Instead of answering my query, he asked “Américain?”
“Non.”
“Quel pays?”
“Guayanne Anglaise,” I replied.
“O, le pays du Doctor Jagan, non?” he inquired. I looked in amazement at him. How come he knew of Cheddi Jagan and British Guiana when there were no newspapers and the news bulletin was primarily devoted to internal affairs.
“Oui, combien,” I repeated.
The price he requested was very much in excess of what I could afford and I thanked him and wandered on, through a large, self-service store which reminded me of the Prisunic stores in Paris, crowded with shoppers, mostly women with sleeping infants tied securely to their backs.
The streets in the centre of Conakry were now alive with people, dogs, goats and taxis, yet for me the feeling of depression remained; there was little gaiety or that indefinable something which gives to any town or city or village its own special élan. I wandered on towards the administrative section of town, where the streets were wide and shaded with the ubiquitous large mango trees, all in blossom and hovering protectingly over the buildings which housed the various ministries.
I passed a group of women dressed in their national costume, with wide flaring skirts and an overmantel of embroidered gauze. On their heads they wore headkerchiefs of brightly patterned cotton, tied to show wide points rising elegantly from each side like the wings of some exotic bird. Immediately the rusty wheels of my memory quickened into gear and I recalled seeing women similarly dressed long ago in my native British Guiana on market day in the countryside.
Yes, memory was clearer now. I could even remember seeing a photograph of my grandmother wearing that distinguishable headkerchief. I looked closely at the women, observing their finely shaped features, black and silky smooth. Did my origins lie somewhere here with these people? I could not understand a word they said, for they spoke an African dialect, but they smiled at me and I bowed as I passed. I was feeling something now and it was a good feeling. For the very first time in many years I was walking among people without being conscious that I was different from them; although a stranger to Africa, I felt sufficiently identified to be at ease, comfortable, to belong. Passers-by might readily recognize that I was a stranger to Guinea, but unless my speech gave me away, it would be assumed that I was African, from some other territory or State. A stranger but not strange, because I was by origin a fragment of the whole. Back in England, persons often asked me, “From which part of Africa are you?” because on first contact they immediately associated by black skin with Africa. Now, in an African town, among Africans, I felt at ease, and realized with something of a shock that the white faces looked strange to me.
A group of men standing outside the office of Air France chatted softly but earnestly about the Congo and Patrice Lumumba’s death, for which they blamed the United Nations in general and the negligence of Ghana in particular. I sat nearby to listen, surprised at the amount of information they seemed to have. With them the Congo was a cause célèbre, and indicated the need to so order their own internal affairs that it would never be necessary for the United Nations or any other organization to intervene. From a passing taxi a radio blared forth the sound of children’s voices in song, something in praise of President Sékou Touré, their voices too loud and evidently untrained, but undeniably enthusiastic. As the men spoke of the Congo it was clear that Lumumba’s death, and in such strange circumstances, crystallized in their minds the evils of all colonialists and their policies. One man made a reference to Tshombe and spat on the ground to show his disgust. From what they said I learned that the Guinean forces in the Congo had been recalled; some had already returned home. Now and then someone spoke of “We in Africa,” or “We Africans,” but I had the feeling that, for them, Africa meant Guinea, because there was little or no reference to any of the other African States. It was very exciting to watch them and notice that the language they used, their mannerisms and fondness for the philosophical turn of phrase were all very French indeed, but none of it detracted from their dignity or belief in the rightness of their opinions.
Back at the hotel I had an excellent dinner, and from my corner table observed the other diners, some of whom were guests at the hotel, others officials resident in the town and able to afford the exorbitant prices charged for the meals. Bits of conversation could be heard in Russian, Yugoslav, Czech, Chinese, German, French, Arabic, English and American. Eating was a long, drawn-out affair, because after dinner there was nowhere to go and nothing to do for entertainment.
Having eaten I sat at the bar next to a tall, very black man, who, between sips from his glass, held it up to the light as if determined to discover how such a harmless-looking liquid could produce the kind of effect it was having on him. His hands, holding the glass fondly like a communicant, were large and powerful-looking, as were the shoulders and chest which bulged the thin, gaily coloured shirt, and I was sure that when he stood up he’d be six feet tall or more. His thin face was dominated by a large aquiline nose and marked high on each cheek with three vertical incisions which made him look rather like a pirate in festive mood. I ordered beer and surreptitiously studied the antics of my companion as they were reflected in the mirror over the bar. He must have caught me at it, because he suddenly turned to me and asked, “Stranger?” He spoke in English.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Ghana?”
“No, I’m West Indian.”
He looked more closely at me as if to locate something in my face. “You look like a Ghanaian,” he said, tonelessly, and went back to his careful examination of his drink, turning the frosty glass slowly in his fingers. Then, “How do you like my country?” He shot the question at me without turning his head.
“I only arrived today,” I replied. “I’ve been wandering around town taking a look.”
“Are you a salesman, or with a mission or something?”
“No, I’m a writer, looking for copy. This is my first visit to Africa and I’m trying to record my impressions.”
He pivoted round on his stool and very seriously extended a large hand. “Welcome to Africa,” he said. His grip was strong, the fingers cool from contact with the glass. “This is my first food today,” he continued, shaking the glass. “Been fasting, sunup to sunset. Ramadan, you know.”
“I’ve read of it,” I replied.
“Know anyone in town?”
“Not really, just nosing around.”
“I could show you around tonight if you like,” he offered.
His drink completed, we set out. He was even taller than I had guessed, about two inches over six feet, and walked with a slightly stooped posture as if accustomed to accommodating persons much shorter than himself. The night was cool from the soft sea breezes and from the forecourt of the hotel could be heard the soft murmur of the tide on the beach close by. Overhead the towering mango trees lost their tops against the darker sky, now crowded with stars which seemed brighter because of the dimly lit streets. We followed the road round from the hotel and he pointed out the stately garden-surrounded houses, once the residences of high-ranking French officials and now converted to service as ministries of one sort or another.
“When the previous occupants, the French, left,” he remarked, “they literally gutted the houses. What they could not cart away they smashed—baths, toilet bowls, everything.”
On into the town. By now the shops were closed and the streets were, for the most part, deserted except for an occasional group of two or three men chatting beside an open doorway. A general air of depression seemed to hover over the whole place, and nowhere could I detect any sound of music or laughter. “God, what a place to be stuck in,” I thought.
“What does one do for entertainment in this place?” I asked.
He stopped, with that curious habit of listening with his head cocked to one side.
“
Entertainment?” he echoed. “Oh, I see what you mean. There are no night clubs or brothels here these days. The French took them with them when they departed so hastily. But we manage very well without them.” He laughed. “Luckily we are a polygamous people, so we have ways of entertaining ourselves.” Then in a serious vein, “We do know how to enjoy ourselves, believe me, but right now most people are observing Ramadan, and that is a very quiet period for us.”
We walked in silence for a while, past the deserted market with its tiers of open stalls, through narrow streets lined with closely packed two-story buildings, dark behind their tight shutters and empty except for mongrel dogs foraging in the shadows, on past the high wall of the soldiers’ cantonments until we reached some open ground beyond which the Chinese Exhibition Building rose in massive silhouette. Here we stopped.
“Very impressive,” I offered, in an attempt to prove his thoughts.
“What?” he asked.
“The Exhibition Building, like a transplanted piece of New China.”
“Oh sure,” he replied, his thoughts elsewhere, “before long all the open land like this will either become development areas or be turned into parks and playgrounds for our children. But before that happens we have lots of lessons to learn and the chief one is to live without the things we cannot afford—things like night clubs and brothels.” He turned and grinned at me, his teeth a flash of white in the dark gloom of his face.
“We Africans often talk glibly about independence,” he continued after a while. “Before it is achieved the very word has a certain magic quality, and very often we expect that many of the problems which attend the winning of independence will solve themselves in some magical way. Here in Guinea we are learning that independence must be more than a political milestone—it must become a spiritual quality, so that we can better apply ourselves to the grave tasks ahead of us.
“This quality of the spirit is not breathed in with the night air—” at this he waved his arms in the gesture of an orator—“it has to be learned and developed. We, the old ones, learned it through fighting and sacrifice, and we have to teach it to our children with everything else they learn; in that way all of us will understand and accept that each one of us has the responsibility for making this country great.”
“Excuse me, please,” I interrupted, “but are you a lawyer, or teacher perhaps?”
“No,” he replied, “I’m a soldier.” He began walking and I fell into stride with him.
“Have you been to the Congo?”
His answer was long in coming. “Yes,” he finally replied. “And for me the most important lesson is this: that under no circumstances must we in Guinea allow our internal affairs ever to deteriorate to the point where any outside country or organization needs to intervene, or is asked to intervene. But, fortunately, that is very unlikely.”
We walked in silence for a while. All kinds of questions clamoured within me, but I felt that he was in the mood to talk and needed no prompting from me.
“It was a saddening experience for me,” he continued, “to see an organization like the United Nations forces, of which we were a part, become so completely ineffectual as an organ for peace and stability, through the vagueness of its mandate, the irresolution of its authority, and the proved inexperience of some of its top personnel, who, though tagged and uniformed as military personnel, had neither the tradition of military action nor the personal experience of situations of armed conflict to guide their decisions. Much of what happened in the Congo since July of 1960 must be laid at the doorstep of the United Nations, and it will long remain a matter of national and personal regret that we contributed, by association, to the whole unhappy situation.
“The Congo dilemma is a monument to human error. Everyone involved in it made mistakes, varying only in degree. Unfortunately in nearly every instance mistaken action was persisted in, primarily to save somebody’s face, or defended because no other course of action seemed effective. Stupidity is no respecter of persons, and many innocent people have died because of it. We in Guinea can avoid such fatal stupidity by teaching ourselves and our children to appreciate the disciplines and responsibilities of independence, and so to believe in this little country of ours that no hardship is too great and no contribution too small in helping its progress.”
“Does the man in the street feel the same way as you do about the country’s development and his involvement in it?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” he replied, “even though he might not be as articulate in exposing his feelings. While you’re here, talk to them yourself, and if you have the time, get up into the country among the smaller towns and villages. Talk with the people. You might run into a few surprises.”
We continued our walk, swinging right along the tarmac road which followed the twisting coastline. Overhead the palm fronds whispered softly as they touched each other, sly sounds vaguely heard against the wash of the tide and the heavier chorus of crickets, frogs and the sleepless nightjars. People passed us, talking softly together, the slap, slap of their sandalled feet audible long after they had faded into the distance.
“We need help to do the things we need to do here,” he continued, “and we are getting help from certain quarters but we need more. The time must come when we shall resolve our differences with France without sacrifice to our national pride or integrity, and one fine day the rest of the world will think seriously enough of us and other African States to treat us with the dignity due to independent States and their inhabitants. We are sick of being badgered or manoeuvred into situations of choice between East or West merely because the Western Powers will not conceive that we are free people and intend to remain free from any kind of influence or control.
“Jesus Christ, the damn folly of it!” he exclaimed. “Do you know something? None of the Russians or Czechs or Yugoslavs or Chinese who come here ever ask about the United States and what we think of them. We have a few American teachers in our schools, but no one asks us if that means that we’re becoming capitalists! Why the hell can’t Americans recognize that to people like us freedom and independence are the most precious things we have?
“Anyway,” he said more calmly, “it may all work towards our good. The hardships we experience now might prove to be the best possible thing that could have happened to us.”
“Don’t you think,” I ventured, “that your political conduct, I mean your country’s political conduct, must reflect a truly neutralist attitude if you expect to be believed?”
“That is not what is expected of us,” he replied. “No one believes in African neutrality; we are expected to be either pro-West or pro-Communist, and if we refuse to enter bodily into one camp we are promptly branded with the label of the other. If I or one of my countrymen should visit Russia tomorrow, the word would go around that I am pro-Russian or pro-Communist and I’d have a hell of a time if after that I wanted to visit the United States. But take the other side of the coin: no Eastern European country would refuse me entry merely because I had previously visited Britain or the United States. What does that make you think? Who is it that has the growing up to do?”
We were now once more outside the Hotel de France.
“Well, here we are,” he said. “Tell you what, if you like I could take you around tomorrow. We could take a run up into the country and let you see what’s happening there. Conakry—brothels apart or the lack of them—is like any town anywhere which has felt the influence of a cosmopolitan population. Up-country you might better see and understand the things I’ve been talking about.”
“I’d like that fine,” I replied, delighted to have so interesting and responsible a companion to show me around. This was indeed a lucky break.
“One thing you can do,” he said, seeming in no hurry to leave. “When you write about us, let them know that what we need even more than their money or their machines is their respect. They’ve got to learn
to respect us as equals. Much of the time they humour us. I’ve seen it with my own eyes so I know what I’m talking about. Nowadays wherever an African goes and speaks, he is listened to, and nobody ever attempts to be critical of him unless they feel that his political complexion differs from theirs. They’re never very much concerned with the man or the content of his talking, but merely with the kind of political alignment he represents or seems to represent. We command attention in the councils of the world primarily because we are Africans, and so we are wooed and solicited and pampered like clever performing monkeys. Because nobody is really taking the trouble to look behind the façade and understand the African.
“The first thing about our new independence is our desire to be seen and heard. Often we are unprepared to be seen and heard and our posture is merely an imitation of those who so recently controlled us, yet it is readily applauded and encouraged uncritically, just because we are Africans. However, when we are reported, I notice that our remarks are invariably qualified by reference to our use of English or French, as if that were the seal of cultural arrival. It is hardly ever noticed that every African who stands up in the world’s councils speaks a language different from the one he learned at his mother’s breast and is consciously or unconsciously making a concession to those who would otherwise find it nearly impossible to communicate with him.
“On the other hand we Africans do not seem to have finally made up our own minds about the grave responsibilities which lie ahead. We resent the old image which non-Africans entertain about us, but we have done little to present a new and clearer image of ourselves. Very often we behave as if we are shipwrecks struggling helplessly in the flood-tide of independence, instead of capable marines managing our political affairs with judgment and discretion. We have a hell of a lot to learn, from each other and from non-African people with wider experience of government, industry and representation than ourselves, but we need the kind of constructive criticism and appraisal, free of political bias, which would stimulate us to increased responsibility of expression and action.”
A Kind of Homecoming Page 2