Zanzibar 4 – the first twelve hours

LOOKING BACK ON THE FIRST TWELVE HOURS
The events of the first twelve hours were marked by a lack of any obvious source of authority. When the hospital had fallen into revolutionary hands, this absence was a source of uneasiness and worry no less than the menace in the eyes of the freedom fighters. They showed no indication of rank and no one man appeared to have overall authority.

It was for this reason that the ambulances were unable to collect the early casualties. It is unthinkable that there should have been any other motivation than that of military priorities. The fact was, however, that any attempt on the part of any vehicle to leave the hospital compound was stopped by a menacing shout and an aimed rifle. Each revolutionary acted as though he had been briefed by some higher authority – not under direct command, like the actions of a sentry. There was nothing haphazard about the organisation.

In the quiet of the afternoon a green saloon car was driven into the hospital courtyard and stopped on an open space near the West Wing. The boot was partially closed because of the bulky object it contained. A human foot protruded from under the partially closed lid. The occupants got out, opened the boot and dragged the object out of the boot and laid it on the grass in view of the crowd of orderlies, shamba boys, assistant cooks and others who were standing about nearby.

It was a stained bundle of clothes, saffron robes, and the body of an elderly man. He had a matted, earthy, bloody beard, light blue cataract-empty eyes, open mouth, filmed teeth, dirty, naked feet, a grid of axe-cuts down to the bone and one limb and his head were almost severed.

The crowd around applauded. They beat their hands together in applause, and a few cheered. Then the bundle was returned to the car, the lid of the boot was jammed down over it, and the car drove away to another place.

By evening all the gravest misgivings appeared to have been justified. Mental pictures which I had formed and which I had hoped were the product of an oversensitive imagination had been close to the truth.

Trucks began to arrive at the hospital. We stood on the high verandah – two storeys high, where the theatre suite was situated, and watched them come in. All sorts of vehicles came, each decorated with branches dense with green leaves thrust into the front and rear wherever there was room for them, such as a bumper or a bracket. Open lorries predominated and from my point of vantage I was able to look down into them and observe that they were filled with casualties and stained bundles of coloured cloth. Grinning, jovial revolutionaries maimed each vehicle and their shouts and gusts of laughter contrasted oddly with the weapons they carried and the inert, apathetic, near-dead bodies with which each lorry was crammed.

There were no Africans amongst the casualties, and there was no distinction with regard to age or sex. There were half-dead old men and old women; there were infants bleeding from multiple cuts in the scalp; little girls and little boys, some dying, and a sprinkling of adults of both sexes of an age describable as `military’. The latter were in the minority.

The weapons of the gleeful freedom fighters were bizarre in their variety and indicated a similar pattern to the first group I had seen from the house. There was always one rifleman to each group of six or seven. Others were armed with clubs, spears, pangas and axes. One particularly jovial fellow carried his axe on his right shoulder so that the haft hung down behind. They took the casualties down from the lorries and laid them on the ground at the feet of Sister Fitzgerald much as a cat, anxious for praise, will lay a dead mouse at the feet of his mistress and then retire a little way and sit purring, wailing for praise.

The matron and one of her Sisters walked up to each lorry as it came in and calmly supervised the handling of the casualties, sometimes laying a hand on a ferocious weapon held by a fierce-looking man and pushing it aside to make a passage, just as though it were a broomstick and he were a careless boy.

Neither age, blindness, infancy or pregnancy found a response in mercy. Here was the overwhelming proof of hatred and insensate fury.

Having seen all this I preserved no hope of cessation of the violence until all the Arabs had been eliminated or until the revolutionaries had become exhausted themselves.

Malindi, I heard, was still holding out and in the midst of the confusion Mussa reappeared and what I came to call the Cuban Corps d’elite.

A SEARCH

(Author’s note: The search described may be inserted into the section on Mussa after the departure of the doctor to Rahaleo with his escort.)

I went in constant fear of a shooting occurring in the wards. Up to now no shot had been fired within the precincts of the hospital. Whether as a result of a general order or whether it was due to a tacit sense of compunction, there was no sense of knowing.

I feared that a single shot, even by accident, would be followed by more shooting and that our precious inviolacy would be lost and the hospital would become part of the general battlefield.

Without warning a group of angry-looking men in a large black car drove violently into the compound.

“Quick! Get down there! They’re going to kill somebody!”

Three of us went together and followed the men. They were so intent on their search that they looked neither to right nor left. They were grim and methodical, and the force of the fierce anger emanating from them created an aura around them. The patients lay rigid and scared not daring to move a muscle. But they failed to find the man they were looking for and left as suddenly as they had arrived.

A WET NIGHT
A MEMBER OF THE REVOLUTIONARY COUNCIL

Another Sunday, wet and dark.

I had been on my own contemplating an empty street all day. It was raining noisily and the drumming of the rain boxed me in. Darkness had fallen and I had done nothing, and nothing had happened during the entire day.

It was 7.00 pm. Clouds cut off the starlight. Defective lamps had been left as they were. There were long reaches of blackness in the street. The guards, stationed at intervals of fifty yards, were out of sight. They had withdrawn into doorways and behind buttresses to keep out of the rain. Though the street appeared to be deserted, it was darkly alive.

Since the revolution no one ventured to walk merely for the sake of walking once the sun had set. Motives were liable to be misconstrued. Solitary wayfarers were stopped and questioned, often more than once in the course of half a mile, by people who looked like thugs, and sometimes were, but how was anyone to know?

My mood was dangerous because I was fed up with living like a mouse and my body clamoured for excitement. I wanted to feel at risk, wanted to be stopped and questioned, and was no longer in a frame of mind to act with circumspection.

I was aware of my state, the reasons for it, and the dangers attendant upon it, but that did not stop me. I put on a raincoat and went out. The rain, the secure feeling of the heavy coat, the feel of my feet on the ground, the brisk circulation attendant upon the much-needed exercise all accentuated my elation. As I walked along I was almost hoping that someone would challenge me, and, if challenged, I was determined to speak my mind.

No one did challenge me, which was just as well because my point of view required very careful exposition and would have been misunderstood by both sides. I pitied the Arabs without sympathising with them and I sympathised with the Africans while prepared to censure them most bitterly.

I was two feet away from a guard before I saw him. At first he was only a few flecks of white-highlights on the skin over the cheekbones and the whites of his eyes. He was more startled than I was because the noise of the rain* had drowned my approach and he expected no one. He looked at me, deeply suspicious. I looked at him and passed on.

I made for the hotel (there was only one). I sought a drink, something to eat, and someone to talk to. When I got there having negotiated a maze of alleyways, I found it crowded to the doors – soldiers, policemen, prostitutes and, strangely enough, a few tourists (they had been trapped by the cancellation of flights).

(Author’s note: Doubtful starter- come back to it.)

After a long wait my drink was served without ceremony – the “Bwana Mkubwa” days were over. I found the atmosphere louche and exhilarating and sipped my drink with relish, absorbing the atmosphere along with the alcohol.

It was very good after the solitude to be surrounded by people. It was very exhilarating to see the Africans on equal terms with everyone else. I became happier by the minute. The bar tender had become full of affability and brought me a drink I had not ordered. This is a present, Sir, from the Minister of Agriculture. He says ‘jambo’, Sir”. I looked around and there, sure enough, was the Minister of Agriculture seated with a group of lieutenants.

Then a voice behind my left shoulder said “I heard you asking for sandwiches just now.” “Without result”, I said. “You must forgive me if I don’t recall your name. I have met you before, haven’t I?”

“My father is getting better every day” was the reply. “I met you at the hospital. My name is Jaferjee. Can you eat samosas?” Jaferjee knew a place where we could feed on kebabs and samosas. He was ready to take me there.

He went in front to lead me through the maze of narrow alleys. He was a pleasant companion and I felt happy at the turn of events. Eventually we reached a cobbled street where there was a food-seller with his charcoal fire. He was an old and wizened Indian who knew Jaferjee personally. He wrapped two bundles of kebabs and samosas in sheets from ‘Adel Insaf’, a vitriolic newspaper.

With great consideration for my well-being Jaferjee advised that we sojourn to a nearby bar to which, if I was willing, he would lead me. I was stuck with him now because there was no certainty that I could retrace our convoluted course.

And what a place it was! A single room opened directly off the street one step up from ground level. It was dim and rackety. We ordered a beer, the only drink available, and seated ourselves at a greasy table. The room was full of strident music and there were only three other people seated at a corner table.

A glow of gratefulness to my companion suffused me. Without him I should never have found a place like this. I was as happy as a child. This could never have happened before the revolution, this free and easy absence of convention.

Jaferjee was telling me how worried he was about his job in a Government office. Every day someone was sacked from his office, he wondered when the day would come when he also would ‘get the push’. “You get no warning, you go to the office and you’re told to go home, that your job is filled.” I had heard rumours of this. “Sometimes,” Jaferjee went on, “they tell you to train this African to do your job. When you have trained him, and it doesn’t take long, they tell you to go. I’m getting out of this country as soon as I can, there’s no future for us here”. He was referring to his own community. Should he do nothing to anger anyone, and you never know, he said, who you are talking to, his job was still in jeopardy. But if he drew the attention of any African, should he draw unfavourable comment, his whole livelihood was at stake.

The man in the corner suddenly lurched to his feet rocking the table and sending the record player to the floor with a crash. It let out a grinding wail and died. The man, slouched and half tottering, made his laborious way across the floor. He passed through the back door and disappeared leaving the women seated alone. Neither of them made a move to rescue the record player.

“Did you see what I saw?” I asked Jaferjee. “What?” he said, looking at me in such a funny way that I was sure he had noticed. “Was he wearing a tie?” I asked. “He was wearing his belt around his neck, if that’s what you mean.” “Yes, but it was not a belt, it was a thong, a whip, a kiboko. Surely you saw it.”

Jaferjee was looking at me in a very worried way. “For God’s sake”, he whispered, “be careful what you say”. He gave a brief inclination of his head in the direction of the women which drew my attention to them again. The nearer of the two was now looking at me with frank and unmistakable invitation in her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be a joke”, I said, “to steal the executioner’s women?”

When the man returned, a henchman appeared who picked up the record player and stood by the table. The other three gathered their belongings, the whip man fastened up his clothes, and they left the place and went out into the rain.

So I thought “here I am drinking in the same bar as an executioner”. Never have I seen, outside of films, a man who so completely looked the part. Any movie scout would have taken him on at once – which the whole episode was seeming to be. The situation was so trite that the only justification in describing it is its truth. From the moment I had left my own home I had been as though a part of some melodrama. Something familiar in the fantasy of plays, books and films, but quite outside the everyday reference of normal life.

The whip obsessed me. I had heard of floggings in public and in the prison. I had felt uneasy about these rumours. They contributed to the atmosphere of fear and silence which made Zanzibar at this time a place of nightmare.

Some Arabs walked freely through the streets, yet hundreds of their fellows had been detained then packed like sardines into dhows and sent `sink or swim’ back to Arabia. “You packed us like cattle into ships, now it’s your turn” seemed to be the message. An Arab held a position in the Cabinet, Minister for External Affairs and Tourism. Another was like a shadow to Kharume, while another was in danger of the rapidly developing army. It would seem that the question `Who rules?” was a good question and required an answer.

My nocturnal expedition emboldened me. I walked about more during the day. I mustered courage to go to the small shop in Soho Mahengo street to buy some cigarettes. As I made my purchase my glance rested on a card bearing eight small passport-like portraits. One face I recognised at once. It was the face of the man with the whip neck tie. This man with the aspect and aura of a sadist was a member of the Revolutionary Council.

Jaferjee had been, after all, more than justified in his apprehension.

4 of 8 in Part 1