The Devil That Danced on the Water: A Daughter’s Memoir

That night my mother’s attention was caught by the familiar sound of the prayer call starting up. It was well after midnight – nowhere near time for prayers. Gradually it became apparent to everyone this was no muezzin, but an audacious protester who had seized the mosque’s loudhailer. For a time everyone was still as the words ricocheted off the tin roofs, fluttered like feathers down into the streets, whizzed around the heads of the people as they sat on the steps of their houses.

‘No more Albert, no more Margai, No more Albert over me,’ he sang.

Within minutes a crowd of supporters and detractors gathered in the street below the mosque, shouting encouragement or insults accordingly. Soon enough they started to scuffle between themselves. The man in the minaret sang on: ‘And before I’ll be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave.’

Thirty minutes later the police arrived. They dragged the protester down from the tower and took him away, but not before they had given him a hearty beating in front of the crowd of onlookers.

By now SLPP support in Kono was wavering badly. Determined to win at all costs, some in the government were beginning to resort to extreme tactics. My father was campaigning in other parts of the country, supporting candidates in more marginal seats, as well as canvassing for votes in his own district. Driving home from the south, he stopped one night for petrol at Panguma Junction, by coincidence encountering a local APC candidate on the run from the police. A warrant had been issued for the arrest of all four opposition candidates in the region: the plan was to stop them registering themselves as candidates by using the law to hold them for forty-eight hours over the crucial registration period. My father gathered the four together and urged them to stay. He found a good lawyer, who also happened to be the cousin of the attorney-general, and they all went to the police station and challenged the local police chief. By the end of the afternoon the warrants were withdrawn.

There were only four weeks between the date parliament was dissolved and polling day. With my father away for the whole period, life in our house moved quietly from day to day. My mother followed her usual routine of work, friends and family life. Ade Benjamin, an old friend from Freetown, turned up unexpectedly to stay and the two of them went out dancing together, lifting her spirits considerably. Meanwhile, she waited to hear from my father.

Even during this intense period my mother remained detached from the swirl of political activity around her, despite the fact that the election outcome and our own lives were now completely intertwined. Although she chose not to say so to my father, she was frustrated to see the success of the clinic faltering. My mother was as pragmatic as my father was idealistic; she saw herself first and foremost as a doctor’s wife, and it had been her plan to remain one.

Polling day, when it came, created a storm of speculation and excitement in the rest of the country. This was the second democratic election in our fledgling state, and a great deal hinged on it, including, as far as many saw it, the future of democracy itself. People were beginning to anticipate a victory by the opposition APC and an end to the Margai government. The anticipation and even trepidation as people queued to cast their votes was intense. Yet the tempest passed over our small house, leaving the domestic scene inside untouched.

The news took a while to reach us that my father had won his seat. He not only took Tonkolili West for the opposition but by the greatest margin and the greatest number of votes cast in favour of any one candidate during the entire election: close to eighteen thousand. The ruling party candidate had not even managed to secure five hundred.

In Kono the APC took two of the four seats. In Freetown every single seat went to the APC. The party’s triumphs were sweeping the country as opposition candidates toppled government incumbents in constituency after constituency. Victory began to look inevitable.

Four days later, in the early morning, a car arrived at the house. It was a long, low Mercedes, one my mother recognised as belonging to one of the wealthiest of the Koidu diamond merchants. Inside were two young APC party workers, smartly turned out in clean white shirts, unrecognisable from the sweat-stained young activists we were used to seeing. They told my mother they were to take us down to Freetown to attend the swearing-in ceremony for the new prime minister and cabinet.

The inside of the car was air-conditioned and smelled of leather. Under my bare legs the seats were cool and smooth. We took the new road to Freetown; it was still being built and hadn’t been tarred but it surpassed the old, rocky road. Our route that day took us through Magburaka, in Tonkolili district, and it was strange to see posters and flyers of our father’s face pasted everywhere: on shop fronts, on the sides of market stalls, rows and rows of them. People cheered as we drove in; young men ran alongside the car to catch our companions’ outstretched hands; little boys dressed only in shorts danced barefoot in the dust, sticking out their bottoms and stamping their feet, and the driver sounded the horn at pedestrians who waved back at us.

We pulled up outside a house in the middle of the town and within moments the car was surrounded by people. There was a lot of backslapping and clapping as our companions climbed out. We were all led inside and my mother and we three waited while the clatter of excited voices speaking in Temne flew around our ears.

Presently, a woman came forward bearing an enormous dish piled with rice and cassava leaves, stewed with meat and peppers. Everyone ate from the same dish. Cold, sweet drinks were pressed into our hands. All the time an unending stream of people arrived and the clamour of laughter and congratulations swelled until it could scarcely be contained by the walls of the room and burst out of the windows, trickled through the cracks in the floors and flew into the street, where other people heard it and came to join the throng. It was like a wedding party and we were unexpectedly the bride and groom.

Makeni, Lunsar, Port Loko, Waterloo – everywhere we passed the electorate had just voted to overturn their government and on the roads the people were in celebratory mood, heady with the first sweet success of what democracy could do. Young men in freshly pressed trousers and open shirts wandered about in groups; at the roadside bars the owners strung up rows of coloured bulbs; in village after village people gathered on their verandas overlooking the street. On the roads crowded poda podas raced along, full of supporters travelling to the capital to take part in the festivities. The Mercedes swept on towards Freetown.

We had been travelling all day and now the shadows were just beginning to chase away the remaining sunlight. Our plan was to go to a friend’s house so that we could shower and change into the clean outfits our mother had packed. After that no one really knew, but we had all the confidence in the world that once we reached our destination our father would have taken care of everything.

In the back of the car our mother entertained us with games of I Spy and songs. My favourite at the time was ‘Soldier, soldier’. We took turns at the verses while my mother sang the lead:

‘Oh, soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me, with your musket, fife and drum?’

‘Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, for I have no shirt to put on,’ sang the next person.

Everyone joined in – eventually I think even the APC boys learned the words:

‘So off she went to her grandfather’s chest and brought him a shirt of the very, very best and the soldier put it on…’

I hadn’t yet assigned myself a gender and I liked the idea of having a musketfife’n’drum, whatever that was, as well as all the rest of the fancy regalia that the young woman kept in her grandfather’s chest. My mother must have shown me a picture because I had a very strong image of the gold-braided coat and tall, peaked cap I would wear one day.

It was dusk as we passed through the outskirts of Freetown an hour or so later. Strangely the long road into town was almost empty of people, even the tradesmen who normally sat at the roadside in huddles around their lamps seemed to be few and far between. In the front of the car the two party workers exchanged a few words in Temne. I suppose they were wondering whether we were late and all the people had already made their way to State House to greet Siaka Stevens, the new prime minister. What if we’d missed the ceremony?

Some distance ahead something had fallen across the road and two men were standing by it. As we drew closer we saw there was a long pole balanced on two oil drums; large stones had been placed across the road in front. It was a road block and the two men were soldiers. When they saw the Mercedes they began to move towards us, waving the car to a halt. Inside everyone was silent as we watched the uniformed men approach us, one on either side of the car. Tucked in under my mother’s arm, I could feel the beating of her heart.

The men were in full battle kit and carried automatic weapons slung across their shoulders; their faces were sullen and dark. Nothing about them brought to mind the brave redcoats of my imagination with their long, shiny black boots. They indicated we should all get out of the car. ‘Commot!’

The grown-ups climbed out. We three stayed sitting in the back seat. Still no one spoke. The soldier who had given the command sauntered round to the back of the car. He asked where we were going, but didn’t seem very interested in the reply. He took the driver’s licence and studied it at length before handing it back.

The other soldier now put his head through the open door on the passenger side and looked around the car. His glance passed over us as though we were invisible.

‘What’s in here?’ The first soldier tapped the boot.

‘Nothing, there’s nothing there. Bags, that’s all.’ It was our driver: he ran round holding up the key.

‘Open!’ The monosyllabic soldier gave a slack wave of his hand. Inside were our bags, full of children’s clothes and my mother’s personal effects. Our mother walked over and, at his instruction, opened each one. He leaned in and watched her. When she had finished he nodded and stepped away, while she pushed everything back into the bags and closed them.

She ventured a question for the first time: ‘What’s going on?’

The soldier looked at her. ‘They’ve taken over State House,’ he said. ‘Everybody is under martial law. The army’s in charge now.’

The empty streets, the silent suburbs all began to make sense. People were retreating to their houses, waiting for trouble. The soldiers let us go and told us to hurry.

Back in the car the APC men began to talk rapidly between themselves in Temne. Their faces had tightened into frowns of concentration. The driver gripped the steering wheel tightly. They seemed to have completely forgotten we were still sitting in the car behind them. Once we were out of sight of the soldiers the Mercedes began to accelerate.

The soldier hadn’t asked us who we were and all we’d told him was that we were visiting friends in the city. My mother asked only as many questions as she dared and all we knew was that someone, just one person – presumably Siaka Stevens – was under house arrest in State House.

My mother hadn’t said anything for a few minutes, but now she asked: ‘Where are we going?’ The car was moving at speed.

‘We have to go to State House and find out what has happened to our brothers. Once we get there we’ll know what to do.’ The young man in the passenger seat looked round and into her face. ‘Don’t worry.’

He didn’t smile.

11

Rumour of an army takeover had been rife in Freetown for several days.

Forty-eight hours after the closing of the polls the Sierra Leone Broadcasting Service announced the election results – SLPP: 31 and APC: 28. Five results were still outstanding. Two independent candidates had yet to declare their support for either party. The five awaited results were popularly assumed to be certain APC wins, but the two independent candidates were former SLPP loyalists who had fallen out with Albert Margai and been refused the party symbol at the elections. Now the race was on between both sides to secure their allegiance.

That night Sir Albert flew south in a private plane to meet the two candidates on their home turf in Bo and Kenema in order to try to persuade them to rejoin the ruling party. But although the prime minister didn’t know it, he had already been beaten to it. Our father and the Taqi brothers proved themselves to be the sharper political strategists, though they were half the veteran politician’s age. The very night the votes began to be counted my father left Uncle Bash to supervise in his constituency while he and Ibrahim drove hell for leather down the length of the country, first to Bo and then to Kenema, where they held private meetings with each of the candidates. The two would not support the APC, but they agreed to withhold their support from the SLPP if Sir Albert remained leader.

The APC celebrated their triumph, but in Freetown the confusion was mounting. Sir Albert tried to buy time by insisting the independent candidates couldn’t formally declare for one side or the other until parliament opened. The five awaited results were delayed, prompting accusations of government gerrymandering; all the time newly-elected MPs and convoys of their supporters trucked into Freetown and paraded the streets in support of Siaka Stevens.

Media reports added to the chaos. A local newspaper published a new set of figures giving the APC a clear win; next the BBC World Service declared a dead heat. A telegram was dispatched from the high commissioner in Freetown instructing the World Service to broadcast an immediate correction. Still no official statement was made. Bursts of violence erupted. In Kroo Town pro-APC protesters torched Fulah shops in revenge for Fulah support of the government. The tribesmen replied by firing upon their tormentors.

In the avenue outside the governor-general’s office the chanting crowds massed; inside his red and gilt chambers the governor floundered. Then, not a moment too soon, a messenger brought him the final count. The SLPP and the APC had 32 seats each, not including the two independents. Four other independents had already been claimed by Sir Albert and added into the SLPP total. The governor-general summoned the two leaders and asked them to form a coalition government. They refused. The pressure on the governor-general to bring a swift end to the impending crisis was immense. He decided to appoint Siaka Stevens prime minister of Sierra Leone, believing that he alone could command a majority in parliament. No sooner had he done so than rumours that David Lansana would lead the army in a takeover to reinstate Sir Albert quickened into life.

From his office the British high commissioner issued hourly reports back to his superiors at the Africa Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. The next morning he received a call from one Dr Forna and Ibrahim Taqi; the latter he knew as the editor of We Yone newspaper. They were concerned about the country’s stability and asked if Britain might intervene to prevent an army takeover in Sierra Leone. The high commissioner declined, but was sufficiently impressed with the foresight of the idea to request London to position a naval ship secretly along the Guinea coast, just in case he needed it himself. His next caller was the force commander. David Lansana warned the high commissioner that the appointment of Siaka Stevens as prime minister would be considered unconstitutional. The army commander confided that he had taken the precaution of moving some of his units and had already taken over the Sierra Leone Broadcasting Service building. The queen’s representative, Governor-General Henry Lightfoot Boston, was the next through the door. He arrived after lunch looking ‘shaky and uncertain’, reported the high commissioner to his superiors later. Sir Henry repeated his decision to appoint an APC government with every possible haste.

From early morning a euphoric crowd had begun to gather outside State House for the swearing-in of the new prime minister. The throng swelled through Independence Avenue and flowed down the hill and around the roots of the Cotton Tree. Students from Fourah Bay College, supporters from the provinces, locals, old, young, men, women and children turned out in their thousands. Music was playing on transistor radios tuned to pick up the next official announcement; some people began to dance. Young men climbed the Cotton Tree and lay like lizards along the branches; others perched on the walls of surrounding buildings; in the street everyone waited.

At about three o’clock a motorcade arrived and eased through the crowd. The applause rippled through the people and then rose up into a great roar as the heavy gates of State House swung open and the motorcade passed through. In the first car was the familiar profile of Siaka Stevens. In the next car were the four new APC MPs who were to be sworn in alongside him as members of the new government. They were the Taqi brothers and, sitting next to them, our father.

March is the hottest month of the year – in Temne Gbapron means ‘walk on the side’, in the shade of the trees because the sun is too high to walk down the middle of the road. Many in the crowd had been there all day, as the temperature nudged up to forty degrees. There was little to eat or drink, but the people ignored the heat and discomfort; they waited patiently for the country’s new leaders to emerge and greet them from the circular balcony overlooking the avenue on the top floor of State House. An hour passed.

At first it felt like a low rumble reverberating through the masses like distant thunder. The sensation shuddered through calves, thighs and chests, growing ever more distinct. It seemed to emanate from the road beneath them. The new sound replaced the chatter of the crowd as a hush fell. People began to look around.

The military convoy appeared at the top of Independence Avenue, where it turned and began its descent: truck after truck. The drivers didn’t slow as they neared the densely packed avenue: people were forced to scramble to one side. Armed soldiers were moving in on State House. At the gates they stopped. There was silence.

One, two, three, four, the soldiers jumped from the back – dozens of men. They ran, guns at the ready, until they had surrounded the entire building. Once in their positions the soldiers turned as one and slowly levelled their guns at the crowd.

Nobody moved. The heat shimmered across the white painted facade of State House and glinted on the metal balustrades. Sweat dripped from under the helmets of the soldiers, slipped down their faces and stung their eyes; it ran down the backs of the legs of the people as they stood; it trickled under the dresses and between the breasts of women; it bubbled on the backs of men and streamed down their spines. It bloomed darkly under thousands of arms, and prickled the soldiers’ palms wrapped around their gun barrels. Salt drops hung on the upper lip of the commander in charge.

All was still.

Inside State House Siaka Stevens had just taken the oath of office when the governor-general’s Mende aide-de-camp Hinga Norman stepped in and placed the governor, and the four men with him, under arrest. Briefly the governor-general continued, swearing in Ibrahim Taqi as minister of information. When he had finished Sir Henry turned and walked slowly past his disloyal lieutenant. He left the room and took the stairs up to his private quarters. No one stood in his way. The five remaining men sat down to wait in the company of their captor, while guards were posted outside every door of the building.

At 5.55 p.m. David Lansana’s voice came on the radio to tell the people of Sierra Leone that the country was under martial law.

At 6 p.m. the crowd of people outside State House were ordered to disperse.

Somebody began to chant: ‘No more Albert, No more Margai.’ In ones and twos, finally by the score, other voices joined the chorus. Some people sat down in an act of defiance, to show that they had no intention of ever leaving.

At 6.03 p.m. the order to disperse was repeated.

At 6.05 p.m. the soldiers raised their weapons and fired in the air above the heads of the crowd. The crowd fell silent, muscles tightened as fear spread from body to body, through bellies and bowels, but everyone clung to their positions.

‘They’re only blanks,’ a man swivelled around and called out to his comrades. ‘Blanks. That’s all.’ People nodded to each other. Just blanks, to scare them. They held their ground.

The soldiers lowered their weapons. The people sighed, in one great exhalation of air. One or two even laughed. Of course, these boys were their sons, their brothers, their cousins. Someone began to clap the soldiers, but then stopped.

The commander in charge wiped his upper lip. A minute had passed, according to the watch on his wrist. He gave the next order, as he had been told to do. The soldiers raised their guns and lowered the barrels in the direction of the crowd.

The commander gave his men the order to fire.

Among the first to fall was a teenage boy wearing a red T-shirt and green shorts. He went down face first under the Cotton Tree; his jaw hit the dirt with a crack, arms wrapped around his stomach, his legs began to perform a grim little jig as he lay in the dust. Someone close by bent down to help, saw the blood spreading like a shadow across the earth, red on red, and screamed.

The soldiers began to shoot indiscriminately. The crowd split apart as people scattered in every direction, pushing and grabbing each other, slipping in the blood of the fallen, silent, flailing, stumbling. From their bodies rose the thick odour of fear; it drifted up above the trees and the houses, where it hung in a cloud over the city for days.

12

By the time we reached the Cotton Tree the crowds were gone and the wounded dragged away. A knot of press men converged on the gates of State House, like a crowd gathered below a man threatening to throw himself from a rooftop. By now the world was alert to the possibility that one of the last democracies in Africa might be about to fall. All around the building soldiers remained in position, guns at the ready. We drove up Independence Avenue almost to the gates of State House before we were ordered to halt. Our two companions climbed down and we watched from the back seat while they argued and pleaded with some of the soldiers. Finally, they walked back to the car and started the engine. The gates of State House swung open and we drove inside.

Neither my mother nor our two companions had any idea of what had just occurred on the same spot or what would happen next; but whatever confusion our party felt was matched by that of the soldiers. They were under orders to stay at their posts and to hold the men inside until Brigadier Lansana and Albert Margai arrived at State House, but although the two men were expected imminently, hours had passed and yet there was no sign of them. The soldiers stayed on, with no idea what to do next.

My father appeared, walking easily and wearing a white shirt and grey trousers; he looked just as he did every day at home. He was alone and we stood in the courtyard of the prime minister’s offices while he kissed us and we gripped his knees. I held onto my mother’s hand. He told our mother he was fine; she should take us to our friends the Benjamins, where we would all be taken care of and perfectly safe in their house overlooking the city. ‘Don’t worry, my brothers and I will be OK.’

‘Won’t you come with us now?’

He refused: ‘I need to be with the others, with my colleagues. Ibrahim is here and so is Mohammed, we should stay together. You go on. I’ll see you all later. Ade and Bianca are there. You can send them my regards.’ He smiled and kissed us all again; his mood seemed light.