CHAPTER THREE
Sonia cursed herself as she and her friends left the pub. A wet October night was not the time to have worn, of all silly things, a strapless dress with summer sandals. And what on earth was she doing splashing through rain and stubbing her toes on paving stones as she ran towards Balliol? Who was this person whom everyone was talking about as though he were a god? He was supposedly good-looking, from an aristocratic family, captain of boats at Balliol, and a million other marvellous things, none of which meant much to her. Certainly not the aristocratic bit, but she had to stay with her friends because it was late and too dark to walk back to college on her own, even though she still felt tempted to try.
When Sonia and her friends arrived at the party, someone was thoughtful enough to lend her a towel. She dried herself off, realising only then that the men who stared were looking not at her dress, but through it! "Oh well", she sighed, feeling tired already. "Let them look".
"care for a drink?" Someone asked.
"would love one". She took the glass and drank the wine quickly.
" I'm Charlie", he smiled, "and you?"
"Tired".
"Well tired is no good", he said, laughing. "Let me get you something". He took her empty glass and returned with a full one and a jumper.
"Not a bad match", she said, and smiled at his choice of clothing. "Oh, look who's here!" Charlie grabbed her hand and pulled her along.
"Michael, meet….
"Sonia", she offered, shaking free of Charlie to greet the newcomer whose handshake was firm but a little too lingering. What was wrong with these Oxford men? Still, she liked the deep tenor of the man's voice and watched him as he wandered off, stepping gingerly over empty wine glasses, toppled bottles, and a body sprawled drunkenly across the floor. It was rare that a man's look made her stare, but he was Indian, or possibly Arabic, with dark, shoulder-length hair and eyes. Everyone seemed to recognise Michael, or at least pretended to know him as they slapped him on the back in inebriated greeting. Apparently he was a well-known artist.
"He's terribly good-looking, isn't he?"
"He is". Sonia nodded, trying to remember the woman's name, but by now she was finding it difficult to think straight. The woman was in the same college as her. That much she remembered.
"They say he's a prince".
"Really?"
So, a prince and an artist she thought, until seeing that it was someone else the woman was referring to. And God, he was good-looking, too. Tall and dark, with beautiful hands that gestured as he talked. Oh no-no-no, Sonia thought to herself. When he looked her way. She was a little drunk, but still sober enough to care about looking bedraggled in front of a man like him.
The next morning Sonia woke up shivering with a throbbing headache. Every time she moved her head, the pain got worse so she lay still, trying to recall where she had been the night before and what she had done. She couldn't remember how she managed to get back to college and swore to herself that she would never drink so much again. She hadn't intended to get drunk but part of the problem, she realised she got a whiff of burnt toast from somewhere down the hall, was that she hadn't eaten very much. The food was so terrible in college that she had taken to skipping meals. She lay still for a few more minutes, hoping for some sun to brighten the room. Then, the relentless ringing of oxford bells began. She tried folding the ends of the pillow over her ears to block out the noise but that didn't help, so she gazed at the fireplace, wishing it could light itself, when she spotted the lump on the floor. "Shit", she whispered, grabbing a fistful of the blanket. Thinking it might be a rat, she cautiously craned her neck and squinted for a better view. "Thank God'', she muttered. It was only last night's clothes lying in a crumpled heap - her red dress and Charlie's jumper that she had forgotten to return. She pushed back the blankets, got out of bed and searched for her slippers and dressing gown before padding across the wooden floor to her desk. She took her notebook and hurried back to the warmth of the bed, plumping her pillows so she could sit up comfortably against the wall. But then she remembered something else. Music. She had to have music. She slipped out of bed again and picked out Bob Dylan's The times they are changin' from her record collection.
'The trouble with Oxford men', she began scribbling on her notepad; or better still, 'The trouble with men'. Either way, there would be no confusion on which article she was referring to, given that 'The problem with women at Oxford' had been published in the same student paper for which she now wrote. She jotted down a list of ideas and then changed her mind. She would write to her best friend, instead.
Sonia and Richard had gone into an argument just before the summer holidays and a few weeks later Richard sent her a letter telling her that their relationship was over. He had taken offence at being called clingy and had accused Sonia of looking for an excuse to court other men. In Sonia's mind she had only been trying to tell him she wasn't ready for a long-term commitment. She didn't want to make the same mistake she did with Charles, but neither did she want the relationship with Richard to end. She kept hoping that Richard would change his mind but as the weeks went by with no words from him, and as she began to meet new people, she decided that perhaps the break had been a good thing.
The room booked for the West African Society meeting was in the basement. It wasn't the best of rooms - cold and damp - but it would do. Someone had set up the film projector so that all Sonia had to do was dust the furniture. She rubbed her hand wondering how it was that English people never seem to feel the cold. She concluded that it must be genetics, as she pulled out the chairs and pushed the table against the wall for food and drink. College rules limited refreshments at the meetings to hors d'oeuvres, but nobody ever took this seriously and Sonia had started to dream of Richard and the sex they had countless times, the way he made her moan and the way he kissed her. She was still dreaming when Richard arrived with Whitney and Maxwell carrying a bowl of Jollof rice and a bowl of fruit salad.
"What did you make?" Sonia asked, circling her hands above the food that Whitney had brought.
"Do I smell Jollof rice?"
"remove those hands sweetheart" Whitney slapped off her wrist.
"oh, that's how it's going to be now huh? It's alright" Sonia surrendered, laughing as she walked back to the film projector. It was a good sign that they joked.
"Don't worry," Whitney called after him, ``I've made special pizza"
"Special for who" Richard asked
"For you, my darling, "she said, not looking at anyone in particular.
"For me?" Richard crooned, draping an arm across her shoulder.
Sonia stared in shock for a moment before lifting the reels from the steel container and attaching them to the projector, willing herself to be calm. A few seconds later, casting another glance their way, Sonia saw that Richard's arm was gone, and Whitney had started laying out the food - her back turned to him. She wore a grey wollen dress, long-sleeved and tight across the hips. She thought of the times when he had to place his hands around her tiny waist and spread his fingers over the curve of her hips. How dare Richard! Sonia continued to stare, watching Whitney balance on her stiletto heels as though they were a natural extension of her legs.
He turned and she looked away, knowing he had sensed her watching, even though the room was filled with people. After a few moments tinkering with the projector, Sonia stopped to mingle and welcomed new guests. As usual, several handsome men smiled at her, but she wasn't in the mood. Let Maxwell entertain the women while she talked to men. She greeted a Nigerian, some West Indians, and several English students before the meeting began. At least the turnout was good, which served as a temporary distraction from thoughts of Richard. The president made the initial introductions, and then Roland played the film on Nigeria.
Maxwell had not had time to review the reels beforehand, and so it was a relief to find that the film played smoothly. It started with a brief history of Nigeria's colonial rule, which served as the backdrop to a much longer treatment of Nigeria's recent independence. There were shots of Nigeria's artisans and village life, as well as modern scenes depicting technological advancements. Sonia felt satisfied with the film, which ended on a positive note for Nigeria's future. As the credits rolled and lights were turned back on, it was Richard, as usual, who spoke first.
"That film is a disgrace. Where were the Nigerians?"
Sonia raised her eyebrows, somewhat taken back but not entirely, as she knew where Richard was likely to go with this. Richard had lived in England longer than most Nigerians at Oxford and now had a tendency to interpret British pronouncements on Africa as racist, or at best patronising. In her first year, Sonia found Richard's reaction extreme but she was used to them now and the longer Sonia remained in England, the more she saw Richard's point of view. Had it not been for Richard's behavior with Whitney she would have nodded in agreement.
"And I don't mean showing photographs of Nigerians, as in some anthropological study of Africans in their natural habitat," Richard continued. "I mean, why aren't Nigerians directing these films? Or, at the very least, why aren't we narating them? And why must film-makers always start with the colonial period as if that's where Nigeria's history begins? Why not the 10th century, or if one must start with whites, how about the slave trade?"
"Okay, Richard, we all know our history," Maxwell interrupted.
"But we don't!' Richard retorted. "I'm willing to bet that you know English history better than your own Ghanian history. You spout English law, but what can you tell me about the Akan and their legal system? And if colonialism is finished, why do British people still speak for us as though we are children?"
Sonia glanced at Whitney, wondering what she thought of Richard's tirade.
"What do you propose?" Maxwell challenged Richard. "You want Nigerians to seize control, just because they're Nigerians. You can't just take Africans with no experience of Westminster-style democracy, and expect them to step in over-night. If you ask me, independence came too far early."
"Well, the question surrounding the timing of independence is certainly a topic for future meetings," Simon interjected.
"Oh Simon!" Sonia thought to herself. When Simon spoke like this, it made Sonia think that Richard had been right to object to Simon's nomination as President on account of his being British. At the time, Sonia had supported Simon, as a friend and also as a matter of principle. But Simon was naive and increasingly out of touch with what Africans were thinking about their continent. No sane African would waste time revisiting the timing of independence.
"No, I don't think so," Sonia answered, remembering her first and only encounter with the history professor. Richard had warned her not to bother with the man, but Sonia had been new to Oxford and naively thought she could win the professor over by the power of her argument.
"What you're suggesting, Simon, is precisely what I'm talking about," Richard snapped. "Why must we always invite British people to talk about Africa's future? Don't we have enough brilliant people of our own? And as for brilliance, this certainly doesn't apply to Trevor-Roper. Anyone saying Africa makes no contribution to history or culture is not only racist, but stupid. And by the way, Perham's no better with her patronising nonsense.
"That's not a fair assessment," Simon protested, reddening around the collar because, although he did not say so, everyone knew that he was related to the woman.
"Perham may be conservative in her politics, but surely not patronising?"
The question dangled in the air for a few uneasy moments.
"Any other ideas for speakers?" Someone asked.
Names were proposed and the discussion moved on, but as soon as someone suggested the topic of negritude, Richard was back.
"And this is the other problem. Negritude is an ideology of the elite, completely devoid of meaning for the masses. No, you must listen," he insisted, responding to grumblings from the floor. "Negritude is an ideology suggesting that Africans are blessed with a soul and not a reason. They would have us believe that Africans can sing, dance, and feel, but not think. To merely emphasise the supposed African capacity to heat rhythm only supports the racist views of people like Trevor-Roper and Gobineau."
"Hence an excellent topic for discussion."
Everyone's eyes turned to the male speaker. He had not said a word until now, Sonia had noticed him earlier and had the feeling that she had met him somewhere before.
"I think it could be argued", he was saying, "that proponents of negritude, like Casaire and Senghor, don't just see African culture as Africa's only offering to western civilisation, but rather one of many contributions. Also, isn't it Senghor who speaks of the importance of cross-cultural breeding?".
Sonia smiled privately at the look of shock on Richard's face and wracked her brain for where and when she had seen this man previously. He had to be from St. Hilda's, but what did he read? A historian perhaps or a classicist? She would have to find out after the meeting.
" Hi. I don't believe we've met". Sonia extended a hand.
"Carl Richardson. Pleased to meet you".
She stood a few inches shorter than him, fixing her gaze on him so that he found it impossible to let his eyes wander down the rest of her body. He had to content himself with her face and eyes, which were brown and clear like a child's, and the colour of her hair he now noticed was more golden than brown.
" I'm Sonia. Sonia Ajayi. Sonie if you like".
"Yes. Sonia Ajayi."
"You pronounce it well." She smiled, liking the fact that he opted for her full name. "And thank you for your contribution to the discussion. We need people like you to take on our radicals".
"But I didn't add much. Besides, I thought the other speaker made some valid points. What do you think?".
She slipped her hand inside her pockets. He admired her dark brown coat with large chestnut buttons, and thought how stylish it was.
"I thought I should give others a chance to expound", she said. "Although I was going to take you up on your point about cross-cultural breeding".
"Oh were you"
"Yes". She laughed, remembering now where she'd seen him. It was at Charlie's place. She was the woman in the little red dress, but too engrossed with the Indian man for her to have paid much attention because she, unlike others, would never dream of taking someone's man. Not that Whitney had really taken her man, given that she and Richard had already broken up, but still she felt annoyed.
"Come and eat." Sonia pointed to the table at the back and winked at Whitney. "My friend here cooks the best Nigerian food. I'm sure you'll like it. We have Jollof rice and fruit salad. I'm sure you'll like them. Try some", she urged, handing Carl a plate, and catching the pleasant fragrance of his hair. She liked the way he helped himself to the good-sized portions, not the cautious amounts that English people usually took.
"So did you come with a friend?" She asked, as they moved from the table.
"Is that a requirement?"
"No, not at all", she said, bemused by his wit.
"I came on my own". He smiled.
"Really?"
"You sound surprised".
"I am. How can such a handsome looking man be without an escort?" It was supposed to make him laugh, but it didn't.
"And why is that strange?" He held his gaze.
"Not at all, it's just rare". Both burst into laughter.