has flourished, corruption has been rife, tribal differences have been exacerbated rather than healed. Economic incompetence has gone hand in hand with social injustice, and for the ordinary man the last few years have been an endless struggle. The recent severe food shortages offered proof that, if unchecked, the situation would only have grown worse. That is why the Council has now assumed control, so that all the necessary steps to reverse this trend can at once be taken.’
The voice paused for breath, or for inspiration. What was the magic panacea going to be this time round, McGrath asked himself.
‘A dictatorship of the proletariat…’
McGrath burst out laughing.
‘…a government of working people, led by the Socialist and Revolutionary Labour Party, will now be established to promote socialism and true democracy. This will, of course, take time, and the process itself will doubtless provoke opposition from the forces of reaction, particularly those remnants of the old regime who still occupy positions of authority throughout the country. In order to accelerate the process of national recovery certain short-term measures must be taken. Accordingly, the Council declares Parliament dissolved and the constitution temporarily suspended. The banks and courts will remain closed until further notice. All political parties are banned. A dusk-to-dawn curfew will be in force from this evening.
‘Guests in our country are requested, for their own safety, not to leave their hotel compounds. The Council regrets the need for this temporary restriction, which has been taken with our guests’ best interests in mind.’
McGrath looked round at the assembled holidaymakers, most of whom seemed more amused than upset by the news. There were a few nervous giggles, but no sign of any real fear.
‘Oh well, we’ll be going home the day after tomorrow,’ one Lancastrian voice said a few yards away.
Maybe they would be, McGrath thought, but he would not bet on it. It all depended on how secure the new boys’ control was. If it was either really firm or really shaky, then there was probably little to worry about. But if they were strong enough to keep some control yet not strong enough to make it stick, then these people around the pool might well become unwilling pawns in the struggle. Hostages, even. It could get nasty.
The voice was sinking deeper into generalities: ‘…their wholehearted support in the building of a fair and prosperous society. It wishes to stress that the change of government is an internal affair, and of practical concern only to the people of The Gambia. Any attempt at interference from outside the country’s borders will be considered a hostile act. The Council hopes and expects a comradely response from our neighbours, particularly the people and government of Senegal, with whom we wish to pursue a policy of growing cooperation in all spheres…’
So that was it, McGrath thought. They were expecting Senegalese intervention. In which case, it should be all over in a few days. He did not know much about the Senegalese Army, but he had little doubt that they could roll over this bunch. And then it was just a matter of everyone keeping their heads down while the storm blew itself out.
‘How did it sound?’ Jabang asked as they settled into the back seat of the commandeered taxi. A few minutes earlier two Party members had arrived from Yundum with Jawara’s personal limousine, assuming that Jabang would wish to use it. He had sent them packing with a lecture on the perils of the personality cult.
Which was all to the good, Taal thought. And maybe riding round Banjul in a rusty Peugeot behind a pair of furry dice was a suitably proletarian image for the new government. At least no one could accuse them of élitism.
‘Junaidi, how did it sound?’ Jabang repeated.
‘Good, Mamadou, good,’ Taal replied. Jabang looked feverish, he thought. ‘We all need some sleep,’ he said, ‘or we won’t know what we’re doing.’
Jabang laughed. ‘I could sleep for a week,’ he said, ‘but when will I get the chance?’
‘After you’ve addressed the Council,’ Taal said.
‘Just take a few hours. We’ll wake you if necessary.’
‘And when will you sleep?’ Jabang asked.
‘Whenever I can.’ But probably not for the rest of the day, he thought. Whatever. He should get his second wind soon.
The driver arrived with Sallah, who joined him in the front. The street seemed virtually empty, but that was not surprising. Today, Taal both hoped and expected, most people would stay home and listen to the radio.
‘I must talk to the Senegalese envoy after the Council,’ Jabang remembered out loud. ‘Where is he at the moment?’
‘In the house where he is staying,’ Sallah said over his shoulder. ‘He has only been told he cannot go out.’
‘You will bring him to the Legislative Assembly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Jabang sat back as the taxi swung through the roundabout at McCarthy Square, his eyes darting this way and that as if searching for something to rest on.
Watching him, Taal felt a sudden sense of emptiness. He had known Mamadou Jabang for almost twenty-five years, since he was fourteen and the other man was seven. They had grown up in adjoining houses in Bakau, both sons of families well off by Gambian standards. Both had flirted with the religious vocation, both had been educated abroad, though on different sides of the Iron Curtain.
Taal had graduated from Sandhurst in England, while Jabang had received one of the many scholarships offered by Soviet embassies in Africa during the early 1970s. The former had worked his way effortlessly to his position in the Field Force, and only Jawara’s unspoken but justified suspicion of Taal’s political sympathies had prevented him holding the top job before he was forty.
Jabang, on the other hand, had become mired in politics, and had foolishly – as he himself admitted – allowed himself to overestimate Jawara’s instinct for self-preservation. The SRLP had become too popular too quickly, particularly among the township youths and the younger members of the Field Force, and in the early summer of 1980 Jawara had seized on the random shooting of a policeman to ban the Party. With all the democratic channels closed, the SRLP had spent the succeeding year planning Jawara’s overthrow by force.
And here they were, driving to the parliament building behind a pair of pink furry dice, the new leaders of their country, at least for today. Taal felt the enormity of it all – like burning bridges, as the English would say. If the Council could endure, then he and Mamadou would have the chance to transform their country, to do all the things they had dreamed of doing, to truly make a difference in the lives of their countrymen. If they failed, then Jawara would have them hanged.
The stakes could hardly be higher.
‘Junaidi, we’ve arrived,’ Jabang said, pulling him out of his reverie. Mamadou had a smile on his face – the first one Taal had seen that day. And why not, he thought, climbing out of the taxi in the forecourt of the Legislative Assembly. They had succeeded. For the moment at least, they had succeeded.
He followed Jabang in through the outer doors, across the anteroom and into the chamber, where the forty or fifty men who had been waiting for them burst into spontaneous applause.
Jabang raised a fist in salute, beamed at the assembly, and took a seat on the platform. Taal sat beside him
