copper ore, and to sell more guns so that they could make bigger and better guns to sell to the Arabs.’
‘But the war is over. The KLA are defeated now, even my Uncle Banda, who was with the KLA, has handed in his Kalashnikov .’
‘Ya, Yola my dear, but for how long? Just till someone sells him another one!’
‘It’s confusing.’
‘It’s criminal!’ Hans snapped, his voice rising. ‘What sickens me is that in some pretty house in America or Russia, the man who made that bandit’s gun will have his morning coffee without a thought that Yola Abonda was nearly killed by one of his guns just now. It just makes me so angry!’
Yola stared at Hans. She had never before thought of how those faraway places could play a part in her own life. Should she be angry, like Hans?
‘Come on, back on board!’
They were all wide awake now. The sun, which had shone briefly over the mist, now appeared as a glowing ball, sucking the fog up in a sheet. Underneath, the landscape appeared clean and fresh. David, the driver, thrust a tape into the tape deck on the dashboard, and music blared out. Hans yelled into Yola’s ear that the volume button had fallen off so they couldn’t turn it down; Yola didn’t mind. The driver put his foot downand the road began to disappear under them faster and faster in a dizzy stream. Visibility was good now and they seemed to be skimming all but the largest potholes. Hans, seeing that her balance was not good without a second foot to brace herself with, laid his arm at the back of her seat, from time to time he steadied her with a hand on the shoulder; she was glad to have the road ahead to concentrate on. She closed her eyes against the giddy stream of the road. The music was from Zaire; voices rising on a magic carpet of heady rhythms.
Hans shouted in her ear, ‘I used to think Latin American music came from America, but it is pure Africa. Just listen to that! When your people were taken away as slaves, they brought their music with them to America and gave rise to a whole new musical culture.’
Yola turned to tell Hans how it made her want to dance, but at that moment the two-way radio, which was bolted to the dashboard, gave a series of hisses and pops.
‘It’s time for a radio check,’ Hans shouted.
She watched, fascinated, as he leaned forward and took the microphone from the dashboard. David switched off the tape and Hans took up a microphone and started calling.
‘One-five bravo calling Simbada. One-five bravo calling Simbada. Come in, please.’
The radio hissed back at him. He twirled a knob, head cocked to one side, listening. Suddenly the hissing stopped and a voice cut in.
‘… avo, do you read me?’
‘One-five bravo, receiving you Simbada.’
‘Carry on one-five. That’s Hans, isn’t it?’
‘Ya, ya, Hans here.’
Every hour, as they drove, Hans radioed to the NPA head office in Simbada, telling them how far they had got and howthey were faring. The bandit was reported so that other cars could be warned.
Yola couldn’t believe that it was still only midday when they drove down into Simbada. She had never been in Simbada before – the civil war had meant that no one travelled unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only with an escort of soldiers. She was a little disappointed; it was very like Nopani, acres of mud-brick houses with corrugated iron roofs. The roads between the houses were mud roads, but unlike Nopani, heaps of rubbish were piled wherever there was a space. Children crawled over these like maggots.
‘Hans,’ she asked in disgust, ‘why is there rubbish everywhere ?’
‘Because the city councillor who is responsible for clearing the streets is corrupt,’ Hans replied. ‘He has a big Mercedes and a luxury house in the hills. He gives all the street-cleaning contracts to his friends for big bribes. They then buy smaller Mercedes with the money the government gives them, but they don’t do the work.’
‘But in Nopani the
‘But the war is over. The KLA are defeated now, even my Uncle Banda, who was with the KLA, has handed in his Kalashnikov .’
‘Ya, Yola my dear, but for how long? Just till someone sells him another one!’
‘It’s confusing.’
‘It’s criminal!’ Hans snapped, his voice rising. ‘What sickens me is that in some pretty house in America or Russia, the man who made that bandit’s gun will have his morning coffee without a thought that Yola Abonda was nearly killed by one of his guns just now. It just makes me so angry!’
Yola stared at Hans. She had never before thought of how those faraway places could play a part in her own life. Should she be angry, like Hans?
‘Come on, back on board!’
They were all wide awake now. The sun, which had shone briefly over the mist, now appeared as a glowing ball, sucking the fog up in a sheet. Underneath, the landscape appeared clean and fresh. David, the driver, thrust a tape into the tape deck on the dashboard, and music blared out. Hans yelled into Yola’s ear that the volume button had fallen off so they couldn’t turn it down; Yola didn’t mind. The driver put his foot downand the road began to disappear under them faster and faster in a dizzy stream. Visibility was good now and they seemed to be skimming all but the largest potholes. Hans, seeing that her balance was not good without a second foot to brace herself with, laid his arm at the back of her seat, from time to time he steadied her with a hand on the shoulder; she was glad to have the road ahead to concentrate on. She closed her eyes against the giddy stream of the road. The music was from Zaire; voices rising on a magic carpet of heady rhythms.
Hans shouted in her ear, ‘I used to think Latin American music came from America, but it is pure Africa. Just listen to that! When your people were taken away as slaves, they brought their music with them to America and gave rise to a whole new musical culture.’
Yola turned to tell Hans how it made her want to dance, but at that moment the two-way radio, which was bolted to the dashboard, gave a series of hisses and pops.
‘It’s time for a radio check,’ Hans shouted.
She watched, fascinated, as he leaned forward and took the microphone from the dashboard. David switched off the tape and Hans took up a microphone and started calling.
‘One-five bravo calling Simbada. One-five bravo calling Simbada. Come in, please.’
The radio hissed back at him. He twirled a knob, head cocked to one side, listening. Suddenly the hissing stopped and a voice cut in.
‘… avo, do you read me?’
‘One-five bravo, receiving you Simbada.’
‘Carry on one-five. That’s Hans, isn’t it?’
‘Ya, ya, Hans here.’
Every hour, as they drove, Hans radioed to the NPA head office in Simbada, telling them how far they had got and howthey were faring. The bandit was reported so that other cars could be warned.
Yola couldn’t believe that it was still only midday when they drove down into Simbada. She had never been in Simbada before – the civil war had meant that no one travelled unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only with an escort of soldiers. She was a little disappointed; it was very like Nopani, acres of mud-brick houses with corrugated iron roofs. The roads between the houses were mud roads, but unlike Nopani, heaps of rubbish were piled wherever there was a space. Children crawled over these like maggots.
‘Hans,’ she asked in disgust, ‘why is there rubbish everywhere ?’
‘Because the city councillor who is responsible for clearing the streets is corrupt,’ Hans replied. ‘He has a big Mercedes and a luxury house in the hills. He gives all the street-cleaning contracts to his friends for big bribes. They then buy smaller Mercedes with the money the government gives them, but they don’t do the work.’
‘But in Nopani the
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