by Michael Ray
‘Best stay here,’ Jonathan said to Amani and he headed after him, quickly followed by Paul.
A couple of askaris were by the entrance to the car park, spears pointing towards the entrance. In front of them were a group of half a dozen women dressed in white, one holding a cross. It sounded as if they were singing a hymn. Graham started towards them, but Jonathan held him back. ‘I should hold on a minute, look up the hill.’
‘Bloody hell’ Graham exclaimed. In front of him the women stopped their hymn singing, followed his gaze, and began ululating.
‘Looks a little like the Ku Klux Klan, apart from the colour of their skin of course,’ said Jonathan.
‘And a lack of pointy hats, but they appear to have sorted out the flaming torches and white robes,’ Paul said.
A crowd was coming towards the club, a hundred or so. From their ranks came the sound of drums and bits of metal being bashed. A cacophony of manic drumming and giant triangles.
‘I hope you’re not proposing to take them on,’ Jonathan said.
Graham continued staring at them. ‘You know who they are don’t you?’
‘Haven’t a clue dear boy, Jehovah’s Witnesses?’
‘Henry Ngai, they’re something to do with him.’
‘Well, I’m going back in to make sure someone’s alerted the police,’ said Jonathan turning back to the club, ‘can’t have them setting fire to the Stardust, it wouldn’t be right.’
‘Too late mate, someone’s already done it,’ Graham said.
‘What, set fire to the Stardust?’
‘No, called the police.’
Coming up from the city centre, three sets of headlights were coming towards them, the first with a flashing blue light.
‘Someone’s on the ball,’ Graham said. ‘Never known the police to arrive so promptly before.’
‘I don’t think that’s the police,’ Paul said.
A Land Rover pulled up, closely followed by an army Bedford and twenty squaddies climbed down from the back. Another truck and twenty more squaddies drew up alongside.
A couple of the soldiers came over and moved the askaris back into the compound, whilst an officer walked over to them.
‘I should stay out of the way; don’t want civilians here if there’s any fighting.’
‘It’s all right lieutenant, we’re members of the press,’ Jonathan said.
‘Are you indeed, so that makes you bulletproof?’
‘Why, you think they have guns?’ Graham asked.
‘No, but we have and if we have to open fire … accidents happen you know.’
‘I think you’ll find they’re singing hymns, not the Internationale.’
‘We have orders to break up the demonstration with whatever force is required.’
‘Who’s in command?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Captain Cruickshank, but I should leave him alone for now; he’s a bit busy.’
The troops had formed a line two deep across the road, and the chanting crowd was slowly approaching, now just fifty feet away. The soldiers stared straight ahead, bayonets to the fore. They should have looked like an impenetrable wall, but to Graham, they looked unsure. A few years earlier he might well have found himself in the same position. Would he have fired at a mob if it got really nasty? Not a chance, he’d have fired, but deliberately missed, the same went for a lot of the other conscript soldiers he served with. There was an attempt in his training to instil some bloodlust, but they might as well have been trying to get him interested in crochet. There were of, course, a few pathological killers, the type who would win Victoria Crosses and DSOs in times of war, and probably become successful gangsters in peacetime. He hoped there were a few them amongst the soldiers now forming themselves into a defensive line.
‘Maybe I should get Amani away from here.’
‘Why, where are you going to take her?’ Paul asked.
Graham shrugged, ‘no idea.’
‘Then I should keep her inside and out of harms way.’
The crowd was now only twenty feet away. In the middle of the line, an officer lifted his hand in the air and fired off a shot. The hymn singing paused for a few moments then started up again, but the crowd wasn’t coming any closer.
‘It looks like a stand off for now. They’re being a little silly, you can’t stop a mob with guns,’ Jonathan said, tapping the end of a cigarette against his case.
‘You can if you fire at them,’ Graham said.
‘That would play into their hands.’ Jonathan replied.
Then silence.
The line of soldiers held their position, the crowd stood facing them. A low rumble started from somewhere in the middle, a wave that spread out, ‘Ngai is love … Ngai is love … Ngai is love …’ Women began to wail, ululations punctuating the chants. The soldiers in their line were starting to fidget with their rifles, determinedly staring ahead but looking unsure. Amani had come out of the club with other drinkers, and Graham went over with Paul and joined her. Even the Seychellois had abandoned his customary seat and was standing behind Jonathan, watching the stand off, a glass in hand, an arm around the waist of a girl and a smile on his face. The captain fired another shot into the air and again the chanting stopped but soon picked up again.
‘I wonder what the savages want?’ Jonathan asked anyone who might be listening.
‘I don’t think they appreciate our being in their country,’ the Seychellois replied.
Jonathan turned, a little surprised, it was meant to be a rhetorical question.
The Seychellois smiled at him. ‘Jean Vert at your service,’ and held out a hand.
Jonathan shook it, ‘a pleasure to meet you, Jonathan Green.’
‘How amusing, we share the same name, but I don’t think we are related.’
‘Possibly not.’
‘An interesting situation, no?’
‘Yes.’
Again the chanting stopped, and the crowd melted away. Within a minute the street was empty, apart from a line of soldiers standing across it.
‘You are from the press corp, are you not?’ Jean asked.
‘I have that honour,’ Jonathan replied.
‘So there is your answer; perhaps these people are a little more sophisticated than you think, the demonstration was for your benefit. No doubt you will report it in your newspaper?’
‘I suppose so.’
The Seychellois smiled. ‘Bon soirée,’ and went back to his table, his girls and his beer.
‘I need a drink,’ Graham said coming over. ‘What were you talking to him about?’
‘He believes that the demonstration was put on for our benefit.’
‘Really? Are you coming back to the bar?’
‘In a minute, I’m just going to have a word with the commanding officer.’
‘Maybe I should join you.’
‘No, it’s all right; you get Amani back inside. I’ll let you know what he has to say. Get a round in.’
Jonathan returned to the bar five minutes later, and took the proffered beer from Graham. ‘As I thought, they were tipped off, an anonymous message that there’d be an attack on the club.’
‘Why?’
‘To make sure they turned out in force. They had no intention of attacking anything, they just wanted to make sure there were enough soldiers there to make sure they didn’t. Just a show of strength, all part of a recruitment drive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll report it won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’ll say that a large crowd of hymn singing, Ngai chanting Blacks faced up to forty, heavily armed soldiers.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Ngai will love it; the whole thing’s been a publicity stunt.’
‘A popular rising against the colonial oppressors,’ Paul said. ‘It’s fortunate, Graham, that they don’t know what you look like.’
‘Why, what are you talking about?’
‘After
that article of yours in the Standard,’ Jonathan said, ‘you’ve probably been labelled number one Jesus hater.’
‘Because I told the world Henry Ngai is a looney?’
‘But he’s their looney. He says he is in direct contact with Jesus, and they believe him. Shouldn’t worry too much though, not yet. That lot won’t have read your paper, they almost certainly have better taste, though you’ll make enemies eventually. They won’t see the twenty killed in that raid on the police station being idiots like you do, they’ll see them as martyrs. All someone has to do is tell that lot that you’re anti-Jesus, a follower of the devil himself, and they’ll be after you.’
‘I thought the Christian God was one of love.’
‘Whoever could have told you that? Certainly not your history teacher. All you need is a disgruntled mob then wind them up and watch them go. That lot were definitely in need of someone to hate and you could be just the man.’
‘I told you,’ Amani said, ‘this morning, Jonathan, I told him he was a stupid man and he would die and he did not believe me.’
‘Well, he’s probably safe for now.’
Graham and Amani left the club and headed home, passing through the gates of the car park and away from the protection of the club’s askaris, but there were few people about and none of them chanting hymns. As they turned off King George Street a figure followed them down their road, staying about fifty feet behind. He watched them up to their door then, finding a shadowed wall to lean against, sat on the dirt and settled in for the night.
Seven
‘Sorry Graham, can’t print it, news blackout.’ Bradley put Graham’s copy for the previous night’s drama on the desk and sat back in his chair.
‘But they can’t,’ Graham said, ‘not without declaring a state of emergency.’
‘Officially they can’t, but they can bring pressure to bear and they have. So, nothing happened last night.’
‘But what about the international press, you can’t do a blanket ban on reporting. Jonathan Green will be filing it.’
‘Then Jonathan Green will find it difficult to get access to any future press releases. For once he might have to get out and about and find his own stories.’
‘What about freedom of the press?’
‘You keep forgetting, I run this newspaper as a business; I’m not interested in the truth at all costs. I’m interested in selling newspapers, and I can’t do that if I don’t cooperate with the government.’
‘And reporting the news doesn’t sell newspapers?’
‘You said yourself, the whole thing was a publicity stunt.’
‘And what do you think their reaction will be if it fails? They’ll up the ante; next time there’ll be bullets.’
‘And if there are, you’ll be there to report it. There is some good news for you though, your piece on James Obuya has been syndicated, you’ve even got a byline in the Thunderer.’ Bradley handed the London Times over and there it was, the ambition of a lifetime fulfilled, Graham Theakston, East Africa correspondent.
‘Can I have it?’ Graham asked.
‘Of course,’ Bradley replied, ‘two shillings.’
‘Two shillings!’
‘That’s what it comes to, once you’ve added corkage.’
Graham handed the money over and was going to leave with the paper,
‘Not until I’ve finished reading it though,’ Bradley said, holding out his hand to take it back.
Graham headed for the door, - Graham Theakston, East Africa correspondent! - He’d even overlook Bradley’s legendary meanness.
‘One moment!’
Graham turned round.
There’s a message for you, something about going to a football match this evening, Leopards against Lions.’
‘You want me to go to a football match? I thought I was the political correspondent now.’
‘And sports; it wasn’t my idea that you should go, I had a phone call suggesting it might be in the interest of the paper if you did.’
‘Who from?’
‘No idea, but it will give you some real sport to cover instead of all that fictitious rubbish you generate from the wire.’
‘It’s you who make me write that fictitious rubbish.’
‘Well this will give you a real match to work on, and make sure you include plenty of dribbling.’
‘And what if it’s a trap?’
‘A trap, for you? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous. Thanks to your tampering with my article about Ngai, I’ve made enemies.’
‘Enemies? The only enemy you’re ever likely to make is in this office. I want five hundred … no, a thousand words.’
‘With a lot of dribbling?’
‘And I didn’t tamper with it, I brought it to life; now get out.’
He left the office going past Jenny at the reception.
‘Look what I’ve got.’ She held out a bag of sweets.
‘Bloody hell, Everton mints!’ He took one. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘Kareshi’s,’ Jenny replied excitedly, ‘he’s had a shipment from the UK; he’s even got tins of Dundee cake!’
‘Sam,’ said Graham, eagerly looking through his pockets. ‘Go to Kareshi’s and get me a bag of Everton mints.’
He passed over some change. Sam stared at it.
‘Everton mints,’ repeated Graham, pointing at Jenny’s bag and then at his mouth. Sam nodded his head and left.
‘They’ll rot your teeth of course,’ Jenny said, offering him another.
‘To hell with my teeth, I haven’t had one for five years.’
*****
Two nil to the Leopards; Titus Mulama after ten minutes, who sixteen minutes later dribbled down the wing, beating four Lions players before crossing to Kevin Ochieng to head the ball into the back of the net. Graham hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for years.
‘Good, I thought I’d find you here.’
‘James! I thought you’d have got the hell out of it.’
‘I have. Thank you for the warning and if you see the Colonel again, thank him as well.’
‘The Colonel? How did you know the tip off came from him?’
‘Just an educated guess.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘You’re going to write an article for me.’
‘What on?’
‘I’ve already told you, the General Strike, I’m holding it next Wednesday. Before then, I want you to publish my side of the argument.’
‘You want me to do your propaganda?’
‘The power of the press, why shouldn’t I use it as well as my white overlords?’
‘And your argument is?’
‘This was our country before the Whites came, it should be our country again; simple enough.’
‘You’ll have no argument from me, but I don’t run the place.’
‘Tell me, why do you think that the Colonel wants to keep me out of jail?’
A cheer came from the crowd and Graham was momentarily distracted as the Lions pulled a goal back.
‘Come,’ James said, ‘we can’t talk here.’
‘Sorry mate, can’t leave just yet. The second half has only just started and I’ve got to write a match report!’
‘This is more important than a football match.’ James turned to one of his companions. ‘Joshua, stay here and make some notes on the game for our friend.’
They pushed through the crowd to a waiting car.
‘Get in the back Graham.’
He did as he was told and they headed out of town. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Not far, just somewhere there won’t be any spying eyes. Don’t worry, Joshua will tell you what happened and there will be a bottle of beer waiting for you at the other end.’
*****
‘I can’t publish this.’ Bradley was behind his desk staring at the article Graham had written. ‘It’s blatant propaganda.’
‘It�
��s the truth.’
‘What, that white rule is coming to an end and the administration must decide on what sort legacy they want to leave behind? You’re making assumptions then preaching to the governor.’
‘You don’t believe it’s true?’
Bradley stared at Graham, put the copy down on his desk and absentmindedly doodled on it with a pencil. ‘Of course I believe it’s true, but I don’t employ you to write the truth, I employ you to write what our readers want to read and they don’t want to read that their wonderful, cosy lifestyle is about to come to an end.’
‘Well, what about your wonderful, cosy lifestyle? What do you think this paper will be doing in five years time?’
‘Probably struggling to remain independent from one of your friends, which is why I don’t want to start publishing their propaganda before I have to.’
‘So for now you’ll keep licking the boots of the present regime?’
‘May I remind you that you’re part of that regime? You’ve even been part of it’s army.’
‘Not by choice.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it got you out of Manchester.’
Graham gave Bradley a few moments to think and to continue his doodling, he’d now drawn a very good likeness of a dustbin with a daisy sticking out of it. ‘You can’t hide your head in the sand forever.’
‘Why not? It’s where our readership have got their heads.’
‘Then it’s time for them to face reality. I’ll tone the article down if that’s what you want, but they’re going to face unrest. They should know why there’s going to be a curfew and why the army is going to be on the streets. You’ve got to print both sides of the argument.’
Finally Bradley smiled then laughed. ‘Sod it, I’ll print it as it is, might as well go out with a bang. I’ll probably have to leave the country anyway.’
‘You won’t have to go anywhere. You’ll upset a few people, but the paper will be taken seriously. You never know, people might even take my match reports seriously.’
‘Unlikely.’ Bradley’s phone rang and he gestured Graham out of the office then almost immediately shouted for him to return, putting the phone down as he entered the room.
‘That was your friend the Colonel on the phone. He wonders if you wouldn’t mind going round to his office for a nice chat and a cup of tea.’
*****
‘Come’
Graham entered and the Colonel gestured at a chair.
‘Thank you for being so prompt Mr Theakston. I didn’t drag you away from anything important I trust?’