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intellectual foundations to support their experience.”
    “What about the Land Officer jailed last year? He is straight from the university.”
    “He is an exception,” said Obi. “But take one of these old men. He probably left school thirty years ago in Standard Six. He has worked steadily to the top through bribery—an ordeal by bribery. To him the bribe is natural. He gave it and he expects it. Our people say that if you pay homage to the man on top, others will pay homage to you when it is your turn to be on top. Well, that is what the old men say.”
    “What do the young men say, if I may ask?”
    “To most of them bribery is no problem. They come straight to the top without bribing anyone. It’s not that they’re necessarily better than others, it’s simply that they can afford to be virtuous. But even that kind of virtue can become a habit.”
    “Very well put,” conceded Christopher as he took a large piece of meat from the egusi soup. They were eating pounded yams and egusi soup with their fingers. The second generation of educated Nigerians had gone back to eating pounded yams or garri with their fingers for the good reason that it tasted better that way. Also for the even better reason that they were not as scared as the first generation of being called uncivilized.
    “Zacchaeus!” called Clara.
    “Yes, madam,” answered a voice from the pantry.
    “Bring us more soup.”
    Zacchaeus had half a mind not to reply, but he thought better of it and said grudgingly: “Yes, madam.” Zacchaeus had made up his mind to resign as soon as Master married Madam. “I like Master too much, but this Madam no good,” was his verdict.

C HAPTER T HREE
    The affair between Obi and Clara could not strictly be called love at first sight. They met at a dance organized by the London branch of the National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons at the St. Pancras Town Hall. Clara had come with a student who was fairly well known to Obi and who introduced them. Obi was immediately struck by her beauty and followed her with his eyes round the hall. In the end he succeeded in getting a dance with her. But he was so flustered that the only thing he could find to say was: “Have you been dancing very long?” “No. Why?” was the curt reply. Obi was never a very good dancer, but that night he was simply appalling. He stepped on her toes about four times in the first half-minute. Thereafter she concentrated all her attention on moving her foot sideways just in time. As soon as the dance ended she fled. Obi pursued her to her seat to say: “Thank you very much.” She nodded without looking.
    They did not meet again until almost eighteen months later at the Harrington Dock in Liverpool. For it happened that they were returning to Nigeria the same day on the same boat.
    It was a small cargo boat carrying twelve passengers and a crew of fifty. When Obi arrived at the dock the other passengers had all embarked and completed their customs formalities. The short bald-headed customs officer was very friendly. He began by asking Obi whether he had had a happy stay in England. Did he go to a university in England? He must have found the weather very cold.
    “I didn’t mind the weather very much in the end,” said Obi, who had learnt that an Englishman might grumble about his weather but did not expect a foreigner to join in.
    When he went into the lounge Obi nearly fell over himself at the sight of Clara. She was talking to an elderly woman and a young Englishman. Obi sat with them and introduced himself. The elderly woman, whose name was Mrs. Wright, was returning to Freetown. The young man was called Macmillan, an administrative officer in Northern Nigeria. Clara introduced herself as Miss Okeke. “I think we have met before,” said Obi. Clara looked surprised and somewhat hostile. “At the N.C.N.C. dance in London.” “I see,” she said, with as much interest as if she had just been told that they were on a boat in the