Текст книги "Jimfish"

Автор книги: Christopher Hope

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

CHAPTER 16

After inspecting the fleet of limousines in the presidential garage, they chose – on the advice of Lunamiel’s knowledgeable servant – a Mercedes-Benz S600 Pullman. It was a vast black vehicle with creamy leather seats, walnut dashboard and a bar stocked with pink champagne. Its passenger windows were hung with heavy curtains that gave it the look of a catafalque on wheels.

The dark lady knew all about these splendid machines and their reputation for reliability amongst self-respecting leaders, who risked their lives to bring peace and stability to their often ungrateful peoples.

‘Nicolae Ceauşescu it was who told Marshal Mobutu that if he wished to travel in a style commensurate with his majesty, then only the Mercedes Pullman would do. It is the limo of choice among serious big men around the planet, from Marshal Tito and Mao Zedong, to the Shah of Persia. Colonel Gaddafi, Guide and Leader of Libya, hands them out as gifts, and my own President Samuel Doe, liberator of Liberia, owns half a dozen. I’ve even heard that Erich Honecker of East Germany liked to hunt deer by the strength of its headlights.’

Jimfish was dumbfounded by the sheer immensity of the limousine. ‘If we’re using it to escape, why not take something a bit less conspicuous?’

‘Size isn’t everything,’ the lady agreed. ‘But this Mercedes is also bullet-proof and that’s very important indeed.’

She turned out to be even wiser than Jimfish had imagined. On their journey through Zaire they were fired upon several times by gangs of soldiers who roamed the countryside, demanding bribes, robbing, raping and pillaging, but their armour-plated automobile shrugged off bullets as a buffalo does flies.

As they rolled along the potholed roads, in between attacks and ambushes, Lunamiel’s attendant told them her story.

‘You wouldn’t think so to look at me, but I am a princess of the Krahn tribe. Our people were local and truly at home in a part of Africa which later came to be called Liberia, when American settlers arrived, unasked, and took over. These new arrivals never amounted to more than a fraction of the original people of Liberia, but they ran our country as a one-party state. They saw to it that Americans and only Americans ruled the roost, and treated us as dunces or domestic servants.’

Jimfish remembered how things were done in Port Pallid, where Sergeant Arlow’s wife Gloriosa – so unfortunately blown to smithereens as she and her husband attended Sunday service – had kept not just a retinue of retainers for everything from cooking to the act of conception, but had even assigned separate servants to each hand when her fingernails needed care. Did he at last feel stirring within him the elements of what he hoped might be the heat that ignites to form the rage that is the rocket fuel of the lumpenproletariat? Certainly a painful longing for home took hold of him.

‘I know exactly what you mean! We had the very same in my country. In our case it was whites who ruled the roost, though they amounted to a fraction of the population. They were arrogant, stupid, lazy latecomers to Africa, colonialists, imperialists and slave-drivers, who saw themselves as God’s privileged people.’

‘It was something like that,’ said the dark lady. ‘Except that our American invaders were black and not white. They were freed slaves or their descendants, whose relatives had been shipped from Africa to work the cotton fields of the southern states and now came back to the Mother Continent to lord it over real Africans. When we rebelled they punished us and ordered us to enjoy the liberty they had brought to (their name, not ours) “Liberia”.’

‘Well, I suppose,’ said the kindly Lunamiel, ‘that by freeing their slaves and transporting them back home the Americans thought they were being kind.’

‘I dare say,’ their attendant nodded. ‘But in my experience Americans are never more dangerous than when doing good. Especially when they go to war in order to save those less fortunate than themselves. Naturally, we real Africans didn’t like their attitude. My tribe, the Krahn, had never accepted slavery. When others around us fell to the slavers, the Krahn would kill themselves rather than be sold and shipped to the USA. It was my Krahn people who produced a saviour who threw off decades of Americo-Liberian hegemony. Our very own Master Sergeant Samuel Doe bravely attacked the presidential palace one night some ten years ago and killed President William Tolbert, who led a regime full of those we called “settler-class people”, while they called us “country people”. Some say that, perhaps, Master Sergeant Doe should not have gone on to murder President Tolbert’s ministers – that shooting thirteen of them, soon after the coup, was taking things a bit far. But you must understand we were still feeling our way.’

Jimfish, who had seen much blood flow since leaving Port Pallid, was somewhat sensitive to the sight of executions, and when he heard how Tolbert’s deposed ministers were dragged to a beach in Monrovia, bound to steel poles and shot by jeering soldiers, he could not help shaking his head. Even Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu had been given a show trial before being executed.

‘Was there no better way?’ Jimfish asked.

The dark lady regretted there was not. ‘Surely it was kinder to shoot these criminals all at once, rather than drag things out by executing them over several days? It was vital to show everyone that in the new Liberia no one was favoured because of rank or office, and that we indigenous people were in charge at last. That’s why those shot on the beach included the Speaker of the House, a one-time Budget Director, a former Chief Justice and quite a few members of the late President’s family.’

‘And yet there was no trial?’ Jimfish asked.

‘No time for that,’ said the lady. ‘Such was the people’s rage against the tyrannical ex-President Tolbert.’

On hearing the word ‘rage’ Jimfish felt a little easier – for, after all, wasn’t it anger that grew in heat till it vaporized into white-hot rage that was the rocket fuel of the lumpenproletariat? And if, in his heart of hearts, he found unsettling the portrait this lady painted of the trembling ministers on the beach, beaten, tormented and made to wait in line due to a shortage of steel poles, until they were cut to pieces with long bursts of automatic rifle fire by drunken soldiers, he told himself that this was probably what it took if you wanted to land on the right side of history.

Realizing he was confused, Lunamiel’s attendant added kindly: ‘There was no trial of these criminals. But nothing was hidden or underhand. Because he knew the world was watching, and in the interests of transparency, Master Sergeant Doe and his Redemption Council invited the press to the executions on the beach and encouraged them to film the proceedings for posterity.’

The kindly Lunamiel wept at the story, overcome by homesickness for her house, garden and orchard in Port Pallid, remembering her mother and father, blown to pieces while at their Sunday prayers. But she soon cheered up when Jimfish hugged her tenderly and promised to take her home to South Africa just as soon as he could.

Their giant limousine carried them safely from Gbadolite to Kinshasa and on to the port of Boma on the north bank of Congo river, some miles upstream from the sea, but where the water is deep enough for oceangoing vessels. Using a handful of the dollars he carried in the pockets of his handsome Zairean tunic, Jimfish bought tickets on a cargo ship bound for the dark lady’s country of Liberia and they sailed to the coast, at Moanda, where the mighty Congo river meets the Atlantic Ocean face to face.

CHAPTER 17

Monrovia, Liberia, 1991

On arriving in the port of Monrovia, the travellers disembarked and the dark lady was overcome with happiness to be back in her own country, which years before, as the innocent fiancée of the wicked Minister of Mines in Zaire, she had been forced to leave.

‘Welcome to Liberia, where peace prevails and we indigenous people run our own affairs!’ she told Jimfish and Lunamiel. ‘How far we have come, and how long ago it seems, when we were very like your own appalling country, where a tiny group of white bigots whips black people into line, when they don’t go about shooting them dead.’

She’d barely finished speaking when the characteristic tick-tick of heavy automatic fire around the port sent them scurrying for safety behind a line of burnt-out army trucks. They seemed to have arrived in a war zone. Fighters were everywhere: firing, falling, cheering and dying.

Crouching near them was a military man covered in medals. He was watching the battle with great calm, as if he had seen a lot of this fighting before and was undismayed. Catching sight of him, their friend was overjoyed.

‘The good Lord has saved us! Here is my uncle, one of my very own Krahn people from my home village. He’s a soldier and he will know what this violence means.’

When she introduced her friends, Jimfish was embarrassed to hear himself and Lunamiel identified as South Africans, knowing how detested his compatriots were throughout the continent. It was scant comfort that he wasn’t white or any other colour anyone could put a name to; while Lunamiel, though beautifully bronzed, was not quite coppery enough to pass for brown.

He needn’t have worried. Having embraced his niece, the military man introduced himself as Brigadier Washington Truman Roosevelt and he shook Jimfish’s hand warmly, saying how delighted he was to have another South African in his country.

‘Come more often and come in numbers! Liberia needs you. We’re in the middle of a cruel civil war that began earlier this year and gets worse every day. Thousands have been killed in the fighting.’

‘But who is fighting?’ cried the dark lady, distraught at the news that her once-peaceful country was again at war.

‘That’s complicated,’ said her uncle. ‘The army of President Doe – known as the Armed Forces of Liberia is fighting the National Patriotic Front of Liberia, which is the private army of an ambitious young warlord called Charles Taylor. Recently a third group, led by Prince Johnson, an even more ambitious warlord, calling themselves the Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia, split away from the second group and joined the war.’

‘What exactly are these groups fighting for?’ Jimfish asked. ‘Land or treasure or power?’

The brigadier considered this question. ‘Those are some of the aims, perhaps, but for the most part each side simply wants to kill as many of its enemies as possible. Sometimes I think it is the only employment open to men around here. War gives them a job, a gun and a life. Well, at least for a while.’

Watching the pitched battles going on between fighters who thought nothing of decimating a line of attackers, slicing off the hands of prisoners or decapitating their enemies with enormous knives, Jimfish was struck by the impeccable logic of the brigadier’s reply.

‘Then at the end of the day, will the side with most men still standing be the winner?’

The brigadier shook his head. ‘At the end of the day no one will be left standing. What we are seeing is not so much war as a long-drawn-out national suicide. That’s why I’m delighted to see you. We think very highly of the fighting skill of South Africans. I’ve seen how good they are in neighbouring Sierra Leone, which is in the throes of a civil war every bit as bloody as ours. Working there is an outfit called Superior Solutions, and it’s full of South Africans. They’re in great demand in many countries north of Limpopo, where their professionalism and their willingness to work for whoever pays them best is widely welcomed. Their slogan is: “To African problems we bring Superior Solutions.” It’s the latest form of out-sourcing. They supply men and materiel and do the fighting; in return, we pay them in diamonds. It’s the perfect marriage.’

Jimfish struggled to come to terms with what he heard. ‘I thought everyone hated the idea of working with South Africans?’

The brigadier shrugged. ‘At one time, yes. Of course, a lot of collaboration with the regime down south still went on. But it was always hidden. Nowadays it’s open season and any strong man worth his secret bank account, who feels a little uneasy about his rival or is in trouble with his people, is ready to cut a deal with the old enemy.’

Jimfish was nonplussed. ‘What can have happened to bring about this great change?’

Now it was the brigadier who looked surprised. ‘Where on earth have you been that you haven’t heard the news?’

‘In Zaire,’ Jimfish and Lunamiel told him.

‘Ah well, now I understand. That hellhole is as mad and as bad and as far from the real world as ever it was when the Belgians ran it – if not further,’ said the brigadier. ‘Let me give you news from home. After twenty-seven years behind bars Nelson Mandela has been freed and everyone knows he will be the next President of South Africa. Instead of being polecats and pariahs, South Africans are fast becoming hot property. Their armaments, muscle, money and business acumen – personified in the military advisors of Superior Solutions – find willing buyers up and down the continent. In fact, if you would consider, my dear Jimfish, joining in this civil war of ours, you would be invaluable. I would promote you to colonel in my own regiment and pay you in diamonds as large as sugar lumps.’

But here he was interrupted. A small boy with a very large gun was waving to him and the brigadier told them he’d have to finish the conversation later.

‘There is a fourth force fighting in this civil war. My own. Now I must run. My troops are waiting.’

CHAPTER 18

With that, Brigadier Washington Truman Roosevelt slipped away, and when he appeared again at the head of his troops he was a changed man. He had taken off all his clothes except for his laced-up leather boots, and he was leading a squadron of children, most of them boys, who could not have been more than twelve years old. They were armed with AK-47s or rocket-propelled grenades, or manned machine guns mounted on pickup trucks, and were wailing and shrieking like demented banshees as they advanced fearlessly on the enemy.

But it was their fancy dress that was as frightening as their firepower. These children might have been the drunken guests at an insane wedding party or a ghoulish college graduation or Halloween frolic: some wore bridal gowns, others tiaras, wedding veils, mortar boards or they sported purple and pink fright wigs. But there was nothing theatrical about their weapons or their fighting abilities. These boys played real warfare like a deadly game that leaked blood, cheering and whooping at every kill, whipped into a frenzy that gave them, in their tatty wedding finery and garish fright wigs, the look of an army of maddened, murderous midgets.

Jimfish and Lunamiel were still shaking when, some time later, the brigadier returned to the safety of the line of burnt-out trucks. He was once again dressed in his military uniform and could not have been further from the naked commander in laced-up leather boots leading his children into battle. He seemed rather amused by the confusion he had caused in the minds of the South Africans.

‘My brigade, as you see, is made up of children, and young minds need something to focus on. I lead my boys on what we call magical military manoeuvres. I use special charms in action, the secret of which I am not at liberty to share with you, but these protect me from enemy fire.’

‘Surely it’s not a good thing to teach children to kill?’ Jimfish asked him.

The brigadier thought this over. ‘Children need a role in life. They want direction and training. I provide those things. Where would these kids find a job if I didn’t take them in my Small Boys Unit? Where would they learn the skills needed to get ahead in Liberia today, except by following Brigadier Bare-Butt, as they like to call me? I teach them to handle a gun and to kill. Essential skills. And career opportunities. Promising fighters can become cooks to the officers, or drivers and bodyguards. And we never discriminate on grounds of sex. Some of the best fighters in my Small Boys Unit are actually girls. It’s the wigs that confuse the issue. The more talented girls have an advantage over the boys because they become companions to the big brass in my brigade.’

‘Why do you take off your clothes?’ Jimfish asked Brigadier Bare-Butt.

‘Tactics. In my role as magical leader I mix the military with the mystical. And if you want to turn enemy bullets to water, then not just any old magic will do. It takes a very powerful sacrifice.’

‘Sacrifice?’ Lunamiel trembled.

‘Before a battle we choose one of the boys,’ said the brigadier, ‘cut him into pieces and dine on his heart. All those lucky enough to belong to the Small Boys Unit know the ropes. We choose for the sacrifice a boy who has not been fighting well. It strengthens morale in the unit and concentrates the minds of the others.’

Jimfish thought this over. He recalled in Matabeland how the North Korean-trained troops of General Jesus slaughtered anyone they assumed were dissidents, as well as the old, the ill and the young. He remembered how remote the dead looked; how so much noise and the heat of the killing gave in return such pale, cold, still results. But he had never seen children trained to kill adults. How he missed, all over again, the counsel of Soviet Malala, who would have been able to explain to him what to make of this murderous rage, when kids as young as ten or twelve, carrying automatic rifles taller than themselves, led by a stark-naked man, slaughtered all who opposed them. Was this another example of the rage that stoked the fires of the lumpenproletariat? And which side of history were these hopped-up young killers on?

He was so confused that he blurted out a question to Brigadier Bare-Butt, which he quickly regretted.

‘Surely, sir, you don’t believe all that mumbo-jumbo about magic charms turning bullets to water?’

Brigadier Bare-Butt bristled. ‘Mumbo-jumbo? It’s clear to me that you understand very little of the traditions of Liberia. Ever since the Americans arrived in our country we’ve been a highly religious people and faith is our lodestar. Without this firm spiritual foundation my boys would not be the terrifyingly effective fighters they are. My sacred duty is to fortify their belief in the arms they use and in the magic charms that protect me. So I also prescribe cocaine before a battle, with marijuana to follow, by way of rest and relaxation.’

But then the brigadier was called away to lead another charge of his Small Boys Unit. His niece suggested to Jimfish and Lunamiel that they all move on to her home village and Jimfish was very happy to do so, as the cries of the dying unnerved him, and, besides, there was something in the way the brigadier stared at Lunamiel that he did not like.

His suspicions were confirmed before long. No sooner had they arrived in the Krahn village, where the family of Lunamiel’s loyal and kindly attendant had their home, than she whispered to Lunamiel that the brigadier was deeply in love with her and wished to marry her.

‘I am very flattered,’ Lunamiel answered bravely, ‘but I love Jimfish and want one day to marry him.’

‘You must be crazy!’ her servant told her. ‘You’re a girl from a traditional, white South African family with the highest ethnic requirements. Your father was a policeman, dedicated to keeping everyone safely locked in the prisons of their skins. Your mother employed so many maids she put one to work on each hand when her fingernails needed attention. And yet you dream of marrying a man as pale as a fish in some lights, pale prawn-pink in others, and he sometimes shows an unearthly blue tinge. A fellow so mixed in colour it sent your father wild when he found you two entangled on a red picnic rug in the garden. What would your poor family say to your decision to marry him?’

‘In the first place,’ Lunamiel declared, ‘my mother and father are no more. They were blown to pieces by the liberation army, while at their prayers. Besides, we now know that everything is changed for the best in the new South Africa. Nelson Mandela is out of jail. From now on, race won’t matter, colour won’t count, black, white and brown people will be equal and none of us will ever be made to live in the prisons of our skins.’

‘If you believe that then you are even more foolish than I imagined,’ her attendant told her. ‘Old delusions don’t vanish because a government changes. Far from fading away, I’d say that the colour you happen to be in the new South Africa may count for even more than it did before.’

But she could see that Lunamiel did not believe her and so she thought of another plan. A most interesting item of news from the port of Monrovia reached her and she went immediately to Jimfish.

‘Remember I warned you that the gendarmerie in Zaire would be after you?’ she said. ‘Not for shooting the Minister of Education – no problem there – but for the death of the American agent. Well, I’ve heard alarming news. The CIA is after you now. One of their agents is in this country to hunt you down. Get out while you can or you’re a dead man!’

‘But what will happen to my darling Lunamiel?’ Jimfish asked.

‘Haven’t I brought you out of Zaire? And looked after Lunamiel?’ the dark lady asked. ‘She will manage, rest assured. She’s a white South African raised to believe God is on her side. Like my uncle, the brigadier, who believes that going into battle stark naked, but for his boots and his AK-47, turns enemy bullets to water. Faith drives out fear. But all you have, poor Jimfish, is a talent for attracting disaster, and this time you must save yourself.’