The sorcerers stop in exhaustion and draw out two bottles of schnapps, a spirit exported from Holland that tastes of moonshine spiked with perfume. Now, however, the schnapps is an enchanted drink, transformed into a holy beverage, and the wizards offer some to Nkrumah. The Premier stands and drinks from a small glass held by a wizard, to renewed applause from the people. Now the rest of the drink, following spells and secret gestures supposed to propitiate the bad god of the sea, is poured on to the heads of those standing closest, as Polish boys douse girls on Easter Monday.
Nkrumah’s speech begins. (The following day, the text of the address appeared in the Evening News under the title ‘A NEW BIBLE FOR AFRICA’.) Nkrumah stands before the microphone, looking around the square, and says: ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!’
It is 8 January, and so the people burst out laughing. Nkrumah pulls a serious face, and the crowd falls silent in an instant. The people wait, staring at him. Now Nkrumah laughs, and everyone laughs with him. He becomes serious, and the faces of everyone there become serious immediately. He smiles and the crowd is grinning. He begins in Fanti, saying that it is a long time since their last meeting, but he can see that they are all looking well.
‘That’s thanks to you, Kwame!’ answer voices.
He looks over his shoulder, a signal for Adamafio, the Secretary General of the party, to approach, dragging a high lectern. On the lectern are the pages of his speech. It is in English. The Premier addresses his audience: ‘Comrades and gentlemen!’ Nkrumah speaks in a clear, measured way. His gestures are spare but expressive. Even the English say they take pleasure in watching him speak. He is of average height, but handsome and well-built, with an intelligent face and a high forehead and a sad look in his eyes. Even when Nkrumah laughs, he still looks sad.
He recalls his two maxims: first achieve the political kingdom and then you will conquer all the rest; the independence of Ghana is only an empty phrase until it is accompanied by the complete liberation of the African continent.
Kwame said that one battle for Ghana has been won: the country is free. Now the second battle is underway, for ‘economic construction and liberation.’ This battle is much more difficult and complicated. It demands greater effort, sacrifice and discipline.
He then attacks his own supporters sharply, striking out at party bureaucracy, at careerists and dignitaries.
‘I must firmly warn those who, appointed by the party to responsible and influential positions, grow forgetful and believe they are more important than the party itself. I must warn those who join the party thinking that they can exploit it to their own advantage, praising themselves at the cost of the party and the nation.’
Whew! Do they like that! The square bestows a great ovation on the speaker. The square shouts: ‘Anko, Kwame! Anko, anko!’
‘More, Kwame, again, oh, again!’
Amid the cheers, calls and chants a boy in a shirt displaying both the party and national colours (red, white and green) jumps up in front of the tribune and does vertiginous back-flips. Three back-flips in one direction, turn, and three in the other. Nkrumah stops speaking and looks at this feat with some curiosity. Three back-flips and then three somersaults. He is a good acrobat, believe me. He finally grows tired and disappears into the crowd amid its cheering.
Now, Nkrumah moves on to his favourite subject: Africa.
During the speech, Secretary General Adamafio stands near Nkrumah. Adamafio removes the pages that have been read, perusing the ones the Premier is in the middle of delivering. When Nkrumah sees a passage that will merit applause, he raises his hand in a gesture that means: Watch! Here it comes! And as he finishes the last sentence and Adamafio’s hand whips the page away, the crowd goes wild. When the response is convincingly enthusiastic, Adamafio rubs his hands together and winks to those near him.
Nkrumah attacks the colonialists: ‘Their policy is to create African states that are frail and weak, even if independent. The enemies of African freedom believe that in this way they can use our states like marionettes to continue their imperialist control of Africa.’
The crowd is outraged. People shout: ‘Down with them! Down with them. Lead us, Kwame!’
The speech lasts three quarters of an hour. The crowd stands listening and reacting to every word. When Nkrumah finishes with the cry ‘Long live the unity and independence of Africa!’ a jazz orchestra in a corner of the square erupts in resonant boogie-woogie. Those closest to the orchestra begin dancing. The boogie-woogie carries across the square, setting people’s hips rocking reflexively. But then the orchestra plays more softly: Joe-Fio Myers, the trade union general secretary, has begun reading a declaration of loyalty and support that the working people have delivered into the hands of Kwame Nkrumah.
We pushed towards the exit. On the street, far from the square, we met Kodzo. Kodzo is a post-office worker and boxing fan. He is my friend.
‘Why didn’t you go?’ I ask. ‘It was interesting.’
‘What did Kwame say about wages?’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ I admit.
‘You see? Why should I have gone?’
PLAN FOR A BOOK THAT COULD HAVE STARTED RIGHT HERE
1
I have come home from Africa: a jump from a tropical roasting-spit into a snowbank.
‘You’re so tanned. Have you been in Zakopane?’
Will the Polish imagination never stretch further than Plock, Siemiatycze, Rzeszów and Zakopane? I’m working on Polityka. My current editor-in-chief, Mieczyslaw F. Rakowski, sends me into the provinces — yes, I’m to go on living in the bush, but in our own, native Polish bush. Somewhere, perhaps in Olecko or Ornet, I read that a great, almost global, conflict has broken out in the Congo. It is the beginning of July 1960. The Congo — the most closed, unknown and inaccessible country of Africa — has gained its independence, and at once the army revolts, the settlers flee, the Belgian paratroopers arrive, the anarchy, the hysteria, the slaughter — it has all begun; the whole indescribable mélange is on the front pages of the papers. I buy a train ticket and return to Warsaw.
2
I ask Rakowski to send me to the Congo. I’m already caught up in it. I’ve already got the fever.
3
The trip turns out to be impossible. Everyone from the socialist countries is being thrown out of the Congo. On a Polish passport there would be no way of getting there. As a consolation, the travel committee allots me some hard currency and a ticket for a trip to Nigeria. But what’s Nigeria to me? Nothing’s going on there (at the moment).
4
I walk around depressed and heart-broken. Suddenly a glimmer of hope — somebody claims that in Cairo there’s a Czech journalist who wants to force his way into the Congo by the jungle route. Officially, I leave for Nigeria, but secretly have the airline ticket rewritten for Cairo and fly out of Warsaw. Only a few colleagues are in on my plan.
5
In Cairo I find the Czech, who is named Jarda Boucek. We sit in his apartment, which reminds me of a minor museum of Arabic art. Beyond the window roars the gigantic hot city, a stone oasis cut in half by the navy-blue Nile. Jarda wants to get to the Congo by way of Sudan, which means by air to Khartoum, and then by air to Juba, and in Juba we will have to buy a car, and everything that will happen after that is a big question mark. The goal of the expedition is Stanleyville, the capital of the eastern province of the Congo, in which the Lumumba government has taken refuge (Lumumba himself has already been arrested and his friend Antoine Gizenga is leading the government). I watch as Jarda’s index finger journeys up the Nile, stops briefly for a little tourism (here there is nothing but crocodiles; here the jungle begins), turns to the south-west, and arrives on the banks of the Congo river where the name ‘Stanleyville’ appears beside a little circle with a dot in it. I tell Jarda that I want to take part in this expedition and that I even have official instructions to go to Stanleyville (which is a lie). He agrees, but warns me that I might pay for this journey with my life (which later turns out to be close to the truth). He shows me a copy of his will, which he has deposited with his embassy. I am to do the same.