from The Genial Writer

I was very happy to have left first class and joined the patients here. Ordinary British folk are humorous and amiable; they are also fond of people, but their fondness could at times go overboard. Thus, on my fourth day at the ward, one such person came up to me and said, "Hey! Would you let me ask a question?"

"Go ahead," I answered.

"It is just that I am worried that this sort of question may offend you."

"How can I know whether it would offend me or not without listening to the question first?"

The others were listening intently to our conversation, and then shouted all at once, "Ask him! Ask him! He has indicated he won't be offended. In fact, he has nodded his assent."

"My question is brief," he said. "Where did you start to wear clothes? Where was it? Was it at London airport as soon as you set foot on English soil? Or was it in your own country just before you boarded the plane?"

As I didn't understand the question, I asked for it to be repeated. The crowd burst out in laughter. I then pleaded for clarification. "Clothes? What kind of clothes? Do you mean European clothes? A jacket? A pant? A shirt and a tie?"

"No!" he countered, "I mean just plain clothes. When did clothes ever rub your body at all?" he asked.

Cutting his laughter short, my neighbor, the old man, folded up his book, took off his glasses, and with some amazement intervened saying, "What he is asking you is whether you go stark naked in Africa."

"Yes! Yes!" said one of the enthusiasts.

The old man paraphrased the question again for me. "He means that the African in his own land lives like a monkey. It is only in England that he metamorphoses into a human being and starts wearing clothes."

How could I answer such a stupid question? Where could I begin? How could one start talking about the rudiments of Ethiopian history? The Axum obelisks? St. Yared's classical sacred chant? . . . And all these at a time when Europeans used to cover themselves with mud and roam from forest to forest. I wondered about whatever was meant by the phrase "British gentleman."

My old neighbor came to my rescue. "There was a fellow patient with us here before you came. His name was Johnny Gabba; he was a Ghanaian. They used to mock him, make fun of him, and jeer at him. They nearly drove him mad. Fortunately, he recovered in a short while, and left the hospital in only four months. Otherwise, these rude Englishmen would have driven him nuts."

It was later that I learnt that my old neighbor was Irish. Hence, his occasional and disdainful outbursts about "these English folk."

"If you don't respond to the question, it means that you have accepted all that has been said about living in trees and going naked," said my questioner. His supporters laughed and clapped saying, "Mr. Lemma has lost!"

At this point, I decided that it would not be wise, worthwhile, or productive to refute the allegations by providing evidence to the contrary. The best strategy, I thought, was to admit their allegations as indeed true.

"Your questions are good ones," I said. They clapped. "But they are not at all that easy to answer. Let me mull over them overnight, and let us meet for the answers tomorrow." But they insisted that I should give them the answers right there and then. Some even said, "He has lost." However, I would not budge.

The Irish elder intervened, "Don't drive him mad like you did Johnny Gabba. He has promised to give you the answers tomorrow. You should thank him for not taunting you to fight it out like Johnny Gabba used to out of rage and irritation."

It was thus amicably decided for the meeting to take place at 2:00p.m. the following afternoon . . ."Are you ready with your answers, Mr. Lemma?" asked the Irish mediator, and then sternly warned the crowd...