neighbouring country, Murabende, to the north. The headlights swung back and forth, illuminating outcrops of red rock at one moment, towering forest trees the next, or pocket-handkerchief plantations of bananas, where the green banana bunches ended in pendulous purple flowers. Morning mist clung low to the few fields that sloped up the valley sides. Yola felt sleepy and curiously content. She was sealed in a metal capsule, the forest out there was dark and mysterious , but sandwiched between Hans and the driver she felt safe and protected. She liked Hans, she liked him very much, she decided.
She realised she must have nodded off because, next thing, the cab was full of grey light, the forest had sunk back into the valley and they had emerged onto high ground, where the tawny grasses beside the road glowed briefly in the waning headlights. The acacia trees stood, waist high, ghostly in the mist. What happened next came as a complete surprise.
The car nosed down as the road dipped into a hollow. The driver swore. An impenetrable sea of mist rose outside the windows like muddy water. The driver was braking hard; the car slewed, but did not slow appreciably. Yola was holding her breath.
‘Bad place!’ he muttered. ‘They put oil on the road!’
‘Who?’ she asked, but he did not answer. He was leaning forward, peering intently through the windscreen. He sucked in his breath. A man loomed out of the mist on the road ahead. Afterwards, Yola would remember him quite clearly. He had a filthy bush-hat pulled down over his face, two bandoleers of ammunition criss-crossed over his chest and in his hands was a sub-machine gun; it was raised towards them. Then something else caught Yola’s eye: there was a log across the road. She shouted, but David, the driver had seen it too.
‘Jump, Bandit!’ he yelled, wrenching the wheel not away from the man but directly towards him. Yola saw the man’s astonished face as he jumped clear, the wheels hit the end of the log and for an agonising moment Yola thought the car would turn over into the ditch, but then, screaming like a wounded elephant, it clawed back onto the road and accelerated up the hill and out of the mist. The men, startled into bleary wakefulness , started shouting and laughing and slapping the driver’s back.
‘Jump, Bandit, jump!’ the men were shouting.
Yola looked around at Hans, who was smiling grimly at the excitement. Then one of the men started to sing a popular Kasembi song about a lover who had all sorts of problems with his girl, but he substituted the word ‘bandit’ for ‘lover’. The result was hilarious and Yola joined in, hoping Hans didn’t understand all the words.
They were clear of the fog pockets now and they stopped because the men wanted to get out. Yola noticed they did not leave the road, but stood at its edge; she turned her back. Hans came up after a little and offered her a bread roll.
‘It is safer not to step off the tarmac, there are still landmines along the road edges. If you want to “go”, I’ll make the men look away,’ he said.
‘Why mine the edges?’
‘In that way you force the enemy to walk on the road, then you can see them coming.’
‘But that’s where we, the women, walk – beside the tarmac, otherwise we get run over!’
‘Soldiers don’t think of women, just their own skins. They don’t even think of the people they are supposed to be fighting for, just themselves.’
‘Like the bandit? He had a gun.’
‘Ya ya! Russia, America, Britain, China, they all sold guns to one side or the other. The government here is socialist, so they tried to nationalise your oil and minerals; the Americans and the British didn’t like it. They had interests in these industries so they turned a blind eye when their arms dealers sold guns to the rebels – the Kasemba Liberation Army, the KLA. Then the Russians sold guns to the Kasemba government. But really what they all wanted was African oil and African
She realised she must have nodded off because, next thing, the cab was full of grey light, the forest had sunk back into the valley and they had emerged onto high ground, where the tawny grasses beside the road glowed briefly in the waning headlights. The acacia trees stood, waist high, ghostly in the mist. What happened next came as a complete surprise.
The car nosed down as the road dipped into a hollow. The driver swore. An impenetrable sea of mist rose outside the windows like muddy water. The driver was braking hard; the car slewed, but did not slow appreciably. Yola was holding her breath.
‘Bad place!’ he muttered. ‘They put oil on the road!’
‘Who?’ she asked, but he did not answer. He was leaning forward, peering intently through the windscreen. He sucked in his breath. A man loomed out of the mist on the road ahead. Afterwards, Yola would remember him quite clearly. He had a filthy bush-hat pulled down over his face, two bandoleers of ammunition criss-crossed over his chest and in his hands was a sub-machine gun; it was raised towards them. Then something else caught Yola’s eye: there was a log across the road. She shouted, but David, the driver had seen it too.
‘Jump, Bandit!’ he yelled, wrenching the wheel not away from the man but directly towards him. Yola saw the man’s astonished face as he jumped clear, the wheels hit the end of the log and for an agonising moment Yola thought the car would turn over into the ditch, but then, screaming like a wounded elephant, it clawed back onto the road and accelerated up the hill and out of the mist. The men, startled into bleary wakefulness , started shouting and laughing and slapping the driver’s back.
‘Jump, Bandit, jump!’ the men were shouting.
Yola looked around at Hans, who was smiling grimly at the excitement. Then one of the men started to sing a popular Kasembi song about a lover who had all sorts of problems with his girl, but he substituted the word ‘bandit’ for ‘lover’. The result was hilarious and Yola joined in, hoping Hans didn’t understand all the words.
They were clear of the fog pockets now and they stopped because the men wanted to get out. Yola noticed they did not leave the road, but stood at its edge; she turned her back. Hans came up after a little and offered her a bread roll.
‘It is safer not to step off the tarmac, there are still landmines along the road edges. If you want to “go”, I’ll make the men look away,’ he said.
‘Why mine the edges?’
‘In that way you force the enemy to walk on the road, then you can see them coming.’
‘But that’s where we, the women, walk – beside the tarmac, otherwise we get run over!’
‘Soldiers don’t think of women, just their own skins. They don’t even think of the people they are supposed to be fighting for, just themselves.’
‘Like the bandit? He had a gun.’
‘Ya ya! Russia, America, Britain, China, they all sold guns to one side or the other. The government here is socialist, so they tried to nationalise your oil and minerals; the Americans and the British didn’t like it. They had interests in these industries so they turned a blind eye when their arms dealers sold guns to the rebels – the Kasemba Liberation Army, the KLA. Then the Russians sold guns to the Kasemba government. But really what they all wanted was African oil and African
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