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first formulated in a paper read to the Nigerian Students’ Union in London. But unlike most theories formed by students in London, this one survived the first impact of home-coming. In fact, within a month of his return Obi came across two classic examples of his old African.
    He met the first one at the Public Service Commission, where he was boarded for a job. Fortunately for Obi, he had already created a favorable impression on the board before this man made him lose his temper.
    It happened that the Chairman of the Commission, a fat jolly Englishman, was very keen on modern poetry and the modern novel, and enjoyed talking about them. The other four members—one European and three Africans—not knowing anything about that side of life, were duly impressed. Or perhaps we should say in strict accuracy that three of them were duly impressed because the fourth was asleep throughout the interview, which on the surface might appear to bequite unimportant had not this gentleman been the sole representative of one of the three regions of Nigeria. (In the interests of Nigerian unity the region shall remain nameless.)
    The Chairman’s conversation with Obi ranged from Graham Greene to Tutuola and took the greater part of half an hour. Obi said afterwards that he talked a lot of nonsense, but it was a learned and impressive kind of nonsense. He surprised even himself when he began to flow.
    “You say you’re a great admirer of Graham Greene. What do you think of The Heart of the Matter? ”
    “The only sensible novel any European has written on West Africa and one of the best novels I have read.” Obi paused, and then added almost as an afterthought: “Only it was nearly ruined by the happy ending.”
    The Chairman sat up in his chair.
    “Happy ending? Are you sure it’s The Heart of the Matter you’re thinking about? The European police officer commits suicide.”
    “Perhaps happy ending is too strong, but there is no other way I can put it. The police officer is torn between his love of a woman and his love of God, and he commits suicide. It’s much too simple. Tragedy isn’t like that at all. I remember an old man in my village, a Christian convert, who suffered one calamity after another. He said life was like a bowl of wormwood which one sips a little at a time world without end. He understood the nature of tragedy.”
    “You think that suicide ruins a tragedy,” said the Chairman.
    “Yes. Real tragedy is never resolved. It goes on hopelesslyforever. Conventional tragedy is too easy. The hero dies and we feel a purging of the emotions. A real tragedy takes place in a corner, in an untidy spot, to quote W. H. Auden. The rest of the world is unaware of it. Like that man in A Handful of Dust who reads Dickens to Mr. Todd. There is no release for him. When the story ends he is still reading. There is no purging of the emotions for us because we are not there.”
    “That’s most interesting,” said the Chairman. Then he looked round the table and asked the other members if they had any questions for Mr. Okonkwo. They all said no, except the man who had been sleeping.
    “Why do you want a job in the civil service? So that you can take bribes?” he asked.
    Obi hesitated. His first impulse was to say it was an idiotic question. He said instead: “I don’t know how you expect me to answer that question. Even if my reason is to take bribes, you don’t expect me to admit it before this board. So I don’t think it’s a very useful question.”
    “It’s not for you to decide what questions are useful, Mr. Okonkwo,” said the Chairman, trying unsuccessfully to look severe. “Anyhow, you’ll be hearing from us in due course. Good morning.”
    Joseph was not very happy when Obi told him the story of the interview. His opinion was that a man in need of a job could not afford to be angry.
    “Nonsense!” said Obi. “That’s what I call colonial mentality.”
    “Call it what you like,” said Joseph in Ibo.