This was followed by an offer of heroin, a drug that for some reason was easily available and cheap in Kigali. Heroin is a drug that magically transforms the worst situation into something good. I could understand why it was so popular, but I still found it weird.
His final offer was dagga. Now that was the best offer of the entire week.
Before I continue, I have to make a quick remark about my feelings about dagga. Dagga has caused many problems in people’s lives. So have chocolate, alcohol and nicotine. Dagga is a natural plant and the only reason why it has been banned in so many places in the world is because the Americans insisted on this as part of their business agreements with several countries. Dagga is banned in America because nylon manufacturers had to get rid of the hemp plant to create a larger market for their new material.
Too much of anything is bad for you. The same applies to dagga. I look upon dagga like cognac. It’s something I indulge in every now and again and really enjoy it, but I’m not interested in making it a daily habit. I like living in the real world and don’t want to be removed from it constantly. One night, probably when I was stoned, I decided that because dagga comes from the soil of a country it reflects the soul of that country. I know it’s a real stoner philosophy, but that’s what dagga does to you.
It was time to taste the soul of Rwanda. The dagga was dark green, almost black. It left tar on your hands when you touched it. I was arrogant enough to think I was strong enough for it. Against Brick’s wishes I accompanied him when he went out to buy the dagga. Only rock stars allow other people to bring them drugs and I wasn’t a rock star. It also meant that I wasn’t ripped off too much when it came to the price.
The seller was a guy called Richard. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of fake Ray-Bans and a gold watch that gleamed against his pitch black skin in the afternoon sun. In typical African style it was so loose around his arm that it glided up and down between his wrist and elbow. He clearly enjoyed his own stock and didn’t have a problem smoking while he worked.
The fill was wrapped in a piece of newspaper. It cost 20 cents. Back in my hotel room I rolled a nice fat joint. With the first pull I already knew I was playing out of my league, but by this time I was so entrenched in my role as the arrogant white idiot who thinks Africa can’t get him down, that I ignored my sixth sense. Brick’s complexion also became a shade paler, but he kept his poise. When we finished the joint he left. He knew where to find me. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he was out the door, I fell like a stone onto the bed. My body refused to obey my brain’s commands. Ideas flashed through my mind at record speed, but disappeared before they could register. I was in the middle of the fastest edit I had ever seen, filled with split second images, memory flashes and visions. I saw the past, present and future all at once. As a film, it may not necessarily have received critical acclaim.
And that was the good part. Within a few minutes I was in paranoia hell. I took hold of the rest of the dagga and crawled to the bathroom to flush it down the toilet. I could already hear the police coming down the corridor. At any moment they would kick down the door and arrest me. The prospect of spending quality time in a jail cell with mass murderers awaiting trial wasn’t very attractive. In Rwanda, the most macho country in Africa, inmates’ uniforms are pink – probably to discourage them from escaping. No respectable man in Rwanda wants to be seen in pink in public.
I eventually succeeded in flushing the dagga. I had to keep my fist closed and hold it in the bowl while I flushed desperately to get rid of it. I could still hear the police in the corridor coming closer. The only solution was to push the bed in front of the door. In total panic I dragged the mattress from the bed, which was just a spindly frame of pressed wood, and pushed it up against the door. At last I could breathe a little easier. The enemy’s first attack was averted. It was time to safeguard the perimeter further.
The window was next. On a building on the next hill, about 700 or 800 metres away, I could see a sharp-shooter who was ready to shoot me if the police couldn’t break through the door. The only way to cover my view of the swimming pool was to use the mattress, which covered about two thirds of the window. I covered the rest of the window with duct tape – we all know it's bullet-proof.
Although I could still hear the voices in the corridor, I felt safer. The many voices in my head now discussed what I would do once the police burst into the room. There wasn’t any dagga left and thanks to the entire can of deodorant that I sprayed into the air, I was certain they could only accuse me of spraying too much perfume in an enclosed space. Surely that would not be a crime even in such a macho country as Rwanda?
I thought about other incriminating things in my room that could lead to a stint in prison. As my brain continued to work in its uniquely disturbed way I worried that there might be very strict rules about nudity. So I tore up a photograph of my wife in her bikini and then burnt it, just in case someone tried to tape it together again.
Then, thankfully, I passed out. Twelve hours later I woke to someone hammering on my door. It was time for Lucky’s show. After the concert I returned to a hotel room that was all straightened out. Nobody ever said a word.
The night before I left Kigali, Brick came to say goodbye. It wasn’t a friendly farewell. He insisted on some kind of compensation for looking after me so well. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. He chose my most expensive Diesel jersey. Needless to say we never became pen pals.
The sun had just set over Kigali’s soccer stadium. Most of the men in the crowd had taken off their shirts. Lucky’s set went on till well after two o’clock and the audience were dripping with sweat. You could smell the crowd. In front of me 65 000 people sang: “Hey, you, Hutu man; hey, you, Tutsi man, you’ve got to come together as one” on the beat of Lucky’s big hit “Hey, you, Rasta man; hey, you, European …”
Lucky Dube
The concrete stadium looked like a trampoline as thousands of people jumped up and down hands in the air – one inyenzi mass that put their feelers up. People shouted exuberantly as if they needed to get rid of years of frustration. Talk about a wow moment – 65 000 people all doing primal scream therapy. The crowd got what they came for – this was one of Lucky’s best concerts in years. It was impossible to hold back the tears. I looked to my left and saw all the guys from the support team quickly wiping their eyes and hoping that nobody would see them crying.
If only the preceding week had gone as smoothly. There were issues about who had to pay for meals, what sound equipment had to be used and there were problems with our transport. We had to fight for everything and nothing happened as it was supposed to. Everything was an effort. De Gaulle, the promoter, obviously felt that since Lucky and his team had arrived, it was time to begin cutting costs. But Lucky was not to be bullied.
The food and transport issues were sorted out quickly, but when De Gaulle realised that a new sound system had to be imported from Uganda because the only available sound system in Rwanda was insufficient, he became as petulant as a two-year-old child. The sound system arrived on Saturday morning, a few hours before the concert was due to start. It gave Lucky very little time for his sound check. When he arrived at the stadium about 10 000 people had already gained entry, despite clear instructions that Lucky would refuse to do a sound check if there were any people in the stadium. They had arrived early to secure the best spots; it was not as if anybody had a job to go to.
For half an hour I tried to get the small crowd out of the stadium. From the middle of an empty stage I shouted instructions over the microphone, but I was greeted by silence. There was no way they were going to take me seriously. Nobody moved an inch. I’d like to think that the fact that they were French speaking and that I
