painted by the dossier, and for a moment Hamilton wondered if he wasn’t in the presence of an impostor. Could a man with a visage this mild be the general whose legend had been transported from Kingston to Calcutta and whom even the merchants from Europe called the Tiger of the Mangroves?
Hell, he can’t yet be forty, Henry Hamilton would record that night in his diary. Just about my own age. Had Koko been born in a different clime and of a fairer hue, Hamilton would go on to note, they could have been in the same class studying Classics at King’s College. Like the consul, Koko could also have picked up employment in Her Majesty’s imperial service. Instead, the Chief, who came from common stock, had become the delta’s most prominent monarch by spending his youth waging war to unite several small domains and installing himself sovereign over the expansive new realm. His accomplishments make one feel inadequate, the consul concluded in his diary entry for the day.
The foppishness of Chief Koko’s manicured fingers, his striking coral bracelets, and the stylishness of his walking stick, on which was carved a menagerie of marine creatures, reminded Hamilton of the famous dandies in his own country. The consul imagined Koko promenading in a top hat down the Strand, wearing a bright brocade waistcoat with a carnation in its buttonhole and clutching a rare edition of Byron’s Don Juan , but that train of thought was derailed by a glance in the direction of Chief Koko’s dreaded canoe boys. Standing about a hundred feet from the parasol, a platoon of the Chie f ’s elite guards, each holding a loaded musket, was eyeballing a company of the Crown’s khaki-clad constabulary ranked at attention on the other side of the canopy. The uncompromising gaze burning in the eyes of Chief Koko’s men undid Hamilton’s casting of the general who had drilled such fierceness into them as a dreamy aesthete. The consul snapped out of his fanciful flights and returned to the reality of the moment.
Chief Koko and Mr Henry Hamilton shook hands firmly. Under a clear tropical sky and on a sunny beach lapped by the waters of the Atlantic, the two men, born at about the same time but on different continents and brought into contact by the impassive deviousness of history, sat down and began talking.
The evening after the boat conveying Hamilton towards his new post sailed out of Plymouth, the consul, tormented by boredom and the ubiquitous pestilence of cockroaches, had struck up a conversation with an old seaman stationed by the boat’s safety valve. Over copious swigs of liquor, the sailor regaled Hamilton with stories from the decades he had spent as a crewman ploughing a variety of marine craft across the seas. Punctuating these colourful narratives was the plaintive refrain of the seaman that the years had drained him of wanderlust. He wished for a transfer to a boat plying the other leg of the trip, the one from Tenerife to Fernando Po where his family lived, so he could be assured of spending a few days with his grandchildren every month.
Hamilton asked the seaman for his hometown. The old sailor replied that he was a kinsman of Chief Koko. There on the deck, over another bottle of schnapps, the consul struck a deal with the seaman. Hamilton would employ his influence to get the sailor posted to his preferred route. In return, the seaman would tutor Hamilton in the language and culture of the old man’s homeland.
Each kept his side of the bargain. During the remainder of the month-long journey, Henry Hamilton learned more every day about his destination than was contained in all of the seventeen worthless files dumped in his lap by the round-spectacled bureaucrats at the Foreign Office. On disembarking at Fernando Po, he was almost fluent in Chief Koko’s language – the nineteenth of the twenty-six languages in which Hamilton would be able to claim competence.
After their handshake, the first sentence voiced by Henry
Hell, he can’t yet be forty, Henry Hamilton would record that night in his diary. Just about my own age. Had Koko been born in a different clime and of a fairer hue, Hamilton would go on to note, they could have been in the same class studying Classics at King’s College. Like the consul, Koko could also have picked up employment in Her Majesty’s imperial service. Instead, the Chief, who came from common stock, had become the delta’s most prominent monarch by spending his youth waging war to unite several small domains and installing himself sovereign over the expansive new realm. His accomplishments make one feel inadequate, the consul concluded in his diary entry for the day.
The foppishness of Chief Koko’s manicured fingers, his striking coral bracelets, and the stylishness of his walking stick, on which was carved a menagerie of marine creatures, reminded Hamilton of the famous dandies in his own country. The consul imagined Koko promenading in a top hat down the Strand, wearing a bright brocade waistcoat with a carnation in its buttonhole and clutching a rare edition of Byron’s Don Juan , but that train of thought was derailed by a glance in the direction of Chief Koko’s dreaded canoe boys. Standing about a hundred feet from the parasol, a platoon of the Chie f ’s elite guards, each holding a loaded musket, was eyeballing a company of the Crown’s khaki-clad constabulary ranked at attention on the other side of the canopy. The uncompromising gaze burning in the eyes of Chief Koko’s men undid Hamilton’s casting of the general who had drilled such fierceness into them as a dreamy aesthete. The consul snapped out of his fanciful flights and returned to the reality of the moment.
Chief Koko and Mr Henry Hamilton shook hands firmly. Under a clear tropical sky and on a sunny beach lapped by the waters of the Atlantic, the two men, born at about the same time but on different continents and brought into contact by the impassive deviousness of history, sat down and began talking.
The evening after the boat conveying Hamilton towards his new post sailed out of Plymouth, the consul, tormented by boredom and the ubiquitous pestilence of cockroaches, had struck up a conversation with an old seaman stationed by the boat’s safety valve. Over copious swigs of liquor, the sailor regaled Hamilton with stories from the decades he had spent as a crewman ploughing a variety of marine craft across the seas. Punctuating these colourful narratives was the plaintive refrain of the seaman that the years had drained him of wanderlust. He wished for a transfer to a boat plying the other leg of the trip, the one from Tenerife to Fernando Po where his family lived, so he could be assured of spending a few days with his grandchildren every month.
Hamilton asked the seaman for his hometown. The old sailor replied that he was a kinsman of Chief Koko. There on the deck, over another bottle of schnapps, the consul struck a deal with the seaman. Hamilton would employ his influence to get the sailor posted to his preferred route. In return, the seaman would tutor Hamilton in the language and culture of the old man’s homeland.
Each kept his side of the bargain. During the remainder of the month-long journey, Henry Hamilton learned more every day about his destination than was contained in all of the seventeen worthless files dumped in his lap by the round-spectacled bureaucrats at the Foreign Office. On disembarking at Fernando Po, he was almost fluent in Chief Koko’s language – the nineteenth of the twenty-six languages in which Hamilton would be able to claim competence.
After their handshake, the first sentence voiced by Henry
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