In due course, Victoria got word that Bat was in love with another woman. She asked two colleagues in the Bureau to get her a picture of this person. A search of Babit’s parents’ house was made: sofas were cut open, carpets ripped from floors, bedding shredded, coffee sacks emptied. Babit’s modest photo collection was found and taken. The damage would have been worse, but Victoria had instructed the men not to take anything else or to harm anyone. To make sure that they followed her orders, she had paid them up front. It had cost her, but she had felt that it was the right thing to do for someone seeking salvation, for someone pursuing a dream.
The pictures, when they arrived, disappointed. Babit did not measure up to her, looks-wise. She was younger but lacked the height, the poise. It was a mystery to her how a dynamic, rich man like Bat could feel attracted to that stolid person in the pictures. How can this person take my man away from me? she cried aloud. How can she dare to? A plethora of nasty ideas flooded her mind: she wanted to hurt Bat; she wanted to hurt the woman; she wanted to hurt herself. She became afraid that her recovery had not been all that thorough. The old ways beckoned, tempting her with their effectiveness.
She went to the nursery and picked up the child; it was sleeping, oblivious to the storm. She felt a maternal love wash over her. But the child’s helplessness only made her fiercer. She had sworn never to fall back into the snakepit after the birth of her child, but now she was not so sure. She felt disappointed with herself, and with the world. She seemed to be pushed back into the same life she wanted to flee. Bat had said that he was not in love. Does that deny me the right to be deeply in love with him? Had I not loved the General despite his being married and continuing to pick up other girls? Maybe I had only been in love with the General’s power of life and death. Bat does not have that power and so I am the one with the finger on the trigger. I can very easily destroy him, and this woman and both their families.
When Bat returned home at eleven o’clock that evening, her anger exploded. “Where have you been?” she asked even before greeting him. Her body was rigid, her hands bunched into fists held at her sides.
“Work,” he said looking at her, surprised that she had the nerve to shout like that.
“Where did you go after work?”
“None of your business. If I need somebody to track me, I will move in with the Bureau and the Public Safety Unit.” He wondered why he was bothering to explain himself. Was this not his house?
Maybe you did move in with those organizations, Victoria said under her breath before saying, “It is my business. I am your wife. I have your baby. I am in love with you.”
“I don’t remember ever getting married. If I did, maybe I should seek a divorce. Anyway, in this country divorce is unnecessary. One can simply ask the wife to leave. I love my daughter, but I am not about to take orders from her mother.”
“You are not going to get away with this,” she said heatedly. It looked as if she was about to spring and choke him.
“With what?” he said disdainfully.
“Whoring.”
“I don’t remember visiting a single whore in my whole life,” he said as if to himself.
It occurred to him to lead a trade delegation to Saudi Arabia and get away from the stress. General Bazooka was bogged down with suppressing a revolt in the army. The Lugbaras, Amin’s former favourites, had rebelled since being dropped in favour of the Nubians and Kakwas. They had made a coup attempt, storming the presidential palace with guns and bombs. Now the Hammer, as they called the General, was taking them apart, with the help of the Eunuchs. Bat decided to go to Saudi Arabia.
“Answer me. I am talking to you,” Victoria said, rising from the sofa. In the blink of an eye, she was standing over him, her index finger aimed at his eyeball. It amused him and he almost laughed. The last woman to beat him was his biology teacher during his secondary-school days. He slapped the finger away and ordered her to sit down. She refused. He remembered that he knew nothing about her and had resisted the urge to run a check on her. He had assumed that his status as a high-ranking civil service official would protect him from government conspiracies. After all, was he not the saviour of the Ministry of Power and Communications? Where would General Bazooka be without him? he thought to himself, as if to vindicate his course of action, his complacency. He stood up, pushed her away, and ordered her never to raise her voice at him again.
Blind with rage, she slapped him on the temple. It did not hurt very much, his eyes did not water, and neither did his head rock or his knees buckle. But Bat saw it as a revelation of Victoria’s true colours. A wave of fear coursed through his chest. What did I get myself into? he thought, remembering the toast he made to risk, to adventure, the evening they met. He pushed her away and ordered her to leave his house.
Victoria wondered if she had gone too far. But what was going too far when the General had put him at her disposal? Surely a slap was in order. It was better than a hammer, a panga slash, a gun blast. Why did he not make a fight of it and slap back? Maybe we would have rolled on the floor and finally ended up in each other’s arms. What Victoria forgot was that Bat was not seeing her as a Bureau agent, bearer of life-and-death powers, but as a helpless woman living in his house, under his generosity.
“I am not going anywhere,” she said defiantly, fists balled, breathing hard from internal exertion.
“If you can do what you have just done, it means you are capable of a lot more things I don’t know about. These are troubled times, Vicki. Anyone is capable of anything. To avoid trouble in the future, I want us to part when we can still bear to look at each other.”
“You are my first love. You performed a miracle and I bore a child. You can’t escape your destiny, the role God cut out for you.”
At the mention of God, Bat became suspicious. Which God did she mean: the Christian one or Dr. Ali? Had she consulted the famous astrologer or one of his assistants? Where had she gotten the money? When? He dismissed the idea. She probably meant the Christian God.
“I want you to leave in the morning. You deserve a better life.”
Victoria burst into tears. She asked for forgiveness. When she tried to use the child as a shield and a weapon, Bat had a sudden attack of doubt. He could take the child away from Victoria and give it to his mother to raise, assisted by hired help or another relative. But it would scar her; she was still too young. It was best to let her stay with Victoria, but what kind of world was he sending his daughter into? What kind of men and women were going to influence her? He experienced a sense of failure. Had he not failed by not pressing for an abortion? Abortion in a land where heads were cracked with hammers, bodies dumped? Was he among the good, the sane people? Or was he as bad as the gun-wielders?
It was a very tense night, the silence in the house charged like a ton of dynamite. He thought about leaving and sleeping elsewhere, but he was determined not to run away. It was his house. At two o’clock, he went to his daughter’s room. He sat in the darkness watching her sleep. She wheezed a little from a nostril clogged by an approaching cold. He listened as the air squeezed out, the sound magnified by the darkness. This was his last chance. From now on, visiting her was going to be a great effort. He felt like a creator whose creations had spun out of control.
After a very long time, he felt a change in the air, a scent, a stealthy breath. Victoria was standing in the doorway, her nightie clinging to her, her long body etched in shadow. She looked as seductive as he had ever seen her, and he could feel the beginning of an erection. It was only a matter of reaching out and she would be his again. He remembered their first meeting. A general’s wife? Maybe. He pushed all erotic ideas from his mind, and she looked like a painting on the wall: beautiful, passionless. The silence deepened as each failed to find words to say to break the deadlock, making the night oppressive in its grip on the house. Not a single night crawler, bird or animal cleaved the night with its cries, howls or calls. It seemed as if Bat and Victoria were holding their breath
like divers attempting to break a record. She felt her love poisoned by rejection and experienced a massive sense of despair. She had all the violence of guns at her disposal but did not have the heart to touch him. One day I will return in triumph. It is just a matter of time, she said to herself. She stole away from the room. The spell broken, Bat gave a large sigh of relief and left the room, the whiff of baby powder in his nose.
DR. AHMED MOHAMMED MAHRANI ALI’S LEARJET circled Entebbe Airport. He hated night flights, partly because he could not enjoy the view outside, partly because he could hardly sleep on his plane. He hated this particular flight because it disrupted his schedule. He had not planned to return to Uganda for two months, but Marshal Amin had begged him to cancel his stay in Zaïre and come to his aid. Two big coup attempts in three weeks was enough trouble to unsettle even the toughest mind. At the beginning of their relationship he had made it clear to the Marshal that he did not baby-sit presidents. His role was to study the omens, offer sacrifice, but not to get bogged down in the politics of any country. But over time the nature of the relationship had changed and the two men had become friends. Gradually, the Marshal had asked for his advice here and there. And he had to admit that he had begun to like it. He found himself using information garnered from Emperor Bokassa, President Mobutu and other leaders to try and solve the Marshal’s problems. They would spend long hours discussing the personality problems of different dictators, from those who wore high-heeled shoes to appear taller, to those who pulled in their bellies at photo shoots to scale down the vastness of their stomachs, to those addicted to cocaine, heroin or pot. They would laugh at other dictators’ miseries, especially those deposed in palace coups in the middle of the night. Nixon’s plight was a favourite subject, especially because the Marshal had done his best to counsel him. They would laugh at the devilry of a system which made such a powerful man eat humble pie.
Dr. Ali did not want to claim credit for what happened in Uganda, but aside from foretelling a few events, including the imminence of the current revolt, he had been the person who had advised the Marshal to turn the Eunuchs into a specialized personal army, loyal only to him and nobody else. It gave Dr. Ali an adrenaline rush to know that he was among the most powerful men in the country. Why did that excite him? Because he had grown to love the country. It was so beautiful, yet so troubled. It was like a mad girl of uncommon beauty men felt tempted to rescue. He liked to think that he had played his part well. Take the spread of astrology. He had singlehandedly imported the practice. In his wake the Zanzibaris had taken over the business. It was amazing and amusing to see how quickly the revolution had taken root. The nicknames he had collected in the process amused him: God, Jesus, Satan, the Unholy Spirit, the Dream, the Giant, the Government Spokesman. He could understand why they called him the Dream. He had been the one who had advised the Marshal to hone his mystique by claiming that God talked to him in dreams. He had also advised him to proclaim unpopular laws, measures and announce embarrassing news through the Government Spokesman.
The plane landed safely. He was whisked from the airport in a dark-windowed Boomerang. He always insisted on travelling incognito. In a dictatorship, anonymity was priceless. He liked the fact that very few Ugandans, let alone generals, knew his identity. During séances, he used masks and big robes and sat on a throne, which made him look taller than he was. During meetings with Marshal Amin, he insisted on there being very few people. During his stays his assistants did most of the work, and he always walked amidst a phalanx of bodyguards.
The Boomerang parked in front of the State House at Entebbe and ten men surrounded Dr. Ali and walked him inside the building. There was commotion, soldiers everywhere. He was here to comfort his friend, encourage him, reassure him that his time had not yet come. He knew how most people overlooked the pressure leaders were under. Pressure was the main reason why from time immemorial many leaders went mad.
Marshal Amin sprang from his chair when the astrologer walked into the room. The two men embraced. Robert Ashes and two generals looked on, ready to shake hands with the diminutive astrologer and to get down to business with him. To their surprise, Amin asked them for privacy and remained behind with his guest. He sometimes thought about imprisoning the little man; he meant so much to him. In the past a king would have crippled him and put him under permanent guard. Things were different now. However much Amin hated it, he had to let the man leave and had to wait patiently for his return. There was also the fact that he feared the astrologer’s ire: a man this gifted could curse you, mess up your omens and hasten your downfall. The only weapon available was to keep him happy and to beg him to come whenever things ran out of hand. Amin felt relieved that the man had agreed at all to come at such short notice.
“Ten white bulls are ready,” Amin said as the two men sat down.
“Do you want the omens read right now? It is three o’clock in the morning. The world is asleep,” the astrologer joked.
“I work twenty-four hours a day,” his host said irately, pining for his next dose of cocaine. He needed it, no, he deserved it. He could celebrate; his peace of mind had returned. He now believed that the rebellion would be crushed. Soon after, he would reorganize his personal army and make it ten times stronger, and give the men everything they wanted.
“Let us proceed then. Afterwards we can lie down for some sleep,” the astrologer said, yawning.
“You must be very jet-lagged, my friend.”
“Never mind. Anything for you, friend.”
Under moonlight, the ten bulls were slaughtered, Marshal Amin cutting the throats according to procedure. Dr. Ali examined each liver carefully, turning over the shiny, silky lobes. He examined the stars for a long time. The omens were favourable. Now everybody could get some sleep. In the morning he would study the sun and communicate its omens.
Astrology had been in Dr. Ali’s family for three hundred years. He was born on the small island of Pemba in the Indian Ocean to a Muslim family. He was a small dark-skinned man of mixed parentage. His ancestors had come from Arabia in AD 1001 and settled on the East African coast. They intermarried with Africans, creating the Swahili heritage. At the age of six, Dr. Ali was struck by lightning as he played outside. His parents found him an hour later, stone cold, eye whites showing. They took him to the doctor, prayed over him and waited for his death. But he survived, hovering near death for a year, hardly moving a muscle, talking in a small voice. He told his mother that he was having dreams, seeing the sun, the stars, spirits. In a family of astrologers this would have been nothing new; here, when he insisted, they thought he might have lost his head or was telling them what he had heard adults say.
After convalescing he returned to school. He surprised teachers and pupils by telling them things about themselves, a relative who fell sick, or got married, or visited. He could also tell when somebody was lying.
“It is the lightning. The electricity fried your brain. You are mad if you think you are special,” they said.
In a way, they were right. There were astrologers and soothsayers everywhere. Every other week somebody claimed to be a prophet or healer or messiah. Those who couldn’t prosper left for Zanzibar, Tanzania or the Arab states.
In the end, he decided to keep his counsel, never telling what he saw or knew about other people. After school he read books on astrology and Arabic. He was determined to go to Iran and study ancient religions. At twenty-five he got his university degree in religious studies. By then people had acknowledged his gift. People came from far and near to have their omens read. He got a job offer as head astrologer in Saudi Arabia, working exclusively for the royal family, but turned it down. He wanted freedom. He returned to the coast and settled in Zanzibar, where his fame grew even more.
By the time he made his first visit to Uganda, he was the most expensive astrologer on the continent. He was already on a retainer with President Mobutu of Zaïre, Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic, and General Gowon of Nigeria. He also ha
d famous customers in Saudi Arabia and Europe. During their first meeting he told Amin that he would die an old man. He also described forthcoming assassination attempts to him, one of which occurred a week later, in almost exact detail. Amin became a follower. He foretold the deaths of two of Amin’s wives, also in detail. Amin had shivered. His mother had been a witch-doctor and he had his own clutch of astrologers and witches, but he had never met someone like Dr. Ali. Dr. Ali became the only man Amin truly feared. To keep him away from his generals, he raised the astrologer’s fees to one thousand dollars per consultation and ten thousand per séance. To weaken organized religions, he promoted the spread of astrology. Dr. Ali’s writings were spread everywhere, thus the nickname God. Astrology became a department at the university.
Now, three years later, the two men had become very good friends. The Marshal loved the fact that Dr. Ali hated the limelight. The air of mystique served both parties well. He also had few vices, apart from a streak of exorbitance. Every night he consumed a thousand-dollar bottle of red wine, a habit picked up from President Mobutu, whose cellar boasted the most expensive wines in the world.
“A thousand dollars worth of piss!” Amin would exclaim.
“I have drunk wines costing fifty thousand dollars per bottle,” the astrologer would counter, raising his eyebrows, turning his head slightly and smiling faintly. “I last drank that at Mobutu’s birthday.”
“Thank God whisky is not so expensive. Give me Johnnie Walker any day. And a bag of cocaine,” Amin said, laughing out loud.
“We are talking about the fine things in life, Marshal,” the astrologer said, laughing.
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