ordinary anecdotes are common currency.
But you are what you were.
There, then, the experiences donât meet; he began minding his fatherâs cattle, classic for a government career in Africa, she was at a girlsâ school in an English cathedral town, the bells pealed while the basketball was aimed, the cattle lowed as they were driven under the herdboyâs whip. He had been to a mission school, then a college in some neighbouring African country from where there came his scholarship to America. He had once mentioned a university. University of Virginia, wasnât it? Here, experience could be shared; well, she had studied for a year in the USA, exchange programme with an English university. He had wanted to go on to the Kennedy School of Government at
Harvard; it was part of the limits of contact he apparently always set himself that he did not offer the sequel to the intention. She had learnt not to fill his silences, but sometimes there was the vacuumâs pressure to continue. Out of politeness he would have to make some sort of explanation.
âI was married, at home. Away a long time, I had to come back. Children.â
âThey must be grown up now? Satisfaction to you ⦠Itâs a trade-off, I suppose. I was married, but no children, unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately as there was a divorce. But I wonder if you really missed much, Harvard, I mean. Youâve gone through another kind of school of government, havenât you, right here.â
âWe are all learners in the world. But academic things in a c.v., they impress people.â
âIn government careers? At high level? I wouldnât have thought so. The President hasnât got a Harvard degree, not even a less grand university one from overseas, far as I know.â
âThere are other qualifications to make up.â
He smiled at her in pride, lest she lure him to a lapse into criticism of the Head of State.âHe was one of our first leaders in our war of liberation ⦠he is a man who has not abandoned our culture the same time as he can take on the world. You know.â
âWhat are the children doing? Anyone interested in going into politics, like Dad?â
âStudying.âSubject closed.
One evening they had a second whisky and time had passed so unnoticed that she suggested some supper. The driver and bodyguards were already being fed maize meal and stew when she went to the kitchen to see what she and Tomasi could offer.
Over canned soup and cold chicken he told her of a farm in the Southern Province.âYour own farm?âYes, he had a farm. (Doesnât everyone in government acquire a farm or farms, donât ask about how, nothing to do with the questions of land redistribution; but this was none of her business, certainly not at her own table with a guest.)
The next time the black car brought distinction to Tomasiâs yard the Deputy-Director of Land Affairs invited her to visit his farm the coming weekend. When she told him there were two gatherings she was obliged to attend he merely substituted: âThe weekend after, then.â
âOh I donât want to spoil your plans, Gladwell, pleaseâ
âItâs the same for me. I go all the time.â
So that is home, the family home, not the official residence (to which she has never been invited) that must be in the suburb of guard-houses manned before swimming-pool and tennis-court endowed gardens, where Government office-bearers and foreign diplomats lived. She looked forward with mild curiosity to meeting the wife and family. He must belong somewhere else outside the parliamentary suitâas he did with the old uncle and aunt, that glimpse sheâd had of him in personal mufti. The black car was at the gates early, not unexpected of this stickler for all disciplines. She recognised one of the bodyguards doubling as driver; perhaps, unlike the destination of the other outing on which sheâd
But you are what you were.
There, then, the experiences donât meet; he began minding his fatherâs cattle, classic for a government career in Africa, she was at a girlsâ school in an English cathedral town, the bells pealed while the basketball was aimed, the cattle lowed as they were driven under the herdboyâs whip. He had been to a mission school, then a college in some neighbouring African country from where there came his scholarship to America. He had once mentioned a university. University of Virginia, wasnât it? Here, experience could be shared; well, she had studied for a year in the USA, exchange programme with an English university. He had wanted to go on to the Kennedy School of Government at
Harvard; it was part of the limits of contact he apparently always set himself that he did not offer the sequel to the intention. She had learnt not to fill his silences, but sometimes there was the vacuumâs pressure to continue. Out of politeness he would have to make some sort of explanation.
âI was married, at home. Away a long time, I had to come back. Children.â
âThey must be grown up now? Satisfaction to you ⦠Itâs a trade-off, I suppose. I was married, but no children, unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately as there was a divorce. But I wonder if you really missed much, Harvard, I mean. Youâve gone through another kind of school of government, havenât you, right here.â
âWe are all learners in the world. But academic things in a c.v., they impress people.â
âIn government careers? At high level? I wouldnât have thought so. The President hasnât got a Harvard degree, not even a less grand university one from overseas, far as I know.â
âThere are other qualifications to make up.â
He smiled at her in pride, lest she lure him to a lapse into criticism of the Head of State.âHe was one of our first leaders in our war of liberation ⦠he is a man who has not abandoned our culture the same time as he can take on the world. You know.â
âWhat are the children doing? Anyone interested in going into politics, like Dad?â
âStudying.âSubject closed.
One evening they had a second whisky and time had passed so unnoticed that she suggested some supper. The driver and bodyguards were already being fed maize meal and stew when she went to the kitchen to see what she and Tomasi could offer.
Over canned soup and cold chicken he told her of a farm in the Southern Province.âYour own farm?âYes, he had a farm. (Doesnât everyone in government acquire a farm or farms, donât ask about how, nothing to do with the questions of land redistribution; but this was none of her business, certainly not at her own table with a guest.)
The next time the black car brought distinction to Tomasiâs yard the Deputy-Director of Land Affairs invited her to visit his farm the coming weekend. When she told him there were two gatherings she was obliged to attend he merely substituted: âThe weekend after, then.â
âOh I donât want to spoil your plans, Gladwell, pleaseâ
âItâs the same for me. I go all the time.â
So that is home, the family home, not the official residence (to which she has never been invited) that must be in the suburb of guard-houses manned before swimming-pool and tennis-court endowed gardens, where Government office-bearers and foreign diplomats lived. She looked forward with mild curiosity to meeting the wife and family. He must belong somewhere else outside the parliamentary suitâas he did with the old uncle and aunt, that glimpse sheâd had of him in personal mufti. The black car was at the gates early, not unexpected of this stickler for all disciplines. She recognised one of the bodyguards doubling as driver; perhaps, unlike the destination of the other outing on which sheâd
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