events I have successfully resisted Chris’s notion of editorial restraint. But for how much longer?
“I CALLED YOUR OFFICE three or four times,” he says as soon as I enter. He is not looking at me but at the sheaf of typed papers he is bouncing up and down on the table between his palms to line them up.
“I take it you are asking me to explain why I was not on seat.”
“Oh don’t be silly, Ikem. I’m only telling you…”
“Well, sir. I had to go to GTC to hire a battery and have them place mine on twenty-four hour charge. I am sorry about that.”
“I was calling you about this morning’s editorial.” He is still not looking at me but the irritation on his face and in his voice is clearly mounting despite the quietness. I don’t seem to be able to arouse anger in him these days; only irritation.
“What about it?”
“What about it! You know, Ikem I have given up trying to understand what you are up to. Really, I have.”
“Good! At last!”
“How can you go about creating stupid problems for yourself and for everybody else.”
“Come on now! Speak for yourself, Chris. I am quite able to take care of myself. As for my editorials, as long as I remain editor of the
Gazette
I shall not seek anybody’s permission for what I write. I’ve told you that many times before. If you don’t like it you know what to do, Chris, don’t you? You hired me, didn’t you?”
“Firing could be the least of your problems just now let me tell you. You had better have some pretty good explanations ready for H.E. The only reason I called you is that he is likely to ask me first and I want to tell you now that I am sick and tired of getting up every Thursday to defend you.”
“Defend me? Good heavens! Who ever asked you to defend me? From what, anyway. Sounds to me like busy work, Chris.”
“Well, never mind. I shan’t do it any more. From now on you can go right ahead and stew in your own water.”
“Thank you, sir. If there is nothing else, may I leave now?”
“You certainly may!”
“That was short and sweet,” says his little painted doll of a secretary in the outer office. At a loss I simply glare at her and thenslam her door after me. But a few steps down the corridor what I should have said comes, too late, to me. Something like: I’ve heard that you like it long and painful. I stopped; weighed it; changed my mind and continued walking.
That young lady has a reputation for never putting Chris on the telephone until the secretary at the other end has put on the boss. Apparently she considers it a serious breach of protocol for the Honourable Commissioner to say hello to an assistant. I wonder why everything in this country turns so readily to routines of ritual contest. The heavyweight champion must not show his face but wait in his locker until the challenger has cooled his heels in the ring. I must say the whole charade is so unlike Chris that it must be done without his knowledge. But when will he learn that power is like marrying across the Niger; you soon find yourself paddling by night.
I T SEEMS C HRIS has tortured himself for nothing. A week has gone by and no despatch-rider has delivered a query to me in the loud type-face of palace Remingtons. No green army jeep or blue police jeep has pulled up outside the
Gazette
or in front of the flats. Chris is totally shamefaced. Naturally. Who can blame him? I’ll have to go over to his place this evening and see if I can make him feel better.
Worshipping a dictator is such a pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was merely a matter of dancing upside down on your head. With practice anyone could learn to do that. The real problem is having no way of knowing from one day to another, from one minute to the next, just what is up and what is down. It seems that when Chris was last at the palace the Big Shot had said quite categorically that he would pay a visit to Abazon. Chris came away and began dutifully to relay the news to
“I CALLED YOUR OFFICE three or four times,” he says as soon as I enter. He is not looking at me but at the sheaf of typed papers he is bouncing up and down on the table between his palms to line them up.
“I take it you are asking me to explain why I was not on seat.”
“Oh don’t be silly, Ikem. I’m only telling you…”
“Well, sir. I had to go to GTC to hire a battery and have them place mine on twenty-four hour charge. I am sorry about that.”
“I was calling you about this morning’s editorial.” He is still not looking at me but the irritation on his face and in his voice is clearly mounting despite the quietness. I don’t seem to be able to arouse anger in him these days; only irritation.
“What about it?”
“What about it! You know, Ikem I have given up trying to understand what you are up to. Really, I have.”
“Good! At last!”
“How can you go about creating stupid problems for yourself and for everybody else.”
“Come on now! Speak for yourself, Chris. I am quite able to take care of myself. As for my editorials, as long as I remain editor of the
Gazette
I shall not seek anybody’s permission for what I write. I’ve told you that many times before. If you don’t like it you know what to do, Chris, don’t you? You hired me, didn’t you?”
“Firing could be the least of your problems just now let me tell you. You had better have some pretty good explanations ready for H.E. The only reason I called you is that he is likely to ask me first and I want to tell you now that I am sick and tired of getting up every Thursday to defend you.”
“Defend me? Good heavens! Who ever asked you to defend me? From what, anyway. Sounds to me like busy work, Chris.”
“Well, never mind. I shan’t do it any more. From now on you can go right ahead and stew in your own water.”
“Thank you, sir. If there is nothing else, may I leave now?”
“You certainly may!”
“That was short and sweet,” says his little painted doll of a secretary in the outer office. At a loss I simply glare at her and thenslam her door after me. But a few steps down the corridor what I should have said comes, too late, to me. Something like: I’ve heard that you like it long and painful. I stopped; weighed it; changed my mind and continued walking.
That young lady has a reputation for never putting Chris on the telephone until the secretary at the other end has put on the boss. Apparently she considers it a serious breach of protocol for the Honourable Commissioner to say hello to an assistant. I wonder why everything in this country turns so readily to routines of ritual contest. The heavyweight champion must not show his face but wait in his locker until the challenger has cooled his heels in the ring. I must say the whole charade is so unlike Chris that it must be done without his knowledge. But when will he learn that power is like marrying across the Niger; you soon find yourself paddling by night.
I T SEEMS C HRIS has tortured himself for nothing. A week has gone by and no despatch-rider has delivered a query to me in the loud type-face of palace Remingtons. No green army jeep or blue police jeep has pulled up outside the
Gazette
or in front of the flats. Chris is totally shamefaced. Naturally. Who can blame him? I’ll have to go over to his place this evening and see if I can make him feel better.
Worshipping a dictator is such a pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was merely a matter of dancing upside down on your head. With practice anyone could learn to do that. The real problem is having no way of knowing from one day to another, from one minute to the next, just what is up and what is down. It seems that when Chris was last at the palace the Big Shot had said quite categorically that he would pay a visit to Abazon. Chris came away and began dutifully to relay the news to
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