Telephone Conversation

The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent. The landlady, swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. "Madam," I warned, "I hate a wasted journey-I am African." Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick-coated, long gold-rolled Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully. "HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard. . . "ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench Of rancid breath of public hide and speak. Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed By all-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumfounbment to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came. "You mean-like plain or milk chocolate?" Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light Impersonality. Rapidly, wave length adjusted, I chose. "West African sepia"-and as afterthought, "Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette." "THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether Factually, I am brunette, but madam, you should see The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet Are a peroxide blond. Friction, causedFoolishly, madam-by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black-One moment, madam!" -sensing Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap About my ears-"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather See for yourself?"

Wole Soyinka, the Nigerian playwright, won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1986. His most recent work is the Open Sore of a Continent, an examination of political unrest in Nigeria. He is currently the Woodruff Professor of the Arts at Emory University.

Copyright Crisis Publishing Company, Incorporated Jul 1998
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved