Before Michael could offer any reply, everyone’s attention was demanded by the arrival of a white vehicle, driving towards the river on their side. The road, of course, was blocked by Michael’s car, so it had to stop. Four doors immediately opened and only minutes later the proceedings were being filmed. Four Europeans and their local driver had burst from the car and to the utter astonishment of everyone on the riverbank, the white men assembled cameras and sound recording equipment. It was a television crew.
With attentions diverted, Nelson saw his chance and made a dash for the forest. He had taken barely four steps before he was caught and tripped by one of the armed men. He fell against tree roots, hit his head and screamed with pain before rolling into the mud of the riverbank.
“Who is this man, Father?” The man in the camouflage shouted, playing a little to the camera and thus not sounding quite angry enough as he approached Michael. He allowed the muzzle of his rifle to dangle above Michael’s face.
“Look, I told you. We’re going to get doctors to help the wounded in our village...” His voice was beginning to break with fear. The man smiled.
“He is an Ibo. Yes?”
A few yards away Nelson slithered to his feet in the mud.
A member of the television crew then intervened. He approached the man who was giving all the orders and asked him what was happening. The corporal introduced himself and then explained that their task that day was to guard this river crossing, effectively to close it. This car and these two men had used the ferry illegally and were being interrogated. The presenter asked if he could speak to the driver and, after the corporal’s clearly reluctant nod, he approached Michael, whose guard lowered his rifle as the microphone was presented. Michael began to speak, saying that the village on the other side had been attacked and that he and Nelson were on their way to get help for the wounded, but he did not have time to finish his answer.
A sudden commotion arose from within the group surrounding Nelson, thus dissolving the complete absurdity, which had arrived with the film crew. The camera, microphone and presenter all turned to capture the moment. The corporal explained willingly, and perhaps a little too proudly for an anticipated European television audience that one of his men had recognised their prisoner and claimed that he had been the commander of a Biafran unit that had murdered many people in his village at the start of the war. They approached Nelson, who sat in the mud by the river with his knees drawn up to his chest, watched over by four rifle-pointing guards.
“So what will happen to him now?” asked the television presenter.
“We will interrogate,” answered the corporal and, as he spoke, a rifle muzzle was pushed against Nelson’s cheek. Neither the presenter nor the crew could understand anything of what followed, as the five men all seemed to want to shout at Nelson, so they turned to Michael, asking him if he knew this man.
“Of course I know him. He’s been in my village for months. He’s some sort of official… Look, we need medical help in our village. There are wounded people there….”
A noise from the group again attracted the television crew’s attention. Nelson was being beaten around the face, but in an almost ceremonial and perfunctory way and he now bore an expression of complete, undiluted terror. Without waiting to be asked a question, the corporal turned to face the camera pointed towards him and said that they were now convinced that this man was the one who had led a group of Biafran soldiers into a nearby village a year before and ordered the killing of a dozen people. He was thus a criminal and an enemy officer. Again, the television man asked what would happen next, but before his sentence was even complete, the corporal had turned to face Nelson and removed the revolver from his hip. In a single movement, he raised the gun to Nelson’s temple and shot, and thus a European television audience was later able to experience war at first hand.
***
“They presumed you were trying to smuggle an official out of the war zone?”
“That’s about it. They took the car and put me behind bars until a Bishop from the North came down and vouched for me. I didn’t know at the time, but all hell broke loose when the television footage was shown in Britain. It caused such a stir that the Nigerian authorities a few days later claimed to have identified the corporal, court- martialled him and executed him by firing squad. They seemed to think that it might help their tarnished image, but it merely confirmed their barbarity. Nobody seemed to be the slightest bit interested in my safety, so I was told when I got to London. I was held for a few days in jail and then they deported me. I never saw the village again.”
John O’Hara now feels much more at ease. It occurs to him that during the years he has known Michael Doherty he has never once spoken to him merely as another person. All communication - for want of a better word - between them has relied, even hinged upon their functional roles of priest and bishop. This reminds him that in the present circumstances he is not merely passing the time of day with conversation, and so, unwillingly, he is forced to revert to type. He is trying to find out why Michael behaved so apparently irresponsibly, so much out of character, that morning. “Now listen, Michael. I know all this already and none of it has anything to do with what happened this morning. What I want to know...”
Michael does not allow him to finish. “You don’t understand, John, do you?” There is a touch of anger, a hardened edge to his voice, which cuts through O’Hara’s calculatedly soft tone. “I was on the way to Kitui to do two things. One, as you know, was to pick up the letter from Janet, but that was not the prime reason for my trip to town today. I was coming here to see you: to see you personally-.” Michael is almost pleading with him. His wide stare openly invites O’Hara to glean the intended meaning. O’Hara, however, does not appear to grasp what Michael is trying to convey. There are still questions in his eyes.
“Do you expect me to read your mind?”
Michael ignores the question and continues. His tone of voice suggests he is ready to take the offensive. “If I were to ask you about the standard of my work of late, what would you say? Compare my achievements over the last few months with what you would have normally expected of me.” He is now leaning forward on the settee, eager to hear the Bishop’s reply.
Initially, John O’Hara is visibly uncomfortable with Michael’s new assertiveness. He is not used to being questioned so directly on his opinions and is not sufficiently confident of his relationship with Michael to speak his mind. Of course, if this were a meeting of his own Diocesan Council, when discussion of such matters would be normal, but in a highly structured and impersonal form, he would not hesitate and would speak his mind: but here, face to face with Michael, and requested by him to reveal his own still only partially formed opinions, the confrontation serves only to distress him. He stumbles on his words until Michael interjects to offer him a starting point.
“Lax? Lacking in commitment?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“But nevertheless true?”
“Undoubtedly. I’m afraid that reports about you have been reaching me for some weeks. If we ignore the usual ones - about your drinking, womanising, et cetera - although I must say that you have been drinking very heavily and very openly recently. I have to point that out to you. It’s not good for us, you know, Michael. I’ve spoken to you before about this and I know your opinion...” John O’Hara, now very much reincarnated Bishop O’Hara, raises his hand and turns aside as Michael attempts to interrupt, “but it seems that whatever I say you will carry on in your own way. Now I’m prepared to accept that, or should I say that I have been prepared to accept that when, in the past - and I stress that - in the past your occasional unacceptable behaviour has been counterbalanced by your quite exceptional work - and I say that to you with complete sincerity. I have - I used to have - great respect, even admiration for your work. On many occasions, I have cited Migwani, and your work in it, as a model of our aims. You h
ave managed to succeed in every way - apart from one - you might say small - I would say important way. On the Church side you have established new stations, worked to provide them with new churches. You’ve doubled the number of people on parish registers -”
Michael’s expression at this point conveys a hint of an impatient scoff.
“It might be unfashionable to measure a priest’s success by the number of baptisms he makes -” John O’Hara’s voice is growing sterner now, “- but in the absence of any other tangible pointer, I happen to view it still with a great deal of respect and I would encourage you to do the same. But let me finish what I started. This spiritual side of your work, though never exemplary, has been more than adequate, but it is in the pastoral side of the work where you - where you used to excel. My goodness, Michael, you were the first person in the District to set up literacy schemes, agricultural and health work - the list is so long, so impressive that quite honestly it makes me feel quite humble even to think of it.”
“High praise indeed.” Michael is trying hard to be sincere, but circumstance injects a cynical bite to his words. “But then who ever heard of a humble bishop?”
O’Hara eyes him quizzically for a moment, still not really knowing how to broach his criticisms. “I mentioned one important duty which, for some reason, you seem quite incapable of fulfilling.” O’Hara speaks slowly, deliberately forcing Michael to register every word. For some moments both he and Michael stay silent. O’Hara is at a loss for words. Michael is brooding on a random jumble of thoughts. A grimace spreads over O’Hara’s face as he searches for the words he needs. “Tell me, Michael. Why is it that you always manage to offend - nay to alienate - those people whose influence we need?”
“I don’t.” Michael’s reply was quick, spoken in a flat calculated tone. He offers no more than this and continues to stare at the floor.
O’Hara smiles a little, paternalistically. “Come on Michael. If I had a pound for every time you’d insulted James Mulonzya, for instance, I’d have been a rich man long ago.” He finishes with a hard, almost mocking laugh.
“Mulonzya? That whore?” There is a broad smile across Michael’s face when he continues. “As I said, John, I never offend the important people.”
O’Hara’s calculated smile communicates that he has covered this same ground innumerable times with Michael. Through it he is saying, “Will he never learn?” without words. “Mulonzya is a member of parliament, whether you like it or not. He is one of the most important, most influential people in your area -.” He raises his hands to quash Michael’s intended interruption. “ - So as far as I’m concerned it would be stupid not to court his attention. But to insult the poor beggar in public like you do is to invite problems.” O’Hara finishes on a critical, declamatory tone. After a short emphatic pause, he continues, still in control. “You might think that these things don’t get back to me but...”
“I’m not the least bit surprised, John. You seem to be the eyes and ears of the entire District.”
“Well there’s no need to feign ignorance, is there?”
***
They ought to have left the bar at least two hours earlier, by which time everyone who had a home to go to had already departed. Michael and Mulonzya, however, had stayed, Michael because he was getting free beer and Mulonzya because he was being given ample opportunity to indulge in his one great weakness, that of listening to the sound of his own voice. Though they were not alone, they both behaved as if they were. The barman sat on a high stool behind the counter. Leaning forward to rest his arms and head on the bar, he dozed, neglecting his duty though confident that two people as well known and well respected as Michael and Mulonzya would not try to leave without paying.
Michael had assumed the role of barman, having humbly explained to Mulonzya that since he was a guest in Migwani he should not be expected to fetch his own beer. This arrangement suited Michael admirably, since he had systematically been adding the beers for every new round to Mulonzya’s tally, never his own. The only other person in the stark, grey concrete box of a room was the madman, Munyasya, whose wizened old body had long before succumbed to sleep. He lay in a heap in a corner, half in and half out of the shadow cast by the bar’s only table, his hand still clutching at a half-full bottle of beer. Neither Michael nor Mulonzya had paid him, or anyone else for that matter, the slightest attention for some time, so engrossed had they become in the meandering of their own conversation. Even at this late hour, though, an occasional customer had appeared in the doorway and greeted those inside, before buying a single beer, to be drunk quickly, in near silence, standing at the bar.
By that late hour they had already crossed the same ground many times. Both had run out of new ideas and more than just an occasional word was slurred, or punctuated by a belch or a hiccough, but still the veracity with which they spoke was undiminished.
“I agree with you, Mister Michael,” said Mulonzya, shaking his head and slapping the bar with the palm of his hand. His words pleaded with the other. “I have said before that a man should have a philosophy of life and that he should live by it. My goodness, life would be impossible if it had no meaning - and it is only belief that gives it meaning. What I just said was that sometimes, when a man has to make a decision, he sees that what he ideally would like is not always possible. Then he must be satisfied with what he can achieve. He must be practical.”
“What is your philosophy, then?” Michael smiled through his question.
Mulonzya threw up his hands in frustration. “How can I say? There are as many different philosophies as there are men.” After a pause, during which he was obviously as deep in thought as he could manage at that hour, he continued, at first merely thinking aloud. “Who was that man?...Ah yes. Descartes.” After another pause, designed to prepare Michael’s attention for the pearl of wisdom to follow, he said with pride, “I think, - THEREFORE! - I think!”
Both Mulonzya and Michael smile. “I am,” said Michael.
“What?”
“I am. I think therefore I am.”
“I just said that.” Mulonzya looked confused for a moment, but then went on. “Do you see what I mean? We could quote hundreds, thousands, even millions of ideas. How can anyone say which is right and which is wrong? Sometimes some of those ideas will be correct, will be relevant. Sometimes they will not. We must learn to pick and choose in an informed manner depending on the circumstances.” His expression implored Michael to agree. “Anyway, Mister Michael, if you think a man should be able to quote his own beliefs, what are yours?”
“I am a Christian,” replied Michael without hesitation, but in a voice that seemed to be tinged with embarrassment.
Mulonzya scoffed and then laughed. “No. You haven’t understood the question. We are all Christians, Mister Michael. I was talking about - “
“I know quite a few people who aren’t Christian,” interrupted Michael, deliberately trying to disrupt the well-lubricated flow of his adversary.
Mulonzya again thought for a moment before answering. “No, you still haven’t understood. Look, you know and I know that there is only one God and that He is a Christian God.” Here Mulonzya began to laugh. “I hope that I don’t have to try to convince you, a priest, of that! What you are saying, I think, is that there are still people in the world who do not believe in God - but that is only to be expected because not everyone in the world is civilised yet. When they become civilised - or developed, that’s it, developed - they will then be able to understand Christianity.”
“How do you explain then that there are - and always have been - highly civilised people who do not believe in God and are not Christians?”
“Because there are communists and they are evil!” Mulonzya very nearly spat this self-evident truth. “As I was about to say...”
“No, wait,” interrupted Michael again. “I think it is you who does not understand. I am speaking ab
out Europeans, British or Irish people. They will all say that they believe in God, but I would call very few of them Christian.”
Mulonzya laughed knowingly. “That is because your society has many problems. Crime, violence …er …sex.” The word came like a flash of inspiration. “We have been hearing for some time about the decay of your country, Mister Michael, and not only your own country, but the whole of the developed world. It is a sad thing, but what can people expect when they turn away from their own beliefs? After all, Christianity was the very foundation of their success. That is what I was saying to you earlier, Mister Michael. We in Africa will not make the same mistakes. As our countries develop we will make sure that no decay can grow.”
Michael has still not explained himself fully. “But what if all these people, these decadent people, say and believe that they are Christians? There are many people here who are just the same. They might say they are Christian, but in their actions they are not.”
“Ah there are always some people who are liars,” said Mulonzya, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I know many people who say they are Christian because they think it makes them seem civilised and educated, and yet I know for a fact that they never go to church.” The last words he emphasised with a slap on the counter.
In reply Michael smiled, shook his head and said, “Mulonzya, there are many people who go to church - they probably never miss a service, and yet in my opinion they are not and never will be Christians.”
“How can that be? They worship God, don’t they? Ah, you are playing with me!”
“Being a Christian is not about going to church...”
Mulonzya’s eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and shock.
“Being a Christian is about living in a Christian manner, about accepting the philosophy -” Michael laid great stress on the word, “- of Christ. It doesn’t matter to me which God people worship - or even if they worship no God at all.”
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