The Last King of Scotland (1998)

by Giles Foden

  A fetid smell heaved into me. On the other side was the entrance to another corridor, where two bright red fire extinguishers hung like sentinels. They brushed Amin’s thighs as he passed through in front of me. The noises were suddenly very loud: whimpers, moans, outright yells from the very throat of pain. A row of barred doors stretched down one side of the corridor, the walls of which were smudged and crumbling. The stench, the heat, the sounds – alone they would have been horrific, together they were almost unbearable.

  I blenched, and I blench from the page as I write – those sights I glimpsed as Amin led me past those cells – it takes…an almost physical effort to realize them, so deeply have I hidden them in my mind. So deeply have I hidden –

  In the first cell, a man was threshing about in a barrel of water, his wrists tied clumsily to the sides with rope. In the second, a man was curled up on the concrete floor. Two soldiers were striking him with thick leather straps. In the corner of the third lay the corpse of a boy, his leg shattered, a sledge-hammer leaning against the wall beside him. There was blood everywhere and fragments of bone, scattered about like chips of chalk in the puddles.

  In the fourth cell were three women. They stood there naked and shivering, huddled together as a soldier walked round them, prodding them with a baton. It was a desperate sight, filling me with feelings of outrage and revulsion – but I was too scared to do anything.

  I was transfixed for a moment, and then flung myself against the wall opposite the windows. I crouched on the floor. Amin reached down and gripped me hard by the upper arm.

  “Come on,” he said, “don’t linger here, it is not natural. I want you to see the medical wing. There is a doctor there I’d like you to meet. He is a friend of yours.”

  He led me beyond the cells, into a room full of beds. They were fully made up, and spotlessly clean. If it hadn’t been for the overpowering smell of rotten flesh that pervaded the whole building, you would have thought you were in a new, or recently overhauled hospital.

  All the beds were empty except one, which was surrounded by a group of soldiers – maybe about ten, perhaps more.

  “Is this your friend?” Amin said to me. “Is this man your colleague?”

  The man on the bed was Waziri.

  His head was bent down where a rope, also tied to his ankles, pulled at it. He looked up at me, as best he could with the fibre rope pressing into the flesh of his neck, his eyes full of terror. For a second, it was as if he was trying to speak: but his mouth was stuffed with a piece of rough plastic. The hard tough plastic of a fertilizer bag had been bent over several times and forced between his teeth.

  Waziri moaned through the gag, spittle and blood running from the side of his mouth. I began to feel unsteady on my feet.

  “This man,” Amin said, clapping me on the shoulder, “has done bad. He has associated himself with counter-state guerrillas from Tanzania and Rwanda under the leadership of Obote. He has been fighting me in the Ruwenzoris, operating out of Kabale. You have done bad also to be his friend.”

  “I have done nothing,” I whispered, backing away from the hellish scene.

  But I couldn’t. The soldiers were crowding behind me, pressing into me.

  “You should know this, doctor,” Amin said. “When two men fight, one wins. You must not be disobeying me.”

  Then he pointed at Waziri on the bed and said just one word. The word was ‘kalasi’.

  One of the soldiers produced a knife with a white bone handle. It looked like an ordinary kitchen bread knife. I glanced at Amin; his face was as fixed and solid as that of a statue, his eyes locked on the man on the bed.

  Waziri, seeing the knife, started blinking feverishly. With his neck and ankles still trussed, he tried to roll back into himself like a hedgehog. But by then the soldiers were already on him, pushing past me, pushing past Amin even and crowding round the bed. They dragged him on to the floor. One put a boot on his head. Our eyes met at that exact moment, and Waziri’s blinked again, and then all was obscured by the mass of camouflage swooping over him. I heard a gurgling sound and then I caught a glimpse of his bare torso – that, and the long, hideous blade shuttling back and forth.

  ∗

  When I came to, I was in one of the cells, lying on a truckle-bed. I looked at the concrete floor and breezeblock walls. There were smears of brown everywhere: blood or faeces, it was impossible to tell.

  I didn’t know how long I had been in there. They had taken my watch from me. There was no natural light, just a bare bulb. The mattress was solid as a board and smelt strongly of urine, so I took it off and lay directly on the springs.

  Shortly after I had done this, the door clanged open and a soldier came in. He had those ritual, one-eleven scars on his face – similar to Major Mabuse’s, but longer – and was carrying a tin plate of matooke. He shouted at me angrily in Swahili when he saw the mattress on the floor, and then switched into English.

  “You filthy British,” he said. “You come here to take our sisters and then you throw our beds on the floor. Pick or you die!”

  I struggled up from the bed and made a half-hearted attempt to lift the mattress on to it. The soldier let out a burst of Swahili, then squatted down and slid the plate of matooke across the floor. As he closed the heavy door behind him, I took one look at the steaming grey mash and started to retch.

  I don’t remember much else…I’ve blocked it out. They only kept me there for a single night, I worked out later. I was delirious with fear for most of it. At one point, however, I remember hearing muffled rifle fire from outside; at another, whispered voices from the cell next door, to which two men had just been consigned. I listened to them talking:

  “You have heard what happened to Felix Aswa?”

  “No. How did it go with him? I was for running to my house when I heard the shooting in our quarter…Then they got me and took me into a car secretly.”

  “They did not act secretly with him. They just grabbed him and shot him. And then they cut off his head with a panga. In broad daylight.”

  “His head?”

  “Yes, and then they took the head and made it drink from a cup. And they called the wife of Felix and said, Look, here is the head of your husband taking tea.”

  “That is how it is in our country now.”

  “And then they took the head to places unknown.”

  I was about to call out to them when I heard the key sound in the lock of my own cell. The door opened and the soldier who had brought me the food entered.

  “You, muzungu. Come with me. We are going to give you these.” He touched his cheek.

  I looked up at him, not understanding. Then he patted the one-eleven scars on his cheek again, and smiled. The breath went out of my lungs. He came over and pulled me up by the arm. I struggled and shouted as he dragged me out into the corridor.

  He stopped and smiled again, and then started laughing, pushing me in the ribs.

  “Yee ssebo! It’s OK, it’s OK. I am joking. Eh, you, muzungu. Now, take off your clothes!”

  I did as he said, trembling, and then he thrust me into a shower room. Still not sure whether he was joking about the scarification, I slumped against the wall under the cold water for something like twenty minutes.

  When I came out, Wasswa was standing there, with a towel and some new clothes over his arm. I was so relieved to see his familiar face that at first I couldn’t speak.

  “Are you OK, doctor?” he said, handing me the towel. “You have been a very foolish man to write about President Amin in that way and to plan subversive activities with Britain against Uganda.”

  “Why have I been kept like this?” I mumbled. “I have done nothing.”

  “You are very lucky that President Amin has given you clemency. He wants to see you right away.”

  Once I had dressed, we went back into the corridor. I caught a glimpse through the bars of the two men I had heard speaking, one old, wearing traditional clothes, the other middle-aged, in a suit and
tie. They looked up at me, surprised, as we passed.

  “Please,” the younger one shouted, “help us. My name is Edward Epunau. I am an honest businessman.”

  I stopped in my tracks, wanting to go back.

  “Come on,” said Wasswa. “There is nothing you can do.”

  “Help us!”

  Wasswa took my arm. We walked up the corridor, past the other cells. I tried to ignore the now more muted sounds of their inmates, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor. I couldn’t bear to see those things again. We went between the two fire extinguishers.

  The Minister pressed a concealed button. Part of the wall slid away, to reveal the chamber through which I had passed the previous night. In a corner I could see the glass cubicle, where the steaming electronics hissed and warbled like something living. I also noticed, stupefied as I was, that the door was plaster on the cell side – you wouldn’t have known it was there – and metal on the chamber side.

  We walked up the second passageway. At the end, Wasswa pressed another button. I heard motion on the other side. The door swung open.

  Amin was wearing an electric-blue safari suit with matching sombrero. He hugged me. In the mirrors I could see his wide shoulders in front of me, and the red-hide Proceedings of the Law Society of Uganda swinging shut behind. Their gold lettering glittered in the light.

  “Ah, my good friend Doctor Nicholas. It is very nice to see you again, yes?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” I said, in a careful monotone, trying to reacquaint myself with the nursery-like atmosphere of his bedroom. The toys and board games on the floor. The portrait of Lumumba. The television showing a boxing match.

  “Now, first you must have some breakfast,” Amin said, grinning. “Then you can go home and you will be strong to do work tomorrow. I myself will be busy also. For there are many things happening in Uganda at this time.”

  We went down to the dining-room and I ate surprisingly heartily, speaking carefully when Amin asked me questions. I was, I realized, lucky to have escaped with my life and I was determined now to get out of this situation and take the next plane home. As I left, I felt faint from having eaten too much and too quickly.

  “One more thing,” Amin said, as I was at the door. “As proof of your loyalty I want you to renounce your British citizenship and take up Ugandan citizenship immediately. Then I will know you are truly my friend. Wasswa has drawn up the papers and contacted London.”

  I looked back at him, the beast, and wished that I had done as Stone had asked. Walking down the steps outside the Lodge to the van, I felt physically wrecked. My bones were aching, and the sunlight made me blink. I got into the van and drove home like a zombie.

  Back in the bungalow later that day, I pulled myself together. I packed quickly. I just knew I had to get out. I took only a few changes of clothes, my passport, some traveller’s cheques I’d taped to the bottom of a drawer for safekeeping – and my journal. The latter Amin had returned to me during the meal, enjoining me once again to write in future exactly what he told me.

  “Come back soon and I will tell you all of my life-story,” he had said. “It is very exciting. Because, as you know, I am the hero of all Africa.”

  30

  Early the following morning, I got into the van and drove to the airport. I drove fast: I longed to be in Scotland, cleansed of this place and its horrors. And I drove fast because I was scared. I knew that it was likely Amin would be having me watched now – but there was nothing untoward in the wing mirror when I looked.

  When I got to the airport, there was a crowd of would-be passengers standing outside the complex. The entrance was barred by a contingent of troops. I got out of the van and walked over. I struggled through the crowds to where you could see on to the runway through the fence. One of the planes there, Air France 139, was surrounded by more troops. Next to the walkway were two dark-haired Arabs, and a blonde woman chatting to a Ugandan army officer. The woman was wearing a black skirt and had a machine-pistol slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s happened?” I asked one of others who was looking.

  “The PLO have hijacked this plane from Tel Aviv and brought it here. They’ve stopped all the flights.”

  I walked back to the van and sat there for a while, agitated and angry, cursing Amin, cursing the PLO, most of all cursing myself. I’d have to plan things more carefully. I decided the best thing to do was to go to Mulago, just as if it were a normal day.

  I didn’t tell Paterson or any of the others about my incarceration and the horrors I’d witnessed, just excusing myself as having been sick. Everyone was talking about the hijack anyway, and my odd disappearance was soon forgotten.

  Later that day, the phone rang in my office at the hospital. It was Wasswa. “How are you feeling?” he said. “I didn’t expect you to be back at work so soon. You’ve been very thoughtless, you know. You are lucky he didn’t have you killed.”

  I said nothing.

  “Nicholas…you have probably heard about the Palestinians hijacking this plane from Israel and bringing it to Entebbe. Well, the President wants you to come to the airport. He says it is very important that the hostages are given the best medical treatment Uganda can offer.”

  “Haven’t I been through enough?” I replied, coldly.

  “You are not in a position to argue. And neither am I. He says you must go quick.”

  So I drove to the airport again. They had taken the hostages off the plane into the terminal building. Two hundred and fifty of them were huddled in little groups, the terrorists standing among them with machine-pistols and megaphones. The blonde woman, I discovered, was Gabriele Krieger, a German member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (not the PLO, as I had thought earlier). The Israelis on the passenger list, and all those with Jewish-sounding names, were soon hived off into a separate room. It was a depressing sight. We were able to give them malaria tablets and distribute blankets – and to take one woman, Dora Bloch, to Mulago for treatment after she choked on some food.

  But otherwise Krieger, who said she and her companions had wired the building with explosives, wouldn’t allow us near them. All looked to be in shock, naturally enough – as much from discovering that arrival at Entebbe was not the end of their ordeal as from anything else. They had apparently imagined that they would be released when they got to Uganda. I learned that the terrorists had given a deadline of two days for their demands about the release of fifty-three Palestinian prisoners around the world to be met – otherwise all the hostages, Jews and Gentiles alike, would be killed.

  I was about to leave when Amin arrived in a large Sikorsky helicopter – together with Medina, a contingent of guards in white shorts and red berets, and some photographers from the Ministry of Information.

  “Everyone stay where you are,” shouted one of the guards as they clattered into the hall. “Sit down! Sit down! Don’t move!”

  Amin walked in. He was wearing full field marshal’s uniform, with a resplendent complement of medals. As well as Medina, one of his young sons was there – Campbell, I think – also dressed in uniform.

  At first Amin just strolled among the non-Israeli hostages, smiling as they looked up at him in bewilderment. He admired the blonde terrorist’s machine-pistol, and patted a small French boy on the head. I saw the boy exchange glances with Campbell. Then Amin clapped his hands together. The room fell silent. It was like being in a theatre the moment before the production begins.

  “Hello, my good friends. Well, I have some good news to tell you. The bad dream is over. I have been negotiating with the Palestinians and I have been on the phone to Tel Aviv. As a result of my efforts, they have agreed to release all forty-seven hostages without Israeli passports or Jewish blood. I am releasing these people immediately as a gesture of my good faith. Right now there is a plane waiting outside to take you. OK, OK, goodbye.”

  Clapping and cheering, the Gentile hostages began to gather up their hand-luggage. The photographers rushed
about getting shots of them, and of a smiling, beneficent Amin.

  Then he went through to the other room. In the confusion, I was able to follow him in. The Israelis stirred from their makeshift beds on the floor and looked at him expectantly. He clapped his hands again.

  “For those of you that do not know me, I am Field Marshal Amin, President of Uganda. I want to welcome you to my country. I promise to do everything within my power to make your stay here as pleasant a one as possible. I have already arranged for food and water and medical care to be made available. It was I that persuaded the Palestinians to allow you off the aeroplane and to release some of your fellow passengers.

  “You must understand, I want to conclude this episode as soon as possible. The Palestinians are fair and just people. I myself am visiting Damascus and saw how well they treated the Jews there. So make yourself comfortable here also, please. I have already got the Palestinians to extend the deadline, but you must understand that negotiations for your release have failed up till now because of Israeli stubbornness. But I continue to try…because I am appointed by God Almighty to be your saviour.”

  He paused for a moment, and smiled at his astonished audience.

  “One more thing. And this is very important. This is very very important. Please, do not try to escape. As the Palestinians have wired the building with explosives. This is very important. In the meantime, look on me as your host. I shall arrange for your release as soon as the Israeli government stops its stupidity and agrees to the reasonable demands of the Palestinian people. I am sorry for your inconvenience. I do hope the Palestinian demands are met before the Israeli government forces them to use explosives on you.”

  He beamed at them – for such a man, he really did have a beautiful smile – and nodded his head, as if trying to convince them that he was doing them a kindness; as, no doubt, he genuinely thought he was.

  “I have an idea: I think you Israelis should compose a letter to your government to persuade them to agree with the Palestinian demands. Then we can all have a party and you can go home. Isn’t that better than the Palestinians blowing you all up? You see, the Israeli government is gambling with your lives. Anyway, I go now to negotiate your release and safety…Yes, it is true, I go to shape your destiny and save your lives…Shaloml Shalom! OK…Shalom.”