Snakepit (9 page)

“If you can do what you have just done, it means you are capable of a lot more things I don't know about. These are troubled times, Vicki. Anyone is capable of anything. To avoid trouble in the future, I want us to part when we can still bear to look at each other.”

“You are my first love. You performed a miracle and I bore a child. You can't escape your destiny, the role God cut out for you.”

At the mention of God, Bat became suspicious. Which God did she mean: the Christian one or Dr. Ali? Had she consulted the famous astrologer or one of his assistants? Where had she gotten the money? When? He dismissed the idea. She probably meant the Christian God.

“I want you to leave in the morning. You deserve a better life.”

Victoria burst into tears. She asked for forgiveness. When she tried to use the child as a shield and a weapon, Bat had a sudden attack of doubt. He could take the child away from Victoria and give it to his mother to raise, assisted by hired help or another relative. But it would scar her; she was still too young. It was best to let her stay with Victoria, but what kind of world was he sending his daughter into? What kind of men and women were going to influence her? He experienced a sense of failure. Had he not failed by not pressing for an abortion? Abortion in a land where heads were cracked with hammers, bodies dumped? Was he among the good, the sane people? Or was he as bad as the gun-wielders?

It was a very tense night, the silence in the house charged like a ton of dynamite. He thought about leaving and sleeping elsewhere, but he was determined not to run away. It was his house. At two o'clock, he went to his daughter's room. He sat in the darkness watching her sleep. She wheezed a little from a nostril clogged by an approaching cold. He listened as the air squeezed out, the sound magnified by the darkness. This was his last chance. From now on, visiting her was going to be a great effort. He felt like a creator whose creations had spun out of control.

After a very long time, he felt a change in the air, a scent, a stealthy breath. Victoria was standing in the doorway, her nightie clinging to her, her long body etched in shadow. She looked as seductive as he had ever seen her, and he could feel the beginning of an erection. It was only a matter of reaching out and she would be his again. He remembered their first meeting. A general's wife? Maybe. He pushed all erotic ideas from his mind, and she looked like a painting on the wall: beautiful, passionless. The silence deepened as each failed to find words to say to break the deadlock, making the night oppressive in its grip on the house. Not a single night crawler, bird or animal cleaved the night with its cries, howls or calls. It seemed as if Bat and Victoria were holding their breath like divers attempting to break a record. She felt her love poisoned by rejection and experienced a massive sense of despair. She had all the violence of guns at her disposal but did not have the heart to touch him. One day I will return in triumph. It is just a matter of time, she said to herself. She stole away from the room. The spell broken, Bat gave a large sigh of relief and left the room, the whiff of baby powder in his nose.

DR. AHMED MOHAMMED MAHRANI ALI'S LEARJET circled Entebbe Airport. He hated night flights, partly because he could not enjoy the view outside, partly because he could hardly sleep on his plane. He hated this particular flight because it disrupted his schedule. He had not planned to return to Uganda for two months, but Marshal Amin had begged him to cancel his stay in Zaïre and come to his aid. Two big coup attempts in three weeks was enough trouble to unsettle even the toughest mind. At the beginning of their relationship he had made it clear to the Marshal that he did not baby-sit presidents. His role was to study the omens, offer sacrifice, but not to get bogged down in the politics of any country. But over time the nature of the relationship had changed and the two men had become friends. Gradually, the Marshal had asked for his advice here and there. And he had to admit that he had begun to like it. He found himself using information garnered from Emperor Bokassa, President Mobutu and other leaders to try and solve the Marshal's problems. They would spend long hours discussing the personality problems of different dictators, from those who wore high-heeled shoes to appear taller, to those who pulled in their bellies at photo shoots to scale down the vastness of their stomachs, to those addicted to cocaine, heroin or pot. They would laugh at other dictators' miseries, especially those deposed in palace coups in the middle of the night. Nixon's plight was a favourite subject, especially because the Marshal had done his best to counsel him. They would laugh at the devilry of a system which made such a powerful man eat humble pie.

Dr. Ali did not want to claim credit for what happened in Uganda, but aside from foretelling a few events, including the imminence of the current revolt, he had been the person who had advised the Marshal to turn the Eunuchs into a specialized personal army, loyal only to him and nobody else. It gave Dr. Ali an adrenaline rush to know that he was among the most powerful men in the country. Why did that excite him? Because he had grown to love the country. It was so beautiful, yet so troubled. It was like a mad girl of uncommon beauty men felt tempted to rescue. He liked to think that he had played his part well. Take the spread of astrology. He had singlehandedly imported the practice. In his wake the Zanzibaris had taken over the business. It was amazing and amusing to see how quickly the revolution had taken root. The nicknames he had collected in the process amused him: God, Jesus, Satan, the Unholy Spirit, the Dream, the Giant, the Government Spokesman. He could understand why they called him the Dream. He had been the one who had advised the Marshal to hone his mystique by claiming that God talked to him in dreams. He had also advised him to proclaim unpopular laws, measures and announce embarrassing news through the Government Spokesman.

The plane landed safely. He was whisked from the airport in a dark-windowed Boomerang. He always insisted on travelling incognito. In a dictatorship, anonymity was priceless. He liked the fact that very few Ugandans, let alone generals, knew his identity. During séances, he used masks and big robes and sat on a throne, which made him look taller than he was. During meetings with Marshal Amin, he insisted on there being very few people. During his stays his assistants did most of the work, and he always walked amidst a phalanx of bodyguards.

The Boomerang parked in front of the State House at Entebbe and ten men surrounded Dr. Ali and walked him inside the building. There was commotion, soldiers everywhere. He was here to comfort his friend, encourage him, reassure him that his time had not yet come. He knew how most people overlooked the pressure leaders were under. Pressure was the main reason why from time immemorial many leaders went mad.

Marshal Amin sprang from his chair when the astrologer walked into the room. The two men embraced. Robert Ashes and two generals looked on, ready to shake hands with the diminutive astrologer and to get down to business with him. To their surprise, Amin asked them for privacy and remained behind with his guest. He sometimes thought about imprisoning the little man; he meant so much to him. In the past a king would have crippled him and put him under permanent guard. Things were different now. However much Amin hated it, he had to let the man leave and had to wait patiently for his return. There was also the fact that he feared the astrologer's ire: a man this gifted could curse you, mess up your omens and hasten your downfall. The only weapon available was to keep him happy and to beg him to come whenever things ran out of hand. Amin felt relieved that the man had agreed at all to come at such short notice.

“Ten white bulls are ready,” Amin said as the two men sat down.

“Do you want the omens read right now? It is three o'clock in the morning. The world is asleep,” the astrologer joked.

“I work twenty-four hours a day,” his host said irately, pining for his next dose of cocaine. He needed it, no, he deserved it. He could celebrate; his peace of mind had returned. He now believed that the rebellion would be crushed. Soon after, he would reorganize his personal army and make it ten times stronger, and give the men everything they wanted.

“Let us proceed then. Afterwards we can lie down for some sleep,” the astrologer said, yawning.

“You must be very jet-lagged, my friend.”

“Never mind. Anything for you, friend.”

Under moonlight, the ten bulls were slaughtered, Marshal Amin cutting the throats according to procedure. Dr. Ali examined each liver carefully, turning over the shiny, silky lobes. He examined the stars for a long time. The omens were favourable. Now everybody could get some sleep. In the morning he would study the sun and communicate its omens.

Astrology had been in Dr. Ali's family for three hundred years. He was born on the small island of Pemba in the Indian Ocean to a Muslim family. He was a small dark-skinned man of mixed parentage. His ancestors had come from Arabia in AD 1001 and settled on the East African coast. They intermarried with Africans, creating the Swahili heritage. At the age of six, Dr. Ali was struck by lightning as he played outside. His parents found him an hour later, stone cold, eye whites showing. They took him to the doctor, prayed over him and waited for his death. But he survived, hovering near death for a year, hardly moving a muscle, talking in a small voice. He told his mother that he was having dreams, seeing the sun, the stars, spirits. In a family of astrologers this would have been nothing new; here, when he insisted, they thought he might have lost his head or was telling them what he had heard adults say.

After convalescing he returned to school. He surprised teachers and pupils by telling them things about themselves, a relative who fell sick, or got married, or visited. He could also tell when somebody was lying.

“It is the lightning. The electricity fried your brain. You are mad if you think you are special,” they said.

In a way, they were right. There were astrologers and soothsayers everywhere. Every other week somebody claimed to be a prophet or healer or messiah. Those who couldn't prosper left for Zanzibar, Tanzania or the Arab states.

In the end, he decided to keep his counsel, never telling what he saw or knew about other people. After school he read books on astrology and Arabic. He was determined to go to Iran and study ancient religions. At twenty-five he got his university degree in religious studies. By then people had acknowledged his gift. People came from far and near to have their omens read. He got a job offer as head astrologer in Saudi Arabia, working exclusively for the royal family, but turned it down. He wanted freedom. He returned to the coast and settled in Zanzibar, where his fame grew even more.

By the time he made his first visit to Uganda, he was the most expensive astrologer on the continent. He was already on a retainer with President Mobutu of Zaïre, Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic, and General Gowon of Nigeria. He also had famous customers in Saudi Arabia and Europe. During their first meeting he told Amin that he would die an old man. He also described forthcoming assassination attempts to him, one of which occurred a week later, in almost exact detail. Amin became a follower. He foretold the deaths of two of Amin's wives, also in detail. Amin had shivered. His mother had been a witch-doctor and he had his own clutch of astrologers and witches, but he had never met someone like Dr. Ali. Dr. Ali became the only man Amin truly feared. To keep him away from his generals, he raised the astrologer's fees to one thousand dollars per consultation and ten thousand per séance. To weaken organized religions, he promoted the spread of astrology. Dr. Ali's writings were spread everywhere, thus the nickname God. Astrology became a department at the university.

Now, three years later, the two men had become very good friends. The Marshal loved the fact that Dr. Ali hated the limelight. The air of mystique served both parties well. He also had few vices, apart from a streak of exorbitance. Every night he consumed a thousand-dollar bottle of red wine, a habit picked up from President Mobutu, whose cellar boasted the most expensive wines in the world.

“A thousand dollars worth of piss!” Amin would exclaim.

“I have drunk wines costing fifty thousand dollars per bottle,” the astrologer would counter, raising his eyebrows, turning his head slightly and smiling faintly. “I last drank that at Mobutu's birthday.”

“Thank God whisky is not so expensive. Give me Johnnie Walker any day. And a bag of cocaine,” Amin said, laughing out loud.

“We are talking about the fine things in life, Marshal,” the astrologer said, laughing.

“Fuck them in the arse,” his host said, roaring with more laughter. He rang a bell and a soldier appeared. “Bring my friend his thousand-dollar piss. Don't break the bottle. We are going to drink a toast.”

The phone rang. Good news. General Bazooka had crushed the core of the rebellion. He was now busy wrapping up the operation.

BY THE TIME BAT LEFT for Saudi Arabia, the rebellion in the army had been quelled. He headed a delegation charged with the business of negotiating with the Saudi government for a supply of construction equipment. Offers had been tendered by two companies, both owned by Saudi princes. It was up to Bat to decide which company should receive the contract and to close the deal. General Bazooka and a few other generals would get a cut of the commission, delivered in cash. What Bat did not realize was just how fierce the competition was between the two princes. It almost soured an otherwise fine journey.

Bat had arrived in a good mood. Victoria had moved out, and it was now up to Babit to move in, although her parents opposed the idea, preferring to see her married first. As he contemplated while treading on the ubiquitous sand, he hoped that Babit's parents would relent. He even wished that Babit had come along to see this sand and the cities placed in its midst. He wished she could see the palace where the delegation did business under ceilings high as a pylon, in rooms uncluttered as an empty warehouse.