“Is that so?”
“In dictatorships, it’s banquets.”
Mweta grinned. “Do you want this, James—” There was a bottle of wine on the table.
“No, no, you’re right, I’ve had enough—” They were served unceremoniously with steak and potatoes, and Mweta told the servant not to wait. The big dining—room had been air—conditioned since Bray was last in it and felt chill and airless. Mweta impatiently opened the windows and let in the thick warm night, like a signal of intimacy between them. He knew that Bray thought it a mistake for him to make the Trade Union S.-G. his appointee; he himself brought up the subject at once so that it should not seem an obstacle; they talked with Bray’s attitude assumed. The cosy clink of fork on plate accompanied the emptiness of an agreement to differ. Mweta ate with unaccustomed greed, getting the steak down with a flourish.
“Of course one can’t deny it, in many countries the trade union organization is subordinated to the government’s policy. But these are countries whose economic development is slow, they have the greatest difficulties to face in overcoming their initial disadvantages … reasons that don’t apply here.”
Mweta took in what he was saying with each mouthful, nodding not in agreement but to show that he was attentive. “—Yes, but trade unions in the most advanced African countries must be careful not to become radical opposition movements as their position is consolidated—that’s a serious danger to the success of any economic development policy.”
Bray was aware of his own cold smile and shrug; he reached for the wine after all. “It depends where you draw the line—what does and what does not constitute opposition? There’s a difference between a radical approach to labour problems and radical opposition to the government. That’s where the confusion comes in. In the choice of economic priorities, can a government afford to take action without the support of the majority of an organized labour movement?”
Mweta smiled as a man does when dealing one by one with objections for which he is prepared. “We have the support.”
“That’s not borne out by what’s been happening in the last few months.”
Mweta didn’t believe that was what he meant. He answered words put in Bray’s mouth. “That business today was a perfect example—an attempt to push the unions into the position of political opposition. Well, as you saw for yourself, it failed. That answers the question whether or not we have the support.”
He said dryly, kindly, “Edward failed. You won.”
Mweta showed no signs of distress. He no longer said, trust me. He no longer urged to explain himself. “So you think it’s between Shinza and me—never mind economic prosperity.” He was half—joking, in his new confidence.
“I think that’s the way you see it.”
“Opposition—especially political opposition—from trade unions can only be allowed when it’s clear the governing class is working to consolidate its own benefits rather than for the development of a progressive economy,” Mweta said, confining himself to concern to be exact. “When it’s only an attempt to discredit the government, the government has no choice except to break these people, ay?—even to use force, probably.”
“—I wonder what it was you won.”
But they both rendered the remark harmless by a kind of nostalgia, regretful, giving way to each other; what’s-done-is-done.
He had held in himself the necessity ever since the mission was accomplished in the glare of the carpark that morning— “my old friend, Semstu”—that he would have to give an account of himself on that behalf this evening; here. Why?—now the whole intention was irrelevant. And by the same token it was not necessary for Mweta to admit to him that he was allowing the Company to equip a private army. The evening passed. Each had what he left unsaid. Yet they talked a great deal. Mweta was eager to discuss some mistakes he admitted, difficulties, some doubts—particularly about members of his cabinet. The frankness was a substitute for a lack of frankness. It was perhaps not calculatedly ingratiating—an unconscious appeal (to loyalty? sympathy?) that did not yield an inch. The business of whether Bray was staying on in the country was not mentioned either; Mweta merely remarked that he supposed the work in Gala must be nearly finished? He did not ask why Olivia hadn’t come. And if he had?—what answer, what hastily offered and hastily accepted lie?
Congress remained restlessly divided on everything it discussed. The margin of order at each session was very narrow. Shinza stared out over the auditorium, disdainfully unkempt. He looked more and more like a stranger who suddenly appears from the wilderness and takes up a place to the discomfiture of other men. Even his supporters seemed to approach him at the remove of Goma, the cheerful Basil Nwanga—men more like themselves. Bray wrote to England (he took advantage, these days, of having something objectively interesting, such as the Congress, to tell Olivia about, to make a long letter to her possible) describing Shinza as “an uncomfortable reminder that ideas are still on the prowl. Beyond the charmed circle of the capital’s glow, the whole country …”
It was a letter that would be read aloud to the family or friends. “Interesting,” and nothing in it that anybody couldn’t read. What was happening between himself and Shinza, Mweta—there was no word of that; one confidence, like another, was not possible. Yet—reading it over (he sometimes read over his letters to her several times, now)—he saw that the remark about Shinza reflected some truth about his attitude towards him that had come unconsciously through the studied tone.
He was included in discussions at the Goma house in Old Town. Of course it was his talk to Semstu—using the claim “my old friend” that day sitting in that oven of an ancient car with the plastic rose at eye—level—that, to the rest, made him proven and acceptable; Shinza, no doubt, banked on things more durable and of longer standing. But maybe they were right: the smallest act can be more binding than the largest principles. Shinza’s group themselves continued to attack, through every issue debated, what Goma called “the ossification of Party leadership,” although, gathered in the Goma house, they knew that the defeat of the Secretary—General motion was their defeat at this Congress. They seemed determined that delegates should have in their ears, even as they voted this opposition down, demands for more initiative for the basic units of the Party and a transformation of antiquated social and economic institutions. They pressed the need for simple living, discipline and sacrifice, instead of what they called the careerism of the new ruling elite. Bray remarked privately to Shinza that they were beginning to show the symptoms of puritanism typical of a pressure group. Shinza smiled, picked at his broken tooth; “That’s what’s wrong with pressure groups in the end, ay—it’s all they’ve got to do with themselves.”
But in the closing day’s debate on the President’s opening address, he made a brilliant assault on Mweta’s position without appearing to attack him personally, and pleaded passionately for a rejection of the “false meaning of democracy that sees it in the sense of guarding the rights of the great corporate interests and the preferential retainment of ties with the former colonial power.” He summed up the “spirit of dissension” that had “sprung up everywhere at Congress, because it is in people’s hearts and minds” by pronouncing with a turning from side to side of his bushy—maned head like a creature ambushed, “Independence is not enough. The political revolution must be followed by a social revolution, a new life for us all….” And he quoted, his hands trembling, not quite resting on the table in front of him,
“Go to the people
Live among them
Learn from them
Love them
Serve them
Plan with them
Start with what they know
Build on what they have.”
It was audacious; this Chinese proverb was, after all, the favourite quotation of Nkrumah, who had both professed socialism and set himself up as a god … but Shinza could hardly be reproached, through association, with similar aspirations, because Mw
eta, like Kaunda, had continued for some time to recognize the deposed Ghanaian head of state. Later, interviewed by a visiting English journalist and referred to as “the fiery political veteran whirled back like a dust—devil from the Bashi Flats,” Shinza was quoted as asking, “When we have built our state, are we going to find the skeletons of opposition walled up in the building?” (Olivia sent the cutting at once.)
The man chosen for the closing address to Congress was traditionally a right—hand man of the Party leader; now that the Party leader was the President, the choice was generally taken to signify a coming man in the government. There was talk that John Nafuma, Secretary of Presidential Affairs, was going to be the one. But it was Ndisi Shunungwa, Secretary—General of UTUC, who gave the address.
On the Sunday there was a big Party rally; many delegates stayed on for it and people came by lorry and on foot for miles. The Independence Stadium, used for the first time since the Independence celebrations, had been tidied up for the occasion; the weeds, the damage done by the rains and by people who (it was said) had removed parts of the stands to use as building material—all this was cleared and made good, apparently by the generosity of the Company, using the gardeners and workmen who still maintained Company property with the green lawns and beds of cannas that had created a neat, neutral environment for white employees in colonial times. Bray was there with Hjalmar Wentz and his daughter Emmanuelle, and heard the Chairman thank the Company, among others that he referred to as “sponsors”—an international soft—drink firm had provided delivery trucks to transport old people and parties of school children.
Hjalmar had been so eager for the outing, and Emmanuelle was more or less in attendance on Ras Asahe, who was directing a recording and filming of the event for both radio and one of the rare locally made television programmes. The girl wore a brief tunic made of some beautiful cloth from farther up Africa, and, all legs, clambered about among the throng with Asahe, looking back now and then to where her father and Bray sat with a radiance that came from a presentation of herself to them as a special creature, much at ease among these black male shoulders showing through gauzy nylon shirts, these yelling women with faces whitened for joy. In her own way she was so exotic that she was part of the spectacle, as in the Northern Hemisphere a cheetah on a gilt chain does not seem out of context at a fashion show. Bray remarked on the fact that Ras Asahe was making films as well, now, and Hjalmar said, almost with grudging pride on his daughter’s behalf— “Whatever he touches seems to go well.” He spoke in a close, low voice; this was the sort of remark he would not pass in the presence of his wife, Margot.
Shinza had gone straight back to the Bashi—had left the capital, anyway: “—I’ll see you at home, then,” presumably meaning Gala. Without him, it was almost as if nothing had happened. All these people before Mweta, old men in leopard skins with seed—bracelets rattling on their ankles as they mimed an old battle—stride in flat—footed leaps that made the young people giggle, church choirs with folded hands, marching cadets, pennants, bands, dancers, ululating women, babies sucking breasts or chewing roasted corn cobs, men parading under home—made Party banners—the white—hot sun, dust, smell of maize—beer, boiling pluck and high dried fish: the headiness of life. Bray felt it drench him with his own sweat. If he could have spoken to Mweta then (a gleaming, beaming face, refusing the respite of the palanquin, taking the full glory of sun and roaring crowd) he would have wanted to tell him, this is theirs always, it’s an affirmation of life. They would give it to another if, like a flag, you were hauled down tomorrow and another put up in your place. It’s not what should matter to you now. And he wondered if he would ever tell him anything again, anything that he believed himself. The other night was so easy; how was it possible that such things could be so easy. Suddenly, in the blotch of substituted images, dark and light, that came with the slight dizziness of heat and noise, there was Olivia, an image of a split second. It was easy with her, too. She did not ask; he did not broach. It made him uneasy, though, that she and Mweta should be linked at some level in his mind. Of course, there was an obvious link; the past. But a line between the stolid walk down the carpark to lobby for Shinza (“Semstu, my old friend”), and the presence of the girl—always on him, the impress of a touch that doesn’t wash off—could only be guilt—traced. And guilty of what? I have gone on living; I don’t desire Olivia: something over which one hasn’t any control; and the things I believe in were there in me before I knew Mweta and remain alive in me if he turns away from them.
He felt, with the friendly Hjalmar at his side and the amiable crowd around him, absolutely alone. He did not know how long it lasted; momentary, perhaps, but so intense it was timeless. Everything retreated from him; the crowd was deep water. A breeze dried the sweat in a stiff varnish on his neck.
They went to the Bayleys’ house for a drink afterwards. Roly was there, Margot Wentz, and a few others. “How’ve you survived?” Neil Bayley meant the tedium of Congress. Bayley was “worried about the Big Boss”; “But you should have been there,”—Hjalmar was comforted somewhere within himself by the contact with the crowd of simple people at the rally. “They love him, you know, they love him.” An expression of impatience passed over Margot’s face; it recurred like an involuntary nervous twitch, these days, when Hjalmar was talking. Bayley said Mweta was being “ridden hard” by Chekwe, his Minister of Justice, and others. They wanted Tola Tola out of Foreign Affairs, for one thing. “Well, I know Mweta wasn’t too happy with him at the beginning—you remember that question in the House about his globe—trotting”—Bray smiled— “but he’s done pretty well, in fact, I’d say—wouldn’t you?”
“Yes—but those very people who accused him of spending too much time up in jets—they’re the ones who’re too friendly with him now, for Chekwe’s liking. Chekwe says he’s got contacts with Shinza’s crowd.”
Hjalmar deferred the company to Bray. “Is there anything in that?”
“We’ve seen this week what Shinza’s support consists of.”
Roly Dando waved his pipe. “Bray for one.”
Neil said, “You found him impressive?—When I read what he says I think what a bright guy, he’s right, most of the time. But if he’s talking to me—I mean if he’s there in the flesh and I’m listening—he makes me bristle. I don’t like the chap.”
Vivien’s body had the collapsed—balloon look of a woman who has recently given birth. In its frame of neglected hair that lay stiff as if sculptured, a verdigris blonde—her beautiful face kept its eternal quality through the erosive noise of children and transient talk. “He’s a very attractive man. I’m surprised none of us has taken him for a lover.”
“You’ve never met him. Schoolgirl crush.” Her husband did not let the remark pass.
“I have. I met him at a reception the first year we were here.”
“—Once her passion is roused, she never forgets, my she—elephant
“And I talked to him three days ago. We met at Haffajee’s Garage.” Everyone laughed, but she remained composed.
“Delightful rendezvous—”
“We were buying petrol. He remembered me at once.”
“This positive neutralism is a very fine idea and all that, but we have to be a little practical, nnh?” Hjalmar said. “Wherever it’s attempted the Russians or the Chinese or the Cubans come in and you’re back in the cold war; it’s like driving a car, nnh—if you stay in neutral, you can’t move. … He wouldn’t be any more nonaligned than Mweta. And as the West is frightened of ideas like his, the East would be the ones to get him. It’s between two sets of vultures.”
“Ah well, that’s the art of it. Keeping the flesh on your bones. That’s what our bonny black boys’ve got to master.”
Bray said to Dando, “Do you think Mweta’s having a try?”
Dando chewed on his pipe with bottom teeth worn to the bone. “We’ve talked about it a hundred times. You know quite well what I think; what you want is to confirm
what you think. Because you’ve woken up out of your bloody daydream at last … I don’t know what did it … now you don’t like what you see. I’m in the stronger position because I’ve never expected to see anything I’d like”—there was laughter; even Margot smiled— “Mweta’s not a man to take great risks, he’s not a radical in the smallest fibre of his body. To make great changes here you’ve got to take the most stupendous risks; he’s chosen to play for half—safety for the simple reason he isn’t capable of anything else and in his bones he’s the sense to know it. He’s chosen his set of vultures because he thinks he can gauge from experience the length of their beaks; all right—now he’s seeing how much flesh he can keep from them.”
He found himself speaking to Dando, to them all, looking at the faces, one to the other. “Why are we so sure one set of beaks is so much more dangerous than another?—Because of the prisons, the labour camps, the thousands of dead in the Soviet Union over the years; because the Great Leap Forward’s been overtaken by civil wars in China; because of Hungary, because of Czechoslovakia, Poland—yes, I know. But we’re people who know what’s wrong with the West, too, the slavery it practised with sanctimony so long, the contempt it showed to the people it exploited—and still shows, down south on this continent. The mirror—image of itself that it sets up in the privileged black suburbia that takes its place … The wars it perpetuates in the cause of the ‘free world’ … If positive neutralism is the ideal, but the third world boils down to Roly’s art of living between two sets of vultures, why can we be so sure it mightn’t conceivably be more worth while to see how much flesh one can save in an association with the East? Why? Because we ‘belong’ to the West? Express our views—hold them—by the permissiveness of the West? … tied to it by that permissiveness? Roly—myself—I don’t think he’ll say he’s ever believed anything else—would you agree we’ve always accepted what Sartre once wrote, that socialism is the movement of man in the process of re—creating himself?—Is that or is that not what we believe?—Whatever the paroxysms of experiment along the way—whether it’s Robespierre or Stalin or Mao Tse—tung or Castro—it’s the only way there is to go, in the sense that every other way is a way back. What do you want to see here? Another China? Another America? If we have to admit that the pattern is likely to be based on one or the other, which should we choose?”
A Guest of Honour Page 45
