TELEPHONE CONVERSATION
WOLE SOYINKA
Wole Soyinka (born 1934), is a famous Nigerian poet and playwright. He was educated at the Government College in Ibadan, Nigeria and, later, at Leeds University, England, where he took a degree in English. He taught in the London schools and also worked in the Royal Court Theatre. He returned to Nigeria when he was about twenty-five. He has been one of the leading figures in Nigerian theatre, writing a number of successful plays and also leading a theatrical company. He is the first African to receive the Nobel Prize for literature (1986). His writings are known for their humour and satire.
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
Pressurised 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 ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded 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 changed 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.
Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused-
Foolishly 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?’