Chinua Achebe - Anthills of the Savannah

'And under false pretences!'

'Imagine!'

'Sorry-o.'

'Actually she is the shyest thing I have ever met in all my life. I don't think it was my clothes alone.'

'I shouldn't have thought so either. Your sterling quality would shine through any rags.'

'Thanks! The real trouble was getting her to open her mouth. She spoke at the rate of one word per hour. And it was either yes or no .'

'How did you find out she was a student-nurse?'

'Na proper tug-of-war.'

'What's she called?'

'Adamma. Her father is a Customs Officer in the far north.'

'A lot of information to piece together from yes and no.'

They laughed and fell into silence as if on some signal. They had each independently come to the same conclusion that though everything had gone reasonably well so far they must not push their luck by talking and laughing too much. It was in the ensuing reverie that Chris, gazing out into the empty landscape, had become aware of the anthills.

When he had read the prose-poem through and read the last paragraph or two over again he said quietly to Emmanuel: 'You must read this,' and passed the paper to him.

It was Braimoh who first drew their attention to a large crowd on the road half-a-kilometre or so ahead. Almost simultaneously everybody in the bus seemed to have become aware of the spectacle so unusual and so visible in that flat, treeless country. Many of the passengers had lifted themselves to half-standing positions at their seats the better to see this strange sight. What could it be? A check-point? The driver slowed down to a wary pace. As the scene came closer, a few uniforms began to emerge out of the dusty haze. There were a few cars and trucks parked this side of the crowd and a bus that was heading South and perhaps other vehicles as well slowly became visible beyond.

The uniforms were greatly outnumbered by people in regular outfits, presumably passengers whose journey had been interrupted, and even by ragged peasants attracted from the arid lives of a few scattered hamlets of round huts dotting the landscape.

The bus continued its progress to this mystery but at a mere cautious crawl. A road accident? No! There was something discernible in the prancing about which did not suggest sorrow or anger but a strange kind of merry-making. And now there was no longer any doubt. Beer bottles could be seen in nearly all hands and the dancing — for no other name seemed better for this activity — was constantly accompanied by the throwing of the head backwards and the emptying of bottles direct into gullets without touching the lips.

The bus pulled up to the side. Some of the crowd were rushing towards it like a tipsy welcoming-party. But the pulling up of the bus and the sudden explosion inside it, like a hand-grenade thrown from the crowd, of the word COUP! came on top of each other. The bus was evacuated like a vessel on fire. The driver, unlike a good and honourable captain, shoved people aside to get to the ground first.

Chris plunged into the crowd looking for someone who might have coherent information. Ultimately he sighted the police sergeant and pulled him aside rather brusquely in his breathless eagerness. The fellow was pleased to oblige, a bottle in his right and a Mark IV rifle in his left.

'Na radio there talk am,' was how he began. There was an unsightly shack of cardboard and metal thrown together to provide occasional relief to the check-point crew from the sun's onslaught and perhaps also a little privacy for negotiating difficult bribes from motorists. A radio set in there had apparently given the news.

'So at the same time we hear the news this lorry wey dem load beer full up come de pass. So we say na God send am. The driver talk say the beer no be him own, na government get am. So we say: very good. As Government done fall now, na who go drink the beer? So we self we de stand for sun here, no water to drink; na him God send us small beer to make our own cocktail party.'

His laughter was actually quite infectious and the little crowd that had quickly gathered around their story-teller nodding assent and swilling the beer at intervals, joined in the laughter. Even Chris had to laugh, but really as a bribe for getting more information, not from genuine amusement.

'Where is the radio?' he asked, thinking they must be putting out other announcements in the midst of martial music.

'They done thief-am. As we dey for road de drink a thief-man go inside carry the radio commot. This country na so so thief-man full am. But na me and them. They no know me? Before any vehicle can move out from here today I go search am well well and the stupid arm-robber wey hold my radio na him soul go rest in peace, with the President.'

'Did they say anything about the President?'

The sergeant looked at him suspiciously. 'Why you de make all this cross-examination? Wetin concern poor man like you and President, eh? I say wetin concern vulture and barber?' He was clearly enjoying the attention. 'Anyways, the President done disappear. They no fit find am again. They say unknown persons enter Palace and kidnap am. So make everybody de watch proper for this check-point.' He burst out into another peal of laughter taking his willing hearers. 'This our country na waa! I never hear the likeness before. A whole President de miss; like old woman de waka for village talk say him goat de miss! This Africa na waa!'

'No be you tell whiteman make he commot?' asked somebody from the crowd. 'Ehe, white man done go now, and hand over to President. Now that one done loss for inside bush. Wetin we go do again?'

'We go make another President. That one no hard,' said a third person.

'He no hard, eh? Next tomorrow they go tell you say your new President climb palm-tree and no fit come down again,' said the second man to a tremendous outburst of laughter. He was obviously a wit to reckon with, and knew it.

'So wetin we go do now?'

'Make every man, woman and child and even those them never born, make everybody collect twenty manilla each and bring to me and I go take am go England and negotiate with IMF to bring white man back to Kangan.'

Chris had detached himself from this bizarre group to look for Emmanuel.

'Can you make any sense of this?' he asked when he found him.

'Not yet, sir. Except it appears His Excellency was kidnapped last night and the Chief of Staff has sworn to find him but has meanwhile taken over the reins of government.'

'We must head back to Bassa. Right away. Where is Braimoh? Get our things out of the bus.' His obsessed seriousness was a rebuke to Emmanuel's faint-hearted sarcasm and he went away to his assignment somewhat chastened.

Chris plunged into another section of the crowd which was fast degenerating into drunken mayhem. Bottles were smashed on the road after they were emptied and sometimes before, and more than a few unshod feet were already bleeding. Any promising informant he approached was too drunk and, what was more, critical of him for asking sober questions amounting almost to mental harassment of his victims.

'Go and have a drink,' one of them said to him, like a man who, before his present state, had been used to exercising authority.

'I have had a drink. Several drinks,' said Chris, sounding superior without perhaps intending to.

'If you have drunk… As I have drunk… why are you standing straight like that? Or is it my eyes.' The fellow's head was going from side to side like an albino, though he was shiny-black like ebony.

'I am not standing straight,' said Chris, unaccountably mesmerized by this highly articulate drunk.

'No, it is not my eyes… You are not standing… I mean to say, you are standing as straight as a flag-pole. You get me? My difficulty then is: if as you say you drank as much beer as myself, why are you standing straight? Or put it another way. If two of us ate the same palm-oil chop, how come one of us, i.e. yourself, is passing black shit? That is what I want to know, mister. Two people ate palm-oil soup…'