“A Squalid
End to Empire: British Retreat from
by
Harold Smith
For Carol
"We are English, that is one good fact."
Oliver Cromwell to Parliament. 17 September 1656
"Sons of
George R. Parkin:
'The
Quoted in Jan Morris'
'The
“A Squalid
End to Empire: British Retreat from
This is the story of evil committed by kind, nice, decent
British politicians. They sought to keep
To leave friends in charge of
William was our cook and our steward in
We rarely had dinner parties in
Millions died in the great Nazi onslaught on
Grace and William worked for us and we trusted them and
treated them as friends. We loved them. We left
In his private office in Government House on the
I was that young officer, and I was in deep trouble. I carefully prepared for that interview and wore a freshly laundered linen suit and, although it was steaming hot, a white shirt fully buttoned up, and a tie. I hoped to be told that a terrible mistake had been made. I hope to be allowed to leave the Colonial Service and forget all about this ghastly experience. My hopes were to be shattered. Sir James was not in a forgiving mood. John Bongard, his private secretary, showed me into Sir James' room.
"Mr Harold Smith is here to see you, Sir, as you ordered, he said, and retired.
"You know why you are here, Smith," said Sir James. "And I want you to know that all your worst fears and suspicions are absolutely correct. All the accusations you have made are correct. I am telling you this because I want you to know how much trouble you are in."
It is a cliché to say that my heart sank, but I use it
deliberately because it was somewhere in my groin. I had wanted to be proved
wrong, but I was being told from the highest possible source that my
conclusions were correct.
While I was absorbing this incredible disclosure, Sir James was pronouncing a death sentence. In his opinion I was wilfully disobeying orders on active service. The penalty was death. If the sentence was to be postponed, and he clearly deeply regretted that, I would now do exactly as I was told. As I had no choice... I listened to Sir James' terms and, when he had finished, I said nothing. I looked at the portly figure of the most senior, the most powerful representative of the Queen in the Empire, and very calmly, pronounced two words:-
"No, Sir!"
I had graduated from
When we arrived in
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The British retreated from
The vast mass of the African people was indifferent or
actually would have preferred the British to stay. But neither was it true that
the British found in
Not only is Africa denigrated by the carefully nurtured
fairy tale fashioned for the most part in
My main qualification for demolishing the myth that the
British created viable democracies out of savage tribes only to see the
ungrateful and greedy natives quickly revert to their tribalistic ways was my
personal involvement in these events. I was educated at
I have not told this story before because I did not wish to
wreck the chances of success of the new nation by revealing the truth behind
the fine but phoney ceremonial retreat. It would not have been possible to
write this book in the 1960's anyway as my health was in ruins and my survival
unlikely. By the mid-1960's too, the consequences of the British betrayal were
becoming evident and
When I suggest that the British Government meddled with the
democratic elections in
Whatever the shortcomings of British Colonial
Administration in
Much of this statement is true. Certainly, compared with
other imperialist nations, the British behaved well to their native peoples.
British historians, civil servants, academics and the colonial administrators
themselves have told the story. However, as I have indicated, they have not
always told the whole truth. The historical record does contain some
questionable events which have tended to be glossed over, and, as always, it
was the victor who wrote the history, not the subject peoples. I was present in
There are many fine, honest Nigerians who have served their
new nation well and there is much to be proud of in
It is probably too early to make a balanced assessment of
the British occupation of
The supreme betrayal of a new sovereign nation of which I
write took place when the British retreated from
What I now reveal in the following chapters is that the
British Government interfered with the elections so as to achieve Northern
domination of
I was one of the British officers serving on the
headquarters staff in
In 1986, approaching my sixtieth year, I decided, in
compliance with the convention, to seek permission from the Prime Minister, Mrs
Margaret Thatcher, to publish my account of those years in
The British Government's response to my plan to write these memoirs, was totally negative. Mrs Thatcher refused to reply to my letters. She is not often stuck for words but on this occasion she was rendered speechless. Assuming that my letter had been suppressed by the Foreign Office I wrote again using the good offices of the Archbishop of Canterbury and, when that produced no response, the Prince of Wales. I must assume after all these endeavours that Mrs Thatcher has indeed seen my letters and has no objection to the publication of my story of how the British tricked the Nigerian people.
The Governor General had told me that I had a choice. I
could give my word to keep my mouth shut and I would continue to be a golden
boy, a high flier, an outstanding officer with appropriate remuneration and
rewards, or I would never be employed again by anybody. I chose the latter
course. I had no choice really. Cheating a brand new nation out of its
birthright was evidently routine stuff if you were Sir James. I could not see
myself getting involved in this kind of intrigue. And of course I thought I
would somehow survive. And of course I did, even though I found myself
permanently retired at thirty-three with no salary or pension. I had only
graduated at
During a TV discussion about an MI5 case officer, Cathy Massiter, who had resigned and told all, it transpired that MI5 had been partly privatised and was able to turn over unpleasant chores to private detectives. One of these sleuths remarked on TV. that he had been asked to check out on a character who had been kept out of employment for twenty-five years. He had declined the assignment.
The Governor General simply could not understand why I
should make such a fuss about which set of Africans the British chose to leave
in charge in
One of my neighbours in
I was very impressed with my neighbour's exploits. His main
job was to check all foreign mail coming into
"I don't speak any foreign lingo, old chap," he assured me. "That's where all my years of training come in. I just look at the stamps. All mail from Iron Curtain and red countries I bung into the fire there..." and he indicated a stove.
"You don't read it?" I asked.
"Good God, no... It's obvious they're up to no good!"
So I should worry that my mail was opened and that I was being watched while I pottered around with my dog and cat in my old cottage at Widbrook. If I became a real threat, who knows but one day I might be fished out of the canal. The police would no doubt report that I had been complaining of being persecuted and was depressed.
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I was born in Hulme,
"My Father's name is Henry, but my Mother calls him Harry. My Mother's name is Margaret, but my Father calls her Maggie."
That was the complete composition and it pleased my teacher.
"Short and sweet, Harold Smith," she commented.
By that time we had moved from the dark tight terraces of
Hulme to the heavenly winding avenues of one of
In this first literary effort at the new and splendid elementary school built on the Barlow Hall estate I could have added that my name was Harold, but that I was addressed as 'Our 'Arold'. The Family secret, only revealed after years of pestering, was that my Father, the most true blue Conservative Englishman it is possible to envisage, was of Irish origin. And so was my Mother. Dad had once answered when I had asked him what he was, meaning what work he did,
"I'm an Orangeman."
I told my school friends he worked in a fruit shop. He was actually the key and quite senior employee in a large shirt factory, 'The Cutter,' no less. It was his job to lay out the patterns of the various bits of a shirt on to the stacks of striped flannel material so that the stripes ran the right way and there was as little waste as possible. He was really the boss on the production side of the factory, but it was only when I was sent to collect his wages one Friday afternoon so my Mam could do the weekend shopping that I found this out.
"He's the boss, Mam," I gasped. "They call him 'Sir,' and say, 'Yes, Mr Smith' and 'No, Mr Smith.'"
"He might be the boss there, but he's not the boss here," responded my Mam.
He was Irish, an Orangeman, a Protestant; his family were
from
"None of your business," they would respond, and we believed they were concealing terrible secrets.
It was not just that they were Irish and despised the Irish, but that Mam was a Catholic, and that was worse than being Irish for my Dad. My Mother's sister, my Aunt Nell, rarely called to see us. She hated my Father for being an Orangeman and despised my Mother for giving up her Roman Catholic faith to marry my Father. To my Father and Mother this was of the greatest possible importance. It took many years before I was able to force Mam to reveal that her maiden name was MacGarry, a clan or tribal name associated with the West of Ireland. I know of no famous MacGarry's but I am pleased from time to time to find writers and film makers who are MacGarry's. And one of the MacGarry's had enough brass to get himself a beautiful coat of arms.
Although my Father's discharge certificate mentions no special medals for heroic conduct, he was regarded by his many friends as being a war hero. Perhaps this was because he was one of the few who returned from three years of trench warfare with the Manchester Regiment in the first Great War. He regarded himself as incredibly lucky. All his friends had died. He had lost an eye and a leg and had a stiff left hand due, he said, to lying on that side for months in hospital beds while his wounds healed. He never complained, but then he did not grumble about anything. He never actually sat still. He was always on the move. Not so much restless, because that would suggest he was nervous, which he was not. He was perfectly content and sure of himself. He was highly principled, a bosses' man, a freemason, a heavy drinker, an Orangeman, a Conservative and he loved his country without the slightest reservation.
Before the War my Father had been a keen athlete, and his weekends were taken up by football and long distance running. After the War, with the young men dead or busy elsewhere, he was taken to the pubs and fêted by the older men. Later when he was established in a good job, it was his turn to repay their generosity and every night of his life he bought drinks for anyone and everyone. My Mother had started drinking to try to stop him but she had rapidly become hooked and probably drank more than he did. Eventually she died of cirrhosis of the liver.
Dad was always right and never saw two sides to any question. He was strict, unbending, without a hint of ambiguity and, although he inflicted much pain and suffering on his children, he was respected and adored. The rules had to be learned and were reinforced with a cuff on the side of the head.
"Don't answer back! Don't be cheeky! Speak when you're spoken to! Who are you looking at? Look at me when I speak to you!"
And general rules. "A man - a gentleman - never strikes a woman or ever lays hands on her!" (This rule made me an extremely reserved and inhibited teenager. Perhaps I was so popular with the girls because I 'did not try anything on' as the saying used to be. My best friend got an older girl pregnant when he was fifteen. I had not got to the kissing stage at that age.) Truth telling had to be one hundred per cent and lies brought on kicks as well as blows. I never lied to him, but sometimes he did not believe me and I would dive under the table for protection. Only rarely did he move the table so I was able to dodge his gammy leg which was swung with great force. If the table was moved my mother would intervene as I scrambled to get under the sideboard.
"I'll kill the little sod, I'll throttle him, I'll swing for him!"
My Mam used to say, "No one will poison you, you little bugger, you were born to swing."
Practically all the money surplus to food and rent and coal went on alcohol. Money for clothing or anything else was only extracted with great difficulty and after continual nagging and pleading.
From my bedroom window I could see through the trees the ancestral home of the Barlow's. During the long months of mysterious illness which beset me throughout childhood I peopled the Hall with its generations of Barlow children in strange costume and saw in my imagination its long hall hung with dark paintings of Barlow knights. My Father had no need of the ancient equivalent of a family photograph album to know where he belonged and who he was. He was ex-Private Harry Smith of the Manchester Regiment, an officer of the Ancient Order of Buffaloes.
Although I adored him, our life paths diverged from the
very start. One of the Barlow's, Ambrose, was a Catholic martyr and had been
cruelly executed. Ambrose Barlow was one of my saints before he was canonised.
To follow in Jesus's footsteps and pay the ultimate price for his faith! There
was a man. I doubt my Dad knew of his existence for, although intelligent, he
had little education and I never knew him to open a book or read anything
except the Daily Mail and racing papers. When we sang my favourite hymn, 'There
is a green hill far away', in the hall during assembly at
My Father served his king and country. The only top person he ever criticised and that below his breath so he would barely be heard, was General Earl Haig.
"Bloody Generals! What did they care! It was like a bleeding butcher's shop... What did Haig care?"
Then he would swing his leg and shut himself away in the kitchen.
"Dad's crying in the kitchen. He was sobbing, Mam," I would say.
"Leave him be," she'd say. "It's the war."
When very young, I would ask, "Why are you crying, Dad?"
Once he said, "For my old comrades I left in
And he'd slip out his glass eye and wash it under the tap at the sink.
When my body burned with fever as if I was on fire, I slept in his bed and would watch as he unstrapped the canvas and leather belts which held his artificial leg in place. One of his boots was laced permanently to his gammy leg and he would leave the leg with the boot attached inside his trousers when he undressed. Then he would remove the special white socks made to measure for his leg stump and rub away the pain. Only my Mother would know when his stump was raw and sore. It was a point of honour not to complain. It was something men did not do.
For the fevers my Father prescribed Fennings Fever Cure,
which was highly thought of because it tasted ghastly. Dad knew about such things
because he had had ambulance training and for a time had been a stretcher
bearer in
I would swim out of a delirium to find my Dad clinging to me. Our flannel shirts would sometimes be soaking with sweat. But sometimes I would be in one of those tranquil cool periods between fevers when my brain, though no longer inflamed, saw everything so clearly, and it was my Dad who was tortured in his sleep and re-enacting a battle in the trenches. Sometimes it was impossible to make sense of the incoherent flow of shouts and orders - perhaps that was how the real battle was. Sometimes pieces made sense.
"Mr Edwards, Sir! Mr Jones presents his compliments and requests you to bring up your men immediately, Sir! We are under heavy attack! They are in the trench!"
There would be a pause, then, "Oh God! Jesus Christ! They're all dead! Bits and pieces of bodies everywhere! Jim! Bob! Where are you?"
Then Dad would begin to sob and I would try to comfort him.
I was brought up to serve King and Country and the Empire. I was a boy soldier, and as such treated like a man. A man never ran away. He always stood his ground. A man never laid hands on a woman. The reason as I have said for my being regarded as a 'nice boy' by girls and their mothers when in my 'teens. Impatient girls undid their blouse buttons and put my cold hands inside to warm. One can be too nice!
"Don't be so bloody daft," was my Dad's response. "We are Conservatives."
All my Dad's beliefs were like that. Final and forever.
Although I adored my Mam and Dad, one of my earliest recollections, following on those of being fed with pobs and later Farley's rusks and squatting on the Daily Mail and grunting, was of total disbelief at what I was seeing. I was propped up with cushions on a settee watching my Mam and Dad and brothers and sisters. The furniture was cheap and unattractive. How did I know? The conversation was in bits and pieces, accusing, mock threatening, whining from the children. It was not elevating or educated, but common and even vulgar. I was repelled and alienated. Why had I come here? I was in the wrong place! Some awful mistake had been made!
I was a weakling. Something had to be done. I had to be taught to fight and uphold the family honour.
"Up the Buffs!" was my Dad's cry to arms.
At every opportunity I was expected to fight. If my Mother stood at the gate she would challenge a passing Primo Carnera or budding Tommy Farr and cry, "My lad can beat you!"
They would look at me and laugh, which only encouraged my Mother.
"Call yourself a lad of mine and you won't fight!" she'd say.
"But Mam, I don't want to fight!"
"Don't you want to stick up for your Mother then? Say someone attacks your Mother? Fat lot of good you'd be. Harry (my oldest brother) would look after his mother! See that boy coming. He's very nasty! Go and get him!"
And so began my career as a prize fighter. Nobody fought harder, longer or more often. I got used to pain, bruises, split lips, black eyes, scratches, kicks. In fact I welcomed them as it made my Mother happy. I was a real boy. I never won a fight in all those years and never desired to. But I never ran away and would get off the floor time after time until my assailant would explain he would lose face if he kept knocking down someone who obviously could not fight for toffee.
"He wiped the floor with you," said my Mother scornfully after watching a somewhat unequal contest with a boy the size of a furniture van.
How I longed for her to rescue me and tell me I was brave, but she never did.
"You don't want to be a bloody clerk," said my Dad when I was eleven and took the scholarship examination, so I ended up at Chorlton Park Elementary Boys' School or rather after two minutes, in the playground winded and bleeding.
I was picked up, my arms were threaded through the school railings and I was then thoroughly beaten. The gravel embedded in my knees turned septic and when the delirium finally cleared I had been away from school for ten weeks. I had no idea that I was dying; that the doctors had given me up. In 1938 the wonder cure for septicaemia, Penicillin, had not yet been discovered. It was just delirium, another fever, but it seemed like coming back from a far country and I did not care whether or not I arrived. On one of these occasions early on I became aware of the doctor examining me.
"Hello," he said. "It's the first time I've seen you conscious. I'm Doctor P. I don't know what's wrong with you. I'm bringing a colleague to see you."
Dr P. was apologetic when the other doctor arrived. The new doctor assured him he had done the right thing.
"Let's start again," he suggested. "We'll examine him from top to toe."
They pulled off my shirt. When they saw my knees they could not miss the abrasions and scabs. They parted my legs and found a large black swelling in the groin.
"Septicaemia!" they exclaimed.
The decline continued. There was no cure. I would become conscious to find Dr P. bathing my body to get the temperature down.
"We're both in trouble," he said.
Ages later I swam out of delirium and he said maybe I was going to make it. My temperature was falling.
"They can't take that away," he said.
Very gradually I recovered and Dr P. would sit by my bedside doing his pools coupon. He would bring me piles of expensive American comics. And then he stopped coming. My Father would not tell me why. I felt somehow it was my fault.
"When is he coming back?" I would plead.
My Father said he was not coming back. He had been struck off for gambling debts. I did not believe my Father. It could not be true. If it were true I would not have wanted to live.
In my absence from school the preliminaries in the
"You're new, aren't you?"
"Not really," I replied.
"Listen. I can beat everyone in the school," said
I guess he thought I looked a pale thin weakling who had just got off his death bed.
"You can't beat me," I said.
"Are you kidding?" said
He gave me a push which would have sent me six feet if the railing had not been three feet away.
"You can knock me down," I said, "but I'll never admit you can beat me."
"You're crazy," said
In due course
"Why wouldn't you admit I could beat you?" he would plead. "You were the only one in the school who wouldn't submit."
"I can't," I said. "It's the way I was brought up!"
Ten weeks into my new school and I had not had a lesson or
met a teacher. I was really looking forward to my first class. Besides I had
survived my first encounter with
"I have told you time and again for months," he yelled, "never to put a plane down on its blade."
The rest of the class gathered round in eager anticipation. From his desk Mr Ladd extracted a long leather strap. The ends of the strap were cut into thongs.
"Hands up, boy! One under the other!" yelled Mr Ladd.
"The cat of nine tails," somebody murmured gleefully.
Mr Ladd was not angry. His face was lit up. His eyes were gleaming. His tongue was hanging out. He skipped forward as if going to bowl out Don Bradman. He could not have tried harder to tear the fingers from my hand. I got six of the best. Three on each hand. As he was preparing to take aim a quiet boy wearing spectacles tried to intercede.
"He's new, sir. It's his first lesson."
"Shut up!" yelled Ladd. "I've told him a dozen times."
I was not too upset by all this. I was used to pain and the
school bullies left me alone. Apparently
In 1939 war was declared and Mr Ladd, as the dogsbody, was voted to be in charge of Air Raid Precautions. As timber was in short supply he had a good excuse for not handing out any wood for the boys to work with. As he had always been mean and acted as if it were his wood he was handing out, he was very pleased to walk around wearing a tin hat and blowing his whistle. Instead of ghastly woodwork we now got lectures, often very imaginative, on what to do if the enemy bombed us.
During one of his talks he told us what to do if the Hun decided to drop gas bombs on Chorlton-cum-Hardy. We would hear gas rattles - which Mr Ladd demonstrated. Apparently as soon as Mr Ladd learned that the Germans were going to wipe us out with gas, he would ride around on his bicycle rotating his gas rattle. We would then all put on our gas masks. However, this would not help if the enemy were dropping mustard gas. How would we know if we were being bombed with mustard gas asked a brave ex-woodworker. Mr Ladd looked at him as he had once looked at me, and I feared he was going to demonstrate his skill with the cat of nine tails again.
"You'll know about it, you just wait and see," he threatened.
"So what do we do if we get covered in mustard gas, Mr Ladd, please sir?"
"A very good question," said Mr Ladd with a snarl.
He would have smiled but there was a war on.
"You take all your clothes off immediately."
"In the street?" someone exclaimed.
"Anywhere," said Mr Ladd.
"Women too?" said a brave soul.
"Women too. Everybody stark naked."
Mr Ladd was warming to his work. Perhaps he was thinking of riding on his bicycle giving his rattle alarm for a practice mustard gas attack and making everybody he encountered strip stark naked!
"What do we do then, Mr Ladd, please sir?" asked the class.
"You run to the nearest house. Ring the door bell. Run inside and jump in the bath."
"What if there's a lady in the bath?" the whole class gasped.
"Tell her to move over and get in with her," shouted Mr Ladd, full of excitement. "All naked, all in the bath together!"
With that he ran out of the room with his tin hat and rattle and the class broke up to run round the school, telling everyone to pray for a mustard gas attack. The girls got quite hysterical. Next day a deputation of anxious mothers waited on the headmaster to ask why their daughters were expected to strip naked when Mr Ladd performed with his rattle. Mr Ladd became extremely popular and his stories, like all good yarns, were added to beyond all recognition.
When Mr Ladd suddenly disappeared, it was obvious to all the boys that the headmaster, jealous of Mr Ladd's incredible popularity, had volunteered him for something very nasty, like being dropped behind enemy lines with his tin hat and gas rattle.
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When I was a small
child I would help my older brother Harry with his newspaper round in
Northenden, an attractive
For two years I was unemployed, although my mother sent me for a number of jobs. I pretended to be stupid so as not to be employed as a butcher's boy. My mother was very disappointed. She liked the idea of cheap or free meat. When I was eleven she found me a morning newspaper round which paid three shillings and sixpence a week. Then an evening round for another three shillings and sixpence. Mr Burgess at the farm at the bottom of our council estate street could see I was a keen worker, so I took on a milk round too at seven shillings a week. I started delivering milk at five in the morning until the air raids started and I was at risk of getting in the way of fire engines and rescue squads. After my evening paper round I turned up at the farm to help bottle the milk for next morning. At the weekends I collected cash from my customers on the milk round and did odd jobs on the farm. In the holidays I cleared pigsties and weeded and picked potatoes.
My mother was not too happy when I left school and started an engineering apprenticeship at the vast Metropolitan Vickers factory. I only earned fourteen shillings a week at the factory. I loathed engineering. My first department was H Machine. I arrived the morning after it got a direct hit from a German bomb. The lathes and milling machines were hanging from their drive belts in mid-air. I was moved to K Machine. The lavatories at K Machine were in two facing rows and were so close that legs stretched into the walkway between.
My father had lost his job as a shirt cutter and had volunteered for war work. I found him dragging trucks piled high with iron castings on K Machine. The management had not noticed he had an artificial leg and a glass eye and he did not tell them. He was intensely patriotic. Women had been conscripted in large numbers into the factory and rapidly proved, after only a short training period, to be better machine workers than the men. This caused a lot of resentment. There was a great deal of flirtation and even the middle class ladies who were well spoken seemed to enjoy the sexual banter and innuendo.
My job was to drag two large steel baskets of brew tins to a lean-to boiler house at lunch time and otherwise run errands. A surprising number of men would either try to grab my penis or stroke my bottom. Some would try to get me to go home with them. If this was homosexuality, there seemed to be an awful lot of working class homosexuals at Metropolitan Vickers. The brew sheds were dangerous too. Sexual attacks disguised as initiation ceremonies were common. I learned to run fast and cry at night. The nightmares I had then I have had ever since. The initiation involved masturbation by an older youth and sometimes variations like jamming a narrow topped bottle on to a boy's penis so he could not remove it when he had an erection. If he did not get an erection a girl would be persuaded 'for a laugh' to expose her breasts or raise her skirt.
At fifteen I was on some errand when I stopped to chat to
another brew boy from the Research Department. I agreed to swap secrets. They
had few sexual initiations in Research. The people there were graduates and
college apprentices and scientists. A better class of worker. So I recounted my
stories of the K aisle brew sheds and he told me the secret of the atomic bomb
which they were working on in the top secret Research Department. A little
later I moved to West Works where I helped to assemble the switch gear panels
for the Victoria Falls Power Station and mobile switch gear units for the
My national service in the RAF. followed a predictable pattern. I tried hard not to be an electrician so I became one. At Melksham in Wiltshire I was pushed through advanced courses in electronics which I found totally boring. We had to be reasonably bright and our intake included a sprinkling of grammar and public school boys and students. When taking the end-of-course examinations I was surprised to get high marks.
"You remember very little, so you work out all the answers from theory and principles," I was informed. "The others only remember what they've been told."
I was asked what rank I would like. I settled for a pass. I was terrified I would be given stripes and recruited as an instructor.
At Melksham I discovered the joys and delights of
I volunteered for service in
The problem with electrics in a very hot climate is that
the insulation melts. The fire switches were held in place by blobs of pitch
which also often melted, leaving the engines awash with foam. One
One night I was swinging my searchlight and trying to dodge
the large dung beetles which hit the lamp and fell at my feet, when a Sten gun
opened up and bullets flew around my head. The rifle came up and I fired a
magazine automatically. I was furious that the RAF. had succeeded in training
me against all my inclinations to become a rifleman. My inhibition was not
unconnected with my father's experiences in the trenches in
"It's a bit of a let down you being alive, Smithy," said one. "We were all saying what a smashing bloke you were. We felt very sorry for you - you being dead. Now you've gone and spoiled it!"
About this time I was summoned to see my Wing Commander and was given a dressing down.
"I have here a report on your work signed by your
Flight Sergeant before he returned to the
"He didn't tell me, sir," I said.
"All right then," he replied. "So long as you know. Your grade is satisfactory!"
At that time the British were withdrawing from
During that voyage back to Liverpool in August 1948 I
cleaned the latrines all the way through the
Within days it was as if I had never been away. I would
have gone insane if I had not been saved by my old mate Frank Fairhurst, the
shop steward. Frank had news of a junior engineers' conference organised by our
Society, the Amalgamated Engineering Union. I attended that conference and was
pitchforked into battles with the communists. I was outraged to discover that
they rigged elections and found that they fought dirty. I was very quickly
elected to the Trades Council, the executive of the Fabian Society, the
executive of the City Labour Party. The following year I was a candidate for
the City Council. When Frank Fairhurst stood down as shop steward I was elected
to replace him, and Frank became a foreman. The communists now saw their chance
and the District Committee refused to issue me with credentials as a shop
steward. The works director had wanted Frank to remain shop steward. I only
pretended to force him out. Frank wanted the foreman's job. However, the works
director was displeased with me and very rapidly, to the delight of the
communists, I was out of a job. The major battles in the unions in
I found a job in an aircraft factory. Was it true, the communists asked, that I was collecting books for a book fair for the Labour Party League of Youth? Would I like a pile of books? How kind, I thought. I was checking some wiring on an aircraft when a security officer ordered me to report to the Personnel Department. Someone had been smoking or taking a break on that aircraft.
"I wasn't smoking or taking a break," I protested.
"You're going anyway," said the security officer. "Have you seen your bench?"
The works of Lenin, Marx, Engels and Stalin were stacked high on my bench. The communists howled with laughter.
"Have a good read," they shouted.
I had been out of work a few weeks when a printer on a newspaper asked if I would like a job. He was a keyboard operator. The salary seemed enormous.
"I can't type," I said.
"You won't be allowed to. It's a union agreement. They've got rid of a machine, but they've got to employ an extra man."
"And what do I do all night?" I asked.
"Nothing. You won't be allowed to."
I declined the well paid job. I disapproved strongly of this kind of trade unionism.
I saw an advertisement in the Guardian for university extra
mural courses at
"Why don't you go to University?" Ralph asked one day.
"It's impossible," I protested.
Ralph asked what I thought of one of the visiting lecturers.
"OK," I replied. "Not very bright."
"Right," said Ralph. "He's got a couple of degrees and you're brighter than he is... Remember," he continued, "knock on plenty of doors. Some doors will be slammed in your face but eventually you'll find someone who's been waiting for you."
This was excellent advice. In October 1950 I got on a coach
to
"Ruskin won't take you without money and the City Council won't give you a grant unless you have a place at College," I told him. "So write to Ruskin and say you have the money and to the Council and say you have the place."
I helped my friend write an essay for Ruskin on the closed shop. The opening sentence of his draft commenced, 'The non-trade unionist in the factory is a philistine within the gate who must be eliminated...'
"We start," I suggested, "'Some would say that the non-trade unionist...' Then we put the other point of view and proceed that way all through the essay like two people having an argument."
"And at the end?" my friend asked.
"Sum it up, pros and cons, and if you want my opinion, settle for tolerance or leave it open."
"I won't sell out," said my friend.
"You'll enjoy
Two years later when I moved to
Return to Autobiography Chapter
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My first year at
I was met by the College Secretary, Ferdie Smith, who said, "You'll be staying at the Rookery in Headington," and bundled me into a taxi.
"Don't go away," I advised the taxi driver when we arrived at what had obviously been a large country house.
I then tried to explain my predicament to the students I
encountered. Conway Morgan came to my rescue. He was to be my room mate and he
was rolling a cigarette with one hand when we first met. He said nothing, but
pressed paper money into my sweaty palm. During this manoeuvre he seemed to
manage to keep one hand in his pocket and continue rolling his cigarette in a
Rizla paper with the other. No mean feat! He was like that. Con was a very dark
Welshman who could be eloquent but otherwise, unless he had something important
to say, preferred silence. He chose on leaving
Some of our lectures were given in Headington and others at
Returning from a sojourn in Shoreditch which had been made
more tolerable by that area's Shakespearean connections, I found that an oafish
oligarchy of Northern barbarians, masquerading as trade unionists, had taken
over the house committee at Headington and were being a bore. These were not
brothers but old fashioned bullies and they had drawn up long detailed rules
and regulations which licensed them to annoy and irritate fellow students.
While I was luxuriating in a hot bath one morning, one of the comrades burst in
on me to announce that this was criminal activity. The committee had drawn up a
timetable and one could only bathe by consulting this dreary document and
taking a dip at an allotted time. As the bathrooms were mostly vacant with hot
water gurgling in the pipes at all hours, this seemed like an attempt to turn
our sylvan
I found the fellow conspirator I needed playing the piano
in the common room after dinner. Robin Higgs was quite unique at Ruskin. He was
a
'No baths today
But we are dirty!
No baths today!
What can we do?
Take a furtive dip?
And risk persecution?
Big Brother is at the keyhole
Watching you!'
That evening, returning from a rare visit to a local pub, the staircase in the Rookery was dark. As I reached for the banister rail, yells and the thud of falling bodies came from the top of the staircase. I stood aside as the thugs of the oligarchy stumbled and bounced down the stairs.
"Sorry lads," said Robin, who was massively built. "I didn't see you crouching on the stairs in the dark!"
Robin revealed to me over a mug of cocoa that he had overheard the mob planning a Tyneside Friday night ritual, namely to kick the shit out of someone. The target was my good self and the lads had removed the light bulb and were lying in wait when Rob had accidentally kicked them down the stairs! Not since my schooldays, when belatedly the school champ Dawson had become my chum, had I known the joy of having a protector. Robin's massive presence terrified the oligarchy. They never found their rules and regulations.
"Where did you hide their ghastly constitution, Robin," I asked one sunny day.
"The one place those ignorant bastards would never think to look," said Robin.
"The library?"
"Naturally," said Robin.
Ruskin had been a delightful experience. The College
specialises in courses for mature students, and I found the tutors to be very
kind and generous with their time. Ruskin is in no way inferior to the older,
richer and more prestigious colleges of the University and achieves extremely
high academic standards. Ruskin is an oasis of liberal civilised values to
which students and scholars have been drawn from all over the world. It was
established by two young idealistic Americans at the end of the nineteenth
century. An act of great generosity from the
In December 1950 I attended a student conference at
Transport House. The chairman was an old friend from
"You are going to have your photograph taken for the Daily Herald," said Peter. "Pick out a pretty girl from the hall."
At the back of the hall was a young lady with a golden halo. The halo was her plaited fair hair pinned up. I pointed to her and called and she came forward. That was how I met Carol. We had our photographs taken and the next day I apologised for being a bit slow and asked her to marry me. There were a lot of good looking men at that conference and I was taking no chances. We sat holding hands in the foyer of Transport House when the porter decided to play Cupid and showed us into the TUC. General Chamber.
"It'll be warmer up here and a bit more private," he said.
Which goes to show one should never underrate the TUC. The brothers mean what they say about love and fraternity. Trade unionists are magnificent people. Sometimes a little foolish because they are very ordinary like the rest of us, but big-hearted, very generous and very loyal. What few Conservative politicians understand is that they are also intensely patriotic, conservative and yet liberal minded and the salt of the earth. Harold Macmillan understood them which is why I think he will go down in history as a truly great Prime Minister.
I now had a problem and Billy Hughes, the Principal of Ruskin was, quite rightly, rather cross. I had been accepted to read Philosophy, Politics and Economics at St Catherine's Society by the Censor, a reverend gentleman, and I had changed my mind.
"What are you playing at, Harold?" asked Billy Hughes. "You've done extremely well to be accepted and now you say you won't go!"
"But I've also been accepted by Magdalen," I said. "And Balliol are quite keen."
"Good God, Harold," said Billy. "How many Colleges have you applied for?"
"Twelve," I said. I was taking Ralph Ruddock's advice literally. "I didn't think any of them would want me," I added.
I apologised to Billy Hughes, and suggested we take it that I had gone the wrong way about applying for admittance to a College and had been severely reprimanded. He should reply to the Censor accordingly and smooth his feathers.
And would I go to St Catherine's? asked Billy.
"No," I said. "He wrote me an extremely abusive letter without giving me a chance to explain. I acted in ignorance. That letter was meant to hurt."
The Censor of St Catherine's was not mollified. If I would
not go to his College, the doors of every other
Perhaps the President of Magdalen had seen me out of politeness. His butler had taken my dirty raincoat and held it at arm's length. The President's study had large faded tapestries covering the walls.
"Hello, Mr Smith," said Boase. "Excuse the old clothes. I'm weeding the garden."
The butler poured the tea from an exquisite Georgian teapot and I thought, 'This is better than working in the factory.'
"So what have you been doing with yourself?" asked the President.
I explained about Ruskin. I had the University Diploma in Public Administration and had been awarded a State Scholarship in addition to my Cassel Scholarship.
"I was born into a working class family in
"Tell me about
"I was guarding the
"What was?" asked Boase.
"To see Karnak and
He threw back his head and laughed. "Mr Smith,"
he said. "All my life I've wanted to go to
Harry Weldon was extremely friendly and we had a glass of sherry. I was beginning to drool at the thought of Magdalen. The very atmosphere made me tingle with joy.
"I'm a socialist, but not a communist," I told Harry Weldon. (I thought it as well to make that clear.)
Weldon chuckled. "Surprise me, Smith. Surprise me," he said.
After the Censor had got to work, Weldon saw me again. "What's the old sod up to, Smithy? What have you done to him?"
"I told him I didn't want to go to St Catherine's..."
"Quite right too!" said Weldon. "Who would want to go to the Cats' Home with that burke! Tell him to piss off!"
I nearly upset my sherry glass. "It's all right your telling him what to do, Mr Weldon," I said. "Sitting here in Magdalen sipping your sherry. He'll have my balls!"
Harry Weldon roared with laughter and tears ran down his face. "That's the stuff, Smithy," he said. "Tell the old bugger to go and..."
I began to form the impression that Weldon had no particular respect for men of the cloth. Some days later Boase sent for me.
"I'm afraid, Smith," he said, "you may be called on as a Magdalen man to make the supreme sacrifice..."
It seemed that Magdalen was supporting Balliol who needed some new laboratories on condition that Balliol helped Magdalen put through some crafty wheeze. Unfortunately the Censor of St Catherine's support was also needed. His friends were making noises and...
"I think I must withdraw my application, sir," I said.
"I knew you'd understand, Mr Smith," said Boase apologetically. "It's Balliol's labs and our little scheme and..."
'Oh well,' I reflected, 'it was nice being a Magdalen man while it lasted.'
Towards the end of term I was doing my washing in the basement at Ruskin when I had an idea. I was not committed to any College now. Balliol had probably got its laboratories. I would start again. I wrote to the President of Magdalen, apologising for my ignorance of the proper etiquette when last I applied. I now had no commitments and wished to make a fresh application...
Boase replied next day. 'Dear Smith. Glad to have you with us...'
I was a Magdalen man again.
"Good God, Smith," said Boase. "We let you in for three years and now you want senior status and to do the degree in two years. Did you ask Harry Weldon?"
"He said it was all right with him if you agreed."
"And the Dean of Arts?"
"He said if you agreed..."
"Look, Smith," said Boase. "Just because they let the Prince of Wales do it before the war doesn't mean..."
"The way those regulations are drafted," I said, "I'm sure they'd let me do it."
"Go on then, Smith, old chap," said Boase. "Tell them the story. Tell them the story."
I was housed with the Rhodes scholars in a set of rooms opposite the College. The sitting room was furnished with a deep club-type leather suite and limed oak sideboard, table and chairs. Mr Edwards was my scout and we became good friends.
On matriculation day the Junior Dean of Arts at Magdalen lined the new boys up in a crocodile. We were wearing sub fusc, that is dark suits, squares, gowns and white bow ties. The Junior Dean was taking no chances. He placed four reliable grammar school boys at the head of the crocodile and shoved choir and organ scholars - Dudley Moore was not untypical- who were notoriously wayward, in the middle. I was with the oldies, the Rhodes scholars, bringing up the rear, but the Junior Dean, suspecting we might slip into the pubs on the High Street, shoved us in the middle of the crocodile too.
Off we went down the High and into the Sheldonian which always resembles a Costain building site. I was chatting to Colin Eisler, a New Yorker, about everyday matters like the meaning of life and how to make a good cup of tea. We were plunging down a stone corridor when a labourer with a wheelbarrow blocked our way. We paused and then a man with a ladder came along. We set off again, but this time Colin and I were leading the back end of the Magdalen matriculation crocodile. We went round the building and passed the man with the wheelbarrow again when the cry went up, "We're lost!" and our followers deserted us and started opening every door they came to. Colin and I ran after them and then some smart public school boy got the scent and we burst in on the matriculation ceremony. There was one small problem. We had come through a door behind the Vice Chancellor who was on a raised dais. The Vice Chancellor looked startled as the Magdalen mob propelled by those behind hustled past him. As I squeezed past I noticed he was reciting his Latin speech from a script concealed in his mortar board.
The Junior Dean of Arts was somewhat displeased. His Latin speech slipped out of his hat. When he got us outside he just shook his head and groaned.
"Do you think we got matriculated, Sean?" asked Colin.
"About that pot of tea, Colin," I said.
An
I was invited to lunch and thoroughly enjoyed the burnt
sausages and mash. I detest rare sausages. Miss Rosemary and I had a contest of
apologies. She apologised for the burnt sausages. I apologised for being so
greedy and eating every last burnt sausage. I think I won. Henceforth I was
introduced to everyone in
"I'm told you're the politest man in
"I like burnt sausages," I confessed.
"Tell me," she said. "What is the University? Is it the Colleges?"
The politest man in
"You really are deaf, Harold," said Miss Rosemary one Sunday afternoon."
"I really don't think so, Miss Spooner," I responded.
"Humour me, Harold," said Miss Spooner. "I've made an appointment for you at the Radcliffe tomorrow."
"So you're not deaf," said the hearing specialist.
"That's right," I said.
The specialist covered his lips with his hand and continued talking. I tried to peer around his hand. How could I hear if I could not see?
"Can you hear now?" he asked, letting me see his lips.
He stuck a hearing aid in my ear and I recoiled. The traffic noise was awful and a whole aviary of birds was singing madly. I was being assaulted by a battery of sound. So, courtesy of Miss Spooner, I became officially deaf and was issued with a hearing aid. When I wore it I didn't need to turn it on as people shouted my head off. Not that I had much time for social activity at Magdalen. There were one hundred tutorials to attend and one hundred essays to write. We were all so busy. Friends one wanted to know better, Alf Morris, Guy Barnet, Gerald Kaufman, Fred Jarvis, all rushed by.
"Hi! How are you? Fine. See you!?"
Each week at Miss Spooner's one knew where there had been a
revolution because she always had for tea the very latest batch of refugees.
One sometimes wondered where last month's refugees had gone. Everyone was made
to feel somebody special. I had my title. A shy Dagenham shop steward, which
seems improbable, blossomed after being introduced several times as a very
important trade union official. Another visiting shop steward held the whole
room transfixed with a long boring yarn but it was not his story which was
spellbinding. It was his table knife which he waved above his head in a repeat
of the speech which paralysed
"Did we take their stinking offer?" demanded the docker.
The assembled professors and refugees shook their heads vigorously.
"No, we didn't!" said the docker emphatically, the knife and its cargo of jam cleaving the air.
On the last syllable the knife and jam parted company and everyone's eyes rose to the ceiling with the raspberry jam and then down to the fine Persian carpet where it landed.
"Oh sorry!" exclaimed the docker and he ground the jam into the carpet pattern with his boot.
"What a thrilling story," said Miss Spooner faintly.
"Lovely jam this!" said the docker reloading his knife.
If I was polite, what were the Spooner ladies? Saints, I think.
My friend Neil Smelser compared being a student at Magdalen
to living in a monastery. Perhaps unlike Neil I found everything about Magdalen
joyful and sheer delight. Like Neil I was not overawed either by Magdalen or by
Yet we had so little time to appreciate the magnificence of
Magdalen. Two or three years may seem time enough but in my case a hundred
tutorials and a hundred essays left too little time for friendships and the
astonishing range of social and political activity available. How did I find
time to convene the Cole Group, to give papers to the Labour Club, to entertain
ex-Ruskin people who were also reading politics to tea each week, to walk
around
Neil was a Rhodes scholar from
"Look after Helen, Sean," he would say and he would be away.
Was Neil trusting or did he know that Helen would pin my ears back and would still be giving men - and me as the sole representative available - hell when he returned much later? My daughter Helen was named for Neil's Helen and she is an active feminist too.
We wore short black gowns, but only when we had to wear them, which was usually for lectures and formal dinner in Hall. Neil and I had only one mortar board between us. We were really mean. At the end of term we would assemble in the Hall for Collections which were known to Magdalen undergraduates as 'The Inquisition.' In turn we would go up to the high table carrying our square and the dons would make sarcastic comments on our progress. Quite accurately after a term of Philosophy, Harry Weldon reported I was in danger of discovering the subject any time now. On one occasion Neil had preceded me as usual carrying our square. He was on his way back and my name had been called when the President took him aside to compliment him on his work.
"Your square, sir!" the head porter yelled as I set off up the Hall minus my mortar board.
The assembled scouts grinned as I indicated that I was carrying
an invisible square under my arm. I managed to stand alongside Neil at the high
table and our square disappeared from under Neil's left arm and reappeared
under my right one! The dons must have thought we were a stingy pair. Actually
it was Neil who was the radical. He loathed bullshit and the
Neil and Colin Eisler lived on the top floor of a beautiful
old pile called the
"What's wrong with the drapes?" said Neil, puzzled.
Colin paraphrased Oscar Wilde's remark about the wallpaper in his room where he lay dying, "One of us will have to go."
Each day Colin took the offending curtains down and
whenever he returned they would be back in place.
The
Although I mixed mainly with American and Commonwealth
students at Magdalen because they were older, I had no problems with the boys
from the public schools such as Eton, Harrow or
The vandalism used to annoy me, particularly as the damage was meticulously recorded and costed and added to our bills. As the vandals were often rich and some of those who did not take part were poor, this did seem inequitable. Some of the public school boys appeared to have been starved for years. Being from the working class and a fastidious eater, I would rarely clean my dinner plate and would be surprised when a well-to-do ex-Etonian would offer to finish off my scraps. In conversation the public school boys would tell stories of hunger and deprivation which made my working class upbringing seem rich and privileged. They would also be contemptuous of their parents and critical of the lack of love shown to them. Too often they felt they had been packed off at an early age to get them out of the way. And some complained that excuses were made for sending them off in school holidays too. They would be aghast when I piled jam on my bread.
"You can't do that, Sean," they would protest.
When I queried why not, they would say, "You can't. It's not allowed."
"Pretend you're working class," I would say, "and pile it on."
Maybe they thought nanny or the school matron was still watching them.
All in all the student body at Magdalen was very mixed and
quite cosmopolitan. No one was nasty to me, no one patronised me. I sometimes
made the point that I felt so much at home because the
"It's you rich sods who are the interlopers," I would claim.
Yet in my second year I became a little weary of Magdalen. And that because I fitted in too well. I felt the balance I had struck was threatened. I loved the deep leather chairs, good food and amusing chatter. Perhaps I felt I was being seduced. Most of the friends I had made in my first year were now in digs and I had chosen, as this was my final year, to keep my rooms in College. A joke that I was 'the college communist' stung me. At most other times I would have laughed it off by saying 'how true' and how 'it paid so well, the floor of my rooms had been reinforced because of the weight of the sacks of Russian gold.' Perhaps all my friends felt the same. A realisation that the world out there would have to be faced and some adjustment was necessary.
I decided that I had to junk all the
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I joined another Union, the Municipal and General
Workers, and became a
My job was to move crates of butter along a conveyor belt and bind the boxes with wire on a machine happily named, 'The Gordian.' A homosexual theatre buff with rotting feet, who shuffled around stacking empty cartons, told me of a young bloke he had recently helped escape from the factory on to the stage. The young bloke's name was Maurice Micklewight, and I have often wondered if Michael Caine, when he became famous, remembered the factory hand who took pride in helping others get on.
There was much ribald laughter and teasing when I took my place on the conveyor belt. The girls on the butter packing machines were not accustomed in those days to have students in their midst. I say 'students' because, having recently seen the Doctor series of films like 'Doctor in the House,' they decided I was a medical student. When I protested that I was not, they said I was really a psychologist, one of those doctors who listened to your dreams. They had seen that film too! The girls would invite me to listen to the glorious sexy dreams they had had and ask me to say what they all meant! The machines were very close to the conveyor belt and when the girls created a log jam, the men had to take turns to move along the conveyor and squeeze past the girls. We were timid and reluctant to do this, especially as we knew from experience that the girls might force us against the conveyor for a 'bit of fun' and all the girls would howl with laughter.
Before going to the packing machines the solid packs of butter would be mixed with salt and water in massive churns. The salt was kept in the cellars and because of the large number of rats down there, some cats were kept in the cellars. The sacks of salt we brought out of the cellar would be pungent with the stink of cat pee. The workers claimed that this is what gave the factory butter its appeal.
The butter would pass through the packaging machines in a variety of cheap paper or fancy silver wrappings, heading for a cheap corner shop or a Knightsbridge store. We all knew it was the same butter but when the men slipped some packs into their pockets they preferred the posh wrapper, for even they felt it tasted better. My refusal to steal the butter myself was eventually to lead to bad feeling. I was not only superior but dangerous. I pretended to take the butter, but they were not deceived. I might tell on them. Perhaps I was a boss's man, a spy? It was time to move on.
When I applied for the post of Labour Officer with the
Department of Labour in
Helen was of course the most beautiful baby ever born and
Carol and I were blissfully happy. We made light of our housing and money
problems because we considered ourselves to be so privileged and fortunate. As
we could no longer live in our one-room bed-sitter in
My first impression of the Colonial Office was that it was
as quiet as an empty church, which was not inappropriate as it was situated in
Church House,
Mr Barltrop advised me that I was going to have heavy
responsibilities thrust on me in
"What do you think of the job?" asked Barltrop.
I replied in my usual jocular fashion that it sounded like a cross between a Boy Scout Patrol Leader and a Factories Inspector. I immediately wished I had kept my mouth shut, but everyone smiled and Barltrop replied that this was in fact quite an appropriate description.
The interview over, the messenger was leading me down a corridor as I thought to the exit, when he paused and whispered, "Mr Parry, the Deputy Labour Advisor, wishes to have a few words, sir."
Mr Edgar Parry looked like the trade union official he had
once been. He had served very successfully as Commissioner of Labour in
"So you've got the job, Harold. Come and sit down.
Forget everything Barltrop's told you. They know bugger all, that lot. I'll
fill you in on the real picture in
At this point I should emphasise that although I was incredulous at what Parry was to divulge, I was to find he was extremely well informed, accurate and truthful.
"This is the story, Harold. The Labour Department in
(I was never to find out how Parry managed this. It seemed
not even the Governor General could post me out of
"Into this Augean stable goes bright, ambitious George
Foggon, the new Commissioner, the new broom. He's come from the Control
Commission in
"So where do I come in?" I asked. I felt quite shaken.
"Exactly," said Parry. "What's in it for
you? There are no prospects for you in
I left the Colonial Office in a state of shock.
M father-in-law's reaction was direct. "Don't go. Tell them you've changed your mind. What else did he tell you about this new broom?" he asked.
"That he was known to his friends in
"Maybe Parry was drunk," I suggested later to Carol.
"It can't be as bad as all that."
"Surely Barltrop would know, and he seemed a very decent chap, and so did the others. Perhaps Parry's just got it in for this Foggon bloke...."
Six months later the Smith family with all their worldly
goods were on their way to
An extremely well informed American academic, Henry L.
Bretton, in his devastating critique of British rule, 'Power and Stability in
Nigeria,' published in 1962, exposes the fraud, chicanery and skulduggery of
the British colonial rulers in such fine scholarly language that his message
was easily ignored. One of his chapters is headed with the delicate
understatement which characterises his writing, 'Not as Taught at
On our voyage to
The orderly arrangements on the mailboat gave way to chaos when we found ourselves in the custom shed at Apapa. Several gangs of labourers in rags were competing to head carry our loads to a Department of Labour truck. A British official of the Department introduced himself as Bob Curry and launched into an indignant speech to the effect that it was beneath his dignity to meet 'new boys.' He was a Senior Labour Officer and he was only picking us up because he had been ordered to. That was probably true, but almost everything else he told us proved to be false. According to our informant we were going to stay in the Government Rest House in the white enclave of Ikoyi, and would then go up-country. He also gave us advice on recruiting servants which was disastrous and put the boot in the new Commissioner of Labour whom he clearly did not like over much. For us, George Foggon's stock began to rise.
The car stopped at a long series of whitewashed single
storey offices connected by covered walkways. This was the Department of
Labour, situated on the Ikoyi road leading from the many acres of
"We wouldn't have come without her, Mr Foggon. The Colonial Office were insistent that they had your approval."
"I didn't know," Foggon said.
The Senior Labour Officer smirked. "I told them the same thing. He shouldn't have brought his wife either...."
Foggon checked him with a disapproving look. "That doesn't matter now. They're here."
"I'll drop them at the Rest House," volunteered the Senior Labour Officer.
"They're going to my home for a few days," said Foggon.
"They're booked at the Rest House....."
"Take them to my home," insisted Foggon icily.
Our guide was furious and grumbled all the way into Ikoyi. The Commissioner's house was very beautiful and set in an equally splendid garden with breathtaking displays of bougainvillaea and frangipani.
Bob Curry introduced us to the Commissioner's wife with the query, "Mr Foggon says these people are to stay with you?" as if inviting Mrs Foggon to bar the door against us.
"I've heard nothing of this," said Mrs Foggon.
At first sight she seemed an aloof and formidable lady with
a strong
"I told them they should be at the Rest House," said the Senior Labour Officer triumphantly. "I'll take them there if you like."
"I think it would be better if we went to the Rest House," I suggested. "There's obviously been a misunderstanding..."
"If George says you're to come here," said Mrs Foggon, "you'd better come in."
We were shown into a very comfortable sitting room but Carol, who was already very uneasy, was signalling that Helen needed to be changed.
"Of course," said Mrs Foggon. "Come upstairs and I'll show you the guest bedroom."
When Mrs Foggon returned she asked, "Are you a Labour Officer, Mr Smith?"
"Yes."
"Are you the one from
"Yes."
"It's most unusual for a Labour Officer to stay at the Commissioner's house, Mr Smith. It's not the done thing..."
"I would be very happy to stay at the Rest House," I assured her.
"Oh no, Mr Smith," she insisted. "If it's what George wants..."
When Carol returned Mrs Foggon questioned her and seemed
astonished to learn that Carol could be married, have a child and be a
graduate. It is true that Carol has always looked very young and at that time
was used to being charged half fare on the buses. Unfortunately Mrs Foggon had
told me that she had learned German with George while stationed in
"Foreign languages, Mrs Foggon."
"And which languages?"
"French and German," answered Carol quietly.
I could see this conversation was heading for disaster. I tried to change the subject, but it was too late.
"Oh well, if you have learned German at University, people like myself will have to be very careful what we say..." She changed the subject. "I think it's time we dressed for dinner," she announced.
Poor Carol looked as if she thought we should make a run
for the mailboat before it turned back for
When Helen had been given a feed and put to bed, we showered and prepared to change and go down. Carol was very upset and sat on the bed almost in tears.
"Why have we come?" she pleaded.
What could I say? I helped Carol unpack her best dress and I put on my Oxford Schools dark suit. We held hands, counted to ten and went down stairs.
Holding forth on the settee was a wiry small man with close cropped hair and very bad teeth. He was wearing a creased and weary-looking linen suit and tie - almost the only time I was to see him wear a jacket. Mrs Foggon was addressing him as 'Peter' and laughing with him. She evidently understood what he was saying but his thick Scots accent baffled my senses. With time, and knowing the subject of conversation, I would begin to follow his discourse a little.
The introduction was so brief as to be non-existent and he returned to his subject. This was strange too for he actually allowed Mrs Foggon to speak as in a normal conversation. To most people Peter Cook would simply engage in a long monologue that was impossible to interrupt. When he had finished he would simply turn and go. I suppose I was surprised that he was homosexual because in my almost total ignorance of the subject at that time, I had an idea that homosexuals were handsome or at least attractive, and Peter Cook quite obviously had neither of these attributes. He was quite repulsive.
Mrs Foggon had most certainly dressed for dinner. She was
wearing a long-sleeved full length black evening gown with jewellery, and her hair
was pinned up. She was a very striking woman and was making a stab at being
thoroughly poised and at ease. But her voice let her down because her tone was
affected and her accent was an uneasy blend of low Geordie and southern
acquired posh. Coming from the back streets of Hulme and having been strained
through the higher reaches of
When Foggon arrived he exploded on seeing
"For goodness sake,
"His wife calls him Sean," said Mrs Foggon.
"So you're Irish?" asked Foggon.
"Of Irish stock. My wife decided I needed a distinctive name after my dentist gave me a lot of fillings meant for another Smith."
Foggon turned to Peter Cook and addressed him warmly as if he were a good friend.
"And how are you, Peter?"
Whatever Peter said was lost on me. Then abruptly he was up and he had gone. Mrs Foggon left the room to discuss the evening's meal with her cook, and Carol went upstairs to check on Helen.
"Have a drink Smith; relax and take off your tie," ordered Foggon.
I sipped a sherry and loosened my tie. Foggon appeared to be in his element. He was relaxed and happy and he was about to make me an offer.
"You are going to find a lot in the Department you
will hate. Don't worry. I am going to change it all." (Some years later he
had changed nothing.) "Take no notice of that pervert, Peter Cook. I'm
going to get rid of him." (When Foggon left
Foggon went on to say that he had particularly asked for an
intellectual to be sent out. Someone who could handle papers. There it was
again. It was news to me that I was an intellectual. Maybe someone had noted
that I wrote poetry which I had published in student magazines. Did writing
songs for a cabaret at
"I'll draft you a Factories Act, Mr Foggon," I said firmly. "You really will, Smith?" asked Foggon. He was both anxious and elated.
"When do I start?" I asked.
"It will take you a day or two to settle in. We've got to find you a house. Peter will see to that."
"Like hell he will," I thought. I was learning fast.
I excused myself to see if Carol needed any help. Carol was pretending all was well and was smiling wanly. I repeated the deal Foggon had offered.
"And what did you say?" asked Carol.
"Very little. Nobody seems to expect me to say anything. Perhaps it's because I smile. I do want to draft a Factories Act so I told him I'd do it."
"But nobody is to know," said Carol.
"That's right," I said.
"Do you trust him?" asked Carol.
"I don't know. Probably not," I replied. "What choice have I got?"
We stayed at the Foggons' a couple of days and whilst appreciative of the hospitality we were being offered, made it clear we would be happy to get started in our own place. It seemed that Peter Cook had found us a very nice bungalow and the following morning we moved in.
The wooden bungalow had been empty for some time as most expatriates preferred to live in the three-storey blocks of flats which lined some of the Ikoyi roads. Rats and lizards scuttled under the corrugated iron roof but the biggest drawback was the lack of a proper cooker. The kitchen was very primitive and situated outside the bungalow. The stove had to be fired with wood. How did we get wood? The wood problem would be resolved when we got a cook. We asked for Mrs Foggon's help. But she had a lot of problems with servants and the cook she sent us stayed two days, and was so surly we were happy to pay an extortionate sum to get rid of him. We also needed food and household goods.
Two Labour Officers dropped by and made welcoming noises. I had two questions. How did I get to the office and how did we shop? At that point the two Labour Officers withdrew their offers to help. They were not on speaking terms. And if I was talking to one of them, the other was going to cold shoulder me too.
I had gone in desperation to call on one of these expatriates at his home to request assistance when, on returning, I heard Carol let out a scream. She was sweeping the bungalow's concrete floor and had placed Helen in her carrycot on top of a coffee table. Coming out of the bedroom Carol saw a large snake entwined round the leg of the table ready to strike Helen in her cot! Carol had rushed at the snake with her brush raised and the snake swept out into the compound, as the barren garden was called. We were having a rough few days, but in reality we were being prepared for another proposition.
Peter Cook let us stew for a while before revealing that perhaps he could find us a modern flat in the block where he chose to live. He was in fact supposed to live in a rather sumptuous house, but preferred to live in a top flat. Before the flat made an appearance - it was in fact the flat we had been supposed to occupy - I got several hours of Peter Cook's monologues which could be summed up as demonstrating the desirability of doing nothing as everything was pointless. (His message of total apathy did not apply to his hedonistic life style or the fat salary he drew for doing very little). One did not really have conversations with Peter Cook. I have noticed that in some marriages when one partner refuses to argue and tries to withdraw, the other conducts both sides of the argument.
"I know what you're thinking. You think I'm nothing but a..."
That was Peter's technique. If you gave him a polite answer to fob him off, he simply ignored the answer and told you what you were really thinking. This was very disconcerting as his guesses were often correct. And if they were not it put you in the wrong. And your protestations did no good. If Peter told you that you thought he was a useless sod, you might find yourself lying in your teeth and telling him he was not that at all!
After listening to himself talk for several hours, he
decided that we should be friends. We would get along fine. All I needed to do
was to do what Peter told me. At this stage no action was indicated. He was full
of goodwill. He would not only let us move into a flat, but would deliver me to
and from work in his car for a few days. He would even tell one of the Labour
Officers to take me into
So Peter Cook was a fund of goodwill, because I was a sensible, intelligent person who realised he knew nothing about Africa and would put himself one hundred percent into Peter's hands to be guided along a safe and sure track where nothing nasty might happen. And who knows, when George Foggon departed as he surely would very soon, Peter would be in sole charge again and a bright intellectual might go far with the right kind of help.
We moved into the flat. We even found a cook. The cook
wanted to live in the servants' quarters in the compound, but it seemed that
Peter Cook's young houseboy needed two sets of quarters, which was probably why
Peter had kept our flat empty for some time. Peter did us another good turn and
allowed us to have the quarters belonging to our flat. Every normal arrangement
became a privilege, a concession to be granted or withheld at Peter's say so.
It seemed that
Return to Autobiography Chapter
List
Henry L Bretton, in the prophetic work I have referred
to earlier, distinguishes clearly between the formal aspect of institutions in
Nigeria; that is to say between how the Labour Department was supposed to work,
and the reality of what actually went on. Unfortunately most of the early
scholarly works on
As the façade of the constitutional system crumbled in the
1960's, many scholars, with an investment of years of study in
As predicted, Peter let it be known that I would be posted up-country very shortly, but nothing came of it.
The working day in Government offices in
It did seem an odd way to issue orders. The truth was that George was really a stickler for discipline and chains of command. The proper route for his orders to his staff was through Peter Cook, but Peter Cook for the most part simply ignored them. George simply did not know how to cope with this situation and was forced to try issuing orders direct to the staff. But they in turn only acted when Peter Cook told them to act. No one actually refused to obey orders - they just mislaid or lost the file or lied and said they had returned it. They would call the messenger in and shout at him. If that were not enough they would dress down the long-suffering Chief Clerk. He of course, as did all the African staff, knew exactly what game was being played. But it was Mr Cook they feared, not the Commissioner. Peter Cook was in charge of the administration, which included promotions, postings, sackings and bicycle allowances, and he could and would make an African employee's life a misery whenever he chose.
In all Government headquarters, whether in
Colonial administrations had been forced with some
reluctance to set up Labour Departments under pressure from progressive
Colonial Secretaries in
But most important was the Intelligence aspect.
Intelligence is the life blood of any colonial regime. Trouble must be nipped
in the bud and trouble makers controlled. The apparatus of conciliation and
even the encouragement of trade unions made sure that most kinds of dissent or
rebellion were channelled into the offices of the Labour Department whence they
were immediately notified to the Administration's Special Branch officers. The
Commissioner of Labour in each colony sat on the main Intelligence Committee
with representatives of the Police, Military and Administration. The industrial
relations section of the Labour Department in
Peter Cook's total inaction, however, and in particular his loathing of correspondence and paper work could be misleading. He kept a close eye on industrial disputes and could act decisively to damp them down when he chose. The effect of his policies on the staff of the Labour Department Headquarters was to encourage total idleness. Peter did not tolerate laziness - he urged it on all expatriates. As he correctly pointed out, most items of correspondence, if ignored long enough, would not require answering. The subjects which at first appeared urgent would be seen in their correct perspective when the page was yellowed and covered with dust in a departmental file some weeks or months later. The letter would then be seen to have been 'overtaken by events.' Besides, answering letters promptly only encouraged the correspondent to write again.
A good way to deal with an oppressive letter was to write
'BU 3 months' (bring up in three months) on the minute page and have the file
returned to the dusty racks of the filing section where there was a good chance
it would never reappear. If by chance the file did reappear, the original
letter might be buried under fresh correspondence which dealt with a quite
different subject. And anyway the chap who had signed the original 'BU' might be
safely on leave and propping up the bar in a country pub in
The employment schedule or section to which I was assigned was very quiet because it operated on the lines laid down by Peter Cook. It was Reg Lewis who was delegated to show me the ropes. No-one quite knew how Reg came into the Department, but a similar mystery shrouded the backgrounds of several Labour Officers. As some had a trade union background, it was generally assumed that those Labour Officers, who were not ex-Army and insisted on being called Major or Captain, were ex-Trade Union officials. One or two had slipped in sideways from Public Works or the Railways like Peter Cook and the ex-Army types did not have much regard for them either.
Reg went to the door and looked up the walkways. It was quite safe. The messengers outside each office were fast asleep. Sometimes a Labour Officer would awake from a nap himself and creep up on his sleeping messenger and roar in his ear giving the poor man a fit.
"Wake up, you lazy bastard," he would shout.
Or they did in 1955. As
Reg returned to his desk where he had insisted that I be seated. Looking around from time to time to make sure no-one was listening, Reg gave me the key advice on how to survive at Labour Headquarters.
"Remember," he said. "You've got to keep your head down in this place. Know what I mean? Peter Cook... he's a bit fly... know what I mean? It's not just that he's one of them. Know what I mean?"
"You mean he's homosexual?"
I was prepared to defend Peter Cook's sexual preference, though I hardly knew what homosexuality was in the innocent 1950's, as I would have defended Oscar Wilde, an ex-Magdalen man whom I revered.
"It's the kids from the Alakoro Labour Exchange and the juveniles from the youth office, those trying to get Government jobs. They get sent up in two's and three's for interview by old Cookie."
"I see," I said.
This sounded all right to me.
"It's not what you think, " said Reg in a whisper. "He takes them home and puts it to them."
"Puts it to them?"
"You know. Come and have a bit of fun and I'll be your friend and look after you."
"Oh Jesus."
"These kids are desperate for jobs," said Reg.
"I suppose they're used to it. Brought up in the jungle. Come to
"And everybody knows?"
"Of course they do. Every other day there are two or three sitting under Foggon's window in the shade waiting for Cookie. You've got to watch your step here, Smithy. You don't have to do anything. If you do you'll only step on someone's toes. Just take it easy. Read the papers. Slope off for a coffee or a beer. Back for two and home for lunch and a little death..."
The 'little death' was how it felt to take a nap in the
steamy heat of a
I felt sick with the whole situation. What had I let myself
in for? It was not that Peter Cook was a homosexual. That need not have been
anyone's concern, but his own and his friends. I was going to be responsible
for the running of the juvenile bureau and the proper and fair handing out of
jobs, and Peter Cook would be - and I was to find he was indeed - seducing and
raping the boys in my charge. Edgar Parry in
"The trick," said Reg, "is to get rid of files. If all else fails you can lose the file or slip it into someone else's 'In' tray when he's absent or 'Not on seat' as the Nigerian clerks say."
To mark a file 'PA' for 'put away' involved risk because it might disappear for too long and if found would have your name on it. Of course one could refer files to another section.
"And if they send them to you?" I asked.
"Ah," said Reg. "Then you write on the file 'Noted' and send it back. Of course," he continued, "you can refer it up, but Cookie doesn't like that. He's likely to walk the file back and throw it on your desk. You could put up a draft reply to him or even send a typed letter for signature. He'd probably pass it on to Foggon then and he'd be unhappy as well. If letters have got to be written, be very careful and sign them for the Commissioner of Labour."
"And who types the letters?"
"Send them to the Chief Clerk. He's got two dozen typists sitting at typewriters but not a key is pressed. They have to sleep with their eyes open. It can be done," protested Reg. "Just takes a bit of practice. If they close their eyes the Chief Clerk throws things at them."
"And who keeps him awake?" I asked.
"Hatred keeps him awake. He thinks he's intellectually superior to all us morons. He's either planning a revolution or a book which will denounce us."
"You're kidding, Reg," I protested.
"I swear it's the truth," he said. "Have you met our famous author who's rolling in money? His books are translated into ten foreign languages."
"No, where?"
"You can't miss him. He's the messenger who's awake. You'll see him scribbling in kids' exercise books. His name's Amos Tutuola."
"THE Amos Tutuola," I exclaimed.
"Oh, you've heard of him?" said Reg.
"He wrote the Palm Wine Drinkard."
"Drunkard," said Reg.
"No, drinkard. I suppose it's pidgin.
"It's amazing," said Reg. "All that money and the bugger can't spell properly. On the other hand, I can't spell either," he added. "But no one's paying me to write books. Now you'll be in charge of the Employment Exchange," said Reg. "But don't look too closely, know what I mean." Reg tapped the side of his nose with a finger. "Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, eh? See all, hear all, say nowt. Keep your nose clean and don't go looking for trouble. Know what I mean?"
I nodded in bewilderment.
"The Lagos Exchange is totally corrupt," said Reg. "But it doesn't matter as any jobs the staff don't give to their relatives, Cookie gives to his boy friends. Cookie's the most feared man in the country. And he has friends in High Places. Right at the Top. They come to his parties and his small boys dance with them.... So I'm told," added Reg hastily. "I've never actually been invited. I'm not you know... one of them. Now a bit of black velvet. That's different, eh?"
"Should I visit the Labour Exchange at Alakoro?" I asked.
"Any time," said Reg. "It's like a Turkish bazaar."
"I could 'phone the manager first?" I suggested.
"I wouldn't do that," said Reg. "He's very
busy. Not at the Exchange. He's running a laundry in
"What else do we do?"
"Oh, yes," said Reg. "Migrant workers. Twenty thousand Nigerians working on the plantations in Spanish Fernando Poo. We license recruiting agents who wander round the Eastern Region where there are lots of Igbo kids without work. The Spanish beat them up. Tie them to trees and wallop them with wooden paddles..."
"Can't we stop it?"
"That's not our policy," said Reg. "Cookie says they deserve all they get. Nobody made them go. So don't do anything... it will only bring Cookie down on you. He's friendly with the Spanish recruiting agency. It's very profitable. They send him cases of wine."
"But that's terrible!"
"Yes, it is," said Reg. "Tastes like bloody vinegar. We've also got workers in French territory round where Dr. Schweitzer has his hospital. He plays his organ to them and all that. The French don't beat them to death."
The handing over was supposed to take some days, but after our 'showing the ropes' chat, Reg disappeared.
As Carol and I were determined to be honest, we were very soon put to the test. Once we had a flat to turn into a home and a cook who became our friend, interpreter, protector and guide, we soon took delivery of a car. A driver had to be found and again we made a good friend when we found Joel. This expense was essential until I could pass the driving test. One of the trade testers in the Labour Department offered to obtain a licence by telephoning his chum, who was the Chief Tester. He was persuasive.
"Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours," he insisted. "It's not corrupt like the bloody Nigerians. It's just a favour. You'll probably want to do me a good turn one day."
We would not have missed Joel for anything. All we had to
do now was to do our sums but we found we needed much more than I was earning.
How did the other expatriates manage? Now we had the car, Carol could seek a
job and quickly found employment as personal secretary to the General Manager
of British Petroleum (
Almost as soon as I was ensconced behind the employment
desk, Foggon sent me a pile of dusty files relating to the various efforts to
draft a Factories Act for
What should be done was to cut up the English Factories Acts and the Colonial Acts based on them. That was the first decision. This was to be a scissors and paste job. Secondly, the Act had to be driven on to the Statute Book without delay. It had to be presented in the proper layout, beautifully typed with schedules showing the precedents for every phrase used. Consultations would be needed with trade unions and employers' organisations, but this could be steamrollered through so long as Peter Cook did not get wind of it.
The earliest letter on the files had been collecting dust
for many years. It was a letter from the Colonial Office suggesting a Factories
Act was needed in
I told my messenger I needed a large supply of foolscap lined paper, paste, pins, scissors and paper clips and duly filled in a requisition on the stationery store. My messenger returned to say that the store was closed, they had none of these items, they were stocktaking anyway and Mr Cook had given orders that Mr Smith was to get nothing without Mr Cook's approval. I got in my car and went down to the Kingsway Stores and purchased everything I needed. On my return I went to see the Chief Clerk and admired his neatly spaced ranks of typists who were struggling to stay awake in a baking hot, ill-ventilated room. Could I have a typist to take on a very big job for the Commissioner?
The Chief Clerk smiled, "My typists are too busy, Mr Smith ..."
I returned his smile. I went back to the Kingsway Stores and bought both typing and carbon paper.
The Factories Act was drafted in my flat at night, typed by Carol as I was cutting, sticking and making up extra bits, and it was finished in six weeks. A beautifully typed Bill, ready for the lawyers, was presented to Foggon. He did not say "Thank you." To be fair, he appeared to be stunned into silence.
The Act went immediately on to the Nigerian Statute Book and was hailed by the leading politicians as the finest piece of legislation ever to be placed there. The Attorney General wrote to say that the draft had been passed without amendment and was the best presented Bill ever to go through his chambers. Foggon had tried to interest a former Factories Inspector in checking through my Bill. The three of us sat down and began to turn the pages. Foggon was really happy and handled the pages of the Bill as if it was treasure beyond reckoning. Our Factories Inspector was uneasy and kept glancing at his watch.
After a few minutes he stood up and said, "I must be off."
"We've only just started," protested Foggon.
"I can't help that," announced our old coaster grandly. "Some other time perhaps. I've got a cricket committee meeting. It's very important. I mustn't be late."
The day my Factories Bill became the Nigerian Factories Act, Foggon telephoned to say he was taking our cricketing old coaster with him to the House of Representatives to see the Bill become law. They would sit in the Chamber behind the Speaker's chair - a rare honour - because the Bill was meeting with tremendous approval from all sides.
"That's very nice," I said.
Foggon paused. "Of course you could come too if you wanted, but I expect you're very busy..."
"That's right," I assured him. "I'm very busy. Thanks anyway."
Whilst producing what might be a magnificent piece of health and safety legislation which could possibly help cement the emergent Nigerian nation together and give it the trappings of a civilised country, I was also aware that I was producing what might be merely a piece of window dressing without real significance for Nigeria's eager millions. I was certainly producing a stepping stone to help George Foggon climb higher and higher up the civil service tree, but George's ambitions lost me no sleep. I had no doubt that when he had finished with me I would be cast aside and perhaps even destroyed.
Our small flat in
The furniture provided by the Public Works Department was simple but adequate and the flat had wooden parquet flooring. Mosquito nets were provided for our very large bed and Helen's cot. The king-size bed was an excellent idea because, with the net down, it became a secure insect-free zone and, when stocked up with books, games, toys, food and drink, it was turned into a small, quiet, comfortable and peaceful kingdom. The PWD. chairs were also built for king-size colonial administrators, but once the dirty brown cushions were covered in brightly-coloured rep material, and cheerful curtains hung at the windows, we had a home which gave us great joy and a strong feeling of security.
Yet we were acutely aware of how privileged we were to live
so well, while the many thousands of people in Lagos, who were paying for
Ikoyi, our flat and our salaries out of their miserable wages, were living in
mud huts for the most part, without running water and proper sanitation. When
the rains came they would be flooded. In no way would we minimise the
discomfort or suffering of people living in such difficult circumstances. Yet
in spite of these privations, the people from these shacks were all clean and
neatly dressed. Their children too, were clearly well taken care of and loved.
When we think of the nauseating racism which permeates white societies and
compare it with the tolerance, kindness, good manners and hospitality which we
received without exception during our five years in
Once we had equipped our flat with rugs and ornaments and a small radio and record player, we began to get to know our neighbours, particularly those with children. We also tried to invite Nigerians to come to the flat for a cup of tea or a meal, but in 1955 this was not as easy as at first we thought. What we had not thought through was that our intended guests would wish to return hospitality, and if they were living in very poor conditions, might feel embarrassed. Even the few Nigerians in European quarters at that time were not always easy to get to know outside the office. They might not turn up at all or be late and ill at ease. Having said that, one would then encounter Nigerians who were much more urbane and sophisticated than we were, who were totally at ease in any situation. The general level of intelligence was extremely high in so many Nigerians we met and, though often they took pains to disguise the fact, all too often one found Nigerians in relatively humble jobs who were head and shoulders in education and intelligence above the European masters whom they served.
Although it was obvious to me that
The Yoruba or Lagosian in a secure senior Government
position had the character and demeanour of a very wise judge or professor.
These were people of the very highest character, often self educated to the
highest possible level, yet modest and polite as it was no doubt politic to be
in the old colonial
It was fashionable for some expatriates in those days to
taunt the Nigerian elite with being too clever by half. This was the reaction
of people who knew themselves to be inferior or inadequate. Often dogged by
injustice, poverty and by lack of opportunity, considerable numbers of
Nigerians - often aided by dedicated Christian missionaries - had gained an
education and become leaders of considerable stature. And if one thought
Nigerian men were often brilliant, one only had to meet some Nigerian women to
be stunned by their high intelligence, perception and wit. It would not
surprise me if West Africans proved to be of a higher intelligence than many
people in
It became my rule to recommend almost every Nigerian who
came my way for rapid promotion. This fitted in well with the obvious need for
Nigerians to be found to fill senior posts, but again, although this was
acceptable by 1960, it was by no means tolerable to many Europeans only five
years earlier. It was suggested once in my hearing that the reason for the
drastic shortage of mosquito men in
Once the Factories Act was out of the way I was able to
survey the awful state that the
Those first few weeks in
As the weeks passed, Carol would become listless in the evenings and homesick. Carol hated to be inactive and was happiest during the day because she had her interesting and fulfilling job at British Petroleum. If the truth were known, Carol would have much preferred to do her own cooking and housework and felt restless when watching servants look after us. We detected the same unease in other expatriate wives and wondered that those without jobs to go to did not die of boredom.
Apart from these occasional depressions and a few bouts of 24-hour fever which I had and which alarmed me, during those early days we had few health problems. We took our anti-malarial drugs each day and were so happy to be in our first real home together with Helen that even the clouds blowing up around my work at the Labour Department did nothing to affect our cheerful optimism.
We rarely stayed up late and made a point of retiring
earlier when Peter Cook began to call in at a late hour and uninvited. He would
be carrying a whiskey bottle and a glass and would sit by the door under the
garden window, always in the same seat. We would try to engage him in
conversation by asking him questions about
"People like you, Sean," he would say. "Come out here, with your wishy-washy preconceptions and liberal values. You feel sorry for the Africans. You think they're poor and hungry. They're not poor and hungry. They're well fed and happy."
"And the infant mortality rate is fifty percent, Peter," Carol would interject icily from the depths of a large chair where I had assumed she had fallen asleep.
"There you go, Carol. You think they suffer as you would suffer. They're used to it. And it keeps the population down. It's a kind of population control or family planning."
I would signal to Carol not to get heated as it would be pointless. Carol would be enraged and I would suggest maybe she was tired and ought to turn in. I would stand up myself and begin to close windows and beat out the cushions, but Peter was expert at not taking a hint. Soon I would be sitting close to his chair while he droned on. I had to get close to him as his voice would sink lower and become more hypnotic. Occasionally I would snap awake from a doze and find he had gone. The sweat stain on a chair back and the ring where his drink had stood were the only signs that he had called.
Our afternoons and early evenings would sometimes be enlivened by a Romeo and Juliet scene with Peter Cook's balcony as the setting and Peter and his small boy/steward cum lover as the two players.
"Who's making all that row in the compound?" we would ask James, our cook.
"It's Mr Cook's boy, sir," he would answer with a grin. "He's sulking behind a tree. He says he doesn't love Mr Cook any more..."
The small boy, a youth of fifteen or so, was standing with his back to Peter Cook who was pleading for forgiveness from his upstairs balcony.
"I won't do it again, I promise. I'll be good. Oh, come on. You can't stand out there all night. We'll have a treat. We'll go and see a film..."
The small boy would sooner or later begin to turn, though
determined not to give in easily, and gradually would allow himself to be
coaxed indoors. In time one would begin to accept this type of behaviour as
normal and take no notice. The heat in
I was appalled and shocked when I visited the Lagos
Employment Exchange. It was situated on the waterfront at Alakoro near the
The compound was packed with people, of whom only a minority appeared to be job seekers. Traders were doing brisk business; groups of friends were deep in discussion; and the Exchange compound was more like a market or bazaar than a Government office. People were asleep or drunk not only in the compound. Inside the offices it was even worse. It was impossible to distinguish between the staff and the clients because the crowds were on both sides of the counter. Job seekers or staff were fast asleep stretched out on the counters, behind the counters and under the counters. Fierce haggling and bargaining were taking place and no one appeared either to be in charge or to consider anything was at all unusual. I was angry, bemused and amused at what I saw. I had to take another new Labour Officer to see the chaos because I was not sure I could believe my eyes.
On my return to Central Office from visiting the Exchange, Peter Cook sent for me. My visit had not gone unnoticed.
"So you've been to Alakoro. Enjoy your visit?"
"I thought it was a shambles, Peter."
"It's not that bad really. It just appears untidy because it's relaxed and informal."
"People were asleep on top of the counters!"
"It's very hot down there. The staff probably overwork..."
I burst out laughing. "You're not serious, Peter?"
"Indeed I am. And I must remind you that you have no
operational control over the Exchange. Your job is employment policy. The
Exchange comes under the Labour Officer,
"Actually, Peter, the Commissioner asked me to visit the Exchange. He has asked me to take a personal interest in its proper running."
Peter launched into a tirade of abuse. I backed out of his office and returned to my papers.
After some consideration I proposed to the Commissioner that all applicants be removed from inside the Exchange and brought back into the Exchange by the entrances at the other side of the building. Each entrance would deal with a different category of applicant. For example, new applicants would be separated from those renewing their application. Peter Cook surprised me by seeming to accept that this might be a good idea. He suggested I take one of his chums to the Exchange to explain my plan. We pushed our way through the crowds while I explained my scheme. The large gates would have to be closed.
"OK. Shove them all out and close the gates."
"Hold on," I said. "I wasn't planning to do it now. We could have trouble."
"If you want them out, get them out," said my companion.
He began to wave his arms at the crowd and push them back towards the gates. I thought this was crazy but I had to help him. As the crowd was pushed back into the gate entrance they began to shout and scream and refuse to move. I tried to smile and be persuasive but a hard knot of shouting men were holding their ground. I turned to consult my colleague but he was nowhere to be seen. I was alone, holding back a threatening mob who were beginning to wave their fists. I ordered a messenger who was trying to hide behind a pillar to close the gates, leaving those who would not move inside the compound. I helped the messenger close the gates against the crowd who went quietly, but once the gates were closed they tried to force them open once more.
I turned to those still in the yard and invited them to come into the Exchange where I would see that they got immediate attention. They began to move into the Exchange and the yard behind me was cleared of people. Now it was over I was frightened. I turned as a massive roar came from the crowd outside the gate. But they were not outside. The messenger had opened the gates and a solid mob of the unemployed were charging towards me. Things looked very bad. I could not have got into the offices if I had tried. I stood my ground and suddenly I roared with laughter. They had beaten me. I had been set up. My laughter changed the mob into a happy crowd of Lagosians who had scored against the stupid British. The crowd that hit me were not enemies but very ordinary people. Instead of being trampled underfoot, I was lifted high and was carried that way at speed until I hit the office wall with this crowd of joyful whooping people. I sought the hand of one of the leaders of the crowd and held his arm aloft as a referee does for the victor in the boxing ring.
"The winner!" I shouted to the cheers of the crowd.
People slapped me on the back and roared with laughter. I laughed with them. Looking up I saw my erstwhile colleague looking down from the safety of an upstairs balcony.
"Where the hell were you?" I demanded angrily.
"I went for a pee, old man. Had a bit of bother, did you?"
"I could have been killed down there," I said angrily.
"Then don't go looking for trouble," he snapped and turned on his heel.
I questioned the messenger as to why he had opened the compound gates and admitted the crowd.
"The white master say, 'Open the gates.' Please master he tellum, go open gate."
Peter Cook was highly amused. "I hear you had a bit of bother at the Exchange, Sean. Don't say I didn't warn you!"
The next morning I was at the Exchange very early and personally padlocked the gates. I took over the staff as they arrived and made temporary signs for the new entrances. I personally supervised the new arrangements. The Exchange was orderly, business-like and looked like a Labour Exchange. The crowd accepted the new scheme enthusiastically, and even the staff seemed relieved. I knew I had achieved very little so far, but it was a start.
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The Spanish Colony of Fernando Poo had a well
documented history of cruelty to its labour force years before Nigerians from
the Eastern Region began to work there under a Treaty between the Spanish and
British Governments. The export of almost slave labour from
The Labour Department followed the dictates of Peter Cook
and the Administration nevertheless. The line from the Foreign Office in
My first discovery was that the treaty workers were dealt
with under the Spanish Labour Code and that neither the Vice Consul nor the
Labour Department had an English translation. I decided to arrange for a
translation to be made. In many respects my investigations revealed a
deplorable situation. No one had followed up except in a most perfunctory way
the ill treatment of workers which sometimes ended in death. The Spanish had no
consideration for the lives of Africans, and the British in
Some files he upgraded to 'Secret' and others disappeared. It was unclear whether this was because some of the files had been routed through Peter Cook.
It was quite impossible to satisfy both George Foggon and Peter Cook although I tried. I was always polite to Peter and tried to humour him. Unfortunately the only things he wanted were that I should do nothing and actually refuse to carry out George Foggon's orders. The extent to which I tried is shown by the relationship which we developed. We were on first name terms, something I was never allowed to be with George. Peter continued to 'drop in' both at my office and at my home. An observer might have thought we were friends. Yet the Labour Department and soon wider Government circles knew that a new raw Labour Officer was standing up to Peter Cook. Amongst the older hands this caused some amusement. They thought I was living dangerously but admired my nerve. The up and coming Africans in the Department had to live with Peter Cook and I understood perfectly why they kept their distance from me. At the same time I clearly had the confidence of the Commissioner as I was to all intents and purposes his right hand man and friend - his only friend it was often said. So there was some covert contact and support from these African colleagues.
The clerical staff, because they read all the files, followed our battles with great interest. It was probably from the Africans in the Department that I first heard mention of Francis Nwokedi. He was regarded as the most senior Igbo in the Department and he was reputed to have played a major role in dampening down the riots which followed a shooting incident at Enugu Colliery some years earlier when a large number of Nigerian miners had been killed by the police.
When Francis Nwokedi bowled into my office one morning I was astonished. His behaviour was so unlike that of any other African in the Department. He was not quiet, modest or retiring. He did not keep his eyes down. On the contrary he looked you firmly in the eyes and smiled with such warmth that your first thought was that you had made a friend for life. Francis was good looking, seemed to be incredibly fit and strong, and moved like an athlete. Women said he moved like a panther. He exuded personality and charm and supreme self confidence. He simply did not belong in the tacky old Labour Department, and with his restless energy he always seemed to be coming or going. He bowled over men and had an even more devastating effect on women. My wife remarked that when Francis spoke to her, she was not only the only woman in the room (even if the room were full of women) but the most important. He would take a woman's arm and walk with her and you would see the effect of that magnetic personality. He was seductive with everybody and could even charm Peter Cook.
When I first met Francis we were both in a relatively low position in the hierarchy, though I think he had by then joined the senior service. In a few years he would be head of the Ministry but even in those early days he dominated the Department and often acted as if he were already in charge. Even more remarkably everyone deferred to him, even Cook and Foggon.
"Sean," he announced to me after releasing my
hand from a grip of steel. "You must be dying of intellectual starvation
in this hole. Why don't we drive down to
"I'll have to ask Foggon," I protested.
"I'll see to George," said Francis. "I'll pick you up in the morning."
And pick me up he did. I was expecting to go in my car, but
Francis arrived in the Department's new Chevrolet driven by a chauffeur. I was
greeted like an old friend and my clerks stood back stunned as Francis whisked
me away from the god-awful Labour Department as if on a magic carpet to the
architects' dream campus that was the new
Francis meant to impress. I was not stupid and I guessed I
was being given the treatment for a reason. He made it quite clear that he was
one hundred per cent behind Foggon in his efforts to clean up the Department
and I had the impression he would be obliged if I would pass the message on.
Although we spent a day together and I learned a great deal, there was much I
did not know and I suspected Francis would make sure I never did. He appeared
extremely open and disarming in revealing details of his upbringing and
education and the fact that the tribal elders had given him a child wife when
he was only a boy. In recent years he had also married, as I was later to
discover, a sophisticated, very well educated, and beautiful lady from
I do not think I said much on that trip to
I tried to follow up this theme but Francis adroitly changed the subject. In truth, Francis was already in politics and politicking was in his life's blood. The friendliness was calculated and yet... One really hoped that Francis was a friend and that a bond had been forged. He was my friend so far as I was concerned for the next five years until I finally despaired of him.
As he sometimes remarked, "But Sean, you are so incredibly young!"
I knew he meant I was innocent and naïve. Not worldly and
looking to my career and advancement. On that trip I expressed, I suppose, with
all my youthful idealism (which made him roar with good natured laughter) my
interest in
"This place, these people, Sean!" he would explode.
After that trip I would be for ever thinking that, although
There was always something tragic or comic about that
winding road from
As if to underline the fact that surprise and paradox play a major role in the Nigerian scene, we stopped the Chevrolet on a deserted piece of road and got out to stretch our legs and to pee into the bush on the edge of the road. No sooner had we opened our fly buttons and sent two streams of urine arching into the jungle when, as if from nowhere, a large European-style coach appeared crowded with European nuns in white tropical habits. The nuns stared with considerable interest at this strange scene of the black man and the white man side by side peeing into the bush. The coach actually seemed to slow down as it passed and I could see the Nigerian driver grinning delightedly.
We returned to
But there was to be a twist in the tail of our trip to
"It's OK., Mr Smith," he said. "No trouble, no palaver, just sign it."
"What will Mr Cook say?" I asked.
"Mr Cook is a close friend of Zik. It's OK."
"What has Zik got to do with this?" I demanded.
Dr Azikiwe was the leading Igbo nationalist and Nigerian politician. He was a living legend for many millions of Africans. The black administrator shook his head and sighed. He obviously thought I was very backward.
"Mr Smith," he said patiently. "Dr Zik has
been abroad. Now he has returned. His loads are here in
"OK., Mr Fuwa," I said. "Hold it. I'm
beginning to get the idea. I just thought we were moving books for Mr Nwokedi
to
"Well, that too, Mr Smith," said Mr Fuwa with
that happy grin which so many Nigerians reserved for when they pulled a fast
one on an expatriate. "By the way, Mr Smith, did you enjoy your day in
"Very much," I said.
"Don't forget to sign the voucher, Mr Smith," said Mr Fuwa. "Mr Nwokedi said you would not mind..."
I signed the voucher and stumbled back to my desk feeling that somehow I had been taken, but I was not sure how.
It was some weeks later that Francis flew into
"Has it occurred to you, Sean," he asked as we sipped a cup of tea, "that only the expatriates get any refreshments?"
Well certainly Francis got refreshments but I skipped in my mind whether Francis saw himself as a mere expatriate.
"Don't you think there should be a departmental canteen for all the African staff? That filing room is far too large. We could use half of it for a canteen. What do you say?"
"That's a good idea, Francis," I said, but Francis was already half out of the door, leaving his half-empty cup on my blotter.
"I'll put your proposal to George, Sean," he said with a grin. "I'm sure he'll approve it."
Years later when I saw Sergeant Bilko on TV. I would wonder why Francis Nwokedi kept coming into my mind.
"George wants you, Sean," said his English secretary. "Francis Nwokedi's busy spinning him like a top..."
"Ah Smith," said Foggon. "This plan of yours for a canteen..."
"What George has suggested, Sean," said Francis, "is that we all contribute to setting up the canteen."
Francis was standing behind Foggon and leaning over him like a teacher with a pupil.
"I'll make the first donation," said Foggon, "and then you can take it round the senior staff."
I noticed that Francis had already thoughtfully prepared a subscription list and was putting a pen in Foggon's hand.
"Here you are, Smith," said Foggon. George had promised to pay one pound.
"I think a fiver would be more appropriate, George, don't you?" said Francis, and he scratched out the pound and put in '£5' by George's signature.
Then on the second line he added '£5' for himself. Foggon was totally nonplussed. Francis had him trussed up like a chicken.
"Take it to your friend Peter next door now, Sean," laughed Nwokedi as I backed out of the Commissioner's room. "Peter will want to make a handsome contribution, I know," he said loudly, knowing Peter Cook would hear every word through the flimsy partition wall.
"I heard..." said Peter Cook as I started to explain. He signed up for five pounds too.
In due course the running of the canteen was added to my schedule of duties, but when some Nigerians would say how good it was that I had the interests of the African civil servants at heart and had struggled to open this magnificent welfare facility for them, I would say, "Well, what really happened was..." and then give up. And anyway surely no one believed that Peter Cook would have let me get away with anything as sensible and useful as that.
The duty officer at the Secretariat needed to contact one
of the top brass. It was mid afternoon and an urgent cable had arrived from
The Nigerian steward replied that he could not disturb master as he was in his bedroom.
"Quite," said the duty officer, "but he may be reading. Just peep round the door and then tell me exactly what master is doing."
The steward returned to the telephone and said, "Master is lying on his back on his bed. Madam is on top of him moving up and down..."
The duty officer wondered which creek he would be sent up.
One very hot morning at the office I was working through stacks of files at my desk. The overhead fan was screeching, sweat was running down my back and I was trying to stay awake, for after several hours of reading dusty files, the urge to give way to sleep could become irresistible. To rub one's eyes and rest them for a few moments was dangerous because one would suddenly come to with a jolt and find one had fallen asleep. I looked up from my files to see Peter Cook leaning over my desk. Peter was in a genial mood for he was smiling and revealing his very bad teeth. When Peter was happy he wore his smile all the time, not just when he was with somebody. He would be smiling, sitting quietly at his desk or walking down the concrete walkways to my office. He had decided to bring his smile and whatever idea had prompted the good mood to my attention. Peter was wearing his linen slacks, short sleeved shirt and Scottish tartan tie. It was not possible to see his eyes because he was wearing black sun glasses.
"I've brought you something from George," said Peter.
He was carrying a file. I tried to read the title on the file, but Peter turned the front of the file to his chest.
"What file is it, Peter?" I asked.
"Never mind that, Sean," said Peter. "I just want you to tear it up or lose it."
"Please sit down, Peter," I said. I had stood up when I noticed his presence.
"No, you sit down, Sean," he ordered. "I'm all right standing. I need to exercise my legs."
I felt uncomfortable sitting back in my chair with Peter looking down on me through his dark glasses, and that was probably what Peter intended.
"It's just a bit of George's rubbish, Sean," said
Peter. "When is he going to learn that this is
"Peter!" I protested. "They beat them!"
"Of course they beat them, Sean. Naturally when you
read those petitions on the files you find it upsetting, but that's because
you're new here. This is
Peter could continue in this vein for half an hour without pausing for breath. I would make an effort to resist the exercise in brain-washing for that is what it was. One would pray that he would stop or go away and I could see why he so often got his way. People would agree to his terms, anything, to get him to stop talking. Peter's ideas were inhuman, intolerable and unforgivable. I did not want to hit him - one had to control violence in oneself - but simply to push him out of the office like the sack of rubbish he was. Peter Cook was bent, twisted and corrupt, and the pity I felt for this human wreckage of what must once have been a live, joyous, human creature was tempered by the knowledge of the vile abuses he was perpetrating on the African people who were paying his salary.
I suddenly jumped to attention. Peter had thrown the file on the blotter in front of me. It was the file on which I had asked the Commissioner's approval to pay for a translation of the Spanish Labour Code.
"In your ignorance, Sean," said Peter, "you asked for Foggon's approval to translate the Spanish Labour Code. Now why do you want to interfere with the Spanish way of doing things? They don't interfere with us, do they?"
"It happens to be our duty to protect twenty thousand Nigerian plantation workers, Peter," I protested. "Their safety, health and welfare..."
"And I'm telling you, Sean, to forget it," said Peter. "That's an order. Tear up the file, burn it, lose it, wipe your arse on it!"
I opened the file. On the minute page was Foggon's approval of my request to obtain a translation of the Spanish Labour Code.
"You're not giving me an order, Peter," I said quietly.
"But that's just what I am doing, Sean," said Peter coldly. He was no longer smiling. "Can you not hear what I am saying? I am ordering you to lose that file!"
"You are not ordering me, Peter," I repeated. "With respect, you are countermanding the orders of the Commissioner of Labour."
"Now that's where you're wrong, Sean," said Peter. "Foggon isn't going to see the file again because you are going to lose it!"
"No, Peter," I said. "I'm not going to lose any files. If you want to countermand Foggon's written orders, then you must put your instructions in writing on the file."
Peter's face became contorted with rage. He became flushed and he began to spit saliva with his stabbing commands.
"You will do what I tell you, Sean, or pay the price!
No one crosses me and gets away with it!" Just as suddenly he forced a
smile and tried to cajole me. "Don't you see, Sean, I'm your friend? There
you are with your lovely wife and beautiful daughter just starting out on your
career. An
"Peter," I said. "Let's put aside the Spanish Labour Code. It could be 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' for all I care. If Foggon orders it, I will get it. If you order it, I will get it. But if you countermand Foggon's orders, then I want that in writing on the file. I will do anything you ask, Peter, if it is a proper order and legal."
There followed another hour of bluster, threats, promises, pleading, bribes and long passages I could not decipher and had little desire so to do. Around Peter's mouth a white deposit began to form.
"So be a good fellow, Sean. Tear up the file. I can
make life very good for you here in
"No, Peter," I said firmly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Peter stormed out of my office shouting threats. He continued shouting as he went up the walkway, no doubt disturbing the messengers' sleep, and perhaps stimulating another fantastic incident in Amos Tutuola's next best seller, for as I watched Peter Cook's form retreating to his office with his fists clenched and raised as if to strike, I noticed Amos sitting on a soapbox and scribbling away in a school exercise book.
Peter did not give up so easily. Tomorrow was another day and once again the performance would be repeated on some other file and again and again. I tried to protest to George Foggon, but he cut me short. He did not want to know.
One day I surprised Peter. I agreed to his demand. He was delighted. Grinning broadly he left my office, promising me a host of good things. Would I now get paper clips? Or my typing done without a struggle? And would Peter stop plotting against me and trying to make my life as uncomfortable as possible? It would be a nonsense to list the petty tricks he would play. If Cook had a hand in any kind of function my name would be accidentally omitted. If Foggon asked him to pass on a message, I would not get it. I hardly noticed most of this and simply got on with my work. I reached for the file Cook had thrown on my desk and returned it to him with a request.
'Will you please confirm your verbal instructions of today when you ordered me to ignore the orders of the Commissioner of Labour of yesterday's date and to lose the file?'
That file disappeared and was not seen again, but it had served its purpose and Peter's visits to my office ceased. But the war hotted up. I gathered from various sources that for Peter Cook I was Public Enemy Number One. If we passed, he would not return my greetings, but just as suddenly one day his mood had changed and he reappeared to say how silly it was that we should quarrel when all he wanted was to be friends. As a peace offering he had brought a copy of the Department's own Labour Code in mint condition. Copies of the Code were hard to come by and those to be had were often unrevised or badly worn. This was a freshly printed version and something of a rarity. I thanked Peter profusely and was delighted at his change of heart. But I was also a realist and very wary.
Hating myself for my base suspicions, I began to check out the gift copy against a tattered and torn copy I had in my desk drawer. In a number of vital sections the regulations in the gift Code had been altered. Anyone using the gift Code as a guide to the law would have become a laughing stock. Yet here it was all in print. Only someone in the Government printing office, taking a great deal of trouble, could have produced this forgery, for that is what it was. And did not Peter have a close friend in the Government printing office?
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One day George Foggon confided in me that reinforcements were due to join the Department. A new Labour Officer, formerly with the British T.U.C. was to arrive.
"You'll have someone to talk to," said George cheerfully.
He had also enlisted, with the high rank of Assistant
Commissioner, an old chum of his, a retired Ministry of Labour official who had
worked with George in the Control Commission in
Victor Beck, the ex-TUC researcher, was a quiet, bespectacled, scholarly bachelor who had made his way from the Dunlop Rubber Company to the London School of Economics. His colleagues at the TUC sensed betrayal in his leaving to work for the Colonial Office, but I assured Vic he would have many opportunities to carry out liberal progressive measures. I hoped to enlist him in my battle to clean up the Labour Department. Carol and I befriended Vic and placed our trust in him. As he was very cautious and reserved, we did our best to entertain him and told him everything we had learned of the personalities and set-up in the Labour Department. Under pressure Vic would betray us, but that was in the future. And as the months went by, we learned to trust hardly anybody in the Department, so Vic's eventual betrayal caused us little surprise. Perhaps too, Vic resented or felt the lack of the family life which was the source of our strength. And I was continually refusing bribes and favours and promises of promotion with glee. Perhaps this riled Vic.
Jim Gabbutt's appointment quite rightly angered all the
existing senior staff, nearly all of whom would leave
He bowled into my office one morning with the announcement,
"Here's the third musketeer! So there's just the three of us - you, George
and me against this lot, eh Sean? I can't wait to get my hands on these black
girls. What are they like? It reminds me of when I was in
"With you playing Humphrey Bogart?" I queried.
"No. I was the police chief who got the girls!"
Jim was put in charge of the Western Region of Nigeria, and
I gave him what help I could. When he was in
"She does everything for me, Carol. She's a lovely girl," said Jim.
The young lady in question quietly produced tea and biscuits and disappeared into the rear building lot.
"She warms my bed too. I like to have an afternoon nap." Jim turned to shout after his young housekeeper. "Go to bed now. I'll be with you soon!" Jim laughed merrily. "I'll bet you think I'm an old reprobate, eh? And you're right!"
On the way back from
"He's sleeping with that young girl, Carol," I assured her.
"You must be mistaken, Sean," said Carol. She liked Jim and would not believe that someone she was fond of could behave like that. "Besides," said Carol, "He's married and has grandchildren!"
To carry out the Commissioner's orders, I had to defy Peter
Cook and put up with the consequent unpleasantness. We believed at first that
Foggon would act on his promise to get rid of Cook, but as the months passed we
began to doubt Foggon's resolve. Foggon would not stand up to Cook but expected
me to do so. Foggon could even turn away Cook's wrath by expressing surprise at
what I was doing, while privately urging me on over the telephone. I was
Foggon's lieutenant. I was his hit man. I made things happen. I got things
done. And I took all the stick. As it happened I was totally loyal to Foggon
because he was my boss and because at first I believed he was a good man who
was going to new broom the Department. When it became clear that Cook was
staying, we knew that - although we would have liked to stay in
As other Labour Officers went on leave from
Peter Cook would still make his night calls to our flat and taunt me with the claim that I was just a paper mill and that all the revised codes for trade testing, employment exchanges etc., all the reports and surveys which I churned out in ever increasing numbers, were just window dressing designed to impress but changing nothing. At first I refuted these charges, but as time passed I was forced to accept that Cook was speaking the truth.
"Everything you do, Sean, is sent straight to the
Colonial Office to impress Barltrop," Cook would say. "Foggon has no
interest in
"We're all writing in sand, Peter," I would remind him. "Something may stick."
"I told you he wouldn't get rid of me," gloated Peter during one of his midnight calls. "I know too many top people, Sean. They have the dirt on me and I have the dirt on them."
He then recounted some of his archive of blackmail material on leading figures in the administration. It was all extremely depressing.
When I made it clear to him that I believed in a liberal attitude to homosexuality, he exploded, "I don't need your approval, Sean."
At times he was aggressive as if it was his intention to convert every young male to homosexuality, at others he seemed full of guilt and self-disgust. He wanted to die, he would say, and seemed to be seeking forgiveness and redemption from me. He could be sickeningly sentimental about marriage while only minutes before he would be threatening my life. His wife had also been employed in the Department. I had had no idea that he had been married. His wife had betrayed him. She had African lovers. But he still loved her and forgave her. Slipping into bed after these ghastly confessionals in the early hours I would give a resume to Carol of what he had said.
"His poor wife," Carol would murmur. "He'd feel much better if he had all his teeth out. Those black teeth are probably poisoning him."
Peter Cook had warned me on several occasions. "I'm watching your every move, Sean. One slip and I'll have you. You had better be whiter than white and cleaner than clean."
"Well, it's good to know you'll let me know if I stray off the straight and narrow, Peter," I would assure him.
"Foggon won't lift a finger to help you, Sean, if you drop in the shit. He's in love with himself. Give him a mirror and it's the love affair of the century."
In those early months I defended Foggon, but as time passed I began to see that Cook was speaking the truth. Maybe I was just knocking myself out window-dressing. On one occasion Foggon's English secretary chided me as I handed her yet another report.
"Don't you ever stop, Sean? I have to retype
everything you do and send it to
If Peter Cook was watching me in the hope of finding dirt, he had George Foggon under a microscope.
"I'll have your Georgie Porgie by the balls one of these days, Sean, see if I don't," he would say.
I dismissed this as the rubbish it clearly was. So I was very surprised one evening when Peter Cook walked in with his whiskey and glass, and triumphantly proclaimed, "I've got him! I'll be having no more trouble with Mr George Foggon, Sean. I knew I'd just have to wait!"
I was very depressed when I reported this conversation to Carol.
"Did he say what George had done?" she asked.
"He was very cagey. But he went on to talk about Fernando Poo and how the Spanish gave Sir John MacPherson an incredibly valuable string of diamonds - a necklace for his wife. 'But surely he handed it into Government,' I'd protested. 'Like bloody hell he did, Sean' Peter had replied. 'Once she'd seen that necklace, that was it. She'd probably never had better than Woolworth's till she saw that diamond necklace! I know Sir John kept the diamonds and he knows I know. You see, Sean, they can't touch me, I know too much.'"
"But Sir John's retired," said Carol.
"He's gone to the Colonial Office as Permanent
Secretary," I replied. "And now we've got Sir James Robertson from
the
"So what's he got on Foggon?" asked Carol. "Have the Spanish given George a diamond necklace?"
"I honestly don't know," I said. But he's up to something on Fernando Poo, and he's reclassified some of my 'Secret' file papers on to his personal files so I can't see them."
After that things changed. George Foggon seemed less happy and under a strain. Peter Cook was much more relaxed and, perhaps at Carol's insistence, had all his teeth out and got a gleaming set of dentures, which not only improved his appearance but also his health. He seemed somewhat more sane and balanced, but he was also less frightened. It seemed he had entered into an agreement with George Foggon.
I talked all this over with Victor Beck, trying to make
sense of what was going on. It was during one of these discussions that I began
to put some pieces of the jigsaw together. If Peter Cook had let George know
about the Governor General's diamond necklace, then George had something on the
number one man at the Colonial Office. We also knew that the Foreign Office
insisted on a 'be nice to Franco' policy. So it was very likely that George
would follow Peter Cook's policy on Fernando Poo and ingratiate himself with
the powers that be in
On the surface my relations with George were as cordial as
ever, though he was perhaps more elusive, but warnings came my way. One morning
I was in
"Do be very careful, Mr Smith," said Mrs Foggon.
"She was warning you about Peter Cook," said Carol later.
"No," I said. "It was very strange, but from the manner in which she spoke, I think she was warning me about her husband!"
That weekend we took a trip to
We returned to Jim's villa and were sitting on his concrete steps talking about the latest news from the central office of the Department when Jim said, "Sean, you do know that Foggon owes you a lot. He thinks the sun shines out of your bottom." Carol was about to cut in, but Jim said, "Hold on, Carol. Foggon worships Sean but he also means to destroy him."
"But why?" protested Carol. "Sean has given him everything. Sean even did the Factories Act in secret and took no credit!"
"I know that," said Jim. "But when he said he'd see you right, did he put it in writing and did you have witnesses?"
"Of course he didn't," Carol replied.
"hen it doesn't count with George," said Jim gravely.
"You mean I can't trust him?" I asked.
"I don't understand him, Sean," said Jim. "He's got a kink. He's done this before."
"He's used Sean, and now he's going to throw him aside," protested Carol.
"I honestly don't know, Carol," said Jim. "I just wanted to warn you. He's got this enormous envy of Sean and his work. George is a strange character."
"Fancy you not knowing that George is revising the
Anglo-Spanish Treaty, Sean," said Peter Cook happily. "He's been
doing it in secret behind your back. He's planning to send even more workers to
Fernando Poo, and all without your knowing! George will do anything to
ingratiate himself with those bastards in
Festus Samuel Okotie Eboh, a one-time shoe salesman, became
the Minister of Labour and later Minister of Finance, and was to play a crucial
role in the later very tragic history of
The British authorities played a decisive part in the selection of politicians for ministerial posts. Once the politician became a Minister he was made, and he became a much more powerful politician. The essence of colonial rule is that politics is banned for the people of the country while the colonial regime engages in full time politics. The notion that colonial administration functions without politics would be laughable to those administrators or political officers engaged in the trade.
The politics of the colonial regime are employed in the
selection, destruction and manipulation of the leaders of the native people.
Although the idea of indirect rule has become closely identified with
A major proportion of the politicians who made
Awolowo in the West was not sound because he was extremely intelligent, wrote first class books, and taunted the British for their stupidity. At the same time he betrayed a love of democracy and touching faith in British fair play that was to lead to his downfall. And yet his integrity, which led to his being jailed in 1962, also saved his life when the first coup took place in 1966.
The mercurial leader of the East, Dr Azikiwe, was an enigma. A charismatic and the first Nigerian nationalist leader of note. He was seen as an egotistical, temperamental and flawed character by his political enemies, but revered by his Igbo followers. Zik was not feared by the British. His often unpredictable behaviour in the 1950's may have been more in response to pressure from without than his own faults of temperament. If a nationalist politician had skeletons in his personal or political cupboard the British knew about them. At the same time the preponderance of Igbo members of the lower and middle ranks of the civil service meant that, apart from the highest levels, an Igbo politician who did not know most Government secrets simply was not listening.
The interlocking blackmail that Peter Cook exemplified in
the civil service was paralleled in the control of politicians by the colonial
regime. One of my expatriate neighbours was a Post Office engineer who
specialised in tapping Nigerian politicians' telephone lines. Surveillance of
politicians by other Nigerians employed in special branch was also routine, as
was interception of the mails to prevent subversive literature coming into
If the International Trade Union Organisations were angered at the tardiness of their Nigerian supporters in answering correspondence, their disgust was misplaced because quite often their letters must have ended up in the Post Office stove in Lagos, international postal conventions notwithstanding.
A more personal example of interlocking blackmail occurred when I was approached by one of the Labour Department's senior trade testers. We chatted about routine matters before he got to the point.
He said, "You're a decent sort, Smithy, but me and the lads really think you've got things all wrong..."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Well, you're having no fun at all. You can't stop these people taking money. If you make a fuss, which you do, they just keep your share! You can have as many black girls as you want. Peter Cook will fix you up with boys if you fancy some black bum. But you won't because you're afraid you'll get caught and that's where you've got it all wrong. If the blokes are a bit stand-offish it's because you won't join in. See what I mean? They're scared of you because you don't join in. Mr Clean is very dangerous. If you join in we know you won't be blowing the whistle on us. Get it?"
I assured him that I did get it, but I had so little spare time. He seemed disappointed with my answer.
Perhaps the trade testers had taken pity on me because they thought I had helped them. Peter Cook normally arranged to post trade testers to centres around the country. While he was on leave, George Foggon had fulfilled this duty. But the trade testers were up in arms and sent one of their men to make representations to me. I pointed out that I was not doing the posting but I would advise Foggon. What was the problem? The trade tester said that postings should be by seniority. Some centres generated far more dash (bribes) than others. The senior man expected to be posted to the centre that was most lucrative. I explained this to George Foggon who clearly had not known of this arrangement. Peter Cook had not mentioned it in his handing over notes.
"Well, of course," said George deliberately. "You were quite right to bring this to my notice. And I want to tell you this. It's just as well I have no formal knowledge of this dreadful behaviour as I would have to take the strongest possible action against those concerned..." George paused and looked me straight in the eye. "Do you follow what I am saying to you?"
"Let sleeping dogs lie?"
"Exactly."
It seemed the new broom had lost all its bristles before it started sweeping. When next I met a trade tester I made a jocular reference to this matter and he immediately corrected me.
"We're not corrupt at all, Smithy. It would be corrupt if we took money off a few to let them pass. None of us would do that. It would be dishonest. We take a dash off everyone who takes the test. That's not corruption. It's just gratitude."
I was clearly not playing the game. I was letting the side
down. Ronald Wraith, in a fascinating study of corruption in
I suppose the most corrupt act of all is colonialism itself. What could be more corrupt than to steal someone else's country? However by 1955 the problem was how to hand the country back to the Nigerians. A coalition of politicians from the major tribes in each Region filled the ministerial posts. At this juncture there was no Prime Minister and the Governor General presided. Large ministerial palaces were provided for each Minister and Mercedes Benz limousines became normal transport for top politicians. Standards of luxury were dictated by the British colonial regime far in excess of the living standards of most British politicians, let alone Nigerian ones, most of whom had risen from the most humble backgrounds.
The rumours which circulated about Festus Okotie Eboh were well founded as those in contact with him knew. The Nigerian public wanted to know why he was allowed to get away with it. Why had the Governor General chosen such corrupt politicians? Why did the civil servants not refuse to co-operate with corrupt Ministers? It was evident that the Ministers could not carry out these corrupt deeds without co-operation from the civil service. At this time it must be remembered that the colonial regime still had overall power and was fully informed as to what was going on. It was clearly official policy to let the Ministers be corrupt. In the Department of Labour George Foggon saw it as his job to carry out the Minister's orders, whatever his personal qualms.
Not only did the Ministers betray ignorance of the proper role of Ministers in a parliamentary democracy, but the top civil servants seemed to be ignorant too. In the Ministry (formerly Department) of Labour Okotie Eboh acted as if he could do what he liked unless he was stopped. Given top civil servants who lacked training in constitutional and parliamentary practice and substituted a simplistic notion that they merely had to carry out a Minister's orders, the scene was set for corruption and larceny on a grand scale.
Although I was supposed to be in charge of trade testing
matters, it was kept from me that Okotie Eboh had sold the trade testing
headquarters in
One morning I was standing outside the Minister's room, talking to his English secretary, Katharine Polkinghorne.
"The Minister's out," said Kathy. "He's gone to see the Governor General. He's on the carpet. I've told him he'll get caught one day with all the crooked deals he gets up to."
At that point the Minister came in. Festus Samuel Okotie Eboh was a fat, jovial character of much the same build and disposition as the seventeen stone Governor General, Sir James Robertson. The Minister had until recently been Mr Sam Edah, but had changed his name to that of a family who were powerful in his constituency. Those who disliked the Minister referred to him as 'Festering Sam.' The Minister was wearing native dress and a straw hat.
"Miss Polkinghorne, do you know what the Governor General said to me? He said, 'Sam, you old rascal, I know every trick you've been up to. You've got to be more circumspect.' What does 'circumspect' mean, Miss Polkinghorne?"
"You should be asking Mr Smith, Minister. He's the clever one," said Kathy. I began a long involved explanation. "What he means, Minister, is 'Don't get caught!'" said Kathy. "That's what being 'circumspect' means."
"I love that Governor General, Miss Polkinghorne," said the Minister.
"He won't love you if you get found out with all those naughty things you do, Minister," warned Kathy, as the Minister went into his room, chuckling happily.
Presumably the Governor General had political reasons for
not throwing the rule book at Okotie Eboh. When the Governor General wanted to
get rid of Adelabu, an extraordinary politician who, had he lived, might have
been
Okotie Eboh was into interlocking blackmail too. The trade testers were corrupt and were hardly in a position to protest when their office was sold over their heads. George Foggon's justification for putting through the deal was that he was obeying orders, although he knew he was doing wrong. But the Minister knew George tolerated the corrupt trade testers. George was on thin ice too. Peter Cook could not protest even if he had wanted to. The Minister knew the Department and the follies and weaknesses of its officials intimately. If its top officials could get up to tricks, so could he.
"George is getting in deep," said Peter Cook. "It looks as if you're on your own, Sean!"
I felt that way too.
One late Sunday afternoon the compound was quiet save for a few children playing around the palms and frangipani. A party was going on, but not noisily, in Peter Cook's flat. Like most of the flat dwellers we had just climbed out from under our mosquito nets to shower and change for the evening and dinner. At that point one of my neighbours called in a very agitated state. His small daughter had gone up the servants' stairs to Mr Cook's flat and had gone through his kitchen. She had run down to tell her father what she had seen.
"Men not wearing clothes were dancing in a circle; they were all stuck together..."
"Can't you do something, Mr Smith?" my neighbour pleaded.
"It's worse than you know," I told him.
The question might be asked, 'Was the Labour Department typical?' Some have suggested that because the Labour Department produced three Nigerian Permanent Secretaries, it was a rather good Department. With obvious exceptions I do not see that the fault lay in the staff, but in management and leadership. With proper direction and training there was excellent potential in both expatriate and Nigerian staff. They were pensionable staff who were trying to do a good job in very difficult circumstances, and they were certainly not to blame for the scandals at the top in the Department. And what was the role of Government House and the Colonial Office in all this? It was no secret that the Labour Department was a shambles.
Before George Foggon went on leave he called me into his office. He whispered so that Peter Cook would not hear him. He spoke in a very roundabout way at great length. What he meant to say was that he was afraid that Peter Cook would drop him in the shit in his absence. He was counting on me to hold the fort. I was to do everything by the book and if in doubt consult the Chief Secretary's Office.
The three Regions of Nigeria already had a measure of
independence and were in effect federal states. The 1956 elections would be the
final regional elections before
In Foggon's absence, Francis Nwokedi was running the Labour Department with Peter Cook. I was a mere Labour Officer who had been charged by the Commissioner in his absence to 'keep an eye on things.' At this juncture the order arrived which was to change my life. It had come through the chain of command apparently from the Governor General himself. It was addressed to me personally. Perhaps my work had come to the Governor General's attention? I was much too modest to make that assumption. The order directed me to arrange for all Nigerian staff of the Department and all departmental vehicles to proceed to the Minister's constituency for the duration of the election campaign to work under the Minister's orders and to get his candidate elected. This was a covert operation and a cover story was needed. I was to devise a survey of migrant labour covering the Minister's constituency.
My reply was brief. 'No,' I wrote on the minute sheet. 'This would be a criminal act.'
I was immediately ordered to leave the head office of the
Department and take over the
While still awaiting Foggon's return from leave, I was approached by Vic Beck again. Apparently, when I had refused to get involved in the covert election plan, the orders had passed to Major Charles Bunker, a Senior Labour Officer. It was unclear whether he had carried them out. But he had also been ordered to pressurise British and foreign firms to make donations to the NCNC's election funds. Threats of official harassment by the Labour Department's Inspectors were to be made against firms who refused to pay up. In addition fleets of cars were to be obtained either free or at greatly reduced prices, and free or cheap petrol to run them. Vic Beck and Charles Bunker came to see me to discuss what could be done.
"You're not going to carry out these orders, Charles, surely?" I asked.
"It's too late, Sean," replied Charles. "I've done it."
Charles was very distressed. Both he and Beck appreciated
the seriousness of the situation. The British Government was taking credit for
its liberal policies in moving towards
The actual orders which were clearly a criminal breach of Nigeria's own electoral laws, as well as being a gross betrayal of trust by the British who were supposed to embody the notion of even handedness, fair play and honesty, had come through Francis Nwokedi, the acting head of the Labour Department, and Peter Cook, the Deputy Commissioner, both close friends of Dr Azikiwe. And Okotie Eboh, the Minister of Labour, was Dr Azikiwe's Party Treasurer.
The British loved the largely illiterate and backward North
and had arranged for fifty percent of the votes to be controlled by the
Northern party, the NPC, which was largely a creation of the British and hardly
a normal political party in the accepted sense. It was funded by the British
controlled Native Authorities and was quite simply a tool of the British
administration. Because of this,
British policy was to encourage tribal rule in the East and West by discouraging the creation of new states which would have broken up these two power groups. Of particular importance was the need for the NPC. in the North to go unchallenged. And it was made quite clear to the leaders in the South that the British would not tolerate more than token electioneering against the British-favoured NPC in the North. There may well have been tacit agreements between the British and the leaders of the West and East. There was certainly anger from the British when the Action Group in the West was seen to be planning a major election campaign in the North.
What was obvious from the orders coming out of Government House in 1956 was that Zik was working with the British and the NPC in the North against the Action Group in the West. The Northerners disliked all the Southerners, East or West, as being too clever by half, a view shared by the British administration. In many respects in the North it was difficult to detect where the British administration ended and Northern rule began. The sickening sycophancy of the Northern leaders towards the British and the equally nauseating and patronising contempt (disguised as admiration) displayed by the British to Northern leaders, horrified educated Nigerians. But Southern politicians were needed to work with the North so as to ensure total domination by the North.
Festus Okotie Eboh was the ideal candidate to become the linchpin of this pact between the North and Zik's NCNC which ruled in the East. Okotie Eboh was from the Mid West, so was not too close to the Igbos in the East, although he was Party Treasurer of the Eastern Party. Although from the Mid-West, he was not a Yoruba but an Itsikeri, so he could be relied on to be hostile to the Yoruba-dominated Action Group in the West. As Party Treasurer, he held a powerful position so long as he could raise funds for the NCNC But the NCNC was bankrupt. To strengthen Okotie Eboh's position, it was essential that he should be able to raise funds. We have seen how the British set about helping their stooge to do this.
Okotie Eboh had to sell a policy of collaboration with the North to the NCNC and to Dr Azikiwe in particular. The Minister of Labour was a cynical party hack intent on becoming rich very quickly. Already in the late 1950's he was a byword for corruption. Okotie Eboh was not a nationalist and in no sense an idealist. He was a large, fat, cheerful crook and he was much loved by George Foggon and the Governor General, perhaps because he conformed to a stereotype which confirmed their low opinion of Africans in general.
A warning shot had been fired by the Governor General over Dr Azikiwe's bows in 1956 with an investigation of his African Continental Bank. Very serious malpractice was revealed as also was the fact that Zik's business affairs were in a mess, and he was practically bankrupt. There was no question of Zik financing his party's election campaign. The charges were allowed to lie on the table, and although Zik could very easily have been dismissed from public office, as Adelabu was in very similar circumstances, no action was taken by the British which would perhaps have put Dr Azikiwe behind bars, a fate he had always shown considerable ingenuity in avoiding, unlike other nationalist leaders.
The Bank enquiry not only served as a warning to Zik, it made it impossible for the Eastern Regional Government, which was under the spotlight, to divert funds to finance its party, the NCNC. That the North and the West used public funds to finance their parties was no secret to anybody in the British administration. The result of all this was to make Okotie Eboh a key figure and, after Zik, the most powerful leader in the NCNC. It also meant that Okotie Eboh was able to influence both NCNC and Zik's policies away from confrontation with the British and the Northerners and in favour of collaboration and a cynical display of horse dealing which would make the 1959 Federal election a mockery, because the outcome - Northern domination of Nigeria after Independence - was assured before a single vote was cast in that election.
The group of Ministers which gathered round Okotie Eboh was
known as the 'Ikoyi clique' because they lived in the largely European suburb
of Ikoyi. A close ally of Okotie Eboh was T.O.S. Benson, the Minister of
Information. His offices were next to the Labour Department on the
By this time, as my duties covered such a wide range of
departmental activities, I had been moved into the largest office in the
Department. This was necessary because I had acquired a number of assistants,
clerks and a typist. Labour Officers passing through
The British were busy rigging
At home, our cook William was saving up to buy a wife from
his own village back in the East. He told Carol, who was not too flattered,
that he wanted a wife like madam, nice and plump. In truth Carol was quite
slender, but when eventually William got a wife we saw what he meant. The girls
in William's home area were valued by weight, and it was not unknown for girls
to be caged and gorged with food so that they would fetch a large bride price.
Although William was paid above the going rate, as were all our servants, he
was so desperate to find a wife that he requested leave when he only had a down
payment on a bride. We ran William down to the market where he would get a
space on a mammy wagon, one of the produce and passenger trucks which hurtled
along
William found a girl, but was very downcast when he returned, because the girl's father would not release her for one down payment. I saw a group of servants in the compound throwing themselves around in fits of laughter. The laughter of Nigerians is a wonderful thing to see and I was determined not to be left out. I asked Joel, my driver, to find out what was so funny. When he came back he could barely stand for laughing.
"It's William's long journey to find a wife, master..." and Joel collapsed on the floor.
"Joel please..." I insisted.
"They say, master," said Joel, "it was a pity her father wouldn't let him bring back the bit he had paid for!"
And Joel collapsed on the floor again.
We helped William so he was able to return quickly to
complete the purchase of his wife. We also insisted, and William was forever
full of gratitude, on collecting the newly wedded couple when they arrived in
"It's all right, madam," William assured Carol. "In our new home with master and madam and lots of good food, she will soon be plump like madam."
All this made me feel like landed gentry or even a Southern plantation owner, but that was how it was in Ikoyi in the mid-1950's.
I was almost sorry when I eventually had time to pass my
driving test because it meant parting with Joel our driver whom we liked
enormously. He did have an occasional weakness for the palm wine which on
occasion forced me to plunge into the
Each day Joel would switch off his grin and be very sad. He would then beseech us to buy him a peaked cap. It was very important that he have a cap. It gave him status. All chauffeurs had a cap. Eventually we succumbed and our servants and everybody else's cheered when they saw Joel's cap. It was an important victory. Joel showed it off and made sure everybody noticed it! Then after a few days he was sad again.
"Master. If only I had a khaki jacket!"
We could not stand the pressure. In no time Joel was kitted out in full khaki uniform and could have passed for an officer in the Nigerian Army.
Joel would ask us to correct his English and would rehearse
a word or phrase until he had got it fixed in his memory. Joel was staying at
his brother's house in
"No, Joel," I corrected him. "You are staying with your sister-in-law."
"No, master," he said. "I am sleeping with her."
"Yes, Joel," I said. "Sleeping in the same house. If you say 'I am sleeping with some one' it means like man and wife."
"Oh, I don't touch her," said Joel. "But I sleep with her in the same bed. My brother is away."
"Doesn't he mind?" I asked. "Isn't it a bit risky?"
"Of course not, master," said Joel. "My brother has taken precautions."
"Precautions, Joel?"
"Yes. When he go he put juju on back of door. When he come home he will ask juju if I have touched his wife. If juju say 'yes' he will kill me."
"I do hope the juju doesn't fall off the door and give him the wrong message, Joel," I said.
"I'm going to have a word with that juju, master, myself or maybe you're going to have to find a new driver."
With that Joel threw himself around in a fit of laughter and the car shot off the road and sent a crowd of Lagosians jumping for their lives.
On another occasion I discussed juju with Joel and he said it was a pity African juju was so weak unlike British juju. I was very intrigued by this.
"We don't have juju, Joel," I insisted.
"Oh, master," said Joel, rolling his eyes up to heaven as if seeking forgiveness for this idiot white man. "Master," said Joel, "white men have juju that gets them pretty girls when they want, get drunk when they want, radio, car, anything they want."
"I don't follow you, Joel," I said.
"White man's juju is money, master. It is the most powerful juju in the world," said Joel. He was deadly serious for once.
We were concerned about finding a job for Joel when I passed my driving test, but were surprised to find Peter Cook had offered him a job as a driver for the Department. I knew he had taken a liking to Joel and Joel was smart enough always to salute Peter and greet him. I thanked Peter for offering Joel the job.
"I didn't do it for you, Sean," said Peter grimly. "I happen to like the man."
"So I won't have to go back to that heavenly job with the Lagos Bus Company," said Joel. "Oh, those lovely ladies, master."
I was all ears of course.
"This lovely lady is the first on the bus, so I don't give her ticket. When we go back to garage she say, 'OK, big boy, come,' and she takes me back to her room and loves me till I can't stand up. Next day it's the same. Every day it's the same. 'OK., big boy, come!' On Friday I go collect my pay and the clerk gives her my packet. She gives me a few shillings and keeps the rest! 'See you next week, big boy,' she says!"
A new District Officer was fed up with reading his Dickens' collected works during his long evenings in the bush. He would hear his servants jabbering away in the kitchen and longed to know what they were talking about. Who knows, he thought, what exciting and even erotic tales he would hear. It would give him something to write about in his letters home. They might even make a book. 'Tales from up the Creeks,' that sort of thing. He borrowed a dictionary of the local language from a missionary and after a few months' study, helped along by lessons from the missionary, he became proficient. After dinner he would now station himself by the kitchen door and eavesdrop on his servants' chatter.
"Master he like chop," (dinner) said the cook.
"Oh yes, master like chop," said the steward.
"Master like chop plenty hot," said the cook.
"Oh yes, master like chop plenty hot," said the steward.
"Master like grapefruit before his chop," said the cook.
"Oh yes," said the steward.
Night after night the conversation went on for hours in this totally boring fashion. At last the District Officer could take no more.
He burst into the kitchen and shouted, "Talk about something interesting for God's sake! I didn't learn the sodding language to hear you talk about chop night after night after night!"
Shortly afterwards, he was posted a hundred miles up country where the local people spoke a different language.
Return to Autobiography Chapter
List
It was as well we had some distractions from my troubles in the Labour Department. When talking things over with Bunker and Beck I recalled Foggon's advice to seek guidance from the Secretariat if necessary. This was sensible advice in most situations. The real power house in colonial government was the Chief Secretary, and it was perfectly proper and sensible for anyone in the administration to seek help from the Chief Secretary and his staff. As Beck and Bunker had raised Bunker's orders with me, and Bunker was the most senior in rank, I thought at the time I was the junior partner in this enterprise. Victor Beck suggested we approach one of his contacts in the security section at the Secretariat, and this we did and had a cordial discussion.
The roar of anger from Government House at our audacity in questioning His Excellency's orders at least made it quite clear that the orders were official and not some freakish forgery. At this Beck and Bunker put their heads together and decided to pin the blame on Smith. He had persuaded them into this foolish action against their will. After all Bunker had carried out his orders! And Beck made it quite clear he would be perfectly happy to do anything he was told. To make sure he really was pliable, Beck was posted to the North where he happily applied himself to hush-hush political duties.
I had no fear of facing Foggon alone when he returned from leave. I expected nothing, so I was not surprised at his anger.
"You disobeyed the direct orders of the Governor General," he yelled. "Are you mad?"
"I'm not fixing elections for anybody," I replied.
"Who are you? Don Quixote?" yelled Foggon. "Nobody could touch you. You were in the clear. You were just obeying orders!"
"That defence was not accepted at
"They were wrong," screamed Foggon, white with
anger. "None of them were guilty at
There was nothing more to be said. A man who could defend
the perpetrators of
I had volunteered in the past to help in elections in
I was annoyed at this, given the fact that I was doing several Labour Officers' work at the time, often returned to the office after hours to try and catch up, and often worked through the evenings. However, I hoped that this would be my chance to bring this whole business into the open. Phil Haywood, who was later to become Permanent Secretary at the Ministry of Education, was a good friend.
"Tell them, Sean, that you have been proud to have been a member of the Colonial Service..."
"Really, Phil," I protested.
"Tell them the story, Sean," ordered Phil. "Say you regret if in any way you have let down the high traditions of the Service..."
"Peter Cook, Phil!" I exploded.
"Say you are retiring at the end of this tour..."
"Well, that bit's true..."
"They'll know you're telling them to piss off but they'll think you're a clever bugger and let it drop."
Phil was quite correct. Foggon was furious.
"I have a letter here from Sir Ralph Grey I've been ordered to show to you. I've also been told to shake hands and ask you to forget the whole business."
Foggon presented me with a limp hand and the most unwilling handshake possible.
The letter said, 'Mr Smith has been of some service to the State...' The rest of it told Foggon politely to drop dead.
Our world was in a state of chaos. The seventeen stone Governor General of the most populous British colony in Africa, in his white uniform and plumed hat, while posing as a liberal to visiting VIP's, was secretly rigging elections and destroying the very foundations of democracy in the new state which outwardly would be the fifth largest democracy in the world. Sir James Robertson, not content with that, was urging his newly elected Ministers to loot and pillage the State and make Nigeria's first great nationalist political party, the National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons (NCNC) almost totally dependent for funds on levies and bribes from British and other multinational firms which already had a powerful grip on Nigeria's economy.
Even the mild and gentle Northerner, Abubakar Tafawa Balewa,
favoured by the British and chosen to be the first Federal Prime Minister, was
moved in 1958 in an interview with the distinguished children's doctor and
writer, Robert Collis, to complain with some bitterness of the British
commercial interests that held Nigeria in thrall. This is quoted on page 159 of
Dr Collis's book, 'A Doctor's
Despite George Foggon's attempt to have me kicked out of the Colonial Service on a trumped up charge, which the Chief Secretary, Sir Ralph Grey, had scornfully rejected, I continued to work flat out on my several combined schedules of work to the last day of my two-year tour in Lagos.
Outside the office, Carol and I took Voltaire's advice of
what to do when the world is upside down; we cultivated our garden and our
friends. We usually made our garden from scratch from a patch of weedy sand,
but in the
If George could think of any extra chores to pile on towards the end of this very long and arduous tour, he heaped them on unmercifully. It was evident to some that he was either hoping I would crack up or refuse to carry them out, thus giving him another opportunity to mount an attack. It was of no consequence that other Europeans sat playing with paper clips all day or reading magazines. When George heard that there had been no audit on the Lagos Sub-Treasury for several years because expatriates had simply refused to get involved in a duty for which they might be held personally responsible for millions of pounds, he promptly volunteered my name to conduct the audit.
Armed with a posse of assistants, clerks, a policeman, accounting machines and written orders to suspend all work until the audit was complete, I marched into the Treasury and we processed masses of bills, vouchers, chits, books and petty cash and came out with a statement that not a single penny of the millions of pounds passing through the Treasury had been purloined or gone astray. Frankly, I did not believe a word of it and neither did anybody else. It was reported to me by sources close to him (there were no real secrets in the Labour Department) that George had been quite disappointed that I had given the Treasury a clean bill of health and had not been sucked into a quagmire of corruption and trouble. He was even more depressed when he had to hand on to me a congratulatory letter from on high, thanking me for carrying out this awful task expeditiously and efficiently.
Sometimes George's zeal for piling it on became downright absurd. He telephoned one morning to tell me that a British lady in the Public Works Department was offended by having to liaise with a Nigerian in the Labour Department when dealing with housing for expatriate officers. Henceforth she would deal with me. And indeed the lady did deal with me, but our conversations were fruitless for - miracle worker that I sometimes was - I had no authority or way of taking these matters away from the Deputy Commissioner, Peter Cook, who had overall authority in this area. Presumably George was trying to provoke me into a rebellion. If so, I declined the temptation and tried to carry out instructions which originated in the most bizarre flights of fancy.
On our way to the nursery to buy plants and cuttings for
our garden, we would stand at the roadside and, while trying to cross the road
and dodge the cars driven by Europeans at speed, observe African families
carrying small wooden boxes to the graveyard. It would have heartened us had we
known that Dr Robert Collis was newly arrived in
William stopped apologising and, explaining that other
masters did not care, he would wake us up with, "Another lady for
Despite my efforts to keep the Labour Department afloat on rafts of paperwork, news of George Foggon's unpopularity was spreading out from the Department. The Chief Clerk's years of presiding over stacks of dusty files and ranks of sleepy typists were drawing to a close. He had restrained his anger at the total incompetence of many of his white superiors for many years, but towards the end his face showed the deep unhappiness he felt at the humiliations he had suffered as an educated person in an inferior position. On his final day with the Department, as tables laden with refreshments were set out on the grass patch in front of the offices for his retirement party, my clerks were huddled together whispering and I tried to find out what was going on.
"It doesn't involve you, sir," advised my assistant. "Just a little surprise the Chief Clerk is planning."
The little surprise the Chief Clerk had in store for the Commissioner had been brewing for many years.
"You will be expecting me on this long awaited
day," said the Chief Clerk, "to regale you with platitudes expressing
my gratitude for having been able to work with such a splendid body of
officials serving Her Britannic Majesty here in
I have condensed just the start of his speech using simple words. The Chief Clerk, like a number of educated Nigerians, had an extensive vocabulary and never used a short word if a longer one were available. The Nigerian staff gurgled with glee and sent out ripples of laughter at some of his carefully rehearsed barbs. But when he at last sat down looking happier than I had ever seen him, it was as if an invisible message had been passed around the expatriates. The Chief Clerk had behaved outrageously, but his speech had never happened because it should not have happened and it would be ignored.
Someone rose and thanked the Chief Clerk for his kind words about the very fine officers he had served and he was presented with his leaving gift. After a perfunctory shaking of hands, the expatriates roared away in their cars, leaving the African staff to congratulate the Chief Clerk for his courage and audacity for telling the British to pack up and go home. It was indeed a memorable day!
This cannonade was accompanied some time later by a full
page article attacking George Foggon for his transparent lack of interest in
I continued in these last few months of my first tour to
encourage some idealism in Francis Nwokedi, but Francis was only really
interested in his career and keeping in with the British regime. He had been
offered the post of Nigerianisation Officer and was depressed lest he make the
wrong move and lose his chance to be the head of the Department, soon to be the
Ministry, of Labour. I assured Francis, which was obvious, that he was highly
regarded by the British and would probably be the most senior Nigerian civil
servant at
My involvement with Peter Cook had declined as he realised
that he was safe with George Foggon, and that my days were numbered. I would
still meet tearful youths blazing with anger fleeing from his flat, and would
sometimes run them back into town. It seemed to have become one of my roles in life
to act as an unofficial taxi service to anyone who needed a lift. Peter could
not resist making life difficult for me even to the end. It was up to him to
arrange passages on the mailboat back to
A
"I don't play any games," he replied truthfully. Then seeing the look of horror on the faces of the panel members, he added, "I was very busy on my course..."
"Ah, quite," said the Chairman. "But what games would you have played if you had played games?"
"Cricket, rugger, sculls, tennis, boxing," said
the
"Splendid, just the man we want," said the Chairman with enthusiasm. "We want a sporting man for this job, not some wishy washy intellectual!"
We boarded the small cargo boat at Apapa with considerable
relief. Standing at the rail we watched as our car, a grey Ford Consul, was
slung off the dockside and on to the deck where it was lashed down alongside
massive trunks of exotic Nigerian trees. We were very fond of the Consul
because its presence had transformed our lives in
Only when our banana boat had cast off and was in the
lagoon and passing Government House on the
Two years was much too long a time to spend in
Both of us had the pale, washed out faces of people who had
worked in
Perhaps the people we revered most were the missionaries.
They were often sorely tried. Much of what was good in
We were puzzled by the British administrators. It must be
emphasised that in condemning the low quality and describing the sheer ghastliness
of some who haunted the departmental warrens of
No one with any knowledge of the reality of the lives lived by the British administrators would subscribe to any sweeping criticism of their character or work. They were honourable men who worked hard for very low pay, often in very unhealthy conditions. I never heard of a corrupt District Officer or Resident, and they usually retired on miserable pensions, as poor as when they first started out.
That they were often called on to do a Lord Nelson and turn
a blind eye to injustice and corruption was, however, very evident. Some
refused and left the service. Others managed, like Sir James Robertson, to
exude liberal attitudes and a genial good nature whilst perpetrating criminal
acts. As always the hoary old
Writing in 1987, thirty years after the events I describe, on a modern computer with a word processor facility, I am reminded of Sir James Robertson's two faces each time I press the ALT key on the machine in front of me. The modern computer has more functions than keys on its keyboard. By pressing ALT a totally different set of functions is revealed when the keys are pressed. Similarly, in talking to certain British administrators, they would be patently honest, straightforward and incorruptible. But if one prefaced one's remarks, after a pregnant silence, with 'Of course, if national security is involved...' or 'If it's hush-hush political work...' the ALT key was pressed and the honest administrator might, now his ALT key had been pressed, admit to the most hair-raising illegal activities on behalf of his masters. Clearly some thoroughly enjoyed these clandestine, covert operations; others abhorred them and in extreme cases protested.
For the protesters the punishment stations existed. In
This was once graphically described to me as the first pressure on the rifle trigger. If no protests were received, it was safe to squeeze the trigger and to fire the offender knowing he had no friends in high places to defend him. He 'got the bullet' straight between the eyes. If he made trouble back in England he could always be terrorised with a dodgy reference which would keep him very busy trying to find employment, and if he did find work, a cosy telephone call from the Colonial Office might encourage an irresponsible employer to put him on the street again.
I was free of all such fears however. My 'Certificate of Service', the only reference allowed to be issued, was safely in my wallet. I had made sure it was in my possession before leaving the Department. The reference was perfectly satisfactory and I had no cause for complaint. We settled down to enjoy life on our banana boat.
The number of passengers on a cargo boat was limited to twelve. Beyond that figure a doctor had to be carried. The nine other passengers included an official from the North and his wife. This lady had to address the other passengers once to explain why they would not be speaking to us again. She made it clear that they were the VIP couple aboard for they had distant connections with a titled nobody and would be dining with the Captain (the poor Captain) and so would be keeping their distance from the rest of us.
On this kind of voyage it is absolutely essential to take
several volumes of Somerset Maugham, for his books provide the perfect setting,
background and atmosphere for social life in a small saloon on a banana boat
trailing the coast of West Africa from whence so many slavers had carried
cargoes of human misery to the
An elderly lady, who had been visiting her son-in-law up
country in
"I didn't catch your name, Mr...?" she challenged, forcing him to put down his who dunnit.
"Urquhart, madam," said the poor Scot in a rich brogue.
"Well, Mr Yewcart" said his persecutor.
"Urquhart, madam," protested her victim.
"I can hear perfectly well, Mr Yewcart," Mrs Sheridan insisted.
The tease lasted all the way to
The wind-up gramophone in the saloon played a collection of
worn, scratchy, old 78 records. The only Nigerian amongst the passengers was a
boy of sixteen, the son of a dentist being sent to school in
"Surely you could do something, Mr Smith," the wife complained.
"Why me?" I asked Carol.
"It's because you look responsible," said Carol.
The truth was only revealed on the day we left the ship at
"Why me?" I complained. "He's nothing to do with me."
"But you're his guardian, Mr Smith," exclaimed the ship's officer. "His father had to produce a certificate that someone on board would be responsible for his son and your signature was on the certificate. Didn't you know, sir?"
A small postscript, a little practical joke to remind us of
I had gone to
While we had been away in
If I took the job I was being offered which was extremely
well paid, I would in effect be working for the US State Department, but
technically I was still in the pay of the British Government for a further six
months. On reflection, perhaps I should have ignored the point. At the time,
however, before I made up my mind, there seemed no reason not to telephone the
Personnel Department at the Colonial Office to seek advice. I was a personnel
specialist myself, and this seemed the obvious thing to do. The personnel
officer was aghast that I was seeking work at all. I was to return to
"But why?" pleaded this senior civil servant.
I should explain that the staff of the Colonial Office
belonged to the home civil service; it was rare for them to have served abroad.
I tried in a few sentences to give this personnel man an idea of what was
happening in
So I returned to my questions. Was it all right to take up
other employment? Was my six months' leave pay a gratuity? Was it all right to
work for the US State Department at second hand so to speak? Two other
considerations were in my mind. Was the proposed employment strictly above
board politically, or was it some kind of semi-intelligence, CIA operation? And
was it somehow connected with the aftermath of
"But the Labour Advisor, Mr Barltrop, speaks so highly of you, Mr Smith. He would be bitterly disappointed if he knew you were not going to stay with us. You have a tremendous future in the Service."
He asked if I would speak to Barltrop and reluctantly I agreed.
Barltrop was extremely warm and generous with his compliments.
"As soon as you arrived in
I apologised for having to disappoint him. Barltrop was shaken.
"How could you possibly wish to work for a foreign power?" he asked.
Barltrop made the Americans sound like the enemy. Was this
a reaction to
I chose my words carefully.
"Mr Barltrop, the Labour Department was and still is a
shambles. It is also corrupt. The Colonial Government is busy rigging the
so-called democratic elections to decide who is going to take over at
There was total silence at the other end.
"I find it unbelievable, Mr Smith," said Barltrop as if in a state of shock. "It can't be!"
"I'm sorry, Mr Barltrop," I said. "I'm speaking the truth. Why don't you ask Mr Parry? He seems to be very well informed."
"Mr Smith," said Barltrop, "I want to make some enquiries and I want to see you. Promise you'll come to see me before you take up another post."
"I'll think about it, Mr Barltrop," I said and put the telephone down.
Sadly I turned down the State Department job. I also declined an offer to work for the TUC. It seemed I could pick and choose from many offers. There was an interesting job going at Esso as Personnel Officer. It was a well paid job and I liked the people who interviewed me. The job was mine if I wanted it. As a personnel man interviews were relatively easy because I was meeting other personnel people. Les Thornton, one of the senior Personnel Managers at the Fawley Refinery was down to earth and frank. There had been three hundred applications and it had been a problem to sort out a short list.
"You were obviously the best man," said Les. "You've got no competition, Sean."
Les went on to extol the delights of living around the
Carol was beginning to get over
My initial task at Esso was to go through an induction course for all new employees. I had been particularly attracted to Esso by its democratic attitudes to its work force. All staff used the same lavatories and the single canteen as the shop floor workers. In fact this was not without problems for I soon found I was being buttonholed as a useful contact in Personnel. A friendly chat might end up with a request for a helping hand on a pay query. Whilst paying lip service to the idea of Esso's democratic approach, most of the personnel people retreated to a pub for lunch which was invariably a pie and a pint.
It was at this point, whilst making many new friends and delighting in the possibilities and challenges of my new job, that I guessed Les Thornton had a problem which concerned me and forced him to come clean.
"Sean," he said. "You came to us with the highest recommendation and we still think you are the right man for us. But..."
Esso had received a secret letter from
I exploded with rage.
"Race!" I exclaimed. "An Irish name I chose after a visit to a dentist and I have all the faults of the Irish whatever they are! They aren't allowed to publish adverse reports like this. There's an established procedure with appeals to a Public Service Commission."
"Somebody is trying to destroy you," said Les.
"I've told you too much already, Sean. Esso will not want to upset
"Like hell I'll hide away," I said, and went off to telephone Barltrop at the Colonial Office.
Mr Barltrop was dead. He had had a heart attack. Had I
caused this by forcing him to lift the lid on the atrocities in
Les confirmed what I already knew. Foggon's first act in
"It's the worst reference I ever saw," said Les Thornton. "The bastard wants you dead. You must have a lot on him."
"Yes," I said. "Even his English secretary had it out with him. She told him he'd got one real friend in the Department and his name was Sean Smith..."
"Is he insane?" asked Les.
"I don't know. Maybe he's got a medical problem.
Strange things happen to people in
"Life could be difficult for you here, Sean," said Les. "And maybe even for me."
"That's why I'm resigning, Les," I told him. "I'm not going to embarrass you or Esso."
The following week I started delivering the post in Lymington. Esso executives were astonished to see their new Personnel Officer delivering their pools coupons.
Foggon cowered when I entered his small room at the Colonial Office. He was pale and frightened. I looked at the small window. It was too small to throw him out. I thought of chucking a chair out. I felt the need to shatter the calm of the cathedral-like quiet of the Colonial Office.
"You didn't tell them about me?" he implored.
"About
"Why did you do it?" I demanded.
He looked at his blotter. "Look," he said,
springing up. "This is what they gave me when I left
"Christ!" I thought.
How pathetic. He had pressurised the Chief Clerk to take a
collection. Men with a life time of service in
"They want you to go back to
I turned and left. He was not worth another thought. He was quite worthless.
The personnel people at the Colonial Office were incredulous. How could Foggon do what was clearly a breach of all the rules!
"Ask him," I told them. "I've lost my job. I've had to let my house. I've sold my car. I've had my cat and my dog put down. My wife is expecting a baby. I'm broke..."
"It's incredible," they said. "We're
checking out things in
And later:..
"What you said is true. It's incredible, unbelievable.
We could put you on the next plane back to
"Very well," I replied. "But I don't want to talk about him. Even thinking about him makes me sick."
Nwokedi wrote to say he would like me to return to
And so we returned to
Return to Autobiography Chapter
List
Philip Haywood met the plane at
Francis had plans for me, but it seemed I was not to be
allowed to see any files. No schedules for me, only special assignments. A Dock
Labour Scheme for
"Ask Peter to arrange Rest House accommodation, book
you on the ferry across the
I smiled and agreed, but next morning at 3 a.m. I was on
the road out of
When I had staggered into the Rest House at
"
"How many days?" they asked.
"This morning," I replied.
There was a stunned silence.
The morning I arrived back in
"We had better plan this journey of yours to
"I've been, Peter", I replied.
"The Governor General thought you'd finished and now you're back. What the hell happened?"
The speaker was the new head of establishments in the new Ministry of the Interior. He wanted to hear my story. I told him about Okotie Eboh and his depredations.
"He's now Minister of Finance."
"I hear he told the Governor General he hadn't finished spending the Labour Department!"
"Be very careful," I was warned.
Okotie Eboh's name had become synonymous with corruption in
"You'll know Okotie Eboh then, Carol - Festering Sam.
I've been moving his money through
This was two years before
Some histories and other academic works on
The authors, being British, show how
Nor is this public relations job confined to some historians. As an administrator, I drafted and edited many reports which gave a rosy picture of the Labour Department and its work. My aim was to present my Department as efficient and hardworking in an effort to encourage it to be like that, and anyway I would not have been allowed to write the depressing 'truth', emphasising all the faults and negative aspects.
Henry Bretton, an American scholar, realised all this in
1962 when he wrote that most articles and books on
If the 'official' story, history or report is not the whole
truth, how can one find out what really happened? For the officials who know
the secrets risk their jobs, promotion and pension rights if they reveal those
dark secrets. Where law breaking is concerned it is my personal belief that the
civil servant's true loyalty must be to the electorate and not to criminals who
happen to be civil servants or politicians. In the
The official story, that the British handed sovereign power
in
The Regions already had considerable powers of
self-government and became independent in 1957. British influence and power
continued unchecked in the most vital areas of Government after October 1960,
and to some extent, so successful have British policy and the machinations of
British Governments been, even to the present day. A secret defence pact, which
When the British invaded the Moslem North and realised that
a stable if feudal and authoritarian system of government was already in place,
they decided to rule through the Emirs. This system of indirect government
which has probably always been the stock-in-trade of conquering powers, became
almost a religion or a fetish and attempts were also made to apply it in
Sir Alan Burns, an acting Governor of Nigeria and
historian, asked after
Dr. Robert Collis was also in
The chief recruiting officer at the Colonial Office, Ralph Furse, wrote in 1962, 'To rule, you must also know when to shut one eye. The British have been rather good at this... we are sometimes surprised and a little pained, that the immense benefits we have conferred on the so-called backward races, have not been received with more whole-hearted enthusiasm.'
In 1947 Sir Hugh Foot found that there was not a single
University in
The colonial service was another fiction as it did not
really exist. A small staff at the Colonial Office merely recruited staff for
each colony, which itself paid the salaries of its administrators. Most of the
recruits went to Africa and most of these to
The British in the North despised the educated Igbo and Yoruba from the South, but nevertheless they had to employ them as clerks, storekeepers and railwaymen in the North as there were no educated Northerners. They were seen as troublemakers like the missionaries: the sort of people who see injustice everywhere and protest to the newspapers. Not that the British in the North took any chances, for only one Government-controlled newspaper was allowed there. Permission to publish newspapers was often sought by Southerners and as often refused. Henry Bretton remarked that, although on paper, basic human rights were guaranteed in the North, the Northern regime was still feudal, and the civil rights provisions were so thoroughly circumscribed and hedged round as to permit almost any practice, including slavery.
The Northerners never really wanted the British to leave. They feared the Southerners more than the British. The British and the Northern elite worked so closely together that differences of policy could hardly exist. The British claimed that the Northerners had demanded and must have fifty percent of all the seats in a Federal legislature. Was it really the Emirs who thought this up or did the British put them up to it? The British agreed anyway. The only thing lacking in this feudal authoritarian state was a mouthpiece, a political party which could represent the North and a political party, the Northern Peoples' Congress (NPC) was invented. It has been remarked that the NPC had few of the attributes of a political party. Its members, officials, MP's and funds came from the Native Authorities which were controlled by the Emirs.
Whoever controlled the NPC controlled the North and the
whole of
Sir Hugh Foot, like other British administrators in the
North, adored Northern people and, like some of his colleagues, the people he
spoke so highly of were not the common people, the poor illiterate millions,
but the Emirs. Thus, 'Polo is the national game of the North where the people
are natural horsemen. The Emir of Katsina was the best polo player in
One can see the appeal of all this to one type of British administrator. It seemed to many in the South that the British had constructed in the North a magnificent game reserve, except that the game were the Northern peasants. The Emirs were the gamekeepers. Sir Hugh found the Obas, the Chiefs of the Yoruba, very different and most difficult to understand. 'The Northerners have the predominant characteristics of Moslem dignity, courtesy and courage. The Igbos in the East are quick to learn, volatile, uninhibited, gay.'
The Yoruba on the other hand had a barbaric custom,
personal dignity and political finesse. Maybe it was the barbaric custom that
got up the British nose. The traditional way of getting rid of an unpopular Oba
was to present him with a parrot's egg. He was then expected to commit suicide.
Presumably the Yoruba did not waste parrots' eggs on the British because they
knew they would not take the hint. But the British were not treated as gods by
the Yoruba. In my experience the Yoruba regarded themselves as superior to the
British and one only had to read a book written by Awolowo, the Western leader,
to know why. The Yoruba were often highly intelligent and they taunted the
British with sending inferior people to
British settlement and ownership of land in
Awolowo had made a tactical error and a powerful enemy for
himself. Sir John left
Sir Hugh Foot spoke with some experience of Yoruba chiefs. He was himself given the bird by the Alafin of Oyo. The bird was a live turkey presented as a gift and Sir Hugh, wearing his cocked hat and white suit, was expected to make a speech with the turkey under his arm. 'The turkey obviously thought the proceedings odd. As I spoke he turned his head to look me in the eye. His gaze was embarrassingly close and I thought as I continued my formal speech - and feared for my white uniform - that I could see in the turkey's eye a look of contempt. I also thought as I turned from the turkey to the Alafin that I caught, through the string of beads, a wink of delight at my predicament.'
The Yoruba were extremely conservative and drawn towards
the law and business. They modelled the Action Group on the Conservative Party
as the latter's machine was considered the most efficient. It may seem odd that
the Yoruba were not chosen by the British to rule alongside the favoured
Northerners in the Independence Government which the British were busy planning
in 1956 long before the actual
Political leaders who would not be controlled through
blackmail were regarded as a menace by the British. In the
Awolowo was very displeased when
In sacking Adelabu the Governor General performed the neat
trick of putting both the Action Group leaders and Dr Azikiwe in his debt and
got rid of a likely troublemaker who might have upset the British applecart.
Adelabu had accomplished the impossible task of turning the Western Region
capital,
The British plan was to have each major tribal party secure in its own Region. It has been suggested that the British did some deals and had an unwritten understanding that fighting elections outside one's own Region was to be no more than a token affair. Although the NCNC had once won the Western Region, perhaps because at that time the NCNC was better organised than the Action Group, and Dr Azikiwe was perceived as a truly nationalist leader and not merely a leader of the Igbo tribe, in general the East was the monopoly of the NCNC and the West was the monopoly of the Action Group. What the British did not want was the intervention of the West and East in the heartlands of the North. If the peasants were to turn against the Emirs the very basis of British policy would be undermined.
The NCNC tried to get round this embargo by running in tandem with the small Northern group called the Northern Elements Progressive Union (NEPU) which it financed. Retaliation was swift. Armed thugs physically attacked NEPU candidates and they were hounded and harassed by police and government officials. It was said by visiting Europeans that the British tried to control these attacks and things would have been worse without the British presence. Others might ask why the British allowed these terrible abuses at all. And did the British only intervene when observers were seen to be present?
The British administrators always, of course, acted in
accordance with the traditions of an English gentleman. An official enquiry
into the recruitment system in 1929 had endorsed this view, which had been put
forward by the Duke of
What was not enquired into was what exactly these
traditions were. And which English gentlemen were to be emulated, as they were
quite a mixed bunch. Up to the middle of the nineteenth century bribery and
corruption were rife in British politics. The gentlemen who sat as judges sent
trade unionists to exile in
Ralph Furse, who personally recruited many colonial
administrators, proudly claimed that '...the name of the British Colonial
Service will be remembered with honour for a thousand years.' It is perhaps
unfortunate that Adolf Hitler made a similar claim for his Third Reich. Yet it
is undoubtedly true that in
An American, Robert F. Heussler, who studied British
administrators in the North, commented that '... following the time honoured
principles of indirect rule... colonial regimes exercised as little government
as possible.' This was another reason for the British to be unhappy with the
Western Region leaders. As soon as they got power, instead of leaving their
considerable financial reserves made from cocoa in
In the East, Dr Azikiwe had built up a political machine,
the NCNC, which could genuinely claim to be nationalistic and not tribal. It
was, however, seen by its enemies as representing Igbo aspirations and being under
the control of the Igbo leaders. Like most newcomers to
"When there's trouble," Peter Cook assured me, "Zik will be out of the country. Nobody will be able to pin anything on him."
I saw nothing sinister in this. Perhaps I became
disenchanted with Zik when I learned he was a good friend of Peter Cook's. It
appeared that Zik had been a boxer and shared Peter Cook's love of sport to the
extent of having his own stadium in
If I was disappointed to find that Peter Cook was not displaced as Deputy Commissioner when Francis Nwokedi took over the Department of Labour, I was shattered to learn that, after his retirement in 1960, Peter Cook would be returning, at Zik's instigation he claimed, to manage the new Federal Sports Stadium.
In his long political career Zik accomplished a great deal, and perhaps his critics expected too much of him. There was a vacancy for a saintly, self-sacrificing, adroit, highly intelligent, revolutionary, statesmanlike, nationalist leader. The hopes and dreams of many that Zik would fill this role were dimmed when they saw Zik, the President of Nigeria, going about in the uniform of the Commander-in-Chief of the Nigerian Army. As Peter Cook predicted, when the military coup took place in 1966 Zik was having medical treatment in London, and the failure of the coup leaders to assassinate corrupt Igbo politicians made many Nigerians, and particularly Northerners, question the motives and sincerity of those behind the coup. Zik's change of sides, when it became evident the Igbos were losing the civil war, finally destroyed his image as the nationalist saviour. For many Nigerians, Awolowo was accepted by default as the only candidate for the vacant post of a great Nigerian political leader.
John Gunther noted that Zik believed vehemently in a
unitary
Zik has been blamed for wrecking a potentially powerful political grouping, the Nigerian Youth Movement. By 1957 Zik was in deep trouble when the Foster-Sutton Commission of that year found him guilty of conduct unbecoming of the Premier of a Region. But the Governor General made no move to oust him, as he had previously ousted Adelabu. Perhaps the British saw Zik as a broken reed, who was bankrupt in more ways than one. Seeing their opportunity, thirty-one influential NCNC leaders demanded Zik's resignation in 1958, but Zik outmanoeuvred them and had them all thrown out of his party.
The full story of Zik's political career has yet to be
written. There are many dark areas such as whether Zik had a role in the
Major Nzeogwu, one of the leaders of the first military
coup, complained that Zik was a rogue, but fortunately for Zik the six majors
did not feel too strongly about him for otherwise he might have been one of the
victims of the coup. Paradoxically, had he been assassinated, many Igbo lives
would have been saved, for the charge that the coup was an Igbo plot, which led
to so much bloodshed, would not then have been sustained.
One of the English girl secretaries had a headache at the office. On the way home she remarked, "I hate the Africans."
"I thought you got on so well with your cook," I said.
"Oh, he's all right. He's smashing really. I bought him a watch for his birthday."
"And the chap you work with?"
"He's great fun. We have a lot of laughs."
"And your boss?"
"The man with the golden tool! Women queue up to see him. All nationalities! Those eyes! Talk about 'come to bed' eyes!"
"You get on so well with them. I know they really like you," I said.
"Do you think so?" she asked looking surprised. "I wish they'd say so!"
"Of course some people don't like them," I said.
"Oh, I don't know," she said with a smile. "They can be very sweet." After a pause she asked, "Do you think they have big ones... you know?"
"I've heard it said. Maybe some have small ones too!"
"I bet they're animals in bed. You probably think I'm dreadful. I just wonder. Just once, to see what it's like."
"It's difficult to get to know them socially in
"Never mind," she said as she got out of the car. "I'll probably never know."
Instead of spinning out the devising of a Port Labour
Registration Scheme for
Although disappointed that Nwokedi had no plans to displace Peter Cook, I foolishly continued my efforts to instil some idealism into Francis.
One evening we had Francis and his wife Betty to dinner and I was carrying on as usual, with Francis roaring his head off when Betty commented,
"I totally agree with you, Sean, but Francis is a very hard nut to crack! I know, I've tried often enough!"
While still working on my Port Labour Scheme, I was
surprised to be visited by a very large lady who, in
"I'm a plain clothes detective," she said.
I was quite surprised. It seemed that the dock workers had plans to throw the Port Manager into the lagoon. I found it impossible to take this seriously. Particularly as there was no special reason why they should. The dock workers were not employed by the Port Manager. Their employer used ruthless tactics to maintain discipline, including a squad of very heavy, menacing thugs who were easily picked out because they wore English-style trilby hats. When trying to interview dock workers, I had found them very reluctant to talk, which surprised me until I realised that the thugs were watching from a distance. The dock worker I was talking to slipped away into a crowd of his companions and was soon indistinguishable because they were all wearing the same uniform of khaki boiler suits with short sleeves and legs.
The Special Branch lady was irritated that I did not take her allegations very seriously. I asked her to let me know if she received any more information.
"Why?" she asked.
"Oh, I'd just like to be there if they do throw him in," I said.
She was not amused.
That weekend the whole family went for a picnic on the
I rushed to the policeman on guard at Government House to ask him to report the body. This was difficult as the policeman spoke very little English. I ran back to the car to quieten the girls. They did not know why we had abandoned the picnic. As the police arrived and I prepared to drive away, a coach stopped by my car. This was like a repetition of the incident on the Lagos/Ibadan road when a coachful of nuns passed by while Nwokedi and I were peeing into the bush. Only this time it was dozens of Salvation Army ladies who were pouring off the bus and heading for the water's edge. I rushed out and tried to send them away, but the more insistent I was, the more they crowded round.
"Please go away," I implored.
"We don't have to," snapped one of the lady officers.
Then she let out a shriek and collapsed. She had seen the body. Then there was a lot of crying and noise. I gave up and took Carol and the girls home.
"What is it, Daddy?" asked Helen, trying to comfort me.
My eyes were full of tears.
"Just this bloody country, Helen! Just this bloody country!"
If our Dock Labour Scheme was of any benefit to Nigerian
workers, the credit must go to Francis Nwokedi whose idea it was. Francis made
it possible. He also deserves credit for his next brain wave, which was to be
the National Provident Fund for all
If the Victoria Beach was getting more crowded with African
families, we knew who was responsible. In our first tour Victoria Beach was only
used by expatriate families. The Syrian and Lebanese communities would lean
against their cars along a deserted piece of the beach road. This place on the
road was known as the
It was Carol's idea to get Comfort a bathing costume. We had tried to get Comfort to paddle in the water but she had refused. I think she felt it was not allowed.
"We're going to get you a costume, Comfort," announced Carol. "You're a member of the family. If you don't go in the water, we won't go in the water."
Comfort looked stunned.
"Will you take Comfort to Kingsway and buy her a costume, Sean?" said Carol the following day.
The Nigerian shopgirls were amazed when I asked to be shown the swimming costumes and then told Comfort to choose one. Comfort was terrified but I reassured her. She selected an emerald green costume with some white edging at the top. When Carol returned from the office, she asked Comfort to put on her costume and wear her white coat on top. We set off for the beach with the girls very excited. When the moment came on the beach, Comfort was tense. Very slowly she removed her coat. Her costume fitted her well and she looked really beautiful. We gasped with pleasure and ran screaming down the beach and into the water. Comfort was so happy.
Over the next few weeks we noticed other Nigerian girls in
costumes going into the water. Then as if by magic, one weekend the beach was
crowded with African families and the road to the beach would be crowded with
Nigerians walking there. It was wonderful. Europeans began to complain and head
for beaches only accessible by boat. Half the housing in
The semi-educated Nigerian working as a house servant would
probably know very little about
Working at my desk I would dread the approach of Nigerian clerks wanting to have a chat. Invariably they were seeking advice and, after paying me compliments on my wisdom and learning, would put to me some fine point of English grammar. I was most often much more ignorant about split infinitives and participles ending sentences than they were. If I professed total ignorance they would think I was teasing them or being modest. I was not; I was simply telling the truth. I tried to dodge by telling them that English was a living not a static language, that its forms and vocabulary were always evolving. If a new phrase or word was useful and used, it was in. It might not stay in long or it might soon become a permanent fixture. My clerks were not interested in this at all. They sought the correct usage, the right pronunciation. Having said that, it was interesting to see the clerks themselves, for all the purity of their English, coining new words and meanings.
"Did you train here?" I might ask.
"No, I came by bus," the clerk would reply.
"Is Mr Jones on seat?" I would ask, using an
expression common in
"No, he has deparked," would come the response.
"Don't you mean Mr Jones has departed?"
"No, sir, his car has gone, he has deparked."
One day, returning home from Alakoro, a boy of about twelve came from an alley at speed and hit the side of my car. He was unconscious and bleeding. I scooped him up, placed him on the back seat and rushed him to hospital. As I returned to the scene of the accident with a policeman the crowd seemed very menacing and I was reluctant to get out of the car.
"When they see master, they don't make plenty trouble," the policeman assured me.
I was not at all sure, but he was right. The crowd was suddenly silent.
"It's the blood, sir," said the policeman. "I tell them you take the boy to hospital. When they see the blood, they believe me."
It was only then that I noticed that my shirt and trousers were covered in the boy's blood.
The boy made a quick recovery and I tried to visit him.
"Better not," said my clerks. "We will look after him and take him food."
"Please take fruit for me," I requested.
"What sort of fruit?" asked my clerks.
They seemed puzzled. I explained that in
"Grapes!" gasped my clerks. "How many?"
"A big bunch," I explained.
"How many in a bunch?" they asked.
"We don't count them," I said.
"Four grapes?" they asked.
"Good God, no," I exclaimed. "Dozens of them!"
My clerks fell about laughing and it was then I realised
that they thought I meant grapefruit. I was the stupid one, of course. They did
not know what grapes were as they were not commonly seen in
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I was driving down to the port at Apapa one morning when I passed a Nigerian struggling along the dusty road in the awful heat. I stopped to give him a lift.
As he approached the car his face lit up and he exclaimed,
"Michael! How good to see you!" He had obviously mistaken me for
somebody else. "No," he said. "You're not Michael, you're the
other one who looks like him. You were at
"Yes, but..."
"Then you knew my wife..."
When he mentioned her name, I did remember her. Not only that, but I recollected reading that her husband had murdered her a very few years before. And surely I had seen her at a college dance with an African companion. I became aware that he was continuing to speak.
"I killed her, you know. They put me in Broadmoor. They've just let me out. It wasn't my fault..."
Three weeks later Carol and I were at a dinner party given by the new Director General of the Nigerian Broadcasting Service, Richmond Postgate. I opened the door to a late arrival. The man who entered bore a very close resemblance to myself.
"You must be Michael," I exclaimed. "I met a
friend of yours a couple of weeks ago who murdered a friend of mine. He's in
Michael Crowder was to become a good friend. He was the new
editor of '
One evening, walking around Richmond Postgate's compound,
"I have forebodings, Sean, of the most awful and
bloody cataclysm in
I have never forgotten
Awolowo in the West had taunted the British by claiming
that his Government had accomplished more in the space of two or three years
for his people than the British had since they arrived in
"It is a very interesting fact," Philip remarked
once over tea. "No matter how bad the Departments are in
Philip named his contacts in each Department to make his
point. It was true what he was saying. However, not every person he named
managed to become Permanent Secretary of his Ministry as Philip did. Philip
might have added that those whom he named as being dedicated and hard working,
usually had the advantage that Philip also had, of an intelligent and
enlightened wife. Philip and Vera had two daughters as we had, and I am
absolutely convinced that having a supportive family enabled us to contribute
much more to the enormous needs of
The doctors we met socially and through our official duties also made us aware of how fortunate we were to be happily married, for syphilis and other venereal diseases brought into the country by the seamen visiting Lagos and other Nigerian ports meant that the customers of the Lagos brothels were satisfying their sexual appetites at considerable risk, not only to their health, but to that of their wives and children too.
The Second World War had brought many British and American
servicemen to
When returning our nanny Comfort to her village if she had been baby-sitting and it was dark, we would drive from Ikoyi, th European suburb, and the car lights would pick out what appeared to be illuminated brassieres moving at the side of the road.
"Fornicators!" Comfort would squeal in an outraged tone.
The girls wearing these fluorescent bras were prostitutes waiting for clients from the white suburb. It really did seem that the bras were dancing without any form of human support.
Nigerian couples amongst our friends dealt with this matter in a very practical and matter of fact way.
"We don't want our men to catch syphilis by going with these girls, so when we are having babies or are out of town, we arrange for a sister or a friend to sleep with our husbands."
When Carol preceded me home and I was alone in
I stammered that I really had no intention....
"You men are so weak," she continued. "I had better come and have sex with you."
"But your husband..." I protested.
"I wouldn't deceive him, Sean," she laughed. "We don't play your English games! Of course, he would be agreeable. He is your friend as I am!"
I thanked her for her kindness, and reflected how much more honest and sensible the Nigerians were. With my English reserve, I could not have handled that situation, but I agreed very much with her attitude. When I mentioned this story approvingly some men were not very keen.
"No, thank you," said one. "You should see my wife's sisters and friends!"
A marriage without children to most Nigerians was
unthinkable. It would be no marriage at all. And it appeared not uncommon among
the Nigerians we knew in
Those of us stationed in
But almost without exception after a day or two of official visits, the VIP would say, "I've been thinking. It really has been absolutely fascinating seeing the way sewage is collected... I was just wondering if it might not be possible to see some social life. What do people do here at night?"
What they were after were girls. 'Local colour' was a
guarded expression for what they wanted. There apparently exists in the culture
and dreams and imagination of the Western male this enormous urge to experience
sex with some dusky beauty. It is assumed, quite incorrectly, that the native
girls are promiscuous, immoral or nymphomaniacs, but this is of course total
fantasy. Certainly in
The second part of the fantasy for the Western male is that
the dusky maiden cannot wait to have sex with the white man. That was pure
fantasy too in our experience. Perhaps because Nigerian men are extremely good
looking, healthy and otherwise attractive. That left the prostitutes.
If one escorted, and perhaps discreetly left, one's
visiting VIP's in a dance hall collecting local colour, could one warn him that
he might well take syphilis back home to
Sex without love or even affection, perhaps satisfies rape fantasies or is perhaps a commentary on the unsatisfactory sex lives of those who seek it. When powerful white men exercise their sex drives with powerless black women and men or children, perhaps we are close to the motivations of domination, colonialism or imperialism. At least white women are free from this kind of foolishness. And I was certainly not the only European male to exercise restraint, and treat the Nigerian people with proper respect. Nigerians are extraordinarily interesting and nice people, blessed with so much cheerfulness and laughter, that to see them as sex objects and not as human beings is simply an outrageous perversion or obscenity.
The stewards at the Lagos Rest House also provided prostitutes and one Resident bounced a lady on the bed springs for an hour, to the annoyance of his neighbour. The thin walls of the chalet accommodation seemed to amplify these goings on.
Eventually the voice of a Nigerian girl was heard to complain, "Please, master, fornicate me now. I got go cook my husband's chop!"
The Minister of Labour, Okotie Eboh, was like a child presented with the keys of a sweet shop. He exercised no restraint and in the Ministry did anything he wished and was never stopped. As he had timid officials who believed in obeying orders, it was little wonder that he was noted for his geniality. He quickly acquainted himself with every secret and racket in the Department of Labour and, being a born practitioner of interlocking blackmail, known to the British as 'Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' rapidly acquired the reputation of being the most corrupt Nigerian politician. The competition was quite strong for the title and although there were other strong candidates perhaps the others did not have such complaisant and co-operative officials to put the deals through.
As VIP's in
"Oh, not Festering Sam again!"
They would with reluctance take him into
"Sean, this is the finest piece of work you have done
in
"How about the Nigerian Factories Act?" I queried.
I was not sure even Francis knew I had been responsible for that one too. At least Francis had the grace to thank me for my work in setting up the National Provident Fund. And then he dumped me back at Alakoro as Labour Officer in charge of the capital. The previous holders of that post were not distinguished for their dynamism. It took me several months before I found out why my telephone never rang. It seemed that the operator had instructions to tell callers I was not on seat.
"What happened to the other operator?" I asked my assistant.
"The new woman is a niece of the Minister," he replied.
I wondered why he had not told me that before.
Rather than die of boredom I took every opportunity to
inspect establishments in
"Tell me what you want and I will give it you, Mr Smith," she said, forgetting her earlier insistence that she only spoke French.
I repeated that I wanted her husband's workers to be paid but she brushed this aside. I kept moving up the settee on which we sat. There were no other chairs in the room. In the corner was a screen and I was sure her husband was in hiding behind it, waiting to leap out and accuse me of molesting his wife. I decided to stand by the door.
"Don't you like me?" she said.
"I want you to co-operate..." I began.
At that she brightened.
"That's what I want," she said and her negligée slipped.
I made a speedy exit. After further attempts over several days, I finally cornered her elusive husband.
"What do you want, Mr Smith?" he pleaded. "I have offered you money, crates of whiskey, girls, boys. You are the only British officer like this. I know many British Government people..."
He named some.
"I want you to pay arrears of wages to your staff," I insisted.
"Are you mad?" he shouted. "Why should you care whether I pay the lazy bastards!"
"It's the law," I said firmly.
"You're crazy!" he shouted. "Nobody obeys
any laws in
"But not to your employees!"
"What do you want, Mr Smith? My wife?"
"I don't want your wife."
"What's wrong with my wife?" he asked, looking hurt.
"Your wife is very nice..."
"You'd like her?"
"No. Nothing personal. I don't want her, that's all."
"OK," he said finally. "You want my daughters. You can have my daughters."
I gave up and wrote to the Attorney General asking
permission to start a prosecution. The Attorney General replied that as the
employer had not paid wages, the workers were not employed. One began to
understand why the law was not obeyed in
To keep boredom at bay we continued our inspections of
"Put her down as a chambermaid," I suggested.
One day at the office I heard my assistants having a heated
discussion in the adjoining office. They were debating whether English law or
the English language had contributed most to
"Nobody obeys the laws, Mr Smith. We know that."
"It's the spirit of the law," I pleaded, not altogether convincingly. "It's the idea of the law, of proper conduct..." Somewhat desperately I concluded, "It may take time for the law to bite, but one day..."
To my surprise, my assistants became deadly serious. They were not having a school debate now.
"Our inspections are a farce, Mr Smith!"
I began to waffle. God, even I was beginning to evade the truth!
"Maybe our calls do some good," I pleaded without conviction.
"But only the small fry," said one of my assistants. "We don't do the Ikoyi Club or the Island Club!"
I was stunned. The Club! I had not even thought of the Club as a catering establishment. As the Ikoyi Club exercised a colour bar, apart from a few nominal black VIP'S, the Nigerian top people had opened the Island Club which copied the Ikoyi Club and was for the well-to-do black as the Ikoyi Club was for the well-to-do white.
"You want us to do the Club and the Island Club!" I demanded.
There was silence. There was a lot of tension and unhappiness in the air.
"I know they're covered by our regulations," I said lamely.
"It's all right," said my assistants quickly.
"No, you're right," I said. We were just pretending. Chasing the small fish.
"It's all right, Mr Smith..."
"No, it isn't," I said. "Maybe one day a
year we could make the laws work in
"Inspect the Ikoyi Club, the Island Club?" my assistants gasped.
Their eyes were on stalks. They were on the defensive and frightened now.
"It's our job, isn't it?" I demanded.
"Mr Smith, you would get into plenty trouble!"
"I'm already in plenty of trouble," I said. "I'm going to have one day of law compliance. No one is above the law. Tomorrow I inspect the Ikoyi and Island Clubs."
"We'll do it, Mr Smith," they said.
Suddenly we all laughed. We felt ten feet tall. We were exhilarated.
"What do we wear?" they asked.
"Shirt sleeves down. Long trousers and ties," I insisted.
Next day we assembled in my room. My two assistants were tense and quiet.
"You don't have to come," I said.
"We're coming," they replied.
The Ikoyi Club was deserted at 10.30 in the morning but for a few stewards in uniform and scarlet cummerbunds. They looked astounded when they saw my two Nigerian assistants.
"I want to see the Secretary," I announced.
A dapper European appeared and glowered when he saw my African staff.
"What's all this?" he demanded.
I held out my official Identity Card. "My name is Harold Smith. I am a Labour Officer and I am carrying out an inspection of these premises under the provisions of the Labour Code and Catering Establishments Regulations.
"Get out!" he shouted. He was pink with rage. "How dare you bring those people in here!"
"May I introduce my Labour Inspectors?" I insisted. "We will require your wages books. I am empowered to see them."
"The Governor General will hear of this," the Club Secretary threatened. "I'm going to 'phone the Commissioner of Labour!"
"By all means," I said.
The Secretary raged over the telephone to Mr Cook. It seemed Mr Cook could not help him.
"Before I get the wages books, may I ask whether you are a member of the Club?" he enquired.
"Certainly not," I replied. "The books please..."
At the Island Club the black Secretary was even more enraged, but otherwise we had a carbon copy of the performance at the Ikoyi Club. The Secretary was also hostile to having two black Labour Inspectors on his premises. Perhaps if they had been white that would have been all right. Peter Cook was telephoned again.
That is all that happened the time we brought the law to
The Association of Senior Civil Servants were known as the
Bolshies. Its Secretary was horrified when I told him how I had come to return
to
"They can't do that," he gasped. "It's just not possible."
"They did it," I insisted.
"We'll take it up," he said.
"So what happened?" I asked some weeks later.
"It was incredible. We saw the Governor General. We told him your story and do you know what he said?"
"No."
"'How would you boys like to go to
"So what did you say?" I asked.
"We jumped at it. We go to
"And my case?"
"I don't think we're going to be able to help you...
How about that! A free trip to
The Public Service Commission Secretary was stunned.
"They can't do that!" he said.
"They did it."
"We must do something! God, it must have been terrible. Having to lose your dog, and your cat!"
Listen," said the PSC Secretary over the telephone. "I protested to the Governor General. They've posted me up shit creek!"
"How would you like to join the Nigerian Army?" asked the Senior Assistant Secretary. "It's a sinecure! Someone up there loves you. The Chairman of the War Pensions Board is going on leave. The job's yours."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch! You get his pay and yours. Just turn up on Friday, sign a few vouchers and take the money... You can have army rank. Be a colonel if you like."
"I'd rather use my own rank," I suggested.
"Why not? What was your rank?"
"The same as Lawrence of Arabia's."
"Colonel? That's OK."
"No. Aircraftman First Class. He was in the RAF too!"
"So you said 'no'," said Carol in a resigned tone. "We could have used the money."
"So they make me an army officer," I said. "One day it turns out I've signed some vouchers and someone has made off with a pile of money. I get cashiered. Maybe I get jailed. Maybe they let me off if I promise to be a good boy and keep my mouth shut..."
"You're right," said Carol.
The Social Welfare Department looked after juveniles in
trouble and
"Is that Governor General fucking mad?" asked the Nigerian social worker.
She was normally a very restrained and dignified lady.
"If that Cook so much as touches my kids, I'll cut his balls off," she said.
I knew how she felt.
"We've got to have a revolution," she said.
"Marx?" I queried.
"Rubbish," she replied. "The women's revolution!"
"The Amazons?" I queried.
"If men are going to go on making such a mess, we'll have to take over..."
"Could I help?"
"You'd only get in the way, Mr Smith."
Strange as it may seem, Peter Cook and his Government-approved ring of homosexual rapists were quite distinct and disapproved of by those responsible and liberal homosexuals who followed normal and quiet careers in commerce and teaching and other professions. To them his activities were a public disgrace which brought all homosexuals into disrepute and created an atmosphere of intolerance which would lead to persecution and prosecution.
If this had not been true it would not have been possible for Carol and me to have a good family friendship with men and women who happened to have a homosexual interest. To us, as to most liberal, educated people, it was of no possible concern to us what our friends' sexual interests happened to be. One chooses friends because they are honest, fair-minded, tolerant and responsible.
Francis Nwokedi certainly knew that our family circle of friends included a homosexual of considerable talent, because he seemed puzzled. Perhaps understandably he could not make the distinction, one I got tired of making, between being a homosexual and abusing one's position to pressurise young people into giving sexual favours. I had made it quite clear to Peter Cook, and he certainly understood, that I had no interest in his private life. I was, however, extremely concerned that he should exploit youths who were seeking employment. I would have found his behaviour equally obnoxious if it had been carried out with young girls as the victims.
I was already aware that the Governor General was taking a
personal interest in my activities and my endeavour to prevent a repetition of
the events following my last attempt to leave the Colonial Service. At the same
time I knew a great deal about the election fraud which the British Government
was perpetrating. I had kept my friend at
Philip was an excellent raconteur and retailer of funny
stories about
Margery Perham was a close friend of the Governor General, Sir James Robertson, and of many other prominent personalities at the Colonial Office. It is not improbable, given also that I was always candid and completely open to friends and colleagues about the difficulties I was in, that Sir James Robertson knew my every move. And of course, as Government routinely censored mail, tapped telephones and employed informers, it would have been surprising had they not known every detail of my life.
Even so, I was shocked when one of our family friends told us of a conversation he had had with the Governor General while having a private lunch at Government House.
"Your friend Smith is dabbling in politics, and needs to be warned," said Sir James to my thoroughly alarmed friend.
Sir James knew of his friendship with Sean Smith? He must have wondered why he had been invited to have lunch at Government House. A distinction enjoyed by few.
Our friend might have replied that I was usually much too busy to have time for politics, and was in trouble because I had resisted being embroiled in politics by Sir James himself.
"Just let him know," said Sir James.
He was not just letting me know, of course; he was
embroiling a close family friend, who was not in the slightest degree involved
in my conflict with Sir James. As it happened my friend was an
Our friend was frightened. He was a homosexual and
homosexuality was something one could go to prison for in the 1950's. He was
being threatened and used to put pressure on me. Given Sir James's tolerance,
if not active approval of Peter Cook's activities - he would have had only to
pick up a telephone to have had Cook despatched on the first plane out of
What followed next was even more intolerable. A police officer called on our friend at home and openly accused him of being a homosexual. He did not demand anything from my friend, he just wanted him to know that the Government knew about his private life. My friend telephoned me and I gave him such reassurance as I could, knowing full well that Government House was listening to my every word. I knew from my conversations with colleagues in other branches of Government, who shared my incredulity at the British Government's behaviour, that Sir James was not only frightened I would go public on the election rigging, but perhaps also expose his tolerance of Peter Cook's extra-mural activities. The Governor General had appeared to be very interested in this matter. He would not have taken personal charge in this affair otherwise.
I was not particularly happy with Francis Nwokedi. I knew
he was reporting on me to Government House and would do whatever the Governor
General ordered him to do. Francis had complained to me about demands made on
him by MI5 who saw reds behind every palm tree. At the same time he did not see
himself as a British stooge and was deeply offended when he attended an ILO
conference in
I was then invited to Government House myself. It was only
a garden party but it was not one for the lower ranks. Most Heads of Department
were there, but there were few Africans. It was either a sick joke or another
warning for me. The reception was to honour the Minister of Finance, Chief
Okotie Eboh. The Governor General knew that Okotie Eboh was a crook, and I knew
that he knew. Had he not warned him to be more circumspect! The Governor
General also knew that Okotie Eboh's name was a byword for corruption. His
notoriety was a talking point in
It was also true that Okotie Eboh knew I was the expatriate officer who wanted his criminal behaviour stopped. And it seemed that quite a few departmental top brass at that reception knew that I was the Governor General's bête noire. As I passed through the gates of Government House on to the lawn, there was a hush and I turned round thinking the onlookers were staring and then turning their backs on someone behind me, but I was alone. It was me they were turning away from. People I knew were scuttling away, as well they might, for watching us from a raised dais were Okotie Eboh and Sir James Robertson. Government top brass were peeling away on either side as I walked slowly across the lawn.
Here was my friend, who had been warned by Sir James. I greeted him and strode towards him.
"Keep away," he yelled. "Sir James will see us!" and he ran away.
As if sensing that I was being ostracised, which I most evidently was, the Postgates came forward and ostentatiously took me by the arm and, under Sir James's steely gaze, introduced me to some of their friends. At this point the Governor General called for attention.
"I have the honour today," he announced, "to present a medal to the Minister of Finance, my good friend, Chief Festus Okotie Eboh.."
"Festering Sam!" I heard an onlooker murmur.
"...for his honesty and integrity..."
Even the VIP's were stunned. There was a silence and then, as the Governor General's aide began to clap his hands, a most unwilling and perfunctory clapping of hands followed. This was too much even for the thick-skinned British administrators.
'The bastard!' was a common expletive. Presumably they meant Okotie Eboh.
'Insane! Nauseating! Disgusting!' These were the whispered reactions as Sir James pinned a medal on Okotie Eboh's voluminous robe.
My thoughts were of the young English girl who had been one of the staff accompanying Okotie Eboh on one of his missions abroad. On some pretext he had called to see her late at night and had tried to rape her. The Governor General must have known of this young woman's distress.
I thought of all the honest, decent, young Nigerian people who were struggling out of poverty and, with the help of the missionary schools and dedicated church people, trying to create a new society, a new nation. They deserved better than this.
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One of our delights, returning from the
There were many decent British people too. As we liked to
stay at home with our daughters of an evening, we preferred to see our friends
for tea rather than organise dinner parties. And as we were not drinkers,
cocktail parties did not appeal either. We found a perfect compromise. After
the morning service we would greet friends outside the
Our young American friends whom we had met wandering the
back streets of
"Do you remember that young American...?"
Peter Marris, who had come to
What with friends at Oxford like Neil Smelser and Andy Hacker shortly to be professors, and Bola Onitiri who had lodged with Carol's mother soon to be professor at Ibadan, and Michael Crowder and Robin Horton - both more Nigerian than any Nigerian - it seemed nearly all our friends would soon be university dons.
Michael Crowder was busy writing his very popular history, 'The Story of Nigeria.' I hoped one day Michael would tell the true story of the events leading up to Independence, although I appreciated that he wanted to continue to live and work in Nigeria. Michael was to write many more scholarly works before eventually being deported.
The various constitutional conferences in London which led
up to Independence were not as significant as they appeared, because as I have
already outlined, the elections were rigged and the coalitions formed even
before the 1959 Federal election results were known. One Igbo academic
supporter of Zik, Kalu Ezera, in a distinguished and scholarly work,
'Constitutional Developments in
The hotels in
Any reader who is nauseated by this account should direct
his anger at
The flight of the British from Africa, signalled by Mr
Macmillan's 'wind of change' speech, was based on a realistic conclusion that
the days of British rule were numbered, but did the withdrawal need to be so
precipitate? Neither of the great fears which motivated Harold Macmillan were
borne out. The new
There is a record of Okotie Eboh on the way back from a
Constitutional Conference peddling the Colonial Office line to his colleagues
in the NCNC. Not all the party leaders were aware, as were Zik and Okotie Eboh,
of the fact that British firms were financing the NCNC and that the British
Government was actively participating in election rigging and chicanery to
ensure that the North with the assistance of the NCNC ruled
Okotie Eboh's ever growing wealth allowed him to play an independent role in politics, even defying his own party when necessary. He financed the NCNC and was probably more powerful than Zik. When criticised in the House of Representatives in 1960 for his dubious property deals, like selling the Department of Labour's trade testing headquarters, a deal put through by British civil servants, he threatened to expose similar deals in the Western Region. Okotie Eboh and some of his colleagues were more at home with the British-backed NPC Northern leaders than they were with the Igbo leaders of the NCNC. It has been suggested that, as an Itsikeri, Okotie Eboh could not plunder the Eastern Region, so had to be given licence to pillage the Federal Government. A licence from Sir James Robertson he exploited to the full. To put such a crook in charge of the Ministry of Finance was so unprincipled as to be beyond belief. It convinced me that on a personal level Sir John MacPherson, the Head of the Colonial Office and former Governor General, and Sir James Robertson, the Governor General, thought little of the Nigerian people and cared nothing for democratic values.
The draft minutes of an ad hoc committee meeting of NCNC ministers on board mv Apapa on 22 July 1957 are revealing. Zik was present, as was Okotie Eboh. Both knew of the British machinations. They now persuaded their colleagues. 'Experience has shown,' read the account, 'that in a country of our own level of political and economic evolution, open and emotional animosity towards expatriates is not only a most expensive luxury but a great tactical error. Agreed that a policy of evident fraternisation should now be pursued - with the national leader (Zik) giving the lead. We should not only be friendly but should appear to be so. This policy is to be applied officially and unofficially.' Sensible as this policy might have been, it was hardly the fire eating talk which they were feeding to their supporters back home, when they were posing as courageous nationalists, throwing off the British yoke.
Zik, had, of course, been expelling radicals from his party
over many years. His remarkable inability to be at ease with men of superior or
even equal intelligence has been put down to his temperament or some flaw in
his character. His betrayal of the Biafran cause when they began to lose was
the final act in a long line of similar inexplicable changes of course. The
ghost in the works was of course the British colonial regime and the control
they exercised through their superb, if totally unscrupulous intelligence
network. The British held cards they never even played; the threat to play them
was sufficient. And neither were individual Nigerians pure and virginal; they
not only reported on each other but, after the supposed
Anthony Enaharo, one of the Action Group leaders to be persecuted and jailed while Zik was posturing as Governor General and President of Nigeria, has stated that after the 1959 elections the Action Group offered to join the NCNC in forming a coalition Government in which Zik should be Prime Minister. The offer was rejected. 'Within the NCNC there were powerful forces ...which opposed such an agreement' for reasons which have never been fully disclosed.'
I can now say what those reasons were. The NCNC had done a deal with the British to support those backward and reactionary Northerners on whom various NCNC leaders had poured such ridicule in the past. Zik would have to be satisfied with the empty post of Governor General, then President, but was apparently persuaded that this was really the Number One job. He would even be Commander-in-Chief and could wear the uniform of a Field Marshal. If Zik thought he was to be the real head of the Nigerian military forces he was to be soon disabused.
But why take the shadow or pretence of power when he was being offered the prime ministership? The truth was that Zik could not deliver his party to such an agreement. Okotie Eboh held the trump cards. Zik and his great party were bankrupt and dependent on those great British commercial interests he had attacked with such eloquence for so many years to keep his party in existence. Okotie Eboh was the paymaster and on the mv Apapa Zik was dancing to Okotie Eboh's and the British Government's tune.
Zik the progressive nationalist, Zik, the great socialist and leader of his people to freedom, was a spent force, a burnt out case. In this topsy turvy world of secret intelligence reports, MI5, pimps, prostitutes, rape and murder presided over by the Colonial Office and Harold Macmillan, it was not surprising that the Nigerian political leader of great personal integrity and honesty - Awolowo - who based his party machine on the Conservative Party and was a devout Christian and believer in British fair play, would soon after Independence find himself not in the President's or Prime Minister's office but rotting in a small prison cell.
It might be asked by what right a supposedly civilised
nation like
The new constitution for an independent
It might be asked why Zik appeared to collaborate in the
machinations of the British. In 1959 his party, the NCNC, and its ally, the
NEPU, had won more popular votes than any other party, though this was not
reflected in the number of seats won. This in spite of the efforts of the
Northerners and the British administration to crush opposition. The Hausa were
marched through the polling booths by the Emir's men in the North. The
percentage voting figures would have been remarkable in a Western democracy. In
The funding of the political parties was the key not only to Nigerian elections but also to their results. The British knew where every penny came from. If the British chose not to investigate claims that the West were diverting six million pounds of official funds from the Marketing Boards into the Action Group treasury, it was because the NPC in the North was obviously also being financed by the Native Treasuries. In the East the Foster-Sutton Tribunal into Zik's African Continental Bank (ACB) found that it was insolvent. The principal use made of the public deposits in the ACB was to finance Zik's various business ventures. In 1955 the Eastern Region Finance Corporation invested large sums in the ACB, money which had come from the Eastern Region Marketing Board. In turn Zik financed his party, the NCNC. In 1955 the ACB and Zik's businesses were virtually bankrupt. In 1959 the Development Board took over the ACB.
In 1956 we have seen how the British Government opened a
conduit which saved the NCNC from bankruptcy, but also placed the NCNC in the
hands of British commercial interests, who would later expect their pound of
flesh. The aim of the British Government was to force the NCNC to co-operate in
letting the North rule
The extent of British philanthropy, or extortion, is
revealed in the following figures. 'Between January 1957 and July 1960, that is
in the period which included the Federal Election of 1959, the NCNC had spent
approximately £1,200,000. In the same period its income from all sources had
not exceeded £500,000.' Some £700,000 was not accounted for at all, even if the
rest of the accounts were in order. The position of the party would have been
worse had it not been able to draw on the credit of official quasi-Government
backed agencies such as the Eastern Region Development Board. Much more than
the £700,000 probably passed through Okotie Eboh's sticky fingers. A great deal
certainly ended up via the City of
Ministers' wives who were not in possession of an official marriage certificate, but had large sums of hot money deposited by their husbands in their names in bank accounts, now found it easy to get their 'husbands' to walk up the aisle.
Peter Cook, my boss in the Labour Department, knew all
about the hot money. It was his business to know. It was because he knew so
much that he could afford to live so dangerously. Not that he was a happy man.
Strangely, because he hated, feared and despised me, I became his confessor. He
was sick with guilt, he wanted to die, he wanted to become a Roman Catholic -
the RC hierarchy in
Francis Nwokedi was Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of
Labour and as
"The job's yours, Sean," said Francis. "You can name your own salary."
"No thank you, Francis," I said. "I'm going
back to the
I was not going home with 'lumpers' or a gratuity or a pension. I felt dirty, tainted, unclean. So why had I turned down a job I would have loved? The National Provident Fund would have been, in a phrase later to be made famous by Mrs Thatcher, safe in my hands.
Perhaps it was the qualification Francis had added, "Of course, Sean, you would need help on staffing. I would look after that for you."
I loved Francis too in my way, but we had come to a parting of the ways.
The Governor General, His Excellency Sir James Robertson,
the representative of the Queen of
My boss at the Labour Department, Peter Cook, had drawn up
a timetable and arranged for the head driver and the Department's Chevrolet
station wagon to collect and deposit me at Government House with fifteen
minutes to spare. Punctuality was Peter's only conspicuous virtue and it was
nice to see it demonstrated on such an important occasion. Peter had started
his working life as a railwayman before getting into industrial relations.
Maybe he thought I would ignore the Governor General's command and forget to
turn up at the Governor General's seat of power, Government House, which was
set on the
As the Chevrolet approached the racecourse the head driver pulled over on to the grass verge and informed me that we were three minutes ahead of Peter Cook's schedule. A few yards away on the racecourse a gang of convicts were chopping the grass with machetes. The warder was wearing a crisp khaki uniform and swinging a wooden staff. The warder's favourite trusty was keeping time by striking an iron bar with a metal rod. The warder was bored; the trusty was watching the gang strike the grass to his rhythm. None of the convicts looked up at the parked blue and white Chevrolet and the white man in a light linen suit. Maybe the convicts did not dare. Perhaps they were hoping one day to get the job of hitting the iron bar.
"These people go to jail for years for stealing pennies, Mr Smith. The Minister of Labour, Okotie Eboh, steals many thousands, and the Governor General gives him a medal for his honesty."
"I was there," I said. "It was a reception for VIP's. Not the sort of do a lowly Labour Officer gets invited to usually. I think the Governor General was trying to tell me something."
"The African staff have been watching you for five years, Mr Smith. We know what you have tried to do. We understand... we are grateful."
I thanked him for his kindness. For five years I had greeted him and for five years he had ignored me and turned his eyes away. I was trouble and he needed to keep his job.
We watched the convicts slash the grass. It was still cool if you were wearing a light linen suit and sitting in a Chevrolet with the windows down. It would soon get very hot and there was a lot of grass on the racecourse. As the convicts slowly moved around the track the grass would be growing fast behind them.
"The Governor General thinks you are plenty trouble, Mr Smith ..." The head driver paused and grinned. "What nobody knows is which trouble he is carpeting you for. You make trouble about the workers the Spanish kill in Fernando Poo. You know too much about Okotie Eboh and his crooked deals. You know about Mr Cook and his boy friends..."
"No, it's not that. Not Mr Cook. The Governor General's secretary has insisted that we do not discuss unsavoury matters. I think he means Mr Cook, but I can't be sure."
"I would just love to be in there listening, Mr Smith. The Governor General - no disrespect, sir - he doesn't see just anybody."
His Excellency was indeed next to God in
And it was this problem of democracy that was bringing Sir
James, the Queen's representative, the man entrusted with the glorious and
awesome responsibility of planting democracy in Africa's largest state, to see
the Labour Officer for
One of us was carrying the flag for the great principle of British democracy developed over the centuries together with our parliamentary system and the concepts of fair play and the rule of law, and it was not Sir James. Sir James Robertson in my view had gerrymandered, cheated, perverted and, by his machinations, perpetrated one of the most ghastly acts of infamy in British colonial history.
The head driver turned away from watching the convicts. The zing of the metal rod was hypnotic. He started the car and pulled on to the road.
"We mustn't keep His Excellency waiting, Mr Smith," he said.
He was not smiling now.
Despite his weight of seventeen stones and being sixty
years of age, Sir James Robertson, KCMG, the Governor General of
Sir James had all the cards. He was the Governor General and he had a whole hierarchy of staff who could have sat on a rebellious Labour Officer. But he had asked to see me and he had embargoed any discussion of Peter Cook, the homosexual rapist. It did cross my mind to wonder why.
As soon as Sir James spoke, he made a tactical error.
Perhaps because I appeared to be so thin and weak he decided to bully me. Sir
Hugh Foot had said of his old friend Sir James, that by the warmth and sympathy
and joviality of his personality he had taken all
When Carol heard this she laughed and said, "Sean used to hang around the magazine counter in Kingsway Stores to see who bought the other copy!"
Although I had made this wisecrack, I had actually long
given up judging character by a person's politics, let alone his reading
habits. I am sure I reminded Michael that Sir James knew how to impress him; he
was not a fool. Sir James was a Balliol man and
"You may be under a misapprehension, Smith," said Sir James forcefully. "I want you to know that I personally gave the orders regarding the elections to which you objected. They were necessary."
"But illegal, sir," I riposted.
I was told I was impertinent. The overseas Civil Service was like the Army. If you disobeyed orders the highest penalty could be demanded. This was simply not true. The Public Service Commission had been designed to protect civil servants from political pressure. As if sensing how spurious this was, Sir James tried a different tack.
"Look here, Smith," he pleaded. "Be
reasonable. Your work has been brilliant and outstanding. If you will keep your
mouth shut I can promise rapid promotion and a most distinguished career
elsewhere in Government service overseas." (I was not to be allowed to
work in the
At that moment I almost agreed with him. I suddenly realised that he was just as much a part of this squalid mess as Bunker or Beck or I had been. Then he rounded on me furiously with threats.
"You will never work in the
I said, "It was very kind of you to see me, sir. My position is unchanged. I cannot carry out unlawful orders." As I said, "Good-bye, sir," he turned away.
He was very angry. Oddly enough I felt sorry for him.
It was reported to me from a high level that African
Ministers saw me as a threat. My life was in danger. I should get away from
I boarded the plane for
My companion was the senior Resident in the Western Region
and only a step or two junior to the Governor General. It seemed he was the
former pupil my tutor Harry Weldon at Magdalen had spoken to me about when I
had mentioned that I was going out to
"I've heard of you, Smithy," my companion said. "You're the chap who keeps churning out papers from the Labour Department. I've heard about your Factories Act and the Provident Fund Scheme. Why don't you come and work for me as my PA? We'd get on fine together."
"That would be great," I replied. "But I have problems; there was a lot of corruption in the Labour Department."
"I've got the same problems. I've got a safe in my room full of incriminating documents..."
I changed the subject to give me a chance to think. I did
not want to get him into trouble with Sir James Robertson. I asked why he was
going to
"I'm pissing blood, old man," he replied. "How are you?"
I told him I had lost five stone in weight over the past year. I was down to seven stones and my clothes hung on me. I knew my gut was a mess and everything tasted metallic. It would have been too melodramatic to confide in him my fear that I was being poisoned.
"I can't work for you," I said quickly. "I'm in trouble with the Governor General."
"Jesus!" said my companion, and we did not speak again.
I felt very sad. I liked him a lot. We had much in common
and it was a remarkable coincidence that two Magdalen men, separated by many
years, should both have gone to
When the plane arrived in
Return to Autobiography Chapter
List
Carol had found us a small terraced house in North
London and when we had unpacked our loads from
One day while I was painting doors, the telephone rang.
Francis Nwokedi was in
I made a full statement to Justice, the British branch of
the International Council of Jurists. I was cross examined by Sir John Foster,
QC, who pronounced himself satisfied that I was speaking the truth. A good
friend put me on to a relative who was a prominent City solicitor. I was not
hopeful of taking legal action against the Crown. For one thing I had no money
and I was unemployed. While in
"Get a good lawyer," was his advice.
My good lawyer said I had an excellent case but we would need a first class QC and we simply could not afford one. We were broke. There was another alternative. Only the previous evening the lawyer had sat down to dinner with Julian Amery, the MP and son-in-law of the Prime Minister. Amery was also Parliamentary Under Secretary of State at the Colonial Office. My lawyer got in touch with Julian Amery who could not understand what was supposed to be going on in his Department.
"The Colonial Office have told Amery you must be
mad," said my lawyer. "They say you never worked for Government in
I informed my lawyer that at that very time the Governor
General was frantically sending me offers through Miss Perham at
Now the Colonial Office changed its story. Of course I had worked for them. Unfortunately all my papers had been destroyed in a fire. Of course this was a lie. The weeks passed, and I was about to contact Julian Amery again when I heard he had been moved from the Colonial Office. He had been promoted to Secretary of State for Air by his father-in-law. I felt that particular channel was now closed.
I contacted the Labour MP for
The CIA people in
Big Bill Donovan, the CIA godfather, had recently died. One
of my friends in
"Not very long in
I had a contact with the High Commissioner for
My new problem was my health which was continuing to
deteriorate. The doctors were unhelpful but, instead of saying that they did
not know what was wrong and referring me to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases
where sprue might have been instantly recognised, they said nothing was wrong
and therefore there was no point in getting more skilled advice. Over the years
I was to meet other ex-colonials from
For a few weeks, I held down a job at the Holloway Employment Exchange as a counter clerk. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were due to make an official visit as the exchange service was approaching its 50th anniversary. All the staff were to be presented to the Queen in order of length of service, except me. I was the new boy so would be working on the counter. One of the managers' wives stood in for the Queen at a rehearsal and everything went well. On the day, everyone was in line including wives who wore hats and gloves. The Queen dutifully started shaking hands with the most senior staff but the Duke got bored and spying me on the counter bowled over.
"You seem to be the only one doing any work," he said cheerfully.
While the staff glowered, the journalists and photographers took photographs and film of the new boy with the Duke. A West Indian pushed forward with a long poem he had written in honour of the Queen. He started to read.
"God bless our Queen
And Empress of Light.
To us, her subjects
She gives great delight."
"Recite a few more stanzas," ordered the Times man who was dressed in an undertaker's suit.
"Are you a foreigner?" the black man asked.
"Kind of, he's from 'The Times'," said the Mirror man. "Read him a few more lines."
As the Times man put together his fountain pen, the West Indian poet pressed on.
"Very nice," said the Duke and turning muttered, "What a load of bollocks," but I probably misheard.
I had no resistance to infection and a cold turned to influenza and worse. I felt as if I was dying. One doctor gave me tranquillisers, another gave me pep-up pills I was up and down like a yo-yo. Then suddenly I was floating on the ceiling and out of the house. The light was magnificent. I had gone down a long dark tunnel. As I soared into the heavens, I saw the world of continents and oceans far below. Loved ones who had died were waiting to greet me and the joy was incredible. All the knowledge of the universe was now mine as if contained in one heavenly library. The depression and unhappiness which I had buried and refused to allow to surface were wiped away I was pure, clean, reborn. Except that I wanted to stay up there. But it was not to be. I was told I had to return. There was work for me to do.
I returned and saw my body sprawled on the bed as if in agony with my face contorted. It was awful and then I was inside my body and I was alive again. Recovery was slow, but I knew I had to stop fighting. My African struggle was over. If I wanted to survive I had to accept a low key life. I now had no fear of death and somehow I had trust that I would be protected.
Carol had begun to teach and I stayed at home. We let rooms to pregnant teenagers and helping others in trouble brought us joy and happiness. Our own problems shrank to insignificance.
On 1 October 1960 Africa's largest and, after
When Harold Macmillan visited
"With a lot of help from your friends," would have been an appropriate retort.
The British High Commissioner in
The Deputy High Commissioner was another strong link in the
chain. Sir David Hunt had been in charge of the African desk in
At the
The political future of
A defence agreement had been arranged before
Lord Head, the British High Commissioner, had of course
been a Conservative politician. He had also been a professional soldier, then Secretary
of State for War and Minister of Defence. Sir David Hunt in his account of this
affair states that it was the Nigerians who wanted the defence pact because
they feared an attack by Dr Nkrumah of
It will be recalled that the trail of powder which led to
the keg which was to blow
Macmillan's integrity was also questioned regarding the
forced repatriation of Cossacks to the
Harold Macmillan, in rushing
To some extent of course
However, other elites could have been drawn on in
From my experience with Okotie Eboh it seemed that the
British Government wanted to hand over power to a corrupt group of politicians.
Perhaps corruption was seen as the speedy way to create a conservative middle
class which would be sound, stable, and most important anti-Communist. If this
is the case the dotty capitalists' ideologues and the communist theoreticians
come together, for it is the Marxist theory too that a corrupt middle class is
needed before a proletarian revolution can take place. I once met a corrupt
communist businessman, who defended his dishonesty by claiming he was
undermining
Our small house was soon bursting with pregnant teenagers. I would remind the social work agencies that it was a man who was at home looking after these girls, but the social workers assured me that their girls were quite safe with me. Of course we would not have missed the experience of knowing and helping all those young girls and their babies. Even if we were crowded, the exhortation to take just one more teenager might be resisted over the telephone, but who could turn away a pregnant girl on the doorstep with a battered suitcase? It crossed my mind to call our home 'The Jampot' because all our girls were in a jam. My position was not too good either. Even if I could have got a job, my health was appalling. I had not got the energy to go to work. It was an achievement often to get through the day and survive.
Our girls were not immoral or anything unusual. They were just pregnant. The pregnancy might have been inconvenient but in the early l960's that was most often the rule. Smarter girls might have used contraceptives or arranged abortions. Perhaps some of our girls had tried both, but it seemed some had very odd ideas about contraception and we heard very weird ideas on abortion. Some of our girls seemed to think that because they had their eyes shut, IT could not be happening to them. Of course IT was happening and as a consequence they became our guests.
The only thing to be said about the half hearted attempts at abortion we heard and laughed about, for some were incredibly funny, was that they all failed. One girl had wrestled with a massive block of carbolic soap in the bath and decided after much struggling that she was anatomically small. She had, fortunately for her and her baby, misheard the instructions.
It may seem strange that our house was full of laughter; maybe it was because the girls were safe that there was a great sense of relief. Strangely with but one exception, all our young ladies (a couple of whom were only fourteen) produced healthy girl babies.
I did not worry too much about my status. I was delighted to be at home with my two young daughters. I was close to them as they grew up. That was a joy I would not have missed for anything. I was not self-conscious about turning up at the school gates with all the mums. Was I staying at home because I was unemployable or too ill or to look after my daughters or to look after our pregnant girls? Friends found it awkward. I was introduced for the last time as a Poet. It seemed I had to have a title. Everybody, particularly men, have to be something. That is how men judge you. If unemployed or chronically ill, you are nothing to most men except perhaps as an object of pity which is the last thing you need. My advice to anyone in this fix is to be a Writer, or a Researcher, or a Student or a Social Worker. Anything in fact. Not only do other people feel better, but they might offer you jobs. Few people without jobs or an occupation can get jobs. Also you feel better. Become a Social Worker, not just a helper with meals on wheels. Working at home gives you status, and to your surprise you may find men envying you for having escaped the rat race. As a Student you do not feel ill at ease in the libraries, they belong to you. Sign up for a course if you do not feel legitimate enough. Give yourself status!
As for being poor, I have always found that people do not really believe it. They tend to think if you can afford not to work - they do not see you when you are ill - you are probably quite well off. Leisure, even if it is compulsory, can be enjoyed if you have the right frame of mind and work at being cheerful and confident. It is by no means easy, and there can be awful depression, but it need not all be awful gloom, especially if you have the godsend of a loving spouse.
It is ironic that having gone to
It seems I was reduced to the African level for Dr Robert Collis in his excellent book, 'A Doctor's Nigeria' makes the point that the reason Africans appeared lazy and sleepy to some Europeans was that the majority of them were only partially healthy, being continually assaulted by non-lethal attacks of fever and harbouring numerous parasites which infect the bowel and share with their hosts an inadequate diet.
Similarly, most of the children who died so tragically
young in
By 1971 when I was in a critical state following coronary episodes, I was also covered with weeping blisters. Fortunately for me, Dr Lionel Fry at St Mary's Hospital in Paddington made the breakthrough discovery which confirmed that this skin condition was a complication of coeliac sprue. I had survived long enough to benefit from a major advance in medical science. Up to that time dermatitis herpetiformis had been treated with dapsone which also suppresses lesions in leprosy. In centuries past the two conditions had been confused. It was as well the gluten free diet had been discovered for I could not tolerate dapsone or other sulpha drugs. They left me a burnt out case - a term applied to lepers following dapsone treatment.
A wasting gut was the main feature of coeliac sprue and
dermatitis herpetiformis which was to some extent restored by a gluten free
diet. However, I was to find that large doses of the B vitamins as in brewers'
yeast were also essential. Later, as I experimented on myself, I was to find I
could clear a number of other heart, bone and muscle problems with particular
vitamins and minerals. The parallel with those suffering children in
When I returned to
"Mr Burgess will be delighted to know you are here," said Mrs Burgess. "But he is nearly blind."
What sadness and relief I felt! I went up close and Mr
Burgess greeted me warmly. We reminisced about delivering milk in wartime in
the early hours with air raids taking place and shrapnel falling around us. I
explained that I had gone to Africa after leaving
"We have such good news, Harold," said Mrs
Burgess. "The Chapel has been supporting a missionary in
I looked at the shining face of Mrs Burgess and wanted to weep. I had tried to help that missionary too and those workers. I felt I had completed a mission and fulfilled a promise too.
Recently I returned to Barlow Hall Farm. The buildings have been razed to the ground and huge gravel pits have been dug out of the fields. Even the cobbles of the farmyard have been taken away. It was not all loss however. A lido and small country park have been established and where only a few of us had enjoyed the secret places of the farm and countryside, thousands are now able to walk and sail. It is nevertheless a very traumatic experience to return to one's boyhood haunts, particularly when they have changed so dramatically.
I went to
"I'm still in
Philip mentioned that he had told my story to Margery Perham, the colonial expert at Nuffield.
"She was stunned," said Philip.
Her friend, the Governor General would be in
When I next heard from Philip, Miss Perham was talking realpolitik. Was I prepared to do a deal? If I was, there were golden opportunities on offer, if I would keep my mouth shut.
Philip Williams was a friend of Anthony Crosland and knew the Labour leaders, Hugh Dalton and Hugh Gaitskell, but never offered to take my story to them. Maybe he had and they did not want to know. Some Labour people thought all white colonials bad and all Africans good. And most of them knew little of African history and geography. Conservatives seemed to be better informed and to take a moral stance. The criterion used by the upwardly mobile careerists was simply how they would have exploited the situation for personal gain.
Perhaps Philip was disappointed that I would not join the
Gaitskell camp. I would defend Nye Bevan and Harold Wilson from the charge of
being irresponsible left-wingers. 'Nye Bevan gave us the health service,' I
would argue, 'and
To mollify Philip I would say, "My brain's with you, Philip, but my heart's with Bevan."
Perhaps it truly was instinct. Bevan and Wilson were the
kind of Methodist Chapel people I admired. Hugh Gaitskell was like a
Margery Perham was quite a powerful figure at
There was nothing obviously wrong with those election studies. They were conscientiously carried out and provided