As he came through the immigration control, where even his papers were given an exhaustive check which told him that Tshemambi’s Government officials were taking no avoidable chances, the rains, which had been temporarily stilled, broke out again accompanied by a long roll of thunder. As Shaw made for the local airline office to book for Manalati the whole place grew dark, and within seconds the solid water was slicing, battering down again from a leaden sky, bouncing on the roof of the airport building with a sound like a million riveters, and outside the river of water gathered, to rush down a shallow slope to the roadway in a brownish torrent.
At the airline office Shaw asked for a seat on the next flight up to Manalati.
The African clerk shook his head. “There will be no flights to Manalati for maybe two days, maybe longer. The rains have broken with unusual violence, and the runway is unserviceable for passenger aircraft.” The man’s singsong tone seemed positively cheerful about it. “Meanwhile, we are taking provisional bookings only.”
Shaw said, “I can’t wait two days. What’s the alternative?” The clerk shrugged, delving at his nails with a fils. Shaw fumed. He guessed that if only he could pull some strings he’d get some sort of plane to Manalati. But, as usual in his job, it would be wiser if his visit was not unduly advertised by his travelling so openly as any kind of V.I.P. when so near the actual job. He repeated his question.
“There is a train from Jinda,” the clerk told him. “It will be nearly empty. Few people go to Manalati in the rains. Or you may go by road, but I do not advise this.”
“I see. How do I get to the station — and what time does the train go?”
“We are an airline agency, not a railway booking-office.”
“But—”
The African slammed down his window and disappeared. Shaw seethed, then swung sharply away. Outside the airport he saw a line of American-style taxis, and he went out and got one to take him into Jinda. He was driven along red-muddy roads through crummy, clapboard suburbs where men lolled in the doorways of dirty bars and cafes, and occasionally, despite the rain, stood in groups at street corners, sometimes jeering and waving clenched fists when they saw the white man in the taxi. Some of them started a low moaning noise, a deep growling mutter which spread along the way to be taken up by gangs of youths farther along. It was the unstemmable voice of Africa, the voice that was saying to the white man: Go — and if you can go in time, go in peace also, for if you overstay your welcome by one hour, you will go in riot and rape and blood…
Shaw was glad when they came into the modern, Western-built sector of the city, past tall white buildings, offices and shops and hotels, and then arrived at the railway station.
Going to the booking-office he bought his ticket for Manalati, and he was told that the train would leave that evening at 6.30, so he had much of the day in which to kick his heels.
However, it would be a good thing to have a look around Jinda and begin to get the feel of Nogolia.
It was an impressive city, a monument in its way to the white man who had planned it and put those great modem structures where the ramshackle dwellings of a backward, primitive township once had stood. Shaw walked down broad streets lined with palm-trees, streets with big wide built-in concrete canopies stretching across the sidewalks outside the shops to keep away the sun or the rain in their respective seasons. Down the centre of the streets were gardens filled with tropical plants, bright with gay colours, reds and yellows and blues, whites and purples. But over all there was an alien feeling, a kind of heavy brooding, a waiting for something to happen. Shaw had also noticed this at the airport. There were few white people about in that smart, super-modern shopping centre; this may have been due to the rains, but Shaw didn’t think so. Cars could pull right in and discharge their passengers under the canopies. The shops were large, and some of them bore English names, well-known names, many of them, and they were crammed with goods; but they were almost deserted, sad-looking, forlorn and unwanted despite their brave appearance of prosperity. Such white women as Shaw noticed were all escorted, and their menfolk were watchful, alert, and nervy.
There were crowds of Africans in the streets, Africans of all classes — professional men, white-collar men, working men. Some of these regarded Shaw with open hostility, some with indifference, some with a supercilious air of gloating triumph. All swaggered along with exaggerated cocksureness, even insolent rudeness, with apparently no thought of work in their heads. Here and there a shop window had been smashed in and patched with planking, sign of earlier riots. Even the African constables on traffic and patrol duty seemed vaguely hostile to the whites, were curt with them, inclined to shoulder them aside.
Shaw came to a huge, glittering hotel, the Independence Hotel, it was called, the big neon sign stretching across its frontage. Looking at his watch, he decided he may as well have lunch here, and he went slowly up the steps, through wide swing doors. He stepped into fashionable elegance, a cool Western elegance. There were thick, soft green carpets, comfortable chairs, air-conditioning. The guests seemed to be predominantly coloured, but there was a fair sprinkling of white men and women, chatting over drinks in over-loud voices which betrayed the strain and the tension that was in them. They would be wondering, Shaw guessed, whether they would recognize the moment when they would have to get out and leave their possessions and their lives’ work behind them; wondering if they should have gone already before the storm broke over their heads and took even their lives away from them.
Shaw went across the foyer and the lounge into a long, chrome-and-green-leather bar.
The shelves behind the bar were stacked, crammed with bottles. You could get any drink you cared to name in this place, Shaw thought — London, Paris, New York had nothing on this. There were three African ‘boys’ in starched white jackets behind the bar; small groups of men, white and coloured, but segregated apparently by mutual desire, sat in chairs at individual tables. One or two were perched on high stools at the bar itself. Taking a stool, Shaw asked for an iced gin-and-bitters.
The African barman looked at him, gave a slight inclination of his head, but said nothing. He walked away, took his time over bringing the drink. Shaw took a cigarette from his case and flicked his lighter; it didn’t work. A man in a creased white suit who was sitting at a stool close by, took a box of matches from his pocket He called, “Catch.”
Shaw caught and said, “Thanks.” He lit his cigarette, took a deep lungful of smoke. He passed the matches back, and the man asked, “You just out from home?”