After the unceremonious departure of a colleague who won the green card visa lottery, the new principal decreed that Doc Mo step into the absence and also teach history. The departed colleague promptly became a staffroom legend, fellow teachers speaking his name in hallowed terms, marvelling at how God’s blessings had opened up an opportunity to escape the grind of the classroom to now live a life of bliss in America.
The green card lottery scheme had seeped into the school and set up camp in the yellow staffroom. Teacher salaries had not been paid for four months and there had been banner headlines and convoluted press conferences, with the military government claiming that it would not pay ‘ghost teachers’ until they were sure that they existed, and regularly came to work.
Doc Mo remembered how at least six of his colleagues had been filling out the forms a couple of months previously, mini-clusters of the desperate huddled around stacks of printed paper.
Unimpressed, he had sneered at them, before launching into a tirade about ‘the crippling brain drain brought about by the craven migration to white countries.’
‘Until we develop a mind-set that sees us turn our backs on Babylon and these foreign Western societies where oppressed and displaced black people are treated like dirt, our own countries will always remain backwards,’ he had pointed out one lunchtime, jabbing the air with his red pen for emphasis.
Doc Mo had lifted his theory from Jamaican reggae music that often lauded a return to the African motherland, whilst rejecting Babylon, a system built on a legacy of slavery and oppression. He was a massive fan of Peter Tosh, Bob Marley and Joseph Hills and on the odd occasion when he was paid for delivering private lessons to neighbourhood children, he allowed himself batteries and listened to reggae on his wheezing tape recorder. He had inherited the recorder from a distant uncle and it had been invaluable during his university days. His roommate had called the tape recorder a ‘jalopy’, although Doc Mo later found out that such a term was reserved for cars.
Doc Mo remembered how at least six of his colleagues had been filling out the forms a couple of months previously, mini-clusters of the desperate huddled around stacks of printed paper.
Unimpressed, he had sneered at them, before launching into a tirade about ‘the crippling brain drain brought about by the craven migration to white countries.’
‘Until we develop a mind-set that sees us turn our backs on Babylon and these foreign Western societies where oppressed and displaced black people are treated like dirt, our own countries will always remain backwards,’ he had pointed out one lunchtime, jabbing the air with his red pen for emphasis.
Doc Mo had lifted his theory from Jamaican reggae music that often lauded a return to the African motherland, whilst rejecting Babylon, a system built on a legacy of slavery and oppression. He was a massive fan of Peter Tosh, Bob Marley and Joseph Hills and on the odd occasion when he was paid for delivering private lessons to neighbourhood children, he allowed himself batteries and listened to reggae on his wheezing tape recorder. He had inherited the recorder from a distant uncle and it had been invaluable during his university days. His roommate had called the tape recorder a ‘jalopy’, although Doc Mo later found out that such a term was reserved for cars.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Upon being ordered by the new principal to also teach history, the tape recorder became Doc Mo’s most valuable teaching aid. After spending half a candle-lit night poring over a worn copy of the national syllabus for ordinary level history, he decided to jettison the class’s unit on European History from Vienna to Versailles in favour of a focus on lessons he considered more in line with the pupils’ hue.
His first such lesson had taken the form of an attack against Christopher Columbus: he had used the lyrics of a song by the reggae artiste Burning Spear, which pointed out that Columbus, was a damn blasted liar for claiming to have discovered Jamaica, a land on which the Arawak Indians had lived long before he arrived with his disease-ridden ships.
On another occasion, he made the pupils listen to the Bob Marley song War, which had committed to music the speech of the great Ethiopian Emperor, Hailie Selassie. Doc Mo had managed to secure smudged photocopies of the speech on yellow paper, which he had distributed through the class. The pupils had been riveted, the entire class committing the lyrics to memory, a particular line their favourite: until the colour of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes.
Their enthusiasm had climaxed at the end of term talent show, when one of their number, a confident boy with a mango-shaped head, had performed War to raucous acclaim, beating into second place a fifth form boy who had produced a fine performance of Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean, complete with a flawless moonwalk. Staff and the entire student body had been very impressed by the War performance, the exception being the new principal who had glibly pointed out that exposing pupils to reggae music could be viewed as an encouragement to smoke marijuana whilst indulging in a rejection of authority and other forms of anti-social behaviour.
His first such lesson had taken the form of an attack against Christopher Columbus: he had used the lyrics of a song by the reggae artiste Burning Spear, which pointed out that Columbus, was a damn blasted liar for claiming to have discovered Jamaica, a land on which the Arawak Indians had lived long before he arrived with his disease-ridden ships.
On another occasion, he made the pupils listen to the Bob Marley song War, which had committed to music the speech of the great Ethiopian Emperor, Hailie Selassie. Doc Mo had managed to secure smudged photocopies of the speech on yellow paper, which he had distributed through the class. The pupils had been riveted, the entire class committing the lyrics to memory, a particular line their favourite: until the colour of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes.
Their enthusiasm had climaxed at the end of term talent show, when one of their number, a confident boy with a mango-shaped head, had performed War to raucous acclaim, beating into second place a fifth form boy who had produced a fine performance of Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean, complete with a flawless moonwalk. Staff and the entire student body had been very impressed by the War performance, the exception being the new principal who had glibly pointed out that exposing pupils to reggae music could be viewed as an encouragement to smoke marijuana whilst indulging in a rejection of authority and other forms of anti-social behaviour.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
The new principal had never taken to Doc Mo. The animosity was mutual, with Doc Mo brewing an instant distaste for the man after he had delivered an inaugural address to the staff peppered with pretentious Latin phrases: we must remember that we are acting in loco parentis; we must remember that correct school uniform is a sine qua non for effective learning. It was also whispered amongst the staff that their new leader was a typical case of crony compensation, and only held his current position on account of having attended the same school as the minister of education.
The first open conflict had been waged on the basis of attire. The new principal, an angular specimen who was a disciple of the three-piece suit, had declared that all male teachers should wear ties. Doc Mo - who had worn a traditional ronko half-gown on that day - had objected, pointing out that he had the right to not have his throat tethered like a goat, especially as they worked in a hot African country.
The first open conflict had been waged on the basis of attire. The new principal, an angular specimen who was a disciple of the three-piece suit, had declared that all male teachers should wear ties. Doc Mo - who had worn a traditional ronko half-gown on that day - had objected, pointing out that he had the right to not have his throat tethered like a goat, especially as they worked in a hot African country.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Their conflict stances now clearly established, Doc Mo had no intention of attending the afterschool meeting summoned by the new principal to discuss falling standards. The last such meeting had achieved little, dominated by speeches in big English by colleagues anxious to ingratiate themselves with those in authority.
His final class for the day had been thrilled by the climax to the novel Arrow of God, which he had read aloud. The pupils, who had formed eager clusters around the few tattered books, had all agreed that the story was a lesson to guard against colonial mentality. After a term under his tutelage, the class now shared Doc Mo’s brain, and had become conscious and enlightened revolutionaries who knew about Malcolm X, the Zong Massacre and Marcus Garvey.
Leaving the burly class monitor in charge, he left his classroom exactly seven minutes before the bell rang. Before departing, he made sure the green card lottery forms were inside the Newsweek magazine at the bottom of his faded rucksack.
The block that housed his classroom though incomplete, was nevertheless in full use, and had been whitewashed in preparation for a final paint job that had never happened, the whole structure standing out in the midst of the khaki-coloured dust of the school yard. By the time Doc Mo descended into the sharp sunlight, the only people in view were a gaggle of recalcitrant pupils who had been lined up into a make-shift gang, busy picking up litter with their hands.
As he hurried out of the compound, he noticed the school’s gateman, Pa Sam-King, plonked asleep on a metal chair. The pupils had nicknamed him Minister of the Fence, and often ridiculed the old man’s habit of falling asleep whilst on duty. Although the gate’s rusty chains clanked as Doc Mo slipped through, the old man remained undisturbed, his grey chin resting on his chest.
He had calculated that it would take him about twenty-five minutes to get to the post office.
His final class for the day had been thrilled by the climax to the novel Arrow of God, which he had read aloud. The pupils, who had formed eager clusters around the few tattered books, had all agreed that the story was a lesson to guard against colonial mentality. After a term under his tutelage, the class now shared Doc Mo’s brain, and had become conscious and enlightened revolutionaries who knew about Malcolm X, the Zong Massacre and Marcus Garvey.
Leaving the burly class monitor in charge, he left his classroom exactly seven minutes before the bell rang. Before departing, he made sure the green card lottery forms were inside the Newsweek magazine at the bottom of his faded rucksack.
The block that housed his classroom though incomplete, was nevertheless in full use, and had been whitewashed in preparation for a final paint job that had never happened, the whole structure standing out in the midst of the khaki-coloured dust of the school yard. By the time Doc Mo descended into the sharp sunlight, the only people in view were a gaggle of recalcitrant pupils who had been lined up into a make-shift gang, busy picking up litter with their hands.
As he hurried out of the compound, he noticed the school’s gateman, Pa Sam-King, plonked asleep on a metal chair. The pupils had nicknamed him Minister of the Fence, and often ridiculed the old man’s habit of falling asleep whilst on duty. Although the gate’s rusty chains clanked as Doc Mo slipped through, the old man remained undisturbed, his grey chin resting on his chest.
He had calculated that it would take him about twenty-five minutes to get to the post office.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
He had finally decided to give the green card visa lottery consideration after receiving a visit from Aloysius the narrow trader who lived in the single room next to his. Aloysius had stuck his shaved hear around Doc Mo’s door one Saturday afternoon, interrupting his light sleep. Although only half awake, the teacher could tell from the trader’s expression that there were words desperate to escape from his mouth.
‘Teacher man, how’s your body today? No matter the size of a cow, it will always end up as soup. Handshakes do not last forever, but when you shake my hand, goodness follows me! You are a righteous man Doc Mo and Aloysius needs your help.’
Doc Mo had smiled at Aloysius’ reference to himself in the third person, which was typical. Even when off-duty, Aloysius was in trader mode and therefore had the habit of spluttering out proverbs and sweet talk designed to swoon and sway unsure customers.
After circling the issue, the trader explained to Doc Mo why he needed his assistance: he had also heard of the green card lottery, and had managed to get the requisite application form. This was a ‘sure-ball’ scheme Aloysius explained to the bemused Doc Mo, and if successful, he would soon be living in London. Doc Mo was about to point out that London was not in America, but was stopped by Aloysius who tossed a glossy photograph into his lap. The picture was of a man in his early thirties sitting on the bonnet of a big vehicle, which Doc Mo recognised as a Land Cruiser, the type popular with government ministers. The man had on a smart grey suit with brown leather shoes and smiled out from the picture. Trimmed grass and a huge mansion nestled in the background.
‘This is my brother Vincent,’ Aloysius explained. ‘He’s really my cousin because our mothers are from the same village. But brothers and cousins are the same just like leopards and lions are the same although one has big hair whilst the other one has spots. I have never been to school Doc Mo, and even if you write the letter A as big as city hall, I will not recognise it! But I told the other traders at the market that Doc Mo knows proper education. I told them that Doc Mo would help me fill my visa forms. God will give you plenty of blessings and a good future if you help me write these forms! Look at the car that Vincent now drives in America! Poor stupid Vincent who used to sell mangoes and mints with us in the market! He’s even joined the America army I hear. Do you see how this American visa lottery business can raise up your life and make things better Doc Mo?’
Aloysius then looked over his shoulder before delving into the creases of his brown gown to produce a stack of papers that were sheathed in a clear plastic folder. Doc Mo rose from the bed as he studied the forms, his blind feet searching for his slippers. He then moved his coverless Chambers Dictionary and a stack of unmarked essays from his scuffed table to the foot of his high bed. Utilising the cleared space, Doc Mo spread the visa application form out. Aloysius had by this time settled on the room’s only chair, happy to witness an educated man in his element.
As a further incentive for the teacher’s assistance, Aloysius paid another visit to the folds of his gown and like a street magician produced a small box of Marlboro cigarettes and a packet of plain biscuits. He placed the offerings on the teacher’s pillow as if offering a sacrifice to a revered deity. Doc Mo raised his eyes from the forms, amused at being offered cigarettes since he had never smoked.
The teacher then quizzed the trader, who answered the questions in his usual circuitous way. Doc Mo wrote down Aloysius’ answers, his brow furrowed as he tried not to make a mistake, the trader’s mood soaring as more of the form was completed. As he deposited pieces of kola nut in his mouth, Aloysius commented between chews that Doc Mo’s probing questions reminded him of the clever lawyers who appeared in white people’s movies he watched in the local cinema.
The form-filling session lasted for about an hour and left Aloysius staring in awe at the document now adorned with the teacher’s neat writing. He gave Doc Mo a firm handshake, returned the form to its plastic folder before sidling out of the room.
‘Teacher man, how’s your body today? No matter the size of a cow, it will always end up as soup. Handshakes do not last forever, but when you shake my hand, goodness follows me! You are a righteous man Doc Mo and Aloysius needs your help.’
Doc Mo had smiled at Aloysius’ reference to himself in the third person, which was typical. Even when off-duty, Aloysius was in trader mode and therefore had the habit of spluttering out proverbs and sweet talk designed to swoon and sway unsure customers.
After circling the issue, the trader explained to Doc Mo why he needed his assistance: he had also heard of the green card lottery, and had managed to get the requisite application form. This was a ‘sure-ball’ scheme Aloysius explained to the bemused Doc Mo, and if successful, he would soon be living in London. Doc Mo was about to point out that London was not in America, but was stopped by Aloysius who tossed a glossy photograph into his lap. The picture was of a man in his early thirties sitting on the bonnet of a big vehicle, which Doc Mo recognised as a Land Cruiser, the type popular with government ministers. The man had on a smart grey suit with brown leather shoes and smiled out from the picture. Trimmed grass and a huge mansion nestled in the background.
‘This is my brother Vincent,’ Aloysius explained. ‘He’s really my cousin because our mothers are from the same village. But brothers and cousins are the same just like leopards and lions are the same although one has big hair whilst the other one has spots. I have never been to school Doc Mo, and even if you write the letter A as big as city hall, I will not recognise it! But I told the other traders at the market that Doc Mo knows proper education. I told them that Doc Mo would help me fill my visa forms. God will give you plenty of blessings and a good future if you help me write these forms! Look at the car that Vincent now drives in America! Poor stupid Vincent who used to sell mangoes and mints with us in the market! He’s even joined the America army I hear. Do you see how this American visa lottery business can raise up your life and make things better Doc Mo?’
Aloysius then looked over his shoulder before delving into the creases of his brown gown to produce a stack of papers that were sheathed in a clear plastic folder. Doc Mo rose from the bed as he studied the forms, his blind feet searching for his slippers. He then moved his coverless Chambers Dictionary and a stack of unmarked essays from his scuffed table to the foot of his high bed. Utilising the cleared space, Doc Mo spread the visa application form out. Aloysius had by this time settled on the room’s only chair, happy to witness an educated man in his element.
As a further incentive for the teacher’s assistance, Aloysius paid another visit to the folds of his gown and like a street magician produced a small box of Marlboro cigarettes and a packet of plain biscuits. He placed the offerings on the teacher’s pillow as if offering a sacrifice to a revered deity. Doc Mo raised his eyes from the forms, amused at being offered cigarettes since he had never smoked.
The teacher then quizzed the trader, who answered the questions in his usual circuitous way. Doc Mo wrote down Aloysius’ answers, his brow furrowed as he tried not to make a mistake, the trader’s mood soaring as more of the form was completed. As he deposited pieces of kola nut in his mouth, Aloysius commented between chews that Doc Mo’s probing questions reminded him of the clever lawyers who appeared in white people’s movies he watched in the local cinema.
The form-filling session lasted for about an hour and left Aloysius staring in awe at the document now adorned with the teacher’s neat writing. He gave Doc Mo a firm handshake, returned the form to its plastic folder before sidling out of the room.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Dripped gossip soon made it known that Doc Mo the teacher was the man to go to if you needed help filling out green card lottery forms. Word also spread that you had to bring something as payment for his time, hadjo to show appreciation.
As Doc Mo’s form-filling prowess climbed, his cramped room became a confessional, with the people of the neighbourhood happy to provide unedited details of their lives to the teacher, often linked to why they sought to escape to America.
It was Sheba the small-skinned nurse who first told Doc Mo that his name had been carried shoulder-high in neighbourhood conversations. Sheba’s requirements were minor in comparison to the others who needed the teacher’s help; since she had already filled out her forms, she just required Doc Mo to check for spelling errors. The teacher had become close to Sheba after she had sold him a brand new hospital bed procured from her place of work. Since Doc Mo was still paying for the bed, he offered his scribing services to the nurse gratis.
As Doc Mo’s form-filling prowess climbed, his cramped room became a confessional, with the people of the neighbourhood happy to provide unedited details of their lives to the teacher, often linked to why they sought to escape to America.
It was Sheba the small-skinned nurse who first told Doc Mo that his name had been carried shoulder-high in neighbourhood conversations. Sheba’s requirements were minor in comparison to the others who needed the teacher’s help; since she had already filled out her forms, she just required Doc Mo to check for spelling errors. The teacher had become close to Sheba after she had sold him a brand new hospital bed procured from her place of work. Since Doc Mo was still paying for the bed, he offered his scribing services to the nurse gratis.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Flora – the wobbling mother of toddler triplets who sold rice pap at the local market was next to arrive. She brought all three of her children with her, two instantly falling asleep on the high hospital bed, their mouths wide open in oblivion; the third child entertained herself by rifling through the teacher’s low bookcase. Flora explained how her husband had failed to return after leaving to seek a fortune in the diamond fields in Tongo. There were rumours that he had met a younger woman and as such had no plans of coming back to his family.
‘But although I am alone in this world with these three angel children, God has his eyes on me. Pastor continues to pray for me Doc Mo, and he saw a vision of me standing at an airport with a big bag,’ Flora explained, her eyes soft and convincing. ‘By God’s power, I will sleep and wake up in America soon!’
She left Doc Mo with a smouldering bowl of rice pap as payment for his time. As the teacher filled out her form, he wondered about Flora’s plans for her triplets should she be successful, since there was no mention of them in the paperwork.
‘But although I am alone in this world with these three angel children, God has his eyes on me. Pastor continues to pray for me Doc Mo, and he saw a vision of me standing at an airport with a big bag,’ Flora explained, her eyes soft and convincing. ‘By God’s power, I will sleep and wake up in America soon!’
She left Doc Mo with a smouldering bowl of rice pap as payment for his time. As the teacher filled out her form, he wondered about Flora’s plans for her triplets should she be successful, since there was no mention of them in the paperwork.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Salifu the bushy-haired carpenter arrived the following day, cursing his dead father. ‘My bastard-dog of a papa is the one who put me backwards Doc Mo, after he refused to send me to school when I was a boy! Although I cannot read and write the white man’s language my brother, I have street intelligence in my head and will be able to survive in America no problem!’
His gift to Doc Mo for his penmanship was a miniature carving of Bob Marley.
Doc Mo instantly fell in love with the carving.
Salifu the carpenter’s carving had the magnificent artiste standing erect, a clenched fist raised in defiance over his head. Though hewn out of wood, the carving had managed to capture a smouldering light in the eyes.
The carving sat on Doc Mo’s low chop-box when he was home and travelled with him to school in his rucksack where it would take up a position on his desk, a good luck totem.
His gift to Doc Mo for his penmanship was a miniature carving of Bob Marley.
Doc Mo instantly fell in love with the carving.
Salifu the carpenter’s carving had the magnificent artiste standing erect, a clenched fist raised in defiance over his head. Though hewn out of wood, the carving had managed to capture a smouldering light in the eyes.
The carving sat on Doc Mo’s low chop-box when he was home and travelled with him to school in his rucksack where it would take up a position on his desk, a good luck totem.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Like a snake shedding its skin, Doc Mo’s stance on the visa lottery scheme began to change. Borrowing the eyes of the neighbours whose forms he filled out each day, he began to see the situation differently, eventually convincing himself that there was no harm in finding out a bit more about the programme. Not having any electricity at home, he had sought information at The Car Dellac Internet Café, a whitewashed structure that sat at a junction often deluged by the gossiping unemployed. He had pointed out to the proprietor of the establishment that the spelling of Cadillac was wrong. The proprietor, a fat balding man named Nathaniel, had spat into the street before sneering as to whether Doc Mo had ever been to America where they built Cadillac cars?
As was increasingly becoming the norm, the establishment refused local currency. Doc Mo therefore had to pay two dollars that guaranteed him a precious hour on a spluttering computer with a protruding bum. His limited computer skills and the aching slowness of the machine meant that he had to on three occasions ask for help from a bored assistant with fried hair. With her grudging guidance, he eventually found himself staring at a picture of President Bill Clinton.
He had been in university when Clinton had been elected, and remembered how the students had been riveted to CNN as the results came in. Amongst other things, he remembered that Clinton had played a saxophone on a talk show in the run-up to the elections.
Moving through the tiny print on the screen, Doc Mo finally understood the delirium that had gripped his country: Every year, the United States Government makes available 50,000 diversity visas (DV) or green cards through the Diversity Immigrant Visa Program, also known as the Green Card Lottery. These green cards are randomly given to people that apply by a computer-generated drawing program.
His eyes not leaving the screen, Doc Mo had paid an additional two dollars for paper copies of the application forms, which were spat out of a juddering printer perched on an orange crate that had once held soft drinks.
As was increasingly becoming the norm, the establishment refused local currency. Doc Mo therefore had to pay two dollars that guaranteed him a precious hour on a spluttering computer with a protruding bum. His limited computer skills and the aching slowness of the machine meant that he had to on three occasions ask for help from a bored assistant with fried hair. With her grudging guidance, he eventually found himself staring at a picture of President Bill Clinton.
He had been in university when Clinton had been elected, and remembered how the students had been riveted to CNN as the results came in. Amongst other things, he remembered that Clinton had played a saxophone on a talk show in the run-up to the elections.
Moving through the tiny print on the screen, Doc Mo finally understood the delirium that had gripped his country: Every year, the United States Government makes available 50,000 diversity visas (DV) or green cards through the Diversity Immigrant Visa Program, also known as the Green Card Lottery. These green cards are randomly given to people that apply by a computer-generated drawing program.
His eyes not leaving the screen, Doc Mo had paid an additional two dollars for paper copies of the application forms, which were spat out of a juddering printer perched on an orange crate that had once held soft drinks.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
He made sure that all his American visa lottery affairs were conducted at home, since he did not wish to disappoint his class of reggae radicals or to face the disdain of his fellow teachers who he had previously ridiculed for wanting to escape to ‘Babylon.’
Only last week, he had been at the forefront of a campaign to change the names of the school’s houses in preparation for the annual sports day. The yellow staffroom had been full, attendance now compulsory under the auspices of the new principal. Doc Mo had stood erect, pointing out that it was risible for an African school to have houses named Tudor, Stewart, Windsor and Hanover. ‘Why not name our houses after our own African heroes? Mandela, Nkrumah, Lumumba, Sengbe Pieh…’
The new principal had strongly disagreed, pointing out that the establishment was proud of its past and was not for changing on an angry whim. Doc Mo’s response was to dismiss the principal as a comprador bourgeoisie before walking out of the meeting.
Only last week, he had been at the forefront of a campaign to change the names of the school’s houses in preparation for the annual sports day. The yellow staffroom had been full, attendance now compulsory under the auspices of the new principal. Doc Mo had stood erect, pointing out that it was risible for an African school to have houses named Tudor, Stewart, Windsor and Hanover. ‘Why not name our houses after our own African heroes? Mandela, Nkrumah, Lumumba, Sengbe Pieh…’
The new principal had strongly disagreed, pointing out that the establishment was proud of its past and was not for changing on an angry whim. Doc Mo’s response was to dismiss the principal as a comprador bourgeoisie before walking out of the meeting.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
The trip to the post office involved a short cut through Kroo Bay, a sprawling slum where man and pig cohabited side by side. Everything happened at Kroo Bay and it was known as a haunt for the notorious rarray men and other reprobates. The acrid stench of cannabis wafted through the air and Doc Mo instinctively held his rucksack a little closer, the weight of the Bob Marley carving providing comfort through the fabric. The bay was however quiet at this time of the day, the exception being a group of naked children splashing in the lazy stream that ambled through the settlement. It was not uncommon for an uneasy silence to hang over Kroo Bay at this time of the day, with the inhabitants in siesta mode. It was rumoured that they needed the sleep since they were often very active at night in a variety of dubious activities.
The size of the bay had morphed exponentially as more and more refugees and war displaced continued to flock to the city. All of the structures in the bay were constructed from rusty corrugated metal sheets, the colour of which added to the general feel of decay and ruin. These pan body houses had no identity, and it was as if a massive hand had picked them up before hurling them through the settlement at random.
As Doc Mo moved through the haphazard structures, he found himself holding his breath on several occasions. His most precarious moment came when he had to walk over a blackened plank that had been positioned over an angry stretch of water that divided the bay from the streets on the other side. He hesitated before crossing especially as the plank juddered as a couple of school kids in uniform flaunted their way across just ahead of him. He tottered across in a clumsy sideways movement, relieved when his feet made contact with the dusty tarmac on the other side.
There was a palpable tension to the streets in marked contrast to the tranquillity of the bay. Doc Mo noticed a huge crowd gathered around a tall light-skinned man who carried dreadlocks, and was wearing a grainy green shirt with faded jeans. Sweat had soaked through the back of the man’s shirt and had formed a design that reminded Doc Mo of a map. The crowd were spread along the whole street, oblivious to a building line of cars which continued to hoot in annoyance. Edging closer Doc Mo was able to hear the green-shirted man’s words, the crowd listening to him as if to a prophet. Doc Mo on closer examination recognised the man as High Priest, Kroo Bay’s area chief.
High Priest had once visited the school to complain about pupils ravaging the mango trees in their settlement during lunch times. Depending on whom you gave your ears to, which was mostly the pupils who passed through Kroo Bay to and from school, High Priest was a dangerous presence capable of causing serious harm.
On the day he had come to the campus, he had ignored the instructions of the school secretary and had instead climbed the stairs to the staffroom and spoken directly to the teachers. They had all been impressed with High Priest’s assured authority, his voice carrying over their lunchtime conversations as he implored them to help keep the rampant pupils in check. Today though, his customary calmness had dissipated, replaced instead by a wildness that danced in his eyes as he spoke.
‘Today we will burn this city! Let no one fool you, this government has no interest in the small man and have today passed the mark! Leopards sleep in tress because they know they are evil! For too long we have lived in slavery, but today somebody else will taste pain!’ High Priest paused as if for effect, wiping sweat from his brow with an open palm, before continuing. ‘Every day we drag for survival with no money to feed our children who sleep with air in their bellies! Government ministers drive around in Nissan Patrols with dark windows and air conditioning whilst we walk until our shoes split open and have wide mouths like toothless crocodiles!’
High Priest had a rusty machete in one of his hands, whilst a significant number of the crowd were brandishing sticks, metal bars and stones. The most animated of the throng seemed to be a group of teenage girls, all of whom were in school uniform. Intrigued, Doc Mo asked one of them what the problem was. She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth before replying.
‘You have not heard? Have you been in a grave underground for all of today? Fishermen at Government Wharf found the live evidence! Instead of posting our green card forms, the dogs that work at the post office dumped the papers in the water. Who wants to stay in this nasty country where every day is a struggle for one cup of rice and dried fish to eat? God will punish those bastard dogs! But first we’ll pay them with a dirty beating!’ She clapped her hands as she spoke, her palms beating out the perfect symphony for her rage, her maroon school tie stark against a white blouse.
And then the girl did something that elicited a massive roar from the crowd: she lifted up her school skirt to reveal a tight pair of jeans shorts. ‘Awareness!’ she bellowed, her cry taken up by her fellow school girls, all as if on cue hoisting their skirts to reveal an array of tight shorts in a variety of colours.
Doc Mo remembered the concept of awareness well from stories of student demonstrations in the 70s. Riot police had been dispatched to break up the disturbances and there had been harrowing reports of the rape of quite a number of female students. The concept of awareness had since then become a staple of demonstrations with girls wearing tight shorts underneath their uniforms, a protective measure whenever a clash with police was imminent.
After the chants of ‘awareness’ died down, High Priest continued to speak, moving his machete about like a conductor’s baton. ‘Today some people will die and their mothers will cry and mourn in black tomorrow! We will march to their useless post office and give them fire!’
The crowd were by this time moving, heading towards the post office headquarters located in the centre of the city. The numbers continued to swell as the horde moved through the streets, with several people leaning out of windows to bellow out words of encouragement and solidarity. Doc Mo was contemplating returning home, but talk of destroyed visa lottery papers had initiated him into the cause. Invective-filled songs were by this time being belted out, the lyrics denigrating the mothers of those considered responsible, proclaiming that they either pissed in their beds at night or were koro prostitutes.
By the time the group arrived at the post office, the front of the building was a seething mass of discontent. Like termites scurrying out of an invaded hill, people from all over the city had congregated. Satellite clusters continued to form, with select people throwing light on rumours that only served to further incense. There was talk of two post office vans that had been waylaid at New England in retaliation. The drivers had been dragged from the vehicles, their clothes ripped from their bodies. The vehicles had then been set on fire, acrid black smoke climbing into the sky. A woman with a tray of raw fish on her head and a sleeping baby strapped to her back spoke of how another stash of visa forms had been retrieved from a trash heap at Ginger Hall in the east of the city.
The crowd heard them before they saw them: three black Land Rovers and a blue DAF truck. Both vehicles were stuffed full of riot police belonging to the Internal Security Unit. Well known for violence and brutality, the letters ISU had been flipped by a popular radio comedian into meaning ‘I Shoot U.’ The convoy squealed to a halt, with several of the guns leaping from the vehicles before they were even stationary.
In defiance, High Priest raised his machete and bellowed to the crowd, his animated locks flailing around his head. ‘You cannot use a sexually impotent man to intimidate a pregnant woman! Do these rats with guns not know that there is no leaf bigger than a banana leaf? You cannot break down the people!’ His comments were greeted with a roar of approval and spontaneous applause. Several of the crowd who were only hearing him speak for the first time moved forward to shake his hand, praising him for his wisdom.
Waving grimacing automatic weapons in the air, the uniforms formed a tight phalanx around one of the Land Rovers. From the tinted blackness of the luxury vehicle emerged a round man dressed in an off-white safari suit. Clearing a way through the crowd, the men with guns bustled their way to the top of the post office’s steps. Doc Mo recognised the man in the safari suit as Claude Magament, Minister of Media and Communication.
Magament was one of a handful of civilians who had been invited to serve in the military administration. He had been a disgruntled university lecturer of politics, and had happily accepted the appointment.
Doc Mo had been in Magament’s modern political thought class in qualifying year and remembered his bloated lectures on Thomas Hobbes and Machiavelli. Magament had also briefly served as the warden for one the halls of residence, and had heavily fallen out with the students over water shortages. The dry taps had meant that students had to traipse to the nearby botanical gardens every morning to collect water in buckets. Patience had eventually collapsed, and the students had marched to Magament’s residence, demanding a solution. Magament had refused to give the irate students audience, instead sticking his head out of his upstairs window to proclaim that he was an academic and not a diplomat. Tempers had flared and the students had hurled insults before breaking off the wing mirrors of Magament’s car.
And now Magament was here. Privilege and position had served him well, and he had since his appointment become rather engorged. Folds of flesh could be seen from above the collar of his suit, and his eyes peered at the crowd from within a tubby face. He raised his hand for silence, a weak smile on his face as a megaphone was thrust into his other hand.
‘I am today speaking on behalf of the president who has sent me here to torpedo vicious and unfounded rumours being perpetrated and propagated by unwholesome elements about the dumping of United States visa lottery application forms. These allegations are baseless and are of no substance, and every effort shall be made to get to the bottom of this sordid matter. We have held an emergency cabinet meeting, and we are fully aware that your demonstrations are being orchestrated by disgruntled opposition elements!’
The rest of the minister’s comments were swallowed by a wave of angry booing and amidst the bedlam, Doc Mo thought it typical for a man like Magament to try to calm an already precarious situation with complex language and bluster, especially as a huge percentage of the crowd did not have the slightest understanding of his comments.
The insults and booing served as a precursor for something that flew from somewhere within the gathered masses and arrowed towards the minister’s head. Magament saw the wooden missile coming, but his reflexes must have been blunted by his size. The object exploded against Magament’s shiny head, causing him to topple backwards, his dumbfounded retinue unable to break his fall. The hurled carving was the first of a hail of missiles that were launched at the building and the police. Windows erupted and Doc Mo saw at least a couple of the men with guns collapse under the barrage.
The riposte from the rest of the riot police in the street was predictable and swift. There were four loud plops as tear gas canisters exploded above the crowd. The effect was similar to what happens when you pour salt on earthworms. The dull grey cloud sprang and spread, raking eyes and slicing throats. The crowd ruptured, belligerence and defiance quickly replaced by fear and panic. Doc Mo felt a searing pain at the back of his throat, and as if on cue, fled. As he stumbled forward, he noticed the girl from earlier on who had explained the cause of the demonstration. She was thrashing on the ground in a macabre retching dance of agony, her school skirt hiked up exposing her protective tight shorts, her maroon tie in symphony with another shade of red that was spreading across her white blouse.
And even in his panic, Doc Mo realised that the men with guns were no longer using tear gas.
The size of the bay had morphed exponentially as more and more refugees and war displaced continued to flock to the city. All of the structures in the bay were constructed from rusty corrugated metal sheets, the colour of which added to the general feel of decay and ruin. These pan body houses had no identity, and it was as if a massive hand had picked them up before hurling them through the settlement at random.
As Doc Mo moved through the haphazard structures, he found himself holding his breath on several occasions. His most precarious moment came when he had to walk over a blackened plank that had been positioned over an angry stretch of water that divided the bay from the streets on the other side. He hesitated before crossing especially as the plank juddered as a couple of school kids in uniform flaunted their way across just ahead of him. He tottered across in a clumsy sideways movement, relieved when his feet made contact with the dusty tarmac on the other side.
There was a palpable tension to the streets in marked contrast to the tranquillity of the bay. Doc Mo noticed a huge crowd gathered around a tall light-skinned man who carried dreadlocks, and was wearing a grainy green shirt with faded jeans. Sweat had soaked through the back of the man’s shirt and had formed a design that reminded Doc Mo of a map. The crowd were spread along the whole street, oblivious to a building line of cars which continued to hoot in annoyance. Edging closer Doc Mo was able to hear the green-shirted man’s words, the crowd listening to him as if to a prophet. Doc Mo on closer examination recognised the man as High Priest, Kroo Bay’s area chief.
High Priest had once visited the school to complain about pupils ravaging the mango trees in their settlement during lunch times. Depending on whom you gave your ears to, which was mostly the pupils who passed through Kroo Bay to and from school, High Priest was a dangerous presence capable of causing serious harm.
On the day he had come to the campus, he had ignored the instructions of the school secretary and had instead climbed the stairs to the staffroom and spoken directly to the teachers. They had all been impressed with High Priest’s assured authority, his voice carrying over their lunchtime conversations as he implored them to help keep the rampant pupils in check. Today though, his customary calmness had dissipated, replaced instead by a wildness that danced in his eyes as he spoke.
‘Today we will burn this city! Let no one fool you, this government has no interest in the small man and have today passed the mark! Leopards sleep in tress because they know they are evil! For too long we have lived in slavery, but today somebody else will taste pain!’ High Priest paused as if for effect, wiping sweat from his brow with an open palm, before continuing. ‘Every day we drag for survival with no money to feed our children who sleep with air in their bellies! Government ministers drive around in Nissan Patrols with dark windows and air conditioning whilst we walk until our shoes split open and have wide mouths like toothless crocodiles!’
High Priest had a rusty machete in one of his hands, whilst a significant number of the crowd were brandishing sticks, metal bars and stones. The most animated of the throng seemed to be a group of teenage girls, all of whom were in school uniform. Intrigued, Doc Mo asked one of them what the problem was. She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth before replying.
‘You have not heard? Have you been in a grave underground for all of today? Fishermen at Government Wharf found the live evidence! Instead of posting our green card forms, the dogs that work at the post office dumped the papers in the water. Who wants to stay in this nasty country where every day is a struggle for one cup of rice and dried fish to eat? God will punish those bastard dogs! But first we’ll pay them with a dirty beating!’ She clapped her hands as she spoke, her palms beating out the perfect symphony for her rage, her maroon school tie stark against a white blouse.
And then the girl did something that elicited a massive roar from the crowd: she lifted up her school skirt to reveal a tight pair of jeans shorts. ‘Awareness!’ she bellowed, her cry taken up by her fellow school girls, all as if on cue hoisting their skirts to reveal an array of tight shorts in a variety of colours.
Doc Mo remembered the concept of awareness well from stories of student demonstrations in the 70s. Riot police had been dispatched to break up the disturbances and there had been harrowing reports of the rape of quite a number of female students. The concept of awareness had since then become a staple of demonstrations with girls wearing tight shorts underneath their uniforms, a protective measure whenever a clash with police was imminent.
After the chants of ‘awareness’ died down, High Priest continued to speak, moving his machete about like a conductor’s baton. ‘Today some people will die and their mothers will cry and mourn in black tomorrow! We will march to their useless post office and give them fire!’
The crowd were by this time moving, heading towards the post office headquarters located in the centre of the city. The numbers continued to swell as the horde moved through the streets, with several people leaning out of windows to bellow out words of encouragement and solidarity. Doc Mo was contemplating returning home, but talk of destroyed visa lottery papers had initiated him into the cause. Invective-filled songs were by this time being belted out, the lyrics denigrating the mothers of those considered responsible, proclaiming that they either pissed in their beds at night or were koro prostitutes.
By the time the group arrived at the post office, the front of the building was a seething mass of discontent. Like termites scurrying out of an invaded hill, people from all over the city had congregated. Satellite clusters continued to form, with select people throwing light on rumours that only served to further incense. There was talk of two post office vans that had been waylaid at New England in retaliation. The drivers had been dragged from the vehicles, their clothes ripped from their bodies. The vehicles had then been set on fire, acrid black smoke climbing into the sky. A woman with a tray of raw fish on her head and a sleeping baby strapped to her back spoke of how another stash of visa forms had been retrieved from a trash heap at Ginger Hall in the east of the city.
The crowd heard them before they saw them: three black Land Rovers and a blue DAF truck. Both vehicles were stuffed full of riot police belonging to the Internal Security Unit. Well known for violence and brutality, the letters ISU had been flipped by a popular radio comedian into meaning ‘I Shoot U.’ The convoy squealed to a halt, with several of the guns leaping from the vehicles before they were even stationary.
In defiance, High Priest raised his machete and bellowed to the crowd, his animated locks flailing around his head. ‘You cannot use a sexually impotent man to intimidate a pregnant woman! Do these rats with guns not know that there is no leaf bigger than a banana leaf? You cannot break down the people!’ His comments were greeted with a roar of approval and spontaneous applause. Several of the crowd who were only hearing him speak for the first time moved forward to shake his hand, praising him for his wisdom.
Waving grimacing automatic weapons in the air, the uniforms formed a tight phalanx around one of the Land Rovers. From the tinted blackness of the luxury vehicle emerged a round man dressed in an off-white safari suit. Clearing a way through the crowd, the men with guns bustled their way to the top of the post office’s steps. Doc Mo recognised the man in the safari suit as Claude Magament, Minister of Media and Communication.
Magament was one of a handful of civilians who had been invited to serve in the military administration. He had been a disgruntled university lecturer of politics, and had happily accepted the appointment.
Doc Mo had been in Magament’s modern political thought class in qualifying year and remembered his bloated lectures on Thomas Hobbes and Machiavelli. Magament had also briefly served as the warden for one the halls of residence, and had heavily fallen out with the students over water shortages. The dry taps had meant that students had to traipse to the nearby botanical gardens every morning to collect water in buckets. Patience had eventually collapsed, and the students had marched to Magament’s residence, demanding a solution. Magament had refused to give the irate students audience, instead sticking his head out of his upstairs window to proclaim that he was an academic and not a diplomat. Tempers had flared and the students had hurled insults before breaking off the wing mirrors of Magament’s car.
And now Magament was here. Privilege and position had served him well, and he had since his appointment become rather engorged. Folds of flesh could be seen from above the collar of his suit, and his eyes peered at the crowd from within a tubby face. He raised his hand for silence, a weak smile on his face as a megaphone was thrust into his other hand.
‘I am today speaking on behalf of the president who has sent me here to torpedo vicious and unfounded rumours being perpetrated and propagated by unwholesome elements about the dumping of United States visa lottery application forms. These allegations are baseless and are of no substance, and every effort shall be made to get to the bottom of this sordid matter. We have held an emergency cabinet meeting, and we are fully aware that your demonstrations are being orchestrated by disgruntled opposition elements!’
The rest of the minister’s comments were swallowed by a wave of angry booing and amidst the bedlam, Doc Mo thought it typical for a man like Magament to try to calm an already precarious situation with complex language and bluster, especially as a huge percentage of the crowd did not have the slightest understanding of his comments.
The insults and booing served as a precursor for something that flew from somewhere within the gathered masses and arrowed towards the minister’s head. Magament saw the wooden missile coming, but his reflexes must have been blunted by his size. The object exploded against Magament’s shiny head, causing him to topple backwards, his dumbfounded retinue unable to break his fall. The hurled carving was the first of a hail of missiles that were launched at the building and the police. Windows erupted and Doc Mo saw at least a couple of the men with guns collapse under the barrage.
The riposte from the rest of the riot police in the street was predictable and swift. There were four loud plops as tear gas canisters exploded above the crowd. The effect was similar to what happens when you pour salt on earthworms. The dull grey cloud sprang and spread, raking eyes and slicing throats. The crowd ruptured, belligerence and defiance quickly replaced by fear and panic. Doc Mo felt a searing pain at the back of his throat, and as if on cue, fled. As he stumbled forward, he noticed the girl from earlier on who had explained the cause of the demonstration. She was thrashing on the ground in a macabre retching dance of agony, her school skirt hiked up exposing her protective tight shorts, her maroon tie in symphony with another shade of red that was spreading across her white blouse.
And even in his panic, Doc Mo realised that the men with guns were no longer using tear gas.
Foday Mannah hails from Sierra Leone where he studied English Language and Literature at Fourah Bay College. On graduation, he worked as a teacher and lecturer before migrating to the United Kingdom. Foday currently lives in Scotland where he is employed as a teacher of English. He holds an MSc in International Conflict and Cooperation from the University of Stirling and an MA with Distinction in Professional Writing from Falmouth University. Foday’s writing seeks to represent the experiences of some of the truly remarkable people he has encountered in life. Within this context, Foday’s especially seeks to explore and highlight the disproportionate use of power both domestic and political. His short story Amie Samba was shortlisted for the 2019 Bristol Short Story Prize, and was published in the anthology of the same year. Foday has also had pieces shortlisted and or longlisted / highly commended for the Commonwealth, Bridport, Sean O’Faolain, Mo Siewcharran and Brick Lane writing competitions. His short stories Yellow Woman and In the Land of Queen Elizabeth’s Head have also been published in Doek Literary Magazine and The Decolonial Passage Magazine respectively.
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