Wings of the Morning (18 page)

He paused to take a pull at the soft drink beside him and looked out at the view over the savannah country which surrounded the camp. Then he continued,

‘Of course, David, there’s a chance that I‘ll become corrupted myself and develop into a grasping megalomaniac. After all, that’s been the route for a few African leaders
already and there’ll be more to come this decade.’

‘Why do you say that?’ David asked him.

‘Why? Well it’s simple, you see. It’s bred in us.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘OK,’ said Savimbi hunching himself forward in his chair as he gazed at David, ’it’s like this. If you look at this entire continent and then leave off all the national
boundaries, what do you see? I’ll tell you. It’s one place, one people, one culture at least from the Sahara on South. Of course there are great differences in topography, in climate,
vegetation etcetera. And of course there’s an uncounted number of peoples and dialects. But there’s a common denominator which is that we are all tribal and we have been over
generations past. If you’re born an African, it’s imbued in you that you are a member of a tribe. You can expect fulfilment, but based on membership rather than meritocracy. You see, we
Africans are incredibly enduring. We’re hardy, patient and long suffering. We don’t ask for much: the means and the environment to sustain a life of dignity and adherence to long
established practice. We expect a boss, a leader, an elder to map our path and we’re content to do as we’re told. We certainly don’t appreciate a Soviet style hierarchy, but
we’re not too persuaded by democracy either. We don’t want to be converted, recreated or developed. We prefer to get on with life according to the customs of our fathers’ fathers.
We wish the rest of the world would mind its own business rather than obsessing with ours and we especially dislike being pawns in some mighty power play which offers us nothing, however it plays
out.’

Savimbi smiled his great beaming grin. ‘And so, incidentally, I‘ll go on accepting blandishments and hand outs from all and sundry. I’ll make the right noises in grateful
reaction. But behind all the diplomatic bullshit, my agenda remains just that: my own’.

‘And how do you summarise that,’ David asked.

‘That brings us back to your question, what do I want. Well ok, first I want the Portuguese out of Angola. Not so much because they colonised and elevated themselves to the top of our
pyramid. It’s more because they’ve been so bad at it: hopelessly cruel, disrespectful and incompetent. When they’re gone, I want to bring about change, but a complete shift, more
bold and fundamental than you’d expect. I don’t champion the ‘Angola for the Angolans’ dictum. No. My vision is to enlarge our community, to invite other nationalities from
East and West and any colour under the sun to join us here.

‘Why? Because we have space and my God but how much we have. We are blessed by nature with all we need or want: you name it and Angola has it. We can develop to everyone’s benefit
but we won’t do it for ourselves. It’s not that our people are incapable — it’s back to those tribal inclinations with which we are born. Obey, make do and manage, do as
your forebears have done through countless years. No less, but no more either. I don’t believe that any edict or political imperative will change that attitude. We need, you might say, some
fertilizer and cross pollination to improve the crop.’

Savimbi went on to speak of other things. He was a compulsive communicator and had the need to be nurtured by conversation. He was well informed about world affairs and international politics in
particular. He seemed fascinated by speculation on what might happen to Europe. Was there the prospect for some form of integration in the distant future? Would a shared antipathy towards the
Soviet Union speed this process? He appreciated the power and ability of the United States, but despaired of finding an American who had any true understanding of Africa. He despised the Portuguese
but he loved the country and had been at his happiest while living in Lisbon. He admired the British: they were haughty and insensitive, but they knew how to manage things. Interspersed with all
this global talk, he found time to ask more about David’s life, his background and his family which Savimbi found alien and incomprehensible. He asked about work and Kirchoffs: from
David’s description, he believed he would get on famously with old Sol.

Then the sun was going down and it was time for David to go. They got up together and went through the front door to stand on the veranda. Beneath them on the dusty road, a car was standing, a
much travelled VW Beetle with both its doors open and a driver standing by it, dressed in slacks and a colourful print shirt.

Savimbi turned to David and explained that the car would take him to the fishing port of Mocamedes, a journey of about four hours but quite good going and with no security problem. Not with this
car and driver, he said and repeated the comment in local language at which the man in the print shirt laughed. In Mocamedes, Savimbi went on, he would be handed on to members of the family who
would put him up overnight and transfer him to a fishing boat in the morning. There would be a voyage of about thirty hours south to Swakopmund where someone from SWAPO would take care of the
paperwork and take him to Windhoek and on to Johannesburg. He finished by saying,

‘Thank you for coming, Mr David Heaven. I have enjoyed your company and admired your behaviour. You would be welcome again. I hope that we will do business together, but I understand you
must return to Europe and speak to your partners. Please pay my respects to Mr Kirchoff and to Mr Gluchamheig. And please take with you a clear memory of this place and of the people you have seen.
We are still only small, but we are already much larger than we were. The cub is fit and growing: the mature lion is coming.’

Suddenly they were gone, churning up the dust as David wondered if he would ever have another chance to spend time with this magnetic personality.

The African night fell within an hour of their departure and David became drowsy. He felt lightheaded, perhaps a remaining touch of fever, but he was warm under a blanket which the driver had
thoughtfully pulled from the back seat. The two of them had no common language, so no conversation was possible. The little VW ploughed gamely through the sand on the track which was thick in
places and needed the good judgement of the driver to keep them moving. It was pitch black, with no light of habitation to see and no other vehicle to greet. After two hours, they stopped on a
rocky outcrop to refuel from a smelly jerry can and there was warm water from a leathern bottle. David slept deeply as they went on, and woke up much later, disturbed by the noise of washboard dirt
surface beneath their wheels and the lights of a huge, onrushing truck. He stirred himself to take note, gaining a cheery grin from the driver. Another forty-five minutes, and they were running
through the suburbs of quite a large town. It seemed incongruous to see a traffic light and a divided main road with hibiscus growing in the tended earth of the central strip. Then they were
turning off into a series of broad, tree lined residential streets before they pulled into the crescent drive of a large, two storey house. The driver smiled at him again, tooted his horn and
turned off the engine.

Immediately, the imposing front door of the house swung open and light from inside flooded out and onto the steps, down which ran a young man with a hand raised in greeting. He opened the door
for David and announced in English.

‘Welcome to Mocamedes, Mr Heaven, and to the house of my father whose name I must not mention here’.

David returned the greeting. He shook hands and looked for his small bag but the driver had moved faster and was standing in wait with it in his hand, his beaming grin wider than ever.

‘Please call me David,’ he said, ‘I am delighted to meet you and to be here.’

‘Sure. It’s a long and dusty road but no one knows it better then Jaou here. You’ve been in good hands. Oh and I forgot to say, I’m called Rafael, but normally known as
Rafa.’

‘OK, Rafa. Please thank Jaou for his excellent driving and for making me so comfortable. He did a great job.’

Rafa translated in a volley of words, and Jaou squirmed with pleasure at the compliments. Then all three moved up the steps and into the house. They entered a spacious hall, with wide stairs
placed immediately in front which mounted in two flights to the first storey. David caught a glimpse of a grand room off to their right, then his host was taking his bag from Jaou and leading the
way upstairs. They went down two bisecting corridors before stopping at the entrance to a large bedroom. They entered together and David found it comfortably furnished, with a bathroom off and a
massive, wood framed bed placed centrally under a fan which was revolving slowly. There were windows flung wide onto the garden and he picked up the scent of the sea. He felt tired again and the
huge bed looked comfortable, but Rafa said,

‘I’ll give you thirty minutes to shower and change. Let me know if you need to borrow any clean clothes. Otherwise, just be casual and leave any washing by the door. It will be done
and back to you by morning. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll go out to dinner. It may seem late to you, but we’ll be just on time here. After all, we are sort of Portuguese
and we keep Mediterranean time in these parts!’

With that he was gone and David was left to wonder what next as he shaved, took a welcome shower and put on his only remaining clean shirt and jeans. He was on time as he left the room and went
down to find Rafa waiting for him in the hall.

Jaou drove them again but this time in a much larger car, a big American barouche which purred imperiously through sparse traffic towards what was evidently the centre of Mocamedes, and then on
to the beach side where there were the welcoming lights of several restaurants, all apparently humming with clientele.

As they entered Rafa’s choice, a cry went up from a long table at the back, set to look out over the beach and with a party of about a dozen already in situ with bottles, glasses and some
form of starter food. There was a rapturous greeting for Rafa and a polite welcome for David. It was a young party, no one older than him except for one man with a lined face and thinning hair plus
a pepper and salt goatee beard. He has to be French, thought David to himself as at he took a seat between the beard and a pretty girl. She gave him a lovely smile and said her name was Lila before
resuming her conversation with a couple sitting across the table. The beard was indeed French and introduced himself as Benoit. He was good company with English to much the same standard as
David’s French, so they laughed a lot. Benoit explained his background over a huge intake of the cold, light rosé which washed down their first course of fresh sardines with a green
salad. He originated from Brittany, had spent time in the French Merchant Navy and developed an expertise in diving which won him an expatriate job in Mocamedes where he had lived now for ten
years. He mentioned that he was aware of David’s passage through, and would be putting him on the fishing vessel which would take him south the following day.

‘You’ll be OK with those guys,’ he said, ‘I know the skipper well and he’s got a good crew.’

Between courses, other members of the party came to exchange a little banter with Benoit in his Portuguese which sounded pretty basic to David. During these interruptions, he tried to talk to
Lila but she was preoccupied with the couple facing them and had very little English and no French. He was enjoying himself despite this, the food, the flowing drink, the conviviality and the
strange sensation of feeling at home in a city which he’d never heard of before. His instinct told him that this was a group of friends who met quite often at this or similar establishments.
It was a gathering of local society, maybe the younger generation of the movers and shakers in the community.

Rafa waved to him from the top of the long table and David noticed for the first time the two girls sitting on either side of him. They were twins — incredibly and exactly identical. He
found himself staring for longer than was polite. Then he saw them stand up as one and move around the table in his direction. He got up to meet them.

One said, ‘We thought it was time to come and meet you properly as you are our guest overnight. I’m sorry we were not at home to greet you, but we hope our brother Rafa looked after
you properly.’

The English was almost flawless, betrayed by just a slight and beguiling accent. Her sister spoke with equal perfection.

‘We’re happy to welcome you to our home, David, but sorry you can’t stay with us longer.’

‘The regret is all mine,’ said David with heavy gallantry, ‘but I hope I’ll need to come back. Will you have a drink and tell me all about life here in
Mocamedes?’

They nodded as one and the three of them move to an adjoining table with their glasses. David scooped a full bottle of wine from the tray of a passing waiter.

When the three had sat down, David raised his glass and asked,

‘Who am I drinking to?’

‘I’m Aissata’, said the girl on his left, ‘but call me Aischa.’

‘And I’m Ouye.’

‘Aischa and Ouye’ said David, ‘what elegant names. So there are three of you with Rafa?’

‘Well yes,’ said Aischa, ‘Rafa is our full brother. You’ve been with our father but sadly, we can’t introduce you to our mother as she died three years ago. She was
Irish and came to southern Africa in search of a wild life in every sense. She found that with our father who more or less grabbed her off the roadside as she was trying to thumb a lift north. But
I don’t think she ever complained. Our father has other wives but our mother, who was called Maeve by the way, was his chief wife and his favourite.’

‘How did she die?’ David asked the question impulsively and then felt ashamed that it might have sounded insensitive.

Ouye replied, ‘she had a malarial attack and it moved suddenly to her brain. We were in deep bush at the time, but honestly I think it would have been fatal anyway. We miss her very much,
all three of us, but she had already done so much to start us off in life.’