what to say next.
“You must be surprised at my visit.” She was now speaking in Ibo.
“I didn’t know you were Ibo.” As soon as he said it light broke through. What was left of his gaiety vanished. The girl must have noticed a change in his expression or perhaps a movement of the hands. She avoided his eyes and her words came hesitantly. She was testing the slippery ground with one wary foot after another before committing her whole body.
“I’m sorry my brother came to your office. I told him not to.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Obi found himself saying. “I told him that—er—that with your Grade One certificate you stood a very good chance. It all depends on you really, how much you impress members of the Board at the interview.”
“The most important thing,” she said, “is to be sure that I am selected to appear before the Board.”
“Yes. But as I said, you stand as good chance as anybody else.”
“But people with Grade One are sometimes left out in favor of those with Grade Two or even Three.”
“I’ve no doubt that may happen sometimes. But all other things being equal.… I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything. I’m a very bad host. Can I bring you a Coca-Cola?” She smiled shyly with her eyes. “Yes?” He rushed off to his refrigerator and brought out a bottle. He took a long time opening it and pouring it into a glass. He was thinking furiously.
She accepted the glass and smiled her thanks. She must be about seventeen or eighteen. A mere girl, Obi thought. And already so wise in the ways of the world. They sat in silence for a long time.
“Last year,” she said suddenly, “none of the girls in our school who got Grade One was given a scholarship.”
“Perhaps they did not impress the Board.”
“It wasn’t that. It was because they did not see the members at home.”
“So you intend to see the members?”
“Yes.”
“Is a scholarship as important as all that? Why doesn’t a relation of yours pay for you to go to a university?”
“Our father spent all his money on our brother. He went to read Medicine but failed his exams. He switchedover to Engineering and failed again. He was in England for twelve years.”
“Was that the man who came to see me today?” She nodded. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is teaching in a Community Secondary School.” She was now looking very sad. “He. returned at the end of last year because our father died and we had no more money.”
Obi felt very sorry for her. She was obviously an intelligent girl who had set her mind, like so many other young Nigerians, on university education. And who could blame them? Certainly not Obi. It was rather sheer hypocrisy to ask if a scholarship was as important as all that or if university education was worth it. Every Nigerian knew the answer. It was yes.
A university degree was the philosopher’s stone. It transmuted a third-class clerk on one hundred and fifty a year into a senior civil servant on five hundred and seventy, with car and luxuriously furnished quarters at nominal rent. And the disparity in salary and amenities did not tell even half the story. To occupy a “European post” was second only to actually being a European. It raised a man from the masses to the élite whose small talk at cocktail parties was: “How’s the car behaving?”
“Please, Mr. Okonkwo, you must help me. I’ll do whatever you ask.” She avoided his eyes. Her voice was a little unsteady, and Obi thought he saw a hint of tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, terribly sorry, but I don’t see that I can make any promises.”
Another car drew up outside with a screech of brakes, and Clara rushed in, as was her fashion, humming a popular song. She stopped abruptly on seeing the girl.
“Hello, Clara. This is Miss Mark.”
“How do you do?” she said stiffly, with a slight nod of the head. She did not offer her hand. “How did you like the soup?” she asked Obi. “I’m
“You must be surprised at my visit.” She was now speaking in Ibo.
“I didn’t know you were Ibo.” As soon as he said it light broke through. What was left of his gaiety vanished. The girl must have noticed a change in his expression or perhaps a movement of the hands. She avoided his eyes and her words came hesitantly. She was testing the slippery ground with one wary foot after another before committing her whole body.
“I’m sorry my brother came to your office. I told him not to.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Obi found himself saying. “I told him that—er—that with your Grade One certificate you stood a very good chance. It all depends on you really, how much you impress members of the Board at the interview.”
“The most important thing,” she said, “is to be sure that I am selected to appear before the Board.”
“Yes. But as I said, you stand as good chance as anybody else.”
“But people with Grade One are sometimes left out in favor of those with Grade Two or even Three.”
“I’ve no doubt that may happen sometimes. But all other things being equal.… I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything. I’m a very bad host. Can I bring you a Coca-Cola?” She smiled shyly with her eyes. “Yes?” He rushed off to his refrigerator and brought out a bottle. He took a long time opening it and pouring it into a glass. He was thinking furiously.
She accepted the glass and smiled her thanks. She must be about seventeen or eighteen. A mere girl, Obi thought. And already so wise in the ways of the world. They sat in silence for a long time.
“Last year,” she said suddenly, “none of the girls in our school who got Grade One was given a scholarship.”
“Perhaps they did not impress the Board.”
“It wasn’t that. It was because they did not see the members at home.”
“So you intend to see the members?”
“Yes.”
“Is a scholarship as important as all that? Why doesn’t a relation of yours pay for you to go to a university?”
“Our father spent all his money on our brother. He went to read Medicine but failed his exams. He switchedover to Engineering and failed again. He was in England for twelve years.”
“Was that the man who came to see me today?” She nodded. “What does he do for a living?”
“He is teaching in a Community Secondary School.” She was now looking very sad. “He. returned at the end of last year because our father died and we had no more money.”
Obi felt very sorry for her. She was obviously an intelligent girl who had set her mind, like so many other young Nigerians, on university education. And who could blame them? Certainly not Obi. It was rather sheer hypocrisy to ask if a scholarship was as important as all that or if university education was worth it. Every Nigerian knew the answer. It was yes.
A university degree was the philosopher’s stone. It transmuted a third-class clerk on one hundred and fifty a year into a senior civil servant on five hundred and seventy, with car and luxuriously furnished quarters at nominal rent. And the disparity in salary and amenities did not tell even half the story. To occupy a “European post” was second only to actually being a European. It raised a man from the masses to the élite whose small talk at cocktail parties was: “How’s the car behaving?”
“Please, Mr. Okonkwo, you must help me. I’ll do whatever you ask.” She avoided his eyes. Her voice was a little unsteady, and Obi thought he saw a hint of tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, terribly sorry, but I don’t see that I can make any promises.”
Another car drew up outside with a screech of brakes, and Clara rushed in, as was her fashion, humming a popular song. She stopped abruptly on seeing the girl.
“Hello, Clara. This is Miss Mark.”
“How do you do?” she said stiffly, with a slight nod of the head. She did not offer her hand. “How did you like the soup?” she asked Obi. “I’m
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