The Devil that Danced on the Water

by Aminatta Forna

  Some distance ahead something had fallen across the road and two men were standing by it. As we drew closer we saw there was a long pole balanced on two oil drums; large stones had been placed across the road in front. It was a road block and the two men were soldiers. When they saw the Mercedes they began to move towards us, waving the car to a halt. Inside everyone was silent as we watched the uniformed men approach us, one on either side of the car. Tucked in under my mother's arm, I could feel the beating of her heart.

  The men were in full battle kit and carried automatic weapons slung across their shoulders; their faces were sullen and dark. Nothing about them brought to mind the brave redcoats of my imagination with their long, shiny black boots. They indicated we should all get out of the car. ‘Commot!’

  The grown-ups climbed out. We three stayed sitting in the back seat. Still no one spoke. The soldier who had given the command sauntered round to the back of the car. He asked where we were going, but didn't seem very interested in the reply. He took the driver's licence and studied it at length before handing it back.

  The other soldier now put his head through the open door on the passenger side and looked around the car. His glance passed over us as though we were invisible.

  ‘What's in here?’ The first soldier tapped the boot.

  ‘Nothing, there's nothing there. Bags, that's all.’ It was our driver: he ran round holding up the key.

  ‘Open!’ The monosyllabic soldier gave a slack wave of his hand. Inside were our bags, full of children's clothes and my mother's personal effects. Our mother walked over and, at his instruction, opened each one. He leaned in and watched her. When she had finished he nodded and stepped away, while she pushed everything back into the bags and closed them.

  She ventured a question for the first time: ‘What's going on?’

  The soldier looked at her. ‘They've taken over State House,’ he said. ‘Everybody is under martial law. The army's in charge now.’

  The empty streets, the silent suburbs all began to make sense. People were retreating to their houses, waiting for trouble. The soldiers let us go and told us to hurry.

  Back in the car the APC men began to talk rapidly between themselves in Temne. Their faces had tightened into frowns of concentration. The driver gripped the steering wheel tightly. They seemed to have completely forgotten we were still sitting in the car behind them. Once we were out of sight of the soldiers the Mercedes began to accelerate.

  The soldier hadn't asked us who we were and all we'd told him was that we were visiting friends in the city. My mother asked only as many questions as she dared and all we knew was that someone, just one person – presumably Siaka Stevens – was under house arrest in State House.

  My mother hadn't said anything for a few minutes, but now she asked: ‘Where are we going?’ The car was moving at speed.

  ‘We have to go to State House and find out what has happened to our brothers. Once we get there we'll know what to do.’ The young man in the passenger seat looked round and into her face. ‘Don't worry.’

  He didn't smile.

  11

  Rumour of an army takeover had been rife in Freetown for several days.

  Forty-eight hours after the closing of the polls the Sierra Leone Broadcasting Service announced the election results – SLPP: 31 and APC: 28. Five results were still outstanding. Two independent candidates had yet to declare their support for either party. The five awaited results were popularly assumed to be certain APC wins, but the two independent candidates were former SLPP loyalists who had fallen out with Albert Margai and been refused the party symbol at the elections. Now the race was on between both sides to secure their allegiance.

  That night Sir Albert flew south in a private plane to meet the two candidates on their home turf in Bo and Kenema in order to try to persuade them to rejoin the ruling party. But although the prime minister didn't know it, he had already been beaten to it. Our father and the Taqi brothers proved themselves to be the sharper political strategists, though they were half the veteran politician's age. The very night the votes began to be counted my father left Uncle Bash to supervise in his constituency while he and Ibrahim drove hell for leather down the length of the country, first to Bo and then to Kenema, where they held private meetings with each of the candidates. The two would not support the APC, but they agreed to withhold their support from the SLPP if Sir Albert remained leader.

  The APC celebrated their triumph, but in Freetown the confusion was mounting. Sir Albert tried to buy time by insisting the independent candidates couldn't formally declare for one side or the other until parliament opened. The five awaited results were delayed, prompting accusations of government gerrymandering; all the time newly-elected MPs and convoys of their supporters trucked into Freetown and paraded the streets in support of Siaka Stevens.

  Media reports added to the chaos. A local newspaper published a new set of figures giving the APC a clear win; next the BBC World Service declared a dead heat. A telegram was dispatched from the high commissioner in Freetown instructing the World Service to broadcast an immediate correction. Still no official statement was made. Bursts of violence erupted. In Kroo Town pro-APC protesters torched Fulah shops in revenge for Fulah support of the government. The tribesmen replied by firing upon their tormentors.

  In the avenue outside the governor-general's office the chanting crowds massed; inside his red and gilt chambers the governor floundered. Then, not a moment too soon, a messenger brought him the final count. The SLPP and the APC had 32 seats each, not including the two independents. Four other independents had already been claimed by Sir Albert and added into the SLPP total. The governor-general summoned the two leaders and asked them to form a coalition government. They refused. The pressure on the governor-general to bring a swift end to the impending crisis was immense. He decided to appoint Siaka Stevens prime minister of Sierra Leone, believing that he alone could command a majority in parliament. No sooner had he done so than rumours that David Lansana would lead the army in a takeover to reinstate Sir Albert quickened into life.

  From his office the British high commissioner issued hourly reports back to his superiors at the Africa Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. The next morning he received a call from one Dr Forna and Ibrahim Taqi; the latter he knew as the editor of We Yone newspaper. They were concerned about the country's stability and asked if Britain might intervene to prevent an army takeover in Sierra Leone. The high commissioner declined, but was sufficiently impressed with the foresight of the idea to request London to position a naval ship secretly along the Guinea coast, just in case he needed it himself. His next caller was the force commander. David Lansana warned the high commissioner that the appointment of Siaka Stevens as prime minister would be considered unconstitutional. The army commander confided that he had taken the precaution of moving some of his units and had already taken over the Sierra Leone Broadcasting Service building. The queen's representative, Governor-General Henry Lightfoot Boston, was the next through the door. He arrived after lunch looking ‘shaky and uncertain’, reported the high commissioner to his superiors later. Sir Henry repeated his decision to appoint an APC government with every possible haste.

  From early morning a euphoric crowd had begun to gather outside State House for the swearing-in of the new prime minister. The throng swelled through Independence Avenue and flowed down the hill and around the roots of the Cotton Tree. Students from Fourah Bay College, supporters from the provinces, locals, old, young, men, women and children turned out in their thousands. Music was playing on transistor radios tuned to pick up the next official announcement; some people began to dance. Young men climbed the Cotton Tree and lay like lizards along the branches; others perched on the walls of surrounding buildings; in the street everyone waited.

  At about three o'clock a motorcade arrived and eased through the crowd. The applause rippled through the people and then rose up into a great roar as the heavy gates of State H
ouse swung open and the motorcade passed through. In the first car was the familiar profile of Siaka Stevens. In the next car were the four new APC MPs who were to be sworn in alongside him as members of the new government. They were the Taqi brothers and, sitting next to them, our father.

  March is the hottest month of the year – in Temne Gbapron means ‘walk on the side’, in the shade of the trees because the sun is too high to walk down the middle of the road. Many in the crowd had been there all day, as the temperature nudged up to forty degrees. There was little to eat or drink, but the people ignored the heat and discomfort; they waited patiently for the country's new leaders to emerge and greet them from the circular balcony overlooking the avenue on the top floor of State House. An hour passed.

  At first it felt like a low rumble reverberating through the masses like distant thunder. The sensation shuddered through calves, thighs and chests, growing ever more distinct. It seemed to emanate from the road beneath them. The new sound replaced the chatter of the crowd as a hush fell. People began to look around.

  The military convoy appeared at the top of Independence Avenue, where it turned and began its descent: truck after truck. The drivers didn't slow as they neared the densely packed avenue: people were forced to scramble to one side. Armed soldiers were moving in on State House. At the gates they stopped. There was silence.

  One, two, three, four, the soldiers jumped from the back – dozens of men. They ran, guns at the ready, until they had surrounded the entire building. Once in their positions the soldiers turned as one and slowly levelled their guns at the crowd.

  Nobody moved. The heat shimmered across the white painted facade of State House and glinted on the metal balustrades. Sweat dripped from under the helmets of the soldiers, slipped down their faces and stung their eyes; it ran down the backs of the legs of the people as they stood; it trickled under the dresses and between the breasts of women; it bubbled on the backs of men and streamed down their spines. It bloomed darkly under thousands of arms, and prickled the soldiers’ palms wrapped around their gun barrels. Salt drops hung on the upper lip of the commander in charge.

  All was still.

  Inside State House Siaka Stevens had just taken the oath of office when the governor-general's Mende aide-de-camp Hinga Norman stepped in and placed the governor, and the four men with him, under arrest. Briefly the governor-general continued, swearing in Ibrahim Taqi as minister of information. When he had finished Sir Henry turned and walked slowly past his disloyal lieutenant. He left the room and took the stairs up to his private quarters. No one stood in his way. The five remaining men sat down to wait in the company of their captor, while guards were posted outside every door of the building.

  At 5.55 p.m. David Lansana's voice came on the radio to tell the people of Sierra Leone that the country was under martial law.

  At 6 p.m. the crowd of people outside State House were ordered to disperse.

  Somebody began to chant: ‘No more Albert, No more Margai.’ In ones and twos, finally by the score, other voices joined the chorus. Some people sat down in an act of defiance, to show that they had no intention of ever leaving.

  At 6.03 p.m. the order to disperse was repeated.

  At 6.05 p.m. the soldiers raised their weapons and fired in the air above the heads of the crowd. The crowd fell silent, muscles tightened as fear spread from body to body, through bellies and bowels, but everyone clung to their positions.

  ‘They're only blanks,’ a man swivelled around and called out to his comrades. ‘Blanks. That's all.’ People nodded to each other. Just blanks, to scare them. They held their ground.

  The soldiers lowered their weapons. The people sighed, in one great exhalation of air. One or two even laughed. Of course, these boys were their sons, their brothers, their cousins. Someone began to clap the soldiers, but then stopped.

  The commander in charge wiped his upper lip. A minute had passed, according to the watch on his wrist. He gave the next order, as he had been told to do. The soldiers raised their guns and lowered the barrels in the direction of the crowd.

  The commander gave his men the order to fire.

  Among the first to fall was a teenage boy wearing a red T-shirt and green shorts. He went down face first under the Cotton Tree; his jaw hit the dirt with a crack, arms wrapped around his stomach, his legs began to perform a grim little jig as he lay in the dust. Someone close by bent down to help, saw the blood spreading like a shadow across the earth, red on red, and screamed.

  The soldiers began to shoot indiscriminately. The crowd split apart as people scattered in every direction, pushing and grabbing each other, slipping in the blood of the fallen, silent, flailing, stumbling. From their bodies rose the thick odour of fear; it drifted up above the trees and the houses, where it hung in a cloud over the city for days.

  12

  By the time we reached the Cotton Tree the crowds were gone and the wounded dragged away. A knot of press men converged on the gates of State House, like a crowd gathered below a man threatening to throw himself from a rooftop. By now the world was alert to the possibility that one of the last democracies in Africa might be about to fall. All around the building soldiers remained in position, guns at the ready. We drove up Independence Avenue almost to the gates of State House before we were ordered to halt. Our two companions climbed down and we watched from the back seat while they argued and pleaded with some of the soldiers. Finally, they walked back to the car and started the engine. The gates of State House swung open and we drove inside.

  Neither my mother nor our two companions had any idea of what had just occurred on the same spot or what would happen next; but whatever confusion our party felt was matched by that of the soldiers. They were under orders to stay at their posts and to hold the men inside until Brigadier Lansana and Albert Margai arrived at State House, but although the two men were expected imminently, hours had passed and yet there was no sign of them. The soldiers stayed on, with no idea what to do next.

  My father appeared, walking easily and wearing a white shirt and grey trousers; he looked just as he did every day at home. He was alone and we stood in the courtyard of the prime minister's offices while he kissed us and we gripped his knees. I held onto my mother's hand. He told our mother he was fine; she should take us to our friends the Benjamins, where we would all be taken care of and perfectly safe in their house overlooking the city. ‘Don't worry, my brothers and I will be OK.’

  ‘Won't you come with us now?’

  He refused: ‘I need to be with the others, with my colleagues. Ibrahim is here and so is Mohammed, we should stay together. You go on. I'll see you all later. Ade and Bianca are there. You can send them my regards.’ He smiled and kissed us all again; his mood seemed light.

  My mother allowed herself to be reassured by our father's words but, she discovered many years later when I was able to tell her otherwise, his easy manner was deceptive. He wasn't free to leave, although in front of us he acted as though he remained of his own volition. The men had been warned that if they tried to leave the confines of State House they would be shot. The governor-general, the Queen of England's representative, had relinquished responsibility and remained in self-imposed solitary confinement in his chambers. The radio played nothing but monotonous military music. The city was alive with armed soldiers and protesters had begun to take to the streets once more, as whispers carried the news through the city that once darkness fell Siaka Stevens and the other men held in State House would be taken away to an unknown fate. The country was in freefall.

  Outside State House my mother waylaid a British journalist. He turned out to be the correspondent from Reuters. She tried to explain to him that Siaka Stevens wasn't alone; there were others with him, including her own husband, but he brushed her aside.

  That night our mother sat by the window of the Benjamins’ house on Old Railway Line Road watching the military headquarters at Wilberforce on the opposite hill. Truck after truck passed through the gates and down M
otor Road into Freetown. Some hours earlier the Mercedes and our two friends from the APC had driven away, leaving us at the Benjamins’ comfortable home; they promised they'd be back with any news. After a meal and showers the three of us were put to bed in a room with the Benjamins’ own children.

  Two old friends arrived: Donald Macauley, the lawyer who helped my father free the APC candidates in Kono, and Susan Toft, a teacher of anthropology at Fourah Bay college, an old friend of my mother's from her days in Freetown. Moments after they arrived they found themselves trapped for the night when a brief announcement interrupted the music on the radio with news that the city was under curfew with immediate effect. Together with Ade and his Maltese wife Bianca, they tried to pass the time and, with less success, to distract my mother with continuous games of cards.

  Inside State House food and water had run out and as the night deepened our father resigned himself to sleeping in his luxurious prison. The men were moved up to a drawing room on one of the upper floors and told to make themselves comfortable. When the doors closed they moved around the room, swiftly checking out their new surroundings, and discovered to their amazement that the soldiers had failed to disconnect the telephones. Within moments they were making calls. Ibrahim Taqi, the brand-new information minister, called his contacts in the foreign press and for the rest of the evening Siaka Stevens sat in the carpeted suite that ought to have been his own office, and gave interviews to western reporters, including those from the British Times and Reuters.

  This was how the prisoners came to hear the rumour spreading through the town that they were to be smuggled out of the city later in the night, possibly to be shot. There was substance to the fear; a dark night, a cold bullet and an unmarked grave had already become the fate of several African opposition leaders. My father would have recalled how, in the Congo, the newly elected prime minister Patrice Lumumba was flown away in full view of the world, to be tortured and killed.