Girls at War by Chinua Achebe

for a title in a well-stocked bookshelf, and then: “There we are!” Soon he emerged with a small bottle. “Everything here is in German,” he said, studying the label with a squint. “Do you read German?”
    “No.”
    “Nor do I. Try making one thrice daily and see how you feel.”
    “Thank you, Father.”
    “Next!” he said jovially.
    His short absence to get the tablets had enabled Cletus to transfer most of the coffee from his cup to his mouth and, moving smartly to the low window behind him and putting out his neck, disgorge it quickly outside.
    “Name your wish. Joost wun wish, remember,” said Father Doherty, now really gay.
    “Father,” said Cletus almost solemnly, “I need a little sugar.”
    I had been worrying since we got here how he was going to put that request across, what form of words he would use. Now it came out so pure and so simple like naked truth from the soul. I admired him for that performance for I knew I could never have managed it. Perhaps Father Doherty himself had unconsciously assisted by lending the circumstance, albeit jovially, a stark mythological simplicity. If so he now demolished it just as quickly and thoroughly as a capricious childmight kick back into sand the magic castle he had just created. He seized Cletus by the scruff of his neck and shouting “Wretch! Wretch!” shoved him outside. Then he went for me; but I had already found and taken another exit. He raved and swore and stamped like a truly demented man. He prayed God to remember this outrage against His Holy Ghost on Judgement Day. “Sugar! Sugar!! Sugar!!!” he screamed in hoarse crescendo. Sugar when thousands of God’s innocents perished daily for lack of a glass of milk! Worked up now beyond endurance by his own words he rushed out and made for us. And there was nothing for it but run, his holy imprecations ringing in our ears.
    We spent a miserable, tongue-tied hour at the road-junction trying to catch a lift back to Amafo. In the end we walked the ten miles again but now in the withering, heat and fear of midday air raid.
    That was one story that Cletus presumably wanted me to tell to celebrate our first tea party. How could I? I couldn’t see it as victory in retrospect, only as defeat. And there were many, the ugliest yet to come.
    Not long after our encounter with Father Doherty I was selected by the Foreign Affairs people “to go on a mission.” Although it was a kind of poor man’s mission lasting just a week and taking me no farther than the offshore Portuguese island of São Tomé I was nevertheless overjoyed because abroad was still abroad and I had never stepped out of Biafra since the war began—a fact calculated to dismiss one outright in the opinion of his fellows as a man of no consequence, but more important, which meant that one never had a chance to bask in the glory of coming back with those little amenities that had suddenly become marks ofrank and good living, like bath soap, a towel, razor blades, etc.
    On the last day before my journey, close friends and friends not so close, mere acquaintances and even complete strangers and near enemies came to tell me their wishes. It had become a ritual, almost a festival whose ancient significance was now buried deep in folk-memory. Some lucky fellow was going on a mission to an almost mythical world long withdrawn beyond normal human reach where goods abounded still and life was safe. And everyone came to make their wishes. And to every request the lucky one answered: “I will try, you know the problem …”
    “Oh yes I know, but just try …” No real hope, no obligation or commitment.
    Occasionally, however, a firm and serious order was made when one of the happier people came. For this, words were superfluous. Just a slip of paper with “foreign exchange” pinned to it. Some wanted salt which was entirely out because of the weight. Many wanted underwear for themselves or their girls and some wretch even ordered contraceptives