A Kind of Homecoming

by E. R. Braithwaite

  The driver had the idea that we should inquire about my friend’s address from the Department of Public Works, which was quite close to us now. They gave us first-hand information and I was soon able to find the house, a pleasant wooden building in a quiet back street. Then followed a rather heated argument with the taxi driver, who expected to be paid for all the time wasted in locating the place, completely ignoring the fact that he had misled me into believing he knew the address.

  Mr. Morris Lindsay was large. No other term would fittingly describe him. Everything about him was large: the protruding eyes, the shiny bald head which fitted snugly into his shoulders without need of a neck, the thick torso from which his large arms seemed to sprout outward, and the thick legs, ending in large sandalled feet.

  He had been sitting in a wide rattan chair in the main room of his house when I knocked and entered to his hearty “Come in”. With surprising ease for such bulk he stood up and enveloped my hand in a very powerful grip. I introduced myself, while watching him, fascinated by the smooth-skinned immensity of the man, for because of the warmth he wore only a pair of khaki shorts and sandals; and in spite of his size one had an immediate impression of strength rather than obesity.

  He read the letter from our mutual friend, then again shook hands with me, bidding me welcome to Sierra Leone.

  “So you write,” he said.

  “A little, bits and pieces.”

  “And now you want to write about Africa.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Not about Africa. About myself in Africa. You see, it would take a long time for me to be able to write about Africa; but I can write about myself in Africa, from the moment I landed. You know, impressions—things like that.”

  “Everybody begins by doing that, but it generally turned out to be what they call a factual report on Africa today.”

  “Maybe, but I think I’ll stick very closely to writing about me.”

  “Good. Our friend has asked me to help you; what would you like me to do?”

  “I’m not sure really. Probably talk with me about your country, introduce me to other people if possible, explain things to me, anything you think might help me to understand the things I see and hear.”

  He smiled, and I suddenly noticed that he seemed to be all of one piece. What I mean is that his face and head were all at one with the rest of him, probably because there was no hair to break the smooth unity of line; when he smiled even the roly-poly creases in the back of his neck seemed involved in the process.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said, “in so far as my work allows. By the way, I thoroughly enjoyed your book. Is that the only one you’ve written?”

  “So far, but I’m working on two at the moment.”

  He excused himself, walked to a doorway and shouted something to someone, then returned. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to a cushioned wooden stool. He settled himself comfortably in his chair, his huge torso settling into sections like a bronze Buddha. A handsome young woman came in with cold beer and glasses on a tray, which she placed on a low table, and, without a word to or from either of us, as silently disappeared. The drink was very refreshing and must have come straight from a refrigerator. Nice living, I thought. He had made no attempt to introduce me to the young woman, though she looked more like a member of the family than a servant.

  He asked about my hotel, if I was comfortable, then about Europe, London, where he had studied for a time, and Paris, which he had visited briefly. “You’ll find things very different here,” he remarked.

  I explained that I was primarily interested in Sierra Leone’s impending independence and would like to see something of the popular attitude to it.

  Suddenly he laughed, a loud, booming sound. “I don’t think I can help you much there,” he said. “You’ll have to look around and make up your own mind. I’ll talk to you about anything else you like, but not independence. Let me put it this way, and I’ll borrow the words of a certain lady magistrate: ‘I am not opposed to independence.’ But so far as arranging for you to meet other people and see places of interest, I think I can help. I can run you around in my car if you like, provided you supply the petrol.”

  I readily agreed, but said, “I hope I shall not make too many demands upon you—interfere with your work.”

  “Oh, that’s no bother,” he replied. “My time is my own. I’m an agent, you see, I represent firms in Britain and on the Continent, so I do not have to account to anyone about my time. How long do you plan to stay here?”

  “A week or two,” I said. “It all depends on what’s happening I could probably stay even longer.”

  “Good. But let’s get one thing understood. No matter what you see and hear, no matter what I say to you, don’t quote me. I’ve got a living to earn, and I’ll still have to earn my living long after you’re gone. O.K.?”

  I agreed.

  “Are you attending the reception tonight at your hotel?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know there was a reception there,” I answered. “Is it a public thing? Who’s giving it?”

  “No, it’s not public. It’s being given by the representative of the United Arab Republic to celebrate something or other—I can’t remember. I’ve an invitation here somewhere. If you’d like to go I guess I can take you in. Everybody likes meeting authors. You’d be sure to meet some of our local bigwigs there.” He laughed. “Maybe they will tell you about independence.”

  “I’d like that very much,” I told him.

  We agreed to meet in the lobby of the Paramount Hotel at six P.M., and after some further conversation I left him.

  The sun had swung away from overhead, and the shadows under the trees and along the sides of buildings were areas of comparative comfort, although every movement along this side street struck up clouds of thick reddish dust which clung as a discolouring film on all the bushes and low-hanging branches nearby. Most of the houses were set some little distance away from the street, surrounded by trees, mainly orange and mango trees. The houses were all of wooden construction, most of them shabby-looking either from an urgent need of paint or even more urgent need of structural repairs. The yards around these houses were generally very untidy, littered with rusty scraps of old cars or bicycles and the discards of tinned foods, with here and there ugly little pools of greasy water which had collected from frequent washing up. In one yard a few women were busy around two large cooking pots on an open fireplace which was a simple structure of several large stones set closely together, allowing room between them for sticks of firewood. There were small children everywhere, the youngest naked, the others in thin shorts or dresses of lengths of printed cloth secured waist high and flowing about their feet. Some of these young children were girls in their early teens and quite unself-conscious of their delicate young breasts. All these children looked smooth-skinned and healthy in spite of the swarms of flies and mangy dogs everywhere.

  Where the side street joined the main macadam road, which I had taken on the way in, I was still some distance from the centre of town and could see no sign of a taxi, so I set out to walk it. The road was barely wide enough to permit two cars to pass each other in safety, and was edged on both sides by deep, narrow, concrete gullies for drainage. These gullies looked very dangerous and I wondered what happened at night to the unwary motorist who might swerve too close to the roadside. There was no pavement along the road, nothing more than a narrow lip of ground between the gully and the entrance to the shops and dwelling-houses which lined the roadway in an unbroken, untidy line.

  The general impression was of untidiness, with litter everywhere. The buildings were a hodge-podge of wooden latticework and convoluted sheets of galvanized iron, and I felt that each one was over-populated. Men and women everywhere, hanging out of windows, sitting in doorways, standing in small groups wherever there was some shade, as i
f everybody had lots of time to spare; lots and lots of time.

  The nearer I came to the centre of town, the more crowded it seemed, not of people, but of these ugly, untidy dwellings. Nobody seemed to be house-proud here; there was no sign of flowers being tended, even in window-boxes. At some of the doorways women sat with large trays of peeled oranges for sale; I was amused by the small collections of pulpy discard near to each of them, for it seemed that they themselves ate as much as they hoped to sell, and would probably eat all of it if there were no buyers. I did not think I would want to buy fruit presented in that way—years of exposure to certain standards of hygiene cannot easily be ignored.

  All the time I was looking for some means of making contact with some of the people at this level, but didn’t quite know where to begin. One shop carried the sign “Ritz Bar” and advertised beer “ice cold”. I went in. A dingy room with a counter and two or three wooden chairs; probably the patrons had their drinks standing up or the place did not cater to more than three patrons. Behind the counter was a curtained doorway. No one was in sight so I knocked on the counter. Presently a man appeared from behind the curtain, red-eyed with sleep and asked, “Yes?”

  This seemed to be the current form of address in these parts. I asked for a cold beer and he disappeared behind the curtains; perhaps that doorway led to his living quarters. I noticed that there were no shelves of bottled liquor anywhere in the room, nor cases of beer or even mineral water. Some bar! He reappeared with a bottle of beer and a glass, one in each hand. The beer looked frosty-cold and I waived the glass, deciding to drink straight from the bottle. I had the feeling that the glass might not be well washed, that this sleepy fellow might not be too careful about such things. I tilted up the bottle and took a long swig.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Mmmm,” he grunted.

  “Terribly hot outside,” I said.

  “Ummm,” he grunted. Not much of a conversationalist, it seemed. Try again.

  “My first visit to your country,” I said. “I’ve been walking around having a look. Very interesting.”

  “Ummm,” he grunted, this time passing a large hand across his face as if to wipe away whatever was befogging his mind.

  “With independence so near this must be a very exciting time for you,” I said, teasing him into some sort of comment.

  “What?” At least this was better: one word, but better than a grunt.

  “Independence,” I repeated. “How do you feel about it?”

  “Where are you from?” he asked. “Nigeria?”

  So many words all at once, it sounded like a speech. “No,” I said. “British Guiana.”

  “What?” His wide face wrinkled in puzzlement. “You mean Guinea?”

  “No, it’s in South America.” He peered closely at me, examining me.

  “You look like you’re from Nigeria,” he said.

  “About independence,” I prompted. “How do you feel?”

  “To hell with independence!” he exclaimed. “What the hell good is it to me? That’s for the politicians up there.” He pointed through the main doorway, towards the centre of town.

  “Doesn’t the thought of independence excite you?” I asked.

  “Why the hell should it excite me?” he countered. “I’ll be no better off. Do you think I care? To hell with them.”

  Evidently a man of few words, few and pointed words. I decided to play it along some more in the hope of learning something further about his feeling and the reasons behind them.

  “But soon you’ll have your own government and the experience of being free people.”

  His laugh was short and bitter, like spitting without mucus.

  “Free for what? Who’s been telling that? Free? Why the hell do you think they won’t have elections before Independence Day?” He spoke as if I understood about the local situation; I didn’t know anything about an election proposal or the Government’s refusal to consider it.

  “What freedom are you talking about?” he went on. “We might get rid of the whites, but the black bastards who take over will be lots worse, take it from me. If you even open your mouth they’ll get you, take it from me. Shaka Stevens will find that out soon enough.”

  He was progressing from strength to strength, but I still did not understand much of it. Who or what was Shaka Stevens, and what was he likely to find out? Anyway, easy does it. Maybe a cold beer might encourage him to say more and I would try to unravel it later. His speech was heavily inflected and broad, but easily understandable.

  “Who is Shaka Stevens?” I asked.

  “Where did you say you were from?” he countered.

  “British Guiana.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, probably not knowing or understanding, but satisfied. “Shaka Stevens used to be in the Government. Now he wants them to have elections before independence, but they’ll throw him in jail, I’m sure.”

  None of this made sense to me because I had no background in it. I’d try another gambit. “I’ve not heard anybody talking about independence although it’s so near at hand.”

  “Who the hell cares?” he said.

  He was losing interest. “Have a beer with me,” I invited.

  “Sorry,” he replied. Then “Ramadan” in explanation.

  This rather surprised me. I had not been surprised to find Mohammedanism in such a force in a one-time French colony, but somehow it seemed out of place in a British colony; perhaps I was thinking of Africa in the same terms as I remembered British Guiana, with Christianity generally predominant though sectionalized. I bade him good-bye and walked out once more into the warm afternoon. The road continued on towards the town centre and I saw the cotton tree towering up ahead; now I knew my way and was soon back at the hotel.

  Just before six o’clock I was in the hotel lounge, freshly shaved and changed into a lightweight suit of dark blue material, black shoes, white shirt and dark blue tie. This, I expected, was just right for the occasion. I sat in the lounge, ordered a drink, and watched the people come in: Europeans and Africans, some of the latter in national dress, bright-hued affairs of flowing robes which looked at once comfortable, cool and pleasantly decorative.

  Mr. Lindsay appeared soon after six-thirty, wearing a kind of loose garment of native cloth, alternately striped blue and white, and shaped rather like a Spanish poncho; it was worn over European slacks and shiny black shoes. His round, strong face smiled beneath a fez handsomely decorated with an intricate pattern of silver and scarlet threads.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he greeted me, “but this is Africa; you’ll soon get accustomed to our time.”

  “Like hell,” I thought. It always irritates me to wait on tardy people, and I could not see that being in Africa should make any difference.

  “Let’s go.” I followed close behind him, marvelling at the ease with which he carried his great bulk, like a dancer or prizefighter.

  The reception was held in a lovely, ground-level, open patio which opened off the main dining-room of the hotel and was surrounded by a high wall and rows of trees and low bushes trimmed to form a hedge. The central floor of polished stone was surrounded by a lawn of coarse grass; running through the surrounding trees were strings of coloured lights. I was introduced to two or three Arab dignitaries, who received us most graciously at the entrance to the patio. Inside there were many men and women, black and white, standing about in small groups, chatting and sipping drinks which were served by busy waiters with laden trays.

  “Ah, the Old Man’s here,” my friend whispered, nodding in the direction of a small group which included a thin, grey, elderly man who seemed to me rather ill and pale beneath his dark skin in spite of his decorative national dress and the slim fez erect on his narrow head.

  “Is that the Prime Minister?” I whispered.

  “Yes, that’s the Old Man,” he
replied.

  I had read of Sir Milton Margai and seen photographs of him in English newspapers, but had somehow got the impression of a vigorous, aggressive person, totally unlike the man standing a few feet away.

  “Come, I’ll introduce you,” my friend said, and steered me to the group. He waited until there was a short break in their conversation, then presented me. The Prime Minister held out a limp, bony hand and made pleasant sounds without seeming to pay much attention to me. He seemed to be preoccupied, but mostly he seemed to be ill. “God,” I thought, “how can this feeble old man undertake the task of leading his country through the initial phase of its independence?” A new independent State needed vigour and health—yes, health, and probably youth—but this man looked old, even feeble. But perhaps I was missing something here. “Remember Churchill,” I reminded myself. “Think of de Gaulle, and Adenauer. Old men in years, but forceful, dominant, vigorous. Maybe this man is the same. Maybe right now he is ill, but that might be a very temporary state of things.”

  We left the group and my friend said, “What did you think of him?”

  “A bit old, isn’t he?”

  “So?”

  “He looked rather feeble, or ill.”

  “Take your pick.”

  God, this one was such a matter-of-fact fellow, admitting nothing, committing himself in no way.

  “How did he make it?” I asked. “I mean, aren’t there younger men to challenge him for leadership? Seems to me this independence thing calls for youth, as in the other African States.”

  “Oh, some tried,” he smiled. “That’s all you can say for them—they tried. Don’t be deceived by his frail looks; he’s as tough as rope and he’s forgotten more political tricks than most of these younger ones will ever learn. Looks near to death, doesn’t he? Some have been fooled by it before now. One bright young fellow, who shall be nameless because he also is in the Government, once gave the Old Man one week to live. Lousy guesser.”