Ubu Roi by Alfred Jarry (1896)

Executive summary of the Ubu plays

Alfred Jarry’s trilogy of absurdist, scatological plays about the grotesque cartoon figure, Père or Father or Pa Ubu, scandalised theatre-goers at the time (the later 1890s) but were to be revived and lionised by the Surrealists in the 1920s and ’30s, and to become a reference point for the Theatre of the Absurd long after Jarry’s premature death in 1907 at the age of just 34.

Introduction

Starting as a fairly sensible Symbolist writer when the movement was at its peak in the early 1890s, Jarry announced his own bizarre take on the movement in the 1895 play ‘Caesar Antichrist’ before departing the movement altogether, in 1896, with the work that made him immortal, Ubu Roi.

Since ‘roi’ is the French word for ‘king’ the title easily translates as ‘King Ubu’ but a lot of the rest of the play doesn’t translate easily at all. Its language is a unique mix of slang code-words, puns and near-gutter vocabulary, set to strange speech patterns. The tone is established in the very first words of the play – ‘Merdra merdra’ – which aren’t French words at all. They’re distortions of the French word ‘merdre‘ which means ‘shit’.

With its scatological language, its studied disrespect for all conventional language, and its wild absurdist plot studded with atrocities and mass murders, you can see why the first night of Ubu Roi resulted in uproar, the audience (allegedly) coming to blows between supporters and outraged opponents.

Schoolboy origins and puppet performances

Eventually the Ubu oeuvre would end up as three plays and a version with music and songs but it began as schoolboy jokes. In 1888 the 15-year-old Alfred Jarry arrived at the lycée in Rennes and became friends with another boy, Henri Morin. He discovered Henri was part of a group which took the mickey out of the heir well-meaning, but obese and incompetent physics teacher Physics teacher, Monsieur Hébert, known variously as P.H., Pére Heb, Ebé and other nicknames. Henri and his older brother had gone to the trouble of writing a short satire, ‘The Poles’, in which the cartoon figure of le Pere Ebé became King of Poland only to suffer various misfortunes and indignities.

Jarry threw himself into this fictional world and adapted it as a play for marionettes which was performed first at the Morin house then in the Jarry household. Jarry developed some of the themes and characters into a play entirely of his own, Onésime ou les Tribulations de Priou featuring ‘le PH’.

In 1891 the 18-year-old Jarry left Rennes and moved to Paris to attend the Lycée Henri IV to prepare for admission to the École Normale Supérieure. Here he carried on developing the material, rewriting the Morin brothers’ Polish play and his own Onésime, which became Ubu Roi and Ubu Cocu, respectively. These plays he performed with schoolfriends at his Paris lodgings and it was now that the chief protagonist’s name settled as ‘le Père Ubu’. But by now Jarry had his eye set on a literary career.

In 1893 young Jarry managed to get fragments of the plays published in a literary journal. Jarry was becoming known for his poems and short prose pieces. In October 1894 some of these were published in his first book, the ultra-symbolist Minutes de Sable Mémorial. At the end of the year Jarry was briefly called up for military service but his short stature caused ridicule and he was discharged for medical reasons. A year after Minutes his second book was published, César-Antéchrist (1895).

In January 1896 Jarry was introduced to the theatre director Aurélien-Marie Lugné-Poe. In June Lugné-Poe invited Jarry to become a writer-secretary at his theatre and in the same month the text of Ubu Roi was published. Then Ubu Roi had its first stage performance on 10 December 1896, to the accompaniment of shouting, screaming, cheers and jeers and fighting among the audience.

The controversy was picked up in the papers and journals and Jarry became a celebrity overnight. His friends took to jokingly calling him Père Ubu and he copied the manner and ambling walk of his character for their amusement.

As we’ve seen the plays always had a puppet version or equivalent right from their inception as a schoolboy prank. Jarry had it performed as a marionette play at his friend’s and his own house. What’s surprising that this puppet version lived on into the ‘adult’ world. In 1898 a performance by marionettes was given of Ubu Roi at a small theatre owned by none other than the artist Pierre Bonnard.

At this time Jarry finished a new version of Ubu Cocu but failed to find a publisher for it. In fact neither version of Ubu Cocu was published or performed during his lifetime. It was only half a century later, in 1944, that the second version was published. The English essayist and editor Cyril Connolly was the first to publish an English version, in his magazine Horizon in 1945 and went on to become a great promoter of Jarry’s work.

During 1899 Jarry worked on the third play, Ubu Enchaíné (‘Ubu in Chains’). Although published in 1900 this, also, wasn’t to be performed for a long time, not until 1937.

In 1899 and 1901 Jarry published the ‘Illustrated Almanac of Père Ubu’, illustrated by his friend Pierre Bonnard. He also devoted time to rewriting Ubu Roi as a two-act musical with songs. This version mutated sufficiently to be considered the fourth in the series, Ubu sur la Butte. Once again the puppet theme surface because this version was first performed by the marionettes of the Théâtre Guignol des Gueules de Bois in November 1901, although it wasn’t published until 1906, the year before his death.

As the summary shows, after the first scandal of the Roi premier wore off Jarry struggled to get his works either published or performed. He wasn’t exactly a one-hit wonder, because he did have novels, stories and a three-volume fictionalised autobiography published, and he was working all the time as a poet, journalist and literary and art critic. he was a busy bee. He also became a fixture of avant-garde circles, acting as a kind of court jester becoming increasingly reliant on alcohol to fuel his performances.

His other famous achievement was developing the nonsense science of pataphysics, which he defined as the ‘science of imaginary solutions’ which ‘will examine the laws governing exceptions and will explain the universe supplementary to this one’. References to this anti-science cropped up in various works and was given full bizarre expression in Exploits and Opinions of Dr. Faustroll, Pataphysician. But this, also, didn’t see the light of day till after his death, not being published till 1911.

King Ubu

Any prose summary can’t convey how absurd, nonsensical and caricature-like the characters and action are. The best short summary is to think of it as a kind of puppet parody of Macbeth, in which a lazy army officer is encouraged by his scheming wife to assassinate the King of Poland, usurp the throne, and then behave with appalling and wanton cruelty, butchering entire classes before declaring war on Russia.

Act 1

Scene 1: Ubu says he’s content with his position of captain of the dragoons and aide de camp to King Wenceslas while his wife (Ma Ubu) encourages him to assassinate the king and all his heirs and make himself king, plonk his bum on the throne and scoff as many bangers as he wants.

Scene 2: Dining room laid out for a feast. Ma Ubu tells him to wait till the guests arrive but greedy Ubu can’t stop himself tucking into the chicken then the veal.

Scene 3: Captain MacNure and his men arrive for the feast which, Ma Ubu explains, includes ‘Jerusalem fartichokes and cauliflower à la pschitt’. There’s not actually much to eat so Ubu exits and returns holding a toilet brush which he flings at the soldiers. Some of them taste it and collapse from poisoning (or poosening). He then forces all the soldiers out by throwing bison ribs at them.

Scene 4: After the scatological pleasantries:

PA UBU: Well, captain, how did you enjoy your dinner?
CAPTAIN MACNURE: Very much, sir, except for the pschitt.
PA UBU: Oh I didn’t think the pschitt was too bad.

Ubu asks the captain to join his conspiracy to overthrow the king. The captain enthusiastically signs up, revealing he is a mortal enemy of the king. Ubu promises to make him Duke of Lithuania.

Scene 5: A messenger arrives from the king requesting Ubu’s presence and he and Ma panic, thinking their conspiracy has been discovered. ‘Oh pschitt!’

Scene 6: Ubu at court, the king surrounded by his three sons and courtiers, in fact doesn’t suspect a thing, in fact he’s called him in to appoint him Count of Sandomir. Overwhelmed with gratitude (and relief) Ubu gives the king a fine decorated kazoo! The king gives it to his son Boggerlas and invites Ubu to the Grand Review tomorrow. As he turns to go Ubu trips and falls and the king helps him up. Won’t stop him from being ‘liquidated’ Ubu mutters.

Scene 7: A meeting of the conspirators discussing how to kill the king. Ubu suggests they lace his food with arsenic. Captain McNure suggests he cleaves the king from head to toe with his sword. Ubu is momentarily tempted to turn the conspirators in and claim a reward but they all boo so he suggests another plan. He’ll tread on the king’s foot, yell PSCHITT and that will be the signal for the conspirators to attack. Ubu makes them swear an oath.

Act 2

Scene 1: The day of the Grand Review. His queen and eldest son Boggerlas warn him against Ubu but the king insists he’s his most loyal servant. The queen describes a dream she had of the king being killed and thrown into the River Vistula. Irritated, the king says he will attend to the Grand Review without sword or breastplate to prove them wrong and sweeps out with his other sons. The queen and Boggerlas go to the chapel to pray.

Scene 2: The Grand Review. After a few preliminary comments Ubu treads on the king’s foot, shouts pschitt, and the conspirators attack him. Ubu grabs the crown and the king’s two sons flee.

Scene 3: From a balcony the queen and Boggerlas watch all the soldiers chasing the two sons and striking them dead.

Scene 4: The conspirators break into the chapel and confront the queen and Boggerlas. The latter defies them and kills quite a few of them. In face of this Ubu is a terrified coward but inches towards Boggerlas who takes a sword slash at him then escapes with the queen through a hidden passage.

Scene 5: A cave in the mountains where Boggerlas and the queen have retreated. She laments the death of her husband and sons and then collapses dead from grief. Then appear ghosts of the king, his brothers, and the founder of their dynasty (Lord Matthias of Königsberg) who tells Boggerlas to be brave and hands him an immense sword. It’s only during this scene that we’re told that Boggerlas is only 14 years old.

Scene 6: Ubu is now crowned in the king’s stateroom. He is arguing with Ma and the captain. They’re saying he must distribute largesse to the masses or they’ll overthrow him in his turn. He vehemently refuses till the captain explains that with no money the masses won’t pay their taxes. At which point Ubu orders the distribution of millions of gold pieces and the roasting of 50 oxen to feed the mob.

Scene 7: From his balcony King Ubu throws gold to the cheering mob. Captain Macnure suggests organising a race, which they promptly do, the winder winning a chest of gold pieces, the mob cheering and racing and falling over each other in their glee. Bread and circuses.

Act 3

Scene 1: In the palace Ma Ubu reminds Pa Ubu he promised to ennoble the captain. Ubu replies the captain can whistle for his dukedom and Boggerlas can go jump in a lake. Ma Ubu says he’s making a big mistake underestimating his enemies, so Ubu threatens to chop her into little pieces and chases her offstage.

Scene 2: Ubu calls together all the nobles of the land into the Great Hall of the palace and announces that he is going to liquidate them all and confiscate all their wealth. One by one they come forward, identify themselves and Ubu pushes them with a boathook through a trapdoor down into the bleed-pig chambers from where they’ll be led to the cash-room and debrained.

Ubu interrogates four or so, pushing each into the trapdoor, before having his own numerous titles proclaimed. Ma Ubu warns him he is being too brutal. Next he proposes to stop paying the judges and, when they protest, has them all pushed through the hole too, telling Ma Ubu that he will administer justice. Then he proposes a new range of taxes. When the financiers protest he has them all thrown down the hole.

MA UBU: Come, come, Lord Ubu, kings aren’t supposed to behave like that. You’re butchering the whole world.
PA UBU: So pschitt!

Scene 3: In a peasant’s house the peasants exchange the news that the old king’s been murdered, Pa Ubu is king. One of them has just come from Cracow where he saw the bodies of 300 nobles and 500 magistrates that Ubu had killed. At that moment there’s a great banging on the door and Ubu announces he’s come to collect their taxes.

Scene 4: Ubu enters the peasant’s house with ‘an army of moneygrubbers’ then orders his Lords of Phynance (a word which recurs throughout the Ubu oeuvre) to wheel in the phynancial wheelbarrow.

PA UBU: I’ve had it announced in the official gazette that all the present taxes have to be paid twice over, and all those I may think up later on will have to be paid three times over. With this system I’ll soon make a fortune, then I’ll kill everyone in the world and go away.

Goaded beyond endurance the peasants rebel but Ubu has his men massacre them all and burn the village to the ground.

Scene 5: Ubu visits Macnure who he’s had thrown in prison (specifically, ‘the casemate of Thorn’) for raising a rebellion against him. Macnure tells him that in just five days Ubu has more crimes than would damn all the saints in paradise but Ubu mocks him and warns him that the rats at night are very hungry.

Scene 6: Cut to the palace of the Tsar in Moscow. Somehow Macnure escaped the casemate of Thorn and has ridden for five days and five nights to beg the Tsar to come to the aid of the people of Poland. He offers his sword and a map of the city of Thorn. The Tsar accepts him into his service.

Scene 7: Ubu announces to his council that his plans to get rich are working. In every direction are vistas of burning villages and people suffering under his extortions. Now he is going to share a plan he’s conceived to keep rain at bay and bring good weather. Ma Ubu mutters that he’s gone mad and Ubu threatens her.

A messenger enters with a message from Macnure which announces that he is in the service of the Tsar and is going to invade Ubu’s land alongside Boggerlas. Ubu is thrown into a cowardly panic but Ma Ubu counsels war and all his advisers start chanting war war war.

Scene 8: The army camp outside Warsaw. Ubu’s soldiers cheer for him. He puts on a set of complicated armour pieces until he looks like an armour-plated pumpkin. He’s far too fat to get on a small horse and when they lead in a giant horse he keeps falling off. Ubu makes a series of bragging boasts then clatters off. Ma Ubu says that now that overstuffed dummy is out of the way she can kill Boggerlas and get her hands on the treasure herself.

Act 4

Scene 1: Ma Ubu is in the crypt of the kings of Poland in Warsaw cathedral searching for buried treasure. She eventually opens a tomb to find old bones and gold all mixed together and begins extracting it when ghostly sounds and then a voice from the dead terrifies her into running offstage.

Scene 2: In the main square in Warsaw Boggerlas has rallied the surviving nobles and the people to overthrow Ubu. Ma Ubu emerges with her guards and there’s a massive fight. During this her ‘Palcontent’, Gyron (who Jarry specified should be played by a Black man) at first wreaks havoc in the crowd and then is brought down. As the crowd makes to grab Ma Ubu she escapes.

Scene 3: Ubu at the head of his army which has been marching through the Ukraine seeking the Russian army. Ubu is so ludicrously over-armoured that even the big horse couldn’t carry him so he’s been walking and leading it by the reins. A messenger arrives to tell him that, in his absence, there’s been a rebellion in Warsaw, Gyron is killed and Ma Ubu fled to the mountains.

Now his army sights the Russians. Ubu issues fairly reasonable instructions for the order of battle based on the notion that the Polish army will remain on the hilltop and wait for the Russians to come up towards them at which point they’ll cut them down with their artillery. But, nonsensically, as it’s 11 o’clock, instructs the army to have lunch, saying the Russians won’t attack. At that moment a cannon ball goes whizzing by, crashing into the nearby windmill.

Scene 4: Confused melee of the battle in which Ubu is shot, thinks he’s dead but gets up again, while Captain Macnure enters cutting a swathe through the Polish troops till he comes face to face with Ubu. Ubu again shows his cowardice by thinking he’s been hit by another cannonball but Macnure laughs that it was just a cap pistol. Infuriated, Ubu tears him to pieces!

Encouraged by his lead general, General Laski, Ubu throws himself on the Tsar and they have a fierce hand-to-hand fight which the Tsar wins and proceeds to chase Ubu across the battlefield. There’s a trench and Ubu jumps over it while the Tsar falls in.

TSAR: Now I’m in the soup!

Ubu describes the scene of the Tsar getting massacred by Ubu’s soldiers and does it in an elaborately formal and periphrastic style quite unlike anything, deployed for comic or incongruous effect. He then admires his own eloquence. Despite this the Russian soldiers rescue their Tsar and pursue Ubu and his army off-stage.

Scene 5: Finds Ubu holed up in a cave in the mountains with a category of companions called ‘the palcontents’ and humorously named Head and Tails. They mock the way Ubu cowardly fled the battlefield while Ubu describes himself as the hero of the battle, struggling manfully against overwhelming odds.

Scene 6: A bear comes into the cave and attacks Tails while Heads attacks the bear. Ubu, obviously, climbs up a rock out of the way but says he is high-mindedly (and absurdly) offering a prayer to him. Heads and Tails finally overcome and kill the bear as Ubu comes down from his rock delivering another long pompous speech about how he saved the day with his prayers. He sends Tails off to fetch wood and orders Heads to carve up the bear, making sure he himself remains safely distant.

Throughout all this Heads and Tails have been muttering comments about Ubu’s cowardice and now, when he demands a share of the cooked meat, they come out into the open and call him a fat pig, saying he won’t get anything to eat unless he shares in the work.

Deprived of food Ubu beds down and goes to sleep. The other two wonder whether the rumours are true that Ma Ubu was overthrown, and decide to slip off and head for home while Ubu’s asleep.

Scene 7: Ubu talks in his sleep delivering a stream-of-consciousness monologue which includes elements of everything which has happened in the play up to and including the bear fight.

Act 5

Scene 1: It’s night time in the same cave and Ma Ubu enters, not noticing her husband asleep in the corner. She delivers a long monologue recapping her adventures since Ubu left Warsaw, namely: rummaging about in the kings’ crypt; exiting to discover Boggerlas leading rebels in the main square; the resulting fight in which her lover, the Black Gyron was cut down; how she made it to the River Vistula but all the bridges were guarded so she swam across; how she barely escaped the baying mob; how she has trudged through the snow for four days and arrived, starving, at this cave.

With allowance for some of the delivery, this isn’t absurd at all but is the language of the contemporary adventure novel.

At which point Ubu stirs and starts mumbling half awake, obviously starting Ma Ubu who quickly realises who it is, and then decides to take advantage of the situation, puts on a booming voice and pretends to be the archangel Gabriel! She then embarks on the comic enterprise of having the angel Gabriel tell Ubu what a beautiful, charming woman his wife is, an ‘absolute saint’, while Ubu, predictably and to comic effect, rebuts her at every point, describing her as a sexless old hag.

Ma Ubu goes on to tell Ubu he must forgive her for stealing a little bit of his money, but this backfires as it only confirms what Ubu suspected. Moreover dawn is coming up and it’ll soon be light enough in the cave for him to see and recognise her.

And that’s what happens. Ma Ubu tries to brazen it out but Ubu realises it’s her. He asks what happened back in Warsaw and she tells him about the rebellion and how she had to run away from the Poles. Ubu counters that he had to run away from the Russians, just goes to prove what they say, that ‘great minds think alike’.

MA UBU: They can say that if they want, but my great mind thinks it’s just met a pea-brained idiot.

Enraged Ubu throws the bear’s body over her which a) makes Ma Ubu scream that she’s being attacked, and the way her movements seem to be animating the bear b) makes Ubu scream that the bear’s come back to life.

When they both realise they’re wrong she launches a tirade of abuse at him which makes him jump over, force her to her knees, list the tortures he’s about to subject her to, and then start to tear her in pieces when…there’s a loud noise at the entrance to the cave.

Scene 2: Enter Polish soldiers led by Boggerlas who orders them to surrender. Instead Ma and Pa Ubu reply with volleys of abuse and start attacking him, the Polish soldiers attack them and it’s another general melee.

At which point there’s a cry of ‘Long live Pa Ubu’ and Heads, Tails and other Ubuists run into the cave, turning it into a real free-for-all. The Ubuists get the better of it, wounding Boggerlas. Two Poles are guarding the entrance to the cave but Ubu knocks them down with the bear corpse and they escape outside.

Scene 3: Just four lines long as Ma and Pa Ubu struggle across the snow-covered landscape, concluding that Boggerlas has given up chasing them and gone back to Warsaw to be crowned.

Scene 4: Suddenly we are aboard a ship in the Baltic. Pa Ubu makes a nonsensical little speech about the ‘knots’ a ship’s speed is measured in. The sea kicks up and the ship begins leaning. the captain issues sensible orders but Ubu insists on taking over himself and issues a stream of nonsensical, garbled orders to the sailors. In fact his orders are so nonsensical that some of the sailors literally die of laughter.

Several great waves break over the ship as Ubu continues his nonsense. In the last few lines Ma and Pa, Heads and tails all illogically say how they’re looking forward to returning to their native France, Spain, Paris, Germany, only for Pa to conclude.

PA UBU: Beautiful though [Germany] may be, it’s not a patch on Poland. Ah gentlemen, there’ll always be a Poland. Otherwise there wouldn’t be any Poles!

And with this inconsequential thought, the play ends.

Literary references

To augment the mock heroic vibe and absurdity the play contains a surprising number of references to ‘serious’ works of literature. The respected general overthrowing his own king and ruling like a tyrant comes from Macbeth. The various armies traipsing back and forth are reminiscent of Hamlet, a reference which is made explicit when, in the last scene, the ship rounds the Cape of Elsinore (where Hamlet is set). The involvement of a bear could be referencing the famous bear in The Winter’s Tale.

And behind all these smaller references looms the title, which echoes the primary tragedy in all European literature, Sophocles’ play ‘Oedipus Rex’ which translates into French as ‘Œdipe Roi’. This conforms to the very common view, at the end of the nineteenth century and which also informed the first modernists, that the present day is a pathetic echo of the greatness of the past, as Ezra Pound put it, a beer bottle on a pediment.

Thoughts

Well, it’s quite funny in parts and I enjoyed the schoolboy humour but:

1. ‘Ubu Roi’ shows how difficult it is to sustain absurdity. What struck me is how unabsurd most of it is. I mean there’s lots of swearing and made-up words and Ubu is made to sound like a megalomaniacal imbecile and the scenes with the bear and Ma pretending to be the angel Gabriel are farcical enough – but the basic narrative of 1) a coup, 2) the usurper leading an army against the neighbouring country, 3) a counter-coup in the capital city in his absence… Far from being absurd this sounds like the history of too many countries during the twentieth century and of too many post-colonial nations since independence. In other words, many passages of it felt all too realistic.

2. Unfortunately, Jarry’s vision of pointless barbarism was very much overtaken by the events of the twentieth century. Assassinations and coups and the coming to power of brutal tyrants who massacre their own subjects were dwarfed by the horrific regimes of Hitler and Stalin in the mid-century. But as I read the descriptions of Ubu combining real ignorance with terrifying brutality, I couldn’t help thinking of many of the African dictators I was reading about last year, specifically the terrifyingly stupid, cunning and sadistic Idi Amin.

Compared to the real world the Ubu plays come over as what they began as, schoolboy pranks.

Ukraine

Eerie that at the centre of the play is war in Ukraine, then, as now, contested borderlands. Ukraine was destined to be the scene of unbearable suffering in the first half of the twentieth century, long before its present tragedy unfolded.

Influences

I list a few of the artists, musicians and composers who’ve engaged with the Ubu texts in my review of the third play. But here I should mention the splendid American industrial band, Pere Ubu, formed in 1975 and highly influential in the later ’70s and ’80s. They combined fairly standard, if colourful rock grooves with the witch-doctor madness of front man David Thomas. Remember that the first words of Ubu Roi are ‘Merdra, merdra’? Well, they’re refrain of what is maybe Pere Ubu’s best song, Modern Dance (1978).


Credit

I read ‘Ubu Roi’ in the 1968 translation by Cyril Connolly and Simon Watson Taylor, included in ‘The Ubu Plays’, first published by Methuen World Classics in 1968, republished in a new edition in 1993.

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Prester John by John Buchan (1910)

I was going into the black mysterious darkness, peopled by ten thousand cruel foes.
(Davie Crawfurd penetrating the headquarters of the great black rebellion, Prester John page 99)

John Buchan (1875 to 1940) was absolutely determined to be a writer, and started being published while still at university in the 1890s. Prester John was Buchan’s sixth published novel but the first to reach a wide readership, establishing him as a writer of fast-paced adventures in exotic settings.

The historical Prester John

Between about the 12th and 17th centuries stories circulated throughout Europe of a legendary Christian patriarch and king ruling a fabulous kingdom somewhere in ‘the Orient’ named Prester John. At first Prester John’s kingdom was imagined to be in India, later its location moved to Central Asia. As European explorers, starting with the Portuguese in the 16th century, discovered Africa, Prester John’s mythical kingdom was relocated there, starting with the little-known coastal kingdom of Ethiopia, especially once it was understood that Ethiopia was a Christian enclave in what had been thought to be the Muslim world. Later still the mythical kingdom was said to be located somewhere in the African interior. By the time Buchan’s novel was published, most of Africa had been explored and nobody seriously believed in Prester John any more. He had become one among many children’s legends and stories.

Buchan knew about Africa. Soon after leaving university, he had spent two years in South Africa (1901 to 1903) as political private secretary to Lord Milner, High Commissioner for Southern Africa, who many people held responsible for the Boer War which was in its closing phases (it only ended in May 1902).

He puts this knowledge to good use in a story which deliberately harks back to the Africa adventure stories of Henry Rider Haggard, especially the ones about the hero Allan Quatermain, which were still being published when Prester John came out (Haggard novels continued to be published into the late 1920s). Presumably there’s a whole category of these kinds of fictions, given a name like ‘Imperialist Africa fictions’.

Prester John

Prologue with dancing black minister

The opening chapters of Prester John have a very consciously Scottish tone and vocabulary (see the vocabulary list at the end of this review). It opens in the village of Kirkcaple. The boy hero, David Crawfurd’s father is minister of Portincross. A black preacher comes to town and preaches about racial equality. The boy hero has a gang of mates, including Archie Leslie and Tam Dyke. One night they come across the black preacher on the beach, stripped down walking round a fire, lifting his hands to the moon, having drawn symbols in the sand. They creep up closer to get a better view but one of them makes a sound and the infuriated black man chases them up the gully of the stream which feeds down to the beach. David only escapes by throwing rocks in the pursuer’s face.

Next day they see him again, all respectable in his minister’s clothes, being driven in the free Church minister’s trap, gratified to see he has a swollen eye, and two strips of sticking-plaster on his cheek.

Seven years later

Years pass (on page 72 Arcoll states it is seven years since Davie saw Laputa dancing on the shore at Kirkcaple). David finishes his education in Edinburgh and goes on to the university. Then his father dies and his mother can’t live on the tiny pension he bequeaths. An uncle steps in on the basis that Davie and his mum move to Edinburgh. Days later this uncle says he’s had a word with a friend who runs one of the biggest businesses in South Africa – Mackenzie, Mure and Oldmeadows – and has secured him the job of assistant storekeeper at a place called Blaauwildebeestefontein. The general idea is that Davie will be encouraged to open up trade to the area north, becoming a successful entrepreneur or maybe getting involved with gold and diamonds. Better than sitting on a stool in an Edinburgh office.

The journey out

David makes friends with a couple of fellow Scots aboard the ship heading from Southampton to South Africa but gets the shock of his life when one day he sees the black man he hasn’t seen for years, since the incident on the sand, travelling first class. He discovers his name is the Reverend John Laputa. At one point David eavesdrops Laputa conferring with a bad-tempered, ugly-looking baddie named Henriques (‘that ugly yellow villain’).

The ship docks at several places in South Africa, at Cape Town where Henriques disembarks, then Durban where David meets up with his cousin, then with the local manager of the firm he’s going to be employed by, one Mr Colles. Colles briefs him on the place he’s going and why so many previous employees have quit: it’s in the middle of nowhere, there’s hardly any white men to socialise with, but also there’s some kind of religious centre nearby which natives for miles around go on pilgrimage to.

Lourenço Marques

David then takes a small cargo steamer to Lourenço Marques, the capital of Portuguese East Africa, and discovers that none other than his boyhood friend Tam is the second mate. They have a good yarn but are both amazed when, just before the ship sails, none other than the black minster, Mr Laputa, comes hustling up the gangplank. Tam is indignant when he is turned out of his cabin which is given to this VIP passenger.

When the ship docks at Lourenço Marques, Tam takes him to meet a Mr Aitken, ‘landing-agent for some big mining house on the Rand’ who was born and raised in Fife and turns out to have heard David’s father preach in his young days. Within the skeins of the British Empire was this subsidiary matrix of Scotsmen. Aitken gives him another layer of briefing about Blaauwildebeestefontein, namely 1) it’s the location of a wizard famous among the natives and 2) it’s a centre for diamond smuggling.

Blaauwildebeestefontein

After a journey by rail and then rickety ‘Cape cart’ across arid plains, through dusty gorges, David finally makes it to Blaauwildebeestefontein and he discovers it is a one-horse settlement, with just two solid buildings and twenty native huts. He discovers his boss-to-be, Mr Peter Japp, an old, balding, smelly man, passed out in a room reeking of alcohol on a shabby palette bed.

On the ship out from Britain David had met a small modest schoolteacher who, it turned out, was also heading for Blaauwildebeestefontein. Relations with Japp deteriorate, not least because of the appalling way he treats their girl servant Zeeta, one day whipping her till David seizes the whip (sambok) from his hand and promising to whip him (Japp) within an inch of his life if he does it again. At the same time Japp is strangely servile to the big booming black men who patronise the shop.

David buys a dog off a stony-broke prospector, ‘an enormous Boer hunting-dog, a mongrel in whose blood ran mastiff and bulldog and foxhound, and Heaven knows what beside. In colour it was a kind of brindled red, and the hair on its back grew against the lie of the rest of its coat.’ He takes some breaking in but eventually becomes David’s loyal companion. David names him Colin, and the dog proceeds to follow him everywhere and protect him.

Slowly, David comes to realise he is being spied on by natives hiding among bushes during the day and sometimes coming right up to his bedroom window at night.

Umvelos’

David’s manager, Colles, writes to revive an old idea, that he set up a commercial outpost at a place called Umvelos’. David travels half the way there with a convoy of Boers who he comes to admire as rugged honest country folk. Ample descriptions of the countryside, and of the Boers’ culture, tales of hunting, lore about the local tribes, with a sprinkling of Boer vocabulary. He admires the oldest of the party, a farmer called Coetzee, who’s a crack shot with a rifle.

As he penetrates into Africa, he finds people call him Davie.

The Rooirand

Arriving in his own cart at Umvelos’, Davie gets a mix of Dutchmen and natives to build a shop and house. While they do so he explores the mountainous ridge to the north, known as the Rooirand. An extended passage describing his arduous trek there and then dangerous climbing up cracks and chimneys and whatnot. The most significant event is he has made it back down off the cliffs when he becomes aware of someone moving through the jungle, creeps closer, and observes a black in a leopard skin marching towards the cliff face. But when David makes his way through the jungle to the same rockface he discovers the man has disappeared without a trace. Black magic! He half walks half runs away from the area, back along the road towards Umvelos’ where he rendezvous with one of the black workers from the new shop and homestead who was sent to meet him.

‘Mwanga

David arrives back early at Blaauwildebeestefontein and catches Japp discussing stolen diamonds with the most frequent black visitor to the shop, ‘Mwanga. So Japp is a fence for stolen diamonds! David tells Japp he must write a letter to Colles quitting, then leave and not be found within 20 miles or he’ll report him to the police.

Wardlaw’s premonitions

Davie moves in with Mr Wardlaw the schoolteacher who tells him about his paranoid premonition that the native blacks could rise up and massacre all the whites, as in the Indian Mutiny. There seem to be more blacks around than actually live there and the black kids have all stopped coming to his school. Davie calms him down, but moves his own bed out of direct sight of the window, keeps a loaded shotgun by the bed, and has his massive dog Colin sleep close by.

Days pass and the tension, the sense of being spied on and surrounded increases. Henriques pays a visit to Japp who takes him up to his bedroom but Davie is a building across the road and can’t see what they’re discussing, diamonds or the native insurrection Wardlaw is so worried about?

On a walk with Wardlaw they hear a shiver of drums rolling from north to south, are they war drums? A scribbled note arrives with the cryptic message ‘The Blesbok are changing ground’ (p.65). What does it mean? Davie gathers together all the firearms in the shop, plus some knives.

James Arcoll the spy

Late one cold afternoon (the town is on a berg or mountainside) a broken-down old black beggar appears. Davie kindly gives him some meal but then he invites himself inside, makes sure the door is secure, takes off his wig, washes his face and is transformed into Captain James Arcoll. He is, of course, a British Intelligence Officer (p.75) and, first, quizzes Davie about what he knows, then reveals the situation:

The idea is that Prester John was a real historical conqueror, founder of an empire in Ethiopia, as the generations passed, various successors claimed his title and the specificity of the historical figure blurred into legend. The key point is his power came to be associated with a particular fetish, probably a wooden carving. Chaka who built the great Zulu emperor had it but his successors couldn’t find it.

Ethiopianism

Arcoll has found that a black evangelist has been travelling up and down south Africa, preaching the word but going way beyond that and telling his audiences ‘Africa for the Africans’, claiming they can kick out the whites and establish a great empire again. Also known as Ethiopianism.

Laputa the reincarnation of Prester John

There’s a lot of detail (Arcoll has met Laputa disguised as a native in Africa but formally dressed like a white man in Britain, where he addressed Church gatherings and hobnobbed with MPs) but at his meetings with minor chiefs learns that Laputa considers himself the Umkulunkulu, the reincarnated spirit of Prester John, and he owns the Ndhlondhlo, the great snake necklet of Prester John.

Laputa has been making a fortune from the illegal diamond trade, working partly through Henriques, generating a fortune which he has spent arming the different tribes from the Zambezi to the Cape. Davie is stunned when Arcoll tells him the native rising is planned for the day after tomorrow! BUT Davie goes to bed happy and no longer scared. Arcoll has told him that, although Laputa has organised the tribes to rebel he, Arcoll, has also established a network of a) informers in those same tribes and b) alerted the authorities and settlers who are ready to rise up once the rebellion kicks off. So Davie is no longer frit because a) a leader has appeared who is going to take control, and b) far from being alone he’s discovered he’s a part of a huge co-ordinated army.

The plan

Arcoll knows that Laputa is scheduled to meet Henriques next day at Davie’s store, so the conspirators decide it will look perfectly natural if Davie turns up there but surreptitiously tries to gather as much intel as possible about the uprising.

To his horror, en route Davie encounters Laputa. Worth noting that Laputa, despite claiming to be the reincarnation of Prester John, has a far from classical African physiognomy, for Davie recognises ‘the curved nose, the deep flashing eyes, and the cruel lips of my enemy of the Kirkcaple shore.’

Davie the storekeeper

Somehow Laputa gains in stature and presence through the narrative. Davie now observes that he is a massive 6 foot 6 tall, and of ‘noble’ proportions. When Laputa says he’s heading for the store, Davie plays the fool and says he is the storekeeper. He gives Laputa a chair to sit on, shares dinner with him, even gives him a fine cigar, prattles on about how he believes the blacks are fine fellows, better than ‘the dirty whites’, how he hopes Africans will take Africa back for themselves etc, all designed to ingratiate himself with the man he knows is leader of the rebellion. In return Laputa politely warns him to leave this remote outpost and head back to ‘the Berg’, and not tomorrow, but tonight!

Davie spies

Later, Henriques arrives. He and Laputa confer in the outhouse and Davie sneaks through the cellar to eavesdrop. He’s nearly discovered but rushes back to the store and pretends to be dead drunk. Henriques wants to murder Davie in his supposed sleep, but Laputa stays his hand. Soon as they’ve left, Davie scribbles everything he’s heard about Laputa’s plans on a scrap of paper which he ties to the dog’s collar and tells it to run back to Blaauwildebeestefontein. Then Davie steals one of the horses and sets off north to the rendezvous point Laputa had mentioned.

The secret ceremony

Here he arrives and is greeted by black guards and led a merry tour into the face of the cliff, up narrow passages, emerging onto a ledge with a stone bridge across a chasm in which a fierce river flowed, then further in into the mountain till he emerges in a huge open space, one wall of which is a thundering waterfall.

We are, in other words, in the Land of Fantasy, a fantastical setting almost as dazzling as the Lost City in ‘She’. There are some 200 blacks gathered in a circle round an old blind black man with a circlet of gold on his forehead who is obviously ‘The Keeper of the Snake’ who Arcoll described as a key player in the ritual of anointing Laputa the rebel leader. Davie has been accepted because he claimed to be a messenger from Laputa, and he knew the password (‘Immanuel’) which he’s overheard Laputa sharing with Henriques.

Davie witnesses the impressive ritual of the reincarnation of Laputa with the spirit of Prester John, the daubing on the forehead of all present with the blood of a sacrificed goat, and the bestowal on Laputa of an ancient necklace of priceless rubies once worn by the Queen of Sheba, taken from an ivory box

During all this the narrative tells us that Davie is still only nineteen years old! (p.105)

To Davie’s amazement the priest and then Laputa invoke not pagan African gods but Christ and Christianity, a wild incantation, a long recital of glorious rulers from African history – ‘I was horribly impressed’. Once installed, Laputa delivers an awe-inspiring sermon listing all the infamies of the white man and calling on his black brothers to rise and overthrow them. Davie finds himself stirred and displaying fascist tendencies:

I longed for a leader who should master me and make my soul his own, as this man mastered his followers.

(He likes to be mastered. A lot later, when he meets up again and is close to passing out, Arcoll fixes him with his gaze: ‘Arcoll, still holding my hands, brought his face close to mine, so that his clear eyes mastered and constrained me,’ p.164.)

A key part of the vows Laputa makes is that for the next 24 hours nobody will commit any act of violence. As I read this I thought this was pretty much to ensure Davie’s safe escape or at least guarantee that he doesn’t get bumped off when he is discovered, as he surely soon must be.

Then the leaders of all the tribes take turns to kneel and swear allegiance to Laputa. Buchan gives a vivid sense of the varied appearance and appurtenances of the different tribesmen:

Such a collection of races has never been seen. There were tall Zulus and Swazis with ringkops and feather head-dresses. There were men from the north with heavy brass collars and anklets; men with quills in their ears, and earrings and nose-rings; shaven heads, and heads with wonderfully twisted hair; bodies naked or all but naked, and bodies adorned with skins and necklets. Some were light in colour, and some were black as coal; some had squat negro features, and some thin, high-boned Arab faces. But in all there was the air of mad enthusiasm.

Finally, it’s Davie’s turn to advance from the shadows to take the vow and, of course, first Henriques and then Laputa recognise him as the storekeeper, denounce him, he is seized by a hundred hands, beaten and passes out.

Tied to a horse

When he comes to Davie finds he is, of course, bound hand and foot and tied to the horse of none other than Mwanga, the domineering black who Japp fawned over and Davie chased out of the store. Now he has his revenge, gloating over Davie’s capture. The entire black army is marching south for a rendezvous with more forces at a place called Dupree’s Drift. Haggard and almost delirious from exhaustion and lack of food, nonetheless Davie estimates the black army at maybe 20,000 strong (!).

Finally there’s a break in the marching and a ‘savage’ looking native comes to check his bonds and give him some food but then whispers and turns out to be a messenger from Arcoll. Improbably enough his dog, Colin, got back to Blaauwildebeestefontein, Arcoll found him and read the message i.e. that the black army was going to march south to Dupree’s Drift. The messenger tells Davie that Arcoll will start firing just before the army gets to the drift at which point the native will cut his bonds and Davie can scamper free.

Along comes Henriques who stands gloating over him but then leans down and whispers that, actually, he is loyal to the white man’s cause, that he never killed the Boers he claimed to have, and that he’s on Davie’s side. I thought this might be an interesting development but Davie lets fly a deluge of insults and accusations and Henriques spits in his face before ordering a nearby African to tighten Davie’s bonds.

Henriques, looking tall despite being described in the text as short and slight, gloating over our hero, Davie, looking surprisingly fresh-faced for someone the text describes as dirty and fainting with hunger. Illustration by Henry Clarence Pitz (1910)

The ambush at Dupree’s Drift

At sunset they reach Dupree’s Drift and the army are half-way across the ford, and the litter carrying the priest bearing the ivory box containing the ruby necklace are precisely half-way across, when firing breaks out from a bluff on the other side. It is Arcoll and the white men, as arranged. As promised the African leading Davie falls to cutting through his bonds. However, firing hits the litter bearers from somewhere much closer. Once Davie is free he realises it’s Henriques who has only one motive, to seize the priceless necklace. He is a crack shot and shoots several of the litter guards and then the old priest himself.

It is now almost dark and Davie trails Henriques into the shallow water, watches him take the ivory box from the dead priest’s hand, open it and extract the ruby necklace. He is just standing up with it when Davie cracks him one on the chin, knocking him out, grabs the necklace, stuffs it in his breeches’ pocket. But instead of running downstream and crossing somewhere safe to join Arcoll’s men on the bluff, in the heat of the moment, scared by the size of the black army and the fact Laputa was riding back across the drift towards him, Davie bolted back up the track they’d come along.

Davie’s flight

After the initial buzz of the battle and his punch have calmed down, he realises he has a march of something like 30 miles to the West to ‘the Berg’ or the foothills to the mountains, which he regards as ‘white man’s territory’, ‘white men and civilisation’. For some reason the cool hills he regards as ‘white’ and the hot plains as ‘black’.

An exciting account of Davie’s feverish scared trek across wild African country, involving crossing two rivers, in one of which he manages to lose the revolver he’d nicked from Henriques. The stars are bright in the big black sky.

It was very eerie moving, a tiny fragment of mortality, in that great wide silent wilderness, with the starry vault, like an impassive celestial audience, watching with many eyes.

Davie is caught

Dawn shows him he is not far from the first glen which will lead him up into the safety of the mountains but at that moment he is cut off by black scouts who have beaten him to it. He makes it into the glen and climbs a good way through its varied terrain including jungle, but comes out to see a number of black figures spread out ahead of him. He slips into a side glen, slips off the necklace and places it in a cleft in rocks which gives onto a still shallow pool. Then he returns to face the men who are from Machudi’s tribe and explain they’ve been ordered to capture and bring Davie to Laputa. They treat him well, giving him food and letting him sleep before they set off back east and south to the place Laputa had appointed for meeting place of the tribes, Inanda’s Kraal.

At Inanda’s Kraal

He is too weak to walk and has to be carried in a litter which Machudi’s men efficiently construct. Description of the long trek and final arrival at Inanda’s Krall. Here all is pandemonium because the 24 hours of peace the vow pledged the army to make has lapsed and now scores of natives crowd round Davie threatening him with their assegais or spears. He sees Laputa surrounded by lesser chiefs and strides boldly over towards him. Laputa weighs him up, says it was folly to try and escape and tells his men to take Davie to his kya or hut, but Davie makes an impassioned attack on Henriques as the real traitor. Henriques lurches forward and goes for his pistol to shoot Davie. In that second Colin leaps forward and pushes Henriques to the ground but the Portuguese gets his gun hand free and shoots Colin three times. End of faithful hound.

Davie leaps forward but is soundly beaten and pricked by some of the spears before a final blow knocks him senseless.

Davie bargains for his freedom

When he comes round it is in a darkened hut being spoken to softly by Laputa who describes in detail the sadistic tortured death he is about to meet. Davie responds that Laputa needs the necklace. Laputa loses his temper and says is Davie so stupid as to believe his power derives from a petty trinket. He has the ivory box and if he chooses not to open it nobody will be any the wiser.

“Imbecile, do you think my power is built on a trinket? When you are in your grave, I will be ruling a hundred millions from the proudest throne on earth.” (p.147)

Davie is inspired to offer him a deal. Give him his life and he will lead him to where he hid the necklace. Even if his men torture him he wouldn’t be able to describe where it is, because he doesn’t know the country well enough. Laputa hesitates then accepts the deal. He has Davie blindfolded and shackled to his horse which he then rides at a slow trot so that Davie can just about keep up, stumbling and nearly falling.

Shattered David Crawfurd tethered to the horse of Laputa as they go off in search of Prester John’s necklace. Note Laputa’s angular features, more like a native American than an African. Illustration by Henry Clarence Pitz (1910)

Journey back to the Berg

It’s a long trek. At one point Davie asks Laputa how, as a sincere Christian, he can unleash a bloodbath against the whites. Laputa replies briskly that a) Christ turfed the moneychangers out of the temple and said he came to bring a sword b) Christianity in the intervening centuries has had many bloody reformations c) the Africans are ‘his people’.

After a long trek with various incidents they arrive at the glen where Davie hid the necklace. He has to be untied to clamber up the rocks and waterfalls to the pool where he hid it. He finds it and hands it to Laputa who transforms into ‘savage’ mode, demanding that Davie bow down to it.

At the sight of the great Snake he gave a cry of rapture. Tearing it from me, he held it at arm’s length, his face lit with a passionate joy. He kissed it, he raised it to the sky; nay, he was on his knees before it. Once more he was the savage transported in the presence of his fetish. He turned to me with burning eyes. “Down on your knees,” he cried, “and reverence the Ndhlondhlo. Down, you impious dog, and seek pardon for your sacrilege.” (p.157)

Davie escapes

Laputa’s anger distract him while Davie backs away up a ledge and works loose a big rock which he topples into the pool momentarily blinding Laputa with the splash. In that moment Davie is away up a ‘chimney’ in the cliff, staggers out onto the grassy top, leaps onto Laputa’s horse and, as the latter fires shots at him, gallops away, to safety!

I found the bridle, reached for the stirrups, and galloped straight for the sunset and for freedom. (p.159)

Pulp fiction (or what Buchan in the dedication to The Thirty-Nine Steps calls ‘shockers’) delivers simple, simple narrative pleasures.

Looking back

He rides through meadows as the sun sets, in a kind of transport of delight, delivered from the constant fear of death that has hung over him. Reminiscent of another boys’ adventure story, ‘Moonfleet’, which I’ve just read, the narrator is obviously writing some considerable time later, as a mature man looking back on the immature actions of his 19-year-old self.

Remember that I was little more than a lad, and that I had faced death so often of late that my mind was all adrift. (p.160)

Davie at Arcoll’s camp

But after the initial euphoria wears off he realises he has a duty to find Arcoll’s camp and warn him that Laputa is nearby and cut off from his army. An hour passes till his horse stumbles out of woods onto a path where a figure approaches. It is a white man who helps exhausted Davie out of the saddle then he hears the voice of Aitken, the Scot he met at Lourenco Marques. By luck (!) Arcoll’s camp is only 200 yards away and soon Davie is telling his story, but through a tide of weariness, barely able to remember. But he conveys the crucial fact that Laputa is without a horse, on foot and will have to cross the very road Davie has just reached i.e. if Arcoll can line the road with his men they can capture Laputa and prevent an Armageddon of bloodshed!

Davie passes out and so has the rest of the adventure told him later by Arcoll and Aitken. The trope of his narrative being set down much later is emphasised by mention of a two-volume history of the abortive rising which he is looking at as he writes i.e. it must be some years later.

The war against the rebels

Long story short, the various forces (Boer commandos, farmers, loyal blacks) deployed along the road force Laputa to try all kinds of angles to get south but in the end he is turned north, joining up at one point with Henriques, and the pair are forced all the way back to the cavern

Meanwhile Davie sleeps for 24 hours but has fever dreams in which he, spookily and supernaturally, sees Laputa meet up with Henriques, the pair swimming the river, arriving at the very store he had set up and spied on them at, then heading further north. In his exhausted feverish sate, Davie knows they are heading for the holy cave and feels it somehow his duty to find and confront them. He staggers out of the tent where he’s been sleeping, orders an astonished native to fetch him the same horse that he arrived on, and then he’s off for the final climactic 20 pages of the book.

Back at the secret cavern

He rides in a dream but nerveless, cold, sober, unafraid. He thinks he is riding to meet his God-given destiny and that he, Henriques and Laputa will somehow all died in the holy cavern. After riding all night he arrives at the cliff face where he had been brought four long days ago.

I marched up the path to the cave, very different from the timid being who had walked the same road three nights before. Then my terrors were all to come: now I had conquered terror and seen the other side of fear. I was centuries older. (p.175)

At the entrance to the path up to the cave Davie discovers Henriques’ body, His neck has been broken. But there is blood on his clothes and he finds his revolver nearby with two chambers empty. Henriques must have shot Laputa, hoping at the last to get his hands on the black man’s accumulated treasure, and wounded him, but Laputa still sprang at him and strangled him to death.

Vivid description of Davie retracing his steps through the various obstacles, the secret stone entrance, up the narrow steps, across the perilous rock bridge etc, and finally into the cavern. Here he finds Laputa badly wounded and bleeding from his side, kneeling before the ashes of the fire which had burned so brightly during the ceremony.

Death of Laputa

It takes Laputa ten pages to die during which he a) shows David all the chests and coffers filled with gold and jewels which he has amassed b) throws into the abyss the stone bridge over the river, cutting off Davie’s escape and c) maunders on at length about how he would have created a legendary kingdom and ruled his people wisely and well. Now his race will go down as drudges and slaves. At which he ceremonially clasps John’s necklace round his neck and throws himself into the cascade of water which runs along one wall of the cavern and is gone. A grand, romantic ending.

Davie climbs to freedom

At first Davie is overcome with lassitude and indifference sitting staring at the cascade. Only slowly does the will to live return. Then there is an epic description of his heroic act of climbing up the rock face, onto a tiny spur of rock jutting out of the cascade and so by slow painful ascent eventually up out of the cleft in the rock and into the joy of sunlight and the joy of lying on fresh turf. Saved!

It is very noticeable the way Buchan associates the binary worlds of darkness and light, the subterranean cave and the sunlit plateau, with savagery and civilisation.

Here was a fresh, clean land, a land for homesteads and orchards and children. All of a sudden I realized that at last I had come out of savagery. The burden of the past days slipped from my shoulders. I felt young again, and cheerful and brave. Behind me was the black night, and the horrid secrets of darkness. Before me was my own country, for that loch and that bracken might have been on a Scotch moor. (p.189)

Going over to the external cliff face he looks down, far down to the foot of the cliff, and sees the body of Henriques and two whites beside it, his friends Aitken and Wardle. Saved.

Epilogue

The uprising continued but without Laputa’s leadership degenerated into guerrilla warfare, inevitable white victory followed by white reprisals and then the magnanimous gesture of an official amnesty for the chiefs involved. Davie is brought to Arcoll and tells him about his escape and about the treasure. Thus Arcoll learns that Laputa is dead and is silent a long time. As for the treasure, he says it should be Davie’s reward.

The final act comes as Davie is involved in debate about what to do about the rebel army now surrounded in Inkana’s Kraal. The white forces could shell them then attack, but Davie has a brainwave. Rather than a bloodbath Davie suggests they walk in under a flag of truce and offer the rebels a decent deal – and this is what they do.

They’re allowed in and Arcoll makes a speech to the chiefs about the white man’s justice but it doesn’t move them. In desperation he calls on Davie to talk and Davie delivers a moving account of his last encounter with Laputa and the death of their leader. He describes it with respect and the chiefs respect him for it. One by one they lay down their arms.

And so the entire army is disarmed section by section, a prolonged process lasting months. Davie then delivers a controversial passage about the white man’s burden:

Yet it was an experience for which I shall ever be grateful, for it turned me from a rash boy into a serious man. I knew then the meaning of the white man’s duty. He has to take all risks, recking nothing of his life or his fortunes, and well content to find his reward in the fulfilment of his task.

That is the difference between white and black, the gift of responsibility, the power of being in a little way a king; and so long as we know this and practise it, we will rule not in Africa alone but wherever there are dark men who live only for the day and their own bellies.

Moreover, the work made me pitiful and kindly. I learned much of the untold grievances of the natives, and saw something of their strange, twisted reasoning. Before we had got Laputa’s army back to their kraals, with food enough to tide them over the spring sowing, Aitken and I had got sounder policy in our heads than you will find in the towns, where men sit in offices and see the world through a mist of papers. (p.198)

This passage combines the patronising patriarchalism of the colonial mentality with, towards the end, the endlessly repeated complaint from white men on the ground about their higher-ups not understanding the reality of colonial rule. This is a note sounded again and again by Kipling but also, 60 years later, attributed to the white colonial officials in Chinua Achebe’s Africa trilogy.

Finally, Arcoll supervises white soldiers blowing open the secret rock entrance to the steps up to the cavern, they throw planks across the chasm, and so liberate the boxes of treasure. The government intervenes and diamond companies lay claim to the stolen diamonds, but Davie had become a popular hero especially for the parlay with the chiefs which persuaded them to end the uprising without bloodshed and so he is awarded some of the gold and diamonds to the eventual tune of a quarter of a million pounds.

Davie goes home

He takes the train to Cape Town puzzled and perplexed by his sudden fortune, wondering what to do. He bumps into his old friend Tam who he treats to a luxury dinner. It’s a way of rehabilitating himself (and the reader) back from the realm of Adventure into the prosaic world of the everyday. We feel like we are being eased gently back into the real world.

The text finishes with the idea that two years later Aitken finds the pipe from which the biggest diamonds in Laputa’s treasure had been taken, sets up a lucrative mining business but spends a lot of the profits setting up a college for young Blacks, technical training, experimental farms, modern agriculture.

There are playing-fields and baths and reading-rooms and libraries just as in a school at home.

The white man’s burden. Well, this could either be described from a white perspective as philanthropy and development or, as in the novels of Chinua Achebe and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, as deracination and cultural destruction.

In charge is Mr Wardle, the very schoolmaster Davie met on the voyage out and who at one time ran the dusty little classroom in Blaauwildebeestefontein. How far they have both come since then.

The many faces of John Laputa

I was hypnotised by the man. To see him going out was like seeing the fall of a great mountain.

Laputa is obviously the centre of the story and the narrative does a good job of developing a kind of cult around him. The seeds is sown on that fateful night on the Fife shore but once we’re in South Africa, and meet the savvy intelligence officer Arcoll, the latter massively expands Laputa’s cult image with his tales of meeting the black leader in various settings, concluding that he is:

‘The biggest thing that the Kaffirs have ever produced. I tell you, in my opinion he is a great genius. If he had been white he might have been a second Napoleon. He is a born leader of men, and as brave as a lion. There is no villainy he would not do if necessary, and yet I should hesitate to call him a blackguard. Ay, you may look surprised at me, you two pragmatical Scotsmen; but I have, so to speak, lived with the man for months, and there’s fineness and nobility in him. He would be a terrible enemy, but a just one. He has the heart of a poet and a king, and it is God’s curse that he has been born among the children of Ham. I hope to shoot him like a dog in a day or two, but I am glad to bear testimony to his greatness.’

And this is all before we meet Laputa again about half-way through the book and learn of his plan to reincarnate the power of Prester John and lead a black uprising. What’s interesting (maybe) is the way Buchan attributes to Laputa such a variety of facets or personalities. There is the Christian preacher. The suited mover and shaker in meetings of MPs. The educated scholar who can quote Latin. The inspiring leader and general. The awesome figure at the centre of a thrilling religious ceremony. And the ‘bloodthirsty savage’.

This multifacetedness is all made explicit in the last scene, as Laputa kneels dying:

He had ceased to be the Kaffir king, or the Christian minister, or indeed any one of his former parts. Death was stripping him to his elements, and the man Laputa stood out beyond and above the characters he had played, something strange, and great, and moving, and terrible. (p.178)

On the face of it this multifacetedness builds up his stature as a Prize Baddie. But from another, more pragmatic point of view, it allows Buchan to write about him in different ways – I mean it gives Buchan the opportunity of using different baddie tropes.

Or, if you want an interpretation which foregrounds Buchan’s racism I suppose it could be interpreted as Buchan implying that not far below the surface of even the most ‘civilised’ black person lurks the ‘bloodthirsty savage’.

To really assess where Buchan stands in this regard, I think you’d have to be familiar with pulp adventure tropes of the time. For example, mention of Napoleon made me think of Sherlock Holmes’s adversary, Professor Moriarty, regularly described as ‘the Napoleon of Crime’ and who is, like Holmes himself, a master of disguise. But I wonder if other pulp characters, such as Sax Rohmer’s Fu Manchu, are described in a similar way. I wonder whether multifacetedness is in some deep way the hallmark of the stage or pulp villain?

More recently, and in a much more grown-up novel, Giles Foden’s terrifying book The Last King of Scotland contains a sustained portrait of Ugandan dictator Idi Amin which makes it clear that a lot of his success was down to his terrifying unpredictability, moving from genuine laughter and bonhomie to loud anger, from civilised plans for his country to personally overseeing torture and executions, in a completely arbitrary way which kept everyone, even his closest entourage and family, on permanent tenterhooks.

So maybe what at first glance seems like a fictional trope in fact reflects the real world where real (male) terror figures are partly so scary because of their many faces and the unpredictability with which they move between them.

(Actually, I’ve just read commentary on Buchan’s 1916 novel ‘The Power-House’ where critics are quoted as saying that the central obsession of all Buchan’s fiction was the thin dividing line between civilisation and barbarism, that the novel contains the most famous line in all his works, when the baddie tells the hero ‘You think that a wall as solid as the earth separates civilisation from barbarism. I tell you the division is a thread, a sheet of glass’ (the Power-House, chapter 3). So maybe it isn’t a sentiment targeted specifically at Blacks, but just the local expression of the deep fear he felt about all supposedly civilised men or societies: one blow hard enough and they crumble.)

(Incidentally, the fact that ‘Napoleon’ was the stock go-to name for great leaders is reinforced by the incident in Buchan’s comic novel John McNab, where a housekeeper is said to have handled a horde of over-inquisitive reporters ‘like Napoleon’ (World Classics edition page 148), and by the five references to Napoleon in his short novel, The Power-House.)

Race

The book is so drenched in the racial attitudes of its time that it’s hard to know where to start. Buchan’s narrator takes it for granted that white man’s rule is just and inevitable. As so often in this kind of colonial writing, the narrator is alive to the native’s grievances, the way their culture has been erased by the white man who has seized all the best land for himself etc – all this is explicitly stated in Laputa’s rabble-rousing speech – yet at the same time ignores it and depicts Laputa’s goal of rousing the Africans to overthrow white rule as ‘treason’, ‘treachery’ and betrayal.

When they are submissive passive objects of the white gaze, then the white master can indulge a kind of patronising aesthetic appreciation of black bodies – hence the narrator’s repeated admiration of Laputa’s stunning physical magnificence and charisma, and Arcoll’s admiration of him as a black Napoleon.

I forgot all else in my admiration of the man. In his minister’s clothes he had looked only a heavily built native, but now in his savage dress I saw how noble a figure he made. He must have been at least six feet and a half, but his chest was so deep and his shoulders so massive that one did not remark his height.

But as soon as these black bodies start to display agency i.e. a determination to reclaim their ancestral land (a cause which must have awakened some stirrings in a Scot like Buchan, whose own country had been absorbed by the English, whose own traditional warriors i.e. the Highland clans, had been disarmed and disempowered) then they suddenly become ‘savages’, routinely described as ‘bloodthirsty’, ‘maddened savages’, ‘the wave of black savagery seemed to close over my head’.

And once Davie is among the black army, the narrative lets rip with a whole series of racial stereotypes:

To be handled by a multitude of Kaffirs is like being shaken by some wild animal. Their skins are insensible to pain, and I have seen a Zulu stand on a piece of red-hot iron without noticing it till he was warned by the smell of burning hide…

You know how a native babbles and chatters over any work he has to do. It says much for Laputa’s iron hand that now everything was done in silence…

A Kaffir cannot wink, but he has a way of slanting his eyes which does as well, and as we moved on he would turn his head to me with this strange grimace. (p.119)

It was Laputa’s voice, thin and high-pitched, as the Kaffir cries when he wishes his words to carry a great distance.

A note on ‘Kaffir’

To paraphrase Wikipedia:

The term was used for any black person during the Apartheid and Post-Apartheid eras, closely associated with South African racism. It became a pejorative by the mid-20th century and is now considered extremely offensive hate speech. Punishing continuing use of the term was one of the concerns of the Promotion of Prevention of Unfair Discrimination Act enacted by the South African parliament in 2000 and it is now euphemistically addressed as the K-word in South African English.

I’ve only just read this and discovered how offensive the word is. Obviously I am citing quotes which include it precisely to show the negative way it’s used by Buchan. But now I’m aware, I’ll make every effort not to use it in my own prose.

Bravery

Of course Buchan was not so consumed with the issue of race as we are nowadays. The issues were much simpler and untroubled for him. Instead, the novel contains a number of reflections on the nature of bravery and duty which were probably more salient for its Edwardian readers.

As to duty, the several occasions when Davie’s conscience overrides his animal wish for safety, compelling him to do the right thing for ‘his own people’, for the white race. I’m thinking of his realisation that instead of merely escaping on Laputa’s horse, he must actively seek out Arcoll in order to isolate Laputa north of the highway and thus cut of the general from his army, nipping the uprising in the bud. As to courage, he reflects on its nature half a dozen times, including right at the end when he and Arcoll walk into the rebel stronghold:

I believed that in this way most temerarious deeds are done; the doer has become insensible to danger, and his imagination is clouded with some engrossing purpose. (p.195)

Thoughts

Possibly other considerations distracted me (I read it at a time when I was very busy with work) but I found the book hard to get into. The word that initially came to mind was ‘forced’: Buchan’s narrator tells the reader he is embarking on an adventure rather than showing it. On the face of it, Davie is going to Africa to work in a shop, nothing very adventurous about that. OK, he recognises a black man he saw in outlandish circumstances in Scotland on the boat out but, again, there’s nothing desperately exciting about this.

For the first 80 pages or so, it felt like Buchan was telling us to be excited when I didn’t feel at all gripped. Even when Davie begins to suspect he’s being spied on, it doesn’t really make sense why Laputa’s people should spy on a teenage shop assistant. For quite a while the narrative tells us that it’s all a huge adventure before the adventure actually arrives. It doesn’t quite hang together.

The adventure only really kicks in when Arcoll wipes off his disguise as old black man, reveals the scope of the conspiracy – i.e. a mass uprising of Blacks across South Africa – and that it’s going to kick off tomorrow! From that point onwards the adventure really does kick in and I found it much more readable and gripping.

Different vocabularies

Obviously, most of the text is written in standard English but Buchan makes surprisingly extensive use of terms from other languages. At the start of the book, set in rural Fife, he deliberately deploys Scottish dialect words, including one in the very first sentence – ‘I mind as if it were yesterday my first sight of the man’ – where the Scottish word ‘mind’ stands for the English word ‘remember’. Later on, once he’s arrived in Africa, the text becomes littered with words of Afrikaner or Boer i.e. Dutch origin (although Scots keeps glimmering through the text as well).

Scottish vocabulary

  • to bide – stay or remain somewhere
  • a brae – a steep bank or hillside
  • a burn – a stream
  • a burnfoot – place at the foot of a burn or stream
  • a cockloft – a small upper loft under the ridge of a roof
  • to collogue – talk confidentially or conspiratorially
  • a fanner – a wind machine that blows away the husks during the process of threshing wheat
  • to fling up (a game) – to give up
  • to fossick – to rummage
  • a glen – a narrow valley
  • a glim – a candle or lantern
  • to grue – to shiver or shudder especially with fear or cold
  • hotching – swarming
  • a linn – a waterfall or the pool below a waterfall
  • ower – Scots for ‘over’
  • podley – a young or small coalfish
  • scrog – a stunted shrub, bush, or branch
  • a shebeen – an unlicensed establishment or private house selling alcohol and typically regarded as slightly disreputable (also Irish and South African)
  • a stell – a shelter for cattle or sheep built on moorland or hillsides
  • thrawn – twisted, crooked
  • whins – gorse bushes

Afrikaner vocabulary

  • battue of dogs
  • a baviaan – baboon
  • a blesbok – a kind of antelope
  • an indaba – a discussion or conference
  • a kaross – a rug or blanket of sewn animal skins, formerly worn as a garment by African people, now used as a bed or floor covering
  • a kopje – a small hill in a generally flat area
  • a kloof – a steep-sided, wooded ravine or valley
  • knobkerrie – a short stick with a knob at the top, traditionally used as a weapon by some indigenous peoples of South Africa
  • a kraal – an enclosure, either around native huts, forming a village, or an enclosure for livestock
  • a laager – an encampment formed by a circle of wagons and, by extension, an entrenched position or viewpoint defended against opponents
  • a naachtmaal – the Communion Sabbath
  • outspan – verb: to unharness (an animal) from a wagon. noun: a place for grazing or camping on a wagon journey
  • a reim – a strip of oxhide, deprived of hair and made pliable, used for twisting into ropes
  • a ring-kop – the circlet into which Zulu warriors weave their hair
  • a rondavel – a traditional circular African dwelling with a conical thatched roof
  • a schimmel – type of stallion
  • a sjambok – long, stiff whip, originally made of rhinoceros hide
  • Skellum! Skellum – rascal
  • a spruit – a small watercourse, typically dry except during the rainy season
  • a stope – a veranda in front of a house
  • a vlei – a shallow pond or marsh of a seasonal or intermittent nature

Plus a number of Afrikaans names for plants and animals e.g. tambuki grass, eland, koodoo, rhebok, springbok, duikers, hartebeest, klipspringer, koorhan

African vocabulary

Part of the problem or challenge for the white colonials was that there were so many tribes and cultures and languages in Africa, which they rode roughshod over. I’m aware that words here come from different languages but I’m trying to keep these headings simple and also couldn’t always find which language a specific word comes from. I like the flavour of diverse and novel words but I’m not an expert in them.

  • assegai – the slender javelin or spear of the Bantu-speaking people of southern Africa
  • dacha – hemp or marijuana
  • impi – an armed band of Zulus involved in urban or rural conflict
  • induna – a tribal councillor or headman
  • the Inkula – title applied only to the greatest chiefs
  • isetembiso sami – very sacred thing
  • a kya – Zulu for hut
  • a tsessebe – a species of buck, famous for its speed

Rare English words

  • to snowk – to smell something intensely by pushing your nose into it like a dog (Yorkshire)

European vocabulary

  • en cabochon – (of a gem) polished but not faceted (French)
  • machila – a kind of litter (Portuguese)

Conrad

The morning after he witnesses the great inauguration of Laputa, Davie reflects: ‘Last night I had looked into the heart of darkness, and the sight had terrified me.’ Joseph Conrad’s great novella Heart of Darkness had been published just ten years earlier (1899 to Prester John’s 1910). Presumably this a deliberate reference to it? The fact that writers as wildly diverse as John Buchan and Chinua Achebe felt compelled to quote or reference Conrad, is testament to the huge imaginative shadow cast by his famous novella.

The Thirty-Nine Steps

In a sense ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’ takes up where ‘Prester John’ leaves off. ‘Prester John’ ends with the young hero returning to England having made his fortune in Africa (if not quite in the way his uncle imagined he would) and not sure what to do next. ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’ opens with the hero, Richard Hannay, having just returned to England from Africa (from Buluwayo in modern-day Zimbabwe, to be precise) having made his fortune and discovering that … he is bored (‘I was the best bored man in the United Kingdom’, page 1) – boredom, in Buchan, invariably being the prelude to an exciting new adventure!


Credit

Prester John by John Buchan was published in 1910 by T. Nelson & Sons. References are to the 1987 Penguin paperback edition.

Related links

John Buchan reviews

The Night Wanderers: Uganda’s Children and the Lord’s Resistance Army by Wojchiec Jagielski (2009)

Warning: this review contains graphic descriptions of torture and mutilation.

Were you forced to kill any of your relatives or neighbours?
Were you forced to chop off people’s hands or feet with a machete?
Were you forced to gouge out people’s eyes?
Were you forced to rape women?
Were you forced to burn people alive?

(Part of the questionnaire given to freed child soldiers in north Uganda, quoted in The Night Wanderers, page 38)

Wojchiec Jagielski

Wojchiec Jagielski is a Polish journalist who specialises in reporting from the world’s worst conflicts. Hence, for example, ‘Towers of Stone’, his 2009 book about the gruesome brutal wars in Chechnya, along with books on Afghanistan and South Africa.

But it’s not not just reporting – Jagielski is interested in the psychology created by terrible conflicts and, beyond that, in the voodoo, spectral elements, the worlds beyond normal human experience which extreme situations create, the deprivation, degradation, demoralisation spread over long periods, which create new psychic zones.

For this reason – for Jagielski’s interest in moods and alternative states and his interest in depicting them in prose which is often more about poetry and fleeting perceptions than the journalist’s tradition fare of facts and dates – he has often been compared to the famous master of such writing and fellow Pole, Ryszard Kapuściński.

No surprise that snippets of praise from Kapuściński are found on the jackets of Jagielski’s books (”A stunning and beautiful book…Jagielski has scaled the heights of reportage’), or that Kapuściński wrote the introduction to one of his books, or that this very book was nominated for the Ryszard Kapuściński Prize.

Part 1 (Gulu and its night wanderers)

Ugandan elections 2006

The Night Wanderers is set in Uganda in 2006. Nominally Jagielski was in Uganda to cover the February 2006 general election and party politics are, accordingly, described in part 2. But the meat of the book is his descriptions of the appalling plight of the thousands of children abducted by the rebel group, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), led by the psychopath Joseph Kony. J.M. Barrie wrote about the Lost Boys but it was a fairy tale compared to this lost generation of Ugandan children.

The Acholi

The north of Uganda is inhabited by the Acholi people. Some 2 million of them have been driven out of their villages, forced to abandon their homes, their fields and crops, to leave behind the graveyards full of ancestral spirits, and instead herded into about 200 refugee camps where they have built huts and live, but which they can never regard as home.

Exemplary cruelty

The rebels terrify civilians by attacking villages, hacking people to death with machetes, chopping off their hands, slitting their throats, clubbing them to death, hacking them to pieces with axes, raping the women, herding people into huts and burning them alive. The cruelty is exemplary: it is punishment for not believing in the wonderfulness of Joseph Kony, and also to terrify entire regions into submission. Thus:

On the orders of their commanders, the guerrillas killed the villagers in extremely cruel ways. They butchered and burned them alive, forced the prisoners to commit cannibalism and infanticide. They raped and tortured, cut off people’s lips, gouged out their eyes, and chopped off their hands and feet. They left behind bloodied corpses and gutted houses. (p.138)

(Why does the LRA cut off people’s lips? As a warning to others not to report encounters with them to the authorities or to the Ugandan Army, p.296.)

Refugee village headman

Jagielski meets Abola Imbakasi, headman of one such refugee camp, Palenga. His meek son, Robert, was taken by the guerrillas for 3 months (p.18). On returning he had to be exorcised by a priest but is still not the same. His mind has been permanently damaged by what he saw and was forced to do.

The children’s treatment centre

Jagielski meets Nora who runs a rehabilitation centre (a ‘children’s treatment centre’) for children who’ve escaped or been rescued from the guerrillas. All of them have killed, multiple times. Jagielski watches one of the therapy methods which is to let them act out what they did as a kind of gruesome pantomime, some of them acting out their own roles, some of them playing the villagers who they hacked, burned, tortured, shot and burned. The terrible questionnaire (p.38).

The journalist’s responsibility

Jagielski explains that he’s never had problems interviewing the commanders and leaders who order massacres and atrocities. They’re always confident it was the only way to achieve justice or peace. They are always full of excuses, justifications and blame others (see Putin’s justifications for murdering civilians in Ukraine).

In his experience it is always much harder talking to the victims of atrocities. For many their story, their experience, is all they have left. Therefore sharing it with a journalist is like a precious trust. Part of which is they think that by sharing their story, it will bring about justice in the outside world, and will bring them peace and closure. It is far harder dealing with these poor people when neither of those things happen, when the world doesn’t suddenly galvanise itself to address their wrongs, when they are left feeling even worse than they did before they told their stories (p.33).

Rebel magic

The ferocity of the attackers, the way they chiefly emerged at night, the way they hid in the jungle and picked off anyone foolish enough to stray into the darker jungle, all this gave rise to folk stories and legends: that they could dematerialise at will, could appear anywhere like witches, had magical powers, that they change the children they kidnapped from humans into savage animals (p.39)

And indeed, villagers, adults, normal civilians who haven’t been inducted, regard returnees from the rebels as ‘spirits of the forest’, as bewitched, soulless, voodoo, jinxed, bad luck (p.49).

Initiation killing

Jagielski learns from Nora’s interviews with countless child soldiers how new initiates into the LRA were forced at gunpoint to murder their own fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, best friends, neighbours, in front of everyone, in front of plenty of witnesses, because then there was no going back, then they were forced to stay. This was the initiation ceremony into the Lord’s Army (p.45).

The boy Samuel

Jagielski is particularly interested in interviewing Samuel, who was abducted at age 9 and was soon afterwards forced to kill his first person, a boy from his village, and whose story Jagielski tries to piece together. Nora tells him the best age to create a child soldier is 9, old enough to be independent, young enough not to really know right and wrong. Mouldable (p.57).

Jackson the journalist

After trips to refugee camps or to interview the children, Jagielski returns to the bar at Franklin’s Inn where he regularly meets Jackson, now a radio journalist, himself inducted into the guerrillas many years earlier. Jackson plays the role of sardonic, satirical commentator on Jagielski’s efforts, claiming that no matter how many questions he asks, he’ll never understand what it’s like (p.46).

Atrocities

The narrative is regularly punctuated by descriptions of the most appalling atrocities, for example on pages 45, 50, 72, 138, 144, 146,

When they had finished their interrogation, the older guerrillas started killing the villagers. The commanders forbade them from shooting unnecessarily, to save bullets, and also because the noise of shots would alert the army. The peasants were tied up and made to lie on the ground, as the guerrillas unhurriedly murdered them one by one – men, women, old people, and also small children who weren’t fit to be prisoners. They killed them with machetes, axes, hoes and large knives usually used as agricultural tools. None of the villagers put up resistance or fought for their lives. Terror and a sense of doom had taken away their capacity for any kind of action. (p.137)

Or the story (repeated twice) of the LRA attack on a funeral procession when they forced the mourners to cook and eat the remains of the deceased, allegedly on the orders of Onen Kamdalu (p.241).

Gulu

Jagielski bases himself in Gulu, administrative capital of north central Uganda and each evening observes the same eerie ritual: every evening as the sun sets thousands of children (as many as 15,000) arrive having trekked from all the surrounding villages, for their own safety, to avoid the risk of being kidnapped and conscripted by the LRA. It is this silent army of forlorn children who arrive every evening and make beds in public spaces and on the sidewalks, who Nora calls ‘the Night Wanderers’ which give the book its title (p.58).

Jagielski describes the arrival of these tens of thousands of silent children in spooky spectral terms. The way the town of Gulu changed its atmosphere. the way adults departed abandoned the streets to the thousands of ghostly children. The peculiar way these children inspired irrational fear in the adult population, harbingers of evil (p.59).

Jagielski tells us he stayed at the Acholi Inn Hotel (p.91). This is a real place, still exists, and you can book a stay there, if you want.

Jagielski tells the history of how Uganda was created as a nation by the British, yoking together completely different peoples and tribes, the Buganda – agriculturalists – in the south, the Acholi, Lango and other peoples who lived by grazing and cattle, in the north.

Milton Obote and Yoweri Museveni

At independence in 1962 the British tried to reconcile these different peoples, making Milton Obote from the Lango tribe prime minister and the king of the Buganda, Frederick Mutesa II, president. But in 1966 Obote overthrew Mutesa and declared himself president. In 1971 Obote was overthrown by his own army chief of staff, Idi Amin from the Kwakwa people. In 1979 Ami invaded Tanzania but was swiftly repulsed and overthrown by the Tanzanian army (for a vivid description of Amin’s horrifying rule and the Tanzanian invasion, see Giles Foden’s powerful novel The Last King of Scotland).

Obote returned to power and swiftly commenced violent repression even worse than Amin’s triggering the Ugandan Bush War against him, led by members of Obote’s army plus tribal opponents. They crystallised into the National Resistance Army (NRA) and attracted support from the many Rwandan Tutsi exiles and refugees living in southern Uganda (who were to go on to form the Rwandan Patriotic Front and invade Rwanda in 1990).

In 1986 Obote was overthrown for the second time and the leader of the NRA, Yoweri Museveni, came to power. Museveni began a campaign of intimidation against the powerful Acholi people in the north and it was this which inspired Acholi resistance.

Alice Auma

Jagielski gives a pen portrait of Alice Auma, a withdrawn young woman who had failed to get pregnant by two husbands and been returned to her father in shame, before she began having visions and claimed to have visitations from spirits and announced she was a prophet of the Lord. She named the chief spirit visitor Lakwena (p.74).

Alice became known as Alice of the Holy Spirit. She set up a temple where she could heal the sick and the mentally disturbed. Then announced she was establishing an army which would not just defend the Acholi from the Ugandan Army’s depredations, but conquer all of Uganda and establish religious rule. She gathered followers from conventional guerrilla forces who were losing encounters against the army. She promised if they sprinkled holy water on their guns every bullet would find its billet, and if they smeared holy oil on their bodies they would be invulnerable.

Although this didn’t actually happen, the intensity of their belief led them to surprising victories over the conventional army and word spread. Conventional troops fled in panic when they heard the psalm-singing Alice army approaching. The army grew to several thousand and fought its way south to within 100 miles of the capital. But then her spirits abandoned her. Her troops said it happened when she crossed the White Nile and went beyond the borders of Acholi land. The central army also recruited powerful witches and magicians and defeated Alice’s army in November 1987.

Alice fled to Kenya where, ten years later (1997), Jagielski interviewed her. She didn’t say much. She claimed to have found a spirit cure for AIDS. She died in 2007.

Joseph Kony

Her father tried to take up her baton for a while but lacked the charisma. Then a new prophet arose in Acholiland, Joseph Kony. He claimed to be visited by Lakwena who had instructed him to create a new army, the Lord’s Army, and liberate Acholiland. One by one other rebel groups folded and ceasefired with the Ugandan army. Only the most fanatical opponents or those who had committed the most barbaric crimes held out and gravitated towards Kony’s army which, by a process of selection, became full of psychopaths, ‘vile, bloodthirsty, accursed creatures’ (p.81). (Jackson explains more about Lakwena, pages 198 to 200).

But they lacked manpower and the villages were no longer as keen to hand over their sons as they had been for Alice’s Army. So Kony took to kidnapping children on an industrial scale. Jagielski thinks the force Kony renamed the Lord’s Resistance Army might be the only child army in history.

Interview with Kony

Jagielski gives extended quotes from what I initially took to be a newspaper interview Kony gave, in which he disclaimed all responsibility for kidnapping children, claiming the mutilations were carried out by the Uganda army not him, swearing that his cause is just etc (pages 201 to 203). In fact the material comes from this video interview carried out by Sam Farmer, who must, as the saying goes, have balls of steel to doggedly track down a known mass murderer to his lair.

Warning: this video contains graphic and upsetting images of mutilation.

Sister Rachele Fassere

The story of Sister Rachele Fassere who tried heroically to rescue the 139 girls abducted by the LRA from the most eminent school in the region, St Mary’s convent school in Aboke.

Britain’s imperial behaviour and legacy: pages 71, 104, 154,

The stock African accusation against imperialists, the British, against all outsiders:

‘And that’s where the problem lies – in the names,’ said Jackson…’You give your own names to whatever you find in your country, and you’re convinced that once you’ve named it all, you’re also going to understand it all. But we have our own names too, but we look at things in our own way.’ (p.114)

Part 2 (Kampala)

In part 2 Jagielski leaves Gulu, travelling south by bus (with Jackson) to the capital of Uganda, Kampala. Thus we get a pen portrait of Kampala’s history – one of the few cities in all Africa that existed before the Europeans arrived i.e. that Europeans didn’t found. Winston Churchill was delighted with it and called it the pearl of Africa (p.154)

Jagielski checks into the Speke Hotel where all the foreign correspondents say, meet and swap knowledge (p.122). How western journalists co-op or rip off the hard-earned knowledge of local African journalists (pages 123 to 126).

Spirits

Alice Auma, and Joseph Kony after her, both triumphed because of the nearly universal belief in spirits. The book adverts again and again to spirit belief. For example, the passage about the area around Luwero where so many villagers were slaughtered that there was no-one to give them burial rites and so the spirits of the dead were trapped in this world and entered the bodies of the living (p.146).

Extended passage naming some of the spirits who take Kony, how he behaves when possessed etc, chief among them Lakwena (pages 166 to 169).

Jackson’s family believed that when his father came home from the war he was possessed by a spirit which eventually drove him to hang himself. The entire family and village were too scared to cut the rope he’d hanged himself by under the belief that anyone who did so would themselves be possessed and die, and had to bribe an old, old lady, known to be an ajwaka or healer, to do it.

Part 2 has more history and politics in it than part 1, which was more about individuals like Nora, Samuel et al. Jagielski is quite a repetitive writer. Some ideas are repeated in nearly the same phrasing. The dispossessed refugee men of Penga often raped women:

as if only by inflicting rape could they come alive and shake off their inertia (p.18)

Two hundred pages later, Nora complains that Acholi men are ‘useless’. They steal the money their womenfolk earn, simply abandon them, or rape them:

as if only through violence, by inflicting pain and harm, could they restrain something beyond their control which was causing their former world and old way of life to slip away before their very eyes. (p.237)

In a bigger example of repetition, the sequence of events whereby the British left Obote as Prime Minister and the king of Buganda as president, then Obote overthrew the king to become a dictator (1966), was himself overthrown by Amin (1971), who was overthrown by the Tanzania War (1979), which brought Obote back to power (Obote II), how Obote was even more bloodthirsty than Amin (maybe as many as 500,000 Ugandans died under his second regime), how this triggered the Ugandan Bush War (1980 to 1986), which eventually overthrew Obote and replaced him with Museveni – this narrative is repeated at least twice, some parts of it 3 or 4 times.

Part 2 goes into more detail about the biographies of all three players, Obote, Amin, Museveni, plus the restored king of Buganda, King Kabaka Ronald Muwenda Mutebi or ‘King Ronnie’ (p.140).

Pages about Amin and the mutual loathing between him and Julius Nyerere (pages 142 to 144); ‘the personification of horror (pages 155 to 166, including some of the scenes described in ‘The Last King of Africa’).

Another thing Jagielski repeats is the claim that Uganda became a place of war, horror and death. Because he repeats this kind of phrasing, stretched out to paragraphs, many times, and because the narrative is non-chronological but hops about in time, it becomes hard to figure out which leader it happened under and why it happened. Many passages like this:

Presidents changed but the nightmare continued and Uganda never stopped flowing with blood, as if it had been sacrificed to the god of war and evil. (p.145)

Wracked by lawlessness and violence, Uganda continued to be a bloodbath, doomed to horrific destruction, curse with an apocalypse. (p.164)

After almost two decades of the tyrannical regimes of Obote and Amin, civil wars, massacres, lawlessness and bankruptcy, plague and famine, and one and a half million corpses, it had come to be known as a doomed country… (p.170)

The bravery of British journalist William Pike, who edited the newspaper New Vision without fear or favour, and his lead journalist, Allio Ewaku Emmy (pages 126 to 129).

What triggers the more political flavour of part 2 is that Museveni had prided himself on not being like the old dictators, not hanging on forever…and yet, at the time Jagielski is writing, Museveni was trying to alter the constitution in order to allow him to run for president more than two times (as most constitutions require). That happened in November 2005, which dates the writing of these sections to that moment, rolling on to the subsequent elections of February 2006.

(In fact as I write, at the start of 2024, Museveni is still president of Uganda, having held the post since 1986, 38 years and counting.)

Museveni

Pen portraits of Museveni on pages 129 to 133, 139 to 140, 144 to 145, 170 to 177. Museveni surprised everyone by changing quickly, on taking power, from a firebrand socialist revolutionary guerrilla to a pragmatic head of state prepared to work with western banks and let capitalism thrive.

Museveni on slavery

Museveni discomfited other African rulers with a few home truths:

‘We like to complain about the whites, but have we ever wondered why only Africans let themselves be enslaved? Why didn’t we put up resistance? It was our own greed and quarrelsome nature that ruined us. That’s why we were defeated and conquered. We ourselves are to blame. It was our chiefs, waging fratricidal wars, who took people prisoner to sell them to slave traders from Europe. It was those black traitors who bear the blame for slavery.’ (quoted on page 171)

1. The kind of thing a white person could never say or think.

2. I think he’s wrong though, in two ways. Firstly, the reason Africa was so prey to depredation was because it was the most economically, socially and technologically backward of the continents (with the exception of Australia) due to the reasons laid out at length in Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs and Steel.

But there’s a second thing going on here which is that Museveni, like most modern commentators, is thinking within the framework of black and white that has been firmly established over the past 100 years, which has created a false homogeneity among black people. I’m continually impressed, on a pretty much daily basis – reading the papers, listening to the radio, going to exhibitions – how black activists think there is some kind of inherent unity among black people, that all black people share the same interests and concerns. This seems to me wrong, wrong about any community or group of people.

What I’ve read in the books by Jeal or Hochschild or Segal give the impression that the Africans we’re talking about, in the 1700s and 1800s, didn’t have this simplistic modern binary between Black and White, nor share the modern idea that all black people share a common identity, common goals, need to be united etc. This all seems, as far as I can tell, to have sprung up among black people in the West, whether civil rights movements or black power or Nation of Islam or Black Lives Matters – all these groups define themselves by contrast with whites (and mostly derive from America).

My reading of the sources is that back in the 1700s and 1800s this kind of ‘black consciousness’ simply didn’t exist. Instead Africans identified themselves with tribes, maybe religions, with regions and languages, and regarded all Africans outside their tribal or religious group as others, others who could be quite legitimately enslaved or waged war on or whatever. They had no need to feel guilty as they were smiting the enemy and then selling them into slavery, thus boosting their own prowess, preserving their tribe, making their family wealthy, and that’s what mattered to them.

In a nutshell, Museveni is projecting back onto his ancestors a kind of black consciousness which is a twentieth century (and mostly American) creation and (like America) simply didn’t exist so no-one was aware of it and no-one acted on it, in the period he’s projecting it back onto.

African unity

3. Finally, yet again the strong impression given is that the whole concept of black unity in Africa is a joke. Here’s Michela Wrong describing the moribund Organisation of African Unity:

The summit of the Organisation of African Unity, that yearly get-together where insincere handshakes were exchanged, 29-year-old coup leaders got their first chance to play the international statesman, and the patriarchs of African politics politely glossed over the rigged elections, financial scandals and bloody atrocities perpetrated by their peers across the table.

(‘I Didn’t Do It For You: How The World Used and Abused A Small African Nation’ by Michela Wrong, p.357)

Biafra. The Rwanda genocide. The wars in Congo. The civil war in South Sudan. Just the history of Uganda alone makes clear how difficult Africans find it to live in peace with other Africans. One and a half million Ugandans dead in 20 years of civil wars and insurgencies is proof of something.

Look at how the insurgency of the Lord’s Resistance Army got mixed up with ongoing enmity between all the regional nations: at various points the governments of both Sudan and Democratic Republic of Congo gave the LRA aid and support, while Sudan backed Kony in retaliation for Uganda’s longstanding support of the secessionist movement in South Sudan.

Where is the ‘African unity’ in any of this? In fact Jagielski’s description of the poisonous backstabbing rivalry between African states is bleakly hilarious (pages 195 to 196).

The Ugandan opposition

Jagielski visits the HQ of the opposition party, the Forum for Democratic Change.

Portrait of Nasser Sebaggala, opponent of Museveni and mayor of Kampala from 2006 to 2011.

Portrait of Museveni’s slighted mistress Winnie Byanyima, who has blossomed into an international figure (pages 178 to 180). Winnie married Museveni’s one-time physician, Dr Kizza Besigye, and encouraged him to become a leading political opponent, to stand in the presidential election against Museveni (180 to 181).

As usual with the African elections I’ve read about, nobody talks about policies, instead the campaigns rotate solely around personality and character i.e. Museveni is the ‘great leader’ who has saved Uganda or Museveni has hung on too long and must go. Playground level.

Bounty hunters

A page on freelance bounty hunters around the world. The international community put a bounty of $1.5 million on Kony’s head, which attracted freelancers (p.193). In that case surely the question is, how come nobody tracked him down and killed him? Simply because he’s surrounded by trigger-happy bodyguards?

Bishop Joseph Kibwetere

Auma and Kony aren’t the only ones possessed by spirits. The story of Bishop Joseph Kibwetere who gathered a large following when he predicted the end of the world for 31 December 1999. He and his followers all burned to death in a church fire in March 2000. Or did he escape? Prophets and visionaries appear whenever there’s a natural disaster, droughts, floods, epidemics (p.209). (It doesn’t so much sound like, as actually is the European Middle Ages.) The ebola epidemic of the early 2000s which was, of course, seen as another attack of bad spirits and, like so many evil things, came from the Congo (pages 210 to 212).

Jagielski’s unhelpful way of describing disease

Jagielski writes about disease in a melodramatic, anthropomorphised way which undermines your trust in his descriptions of other things. Here he is describing the action of AIDS:

But the invisible virus was alive inside her, lying in wait, and when it launched its lightning attack, giving no chance for defence, it was too late to save her. (p.214)

This isn’t a very useful way of talking about or thinking about infectious diseases. Anthropomorphising disease like this is not far short of the local belief in spirits, except that Jagielski doesn’t have the excuse of no education. He’s dumbing down from dramatic effect.

In fact it has two deleterious effects. 1) Talk to any health professional and they’ll tell you we need to remove moralising and stigma from infectious disease. This kind of dumbed-down anthropomorphising encourages scientific illiteracy and folk attitudes. Most western nations are facing health crises, specifically over measles, caused by the decline in MMR vaccinations, triggered by rumour and false information. Many people thought the COVID vaccines were some kind of state-run conspiracy. For this reason discourse about illness should be kept scientific, factual and precise.

2) The second bad effect is that anthropomorphising illness like this, using this kind of emotionalising, unscientific way of describing disease, opens the door to moralising which quickly leads to judging victims, for example the way AIDS was initially stigmatised as a ‘gay plague’ or more recent slurs about monkeypox. Medieval worldview. Burn witches etc. People need to be encouraged to think about disease in the correct scientific, objective fashion.

A journalist’s complaint

Another thing I didn’t like was his self-centred hand-wringing about the moral challenges and compromises involved in being a journalist.

Messy, abandoned friendships, business started and interrupted, then forgotten, littered the routes of all my journeys. (p.216)

Well, I reflected, as I read the fifth or sixth such passage, if you don’t like it, get a job in an office. A lot of journalists seem to imagine that when I buy a book on a particular subject I’ll really appreciate lots of stuff thrown in about how hard their job is and how they have to continually make work-life compromises and let people down and oh it’s so difficult. Well, I don’t. Boring.

In a way the journalist’s profession has betrayal encoded into it. It demands gaining people’s trust and extracting confidences from them, purely in order to publicise and reveal them, all for a sense of a job well done, for satisfaction, applause and prizes. (p.216)

Like going to see your doctor with troubling symptoms and just wanting a diagnosis and treatment but instead having to listen to a long lecture about how badly paid doctors are and there’s never enough time to see patients and all their other gripes. No. Just diagnose and treat me. Same with journalists: don’t tell me all about your sensitive scruples and heroic regrets. Just tell me the bloody story.

Part 3 (back to Gulu)

To his own surprise, Jagielski didn’t hang around in Kampala to wait for the results of the election. He had unexpectedly bumped into Jackson and decides to return to Gulu. On the way Jackson tells him something extraordinary: most of the guests at the Acholi Inn Hotel where he’s staying are former guerrillas, people who have carried out the most appalling atrocities.

He describes the standard military corruption: all Ugandan soldiers are all corrupt. Their officers keep all their pay for themselves so the ordinary soldiers are forced to steal from the locals, hold them up at temporary roadblocks, even sell their arms and ammunition to the guerrillas.

Not only that, but many of the shops in Gulu sell goods stolen from country villages which the guerrillas  have looted and then send on here. And that the guerrillas, who kidnap other people’s children, send their own children to good public schools here in Gulu. This isn’t a dysfunctional society so much as dysfunctional people. When so many people dysfunction what hope is there for ‘normal’ society?

‘Where two elephants fight, the greatest victim is the grass.’ (Acholi proverb, p.229)

Rehabilitating child brides

Jagielski returns to the child treatment centre. It’s pretty obvious he fancies Nora and she’s quite happy to flirt with him. He admires her tight-fitting jeans. The other care worker, Christine, is careful to knock on Nora’s door, even when it’s open, so she doesn’t walk in on them kissing or worse. I found these scenes a bit icky (for example, page 249).

Lunch. Watching the children at crafts. The eldest girl is 16. All of them who were capable of it, were taken as child brides by guerrilla leaders and have borne children. On returning to the world they are shunned by their families. So the centre teaches them to sew, makes crafts, open market stalls. This is the route to financial independence and, once they’ve earned some money, to interesting some man into marrying them.

Refugees

Refugees are people who may not have lost their lives to war, but their existence has been robbed of its meaning. War has taken away all their faith, hope, dreams and energy. (p.234)

Former guerrilla leaders

Jagielski talks to the former LRA leaders now living quietly at the Acholi Inn:

Jagielski carries out an extended interview with Banya (pages 240 to 248), a characteristic figure in that he had been a senior figure in the formal Ugandan army but quit when Museveni came to power, disgusted that Museveni overthrew the interim rulers (who succeeded Amin) through violence, and also worried Museveni would start persecuting the Acholi (as he did). One day envoys from Kony arrived at his home and told him to come now or they would kill his entire family. So he went with them and was never allowed back.

Christine returning the lost boys

At the centre Nora works alongside Christine. They dislike and avoid each other. Nora thinks Christine obeises herself to a husband who’s moved to Kampala and is rumoured to have taken a second wife. Christine denies all this and thinks Nora is disreputable for not having married and settled down.

A long passage seeing things through Christine’s eyes, the arrival of the first liberated child soldiers at the centre, Christine’s opinion that they need love and support and, above all, to be told it’s not their fault. All of them were forced to kill or mutilate under threat of it happening to themselves.

The best medicine for these damaged children turned out to be routine: wake-up same time, breakfast, chores etc (p.259).

Jagielski accompanies Christine as she takes some of the last boys in the camp back to their various villages, observing their receptions (pages 259 to 269). Life in the dirt poor refugee camps, with absolutely no purpose, is hard for the reclaimed boy soldiers. Many of them run back into the bush, where there’s at least a purpose, and food. Or are so shunned by former neighbours and even their own family that they become embittered, violent. Some of them spontaneously kill.

Mato oput

Jagielski witnesses a ceremony of mato oput meaning reconciliation for a crime, and learns the complex traditional methods for a wrong-doer to admit their guilt, the compensation to be paid by his family, the road to acceptance and reconciliation (pages 266 to 269, 273 to 282).

A detailed description of Acholi beliefs about dead people’s spirits, specially how they persecute the living if they’re not happy (pages 269 to 273). Worth mentioning that a Catholic priest, Father Remigio, accompanied Christine and Jagielski on this trip, and was by his side explaining all aspects of the mato oput ceremony, their provenance and meaning.

The Acholi king

The Achioli king is named David Onen Acana II. His shabby court looks like a provincial post office. Some facts about the Acholi who migrated into north Uganda from Sudan where they were nomadic shepherds, hunters and fishermen.

When he arrives the king is discussing the future of Kony with one of his advisers, Chief Lugai. They’d been invited to meet Kony in the bush but when they got there he didn’t show up. The king and Chief Lugai say Museveni needs to pardon Kony and the International Tribunal at the Hague drop its charges. Only then will Kony come in, and he must be handled with traditional Aconi rites i.e. Mato oput (p.288).

The king then laments at length how the old tribal ways are being destroyed not only by the war, the enforced relocation of 2 million people, but criticism from Christian missionaries and Muslim imams and the new young generation in cities who turn to the West (pages 289 to 291). In other words, the inevitable process of ‘modernisation’ and ‘development’.

Father Cosmas

An interview with the Catholic priest Father Cosmas who is quite clear that Alice was possessed by satanic spirits but that Kony is Satan himself (p.294). Stories he has heard from children who have been rehabilitated and made their confessions to him.

Severino Lukoya

Jagielski says goodbye to Nora, with the uneasy feeling that he has wormed his way into her and Samuel’s affections merely to exploit them for his book then dump them. And that’s what she accuses him of.

The last thing he does in Gulu is go to visit Severino Lukoya. He was the father of Alice Auma who, after Alice’s forces were defeated, claimed that the spirits had entered him and that he was now the spokesman for Lakwena et al. In the event the forces he led were defeated by the Ugandan Army even more heavily than Alice’s, he fled to Kenya, and the mantle passed to Joseph Kony who lied that he was Alice’s cousin. So it’s a family romance, of sorts.

Anyway, Severino quietly returned to Gulu, built a church for his own denomination, and has been living quietly, left in peace by the authorities. Jagielski discovers he is now a very old, weak old man. Severino is assisted by Martin the chaplain who seats him on a chair and hands him one of the holy bottles. Then Jagielski witnesses the old man being possessed by Lakwena.

Severino speaks in Acholi, Martin translates, and it’s basically a recap of Severino’s career i.e. being chosen by God, trying to preach the word of God, going off to bush to live by himself, choosing water to purify and stones to act as weapons and incite his men to fight for the Last Judgement…

Then it’s over and the old man shrinks in his chair, exhausted.

Thoughts

1. This is a very, very good book which doesn’t so much explain as immerse you in the bloody, complex history of modern Uganda and especially the horrifying reality of the LRA’s campaigns and their terrible aftermaths for all concerned.

2. It’s a fount of information not only about the LRA and about Uganda’s troubled history, but many aspects of the folklore and traditional beliefs of the Acholi people, above all their profound belief in the role of spirits in all aspects of human life.

3. It also gathers together a range of valuable eye-witness accounts: from children directly involved, from some of Kony’s henchmen, from Nora and Christine, plus Jagielski’s witnessing of the mato oput ceremony, the knowledge of Father Remigio, the opinion of Father Cosmas, Jackson’s conveying of the voodoo mysticism of the Acholi people which no outsider can really understand.

4. It’s a real shame the book doesn’t have an index as I found myself wanting to reread certain passages or flip through the explanations of particular topics which are scattered in fragments through the text and so hard to re-find unless you’ve made a record or turned down the page. Part of my motivation in making such detailed notes and providing precise page references in this blog is to create such indexes, as best I can, for my own use and as, hopefully, a help to other readers.

5. Jagielski is in the same ballpark as Kapuściński but not in the same class. Kapuściński can be, by turns, genuinely philosophical, reaching deep into human nature, or lyrical, or quirky and drily humorous (as throughout his book about Haile Selassie). Jagielski attempts the same kinds of thing and they’re interesting enough, such as his fairly frequent personification of abstract entities:

The day fixed for the elections overslept and got up late, looking grey. For ages it couldn’t gain full consciousness and get itself going. (p.187)

This kind of thing is entertaining enough, but without the real depth or lyricism of his mentor.

6. Obviously most of the subject matter of The Night Wanderers is beyond appalling but, if you’ve read 20 or 30 books about contemporary Africa, as I have, you get used to Africans massacring each other, generally in the most brutal, sadistic ways possible.

What it makes me wonder is … you know how anti-colonial critics, post-colonial writers and anti-colonial historians often criticise the Europeans for, among countless other crimes, imposing their notion of the nation state onto cultures which were more flexible and fluid, based around tribes and traditional rulers … well, in descriptions of the collapse of whole regions of supposed ‘states’ (such as Rwanda or Congo or Uganda or Sudan) into violent anarchy, I wonder if it’s simply a matter of older traditional African culture reasserting itself, of societies rearranging themselves around their core attachment to tribes…and that the endless guerrilla wars are just the modern name given to the age old tradition of warlords gathering supporters and fighting the ruling king…

They’re called warlords and guerrillas these days but, from my reading of Gerald Segal’s book about Islamic slavery, I learned a lot about the continually shifting, rising and falling kingdoms and empires of west Africa, rising as new warrior chiefs achieved ascendancy, falling as other states seized land and towns under violent new leaders…

So isn’t the violent chaos in many African countries simply a continuation of the old traditions, but now with Kalashnikovs? That’s the strong impression you get from Jagielski’s extended description of the tangled web of insurgencies, civil wars, militias and guerrillas, which completely ignores state borders and sprawls across a huge area of north Africa taking in Somalia, Sudan north and south, Uganda, Congo, Darfur, Chad, Central African Republic, as far west as Niger, large parts of which are under no state control (pages 195 to 197).

And stepping right back – isn’t this patchwork quilt of petty kingdoms based around local chieftains in fact the way most humans have lived through most of history? Wasn’t this the same continually warring tribal world the Romans encountered everywhere they advanced, for example the complex tribal networks of Gaul and Britain endlessly at war with each other as described in Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars? Or, hundreds of years later, the equally complex, warlord-based societies of Dark Age Britain and, indeed, right across post-Roman Europe? Isn’t it, in fact, the natural way most humans have lived in most of history – and the huge, secular, technocratic and democratic states we in the West take for granted, aren’t these the oddities and exceptions to the rule?

Antonia Lloyd-Jones

A word on the translation by Antonia Lloyd-Jones. It reads very well indeed. The word order and use of subordinate clauses do not feel as if converted from another language, as often happens with translations from French or German. It reads like English and very well written English at that. There are a few odd turns of phrase, which I enjoyed:

  • When Museveni announced new presidential elections that he intended to win again and extend his reign, Dr Besigye cast him a challenge and stood for election too. (p.180)
  • Museveni had the victory in his grasp. (p.184)
  • Emmy cast him a look but didn’t say anything. (p.194)

The only blemish on her style is her very frequent use of the word ‘whom’ which regular readers of this blog will know I have developed an irrational dislike of. I dislike it’s prissy formality. Nobody says it in actual speech. It is becoming a literary fossil.

There he had met Nora, the first person to whom he had told everything he had seen and endured. (p.187)

‘What about those who don’t even know whom they have killed?’ (p.283)

Despite being British, Lloyd-Jones uses the word ‘pants’ for trousers (p.248) and ‘line’ for queue (p.172). Maybe the sub-editors at the New York publishers insisted. But these are microscopic quibbles. It’s a highly readable, fluid translation.


Credit

The Night Wanderers: Uganda’s Children and the Lord’s Resistance Army by Wojchiec Jagielski was published in the Polish original in 2009. The 2012 English translation by Antonia Lloyd-Jones was published by Old Street Publishing (OSP). References are to the OSP paperback edition.

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Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe (1987)

‘Your Excellency is not only our leader but also our Teacher. We are always ready to learn…Your Excellency is absolutely right. I never thought of that. It is surprising how Your Excellency thinks about everything.’
(The head of the secret police, Professor Okong, grovelling to the military dictator in Anthills of the Savannah, page 18)

‘Worshipping a dictator is such a pain in the ass. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was merely a matter of dancing upside down on your head. With practice anyone could learn to do that. The real problem is having no way of knowing from one day to another, from one minute to the next, what is up and what is down.’
(Irreverent journalist Ikem Osodi, page 45)

‘This is negritude country, not Devonshire.’
(John Kent, also known as the Mad Medico, page 57)

‘This country na so so thief-man full am.’
(Drunk police sergeant at a roadblock lamenting the theft of his radio, page 213)

Background

There was a gap of 21 years between Chinua Achebe’s fourth and fifth novels. A lot happened in his life and in Nigeria, which I’ve summarised in my review of his 1983 pamphlet, ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’.

Achebe wrote five novels. Two are emphatically set in the past, in the colonial period of the 1890s (Things Fall Apart) and the 1920s (Arrow of God). Three of them have contemporary settings: No Longer At Ease (late 1950s), A Man of the People (mid-1960s), and this one, Anthills of the Savannah (late 1970s). Read in sequence, they neatly represent a story of decline and fall of the nation, at the same time as the characters go up the political pecking order.

No Longer At Ease takes the time and trouble to portray one man, Obi Okwonkwo, a university graduate who has studied in Britain, who struggles to maintain his high moral ideals in the face of a series of personal crises and difficulties, culminating in him doing what he spent most of the novel swearing he would never resort to, which is to start taking bribes to influence his decisions as a civil servant in the Education Department. It is a private tragedy limited to just one fairly lowly civil servant, which Achebe makes symbolic of the widespread corruption afflicting Nigeria even before Independence.

A Man of the People ups the stakes by having its protagonist, Odilo, take an active part in politics, standing as a candidate in a general election against his far more canny opponent, a tribal chief and sitting cabinet minister. So A Man of the People a) steps up a rung to examine politics at a regional level but b) in terms of decline and fall, is a far more wide-ranging depiction of corruption, bribery and bad leadership than No Longer.

And Anthills of the Savannah completes the progress: in terms of social rank, it is set at the highest level, opening with ministers attending a meeting chaired by the terrifying military dictator who now runs their country. In terms of what I’ve called decline and fall, it shows how the purely personal scruples of Obi, and then the party political idealism of Odili, both from the idealistic 1960s, have been completely swept away in the tsunami of a military coup.

In the late 1950s Achebe’s characters are fretting about corruption; in the mid-60s they are feebly trying to set up a new political party; by the late 1970s they exist in a state of continual fear about how to survive an arbitrary and violent military regime.

That’s what I mean by saying that Achebe’s three contemporary novels chart the decline and fall of Nigerian political life, from high-flown optimism at the time of independence (the early 1960s) to cynicism and terror 20 years later.

The detail with which Achebe wanted to portray a military dictator and the impact of military rule on a nation presumably also explains why Anthills is the first of his novels not to be set explicitly in Nigeria, but in the fictional Africa country of ‘Kangan’. Presumably it was just too dangerous to write something which would be interpreted as a direct attack on very powerful people still pulling the strings in 1980s Nigeria.

(Nigeria was ruled by the military from 1966 to 1979, in which year the army allowed free elections and the return to civilian rule. Achebe worked on Anthills throughout the 1970s so, although the army relinquished power in 1979, the novel very much captures the atmosphere and fear of living under military rule. In the event, the short-lived Nigerian Second Republic came to an end when another military coup overthrew it in 1983, ironically in the same year Achebe had published ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’ complaining about the country’s terrible leaders. Renewed military rule was to last another 16 years, until 1998.)

Setup

Anthills is set in the fictional African nation of Kangan (capital city: Bassa). The military dictator is a successful general named Sam. He didn’t carry out the military coup himself but the coup leaders asked him to become President and he agreed.

Trained at Sandhurst and a lifelong soldier Sam knew nothing about how to run a country so he turned to his civilian friends. Chief among these was Christopher Oriko, an academic. He and Sam had been schoolboys together at the Lord Lugard College 20 years earlier (pages 65, 66). Oriko helped Sam recruit various eminent figures to become his cabinet and was made Commissioner of Information.

The novel opens (Chapter 1) with a meeting of this cabinet which makes it perfectly clear that all these grown men are now absolutely terrified of the general. He has shed his initial nerves, is now in complete control of the situation, and has grown into a mercurial and quick-to-anger tyrant on the model of Idi Amin. (The comparison with Amin is explicitly made by Captain Abdu Medani in the final chapter, who says that rumour had it that Amin used to personally strangle then behead rivals for any woman who took his fancy, storing their heads in a fridge, p.221.)

What’s making him cross today is that a delegation from the troublesome province of Abazon has arrived in the city and wants to meet him to plead for investment in water holes and wells for their drought-stricken region. The President wants to fob them off by sending a photographer and journalist to give their visit lots of publicity but not actually have to meet them, make excuses about him having to meet some other VIP or something.

Technique

Such is the power of his subject matter that it’s easy to overlook Achebe’s interest in technique. Take his deployment of a consciously simplified monumental style in the two tribal novels, Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God. Or the way No Longer At Ease starts at the end, with the protagonist in court facing corruption charges, then flashes back in time to describe the sequence of events which led him there.

Well, Anthills represents a notable leap forward in narrative technique. Two things are immediately noticeable, in structure and style.

In terms of structure, many of the characters have periodic chapters named after themselves, which give their points of view in the first person. These are mixed with other chapters told in the third person. This is surprisingly effective.

In terms of style, one big thing. Some of the text is in the conventional past tense, but there are also passages told in the present. The interesting thing is this doesn’t bother the reader, you barely notice the switch from past to present tense in the verbs even when it happens in sequential sentences.

She shot up from my face where she was lying and gave my face a quick scrutiny. ‘I hope you are not being sarcastic,’ she said. I affect great solemnity, pull her back and kiss her mildly. (p.67)

Summary

In a sense Anthills of the Savannah is an African version of the terror experienced by the courtiers of any tyrant. It reminded me of descriptions I’ve read of Stalin’s court. My mind also leaps to the scenes featuring Robert Shaw as King Henry VIII in the movie ‘A Man For All Seasons’, by turns hugely jovial and terrifyingly angry. And Henry isn’t an inapt comparison because Achebe has his character Chris remark that most African leaders are like ‘late-flowering medieval monarchs’ (p.74).

The book describes in detail the changing relationships between:

  • Chris Oriko, who helped General Sam to the presidency and is now the government’s Commissioner for Information
  • his girlfriend, Beatrice Okoh, also known as BB, a Senior Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Finance (p.75)
  • his old schoolfriend Ikem Osodi, now editor of the National Gazette, a newspaper fiercely critical of the regime
  • and his girlfriend, Elewa

The three men have known each other since school and their lives have been intimately connected.

‘We are all connected. You cannot tell the story of any of us without implicating the others.’ (p.66)

Oriko and Osodi have settled into a long-term antagonism because, as the former explains, he’s tired of waking up every Thursday knowing he’s going to have to defend Osodi’s latest inflammatory editorial to His Excellency (HE).

It was only in the last quarter or so of the book that I realised how privileged Achebe intends us to see his characters as – living in a privileged government compound, having servants, cars and drivers, operating at the highest levels of state and politics. This didn’t come over at first because the characters seem so ordinary and even banal. It’s only when they step outside their privilege bubble into the ‘real world’ that the characters, and the reader, begins to feel the real poverty which the huge majority of the population live in…

Chapter 3

Ikem gets into a ludicrous race/rivalry with a taxi driver to get ahead in spaces in the colossal traffic jam on the route to the Presidential Palace, both losing their tempers in the temper-fraying permanent bad traffic which characterises Bassa.

Chapter 4 (Ikem)

Ikem remembers a year earlier attending a public execution on a beach. The crowd roared its approval and he was disgusted. Welcome to the Colosseum.

(Compare and contrast the brilliantly thorough exhibition about public executions at the Museum of London Docklands, which explained how executions were the occasions of public holidays, festivals, celebrations, eating and drinking and picking pockets in London from the 16th to 19th centuries.)

Ikem is appalled at watching four criminals being led out of the police van, tied to stakes on a beach with bull’s eyes attached to their chests, and then killed by firing squad, while the crowd roared. This episode seems to demonstrate a) the crudeness of civil life in the newly independent state and b) Ikem’s huge distance from the mass of the people which, like any Third World intellectual, he claims to represent or speak for.

Chapter 5 (Chris)

White man John Kent, who goes by the nickname Mad Medico, hosts a drinks party for Chris, Ikem, their girlfriends and an arrival from London, Dick, who set up a new literary magazine, Reject, nearly four years ago (p.58). They reminisce about how approachable and innocent Sam was back in the old days. The chapter starts with anecdotes about how Mad Medico acquired his nickname and ends with stories about sex, see below.

Chapter 6 (Beatrice)

His Excellency phones Beatrice and invites her to a small dinner party. We get a sense of the closeness of the trio when Beatrice tells us that for the first year of HE’s rule, she and Chris went regularly to the palace, till HE found his style and became more aloof. I think Achebe indicates the voice of Beatrice by making her sentences long and clumsy, and having her mangle some phrases i.e. not as fluent as Chris or Ikem.

It’s a fairly formal dinner of 15 or so people, including senior officials, the Army Chief of Staff, that kind of level. There’s a woman American journalist who Beatrice, characteristically snaps at. A long difficult dinner is followed by dancing in the drawing room overlooking the lake. The President boomingly introduces the subject of African polygamy to roars of laughter from his sycophants. For reasons I didn’t fully understand Beatrice undertakes to seduce him and shimmies so close against him that she feels his erection growing (see Sex, below). But then for reasons I didn’t understand tells him a story about being jilted by a lover when she was at a student dance in London, something which infuriates the President who storms off. Next thing Beatrice knows she’s being escorted to the car to take her home. Was it because she didn’t simply go to bed with him but insisted on telling some moralising anecdote?

Chapter 7 (Beatrice)

Yes, the prose style of Beatrice’s sections is different from the others, deliberately long winded and confusing. In this chapter she seems to be explaining that she is bringing together all the scattered parts of the narrative to tell ‘their’ story. This begins, however, with the story of her life, how she was raised on an Anglican Mission and how if any of the children misbehaved, their father thrashed them with a cane and sent them to bed (p.85). In fact her father whipped insubordinate children throughout the region, and whipped her mother, too. Once she tried to console her mother, who instead pushed her away so violently she hit her head on a stone mortar. She was 7 or 8 at the time. Man hands on violence to man.

Then she describes her very close blood-brother friendship with Ikem who she met as students in London, how she’s always been enchanted by his grand thoughts and fluency but they never quite became lovers.

Chapter 8: Daughters

This chapter continues the theme of interpolated stories, in this case Igbo legends, starting with the story of Idemili, daughter of God.

The text becomes confusing. It jumps to Beatrice being marched in disgrace from HE’s soirée, as described at the end of chapter 6. Next morning she wakes to bird song and remembers stories from her girlhood although, as the omniscient narrator points out, she was brought up in a British Anglican compound and so was deprived of her cultural legacy (the legacy Achebe devoted his lifetime to promoting).

Chris calls her the next morning and motors over, they have an argument, she bursts into tears, he cuddles her, they kiss, then go to the bedroom tear off each other’s clothes and Achebe wins the Bad Sex in Fiction Award 1987 (p.114).

Beatrice tells Chris everybody was criticising Ikem at HE’s party and so he (Chris) must patch up his arguments with Ikem.

Chapter 9: Views of Struggle

Ikem drives to the seedy Hotel Harmoney which is where the delegation from Abazon is staying. He is welcomed and feted at which point I realised that Ikem is himself from the province in question, which becomes even clearer when some of the speakers mildly criticise him for not attending the monthly meetings of the Abazon community in Bassa (the capital city). This is identical to the structure of No Longer at Ease whose protagonist, Obi Okwonkwo, is an Igbo and is severely criticised by the monthly meeting of Igbos living in the capital (Lagos).

At which an illiterate elder from among the Abazon delegation stands up and delivers an extended speech which concludes that folk stories are what save us (p.124). He goes on to describe what the referendum held two years earlier to decide whether Sam should be made president for life looked like to village illiterates like himself i.e. highly suspect. They trusted the opinion of Ikem and when he didn’t write in favour of it, they voted No. Then the Big Chief’s people were in touch and said that as punishment for voting no all investment in water infrastructure in their region would be cancelled.

Now the white-haired old man says they have travelled all the way to Bassa to put their case to the Big Chief but he claimed to be meeting some other Big Chief so he couldn’t meet them. He tells the folk story of the tortoise and the leopard, whose point is that the tortoise was determined not to give up without a fight. The elder says they may lose but at least future generations will know at least they put up a fight.

In the hotel parking lot Ikem is issued with a totally spurious parking ticket by a typically arrogant mocking threatening policeman. Next day he calls the Chief of Police and uses his reputation, goes to visit the police HQ. The Chief is embarrassed such an important man was hassled by his traffic cops, calls in everybody on duty that night and gives them a bollocking before identifying the culprit who is ordered to hand over Ikem’s papers, which he had confiscated.

Clout. Pull. Intimidation. The thing is it works both ways: in the cop who threw his weight around, and then in the Chief’s embarrassment at having bothered a VIP. Somehow everything about this trivial incident highlights the lack of principle, the lack of objective service, the personalised nature of law enforcement, which is at one with its universal corruption.

Chapter 10: Impetuous Son

A knock at the door of Ikem’s apartment and it’s two taxi drivers, the one he got into the silly race for spaces in the traffic jam in chapter 2, and the head of his union of taxi drivers. They’ve come to thank Ikemi for standing up for them and the working classes in his editorials. Most of this chapter consists of dialogue in pidgin which I didn’t understand a word of.

Chapter 11

That night Ikem has sex with Elewa then drives her home. He returns home, brews a coffee and reflects on the absurdity of so-called ‘public affairs’:

nothing but the closed transactions of soldiers-turned-politicians, with their cohorts in business and the bureaucracy (p.141)

Characteristically, for Achebe, the only actual political ‘policy’ Ikem is associated with is writing editorials against capital punishment. Nothing about industrial, economic or fiscal policy. Instead a load of poetic guff about how the leaders need to:

re-establish vital inner links with the poor and dispossessed of this country, with the bruised heart that throbs painfully at the core of the nation’s being. (p.141)

Not particularly practical. Meanwhile Sam calls Chris to his office and announces he is going to have Ikem arrested for working cahoots with treasonous elements from Abazon, for attending a secret meeting with them in the north of the capital (i.e. the meeting with the Bassa Abazon Association we saw being dominated by a worthy old man). He goes on, in classic security state style, to claim Ikem also had a role in conspiring to deliver a No vote in Abazon during the presidential referendum. Sam orders Chris to sack Ikem as editor of the Gazette. Chris refuses and tenders his resignation. Sam laughs in his face and says he better watch out, or he’ll be next (p.144). Chris refuses to write the letter but Sam says it will get written anyway, and also that the head of the security service will be investigating his (Chris’s) role in the referendum.

So it’s Ikem’s visit to the Hotel Harmoney to see the Abazon delegation (as Sam himself requested back in chapter 1) which looks like it’s going to be the mainspring of the tragedy.

The letter of his dismissal is couriered to Ikem that afternoon. Ikem drives over to Chris’s place, finding Beatrice there. It’s only now that Chris tells everyone how deeply upset Sam was when he lost the president-for-life referendum, and was particularly hurt that his two closest friends let him down, that Chris as Commissioner for Information, didn’t do more, and Ikem chose to take annual leave and so didn’t write an editorial supporting it.

Elewa turns up and they all watch the 8 o’clock news. Ikema smiles through the item about his sacking but leaps from his chair when the next item announces that the six men in the delegation from Abazon, including the kindly old tribal elder, have been arrested on charges of conspiracy.

Chapter 12

Ikem delivers a speech at the university on the folk story of the tortoise and the leopard, as told him by the white-haired Abazon elder in chapter 9. Tough audience of students who all appear to take Marxism with literal seriousness, one student calling for Kangan to be placed under the dictatorship of the proletariat. He then mocks the leaders of the ‘working classes’ i.e. the trade union leaders who are more concerned about preserving their privileges and being treated like VIPs than changing the system they inherited. Ikem refuses to give easy answers. Obviously acting as Achebe’s spokesman in the text, he says everybody asks the writer for easy answers but the writer’s job is to ask questions.

‘No, I cannot give you the answers you are clamouring for. Go home and think! I cannot decree your pet, textbook revolution. I want instead to excite general enlightenment by forcing all the people to examine the condition of their lives because, as the saying goes, the unexamined life is not worth living. As a writer I aspire only to widen the scope of that self-examination.’ (p.158)

Everyone in the country must, in other words, become a reflective intellectual like himself. And when this doesn’t happen, as it can’t happen, Ikem will, like Achebe, write a long essay explaining why his country has let him down.

Ikem’s lecture concludes with an attack on his student audience for replicating in miniature all the vices of the nation at large, tribalism, corruption and the preservation of mediocrity and bad management. All covered by parroting right-on revolutionary phrases from Marxist professors who have absolutely no intention of overthrowing or even reforming the system they do so well out of.

During the jokey question and answer session which follows his lecture, someone asks whether he’s heard the proposals by the president to have his face put on the currency. Ikem jokes that any head of state who puts his head on a coin is tempting his people to take it off, the head he means. Much laughter. It was probably this light-hearted joke which condemned him to death (see below).

Chapter 13

Next day’s newspapers lead in the biggest type that Ikem has been promoting seditious beliefs including the suggestion that our Beloved President be beheaded! The secret police have been monitoring the Mad Medico. He is arrested, held and interrogated for four days, then deported. Chris and BB drive round to Ikem’s flat (at 202 Kingsway Road) to find his flat has been ransacked and he (Ikem) is not there. The neighbours say they saw two army jeeps outside in the middle of the night.

Chris spends the day on the phone ringing round the other high officials (he is a cabinet member, after all) like the Attorney General, the head of the State Research Council, the President himself, but they are all either unavailable or claim to have no knowledge.

Then the 6 o’clock news leads with a long story which accuses Ikem of being at the heart of a conspiracy to overthrow the state, how he was arrested by security forces but chose to fight and in the struggle a gun went off which killed him (p.169).

Chris packs and leaves for a ‘safe house’ immediately. He reaches out to foreign journalists to disseminate the true story of Ikem’s behaviour and murder, and claims on the BBC that Ikem was murdered by the Kangan security forces. He has a clandestine meeting with the leaders of students who photocopy Chris’s leaflet on the case and widely distribute it. In retaliation the security forces descend on the university campus, rampaging through it with batons (not actually shooting anyone) raping some female students. Then the campus is closed down.

The British High Commissioner complains but is handed a letter written by that poet, Dick, from chapter 5, who had written to the Mad Medico about the little drinks party at his flat at which he had heard a member of the cabinet (Chris) speak so openly and critically of the president. In other words, the security services have done a very good job of marshalling and then twisting all available evidence to make it seem like Ikem and Chris really were part of a conspiracy against the President and the State.

That night security forces come knocking on the door of Beatrice’s flat, where the terrified Ewela had come to seek sanctuary. Both women dress and watch the soldiers as they search everywhere, but leave without arresting either woman.

Chapter 14

Someone in the security forces phones Beatrice and tells her he knows where Chris is but doesn’t want to arrest him, tell him to move safe houses. Is it a trick to catch him? Beatrice phones and tells him to move. She goes to work as normal, then shopping to give an air of normality. The unknown mole in the security services calls again to say the city isn’t safe; Chris has to move out. The TV news announces that anyone found guilty of helping Chris, now an enemy of the people, will be guilty of treason which is punishable by death.

A couple of pages devoted to describing how callous and harsh Beatrice had been on her servant, Agatha, for years, ridiculing her membership of a revivalist Christian congregation and so on. Now, for the first time, Beatrice begins to feel compassion for her.

Chapter 15

Describes how Chris was handled through a succession of safe spaces. But the announcement of the death penalty for people helping him makes his current patron think someone might grass him up, so he better move out the city. First step is to move from the Government reservation to a safe house in the northern slums.

He’s collected in a taxi which is part of the network, with three minders. They get through three roadblocks but are stopped at a big one with many cop cars, lights flashing. On impulse Chris gets out of the car but this draws attention to him and his companion and a fierce soldier approaches. Tense scene where his companion does most of the talking, assuring him Chris works in a garage, and he has the brainwave of taking a kolanut out of his pocket and offering the soldier some. That’s all it takes. The soldier’s face lights up and he waves them through.

Chapter 16

Five days later Chris starts the move north. For those days he stays in the house of the very poor Braimoh, a taxi driver with five children. Beatrice elects to spend the night with him on the noisy bed Braimoh and his wife give up for their distinguished guests.

It was only at the point I realised just how privileged and elite a lifestyle Chris in particular had enjoyed, with a big house in the Government compound. a) the height of his privilege and so now b) the depth to which he has fallen, cadging a kip on the bed of a dirt-poor, taxi driver.

And realised that his journey represents an odyssey out among the common people who he and Ikem and their ilk spend so much time pontificating about but of whose lives they really know next to nothing. It is by way of being an education and a sort of penance. He has become ‘a wide-eyed newcomer to the ways of Kangan’ (p.201) undergoing a ‘transformation’ of the man he was (p.204).

Chapter 17

The bus journey on the Great North Road. The colourful design and slogans painted on long distance buses. The poverty of the passengers. The change from tropical rain country to dusty savannah as you head north. There’s been drought for two years. All water has to be bussed in (p.208).

Chris had been joined on the run by a student leader who is also wanted by the authorities, Emmanuel. He is still being accompanied/guarded by the faithful taxi driver, Braimoh. So there are three of them watching the landscape change, become more arid. Chris notices the anthills dotted around the savannah and thinks of Ikem’s prose poem hymn to the sun (the one quoted in full in chapter 3).

The bus is regularly stopped at checkpoints whose sole purpose is to extort money from the driver. Chris begins to understand the universal extent of the low-level extortion which dominates all Nigerians’ lives.

Then they come to a ‘checkpoint’ which is packed with a crowd all drinking beer and talking loudly, some dancing. When the bus stops, instead of just the driver going to pay the routine bribe, all the passengers get out and hear the astonishing news that there’s been a coup. The sergeant in charge of the checkpoint heard it on the radio half an hour ago just as a lorryload of beer pulled up, so they stopped the lorry and impounded its contents and distributed it to the growing crown and triggered an impromptu street party. Chris and Emmanuel try to get sense out of the crowd or the drunk policemen, but they just tell them to stop asking questions and drink like everyone else.

There’s a scream and Chris sees the drunk police sergeant dragging a young woman towards a nearby group of mud huts, with the obvious intention of raping her. Some women are asking him to stop, lots of the men are cheering. Chris strides right over and confronts the sergeant, tells him to stop, tells him he will report him to the Inspector-General of Police. The sergeant takes his gun from his holster, cocks it and shoots Chris point blank in the chest. Emmanuel runs over and kneels by Chris as he lays on his back and dies.

The cop drops his gun and runs off chased by Braimoh who tackles him on the edge of the scrub and they roll around struggling a bit but the cop is bigger, stronger and more desperate than Braimoh, staggering to his feet and running off leaving the latter lying in the dust.

Chapter 18

Beatrice arranges a naming ceremony for Elewa’s 28-day-old baby. Seeing as we were told Elewa was just barely pregnant in chapter 14 as Chris’s flight began, I take it this must be 7 or 8 months later.

In a brief recap we learn that after hearing about Chris’s death Beatrice collapsed, withdrew into herself etc. But then Elewa nearly had a miscarriage which forced Beatrice to emerge from her grief and assume responsibility for the young, poor, uneducated woman. So, it turns out, Beatrice has gone on a journey of self discovery comparable to Chris’s.

A group of friends or comrades regularly come to her flat, worried about her, namely:

  • Braimoh the taxi driver (so he wasn’t hurt in the fight with the drunk sergeant, as I’d feared)
  • Emmanuel the rebel student leader who accompanied Chris on his journey
  • Captain Abdul Medani, who had led the search of her fat and, she realises, was the voice of the mystery calls warning Chris to move on
  • Adamma, the pretty girl Emmanuel spent the later stages of the ill-fated bus journey trying to chat up, joking about his failure to do so with Chris

As far as I can tell the coup was an intra-military affair i.e. one bit of the army overthrew the President and the new leader is Major-General Ahmed Lango (p.218).

We learn that in the coup Sam was kidnapped from the Presidential Palace, tortured, shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave in the bush. The obvious point is that all three of the men who had been friends since their schooldays and whose fates were entwined with the modern history of Kangan (or so Achebe tries to persuade us) are now dead, run over by the juggernaut of history. And that kind of flaccid rhetoric about ‘history’ is precisely how Beatrice/Achebe see it. Were, she wonders, Ikem and Chris just victims of random accidents, or:

Were they not in fact trailed travellers whose journeys from start to finish had been carefully programmed by an alienated history? If so, how many more doomed voyagers were already in transit or just setting out, faces fresh with illusions of duty-free travel and happy landings ahead of them? (p.220)

This is OK as ‘literary’ writing, I suppose, but pointless waste of breath as political or sociological or historical analysis. I doubt it, because Achebe clearly believes in his characters and much of their debate, especially the long speech Ikem gives at the university defending the importance of storytellers – but you could argue that the entire novel is a satire on the uselessness of writers and writing, vapouring away in their ivory towers while history or events continue relentlessly on, completely ignoring all their fierce inconsequential debates.

The naming ceremony is held in Beatrice’s flat amid much tears over the dead father (Ikem) whose spirit, however is floating over them and smiling, apparently. Many tears which the reader is, I think, meant to join in.

Agatha chants one of her Christian songs and starts dancing. A Muslim woman who we’ve never heard of before, more or less invented for this scene I think, starts dancing along. So Beatrice, a self-declared pagan, thinks what the hell and starts dancing, too. I think we’re meant to see it as significant that this ecumenical gesture, this healing of communities, takes place among women, the healing sex according to much feminist thought (p.224).

Elewa’s mother and uncle turn up. The latter is a keen guzzler of booze but then unexpectedly becomes quite authoritative, and leads a traditional prayer (described as ‘the kolanut ritual’) for the long life, health and happiness of the newborn child (a girl) and indeed for everybody there (p.228).

(The baby is named Amaechina which means May-the-path-never-close, or Ama for short, p.222.)

On the book’s last pages we learn a secret. As he lay dying Chris’s last words to a tearful Emmanuel were ‘The last grin’, or at least that’s what he thought. When Emmanuel tells the christening party this, Beatrice rushes off in tears. When she returns, it’s to explain that this was a coded message or in-joke for her benefit. In one of their many arguments, Chris and Ikem had referred to themselves and Sam as three green bottles hanging on the wall (as in the song ten green bottles).

Somehow Beatrice manages to slightly distort this message into the Author’s Message for the book as a whole, which is about the isolation of its intellectual protagonists from the mass of the people.

‘The bottles are up there on the wall hanging by a hair’s breadth, yet looking down pompously on the world. Chris was sending us a message to beware. This world belongs to the people of the world not to any little caucus, no matter how talented…’ (p.232)

The very last paragraphs describe Beatrice achieving a kind of serene happiness, knowing that Chris died a good death, achieved wisdom at his death, like a holy man in a parable. ‘Beautiful,’ whispers Beatrice with tears running down her face, ‘Beautiful.’

Servants

A theme of the novel is how the intelligentsia as represented by Chris and Ikem, are out of touch with, disconnected from, remote from, the ‘ordinary people’, despite Ikem in particular going on about how his class needs to reconnect with ‘the poor and dispossessed of this country’.

Meanwhile, it seems to be taken for granted that all of Achebe’s characters have servants. I was staggered that even the poor young civil servant in No Longer At Ease had a houseboy, and the characters in this novel all seem to have a ‘boy’, housekeeper or cook. For example, Ikem’s cook Sylvanus, who is itching to demonstrate his culinary prowess to Beatrice when Ikem brings her home (chapter 5), or Beatrice’s maid, Agatha. Servants? A cook? A maid?

The African intellectuals go on and on about how the wicked white imperialist used to boss around and humiliate their fathers and grandfathers…and then boss around and humiliate their own (black) servants. The narrator tells us that Beatrice regularly reduces her maid Agatha to tears, making her cry for hours (p.185). Here’s Beatrice addressing her:

‘Agatha, you are a very stupid girl and a wicked girl… get out of the way!’ (p.182)

Only towards the end of the book is there a kind of set-piece where Beatrice for the first time sees Agatha as a human being, and realises how mean she’s been for years and years. Illumination too late.

Marxism

The chapter describing Ikem’s lecture crystallises the sense that a lot of the opposition to the military regime back then was couched in the date rhetoric of Marxism-Leninism. The radical characters refer to ‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’ as if this was a viable policy or could ever be the answer to anything.

This led me to realise that Achebe wrote Anthills of the Savannah through the 1970s and 80s i.e. in a dire period of the Cold War, when communist rhetoric was very popular, not just among students in the West, but much more pressingly in Third World countries, in places like Angola or Mozambique where Marxist parties were at war, in the rhetoric of the ANC in South Africa and so on. A whole mental worldview cast in terms of outdated concepts like ‘the bourgeoisie’ and ‘the proletariat’, ‘class war’, ‘revolution’, ‘communist utopia’ and so on.

It was only two short years after Anthills of the Savannah was published that the Berlin Wall came down leading the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the end of communism in Russia and Eastern Europe. Leaving Marxist intellectuals around the world intellectually and morally bankrupt. Epic fail.

It was a sudden insight for me that Achebe’s entire writing career took place during the Cold War. He wrote poems, some stories and essays after the Wall came down, but no more novels. He may well have been the godfather of African literature but he was also a Cold War author.

Anger

Lack of self discipline, immaturity and quick temper are just some of the things Achebe accuses his countrymen of in his withering essay, ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’. These negative attributes are very visible in the quick tempers and violence dramatised in A Man of The People and are on ample display here. Nigerians, according to this book, get furious with each other at the drop of a hat.

When Ikem phones Chris at work and the latter’s secretary insists he’s not in, Ikem starts yelling down the phone, ‘an angry man’ (p.27). It doesn’t take much to make Elewa become ‘really aggressive’ (p.35). Ikem is in the middle of his morning conference when his stenographer peers round the door to say he’s got a call, and Kiem asks who it is ‘angrily’ (p.36). Chris’s secretary makes a pert remark after Ikem has had an angry meeting with him, so he slams the door behind him in his rage (p.44). Ikem is parked in a market when he sees a soldier aggressively park his car, nearly knocking a trader over. The soldier then insults the trader ‘with a vehemence I found astounding’ which leaves Ikem ‘truly seething with anger’ (p.48). When the soldier sent to collect her tells her they’re not going to the Palace but the Presidential Guesthouse Beatrice is ready to ‘explode in violent froths of anger’ (p.72).

According to Beatrice, Ikem and Chris are always having ‘fierce arguments’ (p.73). When the security guard at Chris’s apartment complex won’t let a taxi driver in, they get into a heated altercation (p.149). When the soldiers come to search Beatrice’s flat, the sergeant leading his platoon is bursting with anger and hatred of her (p.177). When Beatrice loses her car keys and returns to a phone box where she made a call to find a man using it, when she taps on the window he angrily insists there’s no keys there and makes an angry hissing noise at her (p.181). When Beatrice gets back to her flat and finds her servant Agatha hasn’t made Elewa a proper big breakfast, she is furious at her (p.183).

As Achebe suggests in ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’, this lack of self-control, this lack of self-discipline, is connected to immaturity and childishness. The reader can extend the trait to the country’s leaders, whose speeches are full of petulant complaints, and are themselves quick to rain down dire threats on their opponents. Everyone seems to be angry all of the time.

Stupidity

Notoriously, the central claim of Achebe’s long essay ‘The Trouble with Nigeria’ was that the problem was the terrible quality of its leaders, not least that these leaders were uneducated, ignorant and stupid. In this book His Excellency Sam is described by Ikem as ‘not very bright’ (p.49) and there is a constant, understated hum throughout the book, a continual criticism of people who are illiterate, semi-literate and uneducated; and an implicit valorisation of Chris and Ikem and their like for having enjoyed a top hole education, first within Kangan and then topped off with post-graduate study in Britain.

Sex

As in A Man of the People I was dismayed by the novel’s bluntness about sex. Take Ikem’s description of Elewa’s lovemaking, ‘I shall never discover where in that little body of hers she finds the power to lift you up bodily on her trunk while she is slowly curving upwards like a suspension bridge’ (p.37). Or how he believes that, soon after sex a man should return to his own apartment in order to work. How he ‘couldn’t write tomorrow’s editorials with Elewa’s hands cradling my damp crotch’ (p.38).

How, when young Sam was in bed in Camberley recovering from double pneumonia, MM set him up with a good-time girl who gave excellent blowjobs (with an ‘invigorating tongue’, p.61). Which in turn makes Chris recall his ill-fated 6-month marriage to a woman named Louise who was ‘totally frigid in bed’ (p.63), and then another girl he went out with who ‘flaunted her flesh’, lacing her performance with ‘moans and all that ardent crap’ (p.63).

On one of their early nights together, Chris tells Beatrice loads about him and Ikem and Sam, including the morning after Sam and his then-girlfriend, Gwen, had sex, she woke and wanted another go, he said ‘there was nothing left in the pipeline’ so she:

‘swings herself around and picks up his limp wetin-call with her mouth’

at which point he gets an erection. This leads to a whole page devoted to Beatrice commenting on this behaviour, saying ‘how disgusting’, asking whether he ejaculated in her mouth, that’s something she’ll never do, and so on (p.69).

When Chris and Beatrice have sex in chapter 8 it should win an award for embarrassingly over-written sex scenes. In the same chapter Chris caricatures what would happen if he fled Kanga, went into exile in the west and it is typical of the novel’s worldview that he immediately thinks that in exile he would ‘sleep with a lot of white girls’ (p.118). Are white girls that sexually available to Nigerian students? Apparently so.

When Beatrice compares Chris and Ikem the salient point is not regarding their political position or economic theory or ideals for the country, it’s that Ikem has had a ‘string of earthy girlfriends’ (p.119).

When Beatrice insists on spending Chris’s last night in Bassa with him, even though it’s at the slum home of taxi driver Braimoh, the pair still have sex in someone else’s bed and despite the fact that his host’s five small children are sleeping on mats in the same room, separated only by a sheet hung from string strung across the room, so any wakeful children can hear the act (p.198).

Maybe we’re meant to find the sexual anecdotes, especially in the first half of the text, warm and funny; maybe they’re meant to indicate the openness between the three former friends and their girlfriends, a kind of prolongation of their student-era, light-hearted promiscuity. But to me almost all this sex talk felt somehow joyless and crude. It put me off the characters and the book.

And, just as in A Man of the People, I found it disappointing that these so-called ‘intellectuals’ don’t have an idea in their heads, don’t have a single practical suggestion about how to improve the law or commerce, industry, investment or economy of their country: they just spend all their time telling stories or thinking about sex.

And, of course, the entire narrative climaxes, or ends, with a fight over a sex act, namely Chris intervening to stop the police sergeant raping a young woman. Putting aside the (nasty) content of the act, it’s characteristic of Achebe’s contemporary stories that the decisive event is sexual rather than political, just as the swing event in A Man of the People is not a political decision but Odilo’s anger at Chief Nanga sleeping with his girlfriend. Seems like, in Achebe, sexual hot-headedness always trumps politics analysis.

Embedded stories

The character Ikem is now a powerful newspaper editor but like all literature students, fancies himself as a poet and author. All Achebe’s books contain numerous traditional proverbs and some of them (Arrow of God) describe characters telling each other traditional folk stories. In this one, we have Ikem’s productions quote in full, being:

  • a Hymn to the Sun (pages 30 to 33)
  • a ‘love letter’ to Women (i.e. a feminist interpretation of history and reform) (pages 97 to 101)
  • the leopard and the tortoise

Explanation of the title

At the end of chapter 3 Ikem composes a Hymn to the Sun – an unlikely thing, maybe, for a tough newspaper editor to do, but adding an interesting extra layer of meaning to the novel’s text. Half-way through he describes the way a hallucinatorily fierce sun burns away vegetation from the face of the earth, leaving trees looking like bronze statues:

like anthills surviving to tell the new grass of the savannah about last year’s brush fires.

So the anthills are repositories of history which survive a disastrous fire in order to tell succeeding generations what happened. So maybe that is the purpose of this book: to survive in the fierce times of Nigeria’s military dictatorship, to preserve history and stories for later generations.

Conclusion

I read Anthills of the Savannah when it first came out and it left a lasting, positive impression on me. Rereading it almost 40 years later I found I disliked many things about it. Of Achebe’s five novels I think it’s the weakest: I’d recommend any of the others, but especially Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God before it.

Without maybe being fully aware of it, Achebe seems to have moved into thriller territory, with the last 40 pages being an account of a man on the run from the state security services and he does a capable job but it’s not really his forte. The folk stories interspersed in the narrative are not as numerous as I expected, only about three in total, not enough to lift the book into the realm of magical realism which was so fashionable when it was published.

He makes a clear effort to be a feminist, taking time to flesh out the character of Beatrice, her one-sided upbringing, her experiences in London, falling in love with Chris, her boldness at the President’s party, overcoming her terror when Chris goes on the run, with plenty of reflections thrown in about the plight of women, the oppression of women, how women have to stick together, women are the future etc. All correct sentiments, but not really dramatised in the plot. Good intentions, somehow not fully worked through.

Also his prose style has gone to pot. I initially thought the long unravelling sentences were limited to Beatrice’s sections of the novel and designed to characterise her feminine thought processes like Molly Bloom’s in Ulysses. But they’re not. They occur throughout and are often really clumsy.

All these attractions of Abazon had of course to be set against the one considerable disadvantage of being a place where the regime might be sleeping with one eye open especially since the death of Ikem and an ugly eruption of a new crisis over the government’s refusal to turn over his body to his people for burial under the provocative pretext that investigations were still proceeding into the circumstances of his death! (p.195, cf p.196)

Achebe took over a decade to write this relatively short novel. Don’t you think that sentence could have been a teeny bit improved? Probably by breaking it up into two or more shorter sentences? And does it need the exclamation mark at the end? It serves mainly to make the thought it contains come over as callow and naive.

But most of all I disliked how useless, impractical, spurious and distracting most of its intellectual content is. Economic, social, industrial, developmental, fiscal and social problems need practical, thought-out and costed solutions, not folk stories and witless vapouring about:

re-establishing vital inner links with the poor and dispossessed of this country, with the bruised heart that throbs painfully at the core of the nation’s being.

I know it’s only a novel not an economic strategy, but it was Achebe himself who chose to make it a novel about politics, to get his hands dirty by entering the political arena and to give his characters great long speeches about the future of their country, the future of democracy, the validity of revolution, about feminism and overthrowing the patriarchy and smashing the system and supporting the poor.

So it is deeply disappointing that amid all this fine rhetoric the book’s political analyses are so limited and shallow – big on rhetoric about stories and feelings but, for all practical purposes, quite useless.


Credit

Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe was published in 1987 by Heinemann Books. References are to the 1988 African Writers Series paperback edition.

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A Man of the People by Chinua Achebe (1966)

‘Big man, big palaver’
(The one-eyed thug, Dogo, describing Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga in A Man of the People, page 15)

The Africa trilogy

Achebe’s previous three novels – Things Fall Apart (1958), No Longer at Ease (1960), Arrow of God (1964) – are grouped together under the title of the ‘African Trilogy’. They are all told in the free indirect style, meaning they have an omniscient third-person narrator but that narrator tells everything from the point of view of a central protagonist, at moments entering deep into their minds and thought processes so we see the world from their point of view.

Books 1 and 3 of the trilogy are entirely set within the world and mindset of ‘backward’ ‘primitive’ tribal people from a subset of the Igbo people of south-east Nigeria. Their whole point is to immerse you in the mindset, beliefs and practices of these people and make you understand that they in fact had a deep and rich cultural and spiritual life, complicated customs, laws and processes for managing themselves, most of which were brutally over-ridden with the advent of white Europeans, specifically British imperial administrators.

Book 2 is set in the contemporary world (i.e. around 1957/58) but is also told in the free indirect style, and has the protagonist, Obi Okonkwo, frequently returning to the undeveloped village of his birth and ancestors. It’s also tied into the trilogy because the protagonist, Obi, is the grandson of the central figure of the first book, Okonkwo.

A Man of The People

The point is that A Man of the People marks a significant break with the trilogy. It is still set in Nigeria but it is a) very much the contemporary Nigeria of 1964 and b) above all, it is told in the first person.

It is a first-person narrative told by a young male teacher, Odili Samalu (full name p.23). It is a mazy narrative, punctuated with lots of flashbacks. In these we learn about Odili’s boyhood in the village of Urua, his success at the local school, winning a scholarship to university, his womanising student days, travelling to London to do a post-graduate certificate in teaching, then his decision to take up a teaching post at an out of the way private or grammar school in the town of Anata. He has been teaching there for 18 months (p.8).

Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga

The present part of the narrative kicks off in 1964 when this school is paid a visit by an eminent Nigerian politician and cabinet minister, Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga.

It turns out that Odili has a history with Nanga. Back in 1948 Nanga had been Odili’s teacher in standard three and Odili had been one of his favourite pupils. Then the narrative jumps to 1960 and political events which first disillusioned Odili with his country’s politicians.

A general election was imminent. The world price of coffee had collapsed throwing the Nigerian economy into crisis. The Minister of Finance, Dr Makinde, who had a PhD in Economics presented a well worked out plan for dealing with the public finances which would require cuts to public services. Because of the election, the Prime Minister said no and abruptly sacked not only the Finance Minister but also the majority of the cabinet which had backed him. He instructed the central bank to start printing money, which led to the high rate of inflation which is still dogging the country as the narrative opened. But much worse, he launched fierce attacks on the Finance Minister, calling him and those who backed the plan conspirators and traitors and saboteurs working with foreign powers to undermine the country. Press and radio echoed these cries and ambitious MPs in Parliament joined in, yelping like jackals, like a ‘pack of bench hounds, at their prey.

Odili happened to be in the public gallery of the Parliament when the Prime Minister made this speech and was appalled at the naked greed, the unleashing of public hatred, and lickspittle sycophancy he saw on display. Among the lead jackals baying for a place in the cabinet was the Chief the Honourable N.A. Nanga who Odili is welcoming to his private school.

From the day a few years before when I had left Parliament depressed and aggrieved, I had felt, like so many other educated citizens of our country, that things were going seriously wrong without being able to say just how. We complained about our country’s lack of dynamism and abdication of the leadership to which it was entitled in the continent, or so we thought. We listened to whispers of scandalous deals in high places – sometimes involving sums of money that I for one didn’t believe existed in the country. But there was really no hard kernel of fact to get one’s teeth into. (p.39)

So a central strand of the novel is a portrait of this corrupt politician who embodies everything Achebe thinks is wrong with Nigerian politics in the first few years after independence.

  • he presents himself as a great benefactor of his people, dispensing largesse at every opportunity
  • despite having two wives, Nanga has a mistress (a ‘parlour wife’, p.22) he has appointed to various profitable positions within his portfolio with the result that she is festooned with expensive clothes and accessories
  • he is accompanied everywhere by a journalist writing down his wit and wisdom and feeding positive stories to the press
  • and by an entourage which includes ‘a huge, tough-looking’ security guard
  • full of himself, Nanga has had numerous streets, avenues and so on named after him

And he’s stupid (see below). Nanga invites Odili to look him up next time he’s in the capital (of the region, Bori, not Lagos, capital of Nigeria), saying ‘we must promote clever people like you’ etc.

First Odili goes to visit his father, Hezekiah Samalu, in his home village of Urua. They have an argument because his father is about to marry his fifth wife (Odili’s mother died in childbirth).

With Nanga in the capital

Then Odili takes Nanga up on his invitation, pays a social call on him in Bori and finds himself invited to stay in the minister’s huge mansion, being taken the houses of his fellow cabinet ministers,

What comes across loud and clear is that within a few years of independence all the elements are in place for Nigeria’s decline and fall. Universal corruption. Politics seen as not an opportunity to serve the country but to garner position, power and wealth for yourself, your family and clan. Over indulgence in the trappings of power i.e. big cars, huge houses, every mod con, bodyguards, multiple wives. Extreme rhetoric whereby ministers or authority figures constantly scream about murder, poisoning, conspiracies and so on, and are correspondingly hysterical in their threats of punishment, torture, death and so on. The assumption right from the start that the press is not there to be a free and critical part of the system of checks and balances but a medium of propaganda to be whipped into line.

Achebe is well aware of all this, it’s the issue at the core of the book:

A man who has just come in from the rain and dried his body and put on dry clothes is more reluctant to go out again than another who has been indoors all the time. The trouble with our new nation – as I saw it then lying on that bed – was that none of us had been indoors long enough to be able to say ‘To hell with it’. We had all been in the rain together until yesterday. Then a handful of us – the smart and the lucky and hardly ever the best – had scrambled for the one shelter our former rulers left, and had taken it over and barricaded themselves in. And from within they sought to persuade the rest through numerous loudspeakers, that the first phase of the struggle had been won and that the next phase – the extension of our house – was even more important and called for new and original tactics; it required that all argument should cease and the whole people speak with one voice and that any more dissent and argument outside the door of the shelter would subvert and bring down the whole house. (p.37)

We see plenty of examples of Nanga creaming off backhanders and bribes which are called ‘dash’. Odili’s own father is more in turn with general opinion than his priggish son:

My father’s attitude to my political activity intrigued me a lot. He was, as I think I have already indicated, the local chairman of P.O.P. in our village, Urua, and so I expected that his house would not contain both of us. But I was quite wrong. He took the view (without expressing it in so many words) that the mainspring of political action was personal gain, a view which, I might say, was much more in line with the general feeling in the country than the high-minded thinking of fellows like Max and I. (p.114)

According to the publisher’s summary on the cover the book is intended to be a comedy (‘a very funny satire’ opines Angus Wilson) but: 1) nothing in any of it made me laugh except for one sentence at the very end (see below), and 2) instead it felt like a grim anticipation of the 60 years since independence during which Nigeria has become one of the most violent, unequal and corrupt places on earth (ranked 150th out of 180 countries for corruption by Transparency International).

Plot summary

Odili is a schoolteacher at a country grammar school. Cabinet minister the Honourable N.A. Nanga comes to address the school. Odili reminds him that he was his teacher back in 1948 and tells him he want to university, then did a PGCE in Britain, before returning to become a teacher. Nanga invites Odili to come and stay with him in his luxurious government mansion in Bori. Here Odili has sex with a white married woman guest of Nanga’s but when he then invites his own girlfriend, Elsie, to stay the night, she prefers to have sex with the chief, prompting Odili to storm out and go and stay with his friend, the lawyer Maxwell Kulamo. Maxwell inducts him into a new political party they’re setting up named the Common People’s Convention (CPC). There’s a meeting of the small steering committee which includes a trade unionist and someone from an Eastern Bloc country, though they’re all careful to emphasise that they’re not communists. Also, none of them are working class i.e. the people. Odili is surprised to learn the party’s backer is a minister in the existing government. At a stroke I guessed he’s encouraging the CPC as part of an internal powerplay. Odili goes back to his town, and pays two visits, one to Chief Nanga’s ‘bush wife’ who is tired and bitter that he’s taking up with a new young parlour wife; and then the young wife-to-be of Nanga, Edna, and her protective greedy father. Odili offers to give Edna a lift on the back of his bicycle to visit her mother in hospital, taking a home-made lunch but like an idiot manages to crash it, spilling all the food in the sandy road and grazing her knee. Ouch. Odili is in a campaign to seduce and sleep with Edna, maybe taking her virginity, in revenge for Nanga bedding Elsie. It’s like a children’s game with women as the winnings.

A corruption scandal blows up and brings down the government. An election is called. Odili announces he is going to contest Nanga’s seat which consists of five villages, including his home village Urua and Nanga’s base, Anata. This is on page 100 of this 150-page book so exactly two-thirds through. He encounters resistance in Anata. The principle of his school, Mr Nwege, sacks him. Like all the characters, Odili can’t behave politely but starts insulting Nwege who is instantly enraged and runs to get his shotgun, so Odili flees (p.102). Everyone is so quick to anger, insult then violence. When Odili tries to gain admission to Edna’s hospital the gateman doesn’t tell him private cars aren’t allowed in but shouts at him ‘like a mad dog’. I don’t see how this is comic. It is symptomatic of the high levels of anger and intemperance throughout the text. They even frighten the protagonist:

I reflected on the depth of resentment and hatred from which such venom came – and for no other reason than that I owned a car, or seemed to own one! It was depressing and quite frightening. (p.104)

He then drives over to Edna’s place and when she lets him in she is petrified that her father, who’s popped out for a poo, will kill him when he returns. She is literally shaking with fear (p.104). And when the father sees Odili, he does, indeed, run to fetch his machete with the aim of hacking him to death. I don’t see how this is funny. They manage to calm him down but as Odili leaves, Edna’s father threatens to beat her. Funny?

The election campaign commences and Odili has to hire bodyguards, a main on, Boniface, a violent thug, and three assistants, plus load up on weapons which eventually included machetes and two shotguns. The youth wing of Nanga supporters carry violent placards and attack his rallies. In his essay ‘The trouble with Nigeria’ Achebe claims it’s the corrupt and badly educated leadership – he says nothing about this resort to anger and violence which characterises every level of public discourse.

Anyway, Chief Nanga drives up in a Cadillac full of bodyguards to Odili’s father’s house and very smoothly converts the father, over a new bottle of whisky describing how abominably his son behaved in abusing his hospitality etc. Then Nanga offers Odili a scholarship for further study plus £250 to pack in his campaign. He’s going to lose anyway, Do what his buddy Maxwell has already done, which is take the money and stand down.

In fact Nanga was lying and the next day max and the rest of the team (a dozen organisers) roll up to help Odili with his campaign bringing a car, a minibus and two new Land Rovers with loudspeakers fitted on the roofs. They hold a rally with Max declaiming through the speakers but the crowd is apathetic and replies with two points: 1) the politicians may be corrupt, but so is almost everybody down to the lowliest council official and storekeeper, so an attack on ‘corruption’ is actually an attack on the very ‘people’ the CPC claims to be standing for, and 2) nobody expects the CPC to be any different, everybody expects them to join the existing political parties, the P.O.P. and P.A.P. on the gravy train (p.125).

Max tells Odili he did take a bribe from his opponent in his constituency (Max and Odili are fighting campaigns in adjoining constituencies), £1,000 from Chief Koko – it’s what paid for the shiny new Land Rovers – but he won’t honour the terms of the deal, he won’t stop campaigning.

Things start to go wrong. Odili’s father is expelled from his party (just to be clear, his dad was a treasurer of the established opposition party the P.O.P.), then tax inspectors came demanding a new, much bigger payment, and could only be persuaded not to arrest him with the payment of a cash bribe (£24). How can Odili, Max and their dozen friends hope to change the embedded practices of an entire society?

Next day the village Crier announces there is only one candidate worth voting for, Chief Nanga. The message is repeated on the radio. A message comes that his father’s expulsion from his party will be reversed if he simply signs a document dissociating himself from his son’s (Odili’s) subversive activities.

A day or two later Nanga holds the inaugural rally of his campaign. Foolishly, Odili decides to attend. He tries to mingle with the crowd but one of Nanga’s creatures spots him and Nanga immediately tells the crowd to seize him. So Odili is manhandled to the front of the crowd and then taken by minders up onto the stage where Nanga reads out the long list of his bad behaviour, treachery and scheming, as the roars of anger get louder. Then Nanga playfully hands the microphone to Odili so the crowd can hear his excuses but he doesn’t get further than ‘I came to tell the people that you are a liar…’ before Nanga slaps him, then lots of other fists are pummeling then something hard feels like it is cracking his skull and he loses consciousness.

When he awakes it is to find he has a cracked skull, a broken arm, and bruises to his groin where he was heartily kicked by Nanga’s henchmen. He is confused for weeks and only slowly finds out he is under arrest for having dangerous weapons in his car (the machetes and shotguns), a car Nanga’s thugs ransacked, turned over and set on fire. In fact the charge was dropped once it was clear Odili wasn’t going to sign his nomination papers to stand as a candidate (he thought he’s already submitted them but they were intercepted by Nanga’s thugs).

Anyway the day of the election comes and goes and Odili is still in bed recovering. When he hears that his good friend Maxwell was killed in his electioneering, in the process of investigating vote rigging, he suffers a relapse. Max was run over as he was getting out of his vehicle by thugs of Chief Koko’s. For some reason Koko is nearby and Max’s girlfriend, Eunice, gets a gun out of her handbag and shoots Koko dead, before she’s arrested.

On election night the gangs assembled by these ruling MPs, Nanga and Koko, get out of control and go on the rampage, attacking markets, burning and looting, which lasts for days.

At first the Prime Minister is re-elected and selects all the cabinet who had been disgraced, including Nanga. Violence continues across the country and he assures foreign investors the country is safe and stable.

Meanwhile, in the love interest part of the story, Edna has been visiting him. Turns out she refused to marry Nanga. Turns out she loves Odili. This is very inconsistent with the scene where she shouted at him to leave her house (?) but it does provide the standard happy ending of the slight comic novel.

When he finally gets out of hospital he and his father go and see Edna’s father to begin a ‘conversation’ about marrying her. Edna’s father says no but then history takes a hand. In the only thing that made me smile in the whole book, I liked the phrasing of:

But the Army obliged us by staging a coup at that point and locking up every member of the Government. The rampaging bands of election thugs had caused so much unrest and dislocation that our young Army officers seized the opportunity to take over. We were told Nanga was arrested trying to escape by canoe dressed like a fisherman. Thereafter we made rapid progress with Edna’s father who, no doubt, saw me then as a bird in hand… (p.147)

So there’s a military coup, the entire existing government is thrown in prison, and Odili ends up with the girl. Happy ending, of sorts.

The final thought of the book is Odili’s complete disillusion with the people of Nigeria, because the day after the coup the entire population, from the loftiest intellectuals to the lowliest latrine cleaners, like the population of Oceania in Nineteen Eighty-Four, completely and absolutely switches its allegiance from the old regime, which it now reviles, to the new one, which it fulsomely praises.

So the novel ends on a note, I thought, of real despair. In his essay The trouble with Nigeria Achebe famously wrote that it’s Nigeria’s main problem has been its appalling leaders. The implication, in fact the explicit conclusion of this book, is that this is not the case. But the real trouble with Nigeria, the last pages of this novel imply, is its people.

Note

I now proceed to say some very blunt things about the stupidity, childishness, ignorance, quickness to anger and swift resort to violence which characterises the world of the novel and, if it is in any way intended as a depiction of his native country, of Nigeria as a whole. I felt nervous doing this but have just finished reading Achebe’s 1983 essay The Trouble with Nigeria and have discovered that everything I comment on is raised and worried over in that essay. In other words, the negative qualities I discuss in the next few sections are aspects of Nigerian life which Achebe himself lamented. In other words, the novel deliberately paints Nigerian political and social life in almost as unflattering light as he could manage, almost as if he wanted to stun his country into reform.

Stupidity

It’s a tactless thing to write but what really comes across from the book is not that Nanga or any of his cabinet colleagues are especially corrupt – they are, of course, but the real take-home is that they’re just stupid, very stupid; stupid, ignorant and uneducated. All Nanga’s charisma and loud-talking makes it easy to forget the surprising fact that he is, as Odili tells us, ‘barely literate’ (p.47). And he was a teacher!

I know the novel is packed with the moral fol-de-rol which GCSE students are told to waste their time writing essays about (‘Was Odili right to do x?’, ‘What options does Edna have in a patriarchal society?’ etc) – but surely the important dynamic is established early on, in that story about the Minister of Finance, who had a PhD in public finance and a sound plan, being sacked and vilified by the Prime Minister and the lickspittle press and replaced by Nanga, who is a loudmouthed ignoramus.

It’s not me imposing this on the text – the young university-educated characters (Odili, Maxwell, Kadabie) themselves comment on the ignorance of their leaders. Here’s Odili’s friend, the lawyer Maxwell:

‘That’s all they care for,’ he said with a solemn face. ‘Women, cars, landed property. But what else can you expect when intelligent people leave politics to illiterates like Chief Nanga?’ (p.76)

And one of the villagers, an elderly man. Max addresses in a campaign rally freely admits the people’s ignorance:

‘We are ignorant people and we are like children.’ (p.126)

Not everyone can go away to university. Hardly anyone gets to go and be educated in Britain. Meanwhile 99% of the population continues illiterate and soaked in its traditional beliefs, namely that the tribal chieftain’s first job is to provide for his people. Out of that venerable, traditional, tribal, people’s assumption comes the corrupt structure of most African countries’ political and economic systems.

Quick to anger

I’ve highlighted the little sequence of characters getting irrationally furious (the hospital gatekeeper, Edna’s father, gangs of Nanga’s supporters). But the protagonist, Odili, is like this, extremely quick to take violent offence. And so is his father. When Nanga visits them at their house in Urua, Odili refuses to put his newspaper down so his father, instantly super enraged, steps towards him as if to hit him (p.115). When Edna’s brother doesn’t immediately go and fetch Edna when he pays her family a visit, Odili immediately starts shouting at the poor boy (p.129). After Edna has given him a good dressing-down, the brother warns Odili that the minder set on her by Nanga will castrate him (Odili) if he finds him there in Edna’s house (p.129). Then, of course, Odili is badly beaten up on Nanga’s campaign stage. And then his friend Max is murdered by his political opponent, Chief Koko.

Can’t everyone just try to calm down and be civil to each other?

Childish

Much of the behaviour of a lot of the characters, comes over as petulant and childish. The narrator is touchy:

‘Hello, Jalio,’ I said, stretching my hand to shake his… He replied hello and took my hand but obviously he did not remember my name and didn’t seem to care particularly. I was very much hurt by this and immediately formed a poor opinion of him and his silly airs. (p.62)

A trait which forms the spine of the plot when he makes his juvenile determination to get his own back on Chief Nanga for sleeping with his girlfriend, by sleeping with his future wife (Edna).

The same tetchy quickness to feel insulted comes over in Nanga’s touchiness about what journalists write about him and his heartfelt wish to muzzle and silence them.

It explains why all the characters’ political ideas are blunt and stupid as a child’s: to acquire more money and power; muzzle the press; intimidate other political parties; throw anyone who disagrees with them in prison. In fact most of the satire is at Odili’s expense because he never has any idea how to run a country or an economy, he has no policies or ideas of any kind except to get his own back on Chief Nanga.

It’s not that it’s corrupt or wicked so much as that it’s childish, a childishly inadequate mentality for running a country.

‘We are ignorant people and we are like children.’ (p.126)

And it’s this childishness, this immature petulance and resentment of any criticism, which the outside world was to hear in the angry speeches of African leaders like Patrice Lumumba, lashing out at the West for not helping him tackled Congo’s chaotic crises, the angry rants of Idi Amin or Robert Mugabe or Thabo Mbeki, over the decades to come.

Over-symbolising

This is connected to something else I noticed, which is the way all the characters (the meaningful characters i.e. the men, in this patriarchal narrative) madly over-inflate even the tiniest incident into being symbolic of The State of Nigeria. When Nanga shags Odili’s ‘good-time girl’, the latter delivers a long aggressive diatribe to the startled older man, but what stood out for me is when he says ‘What a country!’ as if one man sleeping with another man’s girlfriend somehow typifies an entire nation.

But that is exactly how the narrator thinks. Everywhere he looks he sees symbols and allegories of Nigeria’s present and portents of its future. It explains his conviction in the novel’s last 30 pages or so that the gimcrack little ‘party’ he and his schoolchum have cobbled together is somehow ‘our society’s only hope of salvation’ (p.128). Similarly, when Edna tells him to buzz off and leave him alone, Odili is immature enough to make it hugely symbolical:

What I felt was sadness—a sadness deep and cool like a well, into which my hopes had fallen; my twin hopes of a beautiful life with Edna and of a new era of cleanliness in the politics of our country. (p.130)

think it was this incorporation of a supposedly ‘political’ element in the novel which led critics to praise it and give it its status. Yet just having your character constantly worrying that every little event somehow threatens the very future of his country, nay the whole of Africa!! doesn’t really amount to political analysis. The opposite. It makes him sound like any saloon bar bore droning on about the country going to the dogs.

Sex

Odili is highly sexed and lets us know it. He describes his sexual exploits at university. He tells us he slept with his current girlfriend, Elsie, a nurse, within an hour of meeting her. There’s a dinner for some foreign guests of Nanga’s and he ends up sleeping with the white American, Jean. This doesn’t stop him going to see Elsie the next day and trying to sleep with her. He has a role model in his father who has four wives and is about to wed a fifth, thus being able to have sex with any of five women.

And it spills over into Odili’s initially tolerant attitude to Nanga, who has two wives, a mistress, and is expected to have sex with any of his (especially foreign) guests who are up for it – ‘a man who had so many women ready to make themselves available’ (p.60), who has sex with an educated woman lawyer paying her £25 a pop (p.127).

While he stayed in his household, Odili and Nanga ‘swapped many tales of conquest’ (p.59) and the text shares some humorous anecdotes about these sexual ‘conquests’ with us. When Nanga asks about Elsie Odili dismisses her as a ‘good-time girl’ (p.59) i.e. not marriage material. In a taxi with Elsi, Odili throbs with anticipation, Elsie dressed up for a party ‘looks ripe and ready’ (p.68), sex indeed throbs through many of the pages.

This may well be an accurate depiction of a modern (1964) Nigerian young man but it felt like a shame. One of the many appeals of the African trilogy was its tremendous chasteness about sex which was almost never mentioned. Both casual sex and adultery barely seem to have existed in the tribal culture Achebe describes in Things Fall Apart and Arrow of God and this is one of the aspects which gives them such a chaste, monumental, timeless aspect, like Homer.

Not so in this novel which throbs with sweaty male sexuality and often feels as seedy and sordid as the nastier Kingsley Amis novels. We learn about ‘ the unsettling effect which imminent fulfilment always has on’ Odili and that his fantasies about Elsie are so intense that one night he had a wet dream so messy he had to change his pyjamas. When Elsie decides to sleep with the rich cabinet minister instead of Odili, the latter goes on a long soulful walk round Bori and calls her a ‘common harlot’ (p.71), all of which feels insufferably childish.

The book cover tells us that Anthony Burgess included A Man of The People in his personal selection of the 99 best novels in English since 1939. To be unfair, maybe this was partly because Achebe had managed to reproduce the casual sexism and political simple-mindedness of a British writer like Kingsley Amis in an African setting.

Pidgin

A pidgin or pidgin language:

is a grammatically simplified means of communication that develops between two or more groups of people that do not have a language in common. Typically, its vocabulary and grammar are limited and often drawn from several languages…A pidgin is a simplified means of linguistic communication as it is constructed impromptu, or by convention, between individuals or groups of people. A pidgin is not the native language of any speech community, but is instead learned as a second language.

All the African characters in A Man of The People slip into pidgin very easily and have extensive conversations in it:

‘I think I tell you say Chief Nanga de go open book exhibition for six today,’ I said.
‘Book exhibition?’ asked Elsie. ‘How they de make that one again?’
‘My sister, make you de ask them for me-o. I be think say na me one never hear that kind thing before. But they say me na Minister of Culture and as such I suppose to be there. I no fit say no. Wetin be Minister? No be public football? So instead for me to sidon rest for house like other people I de go knack grammar for this hot afternoon. You done see this kind trouble before?’ (p.60)

According to the narrator pidgin has an inbuilt ‘levity’ or lack of seriousness so that merely switching to it lightens the mood or indicates jokiness. Similarly, switching out of it implies a refusal to be jokey or a switch to more serious subject matter (p.87).

I understood occasional words and phrases (this exchange starts out reasonably comprehensible) but almost all of it was impenetrable to me and so I ended up skipping all the dialogue in pidgin.

Beyond the novel

In case you think my judgements on the worldview and political and cultural situation depicted by the novel are harsh, here are some excerpts from Martin Meredith’s book The State of Africa (2011), from his chapter describing the build-up to the Nigerian military coup which took place in 1966, the year A Man of The People was published:

By nature, Nigerian politics tended to be mercenary and violent. Political debate was routinely conducted in acrimonious and abusive language; and ethnic loyalties were constantly exploited. The tactics employed were often those of the rough house variety… (p.194)

Of the 1965 general election in the Western region of Nigeria, he writes:

The campaign was fought on all sides with brutal tenacity; bribes, threats, assault, arson, hired thugs and even murder became the daily routine. Akintola’s new party – the Nigerian National Democratic Party (NNDP) – used its position in government ruthlessly to rig the election at every stage – blocking the nomination of opposition candidates, kidnapping election officials, destroying ballot papers and falsifying results… (p.198)

It was this environment of political chaos and violence which triggered the military coup launched in January 1966. Meredith describes it with a blunt candour which is worth reproducing for its shocking effect:

The hopes that Nigeria would serve as a stronghold of democracy in Africa came to an abrupt halt on 15 January 1966. In a series of coordinated actions, a group of young army officers wiped out the country’s top political leaders. In Lagos they seized the federal prime minister, Sir Adubakar Tafawa Balewa, took him outside the city and executed him by the side of the road, dumping his body in a ditch; in Kaduna, after a gun battle, they shot dead the premier of the Northern Region, the Sardauna of Sokoto. In Ibadan they killed the premier of the Western Region, Chief Ladoke Akintola. The wealthy federal finance minister, Chief Festus Okotie-Eboh, a notoriously corrupt politician, was dragged screaming from his house, flung into a car ‘like an old army sack’, and driven away to be murdered… (p.193)

The army leaders claimed to be not just staging a coup but sweeping away the entire old order, managed by corrupt elders. Two points:

1. Odili and Max talk about sweeping away the old regime, as if a dozen or twenty utopians with a few loudspeakers could ever do such a thing, but a) that was obviously always hopelessly naive and b) there are hints in the text that even if the CPC had won the election (impossible) they would have been sucked into the same patterns of corruption as the old guard. So only an actual revolution which decimated the old ruling class could have hoped to effect change.

2. But it didn’t effect change. Instead the country sank into further chaos triggered by the fact that most of the young military leaders were Igbo, which triggered resentment and then anti-Igbo violence in the north then west of the country, leading to huge flight of the Igbo minorities in both places back to their homeland in the south-east, and then the secession by the Igbo authorities, the declaration that they constituted a new independent country, Biafra. Which led to the Biafran War or The Nigerian Civil War (1967 to 1970) in which up to 2 million Igbo civilians died from famine.

This catastrophic background makes the naive political dreaming and petty personal feuds of A Man of the People‘s protagonist, Odili, look even more childish and superficial. In the real world this half decade of Nigeria’s history showed that it had basically three options: corrupt but essentially peaceful civilian rule; military coup and rule by the army; ruinous civil war. Of the three the first one, the one Idoli and his friends so fervently want to overthrow, is quite clearly the least bad.

In a sentence

Critics praise A Man of The People as a ‘political’ novel or for its ‘political’ content but, in my opinion, its so-called ‘political’ element is shallow, childish and completely inadequate to the catastrophic political and historical moment it purports to describe.


Credit

A Man of the People by Chinua Achebe was published in 1966 by William Heinemann. References are to the 1988 Heinemann African Writers series paperback edition.

Related links

Chinua Achebe reviews

Africa reviews

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe (1958)

Here’s an introduction to Chinua Achebe, freely adapted from Wikipedia:

Chinua Achebe, born Albert Chinụalụmọgụ Achebe (1930 to 2013), was a Nigerian novelist, poet and critic, who is regarded as a central figure of modern African literature.

His first novel and magnum opus, Things Fall Apart (1958), occupies a pivotal place in African literature. It has been described as the most important book in modern African literature. It has sold over 20 million copies worldwide and been translated into 57 languages, making it the most widely studied, translated and read African novel.

Along with Things Fall Apart, the two subsequent novels, No Longer at Ease (1960) and Arrow of God (1964), make up the ‘African Trilogy’.

The trilogy was followed by a fourth novel, A Man of the People (1966) but then this regular output of a novel every two years came to an end and was followed by a 21-year gap. After this long gap came his fifth and final novel, Anthills of the Savannah (1987), a finalist for the Booker Prize which turned out to be his final work of fictions and was itself followed by a long silence of 26 years until Achebe’s death in 2013.

The primacy and influence of his early novels, especially Things Fall Apart, led Achebe to be referred to in the West as ‘the father of African literature’, although he vigorously rejected the title.

A glut of summaries

The text of Things Fall Apart consists of 25 chapters divided into three parts with a glossary of Igbo terms at the end.

It tells the story of Okonkwo, ‘strong man’ and tribal elder of the village of Umuofia in the Igbo society of what would become south-east Nigeria. It paints an in-depth portrait of traditional Igbo society and then shows the impact on it of western Christianity and colonialism. All this is embodied in the story of Okonkwo’s decline and fall.

As the most heavily studied and commentated African novel, the full text of Things Fall Apart is available online in numerous places:

And there are any number of study guides:

Not to mention scores of book-length academic studies of Achebe and tens of thousands of academic papers on this novel. While selecting which edition to buy online I read various plot summaries. The Everyman Library edition I read it in comes with a summary on the back, a summary in the introduction by contemporary Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and a brief summary in the biographical note.

In other words, this is one of the most over-summarised and analysed-to-death books I’ve ever read. Before I’d read a word of it, I felt tired out by, and over-familiar with, the whole idea.

I can’t see any point summarising the plot or listing the characters, since this has already been done, countless times, probably better, more thoroughly and more sensibly than I could ever do.

Outside the book itself one thing that interests me is the enormous discrepancy between the ‘implied author’, the author’s voice, the omniscient narrator of Things Fall Apart who is an expert in traditional Igbo society of the 1890s, soaked in tribal life and culture and language and custom – and the reality of Achebe’s own life as a sophisticated globetrotting academic, first leaving Nigeria to work for the BBC in London in the 1950s, then travelling round Africa as a young writer in the 1960s, travelling to the US and Brazil as representative of the breakaway state of Biafra in the late 60s, going to teach in America in the 1970s. After being involved in a serious car crash in 1990, Achebe went for medical treatment to the US, was offered what turned out to be a series of academic posts, and never went back to Nigeria. He lived in the States until his death in 2013 i.e. for 23 years i.e. over a third of his adult life.

Reading the list of his awards and honours makes you wonder whether he was one of the most honoured writers of the 20th century. It’s certainly intimidating. If so many thousands of scholars, hundreds of fellow writers, institutions and prize committees think he’s a master, who am I to dissent?

Immersive technique

What becomes clear within just a few pages is how totally immersive the book is. It’s the authority which gets you. Every paragraph, almost every sentence tells you something about the traditional life Achebe sets out to depict. The narrator doesn’t look at Okonkwo, his life and acts, the values of his village and culture, from the outside, with the benefit of hindsight – it feels right from the start like you are right there, inside that world, totally inhabiting it.

Achebe rarely states facts (in the style of, say, the historical novelists Giles Foden or William Boyd, who give you paragraphs of factual explanation which could have been lifted from encyclopedias). Instead the learning is demonstrated by doing. He shows, doesn’t tell. We learn what we learn about Igbo society through the values, expectations and actions of Okonkwo and those around him (the village elders with their countless proverbial sayings, and the older, wealthier villagers who intervene and judge behaviour and infractions, come in particularly handy here).

In a calm, unhurried and unobtrusive way, the novel conveys a vast amount of lore about belief in spirits, customs surrounding marriage, war and the planting of crops, lots of detail about the daily round of village life. Look at the amount of information conveyed in just this one paragraph.

Okonkwo’s prosperity was visible in his household. He had a large compound enclosed by a thick wall of red earth. His own hut, or obi, stood immediately behind the only gate in the red walls. Each of his three wives had her own hut, which together formed a half moon behind the obi. The barn was built against one end of the red walls, and long stacks of yam stood out prosperously in it. At the opposite end of the compound was a shed for the goats, and each wife built a small attachment to her hut for the hens. Near the barn was a small house, the ‘medicine house’ or shrine where Okonkwo kept the wooden symbols of his personal god and of his ancestral spirits. He worshipped them with sacrifices of kola nut, food and palm-wine, and offered prayers to them on behalf of himself, his three wives and eight children. (p.12)

It’s the calm authoritativeness of this tone which put the reader right there, not only in the physical location, but in the mindset of the people who live there.

Okonkwo

One aspect of this lack of hindsight or outside commentary, of the way we are plunged right into the tribal world he wishes to convey, is the way Achebe doesn’t sugar coat his portrayal of the central figure. Okonkwo is depicted entirely in his own terms, without external commentary and, in particular, authorial criticism.

Thus we learn that he was a strong man, defined by his ability to win wrestling competitions, but also his achievements in war. We learn of his success in farming which means the storehouse in his large compound is always full of yams and so he can afford to maintain a household of three wives and 8 children.

Achebe doesn’t strive to make Okonkwo an attractive figure, indeed there are lots of reasons to find him unattractive or even repellent, by modern standards.

Domestic violence

Most obviously, his family are all terrified of his capricious temper.

Okonkwo ruled his household with a heavy hand. His wives, especially the youngest, lived in perpetual fear of his fiery temper, and so did his little children.

When one of his wives, Nwoye’s mother, dares to ask him a question:

‘Do what you are told, woman,’ Okonkwo thundered.

He regularly beats his wives for even small infractions of routine and duty. When his third wife, Ojiugo, goes to visit a neighbour and is gone too long, Okokwo beats her ‘very heavily’ on her return. His other wives beg him to stop but ‘Okonkwo was not the man to stop beating somebody half-way through’. Later, on a slight pretext, Okonkwo gives his second wife ‘a sound beating and left her and her only daughter weeping.’ When his second wife, Ekwefi, makes a slighting remark he grabs a rusty old gun he owns and tries to shoot her as she scrambles over the wall of his compound to escape. (He misses.)

He thinks his eldest son, Nwoye, is getting lazy and so regularly beats him. This fear of a tyrant’s capricious moods reminds me of the extended portrait of Idi Amin in Giles Foden’s terrifying novel ‘The Last King of Scotland’, and of Wojchiec Jagielski’s parallel portrait of Amin and of the psychopathic figure of Joseph Kony, head of the Lord’s Resistance Army, in his book ‘The Night Wanderers’.

Warrior

In my review of Jagielski’s account of the Lord’s Resistance Army in northern Uganda I wondered whether the endless civil wars and insurgencies which so many African countries seem to be plagued with should be regarded not as a new phenomena but as a return to pre-colonial culture when every tribe was at war with all its neighbouring tribes.

Achebe’s account of the conflicts between the village of Umuofia and its neighbours seems to bear that out. We are told that Okonkwo has fought in two tribal wars and killed five men (p.47). He is a ‘strong man’ in his culture and Achebe explains what that means without any hesitation.

In Umuofia’s latest war he was the first to bring home a human head. That was his fifth head; and he was not an old man yet. On great occasions such as the funeral of a village celebrity he drank his palm-wine from his first human head. (p.10)

Weak father

The narrator suggests that a lot of Okonkwo’s behaviour is a reaction against his father, Unoka, who was perceived, within their culture, as being weak. Unoka borrowed lots of money and died in debt. He spent the borrowed money on palm wine and partying. He didn’t work hard at the main male occupation of planting yams and so didn’t have many in his yam store (a major indicator of wealth). People laughed at his poverty. He didn’t like fighting. He left his son no title. (The clan employs just four titles; only one or two men in each generation attain the fourth and highest; p.86.)

Okonkwo is depicted as growing up ashamed of his weak failure of a father and determined to be the opposite. This partly explains his permanent bad temper. He holds himself to a high standard of behaviour, it has required unremitting effort to get to where he is today, he feels he can’t afford to relax and so snaps at the slightest sign of dereliction of duty, whether by his 12-year-old son or any of his wives. Hence the fiery temper they’re all afraid of, hence the constant tellings-off and beatings.

Okonkwo ruled his household with a heavy hand. His wives, especially the youngest, lived in perpetual fear of his fiery temper, and so did his little children. Perhaps down in his heart Okonkwo was not a cruet man. But his whole life was dominated by fear, the fear of failure and of weakness. It was deeper and more intimate than the fear of evil and capricious gods and of magic, the fear of the forest, and of the forces of nature, malevolent, red in tooth and claw. Okonkwo’s fear was greater than these. It was not external but lay deep within himself. It was the fear of himself, lest he should be found to resemble his father…And so Okonkwo was ruled by one passion-to hate everything that his father Unoka had loved. One of those things was gentleness and another was idleness. (p.11)

Thus:

Okonkwo never showed any emotion openly, unless it be the emotion of anger. To show affection was a sign of weakness; the only thing worth demonstrating was strength. (p.22)

Hence his unstinting work ethic. Hence his success, which all agree is well deserved.

If ever a man deserved his success, that man was Okonkwo. (p.21)

Superstitions

Jagielski’s book is saturated for 300 pages with the belief in spirits of the Acholi people he describes. Achebe’s narrative also is soaked in belief in spirits and the best way to appease them.

Darkness held a vague terror for these people, even the bravest among them. Children were warned not to whistle at night for fear of evil spirits. Dangerous animals became even more sinister and uncanny in the dark. A snake was never called by its name at night, because it would hear. It was called a string.

In particular the villagers regularly consult the Oracle of the Hills and the Caves. When Okonkwo offends against the tradition of the Week of Peace by beating his wife during it, he is intimidated by Ezeani, the priest of Ani, ‘the earth goddess and source of all fertility’, into making a mighty penance (one she-goat, one hen, a length of cloth and a hundred cowries).

Sexism

‘Sit like a woman!’ Okonkwo shouted at her. (p.33)

I imagine every female reader of the book has been offended by Achebe’s depiction of women, and hundreds of thousands of feminist students and academics have noted and critiqued it. But it’s part of Achebe’s technique of acceptance of tribal lore and customs, the good, the bad and the brutal. They’re all described flatly and frankly, all taken together completely oblivious of whether they offend modern sensibilities, and it is this frankness which gives the book its extraordinary power.

Anyway, in Okonkwo’s society women are very much second-class citizens. They must obey their father and then their husband in everything. They are breeding stock and their job is to bear and rear children.

She was about sixteen and just ripe for marriage. Her suitor and his relatives surveyed her young body with expert eyes as if to assure themselves that she was beautiful and ripe. (p.51)

They are involved in agricultural work but of certain defined types:

His mother and sisters worked hard enough, but they grew women’s crops, like coco-yams, beans and cassava. Yam, the king of crops, was a man’s crop. (p.18)

And:

Yam stood for manliness, and he who could feed his family on yams from one harvest to another was a very great man indeed. (p.25)

There is no insult worse than being called a woman (p.19). The word agbala means both ‘woman’ and also ‘man who lacks a title’ i.e. a woman is like the lowest form of man. When Okonkwo hears his 12-year-old son grumbling about women, it makes him happy.

That showed that in time he would be able to control his women-folk. No matter how prosperous a man was, if he was unable to rule his women and his children (and especially his women) he was not really a man. (p.39)

Brutality

Cutting off the head of your enemy, cleaning it and using it a drinking vessel indicates a pretty brutal culture. Okonkwo’s routine beating of his wives and children gives the reader a sense of a widespread culture of brutality in the domestic sphere. We are told it is a tribal tradition to take twins, put them in earthenware pots and throw them away in the jungle, presumably because they’re perceived as bad luck (Achebe doesn’t casually mention this custom, but makes a point of it, mentioning it on pages 95, 107 and 109).

But nothing in the first six chapters had prepared me for the abrupt decision by the village elders to kill Ikemefuna, the hostage boy who had lived with Okonkwo for three years, for him to be hacked down by machete, or for Okonkwo to join in hacking him to death. Having read so many books about the Rwanda genocide it was difficult for the echoes of millions of Africans hacked to death with machetes and hoes not to come screaming into my mind at this moment.

Part 1

A woman of their tribe, the wife of a man named Udo, is killed by a neighbouring tribe. The elders meet and arrange compensation, which is that a virgin from the offending tribe should be sent to Udo to be his new wife, and a young lad from the offending tribe be handed over to our guys.

The elders decide that this boy, Ikemefuna, aged 14, should reside in Okonkwo’s household temporarily. We are shown the poor boy’s distress and unhappiness, being parted from his family for no wrong that he’s done.

Chapter 5

The feast of the New Yam approaches. Detailed description of wives and daughters cooking in Okonkwo’s obi.

Chapter 6

Description of a wrestling festival, an entire day of wrestling matches in front of the assembled village, with cheers and praise for each victor.

Chapter 7

For three years Ikemefuna lives in Okonkwo’s household. He is a pleasant boy, gets on with everyone, a fount of folk stories, Okonkwo’s own son, Nwoye, grows to love and look up to him.

A huge plague of locusts arrives. They haven’t had one for years, only old men remember when. The villagers welcome the locusts because they are good to eat (roasted in clay pots, spread in the sun to dry, then eaten with solidified palm oil if you want to try this at home).

Okonkwo is informed that the elders have decided that the boy Ikemefuna must be executed. Ogbuefi Ezeudu, the oldest man in this quarter of Umuofia, warns Okonkwo to have no hand in his killing. Next day men come, confer with Okonkwo, then tell Ikemefuna he’s going to be taken back to his village. He makes tearful farewells, especially to Nwoye, then sets off with the men. A long trek out beyond the village and into the sandy paths through woodland. A man walking behind him makes a sound to warn the other men, draws his machete and hacks Ikemefuna down. Contrary to Ogbuefi’s advice, Okwonko steps forward and joins the other men hacking Ikemefuna to death.

When Achebe wrote this he wasn’t to know that Africans hacking fellow Africans was to be practiced on an industrial scale in Sierra Leone, Uganda, Rwanda, but we know, and a million ghosts walk over the text at this moment.

Chapter 8

We learn that Ikemefuna’s killing was commanded by the Oracle. Okonkwo’s friends say nobody had any choice in the matter but chide him for taking part. It’s the kind of action will bring curse a whole family. For days afterwards Okonkwo is depressed and listless. He needs activity or, lacking that, talk with friends.

The negotiation of a bride price for Akueke, the ripe 16-year-old daughter of Okonkwo’s friend, Obierika. Description of her elaborate formal wear and body painting. Discussion of different customs in the adjacent villages i.e. the variety of folk customs.

Chapter 9

Okonkwo’s favourite daughter, Ezinma, falls ill with a fever, iba. Extended passage describing ogbanje children i.e. spirits of dead children who go back into the womb to be reincarnated and plague their mothers. Because Ezinma’s mother has borne no fewer than ten children of which nine died young. Account of how, a year previously, a holy man Okagbue, had been brought in to find the fetish or iyi-uwa which Ezinma, like all ogbanje, had buried deep by an orange tree.

Chapter 10

Description of the trial, by the nine egwugwu or ‘masqueraders who impersonate the ancestral spirits of the village’, of Uzowulu, accused of beating his wife so badly and regularly that her in-laws came and rescued her, refusing to hand her back. Hence this big trial which is attended by the entire village.

Chapter 11

Ekwefi and Ezinma are telling each other folk tales when Chielo approaches, the priestess, possessed by the god Agbala, and insists the Ezinma goes away with her, carries her off piggyback. Distraught, Ekwefi decides to follow them in a long passage through the black night haunted by evil spirits, first towards the nearest neighbour village, and then back to the circle of hills amid which lies the tiny opening in the rocks which gives entry to the cave of the Oracle.

Chapter 12

Okonkwo’s friend, Obierika’s wife cooks up a feast for kin attending the uri of his daughter, the day when her suitor would bring palm wine as a gift to her relatives. It is a communal feast prepared by many women, and accompanied by ritual gifts. Eating, drinking, singing and dancing goes on till late into the night.

Chapter 13

Ezeudi, eldest man in the village, dies, the message carried at night by the ekwe, a type of drum made of wood. The funeral is a long complicated cultural event, with eating, and dancing funeral dances. Spirits appear i.e. men in costumes, often terrifying the mourners. The world of the living and of spirits interpenetrate. After all:

A man’s life from birth to death was a series of transition rites which brought him nearer and nearer to his ancestors. (p.85)

As the dancing and firing of guns and clanging of machetes reaches a crescendo, there’s a disaster. Okonkwo’s gun explodes by accident and a piece of metal pierces the heart of the dead man’s 16-year-old son who now lies dying right in the heart of the ceremony, right in front of everybody.

There is nothing for it but for Okonkwo to flee the clan and live in exile for seven years. It is carried out peaceably. His belongings and yams are stored in the obi of his friend Obierika. Then Okonkwo and his family flee back to his motherland, to a little village called Mbanta, just beyond the borders of Mbaino. Then Ezeudi’s kinsman storm Okonkwo’s compound, kill his animals and burn it to the ground. They have no malice, They are merely acting out the justice of the earth goddess.

Part 2

Chapter 14

Okonkwu is taken in by his mother’s family. They give him land to build a compound on and yams to sow and tend. The eldest surviving family member is his mother’s brother, Uchendu. He performs cleansing ceremonies. It was the time when the long summer heat was broken by heavy rain. Okonkwo has to start out all over again and often acts defeated and depressed.

He has arrived at the time of the marriage of the youngest of Uchendu’s five sons to a new bride, a process of numerous ceremonies spread out over months. Description of the ‘confession’ ceremony.

Uchundu calls his extended family together and delivers a stern lecture to Okonkwo, telling him that many in that family assembly have had harder knocks and setbacks to overcome than he, Okonkwo, has. So he needs to man up and look after his wife and children.

Chapter 15

In the second year of Okonkwo’s exile his friend Obierika comes to visit him and is presented to the old patriarch, Uchundu. He brings news of the arrival of the white men. One first appeared in the village of Abame. The holy men consulted the oracle which said white men would bring destruction, so they killed him. Obierika then heard from survivors who made it to Umuofia that the white men returned with a horde of Africans and massacred almost the entire population of the village of Abame.

Chapter 16

Two years later Obierika returns to visit Okonkwo. During that time white Western Christian missionaries have arrived and built a church in Umuofia. Missionaries also arrive in Mbanta, five blacks led by one white man. A comical account of the white man’s attempt to proselytise, as translated by an outsider with a heavy accent. Most think the tale of the Trinity is nonsensical, but the appeal to love, and the music of the hymn they sing, appeals to Okonkwo’s sensitive son, Nwoye.

Chapter 17

When the Christians ask for some land to build a church the village elders give them part of the evil forest.

Every clan and village had its ‘evil forest’. In it were buried all those who died of the really evil diseases, like leprosy and smallpox. It was also the dumping ground for the potent fetishes of great medicine men when they died. An ‘evil forest’ was, therefore, alive with sinister forces and powers of darkness. (p.105)

The villagers expect their evil spirits to strike down the Christians but when it doesn’t happen, they gain more converts. When Okonkwo learns his son is attending church he grabs and starts beating him. Uchundu happens to arrive and tells him to desist. Nwoye walks away without a word, leaves Mbanta and returns to Umuofia where the Christians are building a school. Later, alone by his fire, Okonkwo worries that his entire culture, all belief and customs, will be erased. How could he have sired such an effeminate son?

Chapter 18

The Christians thrive and attract more converts, albeit generally the lowest weakest members of the clan. Rumour comes that they have set up not only a church but a government in Umuofia and are judging miscreants. That they hanged a man for killing a missionary. Trouble caused when the leader of the Mbanta church, Mr Kiaga, accepts osu. These are the caste of permanent outsiders, cursed, distinguished by their long dirty hair, something like the untouchables of India. Kiaga makes an impassioned defence of all being free and equal in the eyes of God, which confirms many in their faith and the osu convert en masse.

One of the Christians is alleged to have killed one of the village’s holy pythons. This gives rise to a debate among the elders. Okonkwo wants to drive the Christians out with extreme violence but is overruled, much to his disgust.

Chapter 19

Okonkwo’s seven year exile approaches its end. He sends money to Obierika to begin to rebuild his compound in Umuofia. And he throws a huge feast for his extended family in Mbanta.

Part 3

Chapter 20

Okonkwo is determined to return and regain his place in his village, determined to build a bigger compound and attain the highest title. But he finds Umuofia much changed. Some men of high caste have thrown away their tribal titles to convert. The white man has built not only a church but a court where the District Commissioner tries cases and a prison where black men are locked up.

It is an important fact that the administration i.e. the court and prison, are served by black men from a long way away, who have no sympathy with the clan in fact despise it.

These court messengers were greatly hated in Umuofia because they were foreigners and also arrogant and high-handed. They were called kotma.

His friend Obierika explains that there are only two white men, driving them out or killing them would be easy. The problem is the number of tribesmen who have converted and committed to the new regime. What to do about them? Hence the title of the book:

‘The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart.’ (p.125)

Chapter 21

The white head of the mission in Umuofia is Mr Brown. A lot of its success is due to the way he is calm and respectful of local belief. He has many long debates about religion with an elder in a neighbouring village named Akunna. Brown realises a frontal assault won’t work so he builds a school and a hospital. Soon the locals realise that being able to read and write opens opportunities to earn good money in the court or prison.

From the very beginning religion and education went hand in hand. (p.128)

Okonkwo is disappointed that his return doesn’t cause much stir. The mental world, the horizons of the village people have been immeasurably expanded.

The new religion and government and the trading stores were very much in the people’s eyes and minds. There were still many who saw these new institutions as evil, but even they talked and thought about little else, and certainly not about Okonkwo’s return. (p.129)

Okonkwo’s son Nwoye has now taken the Christian name Isaac and gone to the capital of the British colony, Umuru on the big river, to attend the training college for teachers. When Mr Brown makes a courtesy call on Okonkwo the latter tells him next time he’ll be carried out of his compound.

He mourned for the clan, which he saw breaking up and falling apart, and he mourned for the warlike men of Umuofia, who had so unaccountably become soft like women.

Chapter 22

Mr Brown succumbs to illness and returns to Britain. He is replaced by the Reverend James Smith who is much more doctrinaire and unforgiving. One of the most zealous converts, Enoch, confronts the masqueraders dressed as gods at the annual ceremony to honour the earth deity, and tears off his mask, thus revealing him to be an ordinary mortal. Ripples of shock throughout the village.

All night the Mother of Spirits haunted the village and in the morning all the egwugwu from all the surrounding villages assembled in a show of strength, made a huge song and dance and then marched on Enoch’s hut which they trash. Then on to the church. The black converts flee but the Reverend Smith stands his ground, along with the interpreter, Okeke.

The egwugwu deliver a speech saying they will restrain themselves from killing Smith out of respect for his brother, Brown. But they will smash down his (red-earth) church, and this they do.

Chapter 23

The District Commissioner (DC) returns from a trip and invites the six head men to a meeting. Here he lulls them into a false sense of security then has the court officials, in effect the black police, jump them, handcuff them and throw them in the cells. The DC says he’s decided to fine them 200 cowries for breaching the peace, and promises they’ll be well treated while the money is collected, but the moment his back is turned, the kotma shave their heads and whip them. The six headmen are plunged into despair.

The court messengers or kotma then tell the villagers that they must pay a ransom of 250 cowrie shells, planning to keep the 50 surplus shells for themselves. Here we see the seeds of the institutionalised corruption which will cripple all African nations.

Instead of celebrating the festival of the full moon, the entire village is silent and subdued as if in mourning.

Chapter 24

A great meeting of the village, to which people from other villages come, starting off early in the morning. A series of speakers set off to address the great assembly on the destruction the white man is bringing to their life, when round the corner come the five leading ‘court messengers’ or kotma. 

Okonkwo, all the fury and frustration of his entire life, and his unjust exile, pent up inside him, leaps from his seat to confront the lead messenger. He refuses to be cowed and rudely informs Okonkwo that the meeting is to be terminated. All his fury bursts and Okonkwo draws his machete and hacks the man to the ground then chops his head off.

The world spins round him but already he knows Umuofia won’t rise to support him. All their brave words are void. They have become women. He lives in an effeminate world. He flees.

Chapter 25

When the District Commissioner goes with armed men to arrest Okonkwo, his friend Obierika takes them through Okonkwo’s compound to the tree where Okonkwo has hanged himself. He then explains at length that a man who kills himself is unclean which is why they cannot cut him down or bury him. He asks the DC to get his men to do that. Then the village elders will carry out the appropriate cleansing rituals.

In its last paragraph the entire novel undergoes a massive heave, like tectonic plates, a vast shift of focus. For 25 chapters the narrator has entirely occupied the minds and customs of the villagers and soaked us in their mindset and culture. Now in these last few paragraphs the perspective changes to share with us the thoughts of the English District Commissioner. It tells us that in his many years of ‘bringing civilisation to different parts of Africa’, he has learned not to demean himself with simple tasks like cutting down a hanged man. He will leave that to his men. Meanwhile what the leaders have just told him about their attitude to suicides might well make a chapter in the book he’s been pondering for some time about native customs.

Well, he reflects, in a killing aside, maybe not an entire chapter. Maybe a paragraph. After all, he thinks, with what the entire preceding text has shown us to be breath-taking ignorance,

Perhaps not a whole chapter but a reasonable paragraph, at any rate. There was so much else to include, and one must be firm in cutting out details. (p.146)

Thus we see how the rich and complex life of a major figure, a complex nuanced character, Okonkwo famed throughout the nine villages, is erased, elided, destroyed, reduced to a small paragraph in a colonial book of African anthropology. It’s a really cutting, stinging ending.

For the Brits haven’t killed anyone, let alone carried out some awful colonial massacre. The book is all the more powerful for showing that they did something much worse. They erased entire cultures. They destroyed people’s identities. They took away people’s reasons for living.

Thoughts

I doubt I can say anything which hasn’t already been said a thousand times before. I bet there are hundreds of scholarly papers relating the novel to the sociological and cultural impact of white Europeans on traditional black African cultures. And just as many pointing out the book is a tragedy which complies with the Greek idea of a central figure crippled by a tragic flaw. In Okonkwo’s case his flaw is his righteous anger, his resort to violence in the belief that he is more righteous and validated than everyone around him. Thus the immediate cause of his death is the blind rage which overcomes him when the chief court messenger provokes him.

But the overriding impression the book leaves is of its immense poise and finish. Miraculously, it doesn’t feel dated. It feels timeless in the way of a true classic. It feels like it has always been true and always will be. All the incidents hang together and are of a piece. It feels immensely solid and authoritative.

Tiny footnote

The W.B. Yeats poem the title is taken from (The Second Coming) was obviously a favourite of Achebe’s. Twenty-five years later, in his long essay, The Trouble with Nigeria, he casually uses another phrase from it, ‘mere anarchy’ (chapter 7).


Credit

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe was published in 1958 by Heinemann. References are to the 2010 Everyman edition.

Chinua Achebe reviews

Africa reviews

Freight Dogs by Giles Foden (2021)

It takes much mental energy just to shackle himself to the present moment.
(Manu, central protagonist of Freight Dogs, page 322)

This is Giles Foden’s sixth and most recent novel. It’s a substantial work, weighing in at 400 pages. Like his first four novels it’s set in Africa and is based around fraught, politically and historically significant events. The first four were set during, respectively:

  • the evil rule of Idi Amin (The Last King of Scotland)
  • one of the main sieges of the Boer War (Ladysmith)
  • the 1998 embassy bombing in Dar es Salaam (Zanzibar)
  • the Anglo-German naval conflict on Lake Tanganyika during World War One (Mimi and Toutou Go Forth)

This one is set in Rwanda in 1996 i.e. two years after the Rwandan genocide (April 1994 to July 1994), just as the invasion of Congo by Rwanda and Uganda, the so-called First Congo War, is about to take place, and then follows the protagonist over the following six fraught, violent years in Congo’s history.

The plot centres on Manu (diminutive of Immanuel) Kwizera, son of a peasant family living on the Zaire side of the border with Rwanda (near the village of Pendele in North Kivu). Manu is a Munyamulenge i.e. a member with his family of the Banyamulenge, ethnic Tutsis who came into the South Kivu province of Congo from Rwanda between one and two centuries ago and considered themselves settled Congolese until North and South Kivu became ethnically polarised as a result of the genocide and also of Congo’s president, Mobutu, stirring up trouble, portraying them as alien immigrants and a threat to the majority Hutu population.

Manu has been lucky enough to be sent to a Catholic boarding school in the provincial capital Bukavu, which is where the story opens. The story follows him as he is caught up in the snowballing violence in the aftermath of the genocide then invasion.

‘Freight dogs’ is the rather flattering slang phrase which freelance pilots of freight planes jokily apply to themselves (p.59):

‘That’s the kind of risk-taking people we crazy freight dogs are!’ (p.75).

The bulk of the story describes how Manu wangles his way from endangered peasant into the world of these cargo pilots, running guns and whatever else is required between militias, armies and guerrillas, for the fee of gold or diamonds or whatever other loot they can bargain for.

The book is divided into six parts. [I’ve added the text in square brackets.]

  1. The Aftermath: June to November 1996 [of the Rwanda genocide]
  2. Seven to Heaven: November 1996 to May 1997 [the First Congo War]
  3. The Interbellum: June 1997 to August 1998 [between the two Congo wars]
  4. Fighting Fire, Treading Water: August 1998 to February 2002 [the Second Congo War]
  5. The Lights of Europe: March 2004 to December 2006 [Amsterdam and Belgium]
  6. The Deconfliction Zone: January 2007 [back in Uganda]

I didn’t like this book, for the following reasons:

1. History and footnotes

The novel is hag-ridden by the history. I’ve just read two very detailed histories of Rwanda (by Gerard Prunier and Michela Wrong) and Foden’s novel, at least to begin with, feels like a clumsy rehash of all the key facts, it feels like a Wikipedia article listing all the events from 1994 to 1996, with a very light skin of fiction laid over it.

Foden has so much factual research to cram into the text, especially at the start as he rushes to give the complicated backdrop to the genocide then to the first Congo War, that I was surprised he didn’t add it as footnotes. In fact very often it feels like footnotes:

This figure looked like a large bag of milk (milk is often served in bags in this part of Africa). (p.41)

The Lendu are the other ethnic group around Bunia, historically in violent conflict with the Hema over land usage. (p.136)

Take the scores of times Foden gives encyclopedia-style backgrounders on the major towns and cities of Congo, on ethnic groups, on colonial history, on the ongoing relations between Uganda, Rwanda and Zaire, on the origin of various guerrilla groups and so on.

Or when Foden just includes newspaper cuttings to convey the world of politics and fast moving events (p.110) or cites an old colonial-era work on Bantu mythology (p.179) or characters overhear radio news bulletins which handily update us on the developing political background.

Or the factual backgrounders on non-war-related subjects, such as the extended passage about East Congo volcanoes, or the migration of crested cranes, national bird of Uganda (p.253).

Or the very staged scene where Manu walks around the Belgian Royal Museum of Africa, staggered by its artificiality and lies, itself a flimsy pretext for shoehorning in some of the facts about the atrocious rule of Leopold II (p.305).

Or the extended sequence describing what it’s like to work in an abattoir. Or the different breeds of African cow. Or how to run a potato farm. Not to mention the technical details about flying a plane which recur throughout the story. The book is just overflowing with often only partially-digested background research.

You know the expression, ‘show don’t tell’. Well, fairly regularly Foden tells, he tells you what’s happening and what to think about it:

As Cogan [the pilot] fiddles with a lever…Manu is already reinventing, becoming someone else, despite constantly thinking back to the someone he was before. (p.58)

At moments it’s like reading the SparkNotes of a novel alongside the novel itself and, after a while, realising you prefer the Notes. They’re better written and get to the point faster.

The narrator or the characters are often fully aware of the exact nature of events and their significance, as they occur, in a way nobody in real life is. The characters anachronistically show the benefits of much later knowledge, but at the time of the original events.

For example, for the last fifteen years or so there’s been a growing awareness among western commentators that the RPF regime of President Paul Kagame is a repressive security state, which carried out atrocities against unarmed Hutu and Congolese civilians right from the start (i.e. 1996). See Michela Wrong’s devastating indictment, Do Not Disturb. But even a liberal sceptic like Wrong admits that for years and years after the genocide she believed the RPF line that they were knights in shining armour who ended the genocide and sought only to kill those responsible for it, during their invasion of Congo. Only slowly did the modern view of events and the very negative view of Kagame’s RPF emerge.

But Foden gives Manu this clear-eyed and authoritative opinion early on in the book. You could argue that that’s because he’s seen RPF troops carrying out terrible massacres but it’s more than that. Manu is a teenage peasant with only a superficial education caught up in terrible and confusing events – but he is given thoughts appropriate to a mature academic commentator, many years his senior, and with the benefit of the subsequent 25 years of history, research and revision.

Manu says nothing, knowing well enough by now about the grinding machine that’s not just Rusyo, but the whole security apparatus of the Rwandan state. (p.93)

How can some peasant brought up on a rural farm possibly know about ‘the whole security apparatus of the Rwandan state’? That’s not the voice of a confused character caught up in bewildering events but of Foden the history buff, benefiting from decades of hindsight and calm detached analysis, projecting  his perspective back onto his character for the benefit of the reader.

It feels like Foden is keen to show the reader that he holds the latest (very negative) opinion of Kagame and the RPF, he is itching to convey this information, and so he has his cipher, Manu, think it – completely inappropriately for someone caught up in the middle of events, with no knowledge of how they’re going to pan out.

This is what I mean by saying that the novel is hag-ridden by the history. The history comes first, drives the events, provides the scaffold of the book – and the characters are made to twist and bend to illustrate the history, to come out, on every page, with dialogue and speeches whose sole purpose is to explain the latest developments, always with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, rather than express their psychologies or opinions.

The characters feel like puppets manipulated to dramatise a series of historical events which are far larger than them. This historical hindsight sometimes comes right out into the open. For example, the occasion when Manu hears a reporter on the radio saying the AFDL has taken Kinshasa and Kabila is now president:

He doesn’t say the First Congo War is over because he doesn’t know it’s the first yet but that’s what it is (p.153)

This is the tone of Foden the intrusive narrator emerging as puppet-master or, more precisely, omniscient knower of the historical record, beneficiary of 20 years of hindsight, ensuring that the historical record comes first, is the pre-eminent aspect of the narrative, and the so-called ‘characters’, with their necessarily limited knowledge, come a poor second,

All these history lessons and the frequent authorial nudges telling you what to think and how to interpret things feel claustrophobic, like being cornered by a drunk at a party who’s going to set you straight about the state of the world.

Examples of raw historical background shoehorned into the text or delivered as dialogue

Factual explanations of the complicated background and course of the two Congo wars are continually described in the narration or, more often, in stagey dialogue where characters talk to each other as if they’re quoting from one of Gérard Pruner’s books on the subject.

‘Mai-Mai,’ Cogan says casually, referring to the guerrilla units that have formed to protect local villages from the RPA and Ugandans and FAZ alike. (p.138)

I started keeping a record of pages which contain this kind of factual or explanatory content around page 135 and quickly realised that there’s some on almost every page:

  • 130: Foden explains how Nelson Mandela tried to broker a deal between Kabila and Mobutu
  • 135: Foden explains the behaviour of the Mai-Mai, for example massacring an entire village on the Massif d’Tombwe
  • 136: Foden explains the conflict between the Hema and the Lendu about land ownership around Bunia
  • 138: Foden explains the Mai-Mai, ultra-patriotic Congolese militias committed to defending local populations against all incomers
  • 139: Foden describes how city after city falls to the AFDL, until Kinshasa is taken and Kabila named president
  • 142: Foden describes Mobutu’s palace at Gbadolite, the Division Spéciale Présidentielle, Mobutu exiting in a Russian plane, the abandoned DSP angrily fire on the plane then loot and trash the palace (16 May 1997)
  • 149: Foden gives a history of Karonga as a slave trading centre, history of British Nyasaland, Cecil Rhodes, African Lakes Company
  • 150: Foden gives anecdotes about Hastings Banda
  • 153: Foden describes the flavour of the new Kabila regime e.g. corrupt mineral deals and banyamulenge horse-whipping the locals
  • 164: Foden describes Kabila’s unreliable performance of his presidential duties
  • 168: Foden explains how diamonds, gold and coltan are becoming the new minerals to smuggle
  • 173 to 176, and 181 to 183: Foden gives extended explanations of East Congo volcanoes, their behaviour, definitions of ‘active’, ‘dormant’ etc
  • 199: Foden describes the proliferation of rebels groups in the east, Kabila’s erratic behaviour, alienation of his Rwandan and Ugandan backers
  • 222 to 226: Foden describes the shooting down of the plane carrying Hutu president of Rwanda Juvénal Habyarimana which triggered the Rwandan genocide, the role of the SAM anti-aircraft missile, the growing rift between the Rwandan and Ugandan armies
  • 229: Foden explains how Kabila called for all Rwandan and Ugandan forces to leave Congo ( 27 July 1998)
  • 231: Foden explains how the Rwandans and Ugandans reinvaded Congo to overthrow Kabila, thus triggering the Second Congo War
  • 235 to 248: Foden gives an extended description of Manu among the pilots hijacked into flying RPA forces to Kitona airport, west of Kinshasa, then his extended forced service during first part of Second Congo War
  • 255: Foden explains the proliferation of militias in eastern Congo
  • 258: Foden describes the assassination of Laurent-Désiré Kabila, 16 January 2001, and summarises the conspiracy theories about who shot him and why
  • 266: Foden explains the failure of various peace treaties to end the second Congo war
  • 280: Foden describes the street battles between Rwandan and Uganda forces in Kisangani

On almost every page the reader is bombarded with undigested chunks of historical background information.

2. Convenient coincidences

Related to this forced feeling, is the Zelig aspect of the narrative whereby the protagonist, Manu, just happens to be present at pretty much all the key events in Congo from the start of the narrative in 1996, onwards. The book shares this quality with The Last King of Scotland whose protagonist kept on being at the right place at the right time, meeting all the key players in a series of lucky coincidences which started off by being exciting, then began to be a bit too convenient, and then toppled over into feeling ludicrous and/or horrifically hallucinatory, according to taste.

Same here. When Manu is saved from murderous FAZ soldiers by a squad of AFDL fighters, it isn’t any old troop but the one led by Laurent-Désiré Kabila, the man handpicked by Rwanda and Uganda to lead the assault into Congo and who was, eventually, to replace Mobutu as president of Congo (p.29).

Later Manu will witness or hear about all the key turning points in the two Congo wars. In a striking scene he and two fellow fright dogs will be present when President Mobutu takes off from the private runway at his vast jungle palace, heading into exile, and confront his enraged troops as they loot the palace. In this respect – the hero being there at key moments, eye witness to historical turning points – it’s very like Last King but without the slowly mounting horror which makes Last King such an intense and, eventually, hallucinatory read.

The main thing about life in the real world is how random most of it is. Foden’s fictions are contrived so that they introduce us to all the key players in a certain set of historical events and stretch the concept of coincidence to snapping point.

I know that Foden’s novels are intended to be serious thrillers and they are certainly ‘serious’ in two senses, 1) that they lack any humour or warmth, and 2) they deal with horrifyingly violent events. And yet when it is revealed that one of the crates of contraband gold which Cogan and Manu pinched from a consignment and buried in secret contains, in fact, not gold but the rocket launcher which shot down Juvénal Habyarimana’s plane and so triggered the Rwanda genocide I burst out laughing, tickled by Foden’s chutzpah in making his hero or colleagues witnesses to every single one of the key events in the historical period.

The coincidences pile up when Foden has Manu among the commercial pilots whose planes are hijacked to fly RPA forces to Kitona airport in the bold but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to unseat Kabila, I was beyond laughing and just marvelled at the way the novel is entirely based on the history, a reskinning of the events in a light covering of ‘fiction’, and Manu, the central character, for all the effort Foden puts in to try and make his feelings believable, little more than a cipher.

In the final scenes, where Manu is absolutely down on his luck, impoverished and immiserated in racist Belgium, the sudden appearance of the old freight dog, Papa, to save and rescue him is presumably meant to be a sensible event but, in my mind prompted the image of the Monty Python cartoon of the clouds opening and angels blowing trumpets. Beyond ludicrous. A fairy tale.

3. The central figure is a cipher

The central character, Manu, isn’t very interesting. He doesn’t have interesting thoughts, he doesn’t have much to say for himself, he’s more of a cipher or front man pasted on top of what often feels like a factual summary of Rwanda’s recent history. ‘Sometimes he hates his own passivity’ (p.227). Exactly. A cork bobbing on the ocean has more character. It doesn’t help that he uses white western and old fashioned diction like ‘assuaged’ and ‘deems’ and ‘presages’. I don’t know exactly what a survivor of the Congo wars would sound like but almost certainly not like a middle-aged, English, public school author.

4. Awkward prose style

Foden’s prose style is really weird. It’s always been unstable: in King of Scotland there were some odd passages and chapters; Ladysmith and Mimi and Toutou use old-fashioned mannerisms and word order but I thought maybe these were tailored to the century-old settings, but they recur here, plus new oddities of phraseology, which I found disrupted my reading on every page.

Foden’s accounts and interpretations of post-genocide Rwandan history didn’t interest me very much because I’ve just read two much better, more thorough and professional accounts – and I wasn’t that interested in the main characters as characters – so the thing that ended up interesting me most in the book was Foden’s weird style.

1. The awkward preposition

There’s his dogged insistence on avoiding a ‘dangling preposition’ (ending a sentence with a preposition) which makes him put propositions in the middle of sentences, thus creating all sorts of unnatural contortions – maybe my obsession with this is irrational but it really bugs me:

  • He looks exactly the sort of business-inclined person of whom her evidently prosperous parents would approve. (p.71)
  • The demons which have been flitting in his head since the incident with the archbishop and Don Javier, for which he does not know whether he was to blame or not. (p.50)
  • Manu reads the grease-stained page of newspaper in which his Rolex came. (p.109)

See how the obsession with not ending a sentence with a proposition leads him into all kinds of unnatural contortions. He prefers to use ‘of which’ as a connector:

  • The bigger picture of which their actions that day had played a part… (p.37)
  • Birds flitted between mossy branches as they ascended what seemed like a vast flight of basalt-black stairs, finally reaching the flat top of a mountain range, the expanse of which seemed to fill the cavern of the sky. (p.29)
  • In the back of this first car, the metal of which was punctured with bullet holes…

I don’t know why this bugged me so much, but I’d have thought it would be more natural and fluent to just write ‘whose’ – ‘whose expanse seemed to fill…’, ‘whose bodywork was punctured with bullet holes’ etc.

  • Are they faux amis, like those of which Don Javier used to speak in another context of translation… (p.147)

I looked this whole issue of dangling or hanging prepositions up online and came across the joke sentence allegedly written by Winston Churchill to highlight how stupid this ‘rule’ is and what ridiculous distortions it leads you into once you set off down this road:

“That is the type of arrant pedantry up with which I shall not put.”

The aversion to ending a sentence with a proposition is very old fashioned and formal and so sits oddly with other elements in the text, which are trying to be cool, woke and up to date.

  • They descend through the dense green, amid which the dirt road winds like a slalom course (p.187)
  • The sky is filled with just such a gas-laden plume of which she once warned him. (p.265)
  • With visibility reduced, he has to rely on his instruments, with which electrical discharges in the gas cloud are in any case interfering. (p.265)
  • He gathers up his few clothes and belongings, making a pile on the bed, before going back out to the kitchen and finding a bag in which to put them. (p.208)
  • It’s a different prison from that in which Aisha is being held (p.216)

Why not the simpler easier to read ‘a bag to put them in’ or ‘the one Aisha is being held in’ or ‘which she warned him about’? It sounds trivial, but these sentences, rearranged into unnatural contortions in order to avoid ending with a preposition, occur on every page and help set the tone of Foden’s stilted, awkward prose.

  • What Manu notices are the black plastic parts of the recording device that he stole from the journalist outside the court, about which he’d totally forgotten. (p.375)
  • Afterwards, Manu’s hand is still gripping the banister, static hissing in the ear to which his other hand continues to hold the phone. (p.376)

2. Odd phrasing

Anyway, this specific issue aside, there’s plenty of just plain odd phraseology:

Recognition [the name of a character] turned the radio off at this point, falling into slumbers. (p.38)

Recognition looked on as the second beating Manu then suffered was conducted. (p.42)

Manu got up, supposing to make his way to the docks as instructed. (p.43)

He was at a moment of limits, tripping over kerbs and broken parts of buildings destroyed by munitions (p.43)

All this apparent cogitation was in truth too unwilled to be a called a decision. (p.44)

While he’s enumerating the options, the pilot door of the plane opens. (p.51)

He’s embarrassed, almost ashamed that he’s been making too much of things that some of them, with no better a history than his own…are facing down with equanimity. (p.108)

He drinks so much, in fact, that he loses track of the liquid courage for his future (p.159)

Not long later, reckoning that they are safe now… (p.195)

All that stuff he [Cogan] liked to sing, by turns bright and breezy, mournful and melancholy, whatever the weather outside the cockpit, reports on which the Texan told him not to trust. (p.219)

Seeing even worse atrocities than those committed against the women of Boma, Manu realises that there’s always something worse than what he thought was the worst before. (p.242)

One Monday morning further on in this period of steadfast resolution (p.256)

What I have learned is not to judge so quickly, as the moment oneself is to be judged is always about to arrive. (p.275)

But this animal at the Expo is much older a beast than even Joséphine would be now. (p.353)

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Manu, pulling himself jerkily back into joint and wondering if this bizarre episode is a conclusive rupture with the past that has been plaguing him. (p.355)

Now the breath in the old man’s chest is slowing stint by stint, as his illness comes to a terminus. (p.372)

As for Anke, he has (against his own past conjecture) almost forgotten her… (p.382)

A faint smell of piss wafted over from the latrine and Manu saw the financier’s nostrils mushroom – ever so widely, as if the pleasant occasion of a meal had been robbed away in some still greater larceny than this basic reminder of other facts of the body besides ingestion. (p.395)

The sun was pouring out its almost last tot of light, making the air tremble, like Cogan’s hands sometimes did… (p.397)

The prose consistently feels as if it’s written by someone whose first language is not English, someone who is struggling against mighty odds to express themselves in an unfamiliar language. It’s not the occasional oddity – the contorted sentence structure, the weird phrasing, they’re in every paragraph on every page.

3. Intrusive narrator

Sometimes the narrator intrudes into his own sentences to comment on the action, like an eighteenth century narrator, like Henry Fielding, or a moralising Victorian author:

In this moment, he wonders if he has become abhorrent to her and that this chance of love, perhaps his only chance (as he then presumes; fatal error of all disappointed in love!) has been blown entirely (p.312)

The clash between this very old tactic, the strange Victorian phraseology (‘fatal error of all disappointed in love!’) and then the slangy modern American phrase (‘has been blown’) create a really weird disjunctive effect.

4. The continuous present

Now I’ve started, there’s another aspect of Foden’s prose which is really distinctive and equally unsettling, which is his fondness for sentences with multiple clauses, at least one of which refers to ongoing events by using the present participle. These examples demonstrate what I mean:

  • Manu also supposes, continuing to walk along, that he ought to inform Cogan’s ex-wife and son. (p.220)
  • A black Mercedes pulls up alongside him. For a second, his reflection sliding along its wing, it’s like he’s back in Lubumbashi. (p.220)
  • He decides, it being Christmas Day, that he will go to Mass again (p.253)

This is odd and unnatural word order. It would be more natural to write ‘As he walked, Manu realised that he probably ought to…’ or ‘For a second his reflection slid along the wing of the car, reminding him of…’ But Foden is really addicted to this unnatural, cluttered way of writing; an example occurs in more or less every paragraph, the text is saturated with them.

5. Having

There’s a kind of logical extension of the previous habit, which is to use the present participle ‘having’ to indicate an event which has taken place before the one being described in the sentence. So instead of describing the events in simple chronological order thus: ‘Manu opened the door and walked into the room’, Foden always prefers to complicate things by starting in the present, cutting back to an action which has just been completed in a subordinate clause, before returning to the present action for the second half of the sentence – ‘Manu walked, having opened the door, into the room’.

  • They get out of the vehicle, Faithful having grabbed the drawer from Manu’s lap as they stopped. (p.222)
  • Stinking, having not been able to wash properly for weeks, he just wants to go home. (p.242)
  • Maquela’s over the border in Angola – nominally enemy territory, since the Angolan government, having been on the Rwandan side in the first war, are now aligned with Kabila and Zimbabwe. (p.245)

I suppose some readers might like this embroilment of the prose, this mixing up. But to me it felt like listening to a story told by someone with a stutter. The awkward phrasing, the stilted structuring continually distracted my attention.

It’s not grammatically incorrect, not incomprehensible, just strangely off and, along with the preposition-phobic sentences and the consistently strange phrasing, these oddities all build up into a sustained sense of awkwardness everywhere in Foden’s prose.

I suppose these odd phrases, these unwieldy sentences, could be a conscious effort to convey the difference of Manu’s African culture and the fact that he doesn’t speak or think in English. Maybe. Maybe that’s the aim, but I wasn’t convinced and, whatever the motivation, it’s just not very enjoyable to read this spavined prose. It was so distracting I wanted to stop reading the book after 50 pages but forced myself to go on to the end, less and less interested in the plot, more and more entranced by the strangeness of Foden’s prose.

6. Poor proofreading

It’s not helped by quite a few typos and proofreading mistakes, which made me think the proofreaders were sometimes as puzzled by Foden’s prose peculiarities as I was. Can you spot the mistake in this sentence?

Later he’ll hear how Phiri landed the Boeing, every second expecting it (as now Manu also expects) the Cargomaster to be brought down by a MANPAD. (p.238)

Which I think should be:

Later he’ll hear how Phiri landed the Boeing, every second expecting it (as now Manu also expects the Cargomaster) to be brought down by a MANPAD. (p.238)

The plot

Manu has barely returned from boarding school to the family farm before a squad of Zaire Armed Forces (AZF) soldiers drive up and murder his family, raping his mother and sister first, garrotting his father in an attempt to find out where the family treasure is buried.

Manu has a rope tied round his neck and is being led away when the AZF force is itself ambushed by Alliance of Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Congo (AFDL) troops led by none other than Laurent-Désiré Kabila (this is the first of many improbable coincidences for Kabila is to go on to become the newt president of Congo).

Kabila gives Manu a gun and invites him to shoot dead the man who just killed his father but Manu, being the hero of a western fiction instead of a real person, can’t and doesn’t. Kabila is impressed and lets the AZF soldier in question run off into the jungle

Manu is then pressed into the AFDL and taken with other soldiers down to the Hutu refugee camps right on the border with Rwanda. Here Foden follows the modern view that the AFDL and the Rwandan Patriotic Force (RPF) carried out a mini version of the Rwanda genocide only this time it was Tutsis massacring Hutu men, women and children. Manu watches horrible killings.

In the marketplace of the town of Nyamwera he takes part in the torture and shooting of a) archbishop Christophe Munzihirwa, who had occasionally visited his Catholic boarding school, and b) his favourite teacher, Don Javia Mendia. It happens because the sadistic AFDL officer, Major Rusyo, made him shoot at a car approaching their convoy, it was only after they’d done so that the wounded archbishop staggered out and they discovered Don Javia dead inside. The AFDL troops then stabbed the archbishops with bayonets and ordered at gunpoint Manu to join in, which he misinterpreted to mean fire his rifle, which may or may not have actually hit the archbishop, who the other soldiers proceeded to finish off anyway.

Because Manu is such a cipher there’s no sense of how these opening 40 or so pages packed with horrific incidents affects him. You’d have thought he’d be catatonic with shock but there’s no attempt to convey shock, PTSD or psychosis, instead he remains the blank cipher used to shuffle the narrative along.

Supervising his induction into the AFDL is a brutal boy his own age, named Recognition. After receiving a number of brutal beatings from him, Manu manages to slip away from the AFDL camp and embarks on a long trek back to his farm. Here he buries the body of his mother and then sets off stumbling through the jungle in the direction of Uganda, which he hopes will be safe.

After some days in the jungle Manu stumbles across an airfield at Rutshuru on the border between Congo and Uganda, and witnesses black soldiers doing some kind of deal with the fat scruffy white pilot of a small cargo plane.

When the soldiers drive off, Manu stumbles into the light of the arc lamps (it’s night) and, after initially scaring the pilot, they get chatting. The pilot’s name is Norm Cogan and he’s a scruffy, disreputable, jobbing ‘freight dog’. His last assistant did a runner, so he asks Manu if he’d like the job of being his fixer (p.55). Next thing Manu’s washing and scrubbing stuff then getting into the plane and they fly from the edge of Congo to the airport at Entebbe, Uganda.

Norm then drives Manu to the bar he owns, The Passenger, run by his bad-tempered wife, Aisha, where he introduces Manu to his fellow ‘freight dogs’:

  • Aisha, the bad-tempered African owner of the bar
  • Gerry Magero from Kenya
  • Max Chénal from Belgium, former priest, a ‘tight-faced old man in oversized specs’, known as ‘Papa’
  • Evgeny Blok from Russia, muscular, moustachioed (p.81)

These guys are national stereotypes on the same kind of level as the foreign characters in cheesy movie adaptations of ‘Death on the Nile’ or ‘Murder on the Orient Express’. Cogan is the worst. In the same way that the chunks of history are shoehorned into the narrative, Cogan’s America-ness is rammed home every time he opens his mouth.

He says things like: ‘Kabila’s cockamamy outfit’, ‘that went down the swanee’, ‘my momma used to say’, ‘nothing sticks forever kid’, ‘go the whole nine yards’, ‘we done fell in love’, ‘fuckedy freak show, here we go’, ‘hold on to your hat, kid’, ‘we’re all yappedy doo-dah now’, ‘what’s the matter kid?’ ‘hot diggety, she looked good!’, ‘the one’s a biggee’, ‘shit’s about to hit the fan’. He is, in other words, a dictionary of Yankee clichés. He sounds like a character out of Indiana Jones.

For no particular reason these tough old guys decide to adopt Manu and teach him how to fly, start giving him lessons, buy him a flyer’s licence, a pilot’s uniform, training manuals, flight bag etc. He’s still only 19.

So Manu goes on seven or eight trips with Cogan and Evgeny, studies the manuals, and eventually gets his pilot’s licence. On one of these trips we see Cogan landing at a remote base in the middle of carrying a cargo of gold, and getting Manu to help bury one of the crates, allegedly with the help of the trip’s sponsor, Major Faithful.

Part 3. The Interbellum: June 1997 to August 1998

A chapter where Manu does a purely civilian job, unconnected with the war, namely ferrying a Belgian expert in volcanoes, an attractive young blonde (is there any other kind of expert in volcanoes?), Anke Desseaux, around the volcanoes of the Great Lakes.

Until their jeep (driven by a hired driver) is ambushed by a small crew led by none other than Manu’s old comrade, Recognition. Recognition explains he’s gone AWOL from the ADFL and is trying to set up a Tutsi militia to protect their own kind, here in East Congo.

Manu wrestles his machine gun off him, shoots dead the two other guerrillas in the ambush, shoots Recognition in the leg and would have finished him off if only Anke had started to come round from being knocked out.

So Manu knocks Recognition out with the rifle butt, hauls Anke into the jeep, recovers her belongings, and drives down the mountain to a town, sees doctor, checks into hotel, she cleans up, sleeps, next day demands to be taken to the nearest airport to catch the next flight to Europe.

(Given that the last section of the book is titled ‘The lights of Europe’ I’d be surprised if Manu doesn’t end up fleeing to Europe and looking Anke up. She will either be pleased and they resume their affair, or engaged or married to someone else, leaving Manu bereft. Either option will feel equally as clichéd.)

Talking of women, Manu spends time on the beaches of Lake Victoria and several times spies a beautiful woman sashaying across the sand, dipping into the lake etc and eventually plucks up the guts to talk to her. Her name is Edith.

Much later, on one of his trips with Cogan, into the jungle to ferry around crates of gold or ammunition, Manu is astonished to discover, amid the sprawling army base full of drunk or stoned soldiers, this very same Edith! Turns out she is the daughter of the Major Faithful they’re doing this trip for. (Manu may be surprised but any reader of Foden is used to his routine deployment of far-fetched coincidences.)

Even more far-fetched than Manu meeting Edith in the middle of nowhere, is the way she comes on strong to him, takes him to a hut, and makes him have modern sex with her (by modern I mean not just penetration but, after he’s climaxed, insisting on him stroking and masturbating her till she comes, too.)

Next morning he’s woken by Cogan and hustled off to finalise the cargo and fly off, his emotions understandably still reeling from this intense and unexpected rumble in the jungle.

Time marches on. Of the cadre of freight dog pilots, Papa quits and goes back to Belgium (after making a half-hearted attempt to chat up Manu, who only then realises he’s gay); Evgeny moves to Dubai, safer business and good schools for his kids).

And Cogan is shot dead, Manu (in another of those far-fetched coincidences) happening to drive by Cogan’s car crashed in a ditch to find the fat American still alive though bleeding profusely. Manu takes him to the local hospital which is closed and barred to new admissions (because they gunshot wounds generally deriving from gangland shootings which sometimes follow their victims into the hospital). Thus Cogan bleeds to death in his car before a doctor belatedly comes out from the hospital to see him.

A little before this Manu had arrived back at The Passenger (the freight dogs’ bar) where he’s still kipping in the spare room Cogan gave him, finding it locked climbs in through the back window and thus overhears Aisha complaining about Cogan being a) bad in bed b) serially unfaithful c) frittering away all the earnings of his freight company. Gerry reassures her that he won’t have to put up with Cogan much longer, then the pair have sex right there in the bar while Manu watches through a crack in the door.

Anyway, this explains why, upon Cogan’s death, Gerry and Aisha are arrested by the police, who turn up recordings of them plotting to kill Cogan (because the cops had been making recordings of an illegal drug baron who Gerry, it turns out, had been doing flights for).

As he lay dying one of the last things Cogan told Manu is that he’s made a new will, leaving everything to Manu i.e. 1) the bar, 2) his freight business, Normanair.

So by about half way through the story, Manu’s mentor, Cogan, has disappeared, and so have the other flight dogs Papa, Evgeny and Gerry, leaving him qualified enough to carry on the freight business, but lonely.

As a resident of Entebbe/Kampala, we’ve accompanied Manu on trips to see the nightlife, to various bars and entertainments, and learned that he got friendly with some guys (David and Matthias) who’d set up a dance troupe but were worried about the financial insecurity of the dance world, so Manu has the bright idea of hiring them as manager and barmen at The Passenger.

Part 4. Fighting Fire, Treading Water: August 1998 to February 2002

Things are just settling down when the Second Congo War kicks off and Manu finds himself just one of half a dozen commercial pilots who are held at gunpoint at the airport by his nemesis, Major Rusyo, who forces them to fly RPA troops to Kitongo, the airport on the far west of Congo, which the RPA plan to use as a base to overthrow the now out-of-favour Kabila.

But this dashing plan is foiled when the Angolan army come in to support Kabila and prevent a quick surgical coup. It was the Angolan government’s decision which triggers the long, drawn-out struggle of the Second Congo War which mutates into the Great War of Africa, which becomes bogged down in fighting between multiplying militias, guerrilla groups, warlords and so on, in a kaleidoscope of conflict.

Manu tries to duck out of all this but is conscripted at gunpoint by Rusyo, and spends months in an increasingly feverish blur of stress, lack of sleep and amphetamines, running guns and ammo into Congo and taking out all manner of goods – gold, coltan, diamonds, coffee, even train rolling stock. The RPA’s excuse of overthrowing Kabila to install a democratic government wears thin: Manu realises it is just looting, pure and simple.

After these months the Angolan troops close in on the airport the RPA have been using, at N’djili. The Angolans fire anti-aircraft missile at him which he only just dodges using a shake and roll technique  which Cogan taught him.

Manu lands at a jungle airstrip, Maquela do Zombo, in UNITA-held north Angola, where he is trapped with the RPA for four months. Only on 23 December 1998 does he finally get to fly out, carrying as many RPA men and munitions as possible as Angolan government forces once again close in.

Time passes. The war unravels into chaos. Manu keeps completely out of it, spending two years doing clean commercial flights, ferrying tourists to see gorillas or sunbathe in Zanzibar. David and Matthias prove honest employees, turning The Passenger into a popular profitable bar.

Suddenly it’s early 2002 and Anke Desseux rings him up saying she wants to hire him to take her back to the volcano which her instruments tell her, may be about to blow. The flight is a disaster. Plumes of smoke and rivers of lava rolling down the side, burning towns, into Lake Kivu. Worse the acid fumes strip the paint off the outside of the plane and damage the windscreen. They barely make it back to Entebbe in one piece and Manu is furious at the damage to his one and only airplane.

He drives her to hotel, they both freshen up, sit sulking in the bar, eventually she gets him to spill the story of his life, all its many traumas, she takes him back to her hotel room and they have championship sex, twice. (As young healthy men and women protagonists of airport thrillers generally do, compare tall, handsome skindiver Nick Karolides and young attractive diplomat Miranda Powers in Zanzibar. When he tells us that Anke’s bare breasts are ‘lightly freckled’ you think, of course they are. That’s the kind of book this is: the history is true and horrifying but almost the entire fictional content is riddled with clichés.)

Next day Anke has to fly back to Belgium, of course and, of course, they have an emotional parting at the airport and, of course, Manu drives back to his apartment feeling abandoned, alone, again.

Part 5. The Lights of Europe: March 2004 to December 2006

Very abruptly it’s two years later, years of calm business flights as Manu slowly expands the company. Then Brigadier Faithful calls him to his office and asks him to go and fetch the buried crate containing the incriminating anti-aircraft firer. He will pay him $80,000 plus costs to dig it up, load it on board and fly it to Amsterdam where it will be handed over to a government enquiry. Why? Because the Ugandans, whose army Faithful is in, want to get back at the Rwandans who are systematically undermining them, backing anti-Uganda militias etc, by revealing that it was the RPA which shot down Habyarimana’s plane.

So Manu flies to the place in the jungle where he and Cogan buried it, digs it up and flies to Amsterdam and hands it over to the academic (who is probably a spy).

But then Manu is flabbergasted to be arrested! Turns out he’s wanted on an Interpol warrant for the murder of Don Javier and the Archbishop all those years ago in Nyamwera. Turns out an NGO has been pursuing murders of Spanish citizens and, having done the Franco regime and various South American governments, is now turning its attention to the murder of Spanish citizens in Africa.

The accusations are desperately unfair but then it turns out that the main witness against him is none other than Recognition, the comrade who forced him to perform these very deeds, and has now, bizarrely, become a Catholic friar in the monastery base of the NGO which is bringing all these accusations. Triggering in Manu a recurrence of the existential crises of doubt and personality which have dogged him throughout the narrative.

Standing there in the dock in his prison shows, he begins to think of himself as barely alive. (p.289)

Manu’s lawyer takes him outside the court for a cigarette (guarded by a security guard). A court journalist comes over and, in a mad moment, Manu grabs the journalist, puts the sim car of his phone to his jugular, forces the cop and lawyer to lie on the ground, gets the keys to the handcuffs he’s wearing, then runs off.

In the busy city streets he comes across a protest march, something about Palestine and Israel, blends in and marches along for bit, skips into a subway, gets away. A few hours later he’s on a train to Brussels courtesy the cash in the journalist’s wallet.

After a few days on the road he looks like any other hobo African immigrant. There’s a very staged and contrived scene where he wanders round the Royal Museum of Africa in Brussels, comparing the staged dioramas to the Congo he grew up in. Colonial fiction versus lived reality, imperialist lies etc.

Obviously he’s schlepped all this way to see Anke. (I knew from the moment they first met, had their violent visit to the volcano, then she scarpered back to Europe, that she would play a central role in the book’s final section.) When he finally gets to Anke’s office he is horrified to discover that she doesn’t retain the high idealised feelings for him that he has for her. It was only one night, years ago.

When she hesitantly tells Manu that she’s engaged to be married (p.313) I burst out laughing. That’s what I predicted 100 pages earlier. It felt as old and clichéd as a Thomas Hardy novel.

If she will not love him of her own accord, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, he can do that will convince her to do so. (p.315)

God, I wish this novel had just stopped on page 300 at the end of the second Congo War. Though it undermined the fiction, I quite enjoyed being harassed by the history. Now the reader is going to be hectored by Hardy for the last 100 pages.

Manu had put all his hopes on Anke helping him but she had screamed and threatened to call the police. So he goes to the African quarter of Brussels. Fellow Congolese recommend a hostel. It’s filthy and kept by a slimy predatory gay man who shows Manu to a disgustingly dirty room. He’s advised to get a job in an abattoir and there follows an extended, stomach-churning description of jobs in an abattoir which reads like the transcription of a research visit Foden made to one.

Woke ideology

Earlier, in the court scenes, Manu had raised the spectre of racism. On the run he encountered racist glances. In the Museum of Africa he was forced to think about colonialism. In the abattoir the supervisor showing him round makes the ‘racist’ comment that many of the African workers he has to supervise are lazy.

Part 5 is the woke part of the book, the part where Foden shows his white readers what white Europe looks like to a black outsider, a man unjustly accused and on the run, a victim of western imperialism and racism. Hmm. So maybe the reader isn’t going to be hectored by Hardy so much as worn down by woke.

Foden is the kind of liberal white man who went to an English public school, then Cambridge, and writes books attacking his own class and country. One of the characters in the immigrants’ hostel is a Somali whose village was bombarded by the Royal Navy, killing the rest of his family. This character says the Royal Navy is worse than the Russians.

‘Everyone should know that British people are thugs underneath, even as they pretend to be gentlemen on top. Only the Russians are worse. No! In some ways they are better, because at least they don’t pretend.’ (p.328)

Later Manu is made to equate the behaviour of the British Army with that of the RPA which, as we’ve seen, rapes, kills, tortures, massacres and loots wherever it goes:

…the horrors that happen when soldiers, English or Rwandan or whatever, invade a place, wrapping their their violence in necessity or duty or honour. (p.343)

This made me despise Foden and turn dislike of this badly written, cliché-ridden farrago into contempt. It’s his kind of superior, upper-class, woke anti-patriotism which has contributed to the decline of the Labour Party, the loss of its working class voters, the defection of the Red Wall to the Tories, the election of Boris Johnson and Brexit. It’s the kind of liberal literary superiority which has led to the rise of the right across Europe, to populist authoritarians who appeal to working class or lower-middle-class voters who feel they and their values, their patriotism, their support for their armed services and, very often their actual military service, are being attacked, dismissed, and ridiculed by a metropolitan elite of smug, superior, arrogant, public school tossers. Well, look no further. Voici le trahison des clercs.

Part 5 of the book turns into a festival of wokeness, a sequence of opportunities for Foden to highlight how racist Europeans are, how stupid and patronising (pages 377 and 378), especially farmers, they’re all racists, apparently (p.383).

As Carol Midgley has written, ‘The white working class seems to be the one group in society that it is still acceptable to sneer at, ridicule, even incite hatred against’ which is precisely what Foden does, by depicting the rough Belgian hostel keepers and the Belgian farmers visiting the Expo as unreconstructed ‘racists’, Papa’s farmer neighbours and the German tourists who pay to go on his tours of Great War battlegrounds, as racists, all racists, racists to a man.

Because what’s really harming Africa isn’t multinational corporations conspiring with corrupt leaders to loot their countries and keep their populations in crushing poverty, or the personal rivalries of military leaders vying for complete control (see the civil war in Sudan, the coup in Niger) – it’s definitely the owners of crappy refugee hostels and European farmers having ‘racist’ attitudes.

What makes me cross is not the race issue, it’s the classism. All the characters Foden creates in order to describe them as ‘racist’ are working class. Foden, as noted, went to one of the nobbiest private schools in Britain. So, for me, it’s not about racism; it’s an upper class white private schoolboy flaunting his woke credentials by denigrating working class oiks.

If you believe the British Army can be casually compared to the Rwandan Patriotic Front which spent years massacring up to 400,000 mostly unarmed civilians, systematically looting an entire country and triggering a war in which up to 5 million people died, mostly of starvation and disease, then this is the book for you.

Final stupid coincidence

Why am I going on about racist farmers? Manu is selected by the abattoir to represent the company at an industrial expo devoted to the meat industry. In the event no one’s interested in watching him preparing sausages so he packs up early and wanders around the other exhibits. He is overcome by pages of maudlin sentimental longing for his simple innocent life as a farmer’s son.

Anyway, being a cow farmer at heart explains why, when Manu sees a stand devoted to Ugandan cattle, he breaks down and cries. At which the raggedy horned cow which is the chief exhibit, in a piece of typically heavy-handed Foden symbolism, drops down dead. Almost as if the cow symbolises Manu’s boyhood hopes and dreams! (Remember what I said about the book being more like the SparksNotes outline of a novel than an actual novel, coming ready equipped with its own interpretative framework.)

In the final Ridiculously Unlikely Coincidence of the book, who should come round the corner as Manu is experiencing the latest and deepest of his psychological breakdowns, than Papa, the elderly gay pilot from the good old days back in Uganda!

Papa is appalled that Manu has fallen on such hard times and promptly takes Manu away from the Expo, helps him quit his job at the abattoir, check out of the slummy hostel, and takes him to stay in his lovely farm in the country. Saved by his fairy godmother, panto style.

Manu spends 6 months learning about potato farming i.e. Foden regurgitates all the research he’s done on the subject, just as the abattoir chapter felt like a big gobbet of factual research about abattoirs, skimpily rearranged into something resembling ‘fiction’.

Papa continues to be his fairy godmother, adopting Manu who takes a false Belgian name, Adamu Chénal. Another false identity. Then Manu learns that Papa is dying of AIDS. In his last few days Papa arranges where he wants to be buried, then informs Manu he’s leaving the farm to him. And the old Dakota plane he’s been patching up in a barn.

So this is the second set of gifts from white men which have transformed Manu’s fortunes, first Cogan’s freight company and bar, now Papa’s farm and plane. For a man who complains about white racism, he’s had nothing but life-changing gifts from white people. Maybe, in this respect, Manu is an allegory of Africa, which has received over $1.2 trillion in aid but still wants more, much more, for the indefinite future.

Tom Burgis’s book The Looting Machine explains in great detail how African elites steal foreign aid, loot their own countries, and live in luxury while their populations starve in the streets. But the implication of Foden’s narrative is that, because they’re Africans massacring each other, at least they aren’t committing the real crime here, which is making ‘racist’ remarks.

There’s a few more digs at the British authorities by this British author so keen to do down his own country (p.379), before Manu finally gets his licenses and permissions and whatnot and, with wild improbability, flies Papa’s old Dakota back to Uganda.

Part 6. The Deconfliction Zone: January 2007 [back in Uganda]

Happy endings all round. Papa’s old plane didn’t actually make it all the way to Entebbe but crash landed on a hillside outside Mbarara, south-west Uganda, and so Manu sets up shop here, planting European potatoes in adjacent farmland he buys and converting the wrecked plane into a restaurant for tourists (the ones he so liberally accused of being racist in the previous section). But Manu’s happy to take white people’s money, as he was happy to be gifted their bars and businesses and farms and planes throughout the narrative.

And Edith, the Brigadier’s daughter who he had championship sex with in the jungle that time, she hears he’s back in the country, seeks him out, they renew their affair, they’re going to get married. Disney happy ending. The Lion King. Hakuna Matata!

Big Theme: Identity

The book’s big theme is Identity. We know this because Foden lays it on with a trowel every couple of pages and there’s a big sign saying Author’s Message next to each one.

The topic of identity has been done to death, and then far beyond, in hundreds of art exhibitions, novels, plays, movies, TV shows, millions of articles, thousands of charities and so on. It is the Topic of Our Time, what with the political brouhaha surrounding immigrants and refugees, what with young people confused about their genders all wondering who they are, who they’re meant to be, what with the nations of the West undergoing a snowstorm of cultural crises. Here are some of the ways Identity is central to the novel’s conception:

– The Rwanda civil war, the genocide and the Congo wars were all about ethnic identity, on a massive scale. Manu is a Tutsi among predominantly Hutu populations, heir to ethnic strife and then victim of ethnic massacres.

– Manu struggles to maintain a sort of Catholic identity in the face of the horror of the world (he wants to attend a Christmas Day service). But he is caught between the rituals of European Catholicism and African tradition – we see him undergoing a traditional coming-of-age ceremony in the jungle.

– Working for the white man (Norman Cogan) offers an escape from these tangled ethnic conflicts but at the cost of making Manu very conscious of being a black man working in a predominantly white industry.

– On trial in Amsterdam Manu realises the enormous gulf between the real life person and the cardboard cutout concocted by the legal system.

– Traipsing through the Belgian countryside Manu swaps the specificity of his identity as head of Normair for the generic identity of black tramp, ‘just another African migrant’ (p.303).

– Manu has built up his night with Anka into a Great Amour so he is devastated to learn that she thinks of it as only a one-night stand with a bit of exotic and now, back in Europe, has slotted back into engagement and marriage with a respectable white fiancé. It knocks Manu’s sense of the value or validity of his own experience.

– Manu adopts a fake identity when he is adopted as Papa’s son, yet another identity to live up to, to perform.

So there’s at least half a dozen embodiments or enactments of the Issue of Identity to ponder and unpack.

A-level English exam question

Discuss the theme of identity in the novel Freight Dogs by Giles Foden.

Essay length: 5,000 words maximum.

Deadline: end of first term.

Refer to the useful quotes on pages 58, 60, 97, 98, 107, 111, 151, 205, 287, 303, 361, 390 and the following:

The person who flew through the sky is resisting being reduced back to an older form: that of one who must identify as Tutsi or sub-Tutsi (p.97)

Later that night, lying in his own loaned RPF tent and sleeping bag, desperate for the morning and the return to Entebbe, Manu fiddles with the threads of his own frayed identity… He must simply be a freight dog now, just like Cogan said. That’s my group, that’s my team, that’s the badge I must wear. (p.98)

He’s trying to hold on to his new pilot persona…his new role as a pilot (p.100)

Somehow, he knows, he must become more deeply his own person, find solidarity in himself… (p.131)

He wonders, as he tries to sleep, if there’s a way he can similarly be both, can stay among the freight dogs but be clean of their sins? (p.205)

Another morning in this period of his failing to become the person he wants to be, now that he’s truly on his own and there’s nobody to imitate. (p.230)

Conclusions

Pros

If you’re going to write a novel about the Congo wars, having a commercial freight pilot as a central character is a very clever idea because, as the narrative makes abundantly clear, all these wars involved the aerial transport of weapons and munitions into war zones, and contraband loot out of them. Plus it means you can rope in specific incidents, such as the hijacking of commercial planes by the RPA to fly them to Kitona airport, in the early part of the Second Congo War. If you’re going to have one protagonist navigate through this complicated sequence of events, then having him be a pilot is a smart move.

Cons

A novel is not made ‘serious’ by being a) completely humourlesss or b) by simply by treating ‘serious’ subjects or c) by having lots of harrowing violence in it. So do umpteen cheap films and crappy documentaries. A novel is made ‘serious’ by the integrity of its conception, the depth of its characterisation, and the integrity of its prose style. I’m afraid Freight Dogs, for me, failed on all three counts.


Credit

Freight Dogs by Giles Foden was published in 2021 by Weidenfeld and Nicholson. References are to the 2022 paperback edition.

Giles Foden reviews

Africa reviews

The Last King of Scotland by Giles Foden (1998)

‘I should have known’, that is the phrase of my life, its summing up, its consummate acknowledgement.
(The narrator of The Last King of Scotland, Nicholas Garrigan, looking back over the sorry series of events depicted in the book, page 119)

Giles Foden

Giles Foden was born in 1967. When he was 5 his parents moved from Warwickshire to Malawi and he spent a lot of his early years in Africa, although he was sent back to Britain to be educated at public school (the very posh Malvern College) then Cambridge.

Foden has written six novels but is still best known for this one, his first novel, which won a clutch of prizes (the Whitbread First Novel Award, a Somerset Maugham Award, a Betty Trask Award and the Winifred Holtby Memorial Prize). It gained a significantly greater prominence when it was made into a powerful movie, in 2006, starring Forest Whitaker and James McAvoy, himself just about to be propelled to superstar status in the X-Men movies.

The Last King: premise

The premise of the novel is simple: it’s a first-person narrative told by young Scottish doctor, Nicholas Garrigan, who goes to Uganda in 1971 on secondment from the British government’s Overseas Development Agency, to see something of the world and, through a chance encounter, is selected by the country’s new military dictator, Idi Amin, to become his personal physician.

Over the next 200 pages Garrigan witnesses Amin’s descent into psychopathic dictatorship, the ethnic killings, the arrests and tortures, mysterious disappearances, the expulsion of Uganda’s Asian community, the humiliation of the white community, the rising body count – he witnesses much of this in person, up close and personal, yet fails to intervene, at various key moments, to save friends and colleagues from horrendous fates, becoming more and more morally compromised and implicated in the process.

The reader accompanies Garrigan as he is dragged deeper into an inferno of violence, cruelty, torture, murder and terror until the narrative feels like it’s inhabiting a different kind of reality, one of endless melodrama and horror, war, destruction, evisceration, terrorism, random killings. The narrative turns into a gruelling nightmare.

It’s a solid book at 345 pages but I found it easy and pleasurable to read (at least to begin with) because of the narrative voice Foden creates. Garrigan’s narrative has a relaxed candid manner conveying an appealingly easygoing but observant, slangy but perceptive worldview. Basically, it’s enjoyable being in his company for a couple of days. (Compare and contrast with H.E. Bates’s classic ‘Fair Stood The Wind for France’ which I just finished reading and found a metallic, alienating, cold and heartless ordeal. By contrast, Garrigan is fun, chill and interesting.) Here’s what I mean by casual tone and easy-to-read style:

On the way back, after we’d poured Ivor into his bungalow, Sara invited me in for a whisky. Her place was even more sparsely furnished than mine: not much more than a desk, a chair and a sofa. And a bed, I supposed, though I didn’t get to see that. (p.100)

Apart from ‘sparsely’ it’s pretty much how someone would speak. Sometimes Garrigan’s tone can be consciously entertaining:

She turned a knob and a wave of white noise came out. On top of it or behind it, or wherever things happen in radio world, was an eerie electronic neighing, going up and down jaggedly, and a deep squelchy voice choppily declaiming in a foreign language some repetitive sounding set of orders or other permutation of words and numbers. Altogether, it was as if the football results were being read by one of the prophets. In a snowstorm. On a runaway horse. (p.101)

One of the ways the book challenges the reader is the way this easygoing attitude and approach, which we are encouraged to identify with from the beginning, turns out to be hopelessly inadequate for coping with the increasingly fraught situations Garrigan finds himself in.

Part 1

The narrative starts with a frame. Garrigan explains that he is back in Scotland, safe and sound, looking back over his mad time in Uganda as physician to Idi Amin and is determined to write a history of this period of ‘blood, misery and foolishness’ despite the fact that he seems to be the subject of scandal and criticism, for he tells us the newspapers ‘continue to execrate me’ (p.19). What for? We don’t know, it’s a teaser for what will emerge in the main narrative.

Very briefly Garrigan describes his boyhood and upbringing in the Scottish suburb of Fossiemuir, West Fife, his years as a student doctor. His father, George (p.41) was a stern presbyterian minister: ‘religion covered our family like a fine soot’ (p.19). But after just a few pages we’re on to him graduating as a doctor, to escape his parochial background and see the world, taking the civil service exam.

The narrative slows down to give more detail about his flight to Kampala, meeting the Embassy people (Nigel Stone and the eccentric Major Weir, intelligence officer, who builds model helicopters). He stays at the rundown Speke Hotel while he gets used to the heat, the street life, the food. Meets fellow guest Freddy Swanepoel.

He is posted to assist a Dr Alan Merritt at his hospital in the West Ugandan town of Mbarara. He takes an overcrowded minibus or matatu there, helped and advised by friendly local Boniface ‘Bonny’ Malumba (p.49). Soldiers stop the bus at a makeshift roadblock to demand bribes. When a Kenyan diplomat refuses to pay, the soldiers smash him in the face with a gun. After they’ve gotten off Nicholas goes to help him and is surprised when the Kenyan is very angry, saying ‘where were you when I needed you to stand up for me?’ (p.153) Why does this passage exist? Is it intended to be an early indicator of Nicholas’s cowardice or, to be more fair and accurate, his not knowing what to do in confrontation situations?

So he arrives at Mbarara, some kids guide him out to the medical compound, and we are introduced to Dr Merrit, his tutting wife Joyce (who calls her husband ‘Spiny’) and the servant Nestor. More importantly to the sprawling ‘hospital’ with its primitive facilities. Garrigan gives us an overview of the kinds of patients and diseases they’re called on to treat, which is very interesting (machete wounds, elephantiasis, vaginal fistulas in women caused by giving birth at home in primitive conditions, malaria etc pages 74 to 77).

Earlier Garrigan told us he arrived in Uganda on Sunday 24 January 1971 (p.21). The precise date is important because Amin carried out his military coup, overthrowing the government of President Milton Obote, the very next day, on 25 January 1971.

Why did Amin overthrow Obote? Because he learned that Obote was planning to arrest him for misappropriating army funds and, more generally, threatened the army’s lucrative corruption. In the words of Wikipedia:

The 1971 coup is often cited as an example of ‘class action by the military’, wherein the Uganda Army acted against ‘an increasingly socialist regime whose egalitarian domestic politics posed more and more of a threat to the military’s economic privileges.’

Of course none of this is clear to any of the characters because it’s only just happened, although Dr Merritt gives Harrigan the view of a jaundiced old hand:

‘It’s very simple. This place – chaos, you just have to expect the worst. You think it’s a matter of it having to get worse for it to get better, but actually it just gets worse and worse. Take this new business with Amin. I hear they’re all happy as sandboys right now up in Kampala, but it’ll end in tears, I promise you.’ (p.60)

This little remark obviously plants a seed of expectation of the horrors that will come later. Prolepsis or the anticipation of something that comes later in a story.

Garrigan is introduced to Sara Zach, on secondment from a hospital in Israel, to two Cuban surgeons, and to a ravaged Englishman, Ivor Seabrook, with the ‘destroyed features of the long-term tropical alcoholic’ (p.71) and closet homosexual who seduces the various serving boys. He is taken on field trips by Merritt’s assistant, William Waziri, vaccination and anti-mosquito spraying (pages 79 to 80) on one occasion being stopped at another army roadblock by drunk soldiers demanding a bribe (p.81). Africa.

Altogether this first hundred pages or so give a vivid, fascinating and totally believable picture of an outback medical practice in rural Uganda, packed with fascinating details? How on earth did Foden find out all this stuff?

The new president, Idi Amin, comes to Mbarara to make a speech to an excited crowd. Garrigan records his incoherent thoughts about God, the crowd lap it up, Sara makes notes and hustles them off, scared of being attacked because they’re white.

Cut to a year later, so must be 1972, and he mentions June as the month, when he’s getting used to conditions and has, rather inevitably, started an affair with the tough, no-nonsense, attractive Israeli doctor, Sara, descriptions of picnics in the foothills of the Ruwenzoris mountain range, making love, spotting exotic flowers and birds.

There’s an attack on the barracks in town. The doctors learn that troops were sent from the north and massacred all the Langi and Acholi soldiers, supposedly because they’re from a different tribe than Amin (p.106). Some Americans came snooping round, supposedly journalists, and are themselves killed and buried.

A few months later there’s a mortar attack on the barracks which misses and kills a lot of civilians. Merritt and Sara tend to them. Garrigan’s friend Bonny, and his mother and father, are among the dead.

Garrigan and Sara take in Bonny’s kid brother, Gugu, but he is mute and never speaks again. Eventually his extended family come to collect him. His relationship with Sara breaks down: Garrigan is prone to psychoanalysing everything and comes to realise he and Sara liked having Gugu with them because it created a family feel, gave them both security. With Gugu gone Sara moved back to her own bungalow. The radio reports weirder and weirder speeches by Amin.

Garrigan describes Operation Mafuta Mingi, the name Amin gives to his campaign to intimidate and eventually expel the entire Asian population of Uganda, around 50,000 people. Garrigan watches them being rounded up, their belongings impounded, bullied by soldiers, then driven to the airport deprived of all their belongings.

He records the effects of the expulsion: shops closed because many of them operated on lines of credit from India which terminated overnight. Basic items like salt, matches, sugar or soap became scarce. The army slaughtered a dairy herd for beef and so milk disappeared. This happened in August 1972. Sara had been increasingly distant and one day in October she simply leaves, without telling anyone (p.119). It’s because Amin had also been making speeches attacking the Israelis in Uganda, mostly working on development projects, about 600 of them and so, overnight, they left.

A few weeks later Garrigan has his first personal contact with Amin, being fetched by soldiers because the great leader had driven his Maserati into a cow and sprained his wrist. Garrigan is bowled over by his primeval physical presence. Amin has a soldier pour them brandy which, on the hot day, makes Garrigan light-headed.

And so it is that a letter arrives from health minister Wasswa requesting that Garrigan becomes Amin’s private physician. By this time he’s fed up of the Mbarara hospital which reminds him of the sad affair with Sara so he’s happy to go.

Ominousness

As it progresses the text drops references to Garrigan’s current position, contrasting the time of writing (now) with the events he’s writing about (then) and emphasising how something has made him re-evaluate everything. The technique adds an air of ominousness, the sense that something dreadful happened in the interim:

  • I realise now that… (p.116)
  • Or so I thought back then… (p.118)
  • Bewildered in Uganda, and not for the last time… (p.128)
  • Looking back, it seems crazy… (p.144)

Part 2 (p.131)

Part 2 opens with a recap of Amin’s birth, boyhood, young manhood, rise in the colonial army, rise in the post-independence army of President Obote, his involvement in smuggling from Congo, his overthrow of Obote in January 1971.

The strange thing about this section is that it seems to be told in a completely different narrative voice from part one. It is mannered and strange in a style so different from the laid-back casualness of part one that I thought it must signal the arrival of a completely new narrator.

I have been able to find out little of the history by which Amin is come to us. After all, who knows where any of us is come from, who could go to the cause?

This unusual phrasing, and the present tense, persist throughout this chapter (chapter 16), throwing me completely off-kilter, wondering if it was a different person talking, or a different type of text, like maybe the transcript of a recording. But no, chapter 17 returns to the normal voice of Garrigan, now installed in Kampala as Idi Amin’s personal physician and with very little to do. Odd.

Anyway, back in the narrative, every encounter with Amin is hair-raising. He is a big man, he dominates his courtiers who laugh with him, applaud his every word, out of obvious terror. He is painted as deeply stupid and illiterate but loving the sound of his own voice, capable of speaking at great length.

For it is true, also, out of my nature, I love to rule! (p.148)

Garrigan is mesmerised and hypnotised by Amin, like the rest of his retinue. The narrative continues to emphasise Garrigan’s gaucheness and insecurity – worry about what he looks like, what he says, how others perceive him, rising to stammering terror when faced with Amin. He is, after all, only a few years out of university. The book is a study in callowness.

After the weird opening chapter part 2 settles down into a series of brilliantly imagined scenes: Amin phones Garrigan to tell him his son is ill, come over immediately; Garrigan hurries over to discover the boy has put a piece of Lego up his nose, pulls it out and anti-bacs the nose (p.153). The wife is delighted and Amin sends him a Toyota van as reward (admittedly, still painted with the logo of the Asian fashion shop it was confiscated from).

As doctor to the Prez, Garrigan is now living in a bungalow in the State House compound, near Entebbe, a suburb of Kampala. He attends to Amin at the so-called ‘Command Post’, in fact a large suburban villa, or Nakasero Lodge where he spent most of his time (p.155), then at Cape Town, a property on Lake Victoria he awarded himself (p.165).

Garrigan works at the city’s main hospital, Mulago, filling us in on the kinds of patients you get in a big city compared to the countryside (car accidents), working alongside a fellow Scot, senior surgeon Colin Paterson, makes friends with a local surgeon, Peter Mbalu-Mukasa (p.157). The hospital is big enough to have foreign teams, from China, Algeria, Vietnam, Russia, and to be carrying out serious medical research. How did Foden get to know so much about tropical medicine? And not just knowledge but a feel for all the spin-offs and insights of doctoring:

Hospitals are like people, they grow, they develop, they learn. And they decay too, and die. (p.163)

He and Mbalu-Mukasa cruise the bars of Kampala and bump into the meaty, dodgy South African Freddy Swanepoel, Garrigan permanently afraid that Swanepoel’s outspokenness about the regime will get him into trouble.

Right from the start Amin had a bonkers fondness for Scotland, having spent some of his military training in Britain there, but it becomes ever more surreal, him outfitting regiments in kilts and making them learn the bagpipes; making booming speeches about how the Scots were like the Ugandans in having suffered from English imperialism. Now Amin invites Paterson and Garrigan for tea and tells them he is going to punish the English community in Uganda for its imperialism. As a local had told him back in Mbarara, ‘First wahindi, then muzungu’ (p.172). He forces some Brits to carry him in a litter through the streets, others to kneel and take an oath of fealty.

Stone, from the Embassy, invites Garrigan for a chat and works the conversation round to asking Garrigan to take advantage of his position to administer Amin with calmatives, tranquilisers, to try and bring him to his senses.

Merritt, his boss at the Mbarara hospital is kicked out, visits Garrigan on the way, says he if he’d stayed at the hospital it might have saved it. He is not the last to blame Garrigan for cowardice or failing to do the right thing.

In another demonstration of his gaucheness Garrigan takes Marina Perkins, wife of the British Ambassador, Robert Perkins, who he’s been chatting up at the swimming pool, on a fishing trip. All goes well till he makes a move to kiss her at which she is shocked and horrified, sits bolt upright and insists he take her home (p.177). He has completely misjudged the situation.

The famous scene (well, a centrepiece of the movie) in which Garrigan is summoned at night to Amin in his bedroom (carefully described) because he is in great stomach pain which, after extensive examination, Garrigan determines to be wind, and helps Amin into a position where he can release a great fart, thus relieving the pain, and overjoying the dictator.

Amin takes Garrigan into his confidence and talks about the burdens of office. He makes a feeble attempt to ask Amin to stop the army killing people which Amin swats aside.

Brief review: he tells us he was in Uganda for eight years in all, two in Mbarara, six in Kampala (p.191). A general overview in which he describes their many meetings, tea and conversation, naively thinking he’s getting to know him. The narrative begins to feel like summaries of a series of episodes:

There’s an attempt to assassinate Amin at an army review, which fails but kills the driver of his jeep. (In fact Amin survived eight attempted coups.)

In 1972 Amin gets married, to wife number four, and the text gives a detailed description of the ceremony and pen portraits of the previous three (chapter 24).

Amin phones Garrigan at all times for confidential chats and to let off steam. In public press conferences he announces he is training to be an astronaut. Also that he is assembling a pan-African army to attack South Africa. An excuse to quote (presumably actual) press meetings and outrageous quotes.

Amin sends inappropriate letters to world leaders, for example Mrs Thatcher on her election as leader of the Conservative Party (February 1975). He publicly states that Hitler had the right idea about the Jews. he did a deal with Colonel Gaddafi and Libyan businesses and soldiers become seen on the streets of Kampala. A lot later, after he’s escaped, in the novel’s aftertime, his sister Moira asks him why he stayed on so long, and let himself be portrayed as being close to such a lunatic. Garrigan can barely understand it himself. He was hypnotised. He’d fallen under Amin’s spell. He knew he was a monster but sometimes thought he loved him. Psychology of a dictator’s minions.

The closer I got to him, the fewer my illusions about him – and still I stayed, more fascinated than frightened. (p.213) (cf his ‘reluctance to get the hell out of there,’ p.222)

One stormy night his friend from the Kampala hospital, Peter Mbalu-Mukasa, turns up. Tells him he’s been having an affair with Amin’s second wife, Kay, and has got her pregnant. Since Amin hasn’t been having sex with her, he’ll know she’s been unfaithful and murder her and any lover he can track down. The man is understandably terrified and asks Garrigan if he can perform an illegal abortion on Kay. Garrigan lets himself be driven to Mbalu-Mukasa’s apartment, encounters the terrified moaning woman, but realises he can’t do it. Not only is he also terrified of being discovered, but he’s never actually performed an abortion and will likely make a mess of it. With all kinds of excuses, he refuses, backs out, and makes his way home.

It’s the last time he sees either. Rumour had it that Mbalu-Mukasa botched the abortion, Kay died of blood loss, and Mbalu-Mukasa committed suicide (August 1974). Worse, Garrigan was invited by the mortuary assistant who shows him Kay’s body and how all four limbs and the head had been detached from it, then clumsily sown back on.

In a bar Garrigan is appalled to see fat oafish Freddy Swanepoel putting his paw on the knee of the trim woman who rejected him, Marina. Chagrin. Worse, at their next meeting Amin tells him Nicholas knows all about his attempts to seduce Marina, about her affair with Swanepoel, and his poor opinion of the South African pilot, who he thinks is a spy.

Stone calls Garrigan back to the Embassy. He makes clear that the Ambassador is just a front man, it’s he, Stone, who pulls the strings. He shows Garrigan a series of photos of Amin taking part in executions and torture. Hundreds of people are dying every day. Stone accuses Garrigan of being complicit in this mass murder. Then he asks Garrigan to murder Amin. Use whatever is necessary, poison, adrenalin or inject air into his heart, whatever it takes. Garrigan refuses, a) because he’s a doctor but b) because, on some level, he likes the man:

There was, I conceded it to myself again, something in me that actually liked the man, monster though he was. (p.231)

To his amazement, Stone tells him the authorities have placed £50,000 in his bank account, with more to come when he achieves the murder. Garrigan turns him down. Next week Amin expels Stone, Perkins, the entire British Embassy.

Then Garrigan’s bungalow is burgled and his journal disappears, the one he’s been keeping notes in on all the events and all his opinions. He gets a midnight call from Amin to go see him immediately. Amin pulls a gun and terrifies a sweating Garrigan who grovels on the floor. Amin tells him that Weir, from the Embassy, told him about Stone’s request that Garrigan murder Amin! Then Amin summarises the contents of Garrigan’s journal and is disappointed at his lack of loyalty.

Then, in a scene which crosses the line from mundane reality into horror, Amin opens a secret door (in his bookshelves) and takes Garrigan deep into the cells and torture chambers which are just a short walk away, along dim concrete passages.

Here he is shown his colleague from the Mbarara days, William Waziri who used to take him on medical tours of local villages. He is pinned down, tied and gagged. Amin says he is associated with enemy guerrillas. Garrigan is forced to watch as soldiers press him to the floor, one stepping on his head, as they use a kitchen knife to saw open his throat, and Waziri’s eyes meet Garrigan’s as they do it.

Garrigan passes out and regains consciousness to discover he, also, is in a prison cell where he stays for a day, being insulted by the jailer who comes to deliver the disgusting food. Obviously all the worst thoughts in the world go through his mind, maybe he’ll be there forever, or be tortured or murdered. In fact, only a day later the door opens and the health minister, Wasswa, is there with clean clothes. He hustles Garrigan along the corridor, telling him he’s lucky to be alive. From the cells they pass along the corridor where prisoners shout at him to help them. Garrigan hesitates but Wasswa tells him there is nothing he can do. Along some more corridors and then through a concealed entrance and, bizarrely, back into Amin’s bedroom where the dictator is resplendent in an electric-blue safari suit and greets him like an old friend.

Amin tells Garrigan he has to renounce his British citizenship and become a Ugandan citizen. Then orders him to come back soon. Amin disapproves of Garrigan’s journal because it is informal and unofficial but approves the fact that he’s a writer. And so he orders Garrigan to come back so that Amin can dictate to him his Life and Achievements.

Next day Garrigan drives straight to the airport to discover Fate is against him. It is July 1976 and terrorists have hijacked a civil airliner and rerouted it to Libya, then Uganda.

Which is why Garrigan is an eye witness to the hostage crisis, and to the arrival of Amin at the airport where he congratulates himself on persuading the terrorists to release the non-Jewish hostages. The captain of the plane refuses to leave without the 40-something Jewish hostages who are being held in a separate room. There is an implied contrast between the professionalism and responsibility of this plane captain, and Garrigan’s shuffling out of all his responsibilities.

That night he is amazed to get a phone call from his Israeli lover Sara, the one who left without saying goodbye. She now reveals she’s a Colonel of the Israeli Defence Force and insists that he describes the layout of the airport at Entebbe, where the hostages are, how many terrorists are guarding them etc. She is obviously laying the groundwork for the famous Israeli raid which frees the hostages.

(The present: slowly we have been drip-fed details about where Garrigan is writing all this. We learn it is in the bothy (‘a basic shelter, usually left unlocked and available for anyone to use free of charge’) left to him by a great-uncle [Uncle Eamonn, p.336], on a remote Scottish island. It’s from the peace and quiet here, that he is looking back, and trying to patch together, these last horrific months. Pages 249, 256, 263, 266)

As the Ugandan economy collapses, conditions at the Mulago hospital collapse with it. Garrigan continues to work, he considers he has no alternative. One day, during one of their tape recording sessions, Amin gives him a package contained a stuffed mounted lion’s head to deliver to a small plane at Entebbe airport, to the chairman of Rafiki Aviation who will be waiting for it. Garrigan nervously does so, handing it over to this man who gets into a small plane piloted by Freddy Swanepoel, and off it flies. Garrigan later finds out that the plane exploded and crashed for unknown reasons. He’s pretty sure there was a bomb in the package he gave.

It’s only 6 months later that he plucks up the guts to ask Amin about the package. By now their recording sessions have become well established. Garrigan comes close to witnessing examples of Amin’s cannibalism (p.260). Once or twice he has opportunities to kill Amin, one in particular when he is in reach of his holster and pistol. Something always holds him back.

Garrigan has of course been thinking about fleeing the country for years but doesn’t see how he can, now that the airport is tightly watched. His plans are paralleled by Amin’s increasing rhetoric about war with neighbouring Tanzania.

The escape attempt

Garrigan finally packs his necessaries in the van and heads off for the southern border, hoping to cross south into Rwanda via some remote mountain road. Unfortunately he runs into an army checkpoint. When he begins reversing, an army Land Rover comes charging towards him. Mad with panic he drives back the way he came and then wildly off into a road through the jungle which comes to a dead end at a deserted cabin. He leaps out of his van but has no idea what to do till he sees the cabin is slightly raised and wriggles under it. From here he watches the Land Rover arrive, the soldiers inspect the empty cabin, loose off some gunfire, then drive off with the Land Rover and his van, leaving him stranded.

He’s just wondering what to do when a huge snake rears up and bites him in the calf. He stumbles into the jungle and passes out. He comes round in a native village where the villagers have been feeding him and nursing his wound. Lying sick and delirious in a native hut he reflects on the long series of decisions which have brought him, an uptight, callow Scotsman, a ‘casket of emotional defects and diffident, inward-turning passions’ to this catastrophic situation (p.275). When he’s recovered a man indicates that he should follow him along a jungle track.

Obviously Garrigan hopes this will come out at some highway where he can hitch a lift back to civilisation. Instead it’s a further step in the descent into barbarism. they come to a road alright, where there’s a huge pile of corpses, twenty feet high, many still showing the gunshot wounds that killed them.

Feeling like he’ll vomit, Garrigan goes blundering down the road and soon, to his amazement, realises he’s in the vicinity of Mbarara. He carries on to discover a great crowd of locals. Pushing through he sees soldiers beating a figure tied to a chair. Pushed towards the front of the crowd, Garrigan finds the soldier turning and swinging his rifle butt into Garrigan’s ribs. To his absolute horror he realises it’s Gugu, the orphan boy he and Sara took in all those years ago. Now he has become a sadistic boy soldier in Amin’s deadly army.

But even as the boy stands above him, gun pointing towards him, there’s an explosion, presumably from artillery fire, and he sees the boy blown backwards, his chest opening in a splurge of blood.

The Tanzanian invasion

This summary has gone on long enough already. Long story short, Garrigan is rescued by / comes into the custody of Colonel Armstrong Kuchasa of the Tanzanian Defence Forces. In response to a feeble mini invasion of their land by Amin, Tanzania has repulsed the Ugandans and is no only invading, but on a mission to overthrow Amin.

Garrigan is bundled into an armoured personnel carrier (APC) and accompanies the Tanzanian Army, seeing action, coming under fire, seeing soldiers killed around him, protected and fed by the Colonel once he’s understood that Garrigan is a trained doctor, who he gets to tend to his wounded.

So Garrigan accompanies the Tanzanian army all the way to Kampala and is eye witness to its capture (and to the vignette of the destruction of the Volkswagen fleeing from the Embassy quarter across a golf course, which was carrying Dr Gottfried Lessing, East German ambassador and husband of Doris Lessing.)

He is with Tanzanian soldiers when they enter and ransack Amin’s formal residences. He realises he won’t be safe in the streets and makes it across town to the Mulago Hospital. Here it is chaos with the surgeons giving emergency care to all-comers. The head of surgery, Dr Paterson, barely contains his anger at him: ‘How very nice of you to join us, Nick’ (p.299). He, like everyone else, simply thought Garrigan had run away with Amin. Once again he seems to have done utterly the wrong thing at the wrong time. He scrubs up and helps out.

Later, out in the streets he sees rioting followed by looting, alongside bizarre victory marches. He follows the flow of the crowd towards one of Amin’s residences at Nakasero.

Amin redux

The novel builds up to a really weird climax. Garrigan follows the local mob into Amin’s residence, noting how everything has been smashed and looted, following them up to Amin’s bedroom where all portables have been pinched and his big waterbed exploded. But nobody knows about or has opened the secret doorway in the bookcase. So Garrigan does.

And once again, as in a horror movie, relives the experience of walking down the dank concrete corridor. And then, just as in a horror movie, he sees Amin. Standing in one of the chambers which controlled the electricity supply to the torture instruments. Amin is addressing a surreal monologue to a severed head on a plate. Only as he moves around does Garrigan realise with horror that it is the severed head of the Archbishop of Uganda, the same diminutive churchman we met conducting Amin’s fourth marriage way back earlier in the text. The horror.

And then Amin addresses Garrigan. He’s seen him hiding. They have a bizarre dialogue, Amin as relaxed and confident as ever. Amin is made to implicate all the western countries who helped train his army, and train and equip his dreaded security police, the State Research Bureau (p.312).

Finally, unbelievably, Amin asks Garrigan a favour. Turns out that one of the maze of tunnels from his residences comes out at a landmark on the way to the airport. There he has a plane waiting for him. Could Garrigan go to the landmark and collect him and drive him to the airport? Amin comes and stands over him and Garrigan experiences a dizziness and a complexity of emotions which is like drugs or arousal or love – and agrees.

In the event it takes him so long in the general chaos to get hold of a vehicle that he gets to the landmark and waits and waits but Amin never appears. Eventually he drives on in the vague direction of the compound and his bungalow, passes a lake, stops, notices a number of boats moored at the quay, gets down into one, kickstarts the motor and heads off north, casual as that.

It takes 6 or 7 hours, chuntering away all night till he arrives at a quayside in Kenya and quickly makes himself known to the police.

In fact his travails are far from over as a curt Foreign Office official informs him that a) he no longer has British citizenship so might easily be turned away from Britain b) he is universally thought to have been one of Amin’s closest henchmen, so is very unpopular in the press c) he might be charged for murder for his part in planting an explosive device on that small plane that blew up.

Stone forces him to sign a document swearing to be silent about all activities of the British government in Uganda i.e. the offer of payment to murder Amin, but other things as well. In return for signing these non-disclosure agreements, Stone says he will be reassigned his British citizenship.

Lastly, Garrigan has to go through the ordeal of being interviewed by a handful of chosen journalists in a hotel at Heathrow under the supervision of a PR ‘handler’ named Ed Howarth, who is there to ensure the interviews are a one-off event and that Garrigan says nothing which will compromise the British government – an illuminating process for Garrigan and the reader.

Then he is free to go and catches a train north to Scotland, then travels by hire car, then ferry, over to this little island where…he has been holed up in the bothy writing this long account and trying to exorcise his demons.

At the very very end of the narrative the phone rings in the little cottage and…he hears Amin’s voice, friendly and coaxing as ever, tutting about his treatment in the papers and telling him how much he is enjoying his quiet retirement in Saudi Arabia. Is this real? Can this be happening? Will he never be able to escape from dreams and phantasms of the monster? Either way, Garrigan puts the phone down and that’s the end of the narrative.

Summary

Amazing

This is a mind-bogglingly brilliant achievement, an awesome historical novel which not only recreates life in Uganda and Kampala with superhuman accuracy and vividness, but is also a searing insight into the twisted mentality of a psychopathic dictator and, above all, into the psychology of an educated Westerner who lets himself be manipulated into becoming complicit and acquiescent in horrifying atrocities. A terrifying but profound novel which leaves you reverberating with horror for weeks afterward.

Zelig

The main criticism of the novel would be that at some stage, maybe from the incident of Kay’s botched abortion, Garrigan begins to feel like a Zelig character who keeps popping up at key moments during Amin’s career: the death of Kay, then the Entebbe hostage situation, and then the Tanzanian invasion, Garrigan increasingly happens to be at the right place at the right time, with mounting improbability.

I think credibility snaps when he finds himself on the receiving end of Gugu’s rifle butt. That’s just one coincidence too far. From that point onwards Garrigan becomes less like a character and more like a cipher with which to dramatise a checklist of incidents during the invasion. And that realisation feeds backwards, making you think the same about the Entebbe terrorist situation, and other incidents, too.

Maybe it sort of has to be like this – in order to have a dramatic fiction Foden has to make Garrigan part of all these real historic events – but in doing so the story leaves behind plausible realism and becomes something else: first, in the torture cells beneath Amin’s residence, into a genuinely hair-raising horror story; and then follows the delirious sequence of his Land Rover escape, his bite by a snake, his recovery in a native village, his being taken to a huge pile of corpses, and then stumbling across Gugu beating a prisoner to death and, at that very moment, an artillery attack blowing Gugu to pieces etc. By this time the whole thing has become more of a hallucination than a narrative, piling agony on agony, one vivid hyper-violent scene after another, until the reader’s imagination is shredded.

Comparison with William Boyd

William Boyd is another Englishman brought up in Africa by ex-pat parents, sent to a pukka public school then Oxbridge, who also became a novelist tackling African themes. His first novel, ‘A Good Man in Africa’, is about another Englishman completely out of his depth in a dire African country, who drinks too much, makes a fool of himself with women, and completely fails to understand what’s going on around him, leading up to a violent climax in riots and a coup.

So these are two books about useless Brits caught up in violent events in Africa, the difference obviously being that in Boyd’s books it’s played for laughs (‘A Good Man’ is a very funny farce) while in Foden’s the same basic subject is played for tragedy and horror.

Given the grim times we live in, I’d recommend people read the Boyd for its many hilarious scenes and smiling memories although, at the very end, it too has a bitter denouement.

Wikipedia on Idi Amin

The opening summary of Idi Amin’s Wikipedia article:

Idi Amin Dada Oumee (c. 1925 to 16 August 2003) was a Ugandan military officer and politician who served as the third president of Uganda from 1971 to 1979. He ruled as a military dictator and is considered one of the most brutal despots in modern world history…Amin’s rule was characterised by rampant human rights abuses, including political repression, ethnic persecution, extrajudicial killings, as well as nepotism, corruption, and gross economic mismanagement. International observers and human rights groups estimate that between 100,000 and 500,000 people were killed under his regime.

Foden takes a middle estimate, that Amin’s regime killed 300,000 Ugandans (p.133).

Africa words

muzunga – white people

musawo – a doctor

Chapter 9, pages 84 to 90, gives an extended explanation of various Swahili terms

the wananchi – ordinary citizens


Credit

The Last King of Scotland by Giles Foden was published by Faber Books in 1998. References are to the 1999 Faber paperback edition.

Giles Foden reviews

Related reviews

The State of Africa: A History of the Continent since Independence by Martin Meredith (2005) – 2

This is a huge, 700-page, compendious history of all the African nations from independence (roughly the mid-1950s) to the time it was written (around 2010), so 55 years or so of modern African history.

Meredith chooses as epigraph to this big book the Latin tag from Pliny the Elder, ‘Ex Africa semper aliquid novi’ meaning ‘Out of Africa always something new’ – but a reading of the actual book confirms how utterly inappropriate this is. For if Meredith’s book demonstrates anything it is that, since independence, out of Africa have come the same five or six stereotypical narratives or events – civil war, one-party rule, dictatorship, economic collapse, famine, vast amounts of foreign aid – and the consistent failure to deliver the utopian dreams everyone hoped for in the heady first years of independence.

Two major contexts

Meredith only mentions them in passing but two broad historical contexts are worth bearing in mind.

  1. The independence movement in Algeria spiralled out of control into an appallingly brutal war which neither side was able to stop, and which threatened to tear the colonial power, France, apart. The war was at its worst in 1957 to 1961. The point is that Algeria stood as a terrible warning to the other colonial powers (Britain, Belgium, Portugal) of what might happen if they mismanaged things or delayed.
  2. The victory of Fidel Castro’s communists in Cuba in 1959 ushered in an era when the threat of the new African states falling to communism seemed very real and of global importance in the war between the two superpowers. Hence the head of the CIA warning President Eisenhower that Congo’s Patrice Lumumba might be ‘the African Castro’ and America’s feverish paranoia that if Congo fell to the communists it might influence the entire continent (p.104). Looking back, this level of anxiety seems exaggerated, even absurd. But the context is crucial in understanding the actions of all the colonial powers, but especially of America, which set about undermining left-wing governments and supporting right-wing, capitalism-loving dictators across the continent.

Both of these examples or precedents (Algeria, Cuba) lay behind the decisions of Britain and Belgian, in particular, not to linger or suppress independence movements. In other words, they added to the sense of urgency and haste which characterised the rush to make Africa independent, with such questionable results.

Part 1

1. The Gold Coast experiment (Ghana)

The tragic life of Kwame Nkrumah who went from political prisoner in the early 1950s, to lead his own political party, the Convention People’s Party, won the general election held under British auspices in 1954, before leading Ghana to independence in March 1957. Meredith vividly describes the week-long celebrations, attended by worthies from around the world including Zhou Enlai and Richard Nixon.

With a sickening inevitability Nkrumah found the new country difficult to rule, repressed political opposition and rigged elections. In 1964 he amended the constitution to make Ghana a one-party state, with himself as president for life. In 1966 Nkrumah was deposed in a coup led by the National Liberation Council.

2. Revolt on the Nile (Egypt)

Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser led the 1952 revolution which overthrew the 32-year-old playboy King Farouk I. Much rhetoric about freedom and Arab socialism as Nasser tightened his grip on power, imprisoning rivals and getting elected president in 1956. The catastrophe of the Suez Crisis which put the nail in the coffin of the British Empire. From that moment Britain’s rush to decolonise picked up speed.

3. Land of the Setting Sun (Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria)

Apparently, the Arab word for north-west Africa, maghreb, means ‘land of the setting sun’ (as opposed to our word ‘Levant’ which means ‘rising’, to describe the old Ottoman Empire).

This chapter describes the descent of Algeria into a terrible insurgency which kicked off in the spring of 1954 with a wave of bomb attacks by the National Liberation Front (French: Front de libération nationale or FLN) with both sides slowly breaching their early declarations to target only combatants, so that by August 1954 the FLN was bombing civilian cafés and restaurants while the French security forces cracked down hard on the civilian Arab population, with large-scale arrests and torture.

An often overlooked aspect of the terrible war in Algeria (1956 to 1962) was that it made the French more amenable to granting its neighbours, Tunisia and Morocco, independence. Meredith describes the independence campaigning of Habib Bourguiba in Tunisia and Sultan Mohammed V in Morocco. The French arrested, imprisoned and exiled both these leaders, but eventually gave into widespread protests and both Morocco and Tunisia gained their independence in March 1956.

In 1957, amid an upsurge in terrorist bombings, the French governor of Algeria handed power over to the military, led by General Jacques Massu. The army locked down the capital city Algiers, ringing it with barbed wire, dividing it into sections which could be searched, cleared and then surveilled. Thousands of Algerians were arrested and tortured using electric shocks or waterboarding. It became known as The Battle of Algiers. In the country, peasants were rounded up into camps while native collaborator/spies (harkis) were deployed by the French.

By 1958 the FLN had been defeated, its leaders seeking refuge in Tunisia, whose new leader Bourguiba gave them sanctuary. However, the political system in France itself was in crisis. Violent disagreements about policy in Algeria led to the collapse of a series of short-lived governments. Worried that pacifist-defeatist politicians would gain power, in May 1958 the military took control of Algeria, allying with leading colons (white French colonists) to form a Committee of Public Safety. The French government declared a blockade, at which the Committee called for the return of the wartime hero, General de Gaulle.

4. L’Afrique Noire (Senegal, Ivory Coast)

L’Afrique Noire was the French term for the sub-Saharan part of its colonial empire, including Senegal and the Ivory Coast. Meredith describes the careers of Léopold Senghor of Senegal and Félix Houphouët-Boigny of Côte d’Ivoire.

5. Winds of Change (British colonies)

This chapter covers the independence movements in British colonies such as Nigeria.

Nigeria

Nigeria had only been created by the forcible union of north and south Nigeria in 1914, the north and south having themselves been slowly cobbled together from former, smaller protectorates since 1900. Nigeria could be divided into three great blocs: the north was Muslim and Hausa-speaking, with a conservative, feudal social system. It had few schools or colleges. The West, including the capital Lagos, was mostly Yoruba. Being on the coast, dotted with cities, it was more economically advanced and urban. In the East lived the Igpo who tended to be very well educated but had no social system of their own and so were scattered around Nigeria’s other territories. In addition there some 250 other ethnic groups, some of which protested and rebelled, including the Edo-speaking people of Benin province who longed to restore the kingdom of Benin. The British struggled with successive constitutions to try and create a balance between all these different constituencies. Nigeria was granted independence in 1960.

As a rule of thumb British colonies in West Africa were much more advanced than British colonies in East Africa (Kenya, Tanganyika) and Central Africa (north and south Rhodesia, Nyasaland). Politics in these latter countries was dominated by the fierce lobbying of the small white minorities, who dominated the local governors. Thus the settlers persuaded the Colonial Office to create a federation of Central Africa, consisting of Rhodesia and Nyasaland.

Kenya

Plans for a similar federation in East Africa were wrecked by the Mau Mau rebellion, which was an organised protest against the grotesque monopoly of the best agricultural land in Kenya by whites, and the land deprivation and lack of rights enforced on the million-strong Kikuyu population. Meredith gives a thorough account: the phrase mau mau actually meant nothing in Kikuyu, it was just a rallying call, and then the name given to the secret meetings where oaths of allegiance were sworn to the movement. Despite white paranoia, very few whites were actually killed during the so-called ’emergency’ (1952 to 1960), Meredith gives the number as 32, fewer than lost their lives in traffic accidents in Nairobi over the same period. He details British accusations that the Kikuyu leader Jomo Kenyatta, leader of the Kenya African Union (KAU) was involved, which led to a kangaroo court convicting and imprisoning him; and the brutal measures the British took against the insurgency, including setting up concentration camps.

The first Blacks were elected to Kenya’s legislative council in 1957. In October the Highlands area was formally opened to all races. The British thought they would continue to rule Kenya for at least another decade. In the event, independence was granted on December 12, 1963.

Nyasaland

Meredith gives the story of Nyasaland, to which the elderly Dr Hastings Banda returned as leader of the independence movement in 1959, determined to scupper Britain’s plans to make it part of a federation with Rhodesia. The colonial governor imported troops who tried to quell protests which turned into riots, troops shot, protesters killed, it becomes a nationwide movement etc.

Meanwhile, in neighbouring north Rhodesia, in the run-up to contested 1959 elections the authorities banned a leading nationalist party and imprisoned its leader, Kenneth Kaunda. Britain was losing its reputation for progressive colonialism in a welter of protests and arrests across all its African colonies.

Abruptly, Harold Macmillan’s conservative government gave in. Late in 1959 the Foreign Secretary Iain Macleod said further repression would lead to bloodshed. In February 1960 Macmillan gave his famous Winds of Change speech. Behind it was fear that further suppressing calls for independence would drive African nations into the hands of the communists. The British knew most of their colonies weren’t ready for independence – Meredith lists the pitiful number of native lawyers or administrators in the central and east African countries – but hurrying was a less bad option than delay, with the increasing repression, bloodshed and reputational damage that would inevitably entail.

6. Heart of Darkness (Congo)

The gruesome history of the Belgian Congo. It beggars belief that there are still statues of King Leopold II, one of the most blood-thirsty rulers in history, in Belgium. Congo was notable for four or five reasons:

  1. It was and is the largest country in Africa.
  2. The grotesque rule of Leopold II was probably the most evil, mass murdering of all the colonial regimes. As many as 10 million Congolese died during his rule, 1885 to 1908.
  3. Once the colony had been handed over to the Belgian government to run, it developed through the 20th century as one of the richest sources of minerals (particularly copper and diamonds) in the world.
  4. The rush to independence was hastiest and most foolhardy here than almost anywhere else. At independence Congo had 3 Black civil servants, 30 university graduates, no doctors, secondary school teachers or army officers. The firebrand new Prime Minister, Patrice Lumumba, had just four years of secondary school education plus one year in a technical college for postal clerks (p.95).
  5. With the result that within days of winning independence on 1 June 1960, Congo collapsed into chaos.

The army mutinied, the entire province of Katanga tried to secede, riots in the main cities included attacks on whites so that the entire Belgian community i.e. everyone who knew how to run the infrastructure of the country, fled in panic. Profile of the hectic unpredictable character of Lumumba, and the long dismal series of events which led, first to his arrest and, eventually, to his murder by Belgian and Congolese soldiers on the orders of his one-time lieutenant, Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, with the collusion of the UN and US, on 17 January 1961.

The stream of crises continued until Mobutu took power in a definitive military coup in 1965, and was to rule a one-party state for 32 years, until 1997.

7. The White South

South Africa

Meredith points out that the southern nations of Africa – north and south Rhodesia, south-west Africa and South Africa – looked at the other African countries gaining independence and were horrified by what they saw, especially the complete chaos punctuated by bloodbaths and military coups in Congo.

The fiercest response was in South Africa which in 1948 had established the system of apartheid and spent the next decades hardening the division between whites and blacks. Meredith chronicles the early history of the African National Congress (ANC), revolving round the figure of Nelson Mandela and the failure of peaceful efforts to counter apartheid. Peaceful protests such as general strikes became harder to justify after the SA authorities carried out the Sharpeville massacre on 21 March 1960, killing 69 protesters and injuring 180.

The more violent atmosphere heralded by the massacre led the ANC to establish the armed wing of the struggle, uMkhonto we Sizwe, in 1961. These guys carried out a not very effective sabotage campaign against a variety of infrastructure targets. In 1962 Mandela was arrested and imprisoned, despite a lack of evidence against him. But then in 1964 the authorities discovered the ANC and uMkhonto we Sizwe hideout at Rivonia, which was stuffed with incriminating documents. On the basis of these, Mandela was retried and, along with the key leadership of the ANC and uMkhonto, sentenced to life imprisonment on 12 June 1964.

Rhodesia

Meredith gives the history of Rhodesia, taking in the creation of the two independence parties, ZANU and ZAPU, up until November 1965 when Ian Smith‘s Rhodesian Front government, rebelling against pressure to grant Black independence, issued a Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) from the mother government in the UK.

Angola

Angola was a backwater of the mouldering Portuguese empire, which was ruled by the dictator António de Oliveira Salazar. In 1956 the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola or MPLA) was founded but police swoops in 1959 and 1960 arrested most of its leaders. In 1961 the colony was horrified by an outbreak of extreme violence in the north, where machete-wielding gangs massacred white bosses and the Blacks who worked for them. This was partly the work of a different group, the União dos Povos de Angola (UPA), run by Holden Roberto.

Mozambique

On the other side of the continent, in the other Portuguese colony, Mozambique, 1962 saw the creation of the Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO) which commenced a campaign of small-scale guerrilla attacks against border posts etc.

Dates of independence

1956 – Sudan, Morocco, Tunisia

1957 – Ghana

1958 – Guinea

1960 – Cameroon, Senegal, Togo, Mali, Madagascar, Democratic Republic of Congo (Belgian), Somalia, Benin, Niger, Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast, Chad, Central African Republic, Republic of Congo (France), Gabon, Nigeria, Mauritania,

1961 – Sierra Leone, Tanganyika

1962 – Burundi, Rwanda, Algeria, Uganda

1963 – Kenya, Zanzibar

1964 – Nyasaland (Malawi), North Rhodesia (Zambia)

1965 – Gambia

1966 – Botswana, Lesotho

1975 – Angola, Mozambique

1980 – Zimbabwe

1990 – Namibia

1993 – Eritrea

2011 – South Sudan

Part 2

8. The Birth of Nations

A chapter summarising the dire state of the geography and economies of most African nations at independence, and the consequent economic challenges they faced. It’s here that Meredith gives the shocking figures about the lack of African graduates or professionals right across the continent.

9. The First Dance of Freedom

Abandoning democracy

Meredith laments that almost all the new national leaders consciously disavowed democracy and instituted one-party rule. It’s interesting to read their justifications. It was claimed that democracy derived from advanced societies with well-defined classes and class interests which could be represented by political parties. By contrast, leaders like Nkomo and Kenyatta argued that while parties may have been necessary to organise and motivate different groupings in the fight against colonialism, now the colonialists had left and the nations were free, democracy represented a threat to African countries because the likelihood was that parties would come to be based on tribal or regional allegiances and so work to split and divide the nation. There’s actually a lot to this argument, as that’s what many African parties came to be, fronts for specific tribes or regional interests.

One-party rule

Regardless of the justifications, almost all the first leaders of the newly independent African nations went on to abolish democracy, establish one-party rule, declare themselves presidents for life, lock up any opposition figures (p.176), create cults of their greatness (p.180), set up a secret police which was told it could go to any lengths to save the state from communist or capitalist or imperialist subversion etc etc. These cults often took the name of the Great Leader – Nasserism, Nkrumahism and so on (p.163).

Corruption

And misuse money, in two specific ways: 1) instituting state-sponsored corruption at every level of society, while 2) spending fortunes on grandiose building projects, palaces, mansions, waterfront hotels. Presidents, ministers and powerful figures swiftly awarded themselves ‘the platinum lifestyle’ (p.171).While Nkrumah was crapping on about ‘African socialism’ his ministers made fortunes. Ghanaian minister Krobo Edusei caused a scandal when his wife ordered a £3,000 gold-plated bed from a London store. In later life he admitted to owning 14 homes, a luxury beach house, a London flat, expensive cars and six different bank accounts. African socialism.

Army coups

In 1958 in Sudan the army took control in Sudan from squabbling politicians. In 1963 Togo’s president was shot dead in a coup. In 1964 African mobs overthrew rule by the Arab elite and the sultan was forced to flee, the French army had to put down military coups in Gabon and Cameroon, while the British army suppressed army mutinies in Tanganyika, Uganda and Kenya. From 1965 coups became more frequent: in 1965 Algeria’s first leader was deposed; Mobutu overthrew president Joseph Kasa-Vubu in Congo; there was a military coup in Benin; Colonel Jean-Bedel Bokassa seized power in the Central African Republic, and so on.

10. Feet of Clay (Ghana)

An extended description of Kwame Nkrumah’s slow descent into authoritarian rule, isolation, paranoia, arbitrary arrest of opponents, accompanied by rising corruption. Meredith makes the pretty well-known point that patronage and corruption weren’t parasites on the system which could be eliminated; they were the system.

A detailed account of how Nkrumah destroyed the Ghana economy through mismanagement, ignorance, terrible accounting, disastrous decisions and so on. Incompetence on a national scale, plus classic withdrawal into dictator paranoia. And, also classically, when the army intervened it wasn’t for the good of the country – they’d happily watched it go to wrack and ruin – it was because Nkrumah started tampering with it, wishing to bring it directly under his control as he had done every other aspect of Ghanaian life. So it was that while Nkrumah was visiting China in 1966, the army deposed him. Joyous crowds celebrated in the streets, his statues was pulled down and portraits defaced. The kind of thing we were to see scores and scores of times in developing countries around the world over the past 60 years.

11. A House Divided (Nigeria)

Nigeria. Meredith explains the entirely tribal basis and vicious infighting of Nigerian politics which led up to the January 1966 military coup, in which the Supreme Council of the Revolution not just sacked but executed civilian politicians. And the complicated rivalries between North, West and East Nigeria which led leaders in the East to declare independence as Biafra, and the 3-year-long war which followed, in which up to 2 million Nigerians died.

12. Death of an Emperor (Ethiopia)

An entertaining account of the elaborate ritual which surrounded the Emperor Haile Selassie and the surprisingly aggressive imperial campaigns which had doubled his country’s size, starting back in the time of his ancestor Menelek (ruled 1889 to 1913), including the annexation of Eritrea and contested parts of Somaliland.

In the early 1970s mismanagement, especially of a famine in Wollo, protests by various sectors, and Selassie’s hastening senility, emboldened a group of army officers, who called themselves the Derg, to stage a coup in stages throughout 1974, which ended with the complete overthrow of Selassie on 12 September. In November the junta executed 60 former officials of the imperial government plus dissident elements within the Derg itself, by firing squad, and Ethiopia was declared a republic to be governed on Marxist-Leninist lines.

  • The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat by Ryszard Kapuściński (1978)

13. The Coming of Tyrants

After the first few heroic years of optimism, the military coups began. But worse was the advent of the monsters: Abaid Karume in Zanzibar (1964 to 1972); Jean-Bedel Bokassa in the Central African Republic (1966 to 1979); Idi Amin in Uganda (1971 to 1979); Francisco Nguema in Equatorial Guinea (1968 to 1979); Mengistu Haile Mariam in Ethiopia (1977 to 1991).

14. In Search of Ujamaa (Tanzania)

Julius Nyerere in Tanzania. He was a committed socialist though without a socialist party or advisers. In the mid-1960s he nationalised everything in Tanzania and proclaimed this native form of socialism ujaama, which is KiSwahili for ‘familyhood’ (p.253). In 1974 this was turned into the forced movement of some 11 million peasant farmers into collective farms, which had the same kind of catastrophic effect as in the Stalin-era Ukraine or Mao’s China i.e. the collapse of agricultural productivity and widespread hunger. Nyerere had to go begging to the World Bank and IMF and food agencies for emergency food supplies. As its economy went steadily downhill, Nyerere’s one-party state did improve literacy, schools, drinking water etc, but almost entirely funded by aid from the West.

15. The Passing of the Old Guard

Ghana

Nkrumah’s sad exile in a slowly deteriorating villa in Guinea planning a triumphant return to Ghana which never took place.

Egypt

Nasser’s great dreams of leading an Arab renaissance came to nothing, attempts to unify with Syria were a fiasco, his intervention in Yemen backfired, leading up to the humiliation of the 1967 Arab-Israeli War in which the Israelis seized the Sinai with its oil wells from Egypt. Yet he remained popular and Egypt was plunged into mourning when he died in 1970 of a heart attack, aged just 52.

Kenya

Jomo Kenyatta was the opposite of Nyerere, a keen advocate of capitalism, and provided the stable political and legal framework within which private enterprise could flourish. Much of the land belonging to the white settlers, the issue behind the Mau Mau movement, was sold to Black Kenyans. During the 1970s he faced political challenges and hardened his one-party rule. His fiercest critic was found murdered etc. Late in life Kenyatta slowly lost interest in ruling, preferring to concoct complex riddles. He died peacefully in 1978.

Senegal

President Léopold Senghor remained strongly Francophile, committed to maintaining links with France, accepting French capital in business and retaining French troops to safeguard his regime. In France he was a noted poet. In 1976 he bucked the one-party trend of his neighbours by allowing the establishment of two new political parties. In 1980 he handed over power to his protégé, becoming the first African ruler to relinquish power voluntarily.

Guinea

The first president of Guinea, Ahmed Sékou Touré, created a paranoid atmosphere of permanent plots which he claimed to uncover and used to arrest, torture and publicly execute opponents, real or imagined. A fifth of the population fled abroad. Touré nationalised industries, persecuted independent businesses, created parastatal agencies, so that the economy tanked and was, eventually, only surviving on western aid. After 20 years of enforced socialism, he began to relent and allow some elements of private enterprise.

16. The Slippery Slope

An overview of the calamitous economic issues which hit Africa in the 1970s and 80s, being:

  • famine and drought
  • the two oil shocks of the 1970s
  • the collapse of commodity prices on which most African states depended for foreign revenue
  • the disastrous loss of agricultural land, soil degradation and desertification

On top of all this, an explosive growth in population.

17. The Great Plunderer (Zaire)

This refers to Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, who ruled Congo from the date of his second military coup in 1965 to his overthrow by the forces invading from Rwanda in 1997. During those 32 long years he changed the country’s name to Zaire, Africanised all placenames (Leopoldville > Kinshasa, Elizabethville > Lubumbashi) and even his own name, changing it to Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga.

Mobutu nationalised agriculture, seized all businesses from foreign owners, causing a collapse in the country’s economy, and looted it on a grand scale, siphoning vast amounts into private bank accounts. Probably the greatest African kleptocrat, he was said to have stolen up to $15 billion. The Americans supported him on the simple Cold War basis that he was fiercely anti-communist and so maintained the centre of Africa against any Soviet influence. Mobutu was an honoured guest of US presidents from John F Kennedy to George Bush. Meredith doesn’t need to comment.

18. White Dominoes (Mozambique, Angola)

Portugal was the last European country to decolonise. Independence movements in its two main African colonies, Angola and Mozambique, commenced military activities in 1961, leading to what became known as the Portuguese Colonial War (1961 to 1974).

In 1968 Portugal’s long-serving dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, was replaced by another authoritarian ruler, Marcello Caetano. He inherited military operations in Portugal’s main two African colonies, Angola and Mozambique. However, junior army officers had become unhappy with the way the army seemed like it was committed forever to these ruinous, unwinnable wars and so, on 25 April 1974, carried out the Carnation Revolution, overthrowing Caetano. Portugal’s new military rulers set out to divest themselves of her colonies immediately. Small Guinea-Bissau was easily granted independence in 1973.

Mozambique

In Mozambique the main liberation force had been the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO) led by the zealous Marxist, Samora Machel. Terrified by the fire-breathing rhetoric of Marxist Machal, in the year between the declaration of independence in 1974 and its legal implementation on 25 June 1975, most of the 250,000 Portuguese in Mozambique fled the country, including all the civil servants, administrators, managers of the infrastructure and all businesses.

Frelimo passed a law ordering the remaining Portuguese to leave the country in 24 hours with only 20 kilograms (44 pounds) of luggage. Unable to salvage any of their assets, most of them returned to Portugal penniless, leaving a country empty of experienced administrators, engineers and so on.

Frelimo commenced an aggressive implementation of Marxism-Leninism which proved a disaster: central planning was as badly managed here as in most other African countries, leading to economic collapse, inflation, shortages of everything but especially food. Industrial output and agriculture collapsed leading to widespread famine. Frelimo eventually generated so much opposition that the anti-communist forces united to form the Mozambican National Resistance (RENAMO) rebel militias.

Renamo found backing from South Africa and the US. Civil war between Frelimo and Renamo was to consume 15 ruinous years from 1977 to 1992. An estimated one million Mozambicans perished during the civil war, with somewhere between 300,000 and 600,000 dying of famine. 1.7 million Mozambicans took refuge in neighbouring states, and several million more were internally displaced.

Angola

Something similar happened in Angola. As the deadline for independence approached, three rebel or independence groups/parties/armies vied for power, being the FNLA, MPLA and UNITA. As violence broke out most of the white Portuguese fled and the country collapsed into a civil war between what emerged as the two main forces, the communist People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) and the anti-communist National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA). The civil war lasted from 1975, with interludes, until 2002. See:

Part 3

19. Red Tears (Ethiopia)

How in 1974 the Provisional Military Administrative Committee (PMAC) of army officers, also known as the Derg, overthrew the regime of emperor Haile Selassie. In 1977 Colonel Mengistu Haile Mariam seized full control and initiated a wave of repression which became known as the Red Terror. During this two-year campaign as many as 50,000 Ethiopians were arrested, tortured and executed. The Derg dumped the corpses in the street and gained notoriety by demanding that families of the executed pay for the bullets. Marxist-Leninist housekeeping.

Meredith explains how Mengistu’s Marxist-Leninist policies, along with his brutal campaigns against Eritrean and Tigrayan separatists in the north, helped bring about the great Ethiopia famine of 1984 which led to Live Aid. At the time more than half of Ethiopia’s annual budget was devoted to maintaining an army of 300,000 (armed and supplied by Soviet Russia) in order to carry out operations against the Tigrayan People’s Liberation Front (p.334).

Mengistu was a doctrinaire Marxist who believed in collectivising agriculture and enforcing super low prices in order to provide subsidised food for his key constituencies in the cities. The detailed chronicle of his deliberate ignoring of the famine, attempts to deny it, to prevent journalists or aid agencies entering the famine-stricken areas, and then the politically motivated strategy of moving hundreds of thousands of starving people against their will from the north (close to where Eritrean separatists operated) to the more secure south where they had no homes or livelihoods, makes for terrible reading. What a complete bastard.

The title of this chapter comes from a memoir of his time in Mengistu’s government written by a defector from the Derg, Dawit Wolde Giorgis, ‘Red Tears: War, Famine and Revolution in Ethiopia’. In the words of reviewer Mohammed Hassen, this exposes ‘the callous brutality of the Ethiopian government towards its own people’, and the leaders of the Derg as ‘uninformed, anti-people, anti-democratic criminal thugs’ (Online review).

20. Fault Lines (Chad, Sudan)

Chad

Across the north of Africa is a line between the Arab Muslim north and the start of the Black African and often Christian south. Meredith gives a long, detailed and deeply depressing account of the north-south conflict in Chad, in which both sides massacred each other and Colonel Gaddafi, in power in Libya from 1969 onwards, took advantage by trying to seize northern Chad and, at his most ambitious, declared the unification of Chad with Libya – under his supreme control, of course.

Sudan

To the East, the equally long-running and demoralising war between Muslim north and Christian south Sudan. A key aspect of the backstory to both conflicts is that the northern Muslims had, for centuries, captured southern blacks as slaves as part of the widespread Arab slave trade. In fact Meredith records Arab militias capturing and enslaving Black southerners in the 1980s, all accompanied by vitriolic racism about the Blacks being sub-humans etc. About the Atlantic slave trade I hear on a daily basis and in virtually every art exhibition I go to; about the Arab slave trade, never.

21. The Scourge of AIDS

The interesting point is the number of African governments which refused to acknowledge AIDS or dismissed it as a racist Western conspiracy, with the result that many African countries didn’t commence AIDS-awareness campaigns till the 1990s by which time the disease had taken hold in their populations. Two notable exceptions were Senegal under Abdou Diouf, and Uganda under the leadership of Yoweri Museveni. Respect.

22. The Lost Decade

A detailed look at the economic collapse of almost all African countries by the 1980s so that they became increasingly dependent on foreign aid, on loans which needed to be continually rescheduled, and the accompanying demands from the IMF and World Bank for ‘structural reforms’. Through mismanagement, drought, civil war, collapse of commodity prices, most African countries became dependent on aid from the West.

What comes over, and is expressed in terms by African commentators themselves, is what condemned Africa to becoming the most backward and poverty-stricken of the world’s continents was the appalling quality of African leaders – tyrants, dictators but, above all, thieves, on an epic, mind-boggling scale.

23. The Struggle for Democracy

The long hold on power of Africa’s strong men, the generation who took power at independence and often clung on to it for 25 years or more, for example:

  • Gnassingbé Eyadéma of Togo (president for 38 years)
  • Omar Bongo in Gabon (41 years)
  • Félix Houphouët-Boigny of Côte d’Ivoire (president for 33 years)
  • Mobutu in Zaire (32 years)
  • Hastings Banda in Malawi (30 years)
  • Kenneth Kaunda in Zambia (27 years)
  • Moussa Traore in Mali (22 years)

Of the 50 African states in 1990, almost all were one-party states or military dictatorships.

The fall of the Berlin wall and collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 ushered in a new era. One party regimes and Marxist regimes appeared old-fashioned overnight. But the strong men clung on in the new landscape, for example Mobutu who struggled on for another 7 years.

24. A Time of Triumph (South Africa)

A long and harrowing description of ‘grand’ apartheid in all its totalitarian, racist horror. Meredith gives an interesting explanation of the changes in international affairs and geopolitics during the late 1980s which led the apartheid leadership to consider sweeping reform. He ends with a moving account of negotiations with Nelson Mandela, climaxing with his release and then the first free, multi-racial elections in South Africa’s history.

Apart from the long, complex history of violence, guerrilla warfare, civil war between the ANC and Inkatha, South Africa’s interference in all the nations bordering it and so on – on a human level I learned that a) Mandela and the last apartheid leader, F.W. de Klerk, really didn’t get on, and that b) when his marriage to wife Winnie Mandela ended, she very publicly took a much younger lover and embarrassed him in public (‘Mandela’s late years of freedom were constantly blighted by her wayward example’), leaving him an often lonely figure (p.438).

Part 4

25. In The Name of the Prophet (Egypt, Algeria, Sudan)

Sayyid Qutb

The imperialists had oppressed them. Secular nationalism was a failure. The first generation of post-independence rulers turned out to be corrupt tyrants. Socialism and Marxism turned out to be dead ends. Following the Iranian revolution of 1979 there began a revival of political Islam which seemed to many ordinary people a last resort, given that all western political systems and theories had failed. Political Islam encouraged the idea that western concepts like democracy or capitalism were infidel and inappropriate to Muslim lands, and that only return to the purity of the Prophet’s laws and rules would restore society.

The principal architect of jihad ideology [was] Sayyid Qutb…whose writings influenced generations of radical Islamists. (p.444)

Qutb, an Egyptian who supported the Muslim Brotherhood, was imprisoned by Colonel Nasser, then executed in 1965 – but not before he’d developed, written and distributed a starkly simplistic view of Islam. According to Qutb the entire Muslim world can be divided into the Party of God and the Party of Satan with no middle ground. Repressive regimes cannot be changed from within and so must be overthrown by jihad i.e. armed struggle.

Any land that hampered the practice of Islam or failed to apply sharia law was ipso facto part of Dar el-Harb – the Abode of War. ‘It should be combated even if one’s own kith and kin, national group, capital and commerce are to be found there.’ (p.444)

This is really, really important. Qutb’s writings are crucial to understanding the modern age. His simplistic binary worldview, and his insistence that democracy, nationalism, human rights and all those other ideas, are infidel western abominations – all this explains the wars which have steadily engulfed the Arab/Muslim world in the last 30 years.

Qutb’s writings explain why generations of jihadis have been convinced that the only honourable and devout course of action is to fight your enemies to extermination. His writings have hugely contributed to instability right across the Arab world and are the ideological background to jihadis fighting in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Libya and Sudan. Meredith mentions a couple of other Muslim thinkers:

  • cleric Omar Abdel Rahman who taught that jihad was the only way to vanquish the enemies of Islam (p.445)
  • Muhammed al-Farag, who taught that jihad is the sixth pillar of Islam and that armed struggle is imperative for all true Muslims in order to cure a decadent society: ‘the first battlefield for jihad is the extermination of these infidel leaders and to replace them with a complete Islamic Order’ (p.446)

Only jihad can bring about the perfect Islamic society. Jihad must be waged until the perfect Islamic society is achieved. But there are many forces resisting this, the obvious outside forces of America and the West, but also the populations of many of these countries. So the kind of perfect Islamic state the jihadis dream of will probably never be achieved. Therefore the Muslim world, certainly in the Middle East and North Africa, is condemned to permanent war or insurgency for the foreseeable future.

Algeria

The Front de libération nationale (FLN) had been the main force behind the long bloody war for the independence of Algeria from France. After independence was finally granted in 1962, the FLN became the party of government, instituting socialist policies and a one-party regime. Meredith lists the reasons why the FLN slowly became unpopular. Two stick out. One was that they downplayed agriculture in a bid to industrialise, keeping food prices artificially low in order to placate their constituencies in the towns and cities. The result was that life as a farmer got harder and harder, with many rural youths deciding to quit the poverty of the countryside and try their luck in the city. This is interesting because it’s an abiding theme of so many of these countries. If I could travel back in time to the early 60s and was an adviser to newly independent African nations, I’d say: ‘Cherish your farmers’. In Algeria, as everywhere else, neglecting and even undermining agriculture led to the country becoming ever more reliant on food imports.

The second is the explosion in population. I am a Darwinian materialist, a believer in the blunt facts of the environment and biology a long way before culture and politics. Thus the simple relevant fact is that the population of Algeria exploded from 10 million in 1962 to 26 million in 1992. No rate of economic growth, anywhere, could keep up with this explosion in mouths to feed and, more to the point, young men to employ.

Groups of young men hanging round on street corners become a prey to warlords and the siren call of violent revolution. This is true all round the developing world. The West supplied the medicines to developing countries which hugely improved infant mortality and recovery from illness, but without doing anything to transform a) cultural attitudes to women and childbirth or b) expand the economies. Result: lots of aimless young men looking for a cause.

Enter radical Islam which promises a better world, which gives young men a purpose, a goal, a sense of identity, and money and respect. What’s not to like, what’s not to sign up and commit your life to?

As radical Islamic parties began to appear in Algeria the military command which called the shots in the FLN tried to cancel them. After complicated manoeuvres the FLN agreed to hold free elections and Islamic parties stood in them. But when the Islamists looked like winning, the FLN abruptly cancelled the results and took back military control. The rest of the story could have been written by an AI bot. The Islamists hit back with a terror campaign, the army cracked down, arbitrarily arresting thousands, imprisonment without trial, torture etc, the Islamists ramped up their campaign, and so on.

Again, with utter inevitability, the insurgency spawned an extremist wing, the Groupe Islamique Armé (GIA). With utter predictability they started off saying they’d stick to military targets but soon found these too well protected and their attacks having less and less affect so they widened their targets. Journalists were singled out, but more and more members of the general public were also murdered. Abdelkader Hattab wrote a pamphlet titled: ‘Throat-slitting and murder until the power is God’s’ (p.457).

As in Iraq, in order to build the perfect Islamic state, it turned out to be necessary to kill lots of Muslims, first hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, and eventually hundreds of thousands.

What became known as the Algerian Civil War lasted from 1991 to 2002 and led to around 150,000 deaths. Of course the economy was wrecked. Of course a lot of the best and brightest middle classes simply fled abroad.

Egypt

I visited Egypt in 1981 and then in 1995, just before Islamist terror groups began attacking tourists. Groups like Jamaat al-Jihad and Gamma Islamiyya increasingly targeted government officials, intellectuals, journalists and foreign tourists. They attacked and murdered Coptic Christians, burned Christian shops and churches, and bookshops and theatres and video stores. Farag Foda, one of Egypt’s best known writers, was shot dead. The Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz was knifed. ‘Throat-slitting and murder until the power is God’s’, in practice.

Then they started attacking tourists: in 1996 17 Greek pilgrims were murdered outside their hotel. In 1997 58 foreign tourists were murdered in the Valley of the Kings. Meredith tells us that a Japanese man was eviscerated and inside his stomach cavity was stuffed a note reading: ‘No to tourists in Egypt’ (p.461). Fine by me. I’m never going back to a Muslim country.

Egypt’s president, Hosni Mubarak, had come to power after the assassination of his predecessor Anwar Sadat by army Islamists in 1981. Now Mubarak set about crushing the Islamic groups ruthlessly, telling his own people and the international community that he wouldn’t let Egypt become the next Algeria. This chapter takes the story up to 2000, when Mubarak was arresting members of the Muslim Brotherhood and other Islamic organisations to prevent them standing in that year’s elections.

26. Black Hawk Down (Somalia)

The first fact about Somalia is that, at independence, about 40% of the people who thought of themselves as Somalis lived outside the borders of the country, in Ethiopia or Kenya. So from the day of independence the government neglected agriculture and the economy and focused on military action to try and extend its borders to include the full population.

Second fact is the Somalis have a strong and complex clan system, clans within clans, which extends in a hierarchy from the five main super-clans down through ever-diminishing sub-clans. So:

  1. Never-ending warfare helped impoverish the country, especially after the Soviet Union dropped its support for Somalia in favour of Mengistu’s Marxist revolution in neighbouring Ethiopia.
  2. As central government collapsed under the pressure of military defeats, poverty, famine and so on, the country disintegrated into a warzone of permanently fighting, feuding clans, at multiple levels, with warlords ruling their territories through terror.

27. The Graves Are Not Yet Full (Rwanda)

The Rwandan genocide. I’ve summarised the dreadful events elsewhere. I’ll just pick up on two related themes, mentioned re. Algeria. 1) the population of Rwanda ballooned from 2 million in 1940 to 7 million in 1990, which led to 2) lots of unemployed youths hanging around, waiting for a cause and meaning (and cash):

Youths with no prospect of work were easily recruited [into the interahamwe) with promises of land, jobs and other rewards… (p.496)

The French government of François Mitterrand comes over as the genocide-supporting scumbags indicated by all the other accounts. For example, it was the French government which refused the Belgian request to increase the number of the latter’s peacekeepers, so that Belgians ended up being forced to watch Tutsis being hacked to death in front of them but were unable to intervene. Because of France (p.510).

Mitterrand was determined to prevent a Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) victory in Rwanda even if it meant continuing to collaborate with genocidal killers. (p.519)

France made five arms shipments to the Hutu government while it was carrying out the genocide. Bastard Mitterrand sent a French force into Rwanda to protect the Hutu Power génocidaires (the equivalent of protecting the SS). Meredith tells of French soldiers slowly realising that the Hutus they had been sent to protect were in fact genocidal killers and realising that their government (Mitterrand) had lied to them. The piles and piles of Tutsi corpses were a clue. But the French government refused to allow their troops on the ground to track down and bring to justice the génocidaires hiding among the mass Hutu refugees who fled into Congo, once the Tutsi-led RPF reactivated the civil war and invaded in order to end the killing.

To the end, the French protected the organisers of the genocide. (p.522)

We’re never meant to forget the Holocaust. Well, in the same spirit, surely we should never forgive the arms and aid and support and protection the French government extended to the perpetrators of the second most horrific genocide of the twentieth century.

Mind you, Meredith goes on to paint the UN as far worse, biased towards Hutu president, Juvénal Habyarimana, ignoring reports from the Canadian commander of the UN force on the ground, UNAMIR, General Roméo Dallaire. And then the Belgian government, which withdrew their contingent altogether, abandoning thousands of Tutsis who had taken shelter in their compounds and who were hacked to pieces within hours of their abandonment (p.512). And the Americans behaved disgracefully, Bill Clinton doing everything he could to avoid using the G word (genocide) and refusing to commit troops. Everyone in a position of power in the West let the genocide happen.

More Tutsis were killed in churches than any other type of building, although a lot were killed in maternity wards where a lot had their bellies ripped open and their babies hacked to pieces before they themselves were hacked to death.

Some people still believe in the essential goodness of the human race. Such innocence is touching, charming, but dangerous.

28. Where Vultures Fly (the two Congo wars)

Who supported Mobutu after he had reduced Zaire to starving ruins? France. Why? Because he spoke French. Because he represented la francophonie. Because he represented a bulwark against the rise of the beastly English-speaking leaders such as Museveni of Uganda. France supported mass murderers and world-beating kleptocrats because their crimes were less important than the preservation of ‘French culture’ (p.525). Look at their wise and good achievements in the realm of international affairs: Vietnam. Algeria. Models of wisdom and statecraft. And Vichy, when millions of French people wholeheartedly co-operated with German Nazis whose values they enthusiastically endorsed.

This is not an exaggeration. When considering international affairs, it’s important to bear in mind what despicable depths the French establishment’s paranoid fear of the English-speaking world drives them. James Barr describes the despicable behaviour of the French in Lebanon and Syria during the Second World War:

This chapter describes how the million and a half Hutu refugees from Rwanda were crammed into refugee camps, mostly in Congo, where the Hutu Power génocidaires rebuilt their power, controlled the distribution of aid, murdered dissenting voices, kept the refugees in line with terror, while they sold some of the aid the West gave them in order to buy arms to re-invade Rwanda and resume attacking Tutsi communities.

Meredith explains how the leader of the RPF, Paul Kagame, conspired with President of Uganda Mouseveni to invade eastern Zaire, to crush the Hutu Power leaders, to force the Hutu refugees to return to their country. How they found a useful idiot from within Zaire to front the army they were creating, namely fat, stupid guerrilla turned nightclub-owner Laurent-Désiré Kabila.

The combined RPF and Ugandan army force which Kabila fronted not only liberated the Hutu refugee camps, but marched on Congo’s capital, Kinshasa, triggering the panic-stricken flight of the sick old dictator, Mobutu in 1997. In short order and to his own surprise, Kabila found himself in power and set about surrounding himself with cronies in the traditional style. Unwisely, he tried to bolster his support among the Congolese by turning on his Ugandan and Rwandan-Tutsi backers, whose forces were much resented in Kinshasa and beyond.

This policy badly backfired because when Kagame and Museveni found their puppet acting up against them, in 1998 they instituted a second invasion from the east, this time not marching but flying their forces direct to Kinshasa to overthrow Kabile. At this point, however, various outside countries began to get involved, several big ones supporting Kabile who had signed lucrative deals with them allowing them to plunder Congo’s natural resources.

This was the complex situation which led to what became known as the Great War of Africa. Slowly the country splintered into regions held by rival warlords or outside armies. A peace treaty was signed in 2002 which required armies from Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Angola and Zimbabwe to withdraw. In four years of chaotic conflict (1998 to 2002) some 3 million Africans had died, mostly unarmed Congolese civilians. But even after the peace treaty, fighting continued in east Congo, and continues at a low level to this day.

29. Blood Diamonds (Liberia, Sierra Leone)

Liberia

Meredith recaps the extraordinary early history of Liberia, a colony on the west coast of Africa funded in 1822 by guilt-stricken liberal Americans who wanted to return some of their slaves to the motherland. Instead, the few thousand returned Blacks ended up creating their own version of slavery, subjugating the poor locals, exploiting their labour, building homes and dressing in the elaborate nineteenth century style of their former American oppressors. Now the immigrant Blacks oppressed the locals. The Americo-Liberians amounted to no more than 1% of the population but lorded it over the indigenes.

In a neat historical irony, in 1931 an international commission found members of the entirely Black Liberian government guilty of involvement in organised slavery (p.546).

But it the story stops being in any way funny when in April 1980 Master Sergeant Samuel Doe led a coup which overturned a century of Americo-Liberian rule. Semi-literate, Doe came from a minority tribe, the Krahn, from the deep jungle. He and colleagues broke into the mansion of President William Tolbert to complain about unpaid wages. Finding him asleep in bed they shot him multiple times before disembowelling him and dumping his body in the garden. This was the coup where Tolbert’s cabinet ministers were taken down to the beach, tied to posts and shot by a squad of drunken soldiers. I remember seeing the video on the news. This set the tone of ten years of savage, primitive, ignorant, incompetent rule.

Like all stupid people, Doe thought the world revolved around him and thus saw conspiracies everywhere. His comms people publicised the idea that he had survived 38 or more assassination attempts because of his magical powers, because bullets stopped in mid-air, knives refused to cut him, and so on – fairy tales designed to appeal to the largely illiterate population.

In August 1984 Doe arrested a popular university lecturer and 15 colleagues claiming they were planning a coup. When students protested, Doe sent a troop of soldiers who opened fire indiscriminately, stripped students naked, demanded money and/or raped them (p.551). This all made me think of all Kwame Nkrumah’s speeches from the 1950s and 60s about ‘Africa for Africans’, ‘African values’, how a liberated Africa would become a beacon of progress and civilisation…

Throughout all the mayhem the US government stood by Doe, declaring his obviously rigged elections valid, overlooking his brutal massacres, upping annual aid to $80 million, and inviting him to the White House for red carpet treatment. Why? Because he was staunchly anti-Soviet. That’s all that mattered (p.555).

In November 1985 General Thomas Quiwonkpa, who had led the 1980 coup along with Doe, tried to seize power and there was premature rejoicing – until Doe managed to regain control, hunt down Quiwonkpa and have him kicked and hacked to death, followed by even harsher crackdowns on the population, which including victimisation of the entire Gio tribe which Quiwonkpa came from.

In 1989 another former colleague, Charles Taylor, led a militia into Liberia from neighbouring Ivory Coast, thus commencing a guerrilla war against Doe. Doe sent out death squads to devastate villages in the regions Taylor had seized. Taylor armed children (‘Small Boy Units’) and told them to kill everyone. The country descended into barbarity.

Bolstered by cane spirit, marijuana and cheap amphetamines, youths and boy soldiers evolved into psychopathic killers, adorning themselves with women’s wigs, dresses, fright masks and enemy bones and smearing their faces with white clay and make-up in the belief that this gave them supernatural perception…’It’s a children’s war,’ said a senior United Nations observer. ‘Kids get promoted in rank for committing an atrocity. They can cut off someone’s head without thinking. The troops move into a village. They take everything and kill and rape. They stay a couple of weeks and then move on.’ (p.558)

It’s interesting to read that many of the stoned fighters thought that wearing wigs or dresses i.e. adopting two identities, would confuse enemy bullets. Traditional African values. Reminds me of the website I found last time I was reading about this subject, a collection of photos of the surreal garb of drug-addled psychopathic militia men.

In 1989 a colleague of Taylor’s named Prince Johnson split off from Taylor’s army to set up the Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia, with the result that Liberia became caught in a three-way civil war. Or just – war. Marauding soldiers from each side burned, looted, raped and massacred at will. Half the population fled the country. Nigeria sent a peacekeeping force which didn’t establish any kind of peace but secured a few buildings in the capital Monrovia. When Doe drove down to the port to greet them, he was captured by Prince Johnson’s men.

Johnson ordered a video to be made of his men torturing a badly battered Doe, including the moments when they sliced his ears off. The video became a bestseller across West Africa. You can watch it on YouTube and reflect on the speeches of Kwame Nkrumah explaining how African values would civilise the world.

Inevitably, the African peacekeeping force turned out to be every bit as corrupt and lawless as the militias they were sent to police, giving warlords weapons in exchange for looted goods, leading to the joke that ECOMOG stood for ‘Every Car Or Moving Object Gone’.

Taylor established control everywhere outside the capital, and came to commercial arrangements with western companies to allow trade to continue. In two years he’s estimated to have raked off £200 million from these gangster deals.

Sierra Leone

The chaos from Liberia then spilled over into neighbouring Sierra Leone. This country was already a basket case due to the 17-year, one-party rule of President Siaka Steven whose regime made a fortune trading diamonds via Lebanese dealers, while the economy languished, government employees went unpaid, and gangs of youths filled the streets looking for a cause. The usual.

The force Taylor sent into Sierra Leone in March 1991 called itself the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) and was led by the psychopath, Foday Sankoh. This was the group Anthony Loyd writes about terrifyingly in Another Bloody Love Letter. Child soldiers became a key feature of Sierra Leone’s civil war. They were given drugs, indoctrinated and taught to kill. Some had to kill their own parents as an initiation test. Some hated it, wanted to leave but were afraid of themselves being killed. But others loved it. As researchers Krijn Peters and Paul Richards concluded:

‘The pay may be derisory but weapon training pays quicker dividends than school ever did; soon the AK47 brings food, money, a warm bath and instant adult respect. The combat groups substitutes for lost family and friends.’ (quoted page 563)

Like the white overseers in King Leopold’s Congo, the RUF took to hacking off the hands and limbs of civilians, at random, purely for the terror it created. Hundreds of thousands of civilians fled their homes. A coup in the capital brought Valentine Strasser to power. He paid a firm of mercenaries, Executive Outcomes, to clear the capital Freetown in exchange for rights to the country’s diamond mines. Executive Outcomes fighters cleared Freetown in one week, testament to the shoddy, amateurish character of the African fighters on all sides.

More splinter groups, more coups, more fighting, 14 attempts at a ceasefire, tens of thousands more hand choppings and mutilations. A final ceasefire brought UN intervention. But when the UN went to seize the diamond mines, in 2000, the RUF captured 500 of its peacekeepers. It was now that Britain sent in a full battle force to release the UN troops, seize government buildings and train the SL army. Sankoh was arrested and the RUF splintered into ineffectual groups. In the wake of the British intervention, the UN deployed 18,000 troops to bring about a comprehensive peace.

Eleven years of war had left 50,000 dead, 20,000 mutilated, three quarters of the population displaced, and Sierra Leone at the bottom of the league of human development. Back in Liberia, Charles Taylor amassed a huge fortune from illegal diamond trading. His overthrow in 2003 was as violent and brutal as his coming to power, with two more factions, groups or militias murdering and raping their way to the capital. Eventually Taylor was forced out but flew peacefully to Nigeria to take up life in a comfortable retirement villa. There is no justice on earth, nothing like justice.

30. No Condition Is Permanent (Nigeria)

Meredith describes the brutal rule of General Sani Abacha, military ruler from 1993 to 1998. His crackdown on all opposition. The rise of organisations representing the Ogoni people of the oil-rich Niger Delta who had seen none of the tens of billions of oil money generated around them, only the pollution and destruction of their environment. The work of the popular writer Ken Saro-Wiwa, who was eventually arrested, accused of organising an anti-government conspiracy etc and, despite international protests, executed in November 1995.

Abachi’s death in 1998 is the opportunity for a review of how far the country had fallen. Despite annual oil revenue of $280 billion, income per head was less than a third of what it had been in 1980, at $310; half the population lived on less than 30 cents a day and had no access to clean drinking water. Half of under fives were stunted due to malnutrition. Nigeria was regularly judged to be the most corrupt country in the world.

What this litany of disasters begins to impress on even the most sympathetic reader is that Africans do not seem able of running their own countries. Catastrophic wars, epic corruption, barbaric violence resulting in crushing poverty, if the generation of independence campaigners had seen the future would they have been in such a tearing hurry to gain independence from their colonial masters?

Abachi’s death didn’t bring peace and light: the end of the military regime led to an explosion of political parties across the country, which themselves exacerbated ethnic rivalries, and also the rise of Islamic militancy, which led to clashes between Muslims and Christians. Despite free elections in 1999 and again in 2003, observers wondered whether Nigeria, a country of 120 million made up of 250 ethnic groups, was ungovernable. [That was in 2000. Nigeria’s population in 2023 has almost doubled, to 215 million.]

31. The Honour of Living (Sudan)

General Omar al-Bashir seized power in Sudan in 1989 and declared his commitment to creating an Islamic state. This was followed by the arrest of all opposition figures, torture including burning, beating and rape, the usual behaviour of leaders promising to build a better society – first you have to lock up a lot of people. 1991 saw the introduction of a new Islamic penal code: women were hounded out of public life, segregation of men and women was enforced in all public places, there was a ban on music, cinema and the compulsory Arabisation of all culture.

The ideologue of all this was Hassan al-Turabi, founder of the National Islamic Front and founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. After the first Gulf War, in 1991. Turabi set up the Popular Arab and Islamic Conference to bring together thinkers and leaders to fight back against America’s ‘colonisation’ of the Arab World. Sudan became a refuge for anti-western terrorist groups. This is very important. It marks the start of a new type of aggressive new anti-western ideology, of the war on America.

Meredith gives a good short description of the career of Osama bin Laden. In 1996 the blind cleric sheikh Omar Abdel Rahman organised the bombing of the World Trade Centre. Extremists trained in Sudan undertook assassinations and attacks across the Arab world. In 1998 activists trained by al Qaeda attacked hotels in Kenya and Tanzania, killing 263 people. Now we enter ‘the modern world’, the era we still live in in 2023, the era of unceasing conflict and Islamic insurgency across the entire Arab world.

Their Islamic ideology justified the Bashir regime in intensifying the war against southern, Black, Christian rebels. Villages were bombed, populations massacred and sold into slavery, with the blessing of Islamic scholars. The southern forces split into two parties who had a civil war between themselves in which tens of thousands of civilians died, which triggered a famine in which hundreds of thousands perished (p.594). Humans, eh? Impressive species.

Alongside massacres in the south went the discovery and exploitation of oil. The Khartoum government reaped a huge bonanza and spent it on…arms. By 2002 the civil war had left an estimated 2 million dead. But after 9/11 the Americans became active. Sudan was identified as a training base for Islamic terrorists and Bashir had to back down and promise to comply.

32. Black Gold (Angola)

The crushingly depressing history of Angola in the 1980s and 1980s, a country destroyed by an endless civil war between the supposedly ‘Marxist’ MPLA government based in Luanda, and the madly self-centred, narcissistic, overweening arrogance of Jonas Savimbi, leader of UNITA.

Land mines, aerial bombing, indiscriminate massacre, burning, looting, rape of women and children. Maybe 5 million died, many more had legs blown off by the millions of landmines, the country was laid waste – all while Eduardo dos Santos and the elite of the MPLA lived like kings by salting away the revenue derived from the huge oil deposits found just offshore. Getting on for half the annual oil revenue, billions of dollars, was stolen by dos Santos and his clique, while the children starved to death in the streets. As with Congo, or Nigeria, why give aid to oil- and resource-rich countries which have enough natural income to invest in infrastructure, roads, markets, clean water, schools, but which they either steal or spend on arms and weapons?

33. A Degree In Violence (Zimbabwe)

The slow descent into paranoid dictatorship of Robert Mugabe. I hadn’t realised that he was initially conciliatory towards the white minority, and even his arch enemy Ian Smith, for the first two or three years of his rule because his first priority was eliminating all his black rivals, starting with Joshua Nkomo and his Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU). It was called the Gukurahundi campaign (Shona for ‘the early rain which washes away the chaff before the spring rains’). During this campaign Mugabe’s notorious Fifth Brigade, trained by North Koreans, rampaged through ZAPU’s heartland, Matabeleland, and massacred thousands of civilians accused of being ‘dissidents’. Some estimates say as many as 80,000 were killed during the 5-year campaign.

Slowly Zimbabwe became like all the other African one-party states, a machine for redirecting wealth into the pockets of a small elite around the figurehead leader. As the economy collapsed and inflation and unemployment rose, so did Mugabe’s deployment of racist, anti-white rhetoric, focused on the policy of farm reclamation, seizing back land from the white farmers who owned a disproportionate amount of it. As Meredith explains, it’s all Mugabe had left, rabble-rousing racism to distract attention from the complete failure of his leadership.

Mugabe’s successive rounds of farm seizures spelled the end of commercial farming as a major industry in Zimbabwe. Many of the confiscated farms didn’t go to the deserving poor but to friends and family and tribal supporters of Mugabe, who then stripped and sold off their assets or left them to rot. Hundreds of thousands of Blacks who worked on the confiscated farms were thrown out of work. Land lay fallow. Food production collapsed. Zimbabwe, once the bread basket of southern Africa, became dependent on food aid.

By 2003 the economy had collapsed and an estimated quarter of the population had fled the country. Three-quarters of the remainder lived on less than a dollar a day. Meredith covers the coming together of opposition movements in the Movement for Democratic Change and the rise of its leader, Morgan Tsvangirai, the elections he contested in 2002 and 2008, elections Mugabe comprehensively managed with intimidation, violence and hectoring messages through state media.

Opposition activists were hunted down, beaten, tortured and in some cases murdered. (p.646)

Meredith’s narrative takes the reader up to 2008 when Mugabe, despite spending 28 years utterly devastating his country, was still in power. It was very depressing to switch to Wikipedia and see that Mugabe continued to rule the country he had ruined for another nine years, till he was overthrown in 2017.

34. Somewhere Over The Rainbow (South Africa)

The books and movies all focus on Nelson Mandela‘s long march to freedom. Not so many examine the calamitous challenges he faced on taking power in 1994: trying to reverse the best part of a century of totalitarian racism which had entrenched grotesque inequality between the affluent whites and the crushingly poor Black population; trying to integrate millions of badly educated young Africans into the economy, trying to introduce Blacks into every level of a 100% white political and civil administration and into SA’s commercial life. The army, the police, the education system, everything needed reforming.

Plus the expectations of activists at all levels who had spent a lifetime working for the ‘revolution’ which would create a land of plenty. There was an epidemic of strikes and protests or just straightforward crime. To all this Mandela had to react much like Mrs Thatcher, explaining that the state just didn’t have the resources to make everyone rich. There would have to be belt-tightening. It would take time.

Meredith has an extended passage describing the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, how it struggled to find its way, was a compromise in nature and intent, but ended up unearthing far more than anyone expected. Its impartiality was emphasised by the way it was reviled by both sides, both stalwarts of the apartheid regime and the ANC itself, found guilty of murdering white civilians, Black opponents, of prosecuting a civil war with Inkatha, and the 400-plus victims of ‘necklacing’.

Meredith’s account of Mandela’s sustained efforts to achieve reconciliation between the races at every level bring a tear to the eye. What a hero.

His successor, Thabo Mbeki, elected unopposed to lead the ANC in 1997, was not a hero. Despite having been raised a communist, Mbeki promptly announced a set of neoliberal capitalist policies designed to boost the economy, namely strict fiscal discipline, lower government deficits, privatisation and liberalisation of state industries.

But Mbeki will go down in history as the man who adopted a minority view that HIV did not cause AIDS, promoted this view at every opportunity, refused to support AIDS awareness campaigns, refused to license anti-HIV drugs, for year after year, in the face of mounting criticism both within SA and internationally.

Mbeki insisted on playing the race card i.e. insisting that the global scientific consensus about HIV/AIDS was a racist attack on Black Africans on a par with apartheid. His obstinate refusal to allow anti-retroviral drugs to AIDS patients and pregnant women was calculated, by 2008, to have led to the premature deaths of 365,000 South Africans.

The greatest political challenge facing every nation is not to end up being led by idiots.

Mbeki undertook a more aggressive strategy of getting white businesses to include Black partners but, far from lifting the entire Black population out of poverty, this tended to enrich just the small number of educated, well-connected Blacks. The strategy developed into crony capitalism. Perceiving that they were being discriminated against, some 750,000 skilled whites just left the country, replaced by less qualified or experienced Blacks (p.679). Services decayed. Poverty grew alongside rising violent crime.

South Africa now has exceptionally high rates of murder, gender-based violence, robbery and violent conflict. It has consistently had one of the highest murder rates in the world.

Mbeki turned into a typical African leader. He created a climate of fear in the ANC. He emasculated parliament. He appointed officials for their loyalty to him, not their abilities. He shamefully supported Robert Mugabe even as Mugabe turned into a dictator and reduced his country to beggary.

And, falling into line with traditional African leaders, Mbeki and his cronies became involved in corruption, in particular creaming off hundreds of millions of dollars from state defence procurements. The ANC became split between the Mbeki faction and one led by Jacob Zuma, who himself was charged with money laundering, fraud and rape.

In 2007 Zuma stood against Mbeki and won the post of ANC leader, then stood for the presidency in 2009. The party split, but corruption became more embedded. The gap between rich and poor grew. Crime became the only way to survive for millions. After this book was completed Jacob Zuma went on to be elected president and serve from 2009 to 2018.

Incidentally, Meredith has written a series of books about South Africa, including a biography of Mandela, which explains the authoritativeness of his SA chapters:

  • In the Name of Apartheid: South Africa In The Post War Period (1988)
  • South Africa’s New Era: The 1994 Election (1994)
  • Nelson Mandela: A Biography (1999)
  • Coming to Terms: South Africa’s Search for Truth (2001)

35. Out of Africa

Decline

In 2001 the Organisation of African Unity was replaced by a new African Union. Same old dictators, though. Same corruption, same tribalism, same civil wars. Same population explosion which means half the population live below the poverty line, same huge unemployment, with millions permanently on the brink of starvation. 250 million Africans are undernourished; school enrolment is falling; life expectancy is falling. [This appears to be wrong, now; life expectancy in Africa is, apparently, 63.]

MDGs

By some estimates the West has spend £1.2 trillion in aid to Africa. There has often been little to show. In the 2000s there was a flurry of activity with the creation of the Millennium Development Goals. In 2005 Bob Geldof created a huge media event around the Live 8 campaign and gigs. But the West has donor fatigue. Pledges made under MDGs and Live 8 weren’t carried through. African countries have promised to reform and then utterly failed to do so too many times.

China

Into the breach has stepped China, which has been signing trade deals across Africa. The Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC). By 2010 China-Africa trade had leapt to $115 billion. A million Chinese had moved to Africa.

The Arab Spring

And then, just as Meredith was completing this book, along came the Arab Spring leading to the overthrow of ageing dictators in Tunisia, Libya, Egypt and on into the Middle East i.e. Yemen, Bahrein, Syria. And yet within a few years, Egypt was back in the hands of the military, Libya had collapsed as a state, Syria fell into a ruinous civil war; only Tunisia survived and flourished as a democracy.

Kenya

Meredith ends with the calamitous recent history of Kenya, which threw out Daniel arap Moi and his cronies (known as the Karbanet syndicate) after 23 years of looting the country. However, his successor, Mwai Kibaki, merely instituted a new kleptocracy for his tribe and supporters (who came to be known as the Mount Kenya mafia). Corruption reached scandalous new heights with some $4 billion a year, or one third of the national budget, being raked off by the corrupt elite.

When Kibaki refused to accept the results of the 2007 election i.e that he had lost to opposition leader Raila Odinga, he plunged Kenya into tribal bloodshed which left thousands dead, the economy damaged and Kenya’s reputation for stability in tatters. It had become just one more African country, ruined by its corrupt rulers’ inability to cede power.

Africa’s wounds are self-inflicted. Africans have proved ruinously incapable of running their own countries. Meredith ends his book by describing the majority of Africa’s rulers as ‘vampires’ who have converted all the instruments of the state into money-making scams, who use rabble-rousing ethnic rhetoric or state terror to remain in power, while their populations slip ever backwards into poverty, sickness and starvation.

Thoughts

Some pretty obvious themes emerge from this 700-page odyssey but in the last 5 or 6 chapters something bigger than the themes struck me, which is that this is a very negative view of Africa. Often it is very harrowing and dark indeed, as when the subject matter is bleak, as in Algeria, Congo, Rwanda, Sudan, Angola.

But it took me a while to grasp how much this is a journalist’s not a historian’s or academic’s point of view of the subject. And, like all journalists, Meredith accentuates the negative. Man buys a puppy for his kids, who love it, is not news. New puppy attacks children, that is news.

I know it’s an obvious and well-known journalistic principle, but in the last 100 pages it really struck home that Meredith focuses relentlessly on the bad news, on countries with long-running wars and political crises, the ones we read about in the newspapers: Nigeria, Sudan, Angola, Zimbabwe, settings for horrible wars, massacres, genocides even. On the basis of this book it would be tempting to write all of Africa off as an irredeemable disaster zone. But there are 50 or so countries in Africa, and not all of them are having civil wars all the time. Some of them might even be doing rather well. Many people might be living ordinary lives, doing jobs, getting married, having parties. Despite the impression Meredith gives, life expectancy across Africa is actually rising.

Anyway, that was my one Big Thought: that if you only read this book you would be left with the impression that Africa is a vast abattoir of eternal massacre and mutilation, vampire leaders and epic corruption. I don’t think Meredith intends to be biased and I’m sure everything he writes is absolutely true. But by the end of his book I began to think that it’s not necessarily the complete truth, about the entire continent, and all its countries, and all the people who live in them.


Credit

The State of Africa: A History of the Continent since Independence by Martin Meredith was published in England by the Free Press in 2005. A revised edition was published by Simon and Schuster in 2011. All references are to the 2013 paperback edition.

Related links

A World In Common: Contemporary African Photography @ Tate Modern

This is an outstanding, wonderful exhibition bringing together some 150 photographs (and a few installations and videos) by no fewer than 36 photographers and artists from across Africa. It is full of breath-taking and beautiful works, suggesting a continent alive with wonderfully creative, innovative artists.

It’s divided into three ‘chapters’, each of which are sub-divided into themes. To quote the curators:

The first chapter is rooted in ancient African cultures and traditions which have survived periods of struggle and resistance. Inspired by Pan-African liberation movements, the second chapter looks at photography’s ability to produce counter histories – archival practices and the agency of photographer and subject are brought into focus. The third chapter explores the impact of globalisation and the climate emergency.

Chapter 1: Identity and tradition

Queens, Kings and Gods

For centuries Africa was conquered and colonised by European countries. The artists in room one pay tribute to the monarchs and matriarchs who resisted colonial conquest and occupation. The photographers here invoke the heritage of kingdoms such as the Asante of Ghana and the Yoruba of Nigeria, who are descended from the goddesses and gods of the ancient spiritual capital, Ilé-Ifẹ̀. Thus a series of big, beautifully clear portraits of traditional monarchs of the present day by George Osodi (born Nigeria 1974).

Installation view of ‘Nigerian Monarchs’ series by George Osodi (2012 to 2022) in ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern (photo by the author)

There is a set from the ‘We Live in Silence; sequence by Kudzanai Chiurai (born 1981, Zimbabwe) which elaborately recreates biblical narratives, history painting and Christian iconography which themselves turn out to be scenes from the 1967 film, ‘Soleil Ô’, by Mauritanian-born French filmmaker Med Hondo. So, worlds within worlds…

We Live in Silence IV by Kudzanai Chiurai (2017) courtesy of the artist and the Goodman Gallery © Kudzanai Chiurai

Spiritual worlds

The next room gestures towards the complex and diverse history of religion across this vast continent. There’s a set of photographic self portraits by Khadija Saye (1992 to 2017, born and worked in the UK, of Gambian heritage). You might recall that it was one of these photos that British artist Chris Ofili used as the centrepiece for his huge new site-specific Requiem for Grenfell Tower at Tate Britain. In this sequence Saye photographed herself performs a series of rituals using sacred objects that combine her African, Christian and Islamic heritage.

Installation view of the ‘Dwelling: in the space we breathe’ series by Khadija Saye (2017) (photo by the author)

At the end of the room is a stunning work, a set of five huge digital photos arranged to create a striking tableau by Maïmouna Guerresi (born 1951, born in Italy, works in Senegal). Titled ‘M-eating – Students and Teacher’ it shows four girls and an older man sitting around a long table draped in a yellow cloth. The wall behind the table is inscribed with the Basmala, a Muslim prayer recited to elicit God’s blessings. It’s a huge and really powerful image of absorption and contemplation but, more than that, it’s just a beautifully clear and vividly coloured composition.

‘M-eating – students and teacher’ by Maïmouna Guerresi (2012) Courtesy of the artist and Mariane Ibrahim

Masks

The next room is devoted to the role of masks in African religion, ritual, folklore and culture. There’s a stunning series by Edson Chagas (born 1977 in Angola), the Tipo Passe series of sitters wearing contemporary clothes but traditional Bantu masks. ‘Tipo passe’ is Portuguese for passport and the frontal composition references passport photography.

Installation view of the ‘Tipo Passe’ series by Edson Chagas (2014) (Photo by the author)

Opposite these is a series of really wonderful photos by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou (born 1965, works in Benin), instances from the Egungun series.

Installation view of ‘Egungun’ series by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou (photo by the author)

As the curators explain:

Egungun is a Yoruba masquerade practice which calls upon the spirits of departed ancestors. Through ceremonial drumming and dance, ancestral spirits inhabit the bodies of Egungun practitioners to pass on blessings and guide the passage of the dead to the spirit world. Clothing plays an important role in Egungun masquerade – elaborate masks and fabrics must completely seal the performer’s body. Agbodjélou’s performers wear costumes which layer expensive foreign materials and traditional Yoruba cloth. This combination of the traditional and the contemporary parallels the Egungun’s complex role as mediators between the world of the living and the dead.

They’re absolutely stunning, vivid photos.

Untitled from the ‘Egungun’ series by Leonce Raphael Agbodjélou

There’s a massive video piece by Wura-Natasha Ogunji titled ‘Will I still carry water when I am a dead woman?’ and showing women dressed in colourful (traditional?) clothes, dragging kegs of water roped to their ankles through the backstreets of Lagos. Here’s a clip:

You may not be altogether surprised to learn that it’s a feminist piece. Their costumes evoke images of Egungun masquerade, a Yoruba practice that manifests ancestors’ spirits and is traditionally reserved for men, and Ogunji explains the piece is designed to question the heavy labour still done by many women in traditional societies.

Chapter 2: Counter Histories

The next room is big with a lot going on. Along one wall is a series of relatively small ‘family portraits’. These loving portraits of family members gesture towards the long history of studio portraiture that gave agency to African photographers and their sitters, letting them create domestic alternatives to the imperial rhetoric of colonial postcards, posters and magazines. These included pioneering photographers such as James Barnor in Ghana and Lazhar Mansouri in Algeria, photographing families and individuals who would gather proudly to have their portraits taken, often for the first time. All fair enough, but they’re relatively small and struggle to compete with the other, enormous offerings in the same space.

Most striking is the large assembly of old box files arranged on a pebbly red base. This is ‘A History of a City in a Box’ by Ndidi Dike (born UK, works in Nigeria). These old file boxes are filled with archival documents, including colonial-era postcards and photographs, and then carefully choreographed on sand and soil. It is a general metaphor for the way information was power for the old colonial authorities and was hidden away in files and folders but then, during the period of independence, colonial archives were abandoned, hidden and destroyed. And yet…that information decayed, became irrelevant, barely concealing the true earth of the country, its geological bedrock, symbolising the country’s real roots.

Installation view of ‘A History of a City in a Box’ by Ndidi Dike in room 4 of ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern © Tate (Lucy Green)

In the centre, at the back of n this photo, you can see a set of four figures, blown-up and pasted onto cardboard bases, these are the work of Samson Kambalu (born 1975 in Malawi, works in the UK). They’re actually cardboard cut-outs of African soldiers use photographs sourced from the Weston Library in Oxford, UK. They represent the unnamed infantry who fought for the British Empire during the First and Second World Wars and were known as the King’s African Rifles. The cardboard indicates the soldiers’ expendable status to colonial powers. Behind them is a patchwork of quilts inspired by Kambalu’s childhood memories of collecting bubblegum cards of world flags.

Next to them, on the right, you can see a sequence of three big pieces. These are from the sequence ‘Figures’ by Malala Andrialavidrazana (born 1971 in Madagascar, works in France). These are collages of maps, fragments of bank notes, record sleeves and other archival documents which build up into complex, evocative collages. The maps are, as you might expect, old-style colonial-era maps, the idea being that maps were used by the imperial countries to define and control; while the images are of strong African figures, including striking portraits of ancient Egyptian queen Nefertiti and Zairean dictator Mobutu Sese Seko. These are strong, highly impactful images.

‘Figures 1861’ by Malala Andrialavidrazana (2016) at ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern © Malala Andrialavidrazana

Away on the opposite side of the room is a large alcove with a distinctive black-and-white tiled floor, containing three big vivid sets of photographs by three different photographers.

They are, from left to right, four photos by Ruth Ginika Ossai (Nigeria), three by Hassan Hajjaj (Morocco) and four by Atong Atem (born 1994 in South Sudan, works in Australia).

Ruth Ginika Ossai’s portraits are carefully staged on floormats made of Astroturf and parquet-style laminate flooring. The backdrops are inspired by the special effects featured in Igbo gospel music videos and Nollywood films and give them a super-real feel.

The central three are by Hassan Hajjaj in a series called ‘Kesh Angels’ (named after the Hells Angels and the city’s motorbike culture). These are brilliant. The women are not only wearing vivid djellabas and veils but are posed in deliberately in-yer-face, take-no-**** attitudes. To cap it all, the frames are inset with tins of popular products, one appears to be lamb meat, another of tomato juice. So they’re stylish, stroppy, modern and funny.

Installation view of ‘Kesh Angels’ by Hassan Hajjaj (photo by the author)

To the right of the Kesh Angels are four portraits by Atong Atem. Atem portrays friends who are fellow members of Australia’s African diaspora. She says: This body of work honours the South Sudanese Dinka tradition of record-keeping and archiving as an intimate cultural practice.’ Aren’t they beautiful, brightly colourful, densely patterned, vibrantly alive?

‘Adut and Bigoa’ by Atong Atem (2015) courtesy of the artist and MARS Gallery © Atong Atem

Chapter 3: Imagined Futures

The final room contains yet more series of really strong photographs. The theme is the environmental challenges facing Africa, specifically its overpopulated cities and its degraded environment plus, of course, the heating up and drying out caused by global warming.

Kiripi Katembo (1979 to 2015, born and worked the Democratic Republic of the Congo) discovered that people in his home town of Kinshasa, capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, didn’t like being photographed. But he could get away with photographing their reflections in the city’s countless large puddles and pools of water. Often these contained rocks or building rubble, but Katembo discovered that the intrusion of these objects into the crystal clear reflections created an interesting disturbance. As the curators describe it: usually depicted as a chaotic and busy capital, ‘here Kinshasa appears as a dream-like landscape populated by shadows and unidentified objects.’

Installation view of ‘Un regard’ by Kiripi Katembo (photo by the author)

There’s a striking series of large black and white photos by Mário Macilau (born 1984, born and works in Mozambique). These, as the images instantly convey, document the workers of the Hulene landfill site in Maputo, Mozambique. Obviously it shows human beings reduced to picking through rubbish to glean a living, and, of course, affected by the toxic substances released into the air and soil by the widespread practice of burning.

‘Breaking News’ from ‘The Profit Corner’ series by Mário Macilau (2015) © Mário Macilau, Courtesy Ed Cross Fine Art

Related to the same topic of environmental destruction, but in a completely different register, is a series of 3 wonderful photos by Fabrice Monteiro (born 1972 in Belgium, works in Senegal). They’re from his ‘Prophecies’ series and they are absolutely brilliant.

Untitled #1 (2013) from ‘The Prophecy’ series 2013 to 2015 by Fabrice Monteiro in ‘World in Common’ at Tate Modern

‘The Prophecy’ series captures environmental issues facing communities in Dakar, Senegal, from forest fires to coastal erosion. Spookily tall spiritual figures, inspired by West African masquerade and animism, rise up out of the rubbish dumps, themselves made of rubbish and detritus. They’re stunning.

And next to them is arguably the best set in the show, the ones the curators have (wisely) chosen as the posters, a set of four quite stunning, beautifully, staged, semi-abstract photos by Aïda Muluneh (born and works in Ethiopia, 1974).

Installation view of ‘Water Life’ series by Aïda Muluneh, being (top row): The Shackles of Limitation, Steps (bottom row): Star Shine Moon Glow and The Sorrows We Bear

These were commissioned by the charity Water Aid and depict – in an obviously highly stylised way – ‘rural water access and its impact on women’s rights, well-being and education.’ The impact of global warming will obviously further degrade access to drinking water for hundreds of millions of people in the poorest countries. But clearly the thing here is Muluneh’s stunning use of a limited palette of bright blue and red, and her incorporation of traditional African body painting and dress.

Epilogue

The final (small-ish, corridor-like) room in the exhibition hosts videos by two artists. On the whole I don’t like videos. I don’t have the patience – the photos I’ve highlighted earlier in the show all make their impacts with dramatic immediacy whereas art videos are, by and large, extremely slow.

The most striking is ‘In Praise of Still Boys’ by Julianknxx (born 1988 in Sierra Leone, works in the UK).

The 3 or 4 minutes of this I sat and watched featured lots of footage of a very young Queen Elizabeth II visiting somewhere in Africa (Freetown?), white British sailors steering a motor launch through canoes rowed by local Africans, then British troops from the (I’m guessing) 2000 intervention in Sierra Leone (almost none of this is shown in the trailer, above). And this harking on about the British colonial legacy prompted the train of thought which follows in my political commentary on the exhibition.

Political commentary

I hugely enjoyed this impressive, wide-ranging exhibition about African photography as an aesthetic i.e. visual and psychological experience. But aesthetics and politics are far apart, at least in this exhibition and Tateworld more generally. As political analysis or commentary, this exhibition was rubbish. Dire. Seriously misleading. On and on and on and on and on the curators go about ‘colonialism’ which, for most of these countries, ended in the 1960s, 60 years ago, and on and on and on the curators and the artists go about the Atlantic Slave Trade, which Britain banned in 1807, 216 years ago.

In chapter 3 the curators optimistically claim that the featured artists ‘imagine multiple futures’ and cite Senegalese academic, musician and writer Felwine Sarr (born 1972) who calls for ‘Africans to think and formulate their own future’. In his 2016 book Afrotopia, Sarr writes:

‘Africa has always been the object of discourse by others. Now is the time to dream this utopia in Africa itself, to design Africa ourselves, to think, and to act for ourselves.’

Which immediately prompts two objections. 1) Dreaming isn’t going to get you anywhere, buddy. Practical policies might. See Paul Collier’s list of practical steps in his hard-headed book ‘The Bottom Billion’.

But more relevantly to this exhibition, 2) there’s almost nothing about the future, instead there is a sustained, deep immersion in the legacy of colonialism. Loads of the 36 photographers’ work is directly about colonialism, the colonial legacy, colonial control, colonial archives, ‘the colonial gaze’, colonial images, colonial photography, colonial identity cards, colonial posters, colonial postcards. The word ‘colonial’ occurs 26 times on the wall labels. Even if the artist isn’t themselves addressing it, you can bet the curators will drag in a reference to slavery or colonialism or both in their wall labels.

In other words, the overall effect of the exhibition is immensely backward-looking. It’s like a traumatised adult condemned to act out the abuse of their childhood again and again, with no hope of escape. Maps of colonial Africa, footage of colonial Africa, old box files from colonial Africa, old derelict buildings from colonial Africa, trying to escape from the Christian religion imposed by colonial Africa. Backwards backwards, everything relates backwards to a lost era of 60 years ago.

Here’s a timeline of the year and date African nations gained independence, just to make clear how long ago this all was.

24 December 1951: Libya
1 January 1956: Sudan
2 March 1956: Morocco
20 March 1956: Tunisia
6 March 1957: Ghana
2 October 1958: Guinea

1 January 1960: Cameroon
27 April 1960: Togo
26 June 1960: Madagascar
30 June 1960: DR Congo
1 July 1960: Somalia
1 August 1960: Benin
3 August 1960: Niger
5 August 1960: Burkina Faso
7 August 1960: Côte d’Ivoire
11 August 1960: Chad
13 August 1960: Central African Republic
15 August 1960: Congo
17 August 1960: Gabon
20 August 1960: Senegal
22 September 1960: Mali
1 October 1960: Nigeria
28 November 1960: Mauritania

27 April 1961: Sierra Leone
31 May 1961: South Africa

1 July 1962: Rwanda
1 July 1962: Burundi
3 July 1962: Algeria
9 October 1962: Uganda

12 December 1963: Kenya

24 April 1964: Tanzani (Tanganyika 9 December 1961 – Zanzibar 10 December 1963)
6 July 1964: Malawi
24 October 1964: Zambia

18 February 1965: Gambia

30 September 1966: Botswana
4 October 1966: Lesotho

We’re talking about the era of Sputnik. The era when the Berlin Wall was going upBefore the Beatles’ first LP. That is the era, of the 1940s and 50s, which so many of these artists, at least in their Tate interpretation, are harking back to, again and again and again.

This obviously indicates a glaring great gap, two gaps if you like, which are: 1) what happened in Africa during the 60 years since independence and 2) what is happening in Africa today?

Sixty years of mismanagement, civil war, famine and genocide

One wall label sports a quote from Kwame Nkrumah, first Prime Minister of Ghana, the first British African colony to become independent in 1957.

‘We believe in the rights of all peoples to govern themselves. We affirm the right of all colonial peoples to control their own destiny. All colonies must be free from foreign imperialist control.’

Nkrumah overflowed with utopian quotes about how socialism would bring peace and plenty to Africa, he was full of them (see the references to Nkrumah in my review of ‘The State of Africa: A History of the Continent Since Independence‘ by Martin Meredith).

What the Tate wall label does not mention is that Nkrumah went on to become a steadily more repressive figure, passing emergency laws, outlawing the opposition, creating a cult of personality, having himself referred to as the ‘the Man of Destiny’, ‘the Star of Africa’, ‘His High Dedication of Redeemer’ and so on. He was an outspoken supporter of the Soviet Union and Mao’s China, receiving a Lenin Prize, tried to abolish tribalism and wasted money on vast white elephant building schemes. He made himself very unpopular with the rulers of neighbouring African countries when it was discovered that he was supporting various communist and guerrilla movements to overthrow their capitalist governments. In 1966 Nkrumah was himself overthrown in a coup by the army which set about de-Sovietising the economy and reversing most of his calamitous economic policies. At independence Ghana had a GDP on a par with South Korea, but decades of political instability, military coups and economic mismanagement brought the country to the brink of ruin. Ghana is now 83rd in the world rankings of GDP compared to South Korea at 13.

NONE of this is in the Tate exhibition, none of it, no politics, no economics, no contemporary history at all. Africa’s desperate history of secessions, civil wars, genocides, famines, economic mismanagement, rule by brutal Marxist murderers, by kleptocrats and homicidal dictators, NONE of that is here, none. It is all erased, made invisible, ignored, brushed under the carpet.

Instead what the wall labels repeat again and again and again are the only two tunes they know, the evils of colonialism (ended in the 1960s) and of the slave trade (ended 200 years ago). Simplistic binaries.

Why artists and curators simplify history and politics to make them more acceptable

In my review of Paul Danahar’s irritating book about the aftermath of the Arab Spring, I sketched out four reasons why even high-end (BBC, Channel 4) coverage of foreign affairs tends to be simplified and sanitised. These are:

1. Logistically easy It’s easier to get stories out of countries where journalists and film crews can operate freely, so countries with good infrastructure, like Israel or America, tend to be over-represented.

2. Familiar narratives Editors prefer sticking to super-familiar, easy narratives, my examples being the Arab-Israeli conflict and the (now defunct) struggle against the apartheid regime in South Africa. Absolutely everyone was familiar with the outline of those stories which had taken on the simplicity of fairy tales. Pantomime narratives with pantomime goodies and baddies. Easy to understand, easy to write about, easy to feel moral indignation about, easy to go on marches about, all your emotions pre-packaged and ready to take away.

To give an example, bad stuff is happening in various parts of China (Xinjiang, Tibet) but my points 1 and 2 apply in that: 1) it’s difficult to get access to those places, and 2) the issues are complicated. But, for the sake of argument, say that a protest march in Hong Kong is broken up by riot police and – because it’s easy to access and easy to cover – it’s all over the front pages for days. Easy access. Easy issues. Somewhere we know about. Easy to relate to.

3. Britain-related Some places matter more to Brits than others because they used to be colonies or places where Brits lived and feel a residual attachment to, thus India, Hong Kong, Egypt, Kenya – or which we feel some kind of special responsibility for (the Middle East, all those lines on the map, the Balfour Declaration yadda yadda yadda). The result is that these countries are over-represented in British foreign news at the expense of everywhere else.

4. Student causes Lastly, there’s what you could call student politics. Some of these places are associated with big, simple-minded political causes. All good progressive people marched against apartheid in the 1980s. All good progressive people are outraged by Israel’s bombing of Gaza today. All good progressive people agree that China is not keeping to its bargain of letting Hong Kong remain a democracy. Etc.

In the same kind of way all good progressive people are shocked and disgusted by anything to do with the European empires. And all good progressive people are shocked etc by the slave trade.

These are hot button topics, guaranteed to win over the audience, please the crowd, which can’t fail to unite artists, curators and visitors in a cosy feeling of moral righteousness, moral superiority, grievance from the artists and grovelling apology by white gallery goers.

Slavery and the evils of empire are the new consensus topics – everyone agrees that they were utterly evil and that they explain everything about modern Africa.

All the artists chosen for this exhibition stick to the narrow line adopted by the curators that African history ceased some time in the 1960s, at the moment of independence, that nothing whatsoever has happened since then, that all Africans are still trying to cope with the trauma of imperialism or the trauma of the slave trade – and that absolutely nothing significant has happened since.

No military coups, civil wars, mad rulers, stupid socialist economics, thieving stealing looting leaders like Mobutu, psychopaths like Idi Amin, mass murderers like the Hutu regime in Rwanda, cannibals like the Emperor Bokassa, ruinous rebel leaders in Angola or Mozambique, warlord chaos in the Congo.

No African history beyond the 1960s is present in this exhibition because it doesn’t fit the simple-minded, pantomime-level narrative which many of the artists address and the curators almost obsessively promote – white slave traders / colonialists = evil, all black people = saintly victims.

I’m not saying the slave trade wasn’t bad or that colonialism wasn’t wretched, humiliating and shamelessly exploitative. Of course they were. And forms of neo-colonialism are obviously still alive and constraining African nations in all kinds of ways today. But that’s just the starting position: that’s the obvious stuff you need to process before moving on to a more sophisticated understanding of the situation.

You’re not going to begin to understand the plight of modern African countries unless you move on from the 1960s and engage with the 60 years of history since then. And then, once you’ve processed the 60 years since independence, it requires a further effort to engage with the host of military, economic and security issues which plague Africa today, in 2023.

Africa today

And what about the political and economic and social issues which face Africa today? Are these addressed in this exhibition? Is there any mention of the rise of Islamic fundamentalism across North Africa, of the havoc being wrought by al Qaeda, or Boko Haram, or al Shabaab? No. Nothing.

Is there any mention of China’s involvement in Africa over the last 20 years, buying up raw materials and rare metals and food in exchange for infrastructure projects? Mention of China’s ‘Belt and Road’ initiatives all across Africa? Nothing.

Any mention of Russia’s growing involvement in North Africa, specifically through the Russian mercenary outfit, the Wagner Group? Nothing.

Mention of the US’s surprisingly extensive investment in army, navy and air force bases across the region in efforts to combat Islamic terrorists? Nothing.

Lots of complicated geopolitical, military, strategic and economic manoeuvring is going on all across Africa, right now, as we speak, and none of it is discussed, described or even mentioned in this immensely backward-looking exhibition.

Conclusion

So I really liked lots of the art on display, a lot of these photos are stunning and breath-taking, world class, outstanding, and it is such a relief to get away from America and the usual suspects of the art world. Congratulations to Tate for staging this exhibition so beautifully and bringing so many great photographers to our attention.

But as politics this show is a washout, a whitewash, a travesty, a systematic erasure of African history for the last 60 years in favour of a fairy-tale story about colonialism. It not only takes absolutely no account of Africa’s 60 years of troubled tragic post-colonial history but presents a complete blank when it comes to the complex, difficult, multi-sided political issues faced by Africa today. An artistic triumph  but when it comes to any serious discussion of the political, economic and social challenges of contemporary Africa, this exhibition is a travesty, seriously misleading in its omissions, elisions and simplifications of a long inconveniently complex history.


Related links

Tate Modern reviews