Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  In the morning after breakfast John checked out of the hotel. But when he went to pay the bill he was told the account had already been taken care of.

  Mr Kadamanja collected him at nine-thirty precisely. The road they took out of Blantyre was the same one they had travelled yesterday. John was impressed again by the lack of slums. It was so unusual he commented on it.

  ‘The Ngwazi takes care of all his people,’ Mr Kadamanja told him proudly.

  ‘The Ngwazi?’

  ‘Our President.’

  ‘What does Ngwazi mean?’ It seemed to John that Life President Hastings Kamuzu Banda had more names than he needed.

  ‘It means . . .’ Mr Kadamanja sought the right words. ‘There is no-one else like him in the world.’

  ‘Unique,’ John suggested.

  Mr Kadamanja shook his head. ‘No, sir, not unique.’

  ‘Like a King?’

  ‘Exactly so. That is how he is known to us. A King of Kings.’

  ‘How old is the Ngwazi?’

  The car swerved to the side of the road and stopped. Kadamanja turned off the engine. ‘Mr Deborie,’ he said seriously, not looking at John but at the road ahead. ‘You are new to this country so I will try to explain. It is not good to speak of the Ngwazi, especially if you are white. Some people might hear and misunderstand your words. It could get you into great trouble.’

  ‘But I only asked his age.’

  Mr Kadamanja shook his head. ‘Even so,’ he said, still staring ahead. ‘You should be careful. There are many spies.’

  This was nothing new to John. Most African countries thrived on intrigue and it was usual for Europeans to check over their shoulder before saying most things. He remembered hearing of a dinner party somewhere where the cook kept shutting the door between the kitchen and dining room, much to the irritation of the master of the house because the cook was then unable to hear the bell summoning him to wait on the table. Finally the exasperated man asked his cook why the hell he kept shutting the door. ‘We are supposed to report your conversations,’ said the loyal cook. ‘If I cannot hear what you say, how then am I to repeat it?’

  ‘Are you telling me to be careful of you, Mr Kadamanja?’ John asked softly. Might as well ask, although he didn’t expect a straight answer.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the sober reply. ‘You must be careful of everyone.’

  Mr Kadamanja looked so distressed, John realised that if the man was reporting his every move it was something he did not enjoy. ‘The machinations of the Third World,’ he mused to himself. Then he decided to probe further. ‘Have you any experience in the work we’re going to do?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  That settled it. Kadamanja was spying on him. But for whom?

  Chiradzulu was an impressive oblong-shaped mountain, with the large village of Njuli spread out along the foothills. John’s suspicions of his assistant were further enhanced by the man’s refusal to accompany him beyond a small trading store in the village. ‘I will stay here and talk with my brother. You take the car. Just follow the road through the village. The man you are meeting will be waiting on the other side.’

  As he drove along the rutted track, John speculated on who Kadamanja really worked for. It didn’t bother him. He’d been on assignment in too many political ‘hot spots’ to be surprised that he was being monitored. But, coupled with the secrecy of this meeting, he wondered what exactly was going on. Everything he had read about Malawi pointed to a happy, well-adjusted people who clearly adored their President. Was The Warm Heart of Africa cooling off perhaps? Why was Kadamanja reluctant to go with him to the meeting? Why was the meeting being conducted in secret? Did the Minister have his own agenda and could any of this have a bearing on the disappearance of Robin Cunningham?

  He wrenched the steering wheel violently to avoid a sorry-looking dog whose teats were swollen with milk and whose ribs stuck out painfully. Several children watched, laughed and waved to him, their teeth startlingly white in very black faces. John smiled and waved back. He loved the unaffected, unsophisticated innocence of African children who took delight in the simplest of things and showed only kindness to each other. It crossed his mind that some of London’s street kids could benefit from a year in a rural African village. If they were given the opportunity to experience the consistent loving and approval accorded to African children, then their view of the world must surely change and that, in turn, must penetrate the tough protective armour they erected around themselves. ‘Or would the reverse happen?’ he wondered as he drove. ‘Would the harmony here suffer?’ He shook himself mentally. His heart went out to those children back home with their hard, suspicious eyes or lack-lustre, drug-filled stares. ‘No child in Africa would ever be abandoned that way.’

  The track wound randomly through the village. It was not a road as such, simply a route taken by most people, animals and vehicles. It obligingly curved around trees, houses, stock enclosures and a couple of wells. Children, dogs, goats and chickens were everywhere. A school lesson was taking place in the shade of a huge tree, the teacher using a small blackboard, the children listening avidly and writing on slates. John slowed and watched. He always felt strongly that life in an African village had a lot to teach the outside world, if only the outside world would listen. These children were learning because it was what they desired. He could tell by their faces. They were actually enjoying the process of learning. They regarded it not as a chore, as Lana tended to do, but as a privilege.

  Women gossiped contentedly, babies strapped to their backs, baskets of washing or loads of firewood on their heads, their hands busy knitting or weaving. Men greeted him as he passed, raising their right hands politely, showing their palms. Karen had told him that in the old tribal war days, Africans meeting each other would transfer any weapons to their left hand and raise their right, showing it was empty with no harm intended. John had always believed this to be a custom further south but clearly it extended to central Africa too.

  He looked at his watch. He had no idea how much further he had to travel.

  Fifteen minutes later, just as he was thinking he must be on the wrong road, he saw a vehicle up ahead which was so brand spanking new that it had to belong to the Minister. As he drew closer the driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. John looked at him in disbelief. He was wearing a pale cream suit with a maroon polo-neck sweater. He must have been hellishly hot. The clothes looked new and, by the way he tugged at the jacket and patted it into place, John could tell the man thought he looked absolutely terrific.

  He pulled up behind the car, an imported German Ford Granada Ghia complete with tinted one-way windows and sun roof. ‘Mr Devereaux?’ the man called to him.

  ‘Minister Matenje?’ John climbed out of his vehicle and they shook hands. ‘I was beginning to think I was on the wrong road.’

  ‘There is only one road, Mr Devereaux. All the tracks lead back to it sooner or later. Please follow me. We will go to my house.’ He turned to go but spun back theatrically, like a model on a catwalk. ‘Where is your driver?’

  ‘He stayed in the village. His brother lives there.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Kadamanja.’

  John was watching the man’s eyes. Deep, deep brown, the whites tinged with yellow, he saw a kind of panic pass through them. But all he said was, ‘Come, we will go to my house.’

  It was off the main track, tucked behind a small hill. John was surprised by its simplicity. After the clothes and the car he had expected something grander. Made of wood-fired bricks with a corrugated iron roof and a verandah at the front. The bricks were newly whitewashed and dark green paint sparkled on the metal door and window surrounds. John had to duck his head as he went inside.

  The interior was clean and cluttered with cheap modern furniture, a notable exception being an old-fashioned sideboard painted green with red doors and yellow drawers. ‘Please sit down.’ The Minister shrugged off his jacket and then removed the polo-necked sweat
er. Naked from the waist up, he sat opposite John. ‘Your colleague, Mr Cunningham, is dead,’ he said, with no preamble.

  ‘What happened to him?’ John felt sorry for Robin Cunningham. His constant battle with the bottle, devotion to his work and a crumbling marriage was not much of a legacy to leave.

  Matenje shook his head. ‘We do not know. His body was washed up near Karonga. He appears to have drowned.’

  ‘Have you notified PAGET?’

  ‘Yesterday. As soon as the report came in.’

  ‘Did they have any messages for me?’

  ‘Mr Pickstone just said you should complete your work.’

  John nodded. He studied the man opposite him. Short and thickset, he had the blackest skin John had ever seen. His body was soft, a man not used to hard physical work. He had an unusual face. Broad forehead, large eyes and, for an African, a small nose. The top half of his face was round but then it ended with a small pointed chin. There was something boyish about his looks. ‘I believe Bernard Pickstone has expressed an opinion that the likelihood of us finding oil is about five per cent in the affirmative.’

  ‘Is that your opinion too?’

  ‘Yes, Minister. Lake Malawi is too young for oil to have formed, even if source rocks look promising.’

  ‘But, Mr Devereaux, if oil has entered a migration stage, its source could be many tens of kilometres from the lake shore.’

  ‘That’s true. However, terrestrial higher plants, as you well know, will only produce gas-prone Type-III kerogen. At best you could expect gas, not oil.’

  ‘The entire western Rift is constantly changing. We know that Lake Victoria, as it is now, once covered an area one hundred kilometres to the east of its present position. It is my contention that Lake Malawi could once have covered territory to its north and west. Oil has been discovered in Lake Tanganyika. It’s possible the two lakes were once joined. If that’s the case there would be marine organic matter in abundance. I believe there is a case for a survey.’

  John looked at him. ‘But your President does not,’ he stated bluntly.

  Matenje blinked. ‘Our President has no knowledge of such things. He is only concerned with keeping the lake in its current unexplored state. He is worried about the environmental impact should oil be discovered.’

  ‘Then he has nothing to worry about,’ John said firmly. ‘Lake Malawi is too young for oil to have accumulated in commercial quantities.’

  ‘I have found oil-stained sand.’ The Minister was not about to be put off.

  ‘Vegetable stain most likely.’

  ‘Also I’ve found source rocks.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean there’s oil. Even if there were, what I’m trying to tell you is that it probably needs a couple of million years to mature at the shallow depths below the lake floor. OPEC are not even remotely interested in Lake Malawi.’

  The Minister was unimpressed. ‘The Organisation of Petroleum Exporting Countries thumbed their nose at Tanganyika too but they found oil there. What’s the matter, Mr Devereaux, doesn’t PAGET want the work?’

  ‘It’s not the work, Minister, it’s the waste of this country’s money that concerns us.’

  Matenje smiled and John braced himself for the ‘don’t you worry your pretty little head about that’ speech. He was not disappointed.

  ‘Very well,’ John said curtly when the Minister was finished, angry that so much money would be thrown away when the country had only just got its financial nose out of the water. ‘I’ll do a reconnaissance. You’ll have my report within two months.’ He went to rise.

  ‘Mr Devereaux, please do not be in such a hurry to leave. Would you like a beer?’

  John looked at his watch. Ten minutes to eleven in the morning was a bit early for him. But then, he reasoned, it would be ten minutes to one in England. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Green or brown?’ Matenje saw puzzlement on John’s face. ‘That’s how we order beer in this country. By the colour of its label. A “green” is a lager, a “brown” is more like your English beer. We also have a “gold” which is our export beer, but I’m afraid I have none.’

  ‘A green will be fine.’

  The Minister leaned sideways and flipped a wet towel off a dozen or so bottles standing on the floor. ‘I have no refrigerator,’ he explained.

  ‘I notice that in spite of your position in Malawi you live very simply.’ John hoped Matenje would not take offence.

  The Minister handed him a bottle and laughed. ‘Glass?’

  John shook his head. ‘Bottle will do fine.’

  Matenje stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning backwards into the cracked leather of his sofa. ‘I have a house in Lilongwe which is as good as any you’ll find. It’s convenient, it’s modern and it impresses the people I need to entertain. When I come back here, back to where I was born, I like to shed the European influence.’ He smiled. ‘No offence, Mr Devereaux, but, like most Malawians, I believe simplicity is best. Besides,’ he laughed again, ‘if I had a house here filled with expensive items how long do you think they would last? I am away three-quarters of the year. As soon as I turned my back my possessions would grow legs.’

  ‘They’d steal from you?’

  ‘Steal?’ The Minister thought a minute. ‘I think the word should be “borrow”.’ He hunched forward. ‘You see, Mr Devereaux, there is no English word to explain a Malawian’s regard for another’s property. It is not stealing to help yourself. It is borrowing without permission. If the item comes back there is no justification for anger against the borrower. If, on the other hand, it does not come back, to make enquiries as to its whereabouts is to accuse and then the borrower feels justified in keeping the item since he will reason that the accuser might have been wrong. The fact that the accuser was not wrong does not enter into the equation. Therefore, it is better not to put temptation in the way of one who might borrow, not so?’

  ‘What about your possessions in Lilongwe? Surely that’s putting temptation in the way of would-be borrowers?’

  Dick Matenje chuckled. ‘Ah, Mr Devereaux, but in Lilongwe I live behind a security fence. I have guards and burglar bars and security lights and three very large dogs. For one to come to borrow my belongings under these circumstances it could be assumed that he means to steal. Besides, a man in my position could also assume that an intruder meant harm, not so?’

  John smiled at the man’s logic. ‘You aren’t so different to us, Minister. We have holiday cottages to fill the same purpose as you use this place.’

  Matenje slapped his knee. ‘You see then, already we have found common ground.’ Once again, some kind of panic passed through the man’s eyes and over his face. ‘Tell me about Kadamanja,’ he demanded abruptly.

  In the past, when caught in intrigue, John had always found it best to tell the truth straight and let those embroiled in whatever games they were playing sort it out as best they could. ‘I don’t know much about him. He met me at the airport, told me he was my assistant, knew about our meeting and then, on the way here, warned me to be careful about what I said, even to him.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Oh yes, someone paid my hotel bill, I assume it was him.’

  ‘I took care of your hotel account but I did not organise this assistant,’ Matenje said slowly. ‘The man I arranged for you was known to me.’ He seemed to reach a decision. ‘Beware of him,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll make a few enquiries. Perhaps one of my colleagues . . .’ He rose, looking unhappy. ‘There could be something funny going on.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’ John also rose and spoke crisply. ‘A reconnaissance survey which is kept secret from the man running the country. This meeting. What exactly is going on?’

  The Minister was pulling on his polo-neck. As his head appeared through the rolled opening he said, ‘Our President was a very fine man, Mr Devereaux. He has done wonders for this country in the short time since Independence. But when he was made President for Life . . . well, it’s affecting his judgment. He’s started believ
ing all the legends and stories circulating about him. He’s become . . . well, let’s be kind . . . senile. If we can find oil under our lake, this country will prosper. Without something major we’re destined to plod along as we are. We have to try. Can you understand that?’

  John nodded. ‘I understand your concerns but I feel I have to warn you yet again. There is no oil under the lake. Trust me on this.’

  Minister Matenje nodded slowly. ‘I hear you.’ He was shrugging into his jacket. ‘Some of the biggest oil fields have been found exactly where they were least expected – you know that. Preserving our lake is a noble idea, I admit, but it doesn’t put food into bellies. We have to look.’

  John could sympathise with the man’s hopes. ‘You’d do better to develop the tourist industry,’ he warned. ‘That’s my advice.’

  The Minister smiled. ‘Have it your way, Mr Devereaux.’ He laughed out loud. ‘And then do it my way.’

  John laughed too and put out his hand. ‘Where do I send my reports?’

  ‘Send them to London. They have ways to contact me.’

  Driving back through the village, John thought, ‘I hope Bernard has been paid in advance.’ There was something about Minister Matenje . . . he could not put his finger on it, something almost intransigent. It was as though he was detached, both from the survey and from his position as Minister without Portfolio. He shook off the idea as ridiculous.

  Kadamanja was waiting for him on the side of the road outside the small trading store. ‘I’ll drive for a while,’ John said. They had a long way to go. Robin Cunningham had been working near Karonga and that was where John intended to start. Karonga was over 600 kilometres to the north.

  FIVE

  LAKE MALAWI – MAY 1983

  Mr Kadamanja’s face resembled an oil slick. Sweat-greasy, an unhealthy sludge grey, with fever blisters dotted like suds above his top lip. The malaria burned him until he shook uncontrollably. ‘So sorry, sir,’ he managed through chattering teeth.