The Devil that Danced on the Water

by Aminatta Forna

  Six years later I called on Sir Banja with the purpose of discovering what the two men had discussed during my father's visit long ago. Sir Banja told me an extraordinary story. He claimed to have had contact, back in the early 1970s, with Yasser Arafat, as well as Mad Mike Hoare, the infamous South African mercenary whose name has for ever been dishonourably linked with the Congo and the war that culminated in the murder of Lumumba. Arafat, he said, had offered to train forty fighters in Palestine to depose Stevens. Sir Banja had been working on a plan during the time my father was in prison. When the two men met he confided all to my father, urging him – if he was interested in playing a role – to come back and discuss the plan with him before he returned to Sierra Leone.

  From London our father went on to visit pharmaceutical firms in Frankfurt and outside Copenhagen. There he observed the plight of the Greenlanders, and later commented to a friend about Denmark's ‘forgotten empire'; he was lonely, a loneliness he described as clinging to him the whole time he was away from Sierra Leone, dispelled only by the presence of us, his children.

  On his way back home he stopped over in London again, to wait for his flight to Freetown. News that the former finance minister and ex-UDP leader was in town had reached the student groups in London, and several of the young activists who had supported the UDP raced to meet his flight at the airport, but he avoided them, hurrying on past and out of the terminal building. In Cricklewood Sir Banja waited for him to return, but in the four days he was in London our father never went back to the former governor-general's house.

  Sir Banja struck me as someone anxious to persuade other people of his own importance: after our first meeting he called me at home several times, sometimes late in the evening or very early in the morning, demanding to know why I hadn't been back to see him. I wasn't entirely sure who it was Sir Banja was more determined to persuade that he remained a player – himself or me. Sir Banja's story did not resonate with anything else I had so far learned, though by the time we spoke, after years of anarchy and banditry, the pale glow of Sierra Leone's diamonds had attracted foreign mercenaries to the country by the score. So I made call after call trying to find somebody who might verify what Sir Banja had told me, but not one other person, even those most closely connected with the events of the era, had ever heard rumours of a plot involving Yasser Arafat and Mad Mike Hoare in 1974.

  As things turned out I never had the chance to question Sir Banja again. Just three days after our interview he collapsed and died on the pavement outside his home.

  35

  In another time, in another world, before he wrote a letter of resignation that was published in the newspapers, before he was arrested at the command of his one-time colleagues, before he was imprisoned for three years on the orders of his former friend, our father planned to build us a house. In his prison cell he spent hours drafting and redrafting his designs; in his letters to me he described the house in which we would all live before too long. We planned to start building and move out of our rented home in Kissy just as soon as the business was making some money, and in July of 1974 we sat around the dining-room table while he talked us all through the plans, infecting us with his enthusiasm for the project, and encouraging us all to add new features: a sewing room or a patio.

  We were ten days into our school holidays, our summer holidays, although in Sierra Leone it was the rainy season. Just ten days. I didn't know the importance of those ten days then, of course, yet I remember them almost frame by frame. There was talk of the house, I remember that. And I remember swimming at Lumley, finding the water full of seaweed and thousands of tiny baby jellyfish, which stung us, sharp little pinpricks all over our bodies. I climbed up on my father's shoulders and refused to come down. ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ was the country's favourite song and it played constantly in bars, in the streets and from the drinking den on the opposite side of the gully. In the house we had our own craze for bingo and played boisterous games almost every evening. There was but one flaw marring the perfection, like a harelip on a newborn: Miss Dworzak.

  At his offices in Walpole Street the Christmas before, our father had introduced the three of us to a young woman called Adelaide Dworzak, a lawyer who was doing some work for him. She was lively, effervescent and came from a well-known family. Miss Dworzak, as we called her, joined us for lunch on that day and from then on, whenever Mum wasn't around. She always seemed to be there: dropping by the office to deliver some papers or to ask him to sign a document, kissing us hello, and perching on the edge of our father's desk while she talked – which she did rather a lot, waving her hands about all the while.

  Miss Dworzak was there again the next summer. We went for a meal at the Cape Sierra, where Miss Dworzak laughingly encouraged me to order lobster, because I said I had never tasted it. The waiter laid three lobsters at my feet. I chose one, glancing at my father to check whether this was really all right. He was smiling. I didn't fully grasp the purpose of the ritual with the lobsters, not until I had finished eating. Only then did I realise the lobster on my plate was the very one that had been alive at my feet half an hour before. We swam afterwards, and then it rained. Goose bumps covered my arms. I complained of the cold and Miss Dworzak took off her white cardigan and placed it around my shoulders.

  The sweater was still in my bag when I arrived home in the evening. I asked Mum's help in removing a tiny stain where I had spilt something on the sleeve. Mum asked me to whom the cardigan belonged. She said she wanted to talk to us. I fetched Memuna and Sheka and we gathered in one of the bedrooms. There Mum explained to us all about Miss Dworzak.

  When Mum had finished she left the room, and we remained alone still sitting on the bed. I turned towards the other two: ‘Are we not allowed to talk to Miss Dworzak any more? Not at all?’

  ‘Mum doesn't want us to, but she says it's up to us,’ Memuna replied.

  ‘But I like her, she's nice. Anyway, how is she going to break up our family? How can she do that?’

  ‘Because she's Dad's mistress.’ Sheka's voice was adult and deep. His tone made it sound as though the meaning were entirely obvious. He often acted that way, and it made me feel stupid, but truthfully I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. I sat there thinking about Miss Dworzak and what Mum had told us. True, I liked Miss Dworzak well enough, but I was afraid now, frightened that our family would be split up again, for the second time, for good even. The realisation travelled through me as a physical sensation: the saliva in my mouth dried up, my pulse drummed in my ears and my chest tightened against my lungs. The three of us agreed, there and then, that we would not utter another word to Miss Dworzak.

  A day or two later we followed our father up to Miss Dworzak's office. Miss Dworzak greeted me, smiling her brilliant, orange lipstick smile. ‘Hello, my darling, what is it today? The beach again?’

  I eyed Miss Dworzak for a moment. I pressed my lips together and remained silent. None of us uttered a word, not even to say hello.

  At first Miss Dworzak didn't notice, she was too busy talking; it took a few more seconds for her to realise how rude we were being. But our father saw it immediately, he swung round looking at each of us in turn. He did not look pleased, but his expression was of bafflement rather than of anger. ‘Say hello, kids.’ His brow lowered, his gaze dropped on each of us, one after the other. ‘What on earth is going on here? Say hello to Miss Dworzak!’

  Nobody replied. We glanced at each other and looked down. I was nervous, I had never defied my father, but now I was angry with him. I gripped the floor with my toes to control myself, determined I would not be the first to break our pact.

  Miss Dworzak must have sensed my wavering courage. Yes, she knew instinctively who was the weakest link. She was smart in that way. I felt her eyes rest on me; she beckoned me over. ‘Come here, Am, come over here, darling. There, now you'll tell me what this is all about, won't you?’

  I stood between the two of them, Miss Dworzak and my father. He towered behind me, w
hile she bent down and took both my hands in her own, looking me straight in the eye. I couldn't meet her gaze. I bent my head. ‘Come on, my darling. What's happened?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Am!’ My father's voice was controlled and he spoke evenly. ‘Will you please answer Miss Dworzak.’ When I still didn't reply his frustration spilled over. ‘What is wrong with you? What's wrong with the lot of you?’ I didn't dare look at my father.

  Miss Dworzak interrupted. She straightened up and put her hand on his arm: ‘Leave them. It doesn't matter. You go on, I'll see you later.’

  On the drive home our father was silent, his face clouded. I was worried he was about to demand an explanation from us, but as he drove, changing gear, the fingers of his other hand played upon the steering wheel, turning it in the direction of home; he didn't mention the matter again.

  * * *

  I was lying on my back on the edge of the surf with my eyes closed, watching the dark-orange glow of the sun behind my eyelids. With each wave the water rushed over my feet and ran up my calves. I creased my brow, concentrating, willing the motion of the waves to stop, just like King Canute, but they kept on rolling over me. When we were getting dressed to leave the beach I teased my father into trying to stop the tide. At first he demurred.

  ‘Try, try, Daddy. Go on. Please, just try.’ I urged him, giggling, pushing him from behind. I led him down to the water's edge.

  He stood in front of the waves and put out his hand, palm flat to the Atlantic Ocean. ‘Stop, waves. I command you,’ he said in a reasonably theatrical voice. The next wave broke regardless: the water rushed over his sandals and soaked the hem of his trousers. I knew he couldn't stop the waves, but I had expected him to jump back, that was supposed to have been the fun of the game. I stared at his sodden trousers. ‘You see, Am,’ he said, ‘I can't stop the tide.’ That was Saturday.

  Sunday. Mum and Daddy and Memuna and Sheka and I went to Auntie Nuhad's beach house at Juba. I don't remember too much about that day. Mandy, Nuhad's daughter who was our age, remembers playing with a blue, inflatable boat. Sarah Tejan, Nuhad's best friend, was there too, and she remembers it, an unremarkable day at the beach. Nuhad Courban was a striking, auburn-haired Lebanese woman, a wealthy socialite and hostess who moved in political circles. My father had known her for many years, and she was one of the remaining few with the courage to dare to be seen in his company. She was aware of his relationship with Miss Dworzak, and disapproved, not because she held any particular views on marital fidelity, but because she knew and liked Yabome. She had invited our family to spend the day with her and her daughter at the beach, to help heal the rift she could see opening up between the two of them. By the time we were ready for home it was already growing dark. As we packed up the picnic my father asked Nuhad if he could take the spare rounds of flat Lebanese bread – for Sheka, who was especially fond of it. She remembered that, an insignificant detail in an otherwise unremarkable day.

  Monday. We seemed to have forgotten we had sent Miss Dworzak to Coventry, or we had failed to keep up our front, because there we were playing tennis at her parents’ home, a pink, colonial-style house surrounded by high walls, with a tennis court that occupied most of the garden. I stood on the opposite side of the court from my father, playing against him with Sheka. Miss Dworzak stood next to a tray of cold drinks, watching from the sidelines. The ball sped past me, I moved towards it; my legs felt like concrete posts, I struggled to shift them. I felt as though I was locked into one of my dreams, trying to run: my limbs refused to engage or follow my brain's commands. I made an effort to lift up my arm to hit the ball, but I could barely hold the tennis racket. I missed. The ball hummed past me. Sheka glanced my way. Faintly, somewhere far away, I could hear my father calling to me to keep my eye on the ball. I heard the frustration in his voice and I wanted to please him, but I was tired and I couldn't play any more. I walked to the wooden bench at the side of the court and sat down upon it, my eyelids closing. Vaguely I saw Miss Dworzak come over; I heard her voice: ‘Mohamed! For heaven's sake. This child is sick.’ On the other side of the court my father tossed his racket aside and hurried over, frowning anxiously.

  At home I slept for a while, and then I felt a bit better. I lay on my bed reading My Family and Other Animals until the early evening, when Sheka put his head round the door to tell me to come and look at the man whose arm had been blown apart.

  The next day the rain comes down and the house is deserted. In the evening I stand in the sitting room making the preparations for a game: chairs drawn into a tight semicircle, fluttering squares of paper, unmarked cards, a bag of wooden numbers, matches in pink-tipped rows. Outside, under the flickering hum of the fluorescent light, two men stand with their backs against the night, watching everything I do. Two men with eyes like dank wells, wearing fake crocodile-skin shoes. I put down the cards and the matches and ask them what they want.

  I leave the men where they are as I go to fetch my father from the master bedroom. I pass through the sitting room, down the hallway. I can see the closed door at the end of the corridor. It is painted brown, glossy brown. Down at my side I ball my hand up into a fist, ready to knock.

  All my life I believed that it was I who went to fetch my father from his room the night Prince Ba and Newlove came to the house. But I was wrong. Outside, standing at the front of the house, Morlai had seen the CID car arrive and he had already spoken to the men. He directed them to the front of the house and watched as they began to make their way up the side stairs onto the veranda. Morlai did not follow them. He ran in the other direction, up the back staircase, through the kitchen and into the house, passing behind me as I counted out matches on the surface of the coffee table. Moments later I look up, notice the waiting men. Ask them what they want. Morlai hits his palm against the door of the master bedroom, a warning. He begs to be allowed to tell the officers from the CID that the doctor isn't home. But my father refuses. He comes out to face Prince Ba and Newlove, and meets me in the corridor just as I make my own way to the bedroom door.

  Book Two

  36

  Strange, how we managed to take up almost exactly where we left off twenty-five years before. I had not seen my cousin in all that time.

  Morlai was dressed in green tweed trousers and lace-up shoes. The trousers looked as though they had been donated, sent out with the batches of second-hand clothes shipped to countries like ours, nobody worrying too much that they were inappropriate for the Tropics. Morlai's forehead was beaded with sweat and I handed him a tissue. He set his cup of tea down on the low wooden table and patted his brow.

  ‘Do you remember how you were so sick, the day after Doctor was taken away? So sick! Because of what happened to your father.’ He shook his head, sucked his teeth, flicked his fingers as though he'd touched something hot. Familiar gestures, every one. ‘Ah, that day! That day. It was terrible.’

  An image came to me of the way he used to amble along, shoulders thrown back as though he were gazing at the sky, trailing the back of his flip-flops along the ground and smiling. Now he was nearly fifty. In the last few years he had lost everything, seen two homes burned by rebel bands, hidden in the bush at the back of the houses with his wife and four small children, watching while his neighbours were lined up, pushed forward, one after another, to have their hands hacked off by narcotic-crazed child soldiers. Morlai's eyes were watery and clouded, but the smile, unbelievably, was there still.

  ‘I had malaria,’ I replied.

  ‘The very next day!’ Morlai ignored me and repeated himself with emphasis. ‘The very next day! How could that be?’ The story, I realised, had entered the family mythology, of how I took to my bed the morning after Prince Ba and Newlove came to our house. I was cold, shivering in the forty-degree heat, nauseous at the memory of the pappy, overly sweetened cereal I had eaten for breakfast. I lay in my bed and begged for a blanket. When Morlai brought it to me I threw up at his feet. My father had brought me home from the ten
nis game, intending to keep me under observation for a day or two. He thought I might have tropical flu, but he was more worried it looked like malaria. I realised now the only people who knew that were me – and my father.

  In the panic that followed his arrest, I was forgotten. Eventually I went to see the doctor who ran the clinic at the end of the road. Memuna accompanied me, because Mum was spending most of her days at the CID headquarters. I remember sitting opposite the doctor, whose face was as lined as a walnut shell, watching as he filled out copious prescriptions. He gave them to me and ordered Memuna to take the same remedies. We were completely baffled by that: she wasn't even his patient.

  By then the story was all over the papers. Our father had been arrested following an explosion at the house of Christian Kamara Taylor, the minister of finance – at the very house where we had once lived at Spur Road. The authorities were calling it an attempted coup. The doctor, who must have had an unusually western mindset, had made up his mind my illness was psychosomatic and sent me home with bundles of chalky pills – placebos in all probability. A long time later I contracted malaria as an adult, following a filming trip to Mali – as soon as the symptoms appeared I recognised them.