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My first job.
Chapter 6
My first job
When I descended the steps of the plane I felt like an over cooked cake on a wire tray. There was no escape from the dry heat. At the same time it was a relief to get away from the intense humidity of the south. I said my farewell to the avuncular Bob as he confidently strode off to school. I saw more Muslims in the north and I felt their robes were the best attire for the conditions. Perhaps I’d be more comfortable in one, I thought.
I looked around for just one white face. That would surely be Mr Utechin. I searched in vain. I had to use my initiative. Taxis were very numerous around Tamale airport. They were all yellow and all seemed to be Peugeots. I hailed one.
‘Where you go, Masta?’ the driver asked.
‘The groundnut factory. You know where it is?’
The cab driver looked at me angrily. ‘Pioneer Peanuts? You can walk. Look over dere,’ he pointed. ‘Dat’s it,’ he said and waved his hand to show he needed a new customer.
I realised the factory was no more than 300 yards away, forming a curtain on one side the runway. I saw that as fortunate for business, then realised that if an aircraft had a shaky landing we might be in the firing line. That was sobering thought.
I picked up my bags and set off along the red dusty laterite road. I wondered if I would be provided with any transport. Bicycles seemed ubiquitous but I’d only use one for short journeys. The heat was too suffocating.
As I approached the factory, I felt like a school boy approaching his new school for the very first time. I knocked on the office door. ‘Reception’ was written on the frosted glass. It was opened by a native woman.
‘Ah, so you are de new manager. We are expecting you,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘My name is Peace Assare.’
‘Peace?’
‘Yes, it be my Broffo, I mean my English name.’ I nodded. I was beginning to see how different the culture was to anything I had known. ‘Is Igor Utechin in?’ I asked as I looked over her shoulder, anxious to meet the man who would be supervising me.
‘De Masta is in but….he is not ready to see you.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said confused. ‘He is with someone?’
She began to smile and quickly covered her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Come in; sit yourself down by my desk. I go tell you sumthin.’
I pulled up a chair and placed it near her. She was clearly a secretary as well as the receptionist. She sat down opposite me with her typewriter blocking my view of everything but her face.
‘You are Mr Utechin’s personal secretary?’
‘Indeed I am.’
‘Then you know who he is with. For how long, I wonder.’
She no longer hid her smile. ‘He is with the one he loves. He cannot be disturbed.’
‘Ah, his wife is here too?’ I asked.
She shook her head from side to side and her shoulders quivered. ‘You do not know our Mr Utechin, do you?’
I was confused and disappointed. Yet it seemed she had affection for him. But he had not greeted my arrival. ‘No, I know almost nothing about him.’
‘He has no wife—as such. One of the local girls go see him some nights. This afternoon he is with his day mistress—as he usually is any time after 3 p.m.’
She must have seen the confusion on my face. Clearly I had not got her clues and it was a game that needed answers.
‘You still no understand? Akpeteshie, it be the local intoxicator. 45% alcohol. That be his true love.’
‘That’s a lot. Does he not drink vodka or whisky?’ I asked remembering what the American Peace Corps teacher had told me.
‘He drinks anything, everyday, almost anytime. He has odder bottles in his house but the Aketeshie is strong. He likes it the best, fresh from de market.’
So it was true what I had heard as I left the plane. He was a very serious, if not dangerous drinker.
‘Then morning is the best time to meet him?’
‘Dat be so. It be de only time. Anyway you no go worry. I take you to your quarters. Der are only de two houses. Yours and Mr. Utechin’s.’
We left her office and she clapped her hands. Two young boys appeared and took my bags. They walked ahead of us.
‘How long has Mr Utechin been working here?’
‘Forever I would say. He looks an old man but I say he be no more than fifty-five, maybe sixty. He’s been here since Nkrumah days. President Nkrumah ruled us from 1960 to 1966. Utechin come about 1965 when dey open up de airport. Before, Nkrumah had it for de military. But it had bin a small airport for de War WW2.’
‘You liked Nkrumah?’ I asked.
‘Hmmm he be a fickle man. Americans say he was a communist. He go read about politics and religion an’ he want to throw all Europeans out of Africa—dat is except the Russian and udder communist countries. Are you a communist?’ she asked me abruptly.
I contemplated my answer for a moment. ‘Communist? No, not me.’
‘Den I tink we get on well, you an’ me here.’
We arrived at a bungalow. It shone white in the daylight like an iceberg. I was clearly its first occupant. Red bougainvillea climbed up the doorway. Butterflies fluttered away when we approached. A milk bush hedge marked out the garden territory.
‘You will have a gardener. His name is Yaw. He keeps de garden in flower, and after de rains makes sure no snakes are around.’
‘Snakes, are the reptiles many?’
‘Yes, the rain brings out de snakes. Around here it’s usually de black cobra.’
‘Black cobra? And can it get into the house?’ I asked showing some considerable unease.
Grace laughed. ‘They try to get out of your way, unless you have some food stuff wif you or you stand on them. You will not be harmed. I assure you,’
A young woman approached. Her age was hard to tell but I guessed she was mid-thirties. She greeted the secretary in her native tongue.
‘And this is Amma. She is your servant. She make your meals, cleans de house, washes de clothes, she go shopping for you. She do anyting an’ do everything for you, you go understand?’
I smiled at her ambiguity. I was glad to see her baby bound to her back in a coloured cloth. She must have a husband.
‘So now I go back to my desk. I see you in de morning. Eight o’clock. I go let you unpack and get settled.’
‘Thank you, Peace. You have been very helpful.’ And with a spin of her heels she took off and was out of sight in a matter of seconds.
I entered the new house, still smelling of white painted walls. I walked through the spacious lounge to the kitchen. It seemed to be a magazine picture of knives, tins, and a gleaming cooker too. The bathroom was a shower with a loo. Just enough space to do the necessary washing. There was only one bedroom of ample size and another, no more than a box room. I took my bags to my bedroom and sat down on my bed. I did not know whether to cry at my lack of greeting from my superior, or be delighted by Peace and having both a gardener and a cook/steward.
I unpacked my belongings and hung them up on rails and laid other items in drawers. Having completely unpacked, I got out a pad of paper and sat down to write to Morag.
I began with my Post Box Number—237 Tamale, a simple but adequate address. I was wondering how to start the letter when I heard a knock on the door.
‘Agoooo, Hello?’
Amma arrived with a tray on which clinked a glass of ice cubes in some liquid, a slice of lemon and a small bottle labelled ‘quinine water’.
I was taken aback. ‘Is this for me?’ I asked.
‘Yes sir. Your late afternoon drink.’
‘But I don’t usually have a drink at this time,’ I said.
‘It is the British way. Gin and quinine to prevent malaria. I thot all white men take dis at dis time.’
I smiled at her. I did not mean to reprimand her. ‘I don’t need a drink. Anyway I don’t drink spirits.’
‘Dat be so? Den I get you a Tata.’
‘What’s a Tata?’
‘It be our local beer. I keep one cool for you in de frig,’ she said as her eyes lit up and mine did too.
I smiled broadly. A cool beer was just what I needed to start my letter to Morag.
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Caught in a cold war trap
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Ron