To broadcast propaganda was unthinkable: it was both morally wrong and would destroy my hard-won credibility. ‘Tell the truth’ had become my mantra after the butchery in Liberia. To become a liar now threatened professional and personal ruin.
On the other hand, I had been given an open invitation to film what might be the defining event on the continent in a decade, a coup that could affect thousands of lives. If there was no credible voice to document it, the true story may never be told – even though doing so would inevitably mean exposing Nick.
Deep down, I wanted to find a way to accept. It was just too extraordinary to let go. There was only one possible compromise: if telling the true story was so valuable that it might exonerate me from temporarily supporting the coup as a propagandist – I could agree.
A professional compromise, though, wasn’t enough: I needed moral self-justification, too. And for this I borrowed one of Nick’s arguments: if the president was a monster, and removing him might lighten the burden on his brutalised citizens, then on one level the coup could be justified. The great unknown was what would come after the president, and who, ultimately, would be calling the shots.
There was, however, one last crucial factor to consider: the operation was highly unlikely to go ahead at all. It would be an expensive undertaking, and I thought the chances of Nick actually financing the operation were almost nil. It was a comforting thought, a way of insulating myself from what I was about to say. I opened my mouth to speak.
I thought of my Irish grandfather. He liked a ‘wild card’.
‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘I’m in.’
This, I thought, is insane.
‘Ah, that’s great. It should be quite an operation.’
More beer arrived. I drank deeply as Nick toasted the plan. My mind pictured the scene in perfect, fantastic detail: the hushed voices, the lapping of waves against the side of the boats as we approached the shore; the crunch and slide of the hull on sand as we glided onto the beach; the roar of tracer fire arcing up over us as we stormed forward. There was only one problem: this D-Day fantasy was taking place at night, and therefore almost impossible to film.
‘Is there any way we could do this at dawn?’ I wondered out loud – sounding like some mad Hollywood film director. Drunk at midnight in the bar of the Petit Bateau, anything was possible.
* * *
Attempts to end the Liberian war through negotiation were gaining pace, if not credibility. Two days after Nick had dropped his bombshell, Tim and I went to Conakry airport in the early morning to film the LURD rebel delegation embarking for peace talks in Accra, Ghana. The VIP waiting room in departures was filled with ‘the politicians’, as Sekou Conneh called them, whom I did not recognise. They weren’t happy to see me: A Journey Without Maps had upset a lot of rebel sympathisers. But these were not fighting men, or at least if they ever had been, then they’d exchanged their weapons for sharp suits and crooked tongues long before.
They talked about reconciliation and dialogue, and of overcoming ‘internal difficulty’. Nick had warned us en route that Conneh had just faced a serious challenge to his authority from these mealy-mouthed negotiators; but as long as he was the man who controlled the guns on the ground, there was little, if anything, they could do to unseat him. Conneh’s original plan hatched all those months ago, to make sure he was publicly identified as the head of the rebel forces, on TV, by the world in general and his own fighters in particular, was paying off.
As I walked, filming, onto the runway while the men who would represent the LURD at the peace talks embarked onto a Ghanaian military plane, one man began barking at me to stop filming him.
‘Who ga’e you de autority, heh?’ he shouted. ‘Who ga’e you de autority to film me? Who de ’ell you tink you are?’ he remonstrated, covering his face with a notebook.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘Sekou said it was okay. I’m here with Sekou.’
Obdurate, I kept filming.
‘Who is Sekou?’ he screamed back at me. ‘Who is Sekou? Nobody!’
Sekou Conneh, it turned out, was a man who could unleash sheer bloody hell. That day, during President Charles Taylor’s visit to Ghana, the Sierra Leone Special Court unsealed Taylor’s indictment for war crimes, including charges of murder, rape, sexual slavery, conscripting child-soldiers and terrorising civilians during his support of RUF rebels during Sierra Leone’s civil war. It behoved the Ghanaian Government to detain him. They didn’t. Conneh had sat by his radio all day. If Taylor was arrested, the war would be over.
Tim and I filmed as the report came in on the BBC World Service. Taylor was on his way home. Conneh spun the news to his advantage: the LURD were no longer just a rebel group trying to oust a democratically elected head of state – they were freedom fighters battling against an indicted war criminal.
‘Nah Taylah i’ back home, de battle continue. We wi’ overrun de city,’ Conneh said, emphatically, and then, as if to convince himself, ‘We ca’ assure people da’ we wi’ overrun de city.’
His eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking for agreement from us. Tim and I continued filming.
‘We ge’ de military capability boh we bee’ delay’ becau’ we bee’ afrai’ o’ bloodshe’ an’ we wan’ to protec’ our civilian’,’ he said, disingenuously, ‘boh we go’ no uddah alternative nah boh to move into de city.’
‘So when does it begin?’ I asked. ‘When does the assault on Monrovia begin and will you wait—’
Conneh cut me off. He stretched his hands out towards the camera.
‘De battle goin’ to begi’ today. I’ goin’ to pass de ordeh nah.’
Tim and I breathed out long, quiet sighs of relief. The Ghanaian Government had not only saved Taylor’s skin, it had saved ours, too. If Taylor had been arrested, we would, in all likelihood, have been on the next flight home. No Taylor meant no war: no war meant no film. This time no one was asking for a bribe: Conneh wanted us on the front line as soon as possible. Nick and I smiled at each other as we spread out a regional map to look at the possible routes into Liberia. For different reasons, we all needed this war.
At nine o’clock, under a bright full moon, I stepped into a canoe on the vast Mano River. The pilot, an elderly fisherman, dipped an exquisitely carved oar into the spiralling black eddies that lapped the shore. Tim and Nick crouched under the trees at the waterline, waiting.
‘I’ll see you on the other side,’ I whispered.
‘Ja, go well.’
The pirogue slipped into the strong current. The thick funk of the forest ebbed for a moment as we nosed out into open water. It was a beautiful night. From Conakry we’d flown to Freetown. After a clandestine drive eastwards with two rebel sympathisers, I was finally leaving Sierra Leone and gliding towards Liberia. I had no idea who was meeting us on the other side, or how well disposed they were likely to be towards the author of a film that had exposed their human rights violations. It was not, as Nick had pointed out somewhat unhelpfully, beyond the bounds of possibility that they might execute us. ‘Accidents’ did happen, after all. Worse still, our guides weren’t crossing with us, and there was no way of guaranteeing that the rebels actually controlled the other bank. Given how quickly the front line could shift, it was entirely possible that we might be delivered up to Taylor’s army.
The boatman and I made landfall a hundred yards downstream. Out of the darkness an outstretched black hand emerged to pull me clear of the canoe.
‘Wehcom to Liber’a,’ the hand said, ‘we Lor’ Forces. Everyting undah contro’.’
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom under the trees, I could see I was surrounded by a dozen or so young fighters, Kalashnikovs in their hands, wide grins on their lips. I shook hands with all of them, smiling back for all I was worth. It was, unexpectedly, great to be back.
Fifteen minutes later, Nick and Tim joined me on the bank, and the heavens opened. Even under the canopy of the trees, it was like standing under a waterfall.
&nb
sp; ‘Jesus Christ!’ hissed Tim. ‘This is nuts.’
‘Yeah, it’s all good, though. These guys are cool. We’re going to walk for a few hours now to their base – it’s in a village in there,’ I said, trying to sound encouraging.
The three of us stared at the apparently impenetrable undergrowth. Tim was laughing in disbelief.
‘Great! Well, at least it’s not raining or anything. That would suck.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, shouldering the heavy camera bag, ‘it could be worse. I mean, there could be a war on.’
And then, from the back, in that dry Afrikaner drawl:
‘Vok! Ladies, please! In your own time’ – and we trudged our way back into the war, lashed by a tropical storm of ominous ferocity.
The next afternoon, Tim, Nick and I stood on the balcony of our old house in Tubmanburg. Feeling an absurd sense of proprietary pride well up in me, I took Tim on a guided tour. Our old bedroom was now a lounge of sorts that led through to our new sleeping quarters – an old store room at the end of a corridor that twisted round into the back of the house. Apparently, every piece of furniture in the place had been looted by retreating Government troops, so the three of us would be sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
‘And this’, I announced, ‘is the bathroom.’
‘You weren’t joking, were you?’
Tim looked trapped between amusement and desperation. The white porcelain toilet had been dealt a savage blow that had fractured it like a broken skull.
‘Apparently, we can shit downstairs in the wives’ quarters. They’ll do our washing and cooking, too. Actually, that’s a good point. Remind me to give them some cash later – no one else seems to. It really goes down well.’
We went back to the balcony. Nick was making a call on his satellite phone beneath the fruit tree outside. The town was haunted. Everywhere I looked from my old perch on the balustrade were reminders of the battles and murders that had engulfed Tubmanburg on that first trip.
‘Nick’s got a big job coming up after this,’ I confided, trying to break the flow of memories. ‘It may roll straight into this one. It’s a mercenary op, a lot of bang-bang, I expect. How are you fixed for the next couple of months?’
Since Nick had co-opted me for his African Adventure, I’d been dying to tell Tim what was on the cards – partly because I wanted to share the burden of the secret, and partly because Nick’s plans might affect what we were doing in Liberia. I didn’t want to spring any unpleasant surprises on him, but I couldn’t tell him the whole truth.
‘Yeah, that sounds okay. What is it, more rebels?’
‘Not exactly. I can’t really go into it at the moment, or rather he can’t. It’s absolutely not kosher, but if it does go ahead we’ll be in good hands. I trust him.’
Nick finished his call and walked up the side steps to the balcony. He looked me straight in the eye and cleared his throat.
‘The ammunition has arrived in Robertsport. I’m going to go down there with the new chief of staff, Cobra, tomorrow and then go back to Conakry. I have a contact to meet, and then I need to go back to South Africa. It’s shit timing, man. I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck. Really? Is there no way around it?’
Tim and I looked at each other.
‘No, man. Sorry. I’ve got to go. I’ll help supervise landing the next delivery and let you know what they’ve got.’ He inclined his head towards the satellite phone. ‘We can talk while I’m down there. It messes my plans up, too. It’s kak, man.’
An immediate flush of anger quickly drained away. I was quietly confident that Tim and I would be able to look after each other. Besides, the blow of his leaving might just be compensated for by his intelligence updates on rebel armaments.
‘Well,’ I said, turning to Tim, ‘this is going to be exciting. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tim replied, looking at Nick, ‘I’ll keep him out of trouble.’
As if on cue, Dragon Master appeared on the balcony, accompanied by half a dozen other gun-toting commanders.
‘Jay, mah man!’ he cried. ‘Goo’ t’ see y’. How you bee’ keepin’?’
I stepped forward and we embraced each other.
‘I’ve been good, I’ve been good. It’s great to see you, too, man. You look fine.’
Dragon Master was dressed, as ever, in smart camouflage fatigues, topped off with a bright red beret. It was true; it was great to see him. One of the cleverer, and certainly one of the more humane commanders, being with his troops was a real blessing now we’d lost Nick.
Wiping the sweat from his face, Dragon Master filled us in on the latest exchanges with Taylor’s army. While we’d been crossing into Liberia through Sierra Leone, a group of LURD rebel fighters had attacked the outskirts of Monrovia. The battle had lasted for a day and a night.
‘Some o’ ou’ men attack Klay Junction. Dey broke trew and Taylah’ boy’ jus’ ran all de way back to Monrovia. Our forces follow dem all de way pas’ Po River.’
‘All the way into Monrovia? What happened?’ I asked.
‘Dey finish all de ammunishan, an’ com’ ba’.’
Nick looked at me quickly.
‘They finished the ammunition?’ I repeated. ‘What, all of the ammunition?’
‘Yeah, das righ’.’
It was an astonishing admission. A hundred teenagers had managed to fire more than 300,000 rounds of ammunition in less than forty-eight hours – for precisely nothing. Now the supply boat that Nick was hoping to hitch a return passage on was not just useful for the rebels, it was absolutely essential: without it they were defenceless. Dragon Master knew it, too.
‘We go an’ try delay Taylah, an’ agree to ceasefire in Accra.’
Suddenly bashful, Dragon Master looked at me in the evening gloom.
‘Ca’ I use yor satelli’ phone? De moneh fini’ on ou’ phone. I wan’ talk to de Lady in Conokry.’
Sekou’s wife, Aicha, was still running the military effort from Guinea.
‘Here, use mine.’
Nick handed over his phone instead, and we sat and listened to the sporadic bursts of gunfire that rang out across town while Dragon Master tried to shore up the rebels’ defensive positions.
‘So it looks like we could be in for a longer wait than we planned?’ Tim asked.
‘Ja, and waiting is something that James and I learned a lot about in Liberia. Remember, they won’t attack properly until they’ve got a lot of RPG bombs – so until that boat comes in, they’re stuck here. If they’re attacked, they will most likely be able to repel Taylor’s men for a while, but you should try and get out the way we came in before they get surrounded here. It’s a fokken long walk to Guinea.’
Suddenly, I was less confident of staying on without Nick. I knew only too well how easy it was to lay siege to the town, and how hard it would be to get out. The lack of ammunition posed a potentially serious problem for the film, too. If all the rebels could manage was to maintain their position in Tubmanburg, Discovery was going to be very disappointed. I’d sold them the battle for Monrovia, not a re-run of my first trip.
In the morning, Cobra, the new acting chief of staff whom I’d met in Bopolu in 2002, agreed to an interview. From underneath his olive-green forage cap, he announced on the balcony of our house that Taylor ‘mus’ com dahn’.
‘You’ve agreed to a ceasefire,’ I reminded him – although we both knew that was simply a tactical ploy. ‘So how long do you think you’ll stay on ceasefire here?’
‘I have given dem seventy-two hours, as caution. Cause we wi’ not wai’ fo’ long fo’ our civilian population to soffah,’ Cobra informed me, somewhat menacingly, as if daring me to disagree. ‘Wi’out him steppin’ dahn or any agreemen’ fruitfu’ to de Liber’an people, we wi’ take ac’shan.’
He and Conneh were running the war on the ground. The rebel negotiators in Accra were their pawns at that moment: they were entirely powerless without the fighting men in Tubmanburg
behind them.
‘I have enough men to take over Monrovia,’ he continued. ‘Enough. An’ I have de military capability to take over Monrovia.’
‘And that seventy-two hours begins now?’ I wanted to clarify.
‘Nah, fro’ today’ date,’ he confirmed.
When the interview was over, Nick joined us to say goodbye. He was carrying a small shoulder bag, and was dressed like a civilian. He promised to return as soon as he could, and left his big rucksack behind in our room.
‘Is this about the other job?’ I whispered apprehensively as we walked to the vehicles.
‘Yes. I’ll let you know how it goes.’ Our bar-side conversation in Conakry was real. We looked at each other briefly and then continued to the car. I was full of questions – who was putting the money up for the job, and who was going to make the real money out of it? Those were the people, more than Nick, that I would be relying on to protect me if it all went wrong. But I let my questions drop.
‘Take care, yeah? Good to meet you.’ Tim shook his hand.
‘Look out for yourself, mate. Keep your head down,’ I added, shaking his hand, too.
‘Ja,’ he replied. ‘Stay well.’
Cobra’s driver gunned the engine of the pick-up truck, and Nick and the general climbed on board. In a cloud of black diesel smoke they were away, and quickly out of sight.
‘Come on,’ I said to Tim, ‘I’ll show you around town.’
We meandered around Tubmanburg – greeting fighters I knew and acquainting ourselves with the ones I didn’t. All normal civilian life had stopped: the town was a garrison, nothing more. Several hundred rebels occupied what remained of the houses. Together we collected mangos and avocados from trees near the spot where previously I had filmed the butchering of the captured Government soldier. As we gathered fruit, I told Tim about the brutal murder.
‘Do you think it will happen again, if they go into Monrovia? The executions, I mean,’ Tim wondered, looking around the old killing ground.
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