“Clouds of flies dancing to the generator’s beat.
Drawn to flickering light bulbs in the dusty heat.
Mosies grazing on your arms,
But can you resist the charms?
Of Roza at the airport hotel bar.”
Steve Dixie 1984 “Savannah Song” album.
CHAPTER 19 THE BELOVED OF GOD
The small Antonov was built long ago in the Ukraine, well built since it still flew. Still lurched from air pocket to updraught to downdraught, across the hot African sky.
The back was all bundles, boxes and cardboard suitcases lashed down with bits of string. It smelt like there was something dead in there. Maybe a goat.
Then came Colonel Sebastian Moran on the rear row of seats.
In front of him enormous women in colourful clothes sat impassively, holding trussed up chickens. A couple of children stared at him.
The black men were probably all government clerks. White shirts, fraying collars, grey suits that were too big. The one in the front row with the extra legroom might be more important. He had polished shoes and a tailored suit. He looked better fed than his entourage.
In front of that was the lavatory, no one had dared use it. Opposite was the galley, full of more bundles and baskets.
Then there was the cockpit door. The lock had broken and the door kept banging open against the lavatory, then shut again, as the plane staggered up and down in the turbulence.
Below, through the shimmering light grey haze, all heat and dust, and smoke, from bush fires racing over the dead grass, Moran could see dark grey mountains, slowly appearing, then fading away behind.
Finally the engines changed their note, and through the swinging cockpit door Moran could see the pilot fighting to keep the nose pointed at the runway as it swung across the sky, then down to the ever closer ground.
Outside were round mud huts. A straight dirt road. A couple of mango trees, still with green leaves. Then the ground.
The plane slammed in. Bounced sideways. Bounced again. Engines on full. Clouds of dust hiding the runway. Brakes on. Nose down. Slowing. Finally it emerged from the dust and trundled across the almost bare earth. A half dressed soldier made a half hearted attempt to keep waving children on the mud hut side of the fence.
The plane turned, covering the children in more blown dust, and bounced slowly back down the runway. Moran saw a few proper buildings. Tin roofs and trucks. And five limousines.
This was it. The passengers relaxed. They were here. They were alive. Sebastian smiled back and waited for them to grab their luggage and children and take their clucking chickens into the sun.
He walked down and strode in front of the fire cart. There was only one fireman, dressed in a thick navy blue coat with no buttons, a large brass helmet and grey shorts. He smiled enthusiastically at Moran and stroked the big fire extinguisher on his cart. Moran wondered when it was last charged. In fact did the fireman know what charging up was?
The Smart Man beamed around as though he owned the place, perhaps he did, and was whisked off in the limo with his entourage.
The pilot got out and shouted to the driver of a truck reversing towards his precious plane. It was full of forty gallon drums, hoses, and half naked labourers to work the hand pumps and fill the planes tanks.
Moran waved flies from his face and crossed the dusty earth to a cracked flaking concrete path. Men in torn shirts were putting luggage from the Antonov onto hand carts. Moran wondered how much disappeared. If his did, he wouldn’t make a fuss.
The terminal revealed its
sun dried bricks underneath falling plaster. The French door glass
was all there, but cracked. The terrazzo floor was shiny and clean,
but cracked. The counter was deserted by authority, but plenty of
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