She approached me and took my hands in hers.
‘We’ll see. You keep your promise and I’ll keep mine.’
I felt what she said set the ground rules fairly. I pulled her towards me. Our cheeks lay against each other’s and our bodies began to quiver. The tears then trickled down our faces.
My parents were thrilled to learn I was going to the former Gold Coast. They recalled the missionaries who had served there since the Basel and Bremen missions welcomed the Church of Scotland in 1914. Their combined efforts had established not only many primary and secondary schools but hospitals and churches too. My father even found in his church yearbook the names of the current ecclesiastical staff abroad. He said I should get in touch with Rev. Willy Salmond of Ridge Church in Accra. I took note of his name along with some others he suggested. I kept the Russian connection from my father and mother. I had started to lie with consummate ease. That concerned me.
I spent the next few days buying tropical attire. Nothing too garish of course; just a half dozen short-sleeved shirts and a couple of pairs of light trousers. And a sturdy pair of shoes would not come amiss if I faced a surprised reptile.
My daily course of anti-malarial tablets were already underway. They were small and white and packed a nasty taste. With only a couple of days left in Glasgow, I suggested an evening meal.
The Ubiquitous Chip was handy, halfway between the university and Morag’s flat. There at a table for two we sat looking into each other’s eyes. Morag seemed close to tears as we waited for our orders.
‘I can’t help but feel you are about to become a Russian spy.’
The thought was never far from my mind. Yet I had dismissed it until now. ‘No, this is nothing to do with spying. It’s about peanuts. They need someone who can speak both Russian and English to help a Russian General Manager of a groundnut oil company—he’s struggling with the language, they tell me. I can see their need. No, it can’t be a spying role.’
I could almost hear her brains ticking over.
‘So you are off on Friday? From Heathrow, I presume?’
‘Yes, that’s right. If you had known my first job was to be in Africa, perhaps we would not have had our first date?’ I said.
She frowned. Her response was reassuring. She clasped my hands together, over hers.
‘Don’t talk like that, Robert. A girl’s first love is important,’ she told me.
My genuine smile acknowledged the fact. ‘That’s true for a boy too,’ I replied.
‘I bet there were some girls in your father’s congregation who had an eye for the minister’s son.’
I smiled as I recalled Lizzie and Pamela whose company I had enjoyed in Sunday school and Bible class and told Morag. But they had long ago faded into the distance. I had taken Morag to a deeper relationship, and that was why this meal was so difficult.
‘Morag, you will soon be qualified. Your last placement can be in Ghana. Surely that would suit us? Tropical medicine, quite a feather in your cap.’
I was clinging to straws, but I liked the smile which my suggestion raised. My fork lurked over my plate. It eventually speared a sprout.
‘It boils down to how much we love each other—doesn’t it?’ she said.
I chewed the sprout then forked some chips. ‘Morag, I have no intention of finding love anywhere else. If you get to Accra for six weeks, then we will be less than a year apart. And I’ll have some leave to take too. Time should fly by. Why would I have made that suggestion if I had decided to end our relationship?’
She tapped my hand. ‘Then you still love me?’
My smile was broad. ‘I love no one else. Yes, of course, I love just you, only you.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear,’ she said with her white teeth in full glow.
I was aware of the waiter approaching. He asked if the meal was enjoyable and we agreed it was. But he did not go away. He took the white wine from its cooler and topped up our glasses before he left us in peace.
‘I love you, Robert. Of course, I do. I just know I will miss you.’
‘I’ll write to you every week.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘It’s my intention. I don’t know what the job will be like. But I’ll write as regularly as I can. Contact by letter will help you concentrate more on your studies, you know—with an absent boyfriend.’
Morag gave her dimple crater smile. I loved that expression of hers.
That last night before returning to London, I spent in Morag’s flat. We sat on the couch watching the evening news with our arms around each other. Then she switched off the box. She approached me with a mischievous grin. She coaxed me with her index finger to her bedroom and we slept that night knowing it would be our last embrace for some time, or forever.
Chapter 5
Setting Foot in Africa
As the Terracotta Army of Qin Shi Huang was being unearthed at Xi’an, China, I stepped off the plane at Accra in overpowering humidity.
It was as if I had walked into a baker’s oven. I was soon glad to find myself in the air-conditioned terminal to await my internal flight to Tamale. Itinerant sellers strolled by with offerings of sour kenkey dough, fried plantain and fresh oranges, many still in their green skins. I bought one.
It was as I peeled the orange that a young American man came to sit beside me.
‘First time in Ghana?’ he asked with no reserve.
‘Yes, it probably shows,’ I said before I offered the back of my sticky hand.
‘Hi, I’m Bob Adams. American Peace Corps. A bit like your Voluntary Services Overseas, right? You British?’
God, what was I? Russian? Scottish? British? ‘From Glasgow, Scotland,’ I replied. ‘But not with VSO. I’m going to manage a peanut factory in the north,’ I informed him with a degree of pride. ‘And you?’
He pointed to a satchel sitting between his feet. ‘I teach at Navrongo Secondary School on the border with Upper Volta. Math is my subject. Well, in fact, math and music, the ‘m’ subjects.’ Then he surprised me by saying, ‘You going to Tamale?
I squinted.
‘Yes, how did you know that?’
‘The big factories are in Tamale. It’s the largest town in the upper region.’
Soon we were called to gate number 3 for Tamale. The Ghana Airways plane shone in the hot sunshine of the day and we felt the oppressive humidity once more as we boarded.
‘Let’s sit over there,’ Bob said, and I knew I’d get no respite from his enquiries. I had no option but to agree.
There was no delay in getting off the ground.
‘Just under an hour, this flight, but what a difference. You get sweaty in the south and as dry as a pretzel in the north. Gotta drink a lot.’
‘Perhaps dry heat is the better option? Is fresh water freely available?’
He gave a paternal smile. He knew the ropes. I didn’t.
‘The market in town has bottled water. It’s best to drink that. Anything else and you might get the galloping guts.’
‘Hmm—not worth thinking about that,’ I said.
‘This is the white man’s grave you know?’ he laughed. ‘Not really true,’ he continued. ‘It was the amount of gin the Colonials took with their quinine that gave rise to the name. Cirrhosis of the liver killed many of them, not only the female mosquito.’
I absorbed his insights, wondering if they might be outdated. ‘Don’t you think the colonial times are well behind us now, I mean, progress is being made all the time?’
He seemed to nod in agreement. ‘Just don’t forget one thing. When you are defeated in achieving something, as you sure will in Ghana from time to time, just recognise one word.’
My eyebrows raised in curiosity. ‘And that word is?’ I eagerly asked.
‘WAWA,’ he said laughing, at my expense.
‘WAWA?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, a truism if ever there was. West Africa Wins Again, WAWA.’
Then we both laughed.
Just as we landed Bob hit me with a bombshell.
‘About that groundnut factory, isn’t that where the drunken Russian works?’
Chapter 6
My first job
When I descended the steps of the plane I felt like an overcooked cake on a wire tray. There was no escape from the dry heat. At the same time, it was a relief to get away from the intense humidity of the south. I said my farewell to the informative Bob as he confidently strode off to school. I saw more Muslims in the north and I felt their robes were the best attire for the conditions. Perhaps I’d be more comfortable in one, I thought.
I looked around for just one white face. That would surely be Mr Utechin. I searched in vain. I had to use my initiative. Taxis were very numerous around Tamale airport. They were all yellow and all seemed to be Peugeots. I hailed one.
‘Where you go, Masta?’ the driver asked.
‘The groundnut factory. You know where it is?’
The cab driver looked at me angrily. ‘Pioneer Peanuts? You can walk. Look over dere,’ he pointed. ‘Dat’s it,’ he said and waved his hand to show he needed a new customer.
I realised the factory was no more than 300 yards away, forming a curtain on one side the runway. I saw that as fortunate for business, then realised that if an aircraft had a shaky landing we might be in the firing line. That was a sobering thought.
I picked up my bags and set off along the red dusty laterite road. I wondered if I would be provided with any transport. Bicycles seemed ubiquitous but I’d only use one for short journeys. The heat was too suffocating.
As I approached the factory, I felt like a schoolboy approaching his new school for the very first time. I knocked on the office door. ‘Reception’ was written on the frosted glass. It was opened by a native woman.
‘Ah, so you are de new manager. We are expecting you,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘My name is Peace Assare.’
‘Peace?’
‘Yes, it be my Broffo, I mean my English name.’ I nodded. I was beginning to see how different the culture was to anything I had ever known. ‘Is Igor Utechin in?’ I asked as I looked over her shoulder, anxious to meet the man who would be supervising me.
‘De Masta is in but…he is not ready to see you.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said slightly confused. ‘He is with someone?’
She began to smile and quickly covered her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Come in; sit yourself down by my desk. I go tell you sumthin.’
I pulled up a chair and placed it near her. She was clearly a secretary as well as the receptionist. She sat down opposite me with her typewriter blocking my view of everything but her face.
‘You are Mr Utechin’s personal secretary?’
‘Indeed I am.’
‘Then you know who he is with. For how long, I wonder.’
She no longer hid her smile. ‘He is with the one he loves. He cannot be disturbed.’
‘Ah, his wife is here too?’ I asked.
She shook her head from side to side and her shoulders quivered. ‘You do not know our Mr Utechin, do you?’
I was confused and disappointed. Yet it seemed she had affection for him. But he had not greeted my arrival. ‘No, I know almost nothing about him.’
‘He has no wife—as such. One of the local girls go see him some nights. This afternoon he is with his day mistress—as he usually is any time after 3 p.m.’
She must have seen the confusion on my face. Clearly, I had not got her clues and it was a game that needed answers.
‘You still no understand? Akpeteshie, it be the local intoxicator. 45% alcohol. That be his true love.’
‘That’s a lot. Does he not drink vodka or whisky?’ I asked remembering what the American Peace Corps teacher had told me.
‘He drinks anything, every day, almost anytime. He has udder bottles in his house but de akpeteshie is strong. He likes it the best, fresh from de market.’
So it was true what I had heard as I left the plane. He was a very serious, if not dangerous drinker.
‘Then morning is the best time to meet him?’
‘Dat be so. It be de only time. Anyway, you no go worry. I take you to your quarters. Der are only de two houses. Yours and Mr. Utechin’s.’
We left her office and she clapped her hands. Two young boys appeared and took my bags. They walked ahead of us.
‘How long has Mr Utechin been working here?’
‘Forever I would say. He looks an old man but I say he be no more than fifty-five, maybe sixty. He’s been here since Nkrumah days. President Nkrumah ruled us from 1960 to 1966. Utechin come about 1965 when dey open up de airport. Before, Nkrumah had it for de military. But it had bin a small airport for de War WW2.’
‘You liked Nkrumah?’ I asked.
‘Hmmm he be a fickle man. Americans say he was a communist. He go read about politics and religion an’ he want to throw all Europeans out of Africa—dat is except the Russian and udder communist countries. Are you a communist?’ she asked me abruptly.
I contemplated my answer for a moment. ‘Communist? No, not me.’
‘Den I tink we get on well, you an’ me here.’
We arrived at a bungalow. It shone white in the daylight like an iceberg. I was clearly its first occupant. Red bougainvillaea surrounded the doorway. Butterflies fluttered away when we approached. A milk bush hedge marked out the garden territory.
‘You will have a gardener. His name is Yaw. He keeps de garden in flower, and after de rains he makes sure no snakes are around.’
‘Snakes, are the reptiles many?’
‘Yes, the rain brings out de snakes. Around here it’s usually de Black Cobra.’
‘Black Cobra? And can it get into the house?’ I asked showing some considerable unease.
Grace laughed. ‘They try to get out of your way unless you have some food stuff wif you or you stand on them. You will not be harmed. I assure you,’
A young woman approached. Her age was hard to tell but I guessed she was mid-thirties. She greeted the secretary in her native tongue.
‘And this is Amma. She is your servant. She make your meals, cleans de house, washes de clothes, she go shopping for you. She do anyting an’ do everything for you, you go understand?’
I smiled at her ambiguity. I was glad to see her baby bound to her back in a coloured cloth. She must have a husband.
‘So now I go back to my desk. I see you in de morning. Eight o’clock. I go let you unpack and get settled.’
‘Thank you, Peace. You have been very helpful.’ And with a spin of her heels, she took off and was out of sight in a matter of seconds.
I entered the new house, still smelling of white painted walls. I walked through the spacious lounge to the kitchen. It seemed to be a magazine picture of knives, tins, fridge and a gleaming cooker too. The bathroom was a shower with a loo. Just enough space to do the necessary washing. There was only one bedroom of ample size and another, no more than a box room. I took my bags to my bedroom and sat down on my bed. I did not know whether to cry at my lack of a greeting from my superior or be delighted by Peace and having both a gardener and a cook/steward.
I unpacked my belongings and hung them up on rails and laid other items in drawers. Having completely unpacked, I got out a pad of paper and sat down to write to Morag.
I began with my Post Box Number—237 Tamale, a simple but adequate address. I was wondering how to start the letter when I heard a knock on the door.
‘Agoooo, Hello?’
Amma arrived with a tray on which clinked a glass of ice cubes in some liquid, a slice of lemon and a small bottle labelled ‘quinine water’.
I was taken aback. ‘Is this for me?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. Your late afternoon drink.’
‘But I don’t usually have a drink at this time,’ I said.
‘It is the British way. Gin and quinine to prevent malaria. I thot all white men take dis at dis time.’
I smiled at her. I did not me
an to reprimand her. ‘I don’t need a drink. Anyway, I don’t drink spirits.’
‘Dat be so? Den I get you a Tata.’
‘What’s a Tata?’
‘It be our local beer. I keep one cool for you in de frig,’ she said as her eyes lit up and mine did too.
I smiled broadly. A cool beer was just what I needed to start my letter to Morag.
Chapter 7
Settling into Tamale
The next morning I was eager to get to the office and meet my general manager. After scrambled eggs on toast and two slices of toast with honey, I set off under a sky which was almost azure—except for a few mackerel cloud striations. The sun had been up two hours already, like an insomniac.
I greeted Peace and she told me to wait. Wait I did—for half an hour. In that time I saw her open about two dozen letters and answer the telephone on five occasions. She spoke in her native tongue, leaving me with the impression she was a busy secretary with many social skills and numerous local contacts.
Mr Utechin’s door suddenly opened and he strode forward. What struck me first was his Old Testament beard. His walk was unsteady but supported his rotund body. His face was rosy red with blood vessels on show on both his rosy cheeks. He greeted me in Russian. He shook my hand vigorously.
‘You have arrived. Good man.’ In his hand, he held a round box of chocolates. He held the tin before me.
‘Take a couple,’ he said with a smile.
I smiled at him and shook my head. ‘Sorry, I’m allergic to chocolate.’
‘What? All chocolate?’
‘Yes. I can eat travel sweets and pastilles and spangles but nothing with chocolate, even hot chocolate as a drink and no chocolate cake either. It sets me off in blisters all over my body, does chocolate.’
Caught In a Cold War Trap Page 3