Read Online Snakepit by Moses Isegawa - Free Book Online Page B

well. He pulled teeth and nails, and sliced kneecaps; he got the name the Guardian Angel. In his book, both sides were right and that made it fun. He secretly admired the stubborn resistance of the Mau Mau, especially because when he was young, he had heard the Africans described as cowardly and unable to fight. These blacks were fighting a modern European state to the death, and he thought he would have done the same if he had such beautiful mountains to defend. It was ironic that he worked harder now and saw more horrors than he had during the war. Immersed in the fighting in Africa, the World War seemed very far away. What had it been about? Freedom? Camps? Totalitarianism? Democracy? Or money?
    Yes, money. The fight against the Mau Mau was fun, but there was no big money in it. Part of him was spoiled now and he craved thousands, hundreds of thousands. He wanted out; let the blacks and the whites settle their problems. At about that time, a British intelligence officer offered him the chance to become a spy. He could go to Rhodesia, Namibia, South Africa. Southern Africa beckoned because of the diamonds and gold. A deal or two and he would be done. The end of the sixties found him in South Africa, the beginning of the seventies, in Rhodesia. The fighting was good, the diamond trafficking legendary. The celestial trinity of danger, death and money was as seductive as ever. He took his time and made one big haul. A kilo of uncut diamonds landed in his hands after a year’s planning, and then there was a monstrous shoot-out. He was shot in the leg, and he crawled and limped past corpses, and wandered for four delirious days. At one time, he even vowed to stop with adventure-seeking. A white farmer picked him up in his tractor, and later he was flown to South Africa, where he fell in love with Cape Town: its magnificence, its history, its wine. A year later he flew to London.
    It was in London that he heard of Amin, a real animal. He started collecting newspaper cuttings about him. He went to the library and looked for more information about Amin and Uganda, reading Winston Churchill, Speke, Burton, Baker and Stanley. Gradually, his resolve to stop running after adventure slackened, and he now craved a massive fix, one last fling. Uganda seemed like a very good spot for it. His burgeoning plans were, however, poisoned by the mass expulsion of expatriates in 1972. He went to the airport and refugee camps, looking for eyewitness accounts of what was happening in Uganda. He was convinced that he would be the lion-tamer, the man to control Amin and enjoy that peculiar brand of fame. What he needed was a plan. He roamed the streets of London in a daze. He tried the British Embassy; they did not need him. He tried five missionary societies, both Catholic and Anglican; they rejected him. He became depressed, redundancy gnawing at him. Hijackers, terrorists, Cold War–mongers, were all having their time in the sun, yet life was passing him by and he was not becoming any younger.
    The Irish Republican Army offered him a golden opportunity when they bombed the Grand Empire Hotel, killing members of the ruling Conservative Party, maiming others and causing terrible damage to property. News broke that Herbert Williams, the mastermind, had escaped to Africa. Many believed he was hiding in Uganda because Amin was flirting with the IRA, Black September and other nationalist organizations. The intelligence officer who had sent him to Rhodesia came to his aid; he was looking for somebody of his age suicidal enough to want to go to Uganda and check out the Williams rumours. Ashes signed immediately; soon he was part of a bogus British business delegation.
    It was love at first sight between him and Marshal Amin. A month before, Dr. Ali had read omens from the livers of ten white bulls and promised the Marshal a saviour from abroad. The moment the delegation arrived, Marshal Amin knew that Dr. Ali had been right as usual. It turned out