A Man of the People Read Free Page A

to the Minister that I found myself feeling a little embarrassed on his account for these fulsome praises flung at his face. 'Minister or no minister,' he said, 'a man who is my senior must still be my senior. Other ministers and other people may do otherwise but my motto is: Do the right and shame the Devil.' Somehow I found myself admiring the man for his lack of modesty. For what is modesty but inverted pride? We all think we are first-class people. Modesty forbids us from saying so ourselves though, presumably, not from wanting to hear it from others. Perhaps it was their impatience with this kind of hypocrisy that made men like Nanga successful politicians while starry-eyed idealists strove vaingloriously to bring into politics niceties and delicate refinements that belonged elsewhere. While I thought about all this---perhaps not in these exact terms---the fulsome praises flowed all around the dais. Mr Nwege took the opportunity to mount his old hobbyhorse. The Minister's excellent behaviour, he said, was due to the sound education he had received when education was education. 'Yes,' said the Minister, 'I use to tell them that standard six in those days is more than Cambridge today.' 'Cambridge?' asked Mr Nwege who, like the Minister, had the good old standard six. 'Cambridge? Who dash frog coat? You mean it is equal to B. A. today---if not more.' 'With due apologies,' said the Minister turning in my direction. 'Not at all, sir,' I replied with equal good humour. 'I am applying for a post-graduate scholarship to bring myself up to Mr Nwege's expectation.' I remember that at that point the beautiful girl in the Minister's party turned round on her chair to look at me. My eyes met hers and she quickly turned round again. I think the Minister noticed it. 'My private secretary has B. A. from Oxford,' he said. 'He should have come with me on this tour but I had some office work for him to do. By the way, Odili, I think you are wasting your talent here. I want you to come to the capital and take up a strategic post in the civil service. We shouldn't leave everything to the highland tribes. My secretary is from there; our people must press for their fair share of the national cake.' The hackneyed phrase 'national cake' was getting to some of us for the first time, and so it was greeted with applause. 'Owner of book!' cried one admirer, assigning in those three brief words the ownership of the white man's language to the Honourable Minister, who turned round and beamed on the speaker. That was when my friend Andrew Kadibe committed the unpardonable indiscretion of calling the Minister the nickname he had worn as a teacher: 'M.A. Minus Opportunity.' It was particularly bad because Andrew and the Minister were from the same village. The look he gave Andrew then reminded me of that other Nanga who had led the pack of hounds four years ago. 'Sorry, sir,' said Andrew pitiably. 'Sorry for what?' snarled the Minister. 'Don't mind the stupid boy, sir,' said Mr Nwege, greatly upset. 'This is what we were saying before.' 'I think we better begin,' said the Minister, still frowning. Although Mr Nwege had begun by saying that the distinguished guest needed no introduction he had gone on all the same to talk for well over twenty minutes---largely in praise of himself and all he had done for the Party in Anata 'and environs'. The crowd became steadily more restive especially when they noticed that the Minister was looking at his watch. Loud grumbles began to reach the dais from the audience. Then clear voices telling Nwege to sit down and let the man they came to hear talk. Nwege ignored all these warning signs---a more insensitive man you never saw. Finally one of the tough young men of the village stood up ten feet or so away and shouted: 'It is enough or I shall push you down and take three pence.' This did the trick. The laughter that went up must have been heard a mile away. Mr Nwege's concluding remarks were completely lost. In fact, it