People of the City

by Cyprian Ekwensi

  She was breathing in short gasps. ‘Oh! . . .’

  She held her sides. ‘I hope you’re not hurt,’ Sango said quickly. ‘Smooth out your dress – they’ve made a mess of it.’

  She leaned against him, bruised and shaken. There was nowhere he could take her to, for all the eating and drinking places had been closed.

  ‘You – you saved my life!’

  ‘Quiet, first. We must still get out of this madness.’

  Far down the Marina, by the lagoon, was a little promontory over which the broad leaves of a coconut palm waved. It was quiet and deserted and the wind blew sweet and cool. Sango made her sit down. She looked at him gratefully, not saying a word, and he felt a pain in his heart.

  She had unbuttoned her blouse so that the breeze caressed her young body. ‘I’ll soon be all right,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be an important speech at the graveside.’

  ‘You’re not strong enough now, Miss —’

  ‘Beatrice is my name.’

  ‘Beatrice!’ A thousand tunes hummed in his brain. ‘This is very odd!’ He took her hand and now the touch of her hand had a magic enchantment for him.

  The fresh air had partly revived her. Slowly they walked for mile after mile, and for Sango it could have gone on for ever without his noticing, so strange was the pleasure which her company gave him and so elated his spirit.

  When they caught up with the funeral procession it was still difficult to break through to the front row. And Beatrice the Second – as Sango called her – insisted on remaining till the end. She was indeed showing him what nationalism meant for the people of the city.

  ‘It’s like the death of Gandhi,’ Sango said. ‘De Pereira was, after all, our own Gandhi!’

  There had never been anything like this. It was impossible to move one step in any direction. They were obliged to give up and stand about for an hour, rooted to the spot. From somewhere a movement of bodies started. The funeral was over. A new song was born at that moment. It rent the air. Sango, ashamed of his ignorance of the words, could only mumble the most conspicuous word, ‘Freedom . . .’ which seemed to be the recurrent theme.

  ‘Did you see the coffin?’

  ‘No, but they say it was an expensive one: covered with gold.’

  ‘I thought they said there would be a funeral speech?’

  ‘We’ll read it in the papers tomorrow.’

  Beatrice the Second was holding a handkerchief to her nose. All about them people were weeping with genuine grief. Sango was disturbed. He felt out of step with the city. A lump rose in his throat and a mist came to his eyes. He turned away in shame, swallowing hard and blinking, embarrassed by a new and softer side of himself.

  ‘Don’t cry, Beatrice!’ He squeezed her shoulder.

  But everybody was crying. Handkerchiefs were going to noses. And the sun was slowly setting on two hundred thousand mourners.

  ‘There must have been something about that graveside speech! It has stirred everyone to lament. Beatrice, let’s be going back now. Where do I drop you?’

  Sango hailed a taxi. His conscience troubled him, as he thought: You have no home, Sango; you have no money; your goods are still at the railway station; you want all the money you can put aside for that six months’ rent in advance. He ignored his misgivings. Nothing must spoil the beauty of this moment. He tried to think of something to say, but no words could express how he felt. His response to this girl made him feel they had been friends all his life. He held her hand.

  It was a slow drive through the chaotic city. Sango was irritated by the closeness and the dust, but he was pleased because he could talk to Beatrice the Second and get to know her. She was quite frank about herself.

  ‘I have a fiancé in England. He’s a medical student in his third year. I love him very much.’

  The words hurt Sango.

  ‘I’ll join him soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll do nursing and midwifery. And when we return, we’ll have our own hospital in the remote interior. No city life for us! I think they have quite enough hospitals and medical attention here. We’ll go to the bush, where we are needed.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Sango said. ‘But you’ll not make much money.’

  ‘I agree. But that’s not all there is to it. We will be doing something, giving something . . .’ As she talked, she brightened. A new glow came to her cheeks. Her eyes danced. She became a new girl. Sango was full of admiration.

  ‘The city is overcrowded, and I’m one of the people over-crowding it,’ Sango said. ‘If I had your idea, I would leave the city; but it holds me. I’m only a musician, and a bad one at that. A hack writer, smearing the pages of the Sensation with blood and grime.’ He saw the interested way in which she leaned forward when he talked about himself.

  Lights shone in the streets and long cars began to steal effortlessly through the night, freed at last from the traffic restrictions. The city was gradually recovering from its shock, exerting its everlasting magic.

  ‘I wish I could see you again!’

  Sango saw her hesitation. ‘I’m grateful to you. I’ll tell my father all you did for me . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have no address at the moment, except Crime Reporter, West African Sensation. I used to play at the All Language Club, but that road is now closed.’

  The taxi pulled up before an old-type house, probably Brazilian. Beatrice the Second stepped gingerly down. She was much recovered now, and the shock was gone.

  ‘I’ll see you again,’ she said. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  He watched her walk away and there was a sadness in his heart. There is the girl for you, Sango. If you could win her, you would find a foothold in this city and all your desires would focus on a new inspiration. How different she is from them all: Aina, Elina, Beatrice the First. Have you ever felt anything like this beautiful feeling before? But it’s hopeless. She herself told you she is engaged and loves her fiancé.

  Sango thought of Beatrice the Second as he sat down in the Sensation office to write his report. His despondency filtered into the general tone of his account of the De Pereira funeral. He was poring over the typewriter, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, when he heard footsteps in the corridor. McMaster poked his head into the room and said to Sango:

  ‘A moment, please!’

  The telephone was ringing as McMaster entered his office. All the Sensation telephones had been ringing incessantly throughout the day. McMaster had the telephone in his hand when Sango entered and with one hand he waved him into a seat.

  Sango wondered what it was all about.

  ‘I’ve had my eyes on your work for some time,’ said McMaster when the conversation was over. ‘The coal crisis, the Lajide funeral, the election campaigns, and so on. But with the De Pereira affair, I think we’re set for your most important achievement. I’ve had it hinted that you might be offered the post of Associate Editor, depending what the Board of Governors thinks . . .’

  Sango went deaf. He opened his lips and no words came.

  ‘Of course, it may be that you prefer the adventure of reporting. This will be an office-chair job. You may like to go and think the whole thing over . . .’

  He was still sitting there after the conversation, and one thought was uppermost in his mind: Beatrice the Second. He was becoming a man, fit for a girl of her class. Beatrice the Second . . .

  ‘All right now, Sango.’

  •

  Lajide had not gone to the De Pereira funeral. He was alone; probably the only living being on Molomo Street. But his wives had gone. Nothing could keep them indoors these days. He lifted the glass to his lips, made a face, belched. Lately he had developed a habit of talking aloud to himself: ‘Since my wife died, everything has changed. Everything! Beatrice – she has no ear for my words. Kekere – she goes out openly to the street lamp on the corner. There she talks to young men. She thinks I do not see her. Ha, ha! Young men on bicycles! She must think I’m a fool. I know all, I see all; only, I don’t talk!
’

  He drank more. That was another new development. The law called this liquor illicit gin, because it was distilled without licence. But the brewers who lived in timber shacks by the lagoon, they called it O.H.M.S. in honour of the Queen of England. The irony of it! Breaking the law to honour the Queen! Of course, they did not let the liquor mature like genuine distillers; that would take too long. But it was still alcohol. If you were not prejudiced you would not be able to distinguish the taste from that of pure gin.

  He tossed the glass aside. No good would come of too much thinking. Alikatu – she was dead and gone. The five thousand from Muhamad Zamil was gone and he had not lived at 163B for three months yet. And this new four thousand from the timber deal? When you were in a prominent position and you lost your wife, four thousand pounds might see you through all the ceremonies and sacrifices – if you were the showy type like Lajide.

  ‘I must do something . . . I must do something. . . .’

  The timber business? He had tried that. He was still on the list of the city’s exporters of logs. Everybody was timber-crazy and he might as well take his chance.

  His gaze focused suddenly on the door. A strange woman was standing there, in a big-sleeved blouse, a velvet cloth about her waist. No, it could not be Alikatu. Alikatu was dead. Alikatu was dead . . . dead. She would not wear her cloth the wrong way round . . . She always dressed correctly. Alikatu! He stood up and reached for her. She was smiling.

  ‘Alikatu!’ His throat worked and his eyes bulged. She was smiling defiantly. She was beyond his reach. ‘What are you saying? Your lips are moving. I cannot hear you. I cannot hear — No! Not yet . . . I’ll join you when my time here is up. Truly, I’ll come . . . You have always been my favourite wife . . . I’ll come, in Olorun’s name, I will . . .’

  She was no longer standing there, but instead Kekere was at the door and saying something. ‘I thought I heard you talking . . . Who was it? Who was it?’

  Lajide crept back to his seat, not speaking. One by one his other wives were coming into the room, rigged and preened like courting birds. They were coming from the crowd, from the city and its noise.

  ‘What’s wrong, Kekere, tell us. You were here with him!’

  ‘No, I’ve just returned. I came in. As I was coming in, I thought I heard somebody talking.’

  They looked at her suspiciously. She was the youngest of them all and completely frivolous. In her low-cut blouse, which showed far too much of her firm breasts, she seemed capable of anything.

  ‘Truly,’ she said. ‘I’m not lying. When I came in, I – I thought he was looking at – at me. I was standing there, at the door. And I asked him whether he was talking to somebody and he did not answer.’

  ‘If you have done nothing to him, why does he look so queer? Better speak the truth now!’

  ‘Lord receive my soul!’ Kekere swore, noisily slapping her skirt. ‘Me? What could I possibly do to him?’

  The six women sensed a mystery. Of course no one mentioned the word poison. Where each woman sought the husband’s affection, a love potion might be given with good intentions.

  Soft hands found the husband’s armpits . . . wrapped round his knees . . . around his waist . . . Sweet breaths were in-drawn and the aroma of delicate perfume filled the air . . . and as feminine silk rustled, the seven wives, now burdened with the snoring husband, bore him as lightly as they might into the bedroom.

  ‘You’d all better go and change your clothes,’ said the fat woman, the Number One wife, taking charge. ‘I’ll watch over him.’

  12

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ Bayo said. He trudged beside Sango on their way to the left luggage shed where Sango’s things were kept. He was in such a state that he followed Sango wherever he went, trying to get a word in about his love affair. ‘Sango, the girl Suad warned me all the time to be quick and marry her. She warned me. Truly, she did; but I was unable to marry her. No money. I kept postponing. And now, Sango. Can you believe it? What she said is coming true! Her brother wants to fly her back to Syria. But is that really possible? Just because the poor girl is in love with me?’

  ‘When is the flight?’

  ‘On Monday! Today is Saturday. What can I do? Too late! Oh Lord. My dear, loving Suad Zamil. She has cried so much! Her brother said he’d disown her if she so much as mentions my name again in his ears. She doesn’t care. Goes on calling Bayo, all the time.’

  Sango found his box and now fumbling for his keys, opened it and began to remove an old script. He took out the clothes he wanted and together they went to a gents’ near by to change.

  ‘Sango, you mean this is where you actually keep your things? You haven’t found a place? Of course the room of First Trumpet is too small to contain both your things. But this is awful. I’m very sorry. Where do you practise with your band? How can a man live like this?’

  Sango said not a word. He was gradually changing his clothes, and Bayo was still talking. ‘They’re keeping her away from me. Muhamad Zamil is watching over her with a loaded revolver. He doesn’t let her out of his sight. Beatrice is no longer there. If she had been there, I could have some excuse of visiting the place. I’m very worried, Sango.’

  ‘How did this matter leak out in the first place?’

  ‘I can’t tell you the whole story, Sango. But I suspect Beatrice has something to do with it. You remember Zamil took her to “wife”. Well, jealousy can do a lot, you know. And revenge too. You see, it was Beatrice who introduced Suad Zamil to me and we fell in love. She became jealous because the girl liked me at once. Of course we used to meet in her room and she was kind to us. But I never once suspected she would betray us. You see, she and Suad quarrelled. Suad did not like the idea of her brother merely keeping an African woman, and yet she was in love with me! I can’t understand it all, Sango. It’s complicated. But anyway, Zamil knows now, and is guarding her. This thing has gone to high quarters.’ Bayo wrung his hands.

  ‘Have you been to the Welfare Office? Tell them you want to marry the girl; that the girl is old enough to decide things for herself, but her guardian will not let her do her will.’

  ‘I’ve been there!’ Bayo said furiously. ‘Red tape was against me. They even said they were closing for the holidays. By the time they re-open the girl would be safely home!’ He flung his cigarette-butt on to the lavatory floor. That gesture of despair touched Sango. A man came in and they went out on to the station platform. Idly, Sango and Bayo watched a shunting engine. When you lived near a railway station the noise of the engines ceased to sound in your ears.

  ‘Why not go away on a train?’ Sango suggested. ‘Take the girl and run away. It’s romantic! Don’t laugh, people do it. At least, you’ll leave Zamil alone to look after his shop; and when he cools off, you come back. After all, the girl has her own life to lead. And if you’re the man she’s chosen, you must see she is happy.’

  Bayo’s condition was pitiful to see. Dull were his shoes, wrinkled his tie; and the hair of this erstwhile dapper youngster was for once uncombed. Was this the same Bayo who trifled with women’s hearts? So terrified of everything that might hurt Suad Zamil? Bayo who was usually so confident in such affairs?

  ‘Just think of Zamil,’ he went on bitterly. ‘How many girls does he “marry” in a year? I know of Beatrice. Now he’s taken another – a half-caste called Sybil. But she’s not so new; they were “husband” and “wife” long before he met Beatrice. She has two daughters for him. Zamil makes Suad unhappy by all this and she wants him to settle down. He pays the girls good money if they are virgins. Then he throws them away after his curiosity has been satisfied. What future have girls like Sybil and Beatrice? What decent man will ever take them into their own homes and keep them? Yet, just think! It is this same Zamil who must hold Suad from me! It is he who must guard her morals . . .’

  ‘When last did you see Suad?’

  ‘Before I went to that waking . . . you remember? When Lajide’s wife died.’

  ‘That
’s about two months ago. How then has this thing suddenly flared up? Okay, Bayo! If they’re taking her away from you, we must make one last effort to see her. We’re going there – this night, Bayo!’

  ‘She told me to get a special licence. I went to the magistrate and he insisted on seeing her in person. There can be no marriage without a bride, or someone to give the bride away! One thing, Sango! I do not want to make this girl suffer for my sake. I love her too much. Please do not come with me tonight. It’s too dangerous for two people.’

  ‘I’ll come, Bayo. I want to see this girl Suad. Do you realize I’ve heard so much about her, yet do not know the future bride of my best friend?’

  They walked on through the city, wrapped in this problem. Round and round they talked on the same topic: how wrong-doing is a hill, and how one mounts this hill and descries that of another: Zamil and Suad, Bayo and Beatrice, Sango and Aina. . . . And as Sango kept his eyes open for the notice ROOM TO LET, he was thinking how different life would soon be. Associate Editor, West African Sensation: but then he remembered the way Beatrice the Second had said ‘I have a fiancé in England . . . I love him very much’.

  He began to walk faster.

  •

  A little after midnight, two figures crept into the garden at 163B Clifford Street West. Lights were still on in the main building. From one of the rooms, the radio was blaring forth Arabian music.

  ‘Which one is her room, Bayo?’

  ‘We can’t get in . . . it’s at the back.’

  ‘We’ll try. I have a little plan. This is all the money I’ve been saving for that new room: just ten pounds. I’ll give some to the night watch. That’ll put him on our side. After all, how much does he earn in one month?’