The Tomorrow-Tamer Read Free Page A

not.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause it is a sacred place,” she answered simply, “and I am afraid.”
    The beach was only a few yards away. We walked down there.
    â€œYou have grown very tall,” she smiled, and she placed one of her hands lightly on my wrist. Then she hesitated. “Are–are Englishmen like other men?”
    I could not help laughing at that, and she laughed too, without self-consciousness or shame. Then, clumsily, I took her in my arms.
    She was more experienced than I. I would not have blamed her if she had mocked me. But she did not. For her, it answered a question. Quite probably that is all. But for me it was something else. Possessing her, I possessed all earth. Afterwards, I told her that I had to go back to England soon. Perhaps I expected her to say she would be broken-hearted.
    â€œYes, it is right that you should return to your own land,” Afua said.
    I was about to tell her that I would come back here, that I would see her again. But something stopped me.
    It was the sudden memory of what Kwabena had said. “Follow your heart, and you perish.”
    Â 
    Of course I did go back to Africa after all, but not for another ten years. Africa had changed. The flame trees still scattered their embers of blossoms upon the hard earth. The surf boats still hurtled through the big waves. The market women’smammy-cloths were as gaudy, their talk as ribald as ever. Yet nothing was the same.
    The country was to have its independence the following year, but the quality of change was more than political. It was so many things. It was an old chieftain in a greasy and threadbare robe, with no retinue–only a small boy carrying aloft the red umbrella, ancient mark of aristocracy. It was an African nightclub called “Weekend in Wyoming”, and a mahogany-skinned girl wearing white face powder. It was parades of a new sort, buxom market women chanting “Free–dom!” It was the endless palaver of newborn trade unions, the mushroom sprouting of a dozen hand-set newspapers. It was an innuendo in the slogans painted on mammy-lorries–The Day Will Come, Life Is Needed, Authority Is Never Loved. It was the names of highlife bands–The Majestic Atoms, Scorpion Ansah And His Jet Boys. It was the advertisements in newspapers–“Take Tiger Liver Tonic for fitness, and see how fast you will be promoted at work.” It was the etiquette and lovelorn columns–“Is it proper for a young lady to wear high heels with traditional African dress?” or “I am engaged to a girl whose illiteracy is causing me great embarrassment–can you advise?”
    The old Africa was dying, and I felt suddenly rootless, a stranger in the only land I could call home.
    I drove up the coast to our old village one day to see Afua. I ought to have known better, but I did not. Afua is married to a fisherman, and they have so far four living children. Two died. Afua must have married very young. Her face is still handsome. Nothing could alter the beauty of those strong sweet bones–they will be the same when she is eighty. Yes, her face is beautiful. But that is all. Her body is old from work and child-bearing. African women suckle their childrenfor a long time. Her breasts are old, ponderous, hanging. I suppose they are always full of milk. I did not mind that so much. That is the way of life here. No, I am wrong. I did mind. But that was not what I minded the most.
    She came to the door of the hut, a slow smile on her lips. She looked questioningly at my car, then at me. When she saw who it was, she stopped smiling. Around her, the children nuzzled like little goats, and flies clung to the eyelids of the sleeping baby on her back. The hot still air was dogged with latrine stench and the heavy pungency of frying plantains.
    â€œI greet you–master,” Afua said.
    And in her eyes was the hatred, the mockery of all time.
    Â 
    I met Kwabena