Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka

Telephone Conversation
by Wole Soyinka (1936-...)


The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent.
The landlady swore she lived Off premises.

Me: "Madam," I warned, "I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
lady: "HOW DARK?" . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" (Considerate she was, varying the emphasis) "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?"
me: "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
lady: “AHA...”
"West African sepia"--and as afterthought , "Down in my passport."
....Silence ...
"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 blond. Friction, caused-- Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"- -"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather See for yourself?"

Now the poem of our Nigerian Nobel Prize -1986


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 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 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.
Facially, 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, 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?"