AK Page 6

  “When’s it going to happen?”

  “The OAU heads are meeting in Dangoum in two months’ time. All the arrangements are made and they won’t cancel unless they have to. It’s very important to us that they come. It puts Nagala on the world map. All sorts of things. But if the government looks unstable they won’t legitimize it by holding their meeting here. As soon as they’re gone we’ll move.”

  Paul nodded. In a curious way he was glad. Though Michael was obviously on edge and in danger, this was the Michael he knew and worshiped, the planner and leader, the man like the hunting leopard, his whole body still but full of its strength and purpose, while his hand drew in the dust before him. And all the time the buzz of the plane drew nearer.

  4

  Jilli was enchanted by her present. She sat cross-legged on the platform at the back of the house with the clothes laid out on her lap, stroking and stroking them. Then with a sly look she stole off around the ledge and came back a little later wrapped in her red blanket, followed by her grandmother. She peered left and right and out across the reed beds to make sure no one was watching, then unswathed herself.

  Kashka stared, as though he’d never seen her properly before.

  “You looking like film star,” he said.

  Jilli laughed and wiggled her hips and strutted around the platform, then settled into her grandmother’s lap and let the old woman stroke and feel the strange clothes while they chortled together.

  “You coming to Hilton, Paul,” she said. “I giving for you all best best foods, no pay.”

  It was strange to Paul to give someone such easy pleasure. His life had had no room for that sort of experience before. He could feel Kashka’s jealousy, too—Kashka had been away for the holiday, but hadn’t thought to bring a present back, or had the wish to have done so till this moment. After a bit Paul told Jilli to go and take the clothes off and hide them. There was no point in making a friend of her if at the same time he made an enemy of her father.

  School settled into its routine. The marshes shrank so that the reed beds seemed to grow taller and the channels between them showed more clearly. The main mosquito season was over, but everyone took chloroquin still and smeared themselves with repellent before going down from the dry hillsides to the Strip. Paul listened twice a day to the World Service news, but there was nothing about Nagala except for mentions of the OAU meeting in a few weeks’ time. Michael wrote every week but sent no hint of what might be happening. Some of the envelopes looked as if they’d been opened and resealed.

  “Be ready,” he’d said. “Make plans.” Where could you hide around Tsheba? In front were the marshes. In the desert to the north you’d die. East or west along the Strip you’d stand out like a zebra among buck. Michael’s package was no obvious help—two hundred dollars, three thousand Nagala gurai, an address, 300 Curzon Street, and a password. Paul told Sister Felicity he was thinking of becoming a doctor and asked if he could help in the medicine tent. He gave her time to learn to trust him, then stole chloroquin, repellent, and sterilizing tablets. At other times he collected stores—matches, cord, a cooking pan, a plastic water flask, and so on. Nothing he couldn’t easily carry. Three weeks passed.

  It was the first item on the six a.m. news on the Thursday of the fourth week. “Reports are coming through from Dangoum of the attempted assassination of Colonel Malani, Prime Minister of Nagala…”

  Paul had the volume down and listened under his blanket to the whisper. The rest of the school was woken at half past six but he’d trained himself to wake early. The other headlines and then back to Nagala. They didn’t know much. A mine on the road back from Olo, and an ambush. Cabinet ministers in the party. State of emergency declared. Conflicting reports whether Malani was alive or dead. Then our Africa correspondent talking about disagreements in the regime following the cease-fire. Malani’s failure to control NDR corruption. Public disappointment after early promise… Nothing about Michael. While the rest of his tent was still sleeping Paul packed his satchel, then got up and dressed with the other boys. Thursday was a morning for going down to Jilli’s, if they were still going. He managed to line up three times for lunch packs. The headmaster, Mr. Salinka, came into Assembly arguing furiously with his deputy, Dr. Gonzales. All the teachers must know by now, surely, and some of the other boys had radios, though they mostly used them to listen to music. Mr. Salinka conducted assembly as if nothing unusual had happened, but the teachers behind him whispered all the time among themselves.

  The buses came late, and the ride to the Strip was a clamour of rumour and argument. Paul sat silent, but when the bus dropped them and they were standing in the steamy heat beside the ditch Kashka looked east along the track, squared his shoulders, and said, “Okay, now I’m getting out.”

  “Where are you going?” said Paul.

  “Baroba.”

  “You got any money?”

  “A bit of gurai.”

  “You’ll never make it to Baroba.”

  Kashka snorted defiantly.

  “Fifty miles to the end of the Strip,” said Paul. “Think any Fulu are going to help a Baroba? After that bad, dry bush. Roadblocks on all the bridges—you’ll need more than a few gurai for them. And anyway you don’t know what’s happening in Dangoum. Maybe everything’s okay. Maybe all this is just getting shot of the old NDR gang. Francis and me, we’re going to Jilli’s to listen for some more news. I’ve brought my radio.”

  Kashka stared at him, still too proud for advice.

  “My father gave me money, case something like this happened. If we’ve got to run, we’d best go together.”

  “We’ll go to Jilli’s,” said Kashka, as if he was giving the orders.

  Paul smiled at Francis, who’d said nothing all this while. His schoolbook cleverness was no use to him now.

  “We’ll look after you,” said Paul. “It’ll all work out in the end.”

  Francis nodded and put his hand into Paul’s like a baby. They walked across the fields and gangways to Jilli’s house, where they settled as usual on the platform and turned the radio on. It was a program called Anything Goes on the World Service, one of Jilli’s favourites, so she pouted when Paul tuned across to Radio Dangoum. Military music there, just like during the war when the government had used the station for propaganda, with brass bands in between. Colonel Malani’s regime used it for propaganda, too, but preferred Afro-Cuban.

  “Try Voice of America,” said Kashka. “It’ll be mostly lies, but they might tell us something.”

  “What’s the wavelength?”

  Kashka shrugged. Paul looked at his watch. Ten minutes before the next World Service bulletin. He was reaching for the tuning knob when the music stopped and a woman’s voice spoke in English.

  “This is Radio Dangoum. We present the Right Honourable Major Basso-Iskani, head of the provisional government of Nagala.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows to Kashka, who shook his head. He didn’t recognize the name either. A man’s voice now spoke, also in English, but heavy and slurred, on a single note, and stumbling as though he was reading the words and wasn’t used to doing that.

  “Citizens of Nagala. It is with great reluctance that I take the reins of government into my hands. I say I do not do this willingly. I am a plain soldier, not interested in politics. But I am also a patriot, and when I see my beloved country, Nagala, in danger, it is my duty to act.

  “The danger is not from outside enemies, but from those within. Some of these enemies are corrupt men, who steal and take bribes, and fill their pockets with money that belongs to our poor country. These I will seek out and punish severely.

  “Other enemies are the tools and jackals of foreign powers, who work for the ruin of Nagala, so that when all order and discipline is lost they will have the excuse to send their armies in and take over.

  “But from today there will be no more corrupti
on, no more misrule. A council of state, with myself as its head, will take over. Its proclamations will have the force of law. Those hindering the council or its agents in the course of their duties will be committing a criminal act, for which the penalty is death.

  “A state of emergency is declared, and the so-called free democratic elections scheduled for December are cancelled. When truly democratic elections become possible they will take place, and I and my council will joyfully surrender power.

  “Those responsible for the misdeeds of the deposed government of Colonel Malani will be put on trial, so that their criminal activities may be known to the world.

  “To our friends outside Nagala I say this: My government represents the true interests of all the people of Nagala, and the true interests of Africa. In particular I look forward to receiving the delegates to the Organization of African Unity in Dangoum next month, so that I may greet them like a brother and explain to them the reasons for my actions.

  “I, Major Dan Basso-Iskani, have spoken. Long live Nagala and the supreme military council!”

  The band played Nagala the Beautiful, Land of the Free. Another voice started to repeat the message in Naga. Paul turned the volume down and sat motionless, as the chill of shock washed through him. Malani was dead. Michael was dead or in prison. Everything was over.

  “What coming?” whispered Jilli. “This be bad-bad thing, Paul?”

  Paul shook his head. His breath came and went in slow sighs. He was trying to force himself to think rationally when Kashka said, “Paul, you knew this was on. Kagomi gave you money.”

  “Not for this. You think he’d help kill Malani? All he told me was he was trying to get rid of the old NDR gang.”

  “Looks like they’ve done the getting rid. We’d better clear out.”

  Paul nodded and turned to Jilli.

  “Jilli, you’re my friend,” he began, but at that moment she held up her hand and cocked her head to listen. The wash of voices from the fields had hushed and a single voice, far off, was calling in a wailing yodel. Jilli rose and sidled around the hut. The call ended and another voice began, nearer. Paul looked at his watch again and saw that it was after the hour. Hurriedly he retuned and turned the volume up. The newsreader was just finishing the headlines.

  “… scandal is threatening the Japanese government. There has been an explosion in Londonderry, but no casualties.

  “The situation following the military coup in Nagala is still confused, but it now seems certain that Colonel Malani, President of the interim government and leader of the Nagala Liberation Army, died in an ambush yesterday as he was returning from Olo to the capital, Dangoum. A mine is said to have exploded under his car, followed by an exchange of fire between his escort and marksmen lying in wait by the road. It is not clear how many were killed, but Dr. Alkinoko, Minister of Development, and Mr. da Paroi, Minister of Finance, are thought to be among them. Now here is our Central Africa correspondent, David Symes, speaking from Kampala.”

  A new voice.

  “The military coup against the regime of the late Colonel Malani, though sudden, was not wholly unexpected. Certain imbalances and discontents had become increasingly apparent. The presence in the regime of members of the old NDR party was deeply resented by junior leaders of the Nagala Liberation Army, and there have been rumours of an attempt to oust them, perhaps with the tacit support of Colonel Malani himself. It is not yet clear whether the NDR has decided to move first, or whether Major Basso-Iskani is acting on his own initiative.

  “Little is known of the new leader, but from his name he appears to be a Gogu, a member of a small but warlike tribe from the eastern highlands who were extensively recruited into the army under British colonial rule. The Gogu have a long history of enmity with the much more numerous Baroba, who formed an important section of the NLA. The deposed dictator of Nagala, General Boyo, was himself a Gogu. In his broadcast to the nation Major Basso-Iskani …”

  Then a summary of the broadcast, and then …

  “The reference to the forthcoming meeting of the Organization of African Unity in Dangoum is of interest. It must be doubtful whether this will now take place. The OAU will not wish to appear to legitimize a government that has taken power by force, but on the other hand Dangoum was only accepted as a venue for the meeting after complex negotiations among the competing factions within the OAU and it will be difficult to find an alternative. Provided that Major Basso-Iskani’s government can make some show of respectability over the next few weeks the OAU may decide, however reluctantly, to accept the fait accompli.”

  “That was David Symes, speaking from Kampala,” said the newsreader. “The latest American trade figures …”

  Paul switched off. He felt numb, stupid. Francis was crying.

  “He is Gogu, then,” said Kashka, and spat.

  Jilli came softly back.

  “Men going up to school,” she said. “Soldier men. You hear these callings?”

  She held up her hand for silence. The yodelling cry was dwindling away west.

  “They’ll be after you, Paul,” said Kashka. “Kagomi’s son.”

  “Jilli,” said Paul. “Are you my friend?”

  She smiled but held her head sideways and watched him out of the corners of her eyes, a yes-and-no look. He began to explain, keeping the words short, the sentences simple.

  “My father, Michael Kagomi, is a big man in Dangoum. Colonel Malani is his friend. Now bad men have killed Malani. What have they done to my father? I don’t know. These soldiers have come to Tsheba. They are looking for me. Maybe they will kill me. Maybe they will say to my father, ‘Look, we’ve got your son. Now you do what we tell you.’ What can I do? Where can I go? That way’s no good. That way’s no good.”

  He pointed east and west along the Strip and north toward the desert.

  “I must hide in the marshes,” he said. “Jilli, you’re my friend. You say to your father, ‘Sell a boat to Paul.’ Look, I’ve got dollars. Plenty. Please, Jilli. You’re my friend.”

  Jilli had stopped smiling and was looking at him more sidelong than ever.

  “Where you going?” she said. “Dangoum?”

  “Maybe,” said Paul. He hadn’t thought about much beyond hiding in the marshes, but the address Michael had given him was in Dangoum. He’d have to go there in the end.

  “Okay,” said Jilli. “I come too.”

  She slipped away around the hut. There was silence in the fields now, a sense of listening. Far off, like bird- song, another yodelling cry arose. How much time had he got? They’d round up the children still at Tsheba, pick out the ones whose fathers were NLA, then if they’d got a list find that Paul Kagomi was missing .

  Jilli appeared, leading her grandmother and carrying a decorated pot.

  “Take off these clothes,” she said. “Make you Fulu boys. Quick, quick.”

  She shoved the pot under Paul’s nose. It contained a slop of grey paste. Reluctantly he stripped and let Jilli push him into a sitting position, cross-legged in front of the grandmother, who gripped his hair and with her other hand started to spread the paste unhurriedly over his face, chanting as she did so, a low, throbbing, repetitive sound. The paste was cool on his skin and the movement of the firm old fingers eased some of the tension away. When the grandmother signalled him to stand he opened his eyes and saw that Jilli had gone, but that there were several of the boat-shaped head baskets which the Fulu used to carry their goods stacked by the ladder. She reappeared carrying a jerrican which she dumped by the baskets, then scampered off again, returning with a rope of mealie cobs. She made trip after trip to load the baskets.

  By the time the grandmother had finished smearing Paul’s legs the clay was drying on his face and shoulders, making the skin tingle gently. As she started on Francis, Paul moved away and picked up the jerrican. It was full.

  “Are you taking
the boat with the motor?” he said. “What’ll your father say?”

  Jilli shrugged. She had finished with her father. He was a fool.

  “He go find boat,” she said. “Now you give me dollars.”

  “How much?”

  She twittered Fulu and the grandmother answered. Jilli couldn’t count in Naga yet, so she held up her spread fingers ten times.

  “Far too much,” said Paul angrily. “If we’re taking the boat with the motor I’m not buying it. I just want it a few days.”

  They bargained to and fro. The grandmother pasted Francis and started on Kashka. In the end they settled for forty dollars, which Paul counted out in fives. Jilli peeled off one note and rolled it into a tight tube which she threaded into her topknot. The rest she passed to her grandmother.

  All this while fresh snatches of news had been floating across the fields. Now a longer message was on the way. Jilli slipped off around the hut to listen. Paul climbed down into the nearest boat and told Francis to pass him down the stores. They were still at it when Jilli’s head poked over the edge of the platform.

  “Soldier men coming,” she gasped. “In Tsheba they kill. Bang-bang-bang.”

  The shots exploded from her lips, rapid-fire. She passed the last of the stores down, then followed Francis down the ladder, and carried the jerrican over the rocking raft of boats to the one with the motor in it. Paul and Francis worked their way across more slowly, passing the stores from one boat to the next and then moving on. Jilli went back and chose four paddles.

  The fields were silent as they sat on the edge of the platform and waited for the grandmother to finish pasting Kashka. Shooting at Tsheba, thought Paul. Who was there to shoot? Nuns, schoolteachers, children? The BBC man had said that this Basso-Iskani wanted to show the OAU heads he wasn’t a thug. Maybe, but Tsheba was a long way from Dangoum, and these were government soldiers. Shooting and burning was all they understood. Or perhaps they’d just fired a few bursts into the air, to show they meant business.