Presently some of the women returned, set up a table and laid out bottles of whisky and freshly picked green coconuts, so that I was simultaneously refreshed and stimulated. One of the men, who seemed to be something of a wit, made some reference to the way I was drinking the coconut milk with obvious relish, and his colleagues roared with laughter; even the women smiled shyly, turning their faces away as if to avoid embarrassing me. My friend, translating, explained that green coconuts were supposed to be the repast of amorous males, and the wit had told the women that, from the way I was enjoying the fruit, they had better watch out.
It was pleasant sitting there with them, enjoying the naturalness of their acceptance. The women, handsome, gracious creatures, attended their tasks quietly; now and again a few of them would be seized with giggling, or break out into hearty laughter. My friend did not share in the refreshments; both he and the driver, now soundly asleep in the car, which had been parked in the shade, were strict Muslims and observed their fast from sunup to sunset. I particularly observed the relationship between my friend and the rest of the group, two of whom were quite old, almost patriarchal. They all treated him with deference, and his whole bearing was of such authority that I suspected he exerted considerable political influence among them.
As we prepared to leave, the wit spoke rapidly to my friend, explaining that they were surprised I had asked no questions about Communism. I replied that their political leanings were their own affair, but if they wanted to talk about Communism I was quite willing to listen. There followed some discussion among them which, translated, affirmed that they were Africans, not Frenchmen nor Russians nor anything else from outside; the political structure obtaining was necessary to bring about the fullest involvement by everyone at all levels so that their country would benefit by everyone’s contribution.
As I followed his translation it occurred to me that they were hypersensitive about themselves and anything which they believed to be critical of themselves, evidence that they had a lot of growing up to do politically. They had raised the matter of Communism because, for all their apparent familiarity with current affairs, they seemed to divide black people into two groups—Africans and Americans. I was admittedly not an African, so I must be American, and their attitude to Americans was, if not distrustful, at least very reserved. I was learning very quickly that my best line was to say as little as possible and ask questions only when the information was not spontaneously forthcoming. They were hospitable and kind, but evidently proud and very sensitive.
The women appeared for our good-byes, and we left them, a tight group bound together as much by blood relationships as by the deeper ties which seemed to spring from the earth itself.
En route my friend explained that he was born in a neighbouring village but he knew most of the people of the district and arranged to visit them and attend their councils or study groups whenever the opportunity presented itself. The road continued upwards, and in the distance, across the valleys, the green hills of Sierra Leone demarked the territorial boundary; for a while the vegetation became sparse, then gave way to flat parkland with low shrubs. Farther on the road bisected a banana plantation, which, my friend explained, was one of the government experimental stations, geared to the improvement and extension of banana crops. We made two stops along the road at villages where he wished to call briefly on friends or relatives before reaching Kindia, a large town and regional headquarters.
It was pleasant to stretch one’s legs through the shady streets, the crowded shopping centre and the market-place, where most of the vendors were women—robust, well-muscled creatures who kept up a flow of cross-chatter with each other. Their produce was heaped in pyramidal piles: yams, cassava, eddoes, tannias, bananas and plantains, together with bundles of lettuce (over which they occasionally sprinkled water to keep them freshly crisp) and huge piles of oranges and grapefruit, and I wondered what chance there was of all this stuff being sold before it spoiled and rotted in the oppressive heat. I saw groups of Europeans, Czechs, Germans and a few Yugoslavs, and learned that they were busy on various agricultural or construction projects.
After a quick lunch at a local restaurant (I felt uncomfortable eating while my companion would not even take water) we drove to the Pasteur Research Institute at Kindia. The director, a Frenchman, received us and took us on a tour of the extensive grounds, where several species of monkey were housed in large wire cages. Some of these animals were used at the Institute for experimental purposes, while others were held pending transfer to hospitals or other research institutes throughout the world. As we passed one cage of large howler monkeys, some of them scooped up handfuls of their droppings and flung them at us. I exclaimed, “How beastly,” and immediately realized that I had applied human standards to the animals. After all, they were beasts, and their behaviour should be beastly. My friend had overheard me, however, and said kindly, “They’re only likely to behave like that when they are caged.”
A special piece of ground was reserved for a family of chimpanzees. It was a large outcropping of rock which contained a natural cave, surrounded in its entirety by a deep dry ditch of reinforced concrete, steeply smooth to defeat any attempts by larger members to climb out. The family consisted of a large male, two females and four young animals. Our guide said that the youngest could scale the wall of the ditch and raid the fruit trees, prompted by their parents, but if they dared return empty-handed they were promptly spanked and sent back to fetch fruit.
We were shown the special enclosure, where several varieties of venomous snakes were kept, including mambas, cobras, rattlesnakes and many less-familiar ones, most of them beautifully patterned in colours of green, copper and black.
The director, a vigorous but kindly man with short-cropped grey hair and smooth, florid, youthful face, was courteous and informative, and seemed quite happy and content among his dangerous charges.
The afternoon was now well advanced, and on the way back to Conakry my friend dozed and I watched the countryside, the richness of green growth, and the sheer beauty of wild, natural colour. How long would it remain like this? In the wake of the restless quest towards education and educational development must come the bulldozers, and new roads and railheads would cut their way through to bring better communication, health and more improved standards of living. Maybe the planners for Guinea’s progress would give some thought to retaining as much as possible of this natural beauty.
The sun was sliding away behind the hills, reddening the undersides of the fleecy clouds till they glowed in several shades of coppery gold against the blue-green of the outline of hills; the trees bordering the road cast long shadows, and the air was full of the lively chirping of birds. We stopped by the roadside to relieve ourselves, and from some village hidden by the trees I heard a loud, mournful wail, repeated at regular intervals. It started always on a high, sustained note, then broke away in a series of indistinguishable sounds. My companion answered my unspoken query:
“A Muezzin,” he explained. “He is telling everyone within earshot that it will soon be time for prayer. We’ll have to hurry a bit, as I like to break my fast with my family at home.”
As we drove along I thought of that one. I had met one wife; now we were returning to Conakry and his family. He said it so naturally that it seemed to me that polygamy imposed no strain on him. In Europe I often read of bigamists, and it seemed that they were in a constant state of anxiety lest their activities be found out. Yet here was a man who took the fact of more than one wife easily in stride. I wondered how the wives felt about it.
Twilight was a short interlude of blue-grey half light, with indistinct silhouettes, before night supervened with silky blackness through which the car’s headlights pierced long, probing fingers. As we passed villages I noticed groups of people standing or kneeling in attitudes of prayer; sometimes a single person would be kneeling on a prayer mat beside a lighted lantern. My friend, awake, must have
noticed my interest.
“Most of us in Guinea are Muslims,” he said, “in spite of Christian missionaries of one kind or another. Having a common religion was another advantage in our struggle for political freedom, because it was one of the bases for unity. Churches operate freely in our country, but you will notice that as Muslims, our faith is part of our daily lives instead of the occasional observances characteristic of Christian churches. No Muslim needs to be exhorted to attend the mosque, to fast or to pray; some are less strict than others but they fulfil the general pattern of religious duty.”
As we neared the capital the praying groups became larger, the long-robed figures seeming taller in the flickering lamplight. On the edge of town, near the Department of Radio and Information, we passed a church in which I could see about half a dozen persons singing to the accompaniment of barely audible organ music.
We approached a group of neat, freshly painted bungalows and my friend signalled the driver to stop.
“Sorry to rush like this,” he apologized, “but I must be with the family for prayers. After I’ve broken my fast and cleaned up a bit I’ll drop by your hotel for a drink or so, as I’ll be very busy tomorrow and we might be able to get together after this.”
He hurried indoors and the driver took me on to my hotel. On the way I tried to engage him in conversation but he replied only in monosyllables. I suppose he was tired or hungry, or both.
The hotel was agog with activity: a fashion show of some kind was being staged that night and members of the staff were hurrying to and fro. In a tiny alcove, looking as cool as the potted plants beside them, was a group of four or five European girls, probably between eighteen and twenty-three years old, dressed in sloppy sweaters and skin-tight jeans. Some little distance away from them sat several African girls, younger-looking and shy in spite of their attractive, brightly patterned national dress. Near the bar was a large, hastily designed poster advertising the fashion show and describing each of the European girls as the most beautiful in her country, and recent contestant for the Miss World title. The African girls were to present a series of national dances.
“Not bad,” I thought. So once again I had jumped the gun. Things did happen in this place, after all.
I had a leisurely shower, shaved and dressed for dinner. The main dining hall had been commandeered for the evening’s performance, so dinner was served in a small annex, the overflow accommodated in the lounge. During dinner there was more than the usual buzz of conversation; even the waiters seemed to have thrown off their usual air of indifference and were caught up in the general excitement. This sort of thing did not happen every night. After dinner I remained at my table sipping a cold beer; it was now about eight-thirty P.M., and the night’s entertainment was not scheduled to begin until nine-thirty.
At about nine my friend arrived, looking very refreshed and elegant in a cream linen suit and dark tie. Now he could have a drink with me, so we settled ourselves like a couple of old friends, exchanging quips about this and that. There was a question which had been on my mind all day. Now that he seemed relaxed and affable, I decided to plunge in.
“About your President,” I began.
“Well, what about him?”
“So far you have said nothing about him. In European newspapers I have seen him referred to as ‘dictator’, ‘pro-Communist’, ‘strong man’, and ‘demagogue’. So far you have been very frank and outspoken in your observations about the outsiders; would you be just as frank in telling me about Guinea’s leadership after two years as an independent State?”
Again the familiar head-on-one-side pause, but this time the beginnings of a smile tickled the side of his mouth and ran along the big arched nose.
“The things you read were mainly true, but the people who wrote them did not understand the truth they were writing; they did not even know they were writing the truth because they do not know the man.” Easy, relaxed, patient, even fatherly; now he’d be generous and explain it carefully for me. “Two things they do not understand: the African’s background and the meaning of African nationalism. In Africa we have always been accustomed to authoritarian rule; it has been the basis of our social structure long before any European ever set foot on African soil, and it still survives in the heart of every African, no matter how ‘Europeanized’ he might seem to be. In Africa we respect strength, and we honour it when it is allied to personal courage and skilful leadership.
“Our President has these qualities and he is an African in the fullest sense. He is well informed although he never attended university either here or abroad, and when he speaks, he speaks the language of our people in the way our people understand. We trust him and we follow him. ‘Dictator’, ‘demagogue’, those are European terms, they have no meaning in the context of Africa. Nor has the term ‘democracy’. In Guinea we are, for the most part of our three million people, illiterate; democracy presupposes a literate majority of the population. What we need, what we must have, is strong, forceful leadership towards achievable targets, designed to involve everyone, irrespective of educational or other considerations.”
He sipped his drink before continuing. “As for the other thing, it seems impossible for the outsider to get into the skin of the African, to understand the terrible but wonderful spirit which has recently been released within and among us. You blind yourselves with label and name-tags and refuse to look behind them to apprehend the facts. If an African reads Marx or Engels you brand him Communist; if he visits Prague or Moscow you brand him Communist. Would you consider him a capitalist if you caught him reading the Financial Times? The lesson you need to learn, all of you, both East and West, as you are fond of describing yourselves, is that we are, first and last, Africans. We are willing and ready to learn from you, all of you, but we have no wish or intention to be anything but Africans—free, independent Africans.
“Your newspapers expend a lot of time and energy criticizing our form of government. Let them note that we are all first-class, hundred per cent Africans; there are no second-class citizens among us. Let them also note that the one-party rule, which they find so difficult to swallow, is not restricted to Guinea, Liberia, Ghana, Tunisia; these are but a few where the same thing exists. And Sierra Leone. Go there and take a look. Milton Margai has no opposition party to contend with. Then, there’s Nigeria.
“Right now we have the job of feeding, housing and educating our people, and of building our economy so that we can continue to improve their food, housing and education, and we have a leader who is young, strong and vigorous enough to do just that.
“I suppose you have noticed that our shops have no luxury goods, and our women do not wear the latest Paris fashions; but what is important is the fact that although the French revoked their support of our budget we are not economically crippled; as a matter of fact we are stable and moving ahead. Later on we may give some attention to putting a little icing on the cake.”
He laughed, and I felt an admiration for this man. If he truly expressed the general attitude of the people, then Guinea was well on the way to setting its mark on the whole continent of Africa.
This was undoubtedly a big night. People were arriving for the show, mostly Europeans, men and women dressed fashionably in light linens and silks, all looking enthusiastic, greeting each other somewhat loudly. Now and then my friend would indicate an ambassador or special envoy from Europe or another African State. A tall, distinguished-looking, fair-skinned Negro, immaculate in a white shark-skin suit, was identified as the United States ambassador. The tone of my friend’s voice did not convey much enthusiasm.
“He may be leaving us soon,” he remarked, as the gentleman passed us on his way to the main hall. I thought that the ambassador may have completed his tour of duty and was moving to some other theatre of operations.
“One must never underestimate the deep effects of conditioning,” he said, seemingly talking more to himself tha
n to me. “That is why we must use every means possible to keep reminding our people that every aspect of their daily lives must reflect their consciousness of freedom and independence. Treat a man unequally and after a time he will think or behave unequally; even if you subsequently place him in high office, he will occasionally betray some residual traits of inequality. We are a free and sovereign State and would prefer that representatives from other States at ambassadorial and other levels are chosen from among the best in their field, and at the moment we are inclined to doubt that black Americans have had sufficient opportunities at higher diplomatic level to provide them with the background and experience necessary to the efficient execution of the job of an ambassador. We cannot be expected to entertain the highest regard for a black ambassador when we know that in many parts of his own country he would be refused hotel accommodation and other facilities merely because of the colour of his skin. And when he speaks to us on matters of importance, we cannot be sure that he speaks on behalf of all America. It therefore follows that America must quickly introduce changes to equate the status of her black citizens with that of her white citizens or keep the black ones out of international-representative office.”
“May I ask you a rather frank question?” I interrupted.
“Why not? It’s a free country.” he grinned.
“You are bitter about America, aren’t you? One might even say you are positively anti-American. Aren’t you guilty of the same kind of phobia which you so determinedly condemn in them?”
“It’s strange,” he replied, “but I feel no hatred. No, none whatsoever. Is that difficult for you to believe? Let’s put it this way. I’m impatient to see some improvement in the relationships between other countries and ourselves, but I think it is necessary to speak one’s mind. I’ve been speaking frankly with you because I hope that, in reporting me, you will present the truth and perhaps it might lead to some revision of attitudes. No, I’m not anti-American. I am merely pro-African, even if at the moment all Africa for me is concentrated in the word ‘Guinea’.”