, but that’s very much how it is here.”

  There were snorts and murmurs of disapproval at that, but I continued, “Let’s try to examine what I mean. That cooking-pot is very much like this classroom, in which something or other is cooking all the time; we are like the men around the pot, for each of us is hoping to pull something out which will satisfy us and strengthen us for whatever tasks await us. Some of those men might like fat, some lean, some might like the sparerib, some the heart or liver, or what-have-you. Each man to his taste or needs.

  “So it is with us. Each of us has a special need, and here we hope that day by day our abilities are developed, our needs met, our interests directed; but let’s take another look at this drawing. What do you think is cooking in the pot, Tich?”

  “Dunno,” he replied. “Stew perhaps.”

  “Could be,” I agreed. “And for a stew we need more than the meat. These fellows are licking their lips, which suggests that whatever is in the pot smells good. Somebody must have popped in some salt, another some herbs, just as is done in your own home. Similarly with us. Each day, we come here, forty-seven of us, each bringing something of himself or herself, some idea, or bit of experience or information or knowledge which sweetens the pot, perhaps just the titbit someone else needed to enrich his own experience or elucidate some little problem. In short, each of us provides something to making the stew, and all of us take what we need from the pot.”

  From this little story I hoped to show them that the teacher should be willing to create circumstances within his classroom favourable to the student, giving something as well as receiving something. At the end of my talk I invited comment or questions. Several students were opposed to the idea that the teacher could learn anything from his pupils.

  “Perhaps that is possible in Europe,” one said, “but not in Africa. Whatever teaching is done must come from the teacher.”

  “I expect to teach in the protectorate,” another said, “where the people are very primitive and the children believe in witchcraft and all kinds of similar things. It would be impossible for any of them to make any contribution to the teaching process. What would you do if you had to teach children like those?” he said in a clear voice which betrayed his pride in the distance between himself and the “primitives” to whom he referred.

  I thought over his question very carefully before replying. “If we accept that my training would have been oriented to the situation I would find there, then, immediately upon contact with them, I would try to learn all I could about their beliefs, practices, environment, etc., in order to find ways of making the things I wanted to teach meaningful to them; and the persons best qualified to inform me on those practices would be the pupils themselves, because, given the opportunity and favourable circumstances, they would teach me gradually while learning from me. For an African teacher who expects to work in the circumstances you describe, I think it would be imperative that he learned all he could about the prevailing conditions.”

  They were very sceptical about my ideas; evidently they considered themselves somewhat superior types, probably by virtue of their studentship at such a renowned institution as Fourah Bay College. After all, they would be working in places where education was still a very important symbol, and teachers would be expected to conduct themselves as the “fountainhead of knowledge”. I could only say my piece and leave it at that.

  The day before I started out on trek with my friend I had a rather unhappy experience. Early that morning I received a notice from the post office that a parcel addressed to me awaited collection at their parcels depot. I judged it would be a parcel of books my London publisher had sent out to me.

  After some difficulty I located the parcels office. Behind the public counter one young clerk was reading a paper-back novel, and some distance away several other clerks stood together in quiet discourse. I approached the nearer clerk with the green notice, in my hand.

  “Excuse me, please, but I’d like to collect this parcel, if I may.” I placed the green slip before him.

  He must have seen it, but without lifting his head from his book he rapped on the counter and a khaki-clad messenger appeared, took the green slip and disappeared, to return quickly with a small string-bound package, which he placed on the counter beside the clerk, who, without interrupting his reading even to glance at me, said, “Open it.”

  At first I thought he was addressing the messenger, but that young man had departed immediately after placing the parcel on the counter.

  “Open it,” the clerk repeated, this time favouring me with an annoyed glance.

  I was both surprised and irritated by his manner and could only stare at him.

  “Open it, I said,” he repeated irritably.

  Suddenly I lost my temper at this public servant, this paid servant who so brazenly occupied himself with a novel and treated me so casually because I had interrupted his reading.

  “Look here, mister,” I told him, barely able to control my anger. “I already know what is in that parcel. If you want to know what is in it, then you open it.”

  It may have been the tone of my voice, of the fact of my anger, but his whole manner changed, yet he insisted but in a somewhat conciliatory tone.

  “The customer is supposed to open h
is own parcel.”

  By now I was having none of it and retorted heatedly.

  “I’d like to believe that you are paid to render a public service and not to sit on your backside reading and ordering customers about. If you want that parcel opened, then you’ll damned well do it yourself.”

  He looked about him in some confusion. Someone detached himself from the group further along and approached us, asking, “Is something the matter?”

  “This gentleman refuses to open his parcel,” the clerk said.

  “I rather resent the attitude of this young man,” I said. “He could not be bothered to even look up from his book but merely ordered me to open my parcel and I refused.”

  He quickly took in the situation—novel, parcel, clerk and myself—then said to the clerk in mild reproof, “You should have explained to the gentleman that the regulations require the customer to open his own parcel.” Then to me, “I am the chief clerk here, and I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, but if you’ll open the parcel with this,” he produced a razor-blade, “we’ll soon have it cleared. It is a kind of safeguard to ensure that your parcel was intact when you received it, and to allow us to check the contents at the same time.”

  His manner was polite, dignified, gracious. I slit the package and exposed the contents: six copies of my first book, To Sir, With Love.

  The chief clerk examined a copy; they were evidently both impressed by the fact that I was E. R. Braithwaite, the author, and the young clerk apologized for his behaviour. I thanked them, tied the package together and left. Later I mentioned the incident to Mr. Lindsay.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “We Africans do not respect each other. The clear intention was to impress you by being as casually disrespectful as possible, only he does not see it as disrespect. He is an example of the kind of disease which is prevalent throughout our civil service and can be found wherever a black man holds office, no matter how lowly or badly paid that office might be. He would either have seen you enter, or he saw your hands as you extended the green notice to him; that was enough. You are black and he felt under no obligation to be courteous to you. If a European had entered that office, the novel would have disappeared like lightning and the clerk would have been on his feet. The only black exceptions are the more familiar local dignitaries. We simply do not respect each other. Simple. The European does not respect the African, and the African, in emulating European conduct, exhibits very little selectivity, and merely follows suit. Furthermore, that clerk is a civil servant even though he might be at the lowest rung of the ladder, and he is merely doing what he has seen done by his seniors, black and white.”

  “But if Africans do not respect Africans, how will independence ever become a reality?”

  “Perhaps when we finally develop the spirit of independence. As I said before, our colonialization has gone deeper than most; so deep that we willingly and readily disrespect ourselves. That postal clerk is only a short distance removed from the houseboys at your hotel in his attitude to Europeans. Even I, and this is somewhat of a confession, am never quite at ease with Europeans, because I have never had much opportunity for meeting and dealing with them as equals. You know, you shouldn’t stay in this country too long or you’ll soon become as bitter and frustrated as I am.”

  Later that evening I had occasion to remember what he said. I had persuaded him to dine with me at my hotel and was waiting for him in the lounge. Two young Englishmen and an African girl entered, sat nearby and ordered drinks. The girl, a well-rounded, fulsome creature, wore, in my opinion, too much make-up; she was evidently very ill at ease and nervously giggled at every remark made by either of her companions, both of whom were very young and obviously making the most of being a long way away from home and inhibiting influences. Soon the trio was joined by another Englishman, slightly older-looking, and now the three men entered into conversation which completely excluded the girl; she sat there, taking occasional sips from her drink and looking around the room, bored and unhappy. When my friend joined me the three men were still talking over her head, as if quite unconcerned about her.

  My friend noticed and said, “That is about as far as most black-white associations go: lonely men, ambitious women. When I say ‘ambitious’ I limit the term to the material advantages as might result from such an association, for let’s face it, the black boys have no money. Now and then there is a marriage, but, for the most part, this is about the limit of black-white social relationships.”

  Later we went down to dinner in the open-air patio. It was like being part of a scene dreamed up for a film romance—the overhanging trees dappled with light from the coloured electric bulbs hidden in the foliage; the star-filled sky, which seemed near enough to touch; the gleaming napery and silverware; the waiters in white tunics, black trousers and flamboyant red sashes; and the four-piece band, weaving a sweet pattern of soft sound, unobtrusive yet recognizable over the murmur of whispered conversations. Everyone “dressed for dinner” at this hotel: the filmy, bright dresses of the women in pleasant contrast to the men’s dark lightweight suits. The tables were scattered around the patio, clear of the central dance area; on each flickered a candle, which added its seductive contribution to the night and the music.

  After dinner the guests remained to sip drinks or dance; the band now came into its own, filling the African night with foxtrots, quicksteps, waltzes, all very correct and pleasing, yet somehow controlled, ordered, like listening to Victor Sylvester. There was a small party of two African couples who had dined together and were now watching the European couples on the dance floor. One of them signalled a waiter and whispered to him, and at the end of that dance, the waiter as unobtrusively as possible, went over and whispered to a member of the band, who smiled and nodded in the direction of the African couples. I might have guessed! The next number began with a series of bass chords from the piano, not loud, but deep and suggestive, like an impatient lover calling in the darkness, over and over, but yet unhurried, until it meant something pleasing, enticing. And now the other instruments slipped into the strain. The strong compulsive notes prevailed, but over, around and through them the trumpet, saxophone and clarinet, wove an intricate, exciting lacework of sound. Following the first opening bars, the African couples took the floor, fitting themselves easily and naturally into the music. It was delightful to watch them, their faces aglow, their bodies slightly arched forward to better accommodate the hip-swaying, graceful movements as they circled each other in free individual interpretation. Fluid, exciting and completely African, immediately in harmony with the night and the stars themselves; seductively challenging to the earlier ordered sounds, interjecting a new spirit, a promise of things to come, things yet a long way off. I listened and watched, entranced. An English couple sat at the table nearest me. The husband was keen to “have a go” at the dance. It seemed so easy, so natural, he wanted to join in; but his wife resisted, whispering that she did not “know” the steps. No other couple ventured on the floor, and the Africans, dancers and musicians continued for a while in their wonderful conspiracy of sound and movement. When the dance ended, the African guests gathered up their belongings and left.

  “Great,” I said.

  “Sure,” my friend agreed. “Pity it’s an import. But in time we’ll have our own.”

  Later that evening, using a small survey map of Sierra Leone, we made plans for our hinterland trip, laying out a route which would take us over most of the country in the shortest possible time. We’d follow the road south-east through Bo to Limi, north-east to Karlatun, then north to Kabala and back to Freetown through the Bombali and Port Loko districts. For provisions we took some bottled beer, tinned biscuits and fruit. These were mainly for my use and my friend assured me that he would find plenty of local fare, made available by numerous relatives and friends. It was inadvisable that I eat the local “chop”, as the sudden change of diet might prove disastrous, at least until
I stayed long enough to develop certain immunities. The trip was expected to take two or three days. We would travel very light, taking one change of khaki shirts and shorts, towels and shaving kit, all stuffed into dustproof plastic bags. My friend told me that while on trek he would be exempt from fasting. We would be travelling day and night, taking turns at driving.

  We started out at four-thirty A.M. on Monday to take full advantage of the cool morning air and the traffic-free roads. A heavy mist hung low over Freetown, and as we climbed the slopes towards Waterloo, I glanced back at the saucer-like depression in which the capital slept under its blanket of mist.

  The Land-Rover fled along the road as if as anxious as we to make plenty of headway before the sun came up. Now I was better able to observe the country through which we had passed a few nights before on the way back from Moyamba—green country, rich with its abundance of shrubs and trees out of which the oil palms raised proud, leafy heads. The road was a thin black ribbon slipping and winding away through the trees, frequently interrupted by small wooden bridges over dry, shallow gullies. We slipped past village after village, the huts still closed like defensive armadillos, with dogs and goats sleeping on the dusty forecourts, hardly stirring as we flashed by, a packaged blast of noise which quickly passed before it had really disturbed them. Near Jonibana, the macadam road suddenly ended and we became the spearhead of a whirling column of thick dust which completely obscured the road behind us and followed us like a revengeful genie uphill and down short slopes, adding to the thick discolouring layers which coated the trees and shrubs on the sides. Before long I noticed that my friend’s hair was powdered red as if made up for some festive masquerade—head, eyelashes and eyebrows were red-touched, giving him a grotesquely comical appearance, like Falstaff gone mechanically mad. I laughed, so absurd he looked: his fat, large hands loosely on the wheel, the khaki shirt stretched taut and damp across his thick chest.