Snakepit (6 page)

General Bazooka had other worries too. He was consumed with the task of retaining Marshal Amin's favour and trying to rise in the hierarchy of power. Before and after the coup, it had been very easy to divine what the Marshal thought and wanted. But over the years, with mounting international pressure and local discontent, the Marshal had become more fickle, paranoid, unpredictable. He had increased the power of the Eunuchs, the presidential bodyguard that surrounded him at all times, and it was now much harder to make an appointment to see him, or to get him on the hotline. I shouldn't be one of those made to wait, the General said to himself aloud, pacing up and down his office.

Over the years, the army of presidential astrologers, witch-doctors and soothsayers had increased fourfold. Some generals blamed these people, especially their leader, Dr. Ali—alias God, Jesus, the Unholy Spirit, the Government Spokesman—for the Marshal's unpredictability, but General Bazooka knew better. The uncertainty in the air created fertile ground for astrology and all kinds of witchcraft to flourish. He didn't hate Dr. Ali, with his enormous power, his Learjet, his Armani suits, his closeness to the Marshal. He just envied him, knowing how frantic the Marshal became when the runt stayed away longer than expected. In his book, Dr. Ali was the third-most-powerful man in the land, despite the fact that he was a foreigner, outside of the government and the armed forces, and he visited the country only ten times a year.

The General found it hard to discredit the man; he was the only astrologer who had predicted things which came true. He was the only person who could walk into the Marshal's office any time of day or night without an appointment. He was the only person in the country whose life was guaranteed because nobody, least of all the Marshal, dared kill such a powerful astrologer. What made matters worse was the fact that the man was incorruptible. He had all the money in the world, for he worked not only for Marshal Amin but also for President Mobutu of Zaïre, Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic and General Bohari of Nigeria. In all the past years, General Bazooka had had one séance with him, paying a cool ten thousand dollars, and only recently he had heard that the Marshal had forbidden the astrologer from seeing generals or anybody else in the government.

This was a sign that the Marshal had become more fearful and distrustful of everybody. He could understand what the Marshal was going through. Both phantom and real coup plots were on the increase. It was hardly possible to tell which was which. Backbiting among the generals had also become worse. Factions of all kinds mushroomed almost daily, each demanding attention and ascendancy. The rivalry between the army and the security agencies, especially the State Research Bureau and the Public Safety Unit and the Eunuchs, did not make things easier. Amidst this volatile mix were the so-called presidential advisors. It was wisest to trust nobody. If it had been in the General's power, he would have deposed and shot all faction leaders, merged the security agencies and restored order. He even advised the Marshal to do so, but he had refused. The confusion mounted.

In spite of all this, General Bazooka knew that the real powder-keg in the house was Western Europe, namely Gross Britain and the USA. These two countries had slashed aid to Uganda. They kept sending spies or phantom spies, one hardly knew any more. They destabilized the economy by encouraging coffee-smuggling through Kenya. They encouraged Kenya to embargo Uganda's goods at the seaport of Mombasa. They campaigned against Uganda abroad, laying phantom crimes at the Marshal's address.

The Marshal had become increasingly aware of the vacuum in his support system, namely failure to formulate a suitable policy in relation to these states, and he blamed the generals for it. General Bazooka found the accusations unjust, even though he sympathized with his leader. At cabinet and Defence Council meetings, the Marshal had developed the habit of throwing obnoxious temper tantrums, banging tables, firing guns, cursing and accusing everybody of sloth and redundancy. These blanket accusations hurt and worsened the divisions. General Bazooka was aware that the Marshal's behaviour was a preamble to some action he could not divine. Was the Marshal about to hire some Libyan and Saudi advisors? Weren't there enough of these already? There was mounting panic among the generals. The last thing anybody wanted was another influential foreigner in the mix.

General Bazooka's guess was that the Marshal was going to promote an insignificant but highly educated southerner to a very important position. He believed that the Marshal was stalling because he was embarrassed by his decision. It had happened before. Some generals claimed that it was not a southerner, but a black American. He still remembered Roy Innis and his promises to send black American experts in medicine, education, business management and technology who never turned up. General Bazooka did not know whether to succumb to the generals' sense of relief, stemming from the fact that a black American civilian would not be hard to manipulate or frustrate. He would get a palatial home on a big hill, a fleet of Boomerangs, bodyguards, the royal treatment. His bodyguards would not be hard to bribe for information. And if he became too troublesome, he could always be disappeared or thrust into a car wreck. I hope that the generals are right, General Bazooka said to himself, although the scenario does not solve my problem of wanting to get closer to the Marshal.

THE ARRIVAL of the British delegation which would change things for good was a mediocre affair, almost as unremarkable as the recent departure of Dr. Ali's Learjet. General Bazooka would have missed it had he not been the Minister of Power and Communications. He attended the reception because these idiots, or snakes, as the Marshal called them, claimed that they could sell the government top-quality communications equipment without having to go through the maze of international protocol. General Bazooka did not like the idea very much because Copper Motors did the job well when it came to importing British goods, legally or illegally. Why introduce another group from the same country? And if it was a question of the new snakes undercutting the old crew, why not simply press Coppers to lower prices? If the arrivals had been Germans or Canadians, it would have made sense: diversification. The General sensed personal vendetta. Somebody at Coppers had probably displeased the Marshal.

The delegation confirmed his worst fears: it looked anything but impressive. Men going to cut million-dollar deals should dress with style. Ooze a bit of class. Not this crew. They turned up in badly creased suits and tired suede shoes. He noted that the eldest, a man in his fifties, with a large balding head and bushy eyebrows, had not even bothered to wear a tie. How the Marshal had agreed to meet people in this state of disrepair defeated him. It infuriated him that this old snake talked to the Marshal as if they were best friends. He kept sticking his large hands in his pockets, brushing back wisps of invisible hair on top of his head and rocking with laughter. At one time it looked like he was going to pat the Marshal on the arm or stick his finger in his belly.

A friendly presidential aide had informed General Bazooka that the unkempt crew had arrived two days before and had stayed at the presidential lodge in Nakasero. He smelled a rat. The Marshal wasn't somebody who took to people easily, except in some unique cases. General Bazooka started suspecting that maybe the Unholy Spirit had something to do with this crew; maybe he had consulted omens and advised the Marshal to receive them. By the look of things, it might have been love at first sight. He remembered how he himself had impressed the Marshal so strongly back in the sixties. He had heard that the Unholy Spirit had made the same impact. This white snake might also have scored in the same fashion. He suddenly felt an attack of fear and a massive jolt of jealousy. He hoped that nothing would come of the delegation.

The reception turned out to be as disorganized as the hairs on the old man's head. He never got the chance to talk to the group properly; neither did he wish to. He would leave the details to Bat, if it came to that. To kill time he nursed a drink, talked to a colleague or two and was relieved when the Marshal asked for silence and made a clumsy speech. The only noteworthy point was the invitation to a cocktail party in two days' time, which he extended to everybody. It was to take place at Paradise Villas, a presidential resort somewhere on the shores of Lake Victoria. He knew that there was momentous news in the offing because Marshal Amin used the place exclusively for special occasions. Later he heard that ambassadors and other dignitaries had also been invited. The next day a spy in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs informed him that the delegation had left for home.

On the big day, around one hundred dignitaries attended the function. The West Africans stood out in their colourful, stylish garb, which resembled very voluminous cassocks or billowing nighties. The rest wore tuxedos, safari suits and gowns. There was a profound air of prosperity; every hair seemed to be in its proper place; every shoe polished to a high shine. Heavy watches glinted on hairy wrists, women's jewellery flashed and winked ad lib. An undercurrent of expensive perfume wafted in the air, accompanied by classy modulated laughter. General Bazooka was proud to be among these people, feeling like a child at a big wedding feast full of music and goodies. Such moments made the bothers of staying in power worthwhile. He looked at his gold-plated Oris Autocrat and smiled with satisfaction as it reminded him of the path he had travelled to get here.

Today was a special occasion, and his mother had agreed to come along. Normally, she kept away from government functions. In her old age all she wanted was a quiet contented life. She felt grateful for the prosperity that had come her and her son's way. The General had given her a business in Jinja. She imported and sold fish nets and money was rolling in. He had also built her a villa in Arua, and her family took care of it for her. Once a month he visited her and she cooked his favourite meal, millet bread with fish, and they reminisced, laughed and enjoyed their good fortune. “Do you now and then think about the leeches and the snakes in the swamps where you used to cut papyrus reeds?” he would ask with a faint smile on the corners of his mouth. “Every day, every day, my son. I am so happy it is all in the past. If only your father were here . . .” Sometimes he brought the children along, because he wanted them to have a close relationship with their grandmother.

As a rule, she never asked about his work. Sometimes he told her about what went on in the corridors of power, but she never fished for details, rumours. It seemed so petty, so unimportant. In the past she also never asked what her husband did or had done. Men did what they had to do to provide for their families, and the wives brought up the children the best way they could and tried to be good wives, kind, understanding, supportive, tolerant of their husbands' weaknesses. Her only regret was that her husband had not lived to see his son in glory. Alcohol poisoning had claimed him. She now lived with another man, whom the General accused of exploiting her. She looked at her son in his beautiful uniform with the glittering medals, and they both smiled. She felt proud to have been invited, a fitting honour for a mother who had seen the General when he was still snot-nosed.

There were many generals and their wives who came from her region and spoke the same language. They treated her with the respect she deserved and listened to her with bowed heads and fixed smiles. She admired the well-dressed women; they reminded her of what she might have looked like had her beginning been so auspicious. What did it matter now? They all ate from the same table now. By the look of things, her son could only go higher. His was one of the best-performing ministries; the fight against smugglers was going well. The Russians had promised to give him ten more speedboats, which would ease the task of combing the lake of that lice. He had invited her, because he had heard from a presidential aide that the Marshal was about to promote a number of high-ranking officers. My son is going to become a full general, she said to herself. A full general before reaching forty!

The day could not have been better. The weather was fabulous, with a clear blue sky, mild sunshine and a slight wind that kept the heat down. The lake shimmered in the distance, little waves corrugating its surface, the horizon a faint brown line drawn across its extreme periphery. It changed from blue to grey to green as if somebody were pressing buttons from above. There was a boat race, a spectacle of coordination, timing and precision. Traditional dancers pranced and swayed to the music, their voices rising and falling in unison. Quick short speeches sped one after the other, as if everybody wanted to rush to the shattering climax.

Turned out in a spotless military uniform, Marshal Amin took the stage. He launched a tirade against the racist South African regime, the Americans, the British and the Israelis. On the home front, he slammed the military top brass for inefficiency, overindulgence, corruption. “I have found a miracle cure for those ills,” he said dramatically. From behind the marquee Robert Ashes emerged. Marshal Amin gave a sign, and the dignitaries began to clap.

Robert Ashes had had a haircut for the event, and the straggling hairs round his ears and the back of his head were now in line. He was dressed in a nice suit with shiny shoes and a red tie. He walked with the confident air of a man ready to go into action. Marshal Amin announced that he had put Ashes in charge of the Anti-Smuggling Unit, effective immediately. He hugged him, as if to emphasize his words.

General Bazooka could hardly believe his eyes or ears, and the obscene hug in front of him seemed to last for an hour. He did not know whether to howl, or hang his head in shame. He flew into a silent rage and his lower lip quivered. He wanted to kill the white man on the spot. How could the Marshal do this to him? Without as much as a warning! In front of his mother!

My home area, he said to himself, my beautiful islands, handed over on a plate to that snake! The whole of Jinja, the northern shores, my waterfalls and crocodiles too!