Mother africa.

[MANICHAEAN]

MOTHER AFRICA.

CHAPTER 1:

It is a fallacy of axiomatic proportions to subscribe to the view that you have to be a black man to discover your roots. Mother Africa is there for all those of troubled mind who require to find a succour implicit in the state of life itself, reduced to its essentials.

For existence can be short & brutish on the Dark Continent, whether in the shabeens of the Cape, the slums of Lagos or the unlit and unwelcoming back streets of Entebbe.

Survival is bred fresh from the womb’s breach & if you are unfortunate to have neither; money, nor family, nor tribe, then the fingers of a profound, inner despair hover in the shadows and become progressively emboldened in a direct collerary to your decline.

Suzie Achu was originally from Bamenda in the Cameroons and was eighteen when her father one day drove her out from the family compound. Not that she had done anything wrong. But financial reality dictated. Sons to a father are an insurance against old age and enough females are to be kept to work the fields, undertake the cooking and service the bed. The rest, when old enough, can no longer be fed and must go.

And so Suzie found herself that night in the Shaharazad Night Club in Plateau State, Nigeria, on the game, and urgently seeking to land one of the diminishing species of whitey in order to pay for tomorrow’s breakfast and the rent on the one room in town she shared with four other working girls.

It was getting late and in a few more hours dawn would advance in from the east. Not that that would add much cheer to the town’s inhabitants, for it was the peak of the rainy season and the skies were dark and troubled and the earth absorbed undefended the torrential, non-stop downpour.

Most of the club’s exuberant flashy, shallow types had already departed, yet the dance floor still contained one drunk expounding a unique dance interpretation of a Bony M number, whilst his in-tow partner, contemplated how much she could rob him blind for, once he passed out back at his place. Stale smoke and the sweat of the evening’s exertions and food hung in the air.

At the bar, propped up on one extended arm for support and feet spread to maintain some semblance of balance, a tall individual of cadaverous appearance was alone, sinking the penultimate Star beer.

Suzie homed in from where she had been standing, and, as her friends back at the lodging had advised, took the direct approach and stuck her tongue in his ear.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 2:

Emelia Banfo, or “Loving Amelia,” as she liked to be known, was a man.

It was in fact the persona of one Obi Danda and he was based in the suburbs of Accra, in Ghana. He/she was an internet scam artist of no mean ability, far ahead of the Nigerians further down the African coast, with their crude, “I’m the heir of the deceased President of the Federal Bank. Give me your account details & we will split the blocked inheritance lodged in a Swiss bank account fifty-fifty!”

No, Emelia had patience.

First she trawled, normally on Yahoo Messenger to strike up an acquaintance with a prospective lonely male of suitable means in another country. Little by little she played the part in a drama well rehearsed. Father dead, mother remarried, not really accepted in the new family, respectable photo snaps in traditional dress attachments sent, and then another of a body to die for in a bikini on an Accra beach.

There were fish out there on the web and she gently gave them the bait and reeled them in. It would be some time before the first sting came. “Something to help with some makeup,” by Western Union and always the nightly declarations of affection and love.

Occasionally the plot went astray. “I love you my darling Emelia & I’m giving up my job to fly to Accra & be with you. Meet me at the airport on Tuesday”

“Oh no!” back would come the immediate reply. “Darling, I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

“But Darling I insist. I want to take you in my arms & carry you off to the bedroom.”

“No, please don’t do anything hasty. Let’s spend more time to get to know one another.”

The prospect of Mr Lovestruck turning up and embracing him in the International Lounge was not exactly on Obi’s agenda.

“Time to move onto the next lonely heart.”

“If they were naive enough to have their money taken by a man posing as a woman, either/neither of whom they had ever met, then they deserved to be taken to the cleaners.”

And then one day, Obi’s body was found in an alley near his rooms. He was laying face downwards. It was a clean and efficient hit. In the assassin’s back pocket, a payment slip from Western Union for services rendered.

[MANICHAEAN]

CHAPTER 3:

At about 3.45pm on Monday 25th January 1971, a hesitant voice announced on Radio Uganda that the armed forces of Uganda had overthrown Milton Obete and his government. About half an hour later, the same voice returned to the air and announced that the armed forces had given power to their fellow soldier, Major-General Idi Amin. For eight years he was to rule that country and at first there was great jubilation among some sections of the population at the birth of the new regime.

The turning point however was to come on the 17th December 1972, when, in a midnight radio and TV broadcast to the nation, Field-Marshal Amin, (as he now was), announced major decisions affecting the lives and property of British citizens in Uganda. The Ugandan government was to take over all tea estates, BAT, Brooke Bond, Securicor and most significantly of all, the jewel in the East African Crown, namely the Kampala Club, which till then had been exclusively British.

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The next day, at a metal table under the large ban yam tree adjacent to the swimming pool, the Kampala Club Committee had been called for an emergency meeting. There were four in all, three males and one female.

The Chairman was ex- Colonel Robert Farquer, very much English; in fact almost of a fin de siècle disposition. He was a big, battered man with a wide, moist face, a strained moustache, gnarled hands and was today, full of galvanic fire. Before starting the proceedings he had already opened and shut his mouth twice showing strong, dirty teeth.

He held a cigarette between the strong, precise fingers of one hand. He put the other hand flat on the white tablecloth, and said,

“Well, what do we do? This Club, our second home, has been run in a most expeditious manner by the British since the end of the last century, & here we are now with this jumped up black sergeant from the African Rifles dictating to us who can, and who cannot be admitted as a member. Worse than that, they also want to run the whole bloody show themselves. Palmerstone must be turning in his grave!”

Opposite sat his deputy John Hollis. He was about forty-five, possibly a little more, and had a lot of powdery gray hair and a handsome, dissipated face that was beginning to go pouchy. In fact if the truth be known his brain was in the process of outlasting his liver and his other organs being too corroded to attempt to save them, were asleep. He had on a beige safari jacket and a glass full of whiskey in his hand. He was a little drunk.
“Bob, we have to bend a bit,” he said. “They have been given independence you know, so perhaps a wider Club representation might not be too bad, if of course it is controlled properly.”

“Nonsense,” retorted the Chairman, “Representation! Why only last year we allowed in two Scotsmen and a suspect bank official of Welsh descent. You don’t know how much that cost me in arm twisting to stop them all being black-balled. Still a lot of resentment among some members, I’m sure.”

But Hollis was if anything a realist and aware that sometimes operations in life have to be performed without an anaesthetic.

The femme of the four was Angelia Brown She was small and delicately made. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and she had the sort of skin an old rake dreams of. As it had once been expressed by one of her many admirers;

'She was a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.'
Add to that her demure inability to manage the “Rs,” and this somehow lent her girlish tastes an extra dimension of depravity. As she sat viewing the others her lids drooped with a faint motion of satiric contempt. To her, this was a world which was inescapably cosy, even when it was at its most sinister.

She looked at the final member of the group.

“What do you think Woger?”

The big man drank out of his glass and rubbed the edge of it up and down on his lower lip. His hair was crisp and black, ever so faintly touched with gray, as by an almost diffident hand. His clothes fitted him as though they had a soul of their own, not just a doubtful past.

To Angelia, there was in him an uncanny singleness, a quality of being by himself, not in contact with anybody else, which marked an artist out to her.

He spoke after a pause, in a controlled, precise manner.

“I agree with John. Like it or not we’re an outdated piece of history now. It’s disagreeable that it’s coming to an end, but then we were blessed in being able to have lived in this secluded and privileged enclave of Little England for so long. We will have to comply I’m afraid with as much grace as possible.”

He looked Angelia in the eyes, a strange, depraved look of knowledge and a quick spark of uncanny fire. She had known for many years that he had regarded her as a remarkable woman, and it was a relief to her to be acknowledged extraordinary. Then at least she had not needed to fret about the common standards.

The steward Garaba brought fresh drinks on a silver tray. He had a wrinkled brown face and hair the colour of steel wool.

Over by the squash courts, younger club members glanced briefly towards the Chairman’s group. They knew that the unfolding drama was being played out after last night’s broadcast and that they were basically powerless as meaningful players to enter the stage.

“I’m not going down without a fight,” stated Farquer forcefully. “Too many damm years building up this place and establishing standards. No, blast it, I won’t roll over!”
He cared a great deal, outwardly – and outwardly was all that mattered in his position, for inwardly was the pit and despair of a bad joke.

The big man Roger raised his head slowly from his drink. The Club suddenly seemed to become very still. A car had stopped outside. The faint throbbing of its motor died and they all looked at each other around the table.

Out by the main entrance, Israel Janfa, the doorman of the Kampala Club for twenty years was six foot two and he viewed with apprehension the penneted vehicle that had drawn up. He wore a pale blue uniform, and white gloves which made his hands look enormous. He opened the door of the sleek black limousine as gently as an old maid stroking a cat.

An officer of the Ugandan Army emerged and drew himself up ram rod straight.

“Take me to the Club Chairman’s office & tell him that I require his presence.”

To the doorman it was a strange yet unequal battle between his ordinary consciousness and his deep rooted, black-art consciousness. He hesitated, then complied. His short cut black hair was damp with perspiration, a wide, flat face and large comprehending eyes.

The officer was led through reception, past an internal bar, its clientele mute and frozen in time. Then turning right, to Colonel Farquers office.

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No steward would approach the Committee’s table and so it was left to one of the squash players to play a part in the drama he had so earlier dismissed.

“Excuse me Col Farquer, Sir, but there is an officer from the Ugandan Military who would like to see you in your office.”

Farquer absorbed the news quietly, his situation supposedly exeunt.

He rose slowly and ignoring all members’ stares, proceeded through the main club. The choice was clear; humiliation or the alternative. There was a space between an inner and outer door to his office. He leaned against the outer door and took a small automatic about four inches long out of his jacket pocket. He held it with three fingers against the inside of his hat and went on in, swinging the hat gently beside his body.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 4:

“Mama Din say pepper soup done come tonight Master.”

That was the news for tonight’s imminent prospective meal back in Jos after work.
Outside, a dusty close-fitting heat still hung over the construction site. Some workers had already stopped, whilst others merely assumed an attitude of movement, if you happened to glance in their direction. A spiral whirly wind picked up some discarded cement bags briefly and then deposited them three feet away.

To the white site agent, it was a sham continuing and it was coming close to time anyway.

“OK Solomon, get the boys packed up and let’s get to town for some chop.”

The prospect of free food, washed down with some cold Star beer was always enough to get the small group of African foremen moving.

“Yala, Yala. Clean up tools and lock away in office.”

The small, elderly night guard appeared.

Solomon did his authority posing routine. “Ma Gardi, ah ha, listen now. Make sure the tools be dere in morning. Katchi co?”

The old guard with his stick secured the padlock and with a look of resignation listened once again to the nightly briefing of his duties.

The white man and the three black foremen clambered into the pick-up and set off for town.

Mama Din’s establishment was down one of the back streets of Jos. A plank over an open ditch led to the front entrance. It was in essence a beer parlour, almost like a wide corridor with four tables & could accommodate no more than 15 persons at one time. Mama was a large, cheerful, Ibo business woman with a ready broad smile. She had recently opened a small kitchen in the back, from where her pepper soup of a fiery nature emanated.

“How now Madame?” was the cry as they entered. “Pepper soup dere?”

“Pepper soup done come batouri.” Was her eager, almost professional response.

“Now Madame, please, small pepper. Last time it was too hot.”

“No problem batouri, small pepper only.”

In fact Mama Din had quickly established that with this white man and his foreman who came in regular about 2-3 times per week, the more pepper she added, the more beer he brought for everyone. And that was where the profit lay!

They grouped around one of the tables near the door with their first beer, the heat and work of the day behind them. That first one was always the best. It went down so smooth.

To Solomon and the other two African foreman there was an additional bonus to the treat of pepper soup & beer that was about to unfold. It was watching the white man sweat.

Mama brought the soup in large bowls with spoons.

The drama unfolded.

“Mama, Where’s the meat?”

“Batouri, price include two pieces of meat, each bowl. Extra money for more!”

The white man said nothing, and started slowly to sip the soup.

The foremen watched.

Sweat started to break on his forehead, he reddened facially, and he tried to ease his throat.

The foremen looked at each other with implicit understanding.

“More beer Madame. Bring more beer extra cold. Quick quick, massa massa!”

“Yes batouri,” Mama replied, affecting to move quickly, a look of concern on her countenance barely suffused by her commercial aspirations.

“I thought I told you, small pepper Madame. This could kill every known germ in the human body!”

“Only small pepper dere batouri. Drink more cold beer. You will feel better.”


There is often expressed a despair inherent in the African condition, whether it be the corruption, the cheapness of life or the disease, poverty and hunger on that continent. But there is another side of; living for the moment, of easy laughter and the friendship and shared experiences.

Such it was later that evening, as the group dispersed to their respective homes, whilst Mama Din, counting her takings, made a mental note to stock up on pepper in the morn.