Chapter 50

"Shakespeare, I used to doubt he is the best because I've read a couple of pretty authors whom I think have better works to put to the table, authors whose works were also translated into a couple of wonderful languages of the world." The fellow was tall, and his hat was like that of a modern-day clown.

I was watching them through the window. They were three men, three men who seemed to be infatuated by the other big side of arts and literature, but I was expecting them to speak of Mozart and the great perfumiers of Paris as was recorded in the books we read in college, but they only speak of books.

"Talk of Dickens." Said the same man. "He is such a flawless writer, far better in words than your sweetheart until I read that damn sonnet, Shall I compare thee…"

They laughed and ended their laughter with countless sips of what they had on their table. I felt the urge to join them from inside and have fun with them.

"That poem, there is something about it." said a second man. "He wrote it for his lover, but surprisingly, the mother is a boy, a being with a stick dangling between his thighs."

They laughed once more, but that wasn't the end of their conversation. I smiled. I like it when people speak of art and books, and people who have contributed immensely to all those sweet things we love about laugh.

"You speak of the West as the best for you, but I guess that's not all we got in place." Came the third man. "There are voices more soothing than that of Shakespeare and Dickens and all the lily-white writers from the West."

The first man made faces. Who could have such a soothing voice? I thought of the American books I've read, America and literature, theirs is quite funny, not something one can compare to the pretty works of those core lily white writers of Europe, so, I could tell the voice wasn't from America because America from the onset always did what was out of the bucket.

"Who do you speak of that we are waiting so hard to hear?" asked the second man.

"It should be the man who praised the queen of England and wrote books that were a lot persuasive, particularly on Eurocentrism." Said the first man.

He was speaking of Soyinka, and that was in line with the poems he wrote in his very unique way, but with the tone of the third man and the way he spoke of a voice that soothed him better than the words of Shakespeare, I could tell it was otherwise.

Achebe! That name flew into my mind. Chinua Achebe. I wanted to scream it out loud so they would hear, but the third man was faster than I was.

"Chinua Achebe." Said the third man, a West African like us, but a brilliant writer who broke boundaries with his words, and spoke to the world in our tone, blended fully in the white man's language. Imagine reading English and still feeling the same thing you feel when your mother tells you a midnight story about your ancestors."

I smiled. He was right. The first best African book I read was Achebe's Things Fall Apart, followed by a couple of other African books, before I delved into reading Hardly Chase for the sake of my secret career, and a few other works from Stephen King, then, as for Shakespeare, I read his piece because they are read in school, and I did fall in love with them.

"Chinua is forever a legend, even after death." The first guy took off his hat. "He isn't the first voice from Africa, but he is the first finger to poke in the eyes of the likes of Conrad who claimed we are what the French called us, Mongis."

They laughed. I remembered what the lady who led me to my room, or should I say, temporal apartment said to me the moment I countered her words. She asked if I was an activist like Professor Lumumba. The man has dedicated his life to enlightening the very stubborn Africa on the need to exist on their own and quite colonial influence.

That's not my fight, not my role.

"Just let the French be." said the second man. "They made our fathers bleach and travel to Dakar, Rafisq, Saint Louis, and the other…"

"That's no big deal, the big deal is are we willing to stop being French?" said the third man. "Only Nigerians can answer such questions. They've been active in putting on the fight against the white man, especially those stubborn Igbos whom the white man is yet to put shackles in their minds."

That was too much talk. Does he mean other Africans were doing nothing except the Igboes of Nigeria, whom for sure, the British truly despise?

"Too many praises for those people that kept the world busy for three and half years, dying and yet fighting to break from the shackles of the white man." The first man laughed. "They are not so loved even in their own country, but it's not what we came for. There are better things to discuss now."

I swallowed. I was with Nigerians of Igbo descent. They are fearless and concise. Every Nigerian is audacious, but those, they came to conquer, to take in their crisp what the white man had stolen, and to bring light to the rest of us, and one of them is the nurse that laughed at me for asking for PEPs.

I took a deep breath and drew the curtain. Their conversation has changed. They were now discussing politics and praising Yapi's campaign jamboree. Things that get me pissed off. Things I wouldn't love to hear because I've always known what lie in the deep.

I walked out of the living room and made it to the balcony in the backyard.