Gambian Bluff

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Why would you do that?’ Jabang asked with a smile.

Diop could not think of a reason. He smiled back. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, and a few minutes later, having told his wife where he was going, he found himself seated next to the new President in the back of a taxi.

‘Do you know the town well?’ Jabang asked, as they set off down Marina Parade.

‘Quite well.’

‘Good. We will go down Wellington Street to the ferry terminal, and then back up Hagen Street. Yes?’

‘Yes, of course.’

The taxi sped down the tree-lined avenue, then turned past the Royal Victoria Hospital onto Independence Drive. There seemed to be few people outdoors, though one group of youths gathered around a shop at the top of Buckle Street offered clenched-fist salutes to their passing vehicle.

‘It looks peaceful, yes?’ Sallah asked from the front seat.

‘Yes,’ Diop agreed. Actually, it looked dead. What were these people trying to prove?

‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to see?’ Sallah asked.

My home in the Rue Corniche in Dakar, Diop thought to himself. ‘No, nowhere,’ he answered.

They drove back up Independence Drive to the Legislative Assembly, where Diop was ushered through into a small office containing desk, chair and telephone. ‘You can speak to your government from here,’ Sallah told him. ‘And tell them that the fighting is over and the new government in full control. Tell them what you saw on the streets.’

‘I will tell them what I know,’ Diop agreed.

At that moment someone else appeared and started talking excitedly to Sallah in Mandinka, in which Diop was less than fluent. The gist of what was being said, though, soon became clear. As Sallah turned back to him, Diop did his best to pretend he had not understood.

‘There is a problem with the telephone connection,’ the Gambian said. ‘In the meantime you will be taken back to your house.’

‘I…’ Diop started to say, but Sallah had already gone, and two armed rebels were gesturing for Diop to follow them. He walked back to his house between them, pondering what he had heard – that all connections with Senegal had been cut by the Senegalese Government. That could only mean one thing as far as Diop could see – Senegal intended living up to its treaty with the ousted government, and troops would soon be on their way to dispose of this one. Where that left him and his family, Diop was afraid to think.

Moussa Diba turned away from the cell window and its unrelenting panorama of mangrove swamp. Lamin Konko was dozing fitfully on the half-shredded mattress they shared, his hand occasionally stabbing out at the fly which seemed intent on colonizing his forehead. It was the middle of the afternoon – normally the quiet time in Banjul Prison – but today was different. Today all sorts of noises seemed to be sounding elsewhere in the building: whispered conversations, hammering, even laughter. And more than that: all day there had been tension in the air. It was hard to put his finger on exactly how this had expressed itself, but Moussa Diba knew that something was happening outside his cell, or something had happened and the ripples were still spreading. He did not know why, but he had a feeling it was good news. Maybe he did have his grandmother’s gifts as a future-teller, as she had always thought.

Time would tell.

His thoughts turned back to the Englishman, as they often did. The man had humiliated him, and he was still not sure how it had been done. One moment he had had the woman on the floor ready for him and enough drugs in his hand to live like a king for six months, and the next he was waking up in a police cell, on his way to this stinking cell for five years. If he ever got out of here, Anja would be his first stop, and the Englishman would be his second. And next time the boot would be on the other foot.

4 (#u97166c23-e248-5433-bc1c-ec16a665cbc4)

McGrath and Jobo Camara took the Bund Road route out of Banjul, to avoid the rebel activity on Independence Drive, but there was no way round the Denton Bridge. As they drove past the prison, its two watch-towers both apparently unmanned, McGrath could feel the reassuring pressure of the Browning in the centre of his back. Driving hell for leather along a tropical road in a jeep brought back more memories than he could count, most of them good ones, at least in retrospect.

They saw the first checkpoint from about a quarter of a mile away. A taxi was parked on either side of the entrance to the bridge, and four men were grouped around the one on the left. Two were leaning against the bonnet, the others standing a few yards away, silhouetted against the silver sheen of Oyster Creek. All four moved purposefully into the centre of the road as they saw the jeep approaching, rifles pointed at the ground. None of them was wearing a uniform.

McGrath pulled the jeep to a halt ten yards away from them, and got down to the ground, slowly, so as not to cause any alarm.

‘Where are you going?’ one man asked. He was wearing dark glasses, purple cotton trousers with a vivid batik pattern and a Def Leppard T-shirt.

‘Serekunda,’ McGrath said.

‘Whites are confined to the hotels,’ the man said.

‘Not all whites,’ Jobo said, standing at McGrath’s shoulder. ‘Only tourists.’

‘I work for the Ministry of Development,’ McGrath added. ‘We have business in Serekunda, checking out one of the generators.’

‘Do you have permission?’

‘No, but I’m sure the new government will not want all the lights to go out in Serekunda on its first day in office. But why don’t you check with them?’ McGrath bluffed. He was pretty sure that the checkpoint had no means of communicating with the outside world.

The rebel digested the situation. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said eventually. ‘You may pass.’

‘Thank you,’ McGrath said formally.

They motored across the long bridge. A couple of yachts were anchored in the creek, and McGrath wondered where their owners were – they seemed rather conspicuous examples of wealth to flaunt in the middle of a revolution. On the far side the road veered left through the savannah, the long summer grass dotted by giant baobab trees and tall palms.

Ten minutes later they were entering the sprawling outskirts of Serekunda, which housed as many people as Banjul, but lacked its extremes of affluence and shanty-town squalor. Jobo directed McGrath left at the main crossroads, down past the main mosque and then right down a dirt street for about a hundred yards. A dozen or so children gathered around the jeep, and Jobo appointed one of them its guardian, then led McGrath through the gate of the compound.

Mansa Camara was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard, his back against the concrete wall, his head shaded by the overhanging corrugated roof. He was dressed in a traditional African robe, not the western uniform of the Field Force.

His nephew made the introductions, and asked him what had happened.

‘I resigned,’ Mansa said shortly.

‘Why?’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do, boy. I’ll give it to Taal – he was honest enough about it. “Join us or go home,” he said, “and leave your gun behind.” So I came home.’

‘How many others did the same?’ McGrath asked him.

‘I do not wish to be rude,’ Mansa asked, ‘but what interest is this of yours?’

McGrath decided to tell the truth. ‘I work here,’ he said, ‘so I’m interested in whether these people can hang on to what they’ve taken. Plus my embassy is worried about all the tourists, and wants all the information it can get.’

‘No problem there,’ Camara said. ‘Not as long as the leaders are in control. They know better than to anger foreign governments for no reason.’

Jobo took out his cigarettes and offered them round. Mansa puffed appreciatively at the Marlboro for a moment, and then shouted into the house for tea. ‘Jobo is a good boy,’ he said, turning back to McGrath, and I know he likes to work with you. So I answer the question you ask.’ He took another drag, the expression on his face a cigarette advertiser’s dream. ‘One-third is my guess,’ he said. ‘One-third say no, the other two-thirds go with Taal.’

‘They really think they can win?’ Jobo asked.

‘Who will stop them?’ Mansa asked. ‘There is no other armed force inside the country.’

‘So you think the British will come, or the Americans?’

Mansa laughed. ‘No. The Senegalese may. But Jobo, I did not walk away because I think they will lose. I just did not want any part of it. My job is to keep the law, not to decide which government the country should have.’ He looked at McGrath. ‘That is the civilized way, is it not? Politicians for politics, police for keeping the law, an army for defending the country.’

‘That’s how it’s supposed to be,’ McGrath agreed.