In all over two hundred people were arrested; most were held at Pademba Road Prison. The army had been to Magburaka and to the Fornas’ village of Rogbonko. They had searched all the houses and interrogated Pa Roke. They seized Uncle Momodu and Uncle Ismail, because they were brothers to Dr Forna, and they were held along with dozens of others at Mafanta Prison near Magburaka. Meanwhile in Freetown rumours abounded concerning the fate of the arrested leaders, including one that they were to be taken out of the country, possibly to Guinea to the notorious dissident detention centre, Camp Ya Ya.
Lawyers acting for the UDP leaders issued a writ of habeas corpus, demanding of the courts that the prisoners either be charged or released. At Tengbe Farkai, where we waited for our father to come home, men from the CID arrived to search our house. They slashed our mattresses and pulled the stuffing out of the chairs, while outside Red Shirts hovered in the street and chanted anti-UDP slogans.
We waited in the compound yard while men moved from room to room searching our belongings, even through our toys and clothes. At the end of the search the officers from the CID left, triumphantly bearing all our kitchen knives and a bottle of holy water, blessed by an Alpha, given to my father for protection by one of his supporters. The man in charge of the search carried it away, carefully holding the neck of the bottle between his finger and thumb, calling to the mob that it was acid. Auntie Yabome went down to the CID headquarters to reclaim our possessions some time later. In front of all the officers at the front desk she took the bottle, rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands in the holy water. But even that didn’t stop the Daily Mail publishing a story later, saying a canister of acid had been found in our house.
The days passed. With nothing else to do one afternoon I decided to take Apollo for a walk. I found a lead and we set off down the lane away from the main road and towards Down Below. I longed to have a dog like the ones in my picture books – one who would chase sticks and sleep on my bed at night. I had never seen anyone in Sierra Leone walk a dog; at home none of the dogs was even allowed into the house. The area around Tengbe Farkai was new to me and I became lost. At some point I had passed a canal and then some houses, taken a few turns. When I tried to retrace my steps the passages and lanes seemed to have multiplied and shifted around. Some looked familiar and I started down one after another; a few minutes on I was suddenly unsure. I remembered I had read somewhere that dogs can always find their way home, so I slipped the lead from round Apollo’s neck and as the dog trotted lazily on, I followed behind.
As I turned into the gates of the house I found the compound in chaos. It took me a while to realise they were all looking for me. I had surely been gone less than half an hour. Santigi saw me first and hurried off to be the first to tell my stepmother I had re-appeared. She didn’t look at all pleased. Though I tried to describe how Apollo brought me home, she kept her hands on her hips, her mouth pursed, and drew air in through her nostrils. She warned me not to leave the compound again.
There were rumours of plans to kidnap Dr Forna’s children. My stepmother heard them from one of our self-elected guards. She went directly to the police commissioner, Jenkins Smith, and asked for his help, explaining that we were all alone in the house. Behind his customary dignity and starched uniform, the police commissioner looked tired and resigned. He shook his head. The situation was now far beyond his control, he admitted, and there was nothing he could do to protect us. ‘Leave the house, Mrs Forna, please,’ he advised her. ‘For both our sakes.’
A few nights later the Red Shirts gathered outside and began to throw rocks at our windows. Our stepmother carried us sleeping from our beds and put us into the back seat of the car. In the yard she started the car engine and the moment the gates were opened she turned the headlights up to full beam and drove at speed down the lane and out onto the street.
By the time we reached the home of Dr Olu Williams and his wife the three of us had woken up and my stepmother had tried everyone she knew who might take us in, knocking on door after door in the dead of night. One by one they had all declined. People stood in their doorways, murmuring sympathetic noises, followed always by some excuse to send us on. The reluctance to get involved was so obvious that Auntie Yabome thanked them for nothing and climbed back into the car. With nowhere in particular in mind we were driving along Wilkinson Road, in the direction of Lumley, when we passed close by the turning to the Olu Williamses’ house. Auntie Yabome turned the car around and started up the steep, unlit road. Halfway up Lower Pipeline Lane she swung round to the right into their short driveway, coming to a stop under the covered porch of the big concrete house.
When Murietta Olu Williams answered the knock on the door she had met Yabome Forna only once before. Under the light of the porch she recognised her vaguely. Murietta had been permanent secretary at the Ministry of Finance when our father joined the government; she was the first woman in Sierra Leone to hold the position. She was sociable and vivacious as well as politically astute. Our father held her in the highest esteem. Her husband, Sierra Leone’s first surgeon specialist, worked at Connaught Hospital. Our stepmother stood on the doorstep; by now the tears were running down her face. She knew she was taking a risk; she was desperate: ‘I have brought the children, Mrs Olu Williams,’ was all she said. ‘Can you take them in?’
Mrs Olu Williams ran upstairs to fetch her husband and together they tried to calm our stepmother and listen to her story.
‘Where are the children now?’ asked Murietta when our stepmother had finished.
‘They’re in the car.’
The older woman glanced at the vehicle. For the first time she saw the three of us, dressed only in our pyjamas, watching through the back window. Until then neither one of the elderly couple had realised we were waiting inside. At once the gravity of the situation was brought home to both of them and they urged us all into the house.
Auntie Yabome didn’t stay with us. While we remained with the Olu Williamses she moved from one house to another, returning to the house at Tengbe Farkai only by day. Every afternoon at the house on Lower Pipeline Lane we waited in the large sun room, which overlooked the garden at the top of the house. Late in the day our stepmother would arrive bringing with her clothes, comics and miniature boxes of our favourite Rice Krispies. Then one afternoon, a week after we had first arrived at the house, we waited and she did not come.
By day Murietta Olu Williams went to her job in the government offices, leaving us under the supervision of Pa Cook, her ageing retainer. In the evening she rushed home to check on us. She confided in none of her friends. Nobody in Freetown knew where we were. Yabome Forna was Murietta’s only point of contact and the day she failed to appear, Murietta was alarmed. She made enquires, learned Yabome was being detained, held in a cell at CID along with Amy Bash Taqi. A few hours later Mrs Olu Williams went to see the police commissioner herself. He plainly knew nothing about the arrests but he promised to do what he could. Before she left his office Murietta decided to confide in him: she told him Dr Forna’s three children were in her house. ‘By God’s grace,’ she pleaded, ‘please, you must do something to help me. Get a message to her, ask her what I should do.’ Jenkins Smith tried to urge her to be brave, but both of them could read the signs of what almost certainly lay ahead.
Our stepmother was released a day later. Santigi and the other staff had also been arrested, and Santigi badly beaten in a cell at the CID headquarters. Auntie Yabome stopped going back to the house at Tengbe Farkai altogether. She moved even more frequently herself, never staying more than a night at any house. Our former home stood empty: all our relatives, the servants, had fled; Uncle Bash was in prison. Once she was released Auntie Amy took her own children out of Freetown. The houses were raided and much of what we owned stolen or vandalised. The vehicles belonging to the UDP had been seized and the office at East Street turned over; all the documents, including the membership list, had been confiscated.
Within ten days the strain was
showing on our stepmother’s face and, despite her customary flair, Murietta’s brow was knitted, her features drawn. The secrecy, the fear that one of them might be followed, the dread of discovery even by an unexpected visitor to the house, brought them to the same conclusion. The charade could not go on. It was only a matter of time before Stevens or one of S. I. Koroma’s men would search us out. In prison our father had heard the stories and the reports of the escalating violence and he smuggled a note out through a sympathetic guard: Take the children and leave the country. Now, he urged.
We had no passports, no visas and no money of our own. Yabome could not risk going into town to try to withdraw money from our account at Barclays. Murietta Olu Williams was a resourceful woman, with a long list of contacts and, through her long involvement in the government and civil service, access to almost anyone in Freetown. She determined to help us escape. If money was what was needed, there was one place she knew where she could get it. She drove into town, headed for the offices of DiaCorp. Under Stevens diamond smuggling had brought chaos to the mining regions, and even though this meant lost revenue for government, the prime minister kept a blind eye turned. By 1970 it was an open secret that he himself controlled many of the illegal operations. The year before, millions of pounds worth of diamonds had been stolen from the DiaCorp plane, and again it was widely believed that Stevens was behind the raid. The plotters had been overheard at the Brookfield Hotel the night before, and Ibrahim Taqi claimed to have documents to prove the prime minister’s involvement in the heist and in racketeering. George Burne, the DiaCorp head, knew Murietta and was pleasantly surprised to see her. She closed the door behind her. ‘I’ve got the children,’ were the first words he remembers her uttering.
We had travelled to Freetown from Lagos on our father’s diplomatic passport, which had presumably now been confiscated – and anyway it was useless in our current predicament. Besides, Yabome would need a visa to go to England. Murietta’s next stop was the British high commission. At reception she asked to speak to the high commissioner as a matter of urgency.
Stephen Olver listened carefully as Murietta gave an account of her predicament: she told him about the rumours of kidnap, how she was hiding us for the moment, and said we needed his help to leave the country. The three children had a British mother, they were British subjects, she reminded him. Stephen Olver had been monitoring the situation closely and was well aware of the reputation of men like S. I. Koroma. The arrests had come as a shock to the diplomatic community. Within a matter of hours the high commission had issued us with emergency passports valid for six months and a visitor’s visa for our stepmother.
It was a hazy early morning as we waited at the Kissy terminal to catch the ferry over to Lungi airport. The small dockyard was busy and smelt of fish and diesel; oily water lapped at the jetty. A pirogue of commuters docked and the people waded through the water with their shoes in one hand. Half a dozen cars for the airport waited in a queue to join the ferry when it docked. Mrs Olu Williams walked into the ticket office while the three of us waited by the car. If anyone recognised us and started asking questions she planned to say our mother Maureen was in transit, en route to Europe, and we were all on our way to spend a few hours at the airport with her.
The ferry whistle sounded and the last foot passengers scrambled aboard. With one minute to go Yabome arrived, alone and on foot. She switched places with Murietta, who got out of the car. I was alarmed and sad to see her go: ‘But aren’t you coming with us, Auntie Murietta?’ I pleaded noisily. She put her finger to her lips, thrust sixty pounds into our stepmother’s purse and hugged us all goodbye.
Murietta had thought of everything. At the airport we were greeted by Mr Hancils, the airport manager. He greeted us, anxiety not quite masked by his formal manner; showed us into the VIP lounge on the upper floor of the airport building and left us there, closing the door behind him.
The room was large, decorated in plain, subdued colours with velvet chairs and a fawn carpet. Heavy beige velvet curtains hung in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. I pushed the folds aside and slipped behind them. There was the plane moving slowly across the tarmac: a huge beast, lumbering towards a man in white overalls waving orange batons, like an elephant performing tricks in a circus. From behind me I heard my stepmother’s voice, calling to me to come back inside and close the curtain.
When the Air France flight was ready to board Mr Hancils came back into the room. He sat down opposite our stepmother and wiped his upper lip. ‘Mrs Forna, please listen to me very carefully,’ he said, slowly, deliberately. ‘Once you are aboard the plane you are on international territory. What that means is that the government of Sierra Leone has no jurisdiction there, none at all.’ He was watching her intently. She nodded. He continued: ‘Once you are on board you are safe. Do you understand? If anyone tries to force you to leave the plane you must refuse, shout if need be. The captain and the crew know that you will be on board; they won’t allow anyone to take you or your children off that flight. The plane won’t leave without you, I promise.’ Auntie Yabome nodded again and thanked him. ‘Good luck.’ Mr Hancils squeezed her hand as he stood up to go.
We were in the sunshine running out across the bubbling tarmac. We went ahead of the other passengers and the plane was empty when we took our seats. But the flight was fully booked and it was going to be at least another hour before we were ready to take off. I sat still while my stepmother fastened my seatbelt, then I began to search through the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. Auntie Yabome covered me with one of the blankets and instructed us all to pretend we were asleep. And so I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face into the headrest. I lay as still as I could and listened to the people as they shuffled down the aisle. I heard them talking to the air hostess, being shown into their seats. I heard the click of the lockers above me as they were opened, then slammed shut. I listened hard, waiting for the challenge, waiting for someone to shake me and accuse me of not really being asleep at all.
When I felt the plane begin to move I opened my eyes, carefully at first, and as we lifted into the air I looked out of my window. Down below, through the mangrove swamps, a river snaked towards the sea and I could see tiny flecks that were fishing boats. Gradually, as the plane climbed the clouds pasted white over the window and the view was gone.
At Charles de Gaulle airport, where we were to switch planes for a flight to London, it was foggy. I was mesmerised by the airport building. I had never seen this Europe before. People moved along travelators, transparent plastic tubes criss-crossed the huge space bearing passengers to their flight gates. The place was bright and cold, and a woman’s metallic voice gave instructions over the tannoy that the people understood and followed. In an overpriced duty free boutique we bought sweaters from an assistant with dark red lipstick and nails. We had left Freetown with nothing, not a single suitcase or bag. I chose a bright, yellow scarf and matching sweater for myself and two hours later I stepped off the plane at Gatwick wearing them over my summer dress and sandals.
27
We spent our first night in the Angus Hotel overlooking Piccadilly Circus. Memuna shared with Auntie Yabome; Sheka and I were put in the room next door. I pulled the cord by the window and the chocolate-coloured curtains swished open. We looked out onto the curved lights of the giant Coca-Cola sign and they rippled on and off throughout the night, forming my first and most abiding memory of London.
The next day the four of us went for a walk. The October day was bright and bitter. On Waterloo Bridge I buried my chin into the neck of my new blue anorak and pulled my fingers up into the sleeves. I scarcely dared breathe. At home in the mornings Amadu and Amara would put bottles of boiled drinking water in the freezer. Sometimes they would forget to take them out in time and the bottles would explode; afterwards we would help pick out shards of glass and ice, one indistinguishable from the other. There was a delicious excitement in licking the ice, which stuck to our tongues, and in trying t
o avoid the vicious spears of glass. That was what the air was like in England. It was cold and sharp and made breathing fraught with danger.
My breath erupted in plumes of steam, like a pot on the boil. What made it do that? I wondered. I looked up at my stepmother. ‘Auntie Yabome,’ I began.
She heard me and turned, but instead of answering my question she stopped walking and addressed the three of us: ‘From now on I want you to call me Mummy. Do you understand? Mummy. You’re not to call me Auntie Yabome any more.’
Memuna and Sheka nodded; so did I. I waited. She didn’t say anything else. I forgot what I had wanted to ask and then I remembered. ‘Auntie Yabome, how come I can see my breath?’ We had started walking back up along the Strand and I ran to catch up.
‘Mummy,’ she said slowly. ‘Mummy, how come I can see my breath?’ But then she never gave me the answer.
Sheka and I had spent the night spinning on a revolving chair in our room. Next door our stepmother spent long hours on the telephone. Unattended through bath time, through bed time, we spun as fast as we could. No one came to interrupt our game. As the night progressed we took turns racing across the room and landing in the chair. Hit at just the right angle the chair shot across the room, twirling round and round as it did so. Eventually someone in an adjoining room, or possibly the unfortunate guests below us, must have complained, because some time past midnight the night porter opened the door to our room with his pass key. If he knocked, we didn’t hear him – we were making much too much noise. And at the very moment the key turned in the lock, the hours of turbulence and motion had their inevitable effect on Sheka’s stomach. Still reeling in the chair from his final effort to break the record, Sheka doubled over and moments later an untidy arc of vomit interrupted the precise geometric patterns of the carpet.
The Devil that Danced on the Water Page 24