Miller Caldwell: Caught in a Cold War Trap

‘And this is Amma. She is your servant. She make your meals, cleans de house, washes de clothes, she go shopping for you. She do anyting an’ do everything for you, you go understand?’

I smiled at her ambiguity. I was glad to see her baby bound to her back in a coloured cloth. She must have a husband.

‘So now I go back to my desk. I see you in de morning. Eight o’clock. I go let you unpack and get settled.’

‘Thank you, Peace. You have been very helpful.’ And with a spin of her heels, she took off and was out of sight in a matter of seconds.

I entered the new house, still smelling of white painted walls. I walked through the spacious lounge to the kitchen. It seemed to be a magazine picture of knives, tins, fridge and a gleaming cooker too. The bathroom was a shower with a loo. Just enough space to do the necessary washing. There was only one bedroom of ample size and another, no more than a box room. I took my bags to my bedroom and sat down on my bed. I did not know whether to cry at my lack of a greeting from my superior or be delighted by Peace and having both a gardener and a cook/steward.

I unpacked my belongings and hung them up on rails and laid other items in drawers. Having completely unpacked, I got out a pad of paper and sat down to write to Morag.

I began with my Post Box Number—237 Tamale, a simple but adequate address. I was wondering how to start the letter when I heard a knock on the door.

‘Agoooo, Hello?’

Amma arrived with a tray on which clinked a glass of ice cubes in some liquid, a slice of lemon and a small bottle labelled ‘quinine water’.

I was taken aback. ‘Is this for me?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir. Your late afternoon drink.’

‘But I don’t usually have a drink at this time,’ I said.

‘It is the British way. Gin and quinine to prevent malaria. I thot all white men take dis at dis time.’

I smiled at her. I did not mean to reprimand her. ‘I don’t need a drink. Anyway, I don’t drink spirits.’

‘Dat be so? Den I get you a Tata.’

‘What’s a Tata?’

‘It be our local beer. I keep one cool for you in de frig,’ she said as her eyes lit up and mine did too.

I smiled broadly. A cool beer was just what I needed to start my letter to Morag.

The next morning I was eager to get to the office and meet my general manager. After scrambled eggs on toast and two slices of toast with honey, I set off under a sky which was almost azure—except for a few mackerel cloud striations. The sun had been up two hours already, like an insomniac.

I greeted Peace and she told me to wait. Wait I did—for half an hour. In that time I saw her open about two dozen letters and answer the telephone on five occasions. She spoke in her native tongue, leaving me with the impression she was a busy secretary with many social skills and numerous local contacts.

Mr Utechin’s door suddenly opened and he strode forward. What struck me first was his Old Testament beard. His walk was unsteady but supported his rotund body. His face was rosy red with blood vessels on show on both his rosy cheeks. He greeted me in Russian. He shook my hand vigorously.

‘You have arrived. Good man.’ In his hand, he held a round box of chocolates. He held the tin before me.

‘Take a couple,’ he said with a smile.

I smiled at him and shook my head. ‘Sorry, I’m allergic to chocolate.’

‘What? All chocolate?’

‘Yes. I can eat travel sweets and pastilles and spangles but nothing with chocolate, even hot chocolate as a drink and no chocolate cake either. It sets me off in blisters all over my body, does chocolate.’

‘Hmmm, bad luck,’ he said launching another unwrapped sweet into his mouth. Then he put the tin down on a desk. His right hand indicated for Peace to enjoy a chocolate. With his left arm, he gestured that he would show me around.

I smiled. ‘I’d enjoy that very much,’ I said hoping I could gain as much information as necessary about my work before his bewitching hour of bottle consolation.

He was a stocky man too. His complexion was that of an ill alcoholic, beyond any doubt. Perhaps that was why I had to replace him, in time. His brightly coloured flowery Jeromi shirt integrated him into the community. I felt I needed a vibrant shirt like that too. The market should give me a good selection. Shopping for one was something to look forward to.

We entered the huge factory. The heat was immense—despite ventilation gaps in the roof. The first process was the cleaning of the kernels; the outer shell had to be separated from the nut.

‘What do you do with the discarded shells?’ I asked.

He hitched up his trousers. ‘Quite a few uses. Some goats eat them; others are used to start the evening cooking fires, the rest as manure. They decompose quickly.’

I nodded pleased that they had several further uses. In the next compartment was a dated Bulgarian seed processing machine. Its purpose was to crack the nuts then add water to cook them. The water bubbled like the Niagara Falls while the heat made me sweat profusely and the air I breathed seem to roast my throat.

I was relieved to leave that process. I was then taken to the processing workshop where the raw materials came under the screw press. After that, the nut pieces went through a solvent extraction method which made the residual rate of groundnut meal waste below 1%. The rest was groundnut oil and the bottling process went from that point. There was a distribution hut as a separate and securely locked facility at the end of the line.

The tour took the best part of an hour and a half, during which time I found curious eyes on me at every stage. I smiled at the workers, showing some humility. Their response was to show smiles and white teeth as they engaged in the work. Some came forward to shake my hand. They had seen and had met the new manager. They would think I was Russian when I was overheard. And that meant a communist too.

‘The only other aspect I’m confused about is how the nuts arrive here in the first place.’

He scratched his ear with his little finger. ‘All the groundnut farmers want me to take their crop. I don’t need to seek them. The supply is regular. And there are no unions to interfere with our production.’

‘And their wages? Who arranges that?’

‘They get paid on delivery. There’s a weekly pay for regular employees. Saturdays at mid-day they get paid before they leave work. Peace hands out the cedis. They take their pay like children receiving a birthday present,’ he said laughing loudly.

‘So, Peace is the receptionist, secretary and accountant?’

‘No, she is our secretary, receptionist and she hands out the money which I give her.’

‘I see,’ I said flicking a female mosquito from feeding on my arm. ‘And where will I work?’

Igor pointed towards Peace and informed me there was a room behind her. That was to be my office.

I was impressed with the production of the peanut oil but still wondered what my role was. I asked Igor. He replied in Russian of course. His English was often laboured.

‘The sea snake does not move for ages and then, when an unsuspecting victim approaches, it darts out and eats it.’

I reflected on what he meant. Long periods of doing nothing, I assumed. Then hectic moments of activity. That was what I took out of his analogy.

‘So when does it get busy?’

‘Let’s go to your room,’ he replied.

We passed Peace without a word and opened the door. There was a large window with glass louvers at a sharp angle to aid air circulation. A roof fan whirled round with blades like dancing dervishes. Underneath was a wooden desk. On it was a pile of letters.