In 1958 I flew from London to Accra. The airplane was a big, slow BOAC Super Constellation. I set out full of excitement and, at the same time, full of anxiety about what might happen: I knew no one in Ghana, had no names, addresses, contacts and, worst of all, I didn’t have much money. I got a window seat; to my right sat an Arab and next to him a fair girl, the Scandinavian type, with a bouquet of flowers on her knees.
We flew across the Sahara at night; such flights are splendid because the airplane seems to be suspended among the stars. Stars overhead — that’s understandable. But stars below as well, along the bottom of the night. Why it’s so, I can’t say.
The Arab was trying to pick up the Scandinavian girl who, it turned out, was flying to her boy-friend (a technician working on a contract with a government firm) and carrying him flowers. But my neighbour wouldn’t be deterred: he wanted to propose right there; he promised her a beautiful and elegant life in any part of the world she chose. He assured her that he was rich — he had a lot of money — and he repeated the phrase several times: a lot of money. In the end the Scandinavian, calm and patient at the outset, grew bored, then angry, and then she told him to stop tormenting her, and finally she got up and moved to another seat.
A banal little incident. But with this result: the Arab, slightly demoralized, changed the object of his attention and turned to me. His name was Nadir Khouri. And me?
Such-and-such.
And who was I?
A reporter.
Why was I travelling?
To look, to walk around, to ask, to listen, to sniff, to think, to write.
Aha. Where was I going to stay?
I didn’t know.
So he would show me a good hotel. Maybe not that good, but good. The property of a friend, a once-great man. He would take me there and introduce me. And in fact Nadir Khouri took me straight from the airport to the Hotel Metropol and placed me under the protection of Habib Zacca.
In those days, the 1960s, the world was very interested in Africa. Africa was a puzzle, a mystery. Nobody knew what would happen when 300 million people stood up and demanded the right to be heard. States began to be established there, and the states bought armaments, and there was speculation in foreign newspapers that Africa might set out to conquer Europe. Today it is impossible to contemplate such a prospect, but at that time, it was a concern, an anxiety. It was serious. People wanted to know what was happening on the continent: where was it headed, what were its intentions?
The so-called exotic has never fascinated me, even though I came to spend more than a dozen years in a world that is exotic by definition. I did not write about hunting crocodiles or head-hunters, although I admit they are interesting subjects. I discovered instead a different reality, one that attracted me more than expeditions to the villages of witch doctors or wild animal reserves. A new Africa was being born — and this was not a figure of speech or a platitude from an editorial. The hour of its birth was sometimes dramatic and painful, sometimes enjoyable and jubilant; it was always different (from our point of view) from anything we had known, and it was exactly this difference that struck me as new, as the previously undescribed, as the exotic.
I thought the best way to write about this Africa was to write about the man who was its greatest figure, a politician, a visionary, a judge and a sorcerer — Kwame Nkrumah.
FROM THE STREETS OF HARLEM
In West End Square there is a human anthill.
A pyre has been erected; its flames shoot up. Who is going to be sacrificed?
Party cars with loudspeakers on their roofs have been driving around town all morning: ‘All of you on the streets,’ they broadcast, ‘or at the market, or sitting at home or in your offices: COME AND EXPRESS YOUR ANGER!’
It does not have to be said twice. Declaring your feelings is a popular duty. And the population knows its duties. The square is full. The crowd is crushed together, but patient: it is hot, but it perseveres. Its thirst is agonizing, but there is no water. The sun is dazzling, but it is normal. It burns from below (the ground) and it burns from above (the sky) and, the best thing, gripped between these excruciating pincers, is to stand stilclass="underline" motion wears you out. With one fire below and one above, the crowd stands waiting for a third fire.
For the flaming pyre.
I ask here and there: What’s going to happen? Nobody knows. They were told to come, and so they are here. They would not have been called out without a reason. And then, the surprised face of someone I’ve accosted: Why are you asking all these questions? Everything will be made clear. We’ll know what’s happening in due course. There’s Welbeck now: Welbeck will tell us.
Minister of State Welbeck, stately and modest in a black Muslim skull cap, picks up the microphone. Hearing him is difficult, but you can pick up the sense: ‘Imperialism is pushing … Nkrumah has been insulted … this slap in the face … we cannot …’
Ah, this is serious! Everyone strains to absorb Welbeck’s message. Everyone nods their head — waves of nodding heads — and then grows still. The Minister continues: ‘Imperialism would like … but we … and so never …’
‘To the flames!’ demand the impatient ones among the crowd, who are then hushed by their neighbours. Confusion, the commotion ebbs, stillness.
‘The American weekly Time,’ Welbeck continues, ‘has written slanders about Nkrumah. Time has presented the leader, the creator and the magician of contemporary nationalism as a petty careerist.’
So, everything has been made clear. There is this weekly magazine called Time, and the Imperialists are insulting Kwame in it.
Here is the note that Time published on 21 December, 1959:
At first his people called him ‘Show-boy.’ Then he became his government’s Prime Minister. This year he became his Queen’s Privy Councillor. His local admirers now also refer to him as First Citizen of the African Continent. But when it comes to titles, there seems to be no stopping Kwame Nkrumah, 50. Last week the Accra Evening News, one of the Premier’s more effusive admirers (it prints one or more pictures of him almost every day), announced that next March the people of Ghana would get a chance to decide two questions: 1) whether their country should be a ‘full-fledged republic’ no longer recognizing Elizabeth II as Queen of Ghana, 2) whether they approve of Nkrumah as first President for seven years. To the Evening News, there was only one man fit for the job. The man who is: Osagyefo (Great Man), Katamanto (Man Whose Word Is Irrevocable), Oyeadieyie (Man of Deeds), Kukuduruni (Man of Courage), Nufenu (Strongest of All), Osudumgya (Fire Extinguisher), Kasapreko (Man Whose Word Is Final), Kwame Nkrumah, Liberator and Founder of Ghana.
The scandal is obvious. ‘There seems to be no limit to the invention of titles.’ And why should that be a concern of the gentlemen from Time? I feel the mood of the crowd flowing into me. I push towards the rostrum. I want to hear better.
‘Such ignoble intriguing is ineffectual. The fact that we have Kwame is a blessing for Ghana, as it was a blessing for America to have Lincoln, for Russia to have Lenin, for England to have Nelson. Nkrumah is the priceless jewel in the crown of world nationalism. He is the Messiah and the organizer, the friend of suffering humanity, who has achieved his eminence by following the path of pain, service and devotion.’
Welbeck put that beautifully, and the people applaud approvingly. He let those gentlemen from Time have it. There is nothing for them here. And as I stand there in the crowd, writing, suddenly I notice that I am not feeling quite as stifled as I did moments before; that a space has opened around me; that those closest to me are moving away. I look around, and their eyes are not friendly, their gaze is cold, and a quick chill comes over me, and then I understand. I am the only white there, and I am writing in a notebook. Well, I must be a journalist. I am wearing a plaid-patterned shirt, so I am not English, because the English do not wear plaid-patterned shirts. But if I am not English, what could I be? An American. An American journalist! Good God, how can I get out of here?