Wings of the Morning Page 13

  Jonas Savimbi seemed to have inexhaustible energy and he still wanted to go on talking. But after a night of strategic conversation, he was disinclined to go on with supplicants and detail. Instead, he escorted David around the extensive camp before they returned to sit in easy chairs on the wide veranda. Savimbi talked throughout in fluent English, using idioms which were remarkable given that he had never lived in an English speaking country.

  ‘You must be wondering why I’m baring my soul to a guy from a different continent and culture,’ he said interrupting his own flow,’ and one reason is that I never miss the chance to give a lecture and advertise my point of view’.

  He gave a great bellow of laughter and leant forward to bang David on the knee.

  ‘More important, I’m sure I recognise a companion in spirit. You’re like me, David, you like to soak up information and be prepared to have it change your mind’.

  Then came the political history lesson. Savimbi spoke freely about the courting tactics of the great powers, the USA, the Soviets and increasingly China. He gave fascinating detail of how UNITA was approached by the big guns with offers of help in many forms provided he was prepared to dance to the donor’s strategic tune. It was riveting to hear about proposals which had been put to Savimbi and others of his stamp and stature across Africa: in the East, in the Congo, in Ethiopia and in Zambia. It really was neo-colonialism in the raw.

  David asked him, ‘what do you want to achieve here in Angola? Not what you expect, but what you want.’

  Savimbi looked at him sharply.

  ‘That’s a shrewd question. There’s a big difference between those two. I expect a win for UNITA, that’s for sure. We’ll get control of this country and say goodbye to the Portuguese. What comes after is tougher to predict. Angola is a wealthy country, but ironically, it’s the wealth which gives us the problem. Post independence, they’ll be many Angolans who’ll want to grab their share and then all the bickering and infighting will start. I’ll have a distracting struggle to control some people who’ll want to build their own power base and fortune.’

  He paused to take a pull at the soft drink beside him and looked out at the view over the savannah country which surrounded the camp. Then he continued,

  ‘Of course, David, there’s a chance that I‘ll become corrupted myself and develop into a grasping megalomaniac. After all, that’s been the route for a few African leaders already and there’ll be more to come this decade.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ David asked him.

  ‘Why? Well it’s simple, you see. It’s bred in us.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘OK,’ said Savimbi hunching himself forward in his chair as he gazed at David, ’it’s like this. If you look at this entire continent and then leave off all the national boundaries, what do you see? I’ll tell you. It’s one place, one people, one culture at least from the Sahara on South. Of course there are great differences in topography, in climate, vegetation etcetera. And of course there’s an uncounted number of peoples and dialects. But there’s a common denominator which is that we are all tribal and we have been over generations past. If you’re born an African, it’s imbued in you that you are a member of a tribe. You can expect fulfilment, but based on membership rather than meritocracy. You see, we Africans are incredibly enduring. We’re hardy, patient and long suffering. We don’t ask for much: the means and the environment to sustain a life of dignity and adherence to long established practice. We expect a boss, a leader, an elder to map our path and we’re content to do as we’re told. We certainly don’t appreciate a Soviet style hierarchy, but we’re not too persuaded by democracy either. We don’t want to be converted, recreated or developed. We prefer to get on with life according to the customs of our fathers’ fathers. We wish the rest of the world would mind its own business rather than obsessing with ours and we especially dislike being pawns in some mighty power play which offers us nothing, however it plays out.’

  Savimbi smiled his great beaming grin. ‘And so, incidentally, I‘ll go on accepting blandishments and hand outs from all and sundry. I’ll make the right noises in grateful reaction. But behind all the diplomatic bullshit, my agenda remains just that: my own’.

  ‘And how do you summarise that,’ David asked.

  ‘That brings us back to your question, what do I want. Well ok, first I want the Portuguese out of Angola. Not so much because they colonised and elevated themselves to the top of our pyramid. It’s more because they’ve been so bad at it: hopelessly cruel, disrespectful and incompetent. When they’re gone, I want to bring about change, but a complete shift, more bold and fundamental than you’d expect. I don’t champion the ‘Angola for the Angolans’ dictum. No. My vision is to enlarge our community, to invite other nationalities from East and West and any colour under the sun to join us here.

  ‘Why? Because we have space and my God but how much we have. We are blessed by nature with all we need or want: you name it and Angola has it. We can develop to everyone’s benefit but we won’t do it for ourselves. It’s not that our people are incapable — it’s back to those tribal inclinations with which we are born. Obey, make do and manage, do as your forebears have done through countless years. No less, but no more either. I don’t believe that any edict or political imperative will change that attitude. We need, you might say, some fertilizer and cross pollination to improve the crop.’

  Savimbi went on to speak of other things. He was a compulsive communicator and had the need to be nurtured by conversation. He was well informed about world affairs and international politics in particular. He seemed fascinated by speculation on what might happen to Europe. Was there the prospect for some form of integration in the distant future? Would a shared antipathy towards the Soviet Union speed this process? He appreciated the power and ability of the United States, but despaired of finding an American who had any true understanding of Africa. He despised the Portuguese but he loved the country and had been at his happiest while living in Lisbon. He admired the British: they were haughty and insensitive, but they knew how to manage things. Interspersed with all this global talk, he found time to ask more about David’s life, his background and his family which Savimbi found alien and incomprehensible. He asked about work and Kirchoffs: from David’s description, he believed he would get on famously with old Sol.

  Then the sun was going down and it was time for David to go. They got up together and went through the front door to stand on the veranda. Beneath them on the dusty road, a car was standing, a much travelled VW Beetle with both its doors open and a driver standing by it, dressed in slacks and a colourful print shirt.

  Savimbi turned to David and explained that the car would take him to the fishing port of Mocamedes, a journey of about four hours but quite good going and with no security problem. Not with this car and driver, he said and repeated the comment in local language at which the man in the print shirt laughed. In Mocamedes, Savimbi went on, he would be handed on to members of the family who would put him up overnight and transfer him to a fishing boat in the morning. There would be a voyage of about thirty hours south to Swakopmund where someone from SWAPO would take care of the paperwork and take him to Windhoek and on to Johannesburg. He finished by saying,

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr David Heaven. I have enjoyed your company and admired your behaviour. You would be welcome again. I hope that we will do business together, but I understand you must return to Europe and speak to your partners. Please pay my respects to Mr Kirchoff and to Mr Gluchamheig. And please take with you a clear memory of this place and of the people you have seen. We are still only small, but we are already much larger than we were. The cub is fit and growing: the mature lion is coming.’

  Suddenly they were gone, churning up the dust as David wondered if he would ever have another chance to spend time with this magnetic personality.

  The African night fell within an hour of their departure and David became drowsy. He felt lighthead
ed, perhaps a remaining touch of fever, but he was warm under a blanket which the driver had thoughtfully pulled from the back seat. The two of them had no common language, so no conversation was possible. The little VW ploughed gamely through the sand on the track which was thick in places and needed the good judgement of the driver to keep them moving. It was pitch black, with no light of habitation to see and no other vehicle to greet. After two hours, they stopped on a rocky outcrop to refuel from a smelly jerry can and there was warm water from a leathern bottle. David slept deeply as they went on, and woke up much later, disturbed by the noise of washboard dirt surface beneath their wheels and the lights of a huge, onrushing truck. He stirred himself to take note, gaining a cheery grin from the driver. Another forty-five minutes, and they were running through the suburbs of quite a large town. It seemed incongruous to see a traffic light and a divided main road with hibiscus growing in the tended earth of the central strip. Then they were turning off into a series of broad, tree lined residential streets before they pulled into the crescent drive of a large, two storey house. The driver smiled at him again, tooted his horn and turned off the engine.

  Immediately, the imposing front door of the house swung open and light from inside flooded out and onto the steps, down which ran a young man with a hand raised in greeting. He opened the door for David and announced in English.

  ‘Welcome to Mocamedes, Mr Heaven, and to the house of my father whose name I must not mention here’.

  David returned the greeting. He shook hands and looked for his small bag but the driver had moved faster and was standing in wait with it in his hand, his beaming grin wider than ever.

  ‘Please call me David,’ he said, ‘I am delighted to meet you and to be here.’

  ‘Sure. It’s a long and dusty road but no one knows it better then Jaou here. You’ve been in good hands. Oh and I forgot to say, I’m called Rafael, but normally known as Rafa.’

  ‘OK, Rafa. Please thank Jaou for his excellent driving and for making me so comfortable. He did a great job.’

  Rafa translated in a volley of words, and Jaou squirmed with pleasure at the compliments. Then all three moved up the steps and into the house. They entered a spacious hall, with wide stairs placed immediately in front which mounted in two flights to the first storey. David caught a glimpse of a grand room off to their right, then his host was taking his bag from Jaou and leading the way upstairs. They went down two bisecting corridors before stopping at the entrance to a large bedroom. They entered together and David found it comfortably furnished, with a bathroom off and a massive, wood framed bed placed centrally under a fan which was revolving slowly. There were windows flung wide onto the garden and he picked up the scent of the sea. He felt tired again and the huge bed looked comfortable, but Rafa said,

  ‘I’ll give you thirty minutes to shower and change. Let me know if you need to borrow any clean clothes. Otherwise, just be casual and leave any washing by the door. It will be done and back to you by morning. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll go out to dinner. It may seem late to you, but we’ll be just on time here. After all, we are sort of Portuguese and we keep Mediterranean time in these parts!’

  With that he was gone and David was left to wonder what next as he shaved, took a welcome shower and put on his only remaining clean shirt and jeans. He was on time as he left the room and went down to find Rafa waiting for him in the hall.

  Jaou drove them again but this time in a much larger car, a big American barouche which purred imperiously through sparse traffic towards what was evidently the centre of Mocamedes, and then on to the beach side where there were the welcoming lights of several restaurants, all apparently humming with clientele.

  As they entered Rafa’s choice, a cry went up from a long table at the back, set to look out over the beach and with a party of about a dozen already in situ with bottles, glasses and some form of starter food. There was a rapturous greeting for Rafa and a polite welcome for David. It was a young party, no one older than him except for one man with a lined face and thinning hair plus a pepper and salt goatee beard. He has to be French, thought David to himself as at he took a seat between the beard and a pretty girl. She gave him a lovely smile and said her name was Lila before resuming her conversation with a couple sitting across the table. The beard was indeed French and introduced himself as Benoit. He was good company with English to much the same standard as David’s French, so they laughed a lot. Benoit explained his background over a huge intake of the cold, light rosé which washed down their first course of fresh sardines with a green salad. He originated from Brittany, had spent time in the French Merchant Navy and developed an expertise in diving which won him an expatriate job in Mocamedes where he had lived now for ten years. He mentioned that he was aware of David’s passage through, and would be putting him on the fishing vessel which would take him south the following day.

  ‘You’ll be OK with those guys,’ he said, ‘I know the skipper well and he’s got a good crew.’

  Between courses, other members of the party came to exchange a little banter with Benoit in his Portuguese which sounded pretty basic to David. During these interruptions, he tried to talk to Lila but she was preoccupied with the couple facing them and had very little English and no French. He was enjoying himself despite this, the food, the flowing drink, the conviviality and the strange sensation of feeling at home in a city which he’d never heard of before. His instinct told him that this was a group of friends who met quite often at this or similar establishments. It was a gathering of local society, maybe the younger generation of the movers and shakers in the community.

  Rafa waved to him from the top of the long table and David noticed for the first time the two girls sitting on either side of him. They were twins — incredibly and exactly identical. He found himself staring for longer than was polite. Then he saw them stand up as one and move around the table in his direction. He got up to meet them.

  One said, ‘We thought it was time to come and meet you properly as you are our guest overnight. I’m sorry we were not at home to greet you, but we hope our brother Rafa looked after you properly.’

  The English was almost flawless, betrayed by just a slight and beguiling accent. Her sister spoke with equal perfection.

  ‘We’re happy to welcome you to our home, David, but sorry you can’t stay with us longer.’

  ‘The regret is all mine,’ said David with heavy gallantry, ‘but I hope I’ll need to come back. Will you have a drink and tell me all about life here in Mocamedes?’

  They nodded as one and the three of them move to an adjoining table with their glasses. David scooped a full bottle of wine from the tray of a passing waiter.

  When the three had sat down, David raised his glass and asked,

  ‘Who am I drinking to?’

  ‘I’m Aissata’, said the girl on his left, ‘but call me Aischa.’

  ‘And I’m Ouye.’

  ‘Aischa and Ouye’ said David, ‘what elegant names. So there are three of you with Rafa?’

  ‘Well yes,’ said Aischa, ‘Rafa is our full brother. You’ve been with our father but sadly, we can’t introduce you to our mother as she died three years ago. She was Irish and came to southern Africa in search of a wild life in every sense. She found that with our father who more or less grabbed her off the roadside as she was trying to thumb a lift north. But I don’t think she ever complained. Our father has other wives but our mother, who was called Maeve by the way, was his chief wife and his favourite.’

  ‘How did she die?’ David asked the question impulsively and then felt ashamed that it might have sounded insensitive.

  Ouye replied, ‘she had a malarial attack and it moved suddenly to her brain. We were in deep bush at the time, but honestly I think it would have been fatal anyway. We miss her very much, all three of us, but she had already done so much to start us off in life.’

  ‘And now you live here in town?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ouye, ‘
we two and Rafa. We’ve been here for nearly five years. We came in from the bush life at our father’s insistence to finish our education. Aischa and I have just joined our brother at the university here from High School. It may not be for long. The plan is for Rafa to go on to medical school in Lisbon, which is what our father did, but it might be a problem to arrange.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I can understand that. I imagine it must be difficult for you to see much of your father.’

  ‘You’re right!’ The twins burst out in precise unison and then collapsed in giggles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ouye,’we do so much together that sometimes we say the same thing at the same time! But you’re right. The better the campaign goes for our father, the more difficult for us all to meet. He’s always so busy too, and not just with work. He has another three wives and ten children — all much younger than us. But we do get together from time to time, and of course we support him as best we can. So we try to work hard and keep a low profile here in Mocamedes.’

  David wanted to lighten the conversation, so he waved a hand at the high spirited party all around them.

  He remarked, ‘It doesn’t seem too low profile to me’.

  The girls laughed with him, and it was again Ouye who went on to explain.

  ‘Actually, in this town David, you would stand out much more and especially at our age if you were not to be seen out and about. We’re a very sociable and fun loving group.’

  As if to prove her point, some of the party members at the main table spilled over to join them. Two couples to whom David had not had the chance to speak previously and he was impressed with the command of English shown by all of them. Probably they were keen to practise, but he hoped they were enjoying his company too. More food was delivered to the two tables, the wine flowed, the participants moved around in conversation.

  David was enjoying himself. He knew that he was drinking too much, especially having been swallowing pills to ward off a return of sickness, but he felt confident and in control, flattered that he seemed to be accepted as contributing to the general entertainment of the evening.