Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Maybe that’s the key to it. President Banda has become something of an autocrat. Perhaps there is dissension in the ranks. Who knows how many of his ministers are prepared to go against him? Robin may have got himself caught up in some kind of internal strife.’

  ‘A coup of some kind? The papers haven’t said anything about it.’ John had been in Nigeria in 1970 when Biafra was overthrown. It had not been a pleasant experience.

  ‘God knows. All I’m saying is that something smells.’

  John shook his head. ‘Robin wasn’t interested in politics. He certainly wouldn’t get involved. If anything, he might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. At worst he would have been kicked out.’

  ‘He hasn’t left the country, that much I do know. The whole thing is rather odd. The British High Commission is looking into it for us.’ Bernard looked unhappy. ‘I don’t like it much, John, I’ve got a bad feeling about it.’

  ‘Robin is probably pissed as a newt in some bar.’ John didn’t like it either but he could see it was worrying Bernard that he was asking him to go to Malawi.

  ‘Something’s brewing in Malawi,’ Bernard ignored John’s words. ‘Do you read the New York Times?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not often. Why?’

  ‘They’ve been running a story about the leader of the opposition out there, Orton Chirwa. He and his wife Vera were tried for treason last year. No sentence has been passed yet but they’re expected to get death.’

  ‘Come on, Bernard, these things happen in Africa. You know that.’

  ‘Not like this. The Chirwas were tried before a Traditional Court which was presided over by a Malawian chief. That means they were not allowed to engage counsel for their defence. The International Commission of Jurists has requested that President Kaunda of Zambia intervene on their behalf, and the United Nations Subcommission on Human Rights has asked the Malawian Government for some answers. The Chirwas’ son was arrested at the same time. He appears to have dropped off the face of the earth. Apparently Orton and Vera Chirwa are lawyers. The African Bar Association has sent an appeal on their behalf directly to President Banda.’

  ‘Why is this worrying you? It’s just internal politics. Robin’s disappearance couldn’t possibly have any connection.’

  ‘I spoke with a Martin Flower at the British High Commission in Blantyre. He’s as puzzled as we are about Robin.’ Bernard sipped his drink. ‘The High Commission has taken the unusual step recently of appointing wardens for each district. Every British subject in the country is accounted for.’

  ‘That is serious. Sounds like they’re expecting a full-scale war out there.’

  Bernard grimaced. ‘Heaven forbid, no! Martin Flower tried to tell me it was perfectly normal for the High Commission to instigate such a plan. Nothing to worry about. All part of a day’s work, that sort of thing.’ He spun his chair and stared through his window to the rapidly darkening day and the fat snowflakes falling. ‘The point is, John, where the hell is Robin?’ he asked finally. ‘We know he hasn’t flown out. We’re reasonably certain if he were in Malawi the British High Commission would have him on their lists. He’s either slipped over a border somewhere or he’s dead.’ Bernard looked back at John. ‘I don’t like sending you there.’

  ‘I’ve been to worse places.’

  By way of a response Bernard flipped a thin file across the desk. ‘Not much in there. Copies of correspondence mainly. Read them and memorise them. You can’t take them with you.’

  John didn’t open the file. ‘I’ll do it at the weekend.’

  Bernard nodded. ‘This is a rum do, John. Nothing text-book. I’ve never handled a job like it.’ He stared glumly at his whisky. ‘We’ll worry about finding Robin. I don’t want you to get involved. Just get out there and do the survey. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of months. Keep your head down and stay out of trouble and, if it gets dicey, get back here fast. Don’t take risks.’

  ‘I never take risks, you know that.’ He grinned across at Bernard remembering how he had been airlifted out of Biafra. ‘You’d better fill me in.’

  Bernard leaned back in his chair and said in a resigned voice, ‘You’re dying for a cigarette aren’t you?’

  ‘You know it.’

  ‘If you have another scotch I’ll pretend it’s not happening.’

  John handed the empty glass to Bernard and hastily produced a flat thirty-pack of Rothmans.

  ‘Those things will kill you,’ Bernard said, giving him back his glass which had been half filled.

  John eyed his glass. ‘Nah,’ he said, grinning. ‘The bloody scotch will get me first.’

  Bernard laughed. ‘How does Karen put up with you?’

  ‘She loves me.’

  ‘I love you too but not enough to put up with that stench.’

  ‘Get on with your story.’ John drew on his cigarette. ‘Open the window if it bothers you.’

  ‘It’s below freezing out there.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He stubbed out his barely lit cigarette. ‘Better?’

  ‘No,’ Bernard said morosely. ‘The smell will last for days.’

  John looked regretfully at his bent cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Okay.’ Bernard leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ll start at the beginning.’ He picked up a pencil and tapped it on an executive notepad on his desk. ‘Last summer we received a letter from the Minister without Portfolio who, incidentally, is also the administrative secretary and secretary-general of the ruling Malawi Congress Party. The letter was handwritten and postmarked Zambia. He invited us to tender for a reconnaissance survey of the Lake Malawi area for signs of natural oil and gas reservoirs. Apparently he got excited by the discovery of fossil fuels at the bottom of Lake Tanganyika and figured that if Tanganyika had oil, then Malawi might too.’

  ‘But Tanganyika is the oldest of the Great Rift lakes,’ John cut in. ‘I think I’m right in saying that Lake Malawi is the youngest, despite their proximity.’

  ‘Perfectly correct,’ Bernard acknowledged, appreciating the fact that even though John had never worked in central Africa, he was at least familiar with its geographic features. ‘The find at Tanganyika has got Zambia, Zaire, Tanzania and Burundi claiming a share. They all expect instant profits if a major reservoir is found. Each is boasting that this will make them as rich as Nigeria. The Minister no doubt is prepared to fund a reconnaissance survey in the hope...’ Bernard smiled. ‘The very vain hope, that Malawi has oil too.’

  John made a steeple with his hands and looked at Bernard over the top. ‘This is not like you. I’ve never known PAGET to accept a job where they know before they even start that it’s hopeless.’

  Bernard shrugged. ‘We told them there was less than a five per cent chance that we’d find anything. The Minister remains unconvinced. Seems he started a geology degree which he never finished. A number of things, in his opinion, add up to oil.’ Bernard ticked them off on his fingers. ‘One. It’s been recently discovered that where the lake drops down to depths of around 700 metres, natural terracing is evident. Two. The deepest part of the lake is assumed to have a mud floor. However, sandstone and sand cover the bottom to depths up to 300 metres. Three. Oil-stained sand has been reported in the north of the lake.’

  John interrupted his flow. ‘What colour?’

  ‘Greenish.’

  John raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Four.’ Bernard went on. ‘He thinks he’s found source rocks. He’s done some form of field evaluation himself, God knows what, and believes he’s discovered kerogen and bitumen organic matter.’

  John’s eyebrows went higher.

  ‘Five. These source rocks have been found near where the North Rukuru River runs into the lake north of Karonga. Six. Seems like some fellow decided to put a match to gas escaping from a spring in the area.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Quite,’ Bernard said crisply. ‘There wasn’t a whole lot of him left. Or the village for that matter.’

  �
��Did Robin leave any reports or notes here?’

  ‘Only what’s in that file.’

  ‘Okay,’ John said slowly. ‘You want me to find out what progress Robin made and take it from there?’

  ‘We don’t think he even started. You’ll find a second handwritten letter in the file from the Minister asking what the hell is happening with the survey.’ John slid the notepad from under Bernard’s fingers and held out his hand for the pencil. Bernard passed it over. ‘Get out there and speak to the Minister. His name is Dick Matenje. Next to Banda, he wields more power than anyone else in the country. He knows you’re coming. And for God’s sake remember it’s hush-hush. Get up north and see if this bloody Matenje really did find source rocks and do some field testing yourself. If you find anything we’ll commission a proper basin analysis.’

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to ask if there has been any seismic survey?’ John was scribbling furiously on the notepad as he talked.

  Bernard laughed.

  ‘I thought so. Virgin territory.’

  ‘We’d like to determine the type and distribution of rock types, John, and the burial history of that area.’

  ‘Mapping?’ John asked.

  ‘A structural map will do for a start. If it’s looking good we can undertake more geological analyses. But you should include a report on accessibility options.’

  ‘How about aerial surveys?’

  ‘Not at this stage. This is strictly reconnaissance. I personally doubt we’ll ever get as far as a detailed survey.’

  ‘How about an assistant?’

  ‘The Minister has arranged that. You’ll be met at the airport.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John threw down the pencil.

  ‘What’s your gut feel?’ Bernard asked him.

  John thought for a moment. ‘If this man...’ he consulted his notepad ‘. . . Dick Matenje has found kerogen in source rocks then I’ll lay odds to even it’s Type-III which makes it gas, not oil prone. If terracing has been discovered under the lake I very much doubt it’s of a folded structure. The Rift is still developing. Most of the lakes in the western chain are relatively new and most of the rocks are igneous. That much I do know.’

  ‘Your gut feel, John,’ Bernard pressed him.

  ‘The lake bed has not been sampled, however one presumes there is a good deal of marine organic matter,’ John mused to himself. ‘Could be some fractured shales down there. To the best of my knowledge there are no volcanic necks or plugs under the lake.’

  ‘So. What do you think?’

  John smiled over at Bernard. ‘Anything’s possible, my friend. But my gut feel is that Malawi is wasting money which could probably be put to better use.’

  ‘That’s what our initial report told them.’

  ‘Okay. It’s their money. When do I leave?’

  ‘Yesterday would be fine.’

  John shook his head. ‘Karen’s birthday next week. The big four zero. Can’t miss that.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Bernard sipped his scotch. ‘I’d forgotten. What can Maggie and I get her?’

  FOUR

  MALAWI – MARCH 1983

  The slimly elegant Air Malawi BAC 1-11 belly-flopped in some clear air turbulence, hitting nothing more than thin air with the force of a body falling on water from a great height. John cursed silently as his coffee slopped over the side of the inadequate cup. He looked through the window to the land below. Heavily timbered hills and valleys with ribbons of rivers and tiny pockets of water glinting through. It looked uninhabited although he knew it wasn’t. He had done some reading on Malawi in the ten days since Bernard had briefed him.

  When Life President Dr Hastings Kamuzu Banda took control of what used to be the British Protectorate of Nyasaland, he had encouraged his people to stay on the land rather than head for the towns and cities. Malawi, as it was now called, could feed itself. ‘Not bad going,’ John thought, staring down at the land beneath him. ‘Considering that sixteen years ago the country was bankrupt, dependent on aid from Britain for even the most basic of services, people were starving, had no commerce or industry to speak of and most of the inhabitants were illiterate.’

  At thirteen, Banda had apparently walked 1500 kilometres to Johannesburg in search of an education. On the way, he worked as a hospital orderly in Salisbury, the capital of Rhodesia. This experience gave him the determination to one day qualify as a medical doctor. He never wavered from that ambition. In South Africa he worked in the gold-mines and then as a clerk and an interpreter until he could afford to travel to the United States. Once in America, with incredible fortitude, Banda completed his secondary education, then studied philosophy, political science and economics before entering medical college and graduating as a doctor. Not satisfied, he had then moved to Edinburgh University in Scotland to obtain further medical qualifications. ‘What would motivate a thirteen-year-old semi-illiterate boy to such an extent?’ John wondered.

  It was with the same tenacity which, when he returned to his own country, he fought Britain’s proposed Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. His cry as he travelled around the country: ‘To hell with the Federation! Independence now, now, now!’, was heard across the land and taken up by the people. The British, with predictable indifference to the wishes of the majority, promptly threw Banda into prison in Rhodesia where he stayed for just over a year.

  John, along with his father’s looks, had inherited a Frenchman’s distaste for Britain’s convenient about-face in dealings with her African colonies. He had not been surprised to learn that as soon as difficulties arose in the form of open rebellion by the people at Banda’s imprisonment, Britain had conveniently developed a conscience whereby they effectively dumped Nyasaland, released Banda from prison and, after three years of haggling and with as much dignity as they could muster, finally agreed that the Federation might just be a bad idea.

  On 6 July 1964, as the national flag – a red rising sun symbolising the dawn of freedom, superimposed on a horizontal tricolour (black representing the people of Africa, red for the blood of the martyrs of African freedom, and green for the lush colours of Malawi) – was raised for the first time, Dr Banda might well have been contemplating his next challenge. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and got down to the business of being a hands-on president, determined to turn Malawi into a model for all independent African countries.

  ‘And he’s done it,’ John thought. Exports had gone from 27 million Kwacha in 1964 to 230 million now. Tobacco, tea, sugar, groundnuts, seed cotton, maize, pulses and paddy rice. The country fed, clothed and educated itself. The people were reputed to be the friendliest, healthiest and most determined in Africa. Malawi promoted itself as ‘The Warm Heart of Africa’ and was a Mecca for South Africans whose nationality precluded them from visiting many parts of the world. In holiday mood, South Africans flocked to the huge body of fresh water which occupied one-fifth of the entire country.

  ‘A pity if success has gone to Banda’s head,’ John thought. He admired the man’s achievements. Against all the odds, he had proved that a dream really could be followed.

  John felt the throttling back of the twin Rolls-Royce turbofan engines. They were starting their descent to the new Kamuzu International Airport. A Malawian stewardess moved along the aisle checking seat belts. John stopped her. ‘When does the next flight for Blantyre leave?’ His travel agent in London had been unable to establish flight times between the new capital of Lilongwe, and Blantyre which was still the main business centre of the country but 300 kilometres south. He had a ticket but the best London could do was advise him to sort it out when he got there. John was about to discover why.

  The stewardess smiled, shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘I think there are no more flights today. The timetable has just been changed so I am not sure.’ She moved on before he could ask if the pilot would radio ahead and check.

  ‘Great!’ he thought. ‘A night in Lilongwe is the last thing I need
.’ Minister Matenje wanted to brief him personally but had insisted on doing it far away from any prying eyes in the capital. They had arranged to meet at the Minister’s small holding near Chiradzulu Mountain, just beyond the small village of Njuli, some twenty minutes’ drive north of Blantyre. The meeting was scheduled for the following day.

  Ten minutes later the BAC 1-11 landed gracefully and sped down the runway. The brand new airport had an almost unused look about it . . . as if it was a really good idea but someone forgot to mention it was finished. One KLM jumbo was loading meals, a boxy looking Britten Norman Islander was taxiing away from the terminal and several smaller planes were parked on the apron. The two-storey terminal building, long and modern, sat behind emerald green grass and newly established gardens. John, watching the departing Norman Islander, had a gut feel that the last flight to Blantyre that day was about to take off.

  Stepping from the aircraft, the March heat hit him like a blast from an oven. His slacks and long-sleeved cotton shirt soon felt like a heavy, winter-weight suit. Inside the building, however, was mercifully cool.

  Getting through Health, Immigration, the baggage counter, Customs, Foreign Exchange and Security was tedious but John had seen worse. The officials were courteous and friendly, even at Security where a Punch magazine was confiscated because it contained an advertisement showing two women wearing jeans. He was given a brief lecture about dress codes – no skirts above the knee, no trousers and no shorts for women; no long hair or bell-bottomed trousers for men – then offered the option of having the magazine taken away or have someone blot out the offending legs with a felt-tip pen. John told them he didn’t need the magazine and was left in no doubt that it would enjoy a long, though undercover, life.

  He had invented a story that he was an author, researching a book, as his reason for requesting three months in the country. The need to do so made him uneasy. In every other country he had worked, the respective governments had been so anxious that oil be found that they rolled out the red carpet and treated him to every courtesy. The undercover nature of this assignment was worrying.