Islands of Goodness

By Bassey Ubong

Mira, a young woman from a middle-class family, lives a life of contrasts that pits dreams against reality and expectations against actuality. She meets a young man that could make her straighten out yet remains herself to a fatal level. Ken, the young man, is pragmatic, sometimes to a fatal level. His mentor and unwitting victim, High Chief Babington, sustains his fondness for him, apparently in line with his numerous philosophies of lifefrom organizational management to affairs of the heart. Mira loses her life; Ken dithers about an action that he needed to take, then spends his days after losing his job to confide to his diary the developments in his life, in spite of his fading sanity. Probably Ken may have a third chance or may end with up with a second chance that Mira never had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466913837

Bassey Ubong

Bassey Ubong studied marketing and philosophy of education. He has published twelve plays, one novel, three poetry anthologies, three children books, and one collection of fables. He hails from Oboyo in Akwa Ibom State and is currently on the faculty of the Federal College of Education (Technical), Omoku, both in southern Nigeria.

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Contents

Thanks:

BOOK I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

BOOK II

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

BOOK III

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

BOOK IV

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

BOOK V

Chapter Sixteen

Glossary of Some Vernacular Words

To my mother, Mrs. Jenny Bassey Ubong

Thanks:

Iniabasi Ubong & Dr. Joe Ushie, for patiently reading the script; Jephthah & Enoh Akpobome, for patiently typing and retyping the script.

BOOK I

Chapter One

Mama, is it necessary for any human being to be, or even aim at being an island of goodness? As no immediate answer came, the questioner cocked her head, allowed a smile to play on her lips and added, after all, the hand that holds two scores will hold two scores, a proverb her listener was fond of.

The question was directed at Mrs. Magdalene Siama, Mira’s mother. The woman was grinding beans in a mortar in the family kitchen. The woman, who preferred to be called by her native name of Affiong shortened to Afi because of the adulteration of the English name to ‘Mankinini,’ was so surprised at the question that she let go the pestle. It dropped into the watery white paste, splashing some onto her dark smooth laps. She knew that the paste, which contained a generous dose of salt and pepper, could cause inflammation at the spots it touched; yet she made no move to wipe them.

Mira, a young woman of about twenty-nine years of age was the daughter of Mr. Christopher Siama and Mrs. Afi Siama, both indigenes and residents of Obio Afia village. Both were retirees, the man, from the civil service; the woman, from the health services department of a publicly owned manufacturing company where she worked as a dietician. They lived in relative comfort having brought back to Nigeria, a number of durable houseful furniture after a sojourn in the United Kingdom, aside from being on a reasonable pension from the two organizations that they served. Their daughter was a teacher in a high school in the neighbouring village of Obio Nda, a distance of about five kilometers from Obio Afia. This was close enough to get her to her family when she wanted but far enough to accord her the independence she craved. Mr. and Mrs. Siama had four children, three males and Mira, the only female.

Having partially recovered from the shock occasioned by the unusual question, Madam Afi, as her husband’s people fondly called her, dipped her right palm into a partially cracked steel cooking pot that contained water, scooped some quantity of the water and washed the paste off her laps. Rather than offer an answer, she bent down again and continued to prepare the mixture that would enable her fry akara balls, a local pastry, for the family dinner.

Mama, you have not answered my question, Mira said, backing her mother and continuing to scrub some small cup-like metal containers used for the preparation of moi-moi, another local pastry.

"I am preparing akara, instead of getting that big pot to dry on the fire which will make it easier for me to boil the palm oil that I shall use, you are washing containers for mọi-mọi. Why do you delight in doing what others do not want you to? Or insist that people must do what you want?"

Such as insisting that you should answer an uncomfortable question, Mira retorted. Madam Afi breathed out heavily, shifted on her seat, cleared her throat several times and sighed.

Please give me water to drink, the woman said.

Mira rinsed her hands in a small metal basin that contained clean water and stood up from the kitchen stool to fetch water from a covered plastic bucket at a corner of the kitchen. She handed the glass with the water to Madam Afi.

"For the umpteenth time, young woman, when I am in the women’s office, give me water from the earthen pot and in okop. I can continue the white man’s way in the sitting room." Mira did as she was instructed. Madam Afi took the okop, a dried calabash, round, and with a pointed end used by elders for drinking water, gulped rather than drank, choking in the process. She cleared her throat several times, and gently patted her chest with her palm, all in an attempt to dislodge the clots of water in her lungs.

Sorry mama, Mira said, looking at her mother not so much with pity as with the fondness that an adorable mother deserves.

What was your question? Madam Afi asked after a pause.

I want to know if it is worth any effort to be an island of goodness in a vast sea of depravity.

Madam Afi shifted uncomfortably on her seat, avoiding her daughter’s searching eyes.

I wish I understood you, Madam Afi said finally. Mira, who was still standing, swiveled sharply, walked to the window and stood looking out at the world as far as her eyes could go. Rain clouds had gathered, covering the sky as far as to the horizon but with pockets of white woolly clouds doting some portions like stars dot a black sky at night. The sun was still shining, moving slowly but surely, appearing to laugh at the furious but uncertain effort of the dark clouds to take control of the firmament. Between darkness and light, one could not immediately determine which would win the battle for the control of the sky. All Mira could remember then was the belief that when the sun is shining simultaneously with rain showers, then a lioness has given birth to cubs. The rain was yet to fall, so one could say that a lioness was in travail, about to bring beautiful, yet dangerous new creatures to earth. Mira wondered whether lions, very wild animals, do feel pain during childbirth.

Mira, you are angry at me, Madam Afi said.

Nobody seems to understand me. Why? Sometimes I think I don’t understand myself. She continued to stare at the sky, wondering whether there is anybody who understands the workings of nature, particularly as it changes so frequently, so precipitously, and sometimes so violently. She went back to her mother.

Mama, who should understand girls—mothers, fathers, girlfriends, boyfriends?

I must confess that I am ignorant.

What about fathers?

I am told girls are closer to their fathers than their mothers.

You are told. What is your experience?

I have but one daughter. And that one daughter appears to be impossible to understand. Probably if I had another daughter, I would have been able to establish a trend. Your brothers, well you know.

They are always somewhere, attached to nobody.

Yes.

You give them all the freedom, don’t you?

They take all the freedom—

Have parents ever thought of the harm they do to the society by circumscribing girls? Girls are fitted snugly into wifely and motherly roles as soon as they can hold a toy. Parents scream if a girl tries to kick a ball. Climbing a tree? That is an anathema—a sacrilege! Imagine so much energy, so much idle hours, so much intellect wasted or left perpetually dormant by culture and tradition. Mama, there is an urgent need to allow girls to fly.

When you have yours, let them fly. My mother did not let me fly, and I have no regrets.

Why do parents bring up girls this way Mama?

Because there are only two species of human beings on earth. They are like fire and water. One burns, the other cools. Imagine the two burning, or the two cooling.

Now, if God wanted one to fit into the role of cooling, why was that one given as much intellect, drive, and even physical energy as the one that burns? Why was that one not made to be dull, uninspiring, unimaginative, and even unattractive? That one should have remained untrained; that species should have been untrainable!

You have missed the mark there. Water may be dull when it is in its natural state but it harbours unimaginable potency. Heat it, what do you have? Take the sea for instance, when it swells in size, what will you have? Does any element command so much spiritual force? Does any element carry so much in variety and in size? Ah, my daughter. You know what water can do—positive and negative. How do you feel when you are thirsty and you behold a glass of sparkling water? Diamond was never so wonderful. Water, I believe, is far more interesting than fire.

It is fire that burns and ravishes.

Fire does not just burn. It purifies things for our use, including food. It consumes worthless things such as garbage. However its path is always easy to stop. On the contrary, when water moves, it is very difficult to stop it. The limit of fire is water but fire cannot stop the movement of water.

Mama you surprise me. You have these ideas, yet you are so docile, adoring your husband as if he were a god.

The wise woman is the one that is cool-headed. She is neither docile nor servile. She is rather calculating.

Papa runs this house.

He does; but who runs the home?

What is the difference?

You will get to know in good time.

The two ladies fell silent. Mira continued to do the dishes on the moi-moi containers. Madam Afi resumed the task of grinding the beans. She however kept an eye on Mira. A young woman of twenty-nine, Mira looked every inch a nineteen-year old. She had a round face, pointed nose, and thin but wide lips that ended on two dimples on her checks. She also had this toothpaste smile that reaches its maximum in split seconds, and was tantalizingly engaging and heart stopping for an on-looker.

Mira’s complexion was an amazing one. Some girls are virtually white while others are charcoal black. Some are shades in between. Mira had a complexion that was more of amber or gold and was uniform. With slim fingers and adorable finger nails, a straight set of legs that were as hairy as an egg, a bust that was neither too large to catch attention nor too small to elicit a remark such as ‘that girl’s husband will spend all his money on baby food,’ Mira had all it took to be called beautiful.

One thing Mira would have loved to do was to show the world her physical endowments, not because she was depraved, but because she felt that such was one way of expression of freedom of the individual. She admired girls who had the freedom to pose for photographs for magazines, newspapers, and almanacs. She was certain that she could not stand stark naked before a photographer, nay the whole public, but she did not mind a bikini plus a strapless bra. Unfortunately, her puritanical upbringing never gave her the opportunity to act out her fantasies.

*     *     *

In spite of all her education and exposure, Madam Afi could not adequately cope with the enormous intellect of her children, and in particular, Mira. Madam Afi came from a royal household and she had the privilege of an excellent upbringing. Her father was wealthy and was exposed early in his life to missionaries who brought along a new religion as well as their own brand of prosperity through trade and education.

Madam Afi was sent to live with a missionary, Reverend Father Stone, who administered the Parish where Madam Afi was born. She lived with Father Stone, not as house help, but as a promising child that needed to be encouraged to develop her potentials that were evident quite early. By the time she was through with her high school education, the missionary was also on transfer to his native Scotland. The man took the young ‘Mankinini’ to Scotland where she studied catering and obtained a Diploma.

Afi had plans for a university degree but could not carry it through because a dashing young Nigerian who was about leaving England for home after his studies crossed her path. Mr. Siama met Afi at a gathering of Nigerians in London. The attraction was mutual and instant. The introductions that followed gave them a pleasant surprise—they were from the same region, the same tribe, the same clan, and then, neighbouring villages! By the time the party was about to end, the compere made a solemn declaration to the effect that one Mr. Christopher Siama, who recently obtained a Bachelor’s degree in Public Administration, and a Miss Magdalene Dan, a trained Caterer, would be wedding in a fortnight! The romantic meeting and romantic union never waned even as the pair retired from employment, left the city, and took up domiciliary in the village as their sun began the inevitable westward journey.

The couple had brought up their four children, three boys and a girl, in a British fashion—conservative, puritanical, simply put, straight. Madam Afi’s royal background further imposed a lot of responsibilities on her, such that her children had to be reminded all the time that they were expected to be role models for other children wherever they were.

The three males, Claudius, Clement, and Sylvester who were more easily identified as Claude, Clem, and Sly were almost easy to manage, not because they did not play boys, but because it was believed that for the good of the society, they should be given reasonable freedom—within limits. Girls on the other hand, had to be thoroughly policed. Women would thus shrug and shake their heads sadly if they saw a girl on top of a tree or kicking any round object whether it was unripe orange or coagulated rubber ball.

Mira was not just guarded, she was policed. At Lagos where Mr. & Mrs. Siama worked, Mira went through an exclusive primary school. She was conveyed to and from school in an official car with a nanny to tag along. After school, while her elder brother, Claude and immediate younger brother, Clem, could stray into the neighbourhood for a game of football, Mira had to play around their Queens Drive home in Ikoyi with selected playmates, all girls of course.

The young girl liked her friends, but she was not in love with the games that they played using dolls; nor did she ever like being involved with the soups that they made which had no fire to cook them. She felt there was something deceitful about it all. She went for things more real and more concrete which in her young mind had to do with things that were masculine. Thus while her friends moulded pots, pans, and babies from mud, she moulded cars, boats, and even guns and swords!

*     *     *

After the unfruitful discussion with her mother, Mira let her mind’s eye travel down the backward road to her childhood, and in particular, she recalled her fascination with birds.

Anytime a bird swashed past, she would abandon whatever held her attention and watch the bird with fascination. As it flew up and down, banked sideways, glided, perched, and fluttered its wings, she would watch with total excitement and absorption. She could not explain her interest in birds.

Her attachment was so strong that a neighbour, who had quietly observed her near fixation, had bought her an auburn birdcage with a lively thrush that the neighbour said was a robin. Mira had named the bird Robin Hood. It was during her holiday so she had so much time to spend with the bird, listening to its song, and watching it jump ceaselessly. While she loved it all, she however felt that something was missing. It was obvious to her that the poor darling needed, not the food and water that it had with ease, but freedom. After about a month of intense attention, Mira lost interest in her pet. On enquiry, she told her father that a bird is not a bird if it cannot fly.

You are right. But if Robin Hood flies, it will no longer be yours, the father had reasoned.

Can’t we have a place where birds live but can also fly as they like? Mira had asked.

It is called an aviary.

Can we have one? She had asked excitedly.

We have no space here for that and it will be expensive to construct, was Mr. Siama’s response. Mira was very sad on hearing that. Two days later, she unlocked the latch at the top of the cage to set the bird free. Instead of feeling depressed at the impending loss, she was highly elated as the bird, used to captivity, hovered around the house for sometime, tried a nearby tree, and then flew off for good.

One day, I shall fly off like that, she had said to her mother excitedly.

Human beings do not fly like birds. They live on the ground, Madam Afi had said. The girl however believed that the life of human beings should be like that of birds—free to come and go, soar to any height, return to earth, eat whatever one fancied, and sing and dance at will. Unfortunately as she grew up, she had to come to terms with the fact that all human beings may have been created free but that they live on earth in captivity by all sorts captors—fellow human beings, fear, themselves, and, yet to be resolved in her mind, fate—just as her Robin Hood in the auburn cage.

*     *     *

Madam Afi had concluded the preparation of the delicacies—akara and mọi-mọi but within her, she knew she had not, and may never conclude the discussion she had had with her grown-up child. After their brief discourse, both women had realized more than ever before that they were more of strangers to each other. In particular, Mira was amazed at the way her mother reasoned. How could she believe that the shy, austere, quintessential wife and mother could harbour what amounted to revolutionary thoughts? Who would have thought that below the staid exterior, lay an indomitable spirit that was not only forceful but could also be described as a façade? Madam Afi knew her strengths; she knew that she ruled in her home while her husband only reigned and she appeared to relish the idea. Mira chided herself for not being close to her mother. How much she could have learned!

Madam Afi was also brooding over the question raised by her daughter as well as the brief discourse she had had with this blood of her blood that however, was still to her an enigma. The question kept ringing in her ears, Is it necessary for any human being to be, or even aim at being an island of goodness in a sea of depravity? She mauled over the question in her mind.

Why did she ask the question? What would be an appropriate answer? Would what is appropriate be true and correct? If what is appropriate is untrue, what long term impact would it make on Mira even as an adult and on her relationship with the society? Madam Afi asked herself several other questions, and since no answers seemed to be available, she fretted and fretted as she lay by her husband that night.

After dinner of well-boiled white rice and smoked fish pepper soup, the rice garnished with slices of the moi moi prepared earlier in the evening by Madam Afi, Mr. Siama had gone to bed picking his teeth with a piece of chewing stick, bringing out bits and pieces of rice, fish, vegetables, mọi mọi, and pineapple fruit, the fruit having come as desserts. He had slept off as soon as his head hit the pillow, but not too deep as he was a light sleeper, a habit made sharper in the village where too many unearthly things happen during the night.

Perhaps I should have attempted an answer, Madam Afi said aloud to no one in particular. In his subconscious, Mr. Siama was aware that something had been said. He woke up, looked at the lantern burning brightly in the room, turned to look at his wife, and noticing that her eyes were tightly shut—a little too tight he thought—he slumped back on the pillow and dozed off again.

*

When he was asleep, Madam Afi breathed out deeply and allowed her mind to resume the journey that was broken by Mr. Siama’s awakening. The starting point of course, was Mira’s question. She looked at several angles, but felt that her thinking ended up telling her that some people are destined to be good and should strive so to be. Others are destined to be bad and try as they may, would end up being bad. Destiny is it and what is yours, will be yours.

Her mind went back to her childhood days before she left Nigeria for Scotland. Her father was the Village Head or Chief, a descendant of a long line of ‘natural’ rulers. In her village, usurping the throne of Ọbọng or Chief was unheard of. One man, Sibaba, who made an attempt at usurpation, never lived to tell the tale.

Sibaba had laid claim to the Ọbọngship after the incumbent, Madam Afi’s grandfather had died and the traditional mourning period was over. Nobody, including Madam Afi’s father, had contested his claim. Rather, the Council of Elders had gone with him to the Ata Ession, the most sacred groove in the village, before the cow he had presented to the village was slaughtered. There, he was requested to stand in a circle drawn by nobody knew when or by who, to make certain declarations, pour libation, and then move to a sacred tree to bring down a string of beads to be hung on his neck. This simple process would conclude the crowning proper, everything else at the village square and at the new Chief’s residence being ceremonial.

At the sacred grove, Sibaba had confidently stepped into the circle, repeated the words that one of the elders had directed at him, deftly poured libation in the ancient custom, drank a portion of the wine he used for the libation, and then triumphantly stepped out of the circle. Between the circle and the sacred tree however, he took a few steps, tripped and fell, unable to complete the journey of just about three yards. The rest became history, including the fact that the cow that he bought and tied at the village square for celebrations became the main source of meat for his funeral at one end of the village. Meanwhile, Madam Afi’s father, on successful completion of the same ritual the day after, prepared to fete the village at the other end.

Madam Afi had been told that story so many times by her father. The purport to her was that what is not one’s own should not be assumed. One need not stretch to grab what is not one’s own. Nor should people excessively stretch to grab what is theirs by right, because it will come in due time, for the hand that is to hold two scores, will always hold two scores and the owner of a property fights for it with just one finger.

In spite of the fact that she felt that such a concept was anti-progress and not in tune with the modern Mendelian world, she believed that certain things should be left as they were. This is why elders insist that shifting ancient landmarks is sacrilegious and totally unacceptable. This orientation had made her, as a young woman in Scotland and later on, Britain, to curb the internal tensions in her life. She had wanted to ‘belong,’ to be modern and even found herself toy with the idea of going into pornography or outright prostitution, not for money, but to do something outrageous and demonically satisfying.

The most exasperating thing about those thoughts was that she never felt embarrassed by them. Deep down however she knew that she did not belong, that her place was in that ‘island of goodness’ as a matter of responsibility, not of choice; as a duty, not of preference; what with her royal background and the eyes of Rev. Father Stone, her benefactor, just a few miles away from her residence in London where she lived while pursuing the Diploma in Catering. If she could curb her raw instincts, she felt that her daughter, with just fewer antecedents, should do the same.

Mira had always been a source of worry to her mother. Madam Afi had lost a girl who came after Mira. This was due to the carelessness of a ‘nurse’ whom the woman later forgave when she got to know that she was in fact a ward maid turned ‘staff nurse’ in a private clinic. Madam Afi had gone to a private clinic to be delivered of her baby not because she had too much money to spend, but because she felt that a privately run clinic would be safer than a public hospital. After the delivery, the infant had had difficulty in breathing while it was in the nursery. Instead of getting the doctor or a trained nurse to look at the case, the emergency nurse proceeded to give the baby a mouth-to-mouth respiration, massaging the tiny human being’s chest. The effort produced a result that was too much for the infant. It died.

Madam Afi found herself left with one girl for which she was however still grateful to God. Mira was pretty as the eye of a bird, intelligent, an extrovert, very warm and lively, with a desire to be free to roam the world. The woman saw in her daughter, her true self and had often wished she could let her be what she as the mother had always wanted to be. Her antecedents however proved too strong, enveloping her wishes and keeping her secret desires in check.

She knew that self-restraint sometimes involved missing things that one desired most. She also knew that it meant preserving the individual and by extension the society, and since the society is more important than the individual, it behooves each member to go for those things that, though they may inflict discomfort on the individual, generate general good for present and future generations. She never forgot two words that made one phrase, and of French origin—noblesse oblige—rank imposes obligations.

This thought expanded to the fact that those who fail to rein in their whims are those that cause much of society’s pains. These include the hoodlums, fraudsters, drug barons and peddlers, skewed politicians, usurpers, quacks, unconscionable doctors and other professionals, adulterers, adulteresses, prostitutes, murderers, fake preachers, truant teachers, pirates, and the like. They exist in every kind of society, from the village urchin who destroys wombs, wealth, lives, and limbs using occult means, to highway robbers who rob, rape, kill, and maim; from fraudsters who claim to be money doublers, to bank chief executives and managers who convert depositors funds into personal property; from prayer house leaders in remote villages who generate ‘fire from heaven’ through contact of flame with a spout of kerosene from an assistant’s mouth, to the Juju Priest who tells his client not to swallow spittle within twenty four hours of taking a concoction if the preparation is to have the desired result.

There are several others. These include the village teacher who demands firewood and vegetables from parents and pupils as of right, to the professor who demands sexual favours from his female students in exchange for marks; from the Village Head who cannot account for proceeds of a community oil palm fruit harvest, to the Head of Government of a country who institutes a conveyer belt in the public treasury to siphon public funds into his private bank accounts. Men, women, and children who give free rein to their animal instincts generate pain to others and leave scars on the skin of the society. It is because they form the majority in many societies that islands of goodness become not just potent, but urgent—a desideratum.

*     *     *

The society needs islands of goodness, Madam Afi said loudly. This time, she was not alarmed when her husband stirred, looked quizzically at her, and then at the clock on the wall that read twenty-nine minutes to two o’clock in the morning. She did not shut her eyes tightly as she did before. Rather, she looked directly into her husband’s eyes and spoke.

Our society needs islands of goodness, those pockets of salvation that facilitate our collective salvation.

Mr. Siama turned, sat up, wiped his face with his right palm and looked again at his wife.

Can I understand you? he enquired.

My dear, I have not slept since I came to bed.

I notice that.

Not given to many words, Mr. Siama expected his listener to take a cue and continue with what needed to be said.

This daughter of yours is giving me nightmares, Madam Afi said.

That is why she is called Miranda.

"Her own wonderful is beyond me."

Well?

She asked me whether it is necessary for anybody to be, or even attempt to be an island of goodness in a vast sea of depravity.

Why did she ask the question?

If I knew, I would not have been in this quandary.

You should have found out.

There was a brief pause. It was obvious that the man was contemplating the question. He sighed, adjusted himself and lay down again, gnashing his teeth.

You have not said anything, Madam Afi observed.

Did you say something to Mira?

I did not.

That means you had nothing to say. That means it is not an easy question. But you are a man and the head of this family.

So?

When a woman meets a road block, it is to her man she turns. Of course children, inquisitive lot, believe that their fathers have the answers to every puzzle in the world.

Only when there are road blocks and puzzles.

Mr. Siama grunted and gnashed his teeth. He fell silent for a while, turned, and then cleared his throat.

I think that you should sleep. Normal human beings do not stay awake to grapple with problems at this hour.

Even if the problem is a fire on the roof.

This is no fire.

It is a fire of sorts. You know I rarely discuss with Mira. Today I did.

That is your fault. A girl confides in her mother.

So I take the blame.

"We are not talking about taking or sharing blames the way villagers share bonga fish on a banana leaf at the end of dinner. We are talking facts. Now, suppose Mira has a boil in her womanhood, if you would permit my vulgarity, would she tell you or me?"

Women do not open up boils in women’s private parts.

"I see. Hm. Could you expect a daughter to tell her father that her husband has not been able to perform in bed as expected—?"

Why must your analogies be sex-based?

Because that is one area that men discuss freely with men only, and women with women only.

I agree but this is not a case involving sex; so tell me, is it worth one’s while to strife to be an island of goodness?

Mr. Siama lay still for sometime. Then he jumped out of the bed, searched for his snuffbox and took a helping. This was one habit, aside from bruxism, that Madam Afi found revolting in her husband. She actually abhorred men who take snuff but interestingly, she was willing to tolerate her husband in this indulgence. Her reason, after a close analysis of her thoughts, was that it reminded her of her father whom she was very fond of and continued to have affection for several years after his exit from the world of the living.

After several pulls of the dark stuff mashed between his index finger and his thumb and the follow up toilet, Mr. Siama sat at the edge of the bed, groaning and grinding his teeth.

*     *     *

"Islands. Hm. Can anything that stands on its own, surrounded by something different, whether that something is positive or negative, be called an island? Mr. Siama began off-handedly. Yes. One can think of a mass of land surrounded by water; a clean spot surrounded by filth; a building sitting on a large parcel of land, the surrounding being plain field. Hm. Island of wealth; island of poverty. Island of success; island of failure. Islands of order; islands of chaos. Islands of peace; islands of turbulence. Island of goodness. Island of evil. He nodded his head slowly and ground his teeth. I even remember asking myself whether a community in Sankwala in Cross River State of Nigeria is an island. That small parcel of level land of red rocky earth is totally surrounded by a string of hills enveloped in emerald vegetation. Hm." He paused.

Can there be an island of evil in this world where evil is ubiquitous? Just as one would have to turn to a lexicographer for assistance as to whether one can call a body of water surrounded by land an island. Can there be an island of evil?

He turned to look at his wife who simply lay still. He picked up a white handkerchief from the nearby table and blew his nose.

Yes, there can be islands of goodness, he continued. "These are the worthy citizens who, in spite of the fact that evil is pleasurable to the doer, strain to do good even when all others are doing evil. These are the persons who may just be countable on the fingertips in each group or society who know that there is nothing wrong in doing what is good, and that in fact, doing good is good. They are the ones that have managed to stand aloft, not aloof though, from the snares of evil. Yes, there is a big need for such islands. The society needs, not just one island of goodness