Читать книгу A Just Defiance - Peter Harris - Страница 29

I am wondering which is worse: the highway to Pretoria, or flying to Lusaka on Zambian Airways. Tough call. I need to get to Lusaka as quickly as possible and the first available flight is on Zambian Airways.

The reason they can take a last-minute booking becomes apparent the moment I get on the plane. The steward says brightly, ‘Sit anywhere. Except in the toilets.’

I am travelling with one of my partners, Thabo Molewa, who has done some work on the case, but on this occasion is consulting the ANC on another issue.

Thabo is not a good flyer and I can see that the steward’s request not to take his seat in the toilets has rattled him. Me too, for that matter.

My meeting with the ANC has been arranged through Penuell Maduna, deputy head of the organisation’s legal department in Lusaka. I am taking whisky and chocolates. These are always appreciated by those on low stipends.

On my left Thabo grips the armrests and looks decidedly unhappy. I wonder if I should crack open the whisky now. Then at least if the plane goes into a terminal tailspin, the descent will pass in a golden haze of Johnnie Walker. Initially the flight is bumpy but smoothes out, and I fall asleep. I am jolted awake by the plane smacking into something hard and Thabo’s screams next to me, as he lunges forward in his seat, madly clawing the air. We are all screaming now as the overhead lockers open and hand baggage and duty-free purchases rain down. Outside, I see lights flashing past as the ice-cool voice of the captain tells us that we have landed and are most welcome in Zambia. No warning about beginning our descent, putting our seats in the upright position and extinguishing cigarettes, just straight in. But I don’t care. I’m grateful to be alive.

Penuell Maduna meets us at the airport. A large and friendly man with bull shoulders and a barrel chest, he fires off a dozen questions on the drive into the city. What is the latest on the state of emergency? How many people are in detention? Is the money coming through for the trials? When was I last on Robben Island? Who had I seen? Did we know anything about a police death squad operating outside Pretoria? Why was soccer such a shambles? What was the weather like in Joburg? Was the attorneys admission exam difficult? How much did a Castle beer cost?

I notice he doesn’t stop at red traffic lights. This worries me.

‘Bandits,’ he explains. ‘Please keep your doors locked, there have been a number of incidents in Lusaka and nice cars like these attract attention.’

After our experience on the plane, I am alarmed that we cruise through the red traffic lights like a presidential cavalcade, but the coward in me confirms that it is probably preferable to risk instant death by colliding with another vehicle than to be hijacked by an AK-47 wielding armed gang. My fearful thoughts are interrupted by Maduna.

‘By the way, we have arranged for you to see someone about the trial. I’m not sure who it is but it has been arranged. We are very keen to get news of Masina and the others. There is a lot to discuss.’

We check into the Pamodzi Hotel, the best and most expensive hotel in Lusaka, but clearly a tired establishment. The grand entrance with the sweeping drive seems out of kilter with the run-down exterior and the unkempt gardens. Inside is tatty and dated but busy. The room rates are ridiculously high given their bland utilitarianism, the stained bath and cigarette burns in the threadbare carpet.

Maduna leaves us in the lobby saying that we will be called after breakfast with the details of our meetings.