From here, his own country was a short distance of some two hundred or so kilometres, but conditions had to be just right for that to be possible. There were rumours that he wanted to go by road, stopping at various towns on the way, including his own town of H’Aki. I suppose he wanted the people to know he was back long before reaching the capital – Juminka.
I was quite surprised at the amount of journalists here, including film crews, but Harvey explained to me what had happened over the last few days.
There was now a total news blackout from Mgombi itself, with all foreign journalist and reporters confined to their hotels. A curfew had been imposed as part of a declared state of emergency. This was in response to a general strike that was called four days ago, and now soldiers roamed the streets, shooting anyone foolish enough to break curfew.
It seems that having failed to deliver just one of his promises, the current self-styled president Malcolm Mombossu was finding things very tough indeed. I felt no sympathy for the man at all. Much of the small army remained loyal, as they were predominantly of a tribe that had never tasted power in their nation’s history before. However, they were mainly the illiterate foot soldiers, and their patience would be stretched if they did not get paid. However, and this was crucial, some of the officers, most of the police and many prominent business men had let it be known that their support was for the exiled president.
For now, at any rate, it was all a guessing game as to what was going to happen. Holasu G'ymbai was at Tamale ostensibly to visit a new technical college that he had been asked to officially open. As a young man he had studied in Ghana and was still good friends of many important men and women. No one was fooled, and the world waited to see what developed.
I watched as camera teams set up to film the man’s arrival, and felt curiously detached. The world was watching, but with only half an eye. Europe was suffering the worst recession in many years; the US was gearing for another presidential election, while Iraq and Afghanistan were still grabbing a lot of the news. Had this been a rich, oil producing nation, then perhaps it would have been different, but they weren’t and so the news teams were hardly first string.
There was also a crowd of gaudily dressed Africans that weren’t Ghanaian. I guessed that they were political refugees from Mgombi, who were here to encourage their leader-in-exile and jump on his band-wagon in the promise of some pickings from the political table if he was successful in regaining power. There was a detachment of Ghanaian soldiers posted to keep the crowd in its place, with a few policemen in dark blue, carrying AK47s.
A firm hand at my elbow drew my attention away from the crowd.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said.
“Yup, I missed you at breakfast,” said Carl.
I examined his New Zealand Press Agency badge that flapped on his shirt pocket.
“Who got Photoshop for Christmas?” I asked, making him chuckle.
“Actually, it’s real.”
I shrugged, as it didn’t matter to me.
“I had an early breakfast, as I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“Ah, the mosque?”
“The speakers must have started at about four.”
“Yeah, they woke me too. You should have told me, I’d have kept you company,” he said with a knowing smile.
“I thought about it, but, well, to be honest, I thought that I could find a more romantic and suitable place to lose my virginity.”
At that moment a small private jet lined up on approach and all attention was drawn to it. I glimpsed Carl staring at me open mouthed.
I’d seen planes land before, so I wasn’t in a rush to get trampled in the rush of journalists to take a photo on just another Lear Jet. There was a real feeling of anticipation, which, I noticed the local police and army also felt, as they reacted in typical African fashion by shouting a lot and waving their arms.
If Mombossu or his people were going to do anything, then now could be the time, before his enemy gained any momentum.
I was pleasantly surprised that no missile rose from the car park to take out the jet, and no small arms fire riddled the craft as it rolled to a halt close to the small terminal building. Using my binoculars I automatically scanned the rooftops and high buildings close by to see whether any snipers had been deployed. I failed to see any terrorists, only uniformed Ghanaians, which either meant they weren’t there, or were good at concealing themselves.
In the event, Holasu G'ymbai stopped for only a moment at the top of the fold-down steps, waved and then walked rather rapidly into the terminal. He was accompanied by four burly black men in dark suits and dark glasses. They could have been Harvey’s cousins, and I smiled, as I saw the hand of his good friend from America.
The press and crowd howled their disgust that he hadn’t stayed a while and spent some time chatting, which made me smile sadly. Where had they been when the man was herded like a criminal by Mombossu’s soldiers just before my unit reached him and fought our way out of the country?
A uniformed official made an announcement that I couldn’t hear, and the press were asked to follow him to attend a press briefing. Like good sheep, we followed, with Harvey, Carl and me at the back.
Carl took my arm.
“Julianna, wait up a second. What did you mean, back then, when you said what you did?”
I smiled.
“You heard.”
“I heard, but, come on, I’m not stupid. You’re… you’re not telling me you’ve never…?” he stopped, unable to say it.
“Let’s just say I’m a late developer and been saving myself for Mr Perfect.”
“Girl, you’ve got one hell of a long wait,” said Harvey, with a smile, “Coz there ain’t no such thing!”
“I agree with the man with the big muscles,” muttered Carl, “but I’m not buying it. There’s no way a girl like you isn’t.. isn’t… hasn’t, no, I refuse to believe it. No way.”
“Oh, she is, that I can swear. No man has been there, and that’s the truth,” said Harvey, grinning at me.
The conversation died, as we herded into a large open room that was stiflingly humid. There were plain long benches laid out and the members of the press dutifully slid along, filling them quickly. The few camera crews set up in a designated central area, and everyone readied their recording and filming equipment. I stood at the back with the other two, right by the overworked air-conditioning unit.
Holasu G'ymbai, when he finally appeared some fifty three sticky minutes later, looked very tired and older than I recalled. He was smiling, showing off his perfectly white, straight teeth.
He made a short statement, in which he told the assembled group that he was in Ghana to speak with government officials and disaffected representatives of his own nation’s government and members of the armed services. He was not here, he said, to initiate an armed uprising against the usurper, but to look at ways to effect a peaceful resumption of his democratically elected rule.
He the answered all the questions, calmly and politely.
“Sir, is it true that your return has been assisted by the Carlisle Diamonds?”
I couldn’t see who asked the question, but the very English accent meant it was one of the British contingent; probably the BBC correspondent.
The room went silent. Holasu G'ymbai’s smile switched off, and he frowned.
“For your information, Captain Carlisle was my friend and a very gallant soldier who was the victim of his own government’s duplicity and a vendetta by our mutual enemies. As for the diamonds to which you refer, they were always the property of the Mgombi people, and if Captain Carlisle died trying to return them, then he was a very good friend of the Mgombi people as well. When, not if, but when I return to power, that man’s name will be given to the first university that we build, for I hold him is such high esteem. Do not use his name again, please.”