Miller Caldwell: Caught in a Cold War Trap

I squinted.

‘Yes, how did you know that?’

‘The big factories are in Tamale. It’s the largest town in the upper region.’

Soon we were called to gate number 3 for Tamale. The Ghana Airways plane shone in the hot sunshine of the day and we felt the oppressive humidity once more as we boarded.

‘Let’s sit over there,’ Bob said, and I knew I’d get no respite from his enquiries. I had no option but to agree.

There was no delay in getting off the ground.

‘Just under an hour, this flight, but what a difference. You get sweaty in the south and as dry as a pretzel in the north. Gotta drink a lot.’

‘Perhaps dry heat is the better option? Is fresh water freely available?’

He gave a paternal smile. He knew the ropes. I didn’t.

‘The market in town has bottled water. It’s best to drink that. Anything else and you might get the galloping guts.’

‘Hmm—not worth thinking about that,’ I said.

‘This is the white man’s grave you know?’ he laughed. ‘Not really true,’ he continued. ‘It was the amount of gin the Colonials took with their quinine that gave rise to the name. Cirrhosis of the liver killed many of them, not only the female mosquito.’

I absorbed his insights, wondering if they might be outdated. ‘Don’t you think the colonial times are well behind us now, I mean, progress is being made all the time?’

He seemed to nod in agreement. ‘Just don’t forget one thing. When you are defeated in achieving something, as you sure will in Ghana from time to time, just recognise one word.’

My eyebrows raised in curiosity. ‘And that word is?’ I eagerly asked.

‘WAWA,’ he said laughing, at my expense.

‘WAWA?’ I repeated.

‘Yes, a truism if ever there was. West Africa Wins Again, WAWA.’

Then we both laughed.

Just as we landed Bob hit me with a bombshell.

‘About that groundnut factory, isn’t that where the drunken Russian works?’

When I descended the steps of the plane I felt like an overcooked cake on a wire tray. There was no escape from the dry heat. At the same time, it was a relief to get away from the intense humidity of the south. I said my farewell to the informative Bob as he confidently strode off to school. I saw more Muslims in the north and I felt their robes were the best attire for the conditions. Perhaps I’d be more comfortable in one, I thought.

I looked around for just one white face. That would surely be Mr Utechin. I searched in vain. I had to use my initiative. Taxis were very numerous around Tamale airport. They were all yellow and all seemed to be Peugeots. I hailed one.

‘Where you go, Masta?’ the driver asked.

‘The groundnut factory. You know where it is?’

The cab driver looked at me angrily. ‘Pioneer Peanuts? You can walk. Look over dere,’ he pointed. ‘Dat’s it,’ he said and waved his hand to show he needed a new customer.

I realised the factory was no more than 300 yards away, forming a curtain on one side the runway. I saw that as fortunate for business, then realised that if an aircraft had a shaky landing we might be in the firing line. That was a sobering thought.

I picked up my bags and set off along the red dusty laterite road. I wondered if I would be provided with any transport. Bicycles seemed ubiquitous but I’d only use one for short journeys. The heat was too suffocating.

As I approached the factory, I felt like a schoolboy approaching his new school for the very first time. I knocked on the office door. ‘Reception’ was written on the frosted glass. It was opened by a native woman.

‘Ah, so you are de new manager. We are expecting you,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘My name is Peace Assare.’

‘Peace?’

‘Yes, it be my Broffo, I mean my English name.’ I nodded. I was beginning to see how different the culture was to anything I had ever known. ‘Is Igor Utechin in?’ I asked as I looked over her shoulder, anxious to meet the man who would be supervising me.

‘De Masta is in but… he is not ready to see you.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said slightly confused. ‘He is with someone?’

She began to smile and quickly covered her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Come in; sit yourself down by my desk. I go tell you sumthin.’

I pulled up a chair and placed it near her. She was clearly a secretary as well as the receptionist. She sat down opposite me with her typewriter blocking my view of everything but her face.

‘You are Mr Utechin’s personal secretary?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Then you know who he is with. For how long, I wonder.’

She no longer hid her smile. ‘He is with the one he loves. He cannot be disturbed.’

‘Ah, his wife is here too?’ I asked.

She shook her head from side to side and her shoulders quivered. ‘You do not know our Mr Utechin, do you?’

I was confused and disappointed. Yet it seemed she had affection for him. But he had not greeted my arrival. ‘No, I know almost nothing about him.’

‘He has no wife—as such. One of the local girls go see him some nights. This afternoon he is with his day mistress—as he usually is any time after 3 p.m.’

She must have seen the confusion on my face. Clearly, I had not got her clues and it was a game that needed answers.

‘You still no understand? Akpeteshie, it be the local intoxicator. 45% alcohol. That be his true love.’

‘That’s a lot. Does he not drink vodka or whisky?’ I asked remembering what the American Peace Corps teacher had told me.

‘He drinks anything, every day, almost anytime. He has udder bottles in his house but de akpeteshie is strong. He likes it the best, fresh from de market.’

So it was true what I had heard as I left the plane. He was a very serious, if not dangerous drinker.

‘Then morning is the best time to meet him?’

‘Dat be so. It be de only time. Anyway, you no go worry. I take you to your quarters. Der are only de two houses. Yours and Mr. Utechin’s.’

We left her office and she clapped her hands. Two young boys appeared and took my bags. They walked ahead of us.

‘How long has Mr Utechin been working here?’

‘Forever I would say. He looks an old man but I say he be no more than fifty-five, maybe sixty. He’s been here since Nkrumah days. President Nkrumah ruled us from 1960 to 1966. Utechin come about 1965 when dey open up de airport. Before, Nkrumah had it for de military. But it had bin a small airport for de War WW2.’

‘You liked Nkrumah?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm he be a fickle man. Americans say he was a communist. He go read about politics and religion an’ he want to throw all Europeans out of Africa—dat is except the Russian and udder communist countries. Are you a communist?’ she asked me abruptly.

I contemplated my answer for a moment. ‘Communist? No, not me.’

‘Den I tink we get on well, you an’ me here.’

We arrived at a bungalow. It shone white in the daylight like an iceberg. I was clearly its first occupant. Red bougainvillaea surrounded the doorway. Butterflies fluttered away when we approached. A milk bush hedge marked out the garden territory.

‘You will have a gardener. His name is Yaw. He keeps de garden in flower, and after de rains he makes sure no snakes are around.’

‘Snakes, are the reptiles many?’

‘Yes, the rain brings out de snakes. Around here it’s usually de Black Cobra.’

‘Black Cobra? And can it get into the house?’ I asked showing some considerable unease.

Grace laughed. ‘They try to get out of your way unless you have some food stuff wif you or you stand on them. You will not be harmed. I assure you,’

A young woman approached. Her age was hard to tell but I guessed she was mid-thirties. She greeted the secretary in her native tongue.