second time tears rose in his eyes. Henceforth he wore her sadness round his neck like a necklace of stone.
His father too was all bones, although he did not look nearly as bad as his mother. It was clear to Obi that they did not have enough good food to eat. It was scandalous, he thought, that after nearly thirty years’ service in the church his father should retire on a salary of two pounds a month, a good slice of which went back to the same church by way of class fees and other contributions. And he had his two last children at school, each paying school fees and church fees.
Obi and his father sat up for a long time after the others had gone to bed, in the oblong room which gave on to the outside through a large central door and two windows. Thisroom was called pieze in Christian houses. The door and windows were shut to discourage neighbors who would have continued to stream in to see Obi—some of them for the fourth time that day.
There was a hurricane lamp beside the chair on which Obi’s father sat. It was his lamp. He washed the globe himself, he would not trust anybody to do it. The lamp itself was older than Obi.
The walls of the pieze had recently been given a new coat of chalk. Obi had not had a moment until now to look round for such loving tributes. The floor had also been rubbed; but what with the countless feet that had trod on it that day it was already needing another rubbing with red earth and water.
His father broke the silence at length.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.”
“What is that, Father?” asked Obi.
“Sometimes fear came upon me that I might not be spared to see your return.”
“Why? You seem as strong as ever.”
Obi’s father ignored the false compliment, pursuing his own train of thought. “Tomorrow we shall all worship at church. The pastor has agreed to make it a special service for you.”
“But is it necessary, Father? Is it not enough that we pray together here as we prayed this night?”
“It is necessary,” said his father. “It is good to pray at home but better to pray in God’s house.”
Obi thought: “What would happen if I stood up and said to him: ‘Father, I no longer believe in your God’?” He knew it was impossible for him to do it, but he just wondered what would happen if he did. He often wondered like that. A few weeks ago in London he had wondered what would have happened if he had stood up and shouted to the smooth M.P. lecturing to African students on the Central African Federation: “Go away, you are all bloody hypocrites!” It was not quite the same thing, though. His father believed fervently in God; the smooth M.P. was just a bloody hypocrite.
“Did you have time to read your Bible while you were there?”
There was nothing for it but to tell a lie. Sometimes a lie was kinder than the truth. Obi knew why the question had been asked. He had read his verses so badly at prayers that evening.
“Sometimes,” he replied, “but it was the Bible written in the English language.”
“Yes,” said his father. “I see.”
There was a long pause in which Obi remembered with shame how he had stumbled through his portions as a child. In the first verse he had pronounced ugwu as mountain when it should be circumcision . Four or five voices had promptly corrected him, the first to register being his youngest sister, Eunice, who was eleven and in Standard Four.
The whole family sat round the enormous parlor table with the ancient hurricane lamp in the center. There were nine people in all—father, brother, six sisters, and Obi. When his father called out the portion for the day from theScripture Union Card, Obi had impressed himself by finding it without difficulty in the Bible which he shared with Eunice. Prayers were then said for the opening of the eyes, and the reading began, each person reading one verse in turn.
Obi’s mother sat in the background on a low stool. The four little
His father too was all bones, although he did not look nearly as bad as his mother. It was clear to Obi that they did not have enough good food to eat. It was scandalous, he thought, that after nearly thirty years’ service in the church his father should retire on a salary of two pounds a month, a good slice of which went back to the same church by way of class fees and other contributions. And he had his two last children at school, each paying school fees and church fees.
Obi and his father sat up for a long time after the others had gone to bed, in the oblong room which gave on to the outside through a large central door and two windows. Thisroom was called pieze in Christian houses. The door and windows were shut to discourage neighbors who would have continued to stream in to see Obi—some of them for the fourth time that day.
There was a hurricane lamp beside the chair on which Obi’s father sat. It was his lamp. He washed the globe himself, he would not trust anybody to do it. The lamp itself was older than Obi.
The walls of the pieze had recently been given a new coat of chalk. Obi had not had a moment until now to look round for such loving tributes. The floor had also been rubbed; but what with the countless feet that had trod on it that day it was already needing another rubbing with red earth and water.
His father broke the silence at length.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.”
“What is that, Father?” asked Obi.
“Sometimes fear came upon me that I might not be spared to see your return.”
“Why? You seem as strong as ever.”
Obi’s father ignored the false compliment, pursuing his own train of thought. “Tomorrow we shall all worship at church. The pastor has agreed to make it a special service for you.”
“But is it necessary, Father? Is it not enough that we pray together here as we prayed this night?”
“It is necessary,” said his father. “It is good to pray at home but better to pray in God’s house.”
Obi thought: “What would happen if I stood up and said to him: ‘Father, I no longer believe in your God’?” He knew it was impossible for him to do it, but he just wondered what would happen if he did. He often wondered like that. A few weeks ago in London he had wondered what would have happened if he had stood up and shouted to the smooth M.P. lecturing to African students on the Central African Federation: “Go away, you are all bloody hypocrites!” It was not quite the same thing, though. His father believed fervently in God; the smooth M.P. was just a bloody hypocrite.
“Did you have time to read your Bible while you were there?”
There was nothing for it but to tell a lie. Sometimes a lie was kinder than the truth. Obi knew why the question had been asked. He had read his verses so badly at prayers that evening.
“Sometimes,” he replied, “but it was the Bible written in the English language.”
“Yes,” said his father. “I see.”
There was a long pause in which Obi remembered with shame how he had stumbled through his portions as a child. In the first verse he had pronounced ugwu as mountain when it should be circumcision . Four or five voices had promptly corrected him, the first to register being his youngest sister, Eunice, who was eleven and in Standard Four.
The whole family sat round the enormous parlor table with the ancient hurricane lamp in the center. There were nine people in all—father, brother, six sisters, and Obi. When his father called out the portion for the day from theScripture Union Card, Obi had impressed himself by finding it without difficulty in the Bible which he shared with Eunice. Prayers were then said for the opening of the eyes, and the reading began, each person reading one verse in turn.
Obi’s mother sat in the background on a low stool. The four little
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