What Am I Doing Here? Read Free Page B

was a Somba – and the colonel was a Fon.
    â€˜. . . the population is requested to arm itself with stones and knives to kill this crapulous . . . ’
    â€˜A recorded message,’ said the colonel, and turned the volume down. ‘It was recorded yesterday.’
    â€˜You mean . . . ’
    â€˜Calm yourself, monsieur. You do not understand. In this country one understands nothing.’
    Certainly, as the morning wore on, the colonel understood less and less. He did not, for example, understand why, on the nine o’clock communique, the mercenaries had landed in a DC-8 jet, while at ten the plane had changed to a DC-7 turboprop. Around eleven the music cut off again and the Head of State announced a victory for the Government Forces. The enemy, he said, were retreating en catastrophe for the marshes of Ouidah.
    â€˜There has been a mistake,’ said the colonel, looking very shaken. ‘Excuse me, monsieur. I must leave you.’
    He hesitated on the threshold and then stepped out into the sunlight. The hawks made swift spiralling shadows on the ground. I helped myself to a drink from his water-flask. The shooting sounded further off now, and the town was quieter. Ten minutes later, the corporal marched into the office. I put my hands above my head, and he escorted me back to the guardroom.
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    It was very hot. The skinny boy had been taken away, and on the bench at the back sat a Frenchman.
    Outside, tied to the papaya, a springer spaniel was panting and straining at its leash. A pair of soldiers squatted on their hams and tried to dismantle the Frenchman’s shotgun. A third soldier, rummaging in his game-bag, was laying out a few brace of partridge and a guinea-fowl.
    â€˜Will you please give that dog some water?’ the Frenchman asked.
    â€˜Eh?’ The corporal bared his gums.
    â€˜The dog,’ he pointed. ‘Water!’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜What’s going on?’ I asked.
    â€˜The monkeys are wrecking my gun and killing my dog.’
    â€˜Out there, I mean.’
    â€˜ Coup monté .’
    â€˜Which means?’
    â€˜You hire a plane-load of mercenaries to shoot up the town. See who your friends are and who are your enemies. Shoot the enemies. Simple!’
    â€˜Clever.’
    â€˜Very.’
    â€˜And us?’
    â€˜They might need a corpse or two. As proof!’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said.
    â€˜I was joking.’
    â€˜Thanks all the same.’
    The Frenchman was a water-engineer. He worked up-country, on Artesian wells, and had come down to the capital on leave. He was a short, muscular man, tending to paunch, with cropped grey hair and a web of white laugh-lines over his leathery cheeks. He had dressed himself en mercenaire , in fake python-skin camouflage, to shoot a few game-birds in the forest on the outskirts of town.
    â€˜What do you think of my costume?’ he asked.
    â€˜Suitable,’ I said.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    The sun was vertical. The colour of the parade-ground had bleached to a pinkish orange, and the soldiers strutted back and forth in their own pools of shade. Along the wall the vultures flexed their wings.
    â€˜Waiting,’ joked the Frenchman.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜Don’t mention it.’
    Our view of the morning’s entertainment was restricted by the width of the doorframe. We were, however, able to witness a group of soldiers treating their ex-colonel in a most shabby fashion. We wondered how he could still be alive as they dragged him out and bundled him into the back of a jeep. The corporal had taken the colonel’s radio, and was cradling it on his knee. The Head of State was baying for blood — ‘ Mort aux mercenaires soit qu’ils sont noirs ou blancs . . . ’ The urchins, too, were back in force, jumping up and down, drawing their fingers across their throats and chanting in unison, ‘ Mort aux mercenaires! . . . Mort aux mercenaires! . . .