A Kind of Homecoming

by E. R. Braithwaite

  I suggested that we get seats for the fashion show and we inquired at the desk, but discovered that we were days too late; all available seats had been sold and there was not even standing room. It was no great disappointment because the long car trip, the heavy meal and the beer all conspired to produce a comfortable lassitude and we agreed that perhaps bed would be best. I said good-bye to my friend, as he would be busy from then on and would be unable to spend more time with me, and retired to my room to scribble down everything I could remember of our conversation. Later I could hear the sounds of music and cheering from downstairs; but soon these subsided into the dark peace of the African night.

  I breakfasted late and determined to take it easy that day, my last in Guinea, as my air passage was booked for early the following morning. A few hundred yards from the hotel the beach was heavily indented to form a deep, pleasant cove, bordered along its perimeter by wild grape trees and a species of pine erratically reflected in the grey-green water. Under the trees the strange, soft mixture of sand and powdered seashell was pleasantly warm underfoot and I spent more than an hour alternately swimming and lying in the shade, enjoying the novelty of having that piece of paradise all to myself. Presently three figures approached from round the rocky promontory, which hid the curve of the beach, small figures in shorts and bright-coloured shirts. Once near, I saw that they were Chinese, two men and one woman, neat, smooth-muscled, compact persons. They smiled at me, bowed in greeting and moved some distance away to deposit their towels and cameras. Soon they were romping around, chasing each other in a game of tag or plunging into the water, their laughter erupting in silvery echoes around the cove. Like happy, carefree children; like people on a holiday and enjoying it; just like people released from the rigours of concentrated physical or intellectual effort. It pleased me to see and hear them in a mood so different from the tight isolation I had observed about them in the hotel and on the streets. I wondered what reaction there would be if I went over to talk to them; at least they would speak, so, acting on the thought I went towards them.

  “Hello, there,” I called.

  “Good morning,” one of the men replied in English.

  “I’ve been sitting around by myself for some time,” I said, “and wondered if I might join you.”

  “Of course,” he replied, approaching and signalling to his companions to follow him. I introduced myself and he introduced his companions, all of them experts in various agricultural projects. They were associated with the exposition currently in Conakry. I told them that I was making my first visit to Africa, and Guinea was my first stop. We sat on the warm sand and talked and talked about nothing in particular. I tried in every way I could to extract from them some particular comment about China, but they simply suggested that I visit the country, assuring me of a welcome. I tried to discover their reactions to being in Africa, working with Africans, but they countered by extolling the continuous warmth, the wonderful variety of trees and fruit. Everything was wonderful—the people were wonderful. So I gave up, and merely relaxed and enjoyed being with them.

  The men were small-boned, each about five feet six or seven inches, a few inches taller than the girl, who wore her hair in a short page-boy bob. There was something impersonal about her, in spite of her well-rounded figure. I did not discover her relationship to either or both of the men, but would not be surprised to learn that it was either platonic or that they were blood relatives; they seemed happy together without any indication or suggestion of special emotional overtones. Friendly people, nice people—but very shy. We chatted for more than an hour, but all the time I knew that I was quite outside the tight harmony of their relationship, and I wondered whether they and others who, like them, were active in Africa, were ever able to let down the barriers behind which they seemed so securely ensconced that a real unity of interest and intercourse might be possible between them and the Africans they seemed so willing to help.

  Mid-day and the heat invaded the shadiest places, so much so that I perspired with the simple effort of wiping away perspiration. In my mind I tried to review the things I had heard in the short time I was in Guinea. Much of it was new to me, some of it very doubtful, probably because I could not help remembering all the things I had previously read and heard about Africa before I set foot in it. Africans had spoken to me about Africa, eagerly insisting on the factuality of their observations; but now, by myself, it seemed to me that they sometimes spoke with no more basis of authority than familiarity with their own village, or perhaps town, or maybe country. Sometimes they spoke of the background to their country’s present ambitions, as if no other than indigenous African influences were involved, ignoring that fact of the deep effects of decades of colonization. I had seen here in Guinea people of obviously varied ethnic origin, and mixtures of such origin. I had seen the effect of the spread of the Muslim faith through the country; many of the people favoured European dress; many of them spoke French; many governmental techniques new to Africa were being practised, yet some of my informants spoke as if, before independence, Africa had been a static society. Perhaps the idea was merely to emphasize their advancement. Perhaps.

  I thought of what my friend had said about European and American attitudes, especially his reference to what he called evidence of inequality expressed in their disinclination to critical appraisal of African opinion. Perhaps it was too easy for him to say this to me man to man, but I wondered just how willing many Africans, even the intellectuals, would be to receive public criticism. Would it not be viewed as discriminatory? Would even my friend be loath to insist that older-established states be more willing to encourage than hinder? That thing he had about America and Americans? Was it any the less compulsive than what he called American preoccupation with Communism? Here I was in Africa, but what was an African? Did the years of slavery and manumission through which my forebears passed completely separate me from these people? Was there any part of me which remained African after all these years? Could I come and live here, among Africans, as an African? If I did, would I too become anti-something or pro-something?

  I thought of the young Chinese I had just met, and looked across towards where they had recommenced the game I had interrupted. They were now farther away, and I noticed that their clothing and towels were missing, probably behind a tree nearby where they were playing. How did they really see the Africans and how did the Africans really see them? Did I sound like an American to them also? Was that the reason for their withdrawal from me, or was it a natural shyness, the same sort of thing the British applaud in themselves as their “reserve”? Perhaps these Chinese were Communists. Was that enough to make them acceptable in Guinea? Here I was in a country newly independent and proudly so, yet hampered in its first flights from the crippling security of the colonial nest by these anti-attitudes. If these bitternesses were entertained at high level in Guinea, as my conversations with my friend seemed to indicate, why not find an opportunity for stating the case to the Americans themselves at a similarly high level? If the people of Guinea had the consciousness of their equality, they should be positive in expressing it instead of assuming the negative attitude of defending it.

  They needed help, lots of help, and I subscribed to their insistence on keeping that help free of commitments to any political alignment. The British, Americans and others daily professed their willingness to help the newly independent states; surely there must be some way of bridging these two essentially laudable interests. The Guineans are people. The Americans are people, and they cannot have completely forgotten their own struggles against colonialism, and their own faltering steps towards their present powerful position. America herself was founded on protest; her amazing economic development was based on the essential concept of individual freedom. These things should presuppose a readiness to tolerance and helpful understanding; not only understanding of situations sympathetic to American views, but the deeper, more constructive appraisal of tolerance to di
fferences wherever they appeared. The same can be said for the British, whose entire island history is a record of struggle to uphold and preserve individual freedom. This I believe to be the hallmark of positive leadership. It is very easy to agree with those who share our views, but damned difficult to be patient with those who disagree with us, especially when there is, to us, every indication that those who disagree have little in terms of experience, or carefully directed ambitions to support their attitudes. God, what a whirligig!

  I must have dozed off because I sat up to discover that the Chinese had gone and the little beach deserted. I felt a bit groggy from the heat and decided to return to my hotel for a cold shower and a nap. A group of taxis was drawn up near the main entrance to the hotel in the shade of the huge mango trees and the drivers were sitting together chatting and smoking while keeping a watchful eye for possible prospects.

  I walked up to them and said, “Bonjour.” They replied more or less in chorus, but with a certain deference, probably because they recognized the large towel I was carrying as the property of the Hotel de France (the name was heavily embroidered in blue) and realized I was a guest. I leaned against one of the taxis, took out my cigarettes and offered them round. An old gambit but a good one—the international peace pipe. My French is pretty bad, purely functional; I understand much more than I can speak, but I manage to make myself understood. They were interested to discover that I was not African, and added their welcome on my visit to their country. I explained that I was a writer looking for pieces of information, not people’s names, and bit by bit we talked together. Had I been swimming?

  “Yes, I was down at the little cove,” I said, pointing.

  “Did you not try the swimming enclosure farther up the beach?”

  “No, I did not know there was a swimming enclosure.”

  One of them stood up to show me a group of tall palm trees just visible over the roofs of some low bungalows. “Over there,” he said.

  “I was fine where I was,” I told them: “water, shade, trees, warm sand. What more could I ask?”

  “A cold beer, maybe,” someone suggested. “At the other place there’s a bar and cubicles for your clothes, and chairs under the trees. Nice.”

  “Only one thing wrong with it,” another commented. “It costs money.”

  “Everything costs money,” I said. “Especially this hotel. Millionaire prices without millionaire service.”

  “Every American is a millionaire.”

  Laughter. Very funny. I did not bother to explain that I was not an American. Let them have their “tuppence” worth of fun.

  “Do you fellows use the swimming enclosure?” I wanted to head them off from the American thing—I was getting bored with it.

  They exchanged glances before one replied. “When the French were here we couldn’t get in. All this was residential,” he said, waving his arm in a vague wide arc. “Now it’s open to anyone who can pay, but they wouldn’t catch me paying for something I can get free by just taking a little walk.”

  “Used to be different when the French were here,” another added. “More fancy—with things to eat and such like. Used to pass and watch them, the bastards.”

  “Ripped the place to shreds before they left,” still another said. “You know that jetty place next door, with the winch for hauling up the boats above the watermark? They wrecked it before they left. Lousy bastards, they hated to think we blacks would have the things, so they wrecked them, now all you can see is pieces of rusty iron sticking up all over the place.”

  All this was said without any sign of anger, in quiet conversational tones; no one passing by would have guessed at the subject of our conversation. I wondered whether they were really dispassionate about it or were controlling themselves just for my benefit.

  “How do you feel about the French now?” Probably with a little encouragement they would open up.

  “What do you mean, ‘feel about them’. They’re gone, so to hell with them,” from one.

  “I don’t even think of them,” from another, “except when I go to one of the bureaux like over there”—he pointed to a pleasant bungalow which looked cool and unofficial under its protective canopy of shady trees—“then I see the black faces where I used to see only white ones, and I remembered how it used to be.”

  “How was it?” I asked.

  “Well, you know how it is,” he hedged. “Not too bad until they had to go. Then they smashed everything.”

  I had the feeling that remembering required an effort.

  “Do you think they hated you because they had to leave after working so hard to make themselves comfortable?” It was my turn to wave towards the bungalows.

  “Sure they hated us,” one replied. “They didn’t say much, but you could see it in their eyes. I used to drive for one of them. He was not bad, but you know what he did? Cut all the lights in the garage, broke everything. Cut up the water hose. His wife stood there looking at him, crying, while he chopped and chopped. Mad. I ran off and left them. He looked as if he would have liked to chop me up, too.”

  “And you,” I asked, “do you still hate them?”

  “I don’t know,” one replied. “If a fare comes along I don’t ask him if he’s a Frenchman.” At this they all roared with laughter.

  “It wasn’t hating them,” someone said. “I don’t remember hating them. It was something else. I didn’t hate them, but I wanted to see them leave.”

  “Some Frenchmen are staying in the hotel,” one volunteered.

  “He’ll pay me in Guinea money, so I should care.”

  The hatred had either died or become forgotten. I suddenly felt foolish pursuing the matter. Perhaps, one day soon, there would be a new rapprochement with the French and the willingness and ability to forget would be an important advantage.

  “Do you gentlemen own the taxis you drive?” I asked.

  First the laughter, then the reply. Maybe the laughter was an ever-ready palliative. Behind it one could say anything, admit anything.

  “Do we look as if we could own them?” one asked.

  I let it drop. They looked as if they could or could not own taxis. How did a taxi driver look if he owned his taxi? They were all quite young, in the late twenties or early thirties, I supposed; dressed very much alike in linen slacks and gaily patterned sports shirts worn outside the top of the slacks. All wore caps of lightweight cotton material.

  “What happens in this town at night?” I asked, purely for the hell of it, to establish something more of a “one-of-the-boys” relationship with them. They again exchanged glances, smiling; and I had the feeling that from here on things would go very much according to plan: they would give me the treatment. I’d play it along for a while to see what I could see.

  “Depends on what you want, doesn’t it?” one asked.

  “Nothing happens and everything happens, if you see what I mean,” another said.

  “I mean,” I persisted, “how do people enjoy themselves here?”

  “Well,” someone said, “just now it’s Ramadan, so there’s not much going on, but even so, one can enjoy oneself.”

  “Or someone else’s self,” another added, to general laughter.

  It was all a kind of game, giving nothing, making no commit­ment­, promising nothing. I thought I’d be a bit bolder, but carefully so.

  “Aren’t there any dances, girls, things like that, I mean?”

  “Sure,” one said, “if you know where to look. Girls all over the place, people dancing and singing all the time.” He gave his buddies a knowing look, and I knew that I’d get no further with them: this game of question and answers could go on for years.

  I stayed with them until the right moment for retreating without indignity, then went into the hotel to shower and take a nap.

  After dinner I asked at the reception desk for my account
; I wanted to take care of my financial commitments early to avoid rush or delay next morning. A tall, smartly dressed woman was standing at the desk beside me, patiently waiting, as I was, while the clerk performed near-acrobatic feats as he simultaneously operated the telephone switchboard, sold stamps, issued and received keys, answered the queries of guests or junior staff, and attempted to add up our accounts. She was smiling with her eyes, a not very common thing to see these days.

  “After another million years or so Man may have to sprout a few more arms in order to adapt himself to the crazy world he has created,” she whispered conspiratorially in English. She may have overheard my bad workaday French and correctly divined my native language.

  “By then instead of arms we might be sprouting a lot of supersensitive antennae just to show we are ahead of the men from Mars or the moon,” I replied, tuning in on her pleasant mood.

  I was nearly speechless at the total which the clerk presented. Then it dawned on me—the Guinea franc was quoted at near par with the French franc, but everything at the hotel cost in Guinea francs twice as much as the equivalent in French francs. There was nothing to do but pay up. Then came the snag: only Guinea currency was acceptable at the hotel—no personal or travellers cheques, no dollars or sterling, and no exchange. I had insufficient Guinea francs and my dollar cheques were not acceptable. So the fun began. The clerk argued and I protested and asked for the manager. But he was just as firm. “Nothing personal, Monsieur, but we cannot accept travellers cheques; only the banks are allowed to do that.” So what’s to be done at eight-thirty in the evening and all the banks closed, and even the Bureau de Change at the airport closed since six o’clock? The clerk suggested that I hand over the Guinea francs I had and someone from the hotel would accompany me to the airport next morning for the balance.