The Last King of Scotland (1998) (27 page)

A
s the months went by, Idi began to take me into his confidence more and more. He would phone me up – he loved the telephone, that man – and as often as once a week I would find myself dragged away from Mulago to perform some task entirely nonmedical in character. Such as briefing the many journalists, mainly British but latterly Americans and Germans, too, who came to see the President during this time, or talked to him over the phone. From time to time they would turn up at a designated hotel or at one of Amin’s residences, with their train of rubber leads, bulky black television cameras on their shoulders and spongy microphones on spear-like poles.

Inevitably, they’d prod him into saying some outrageous thing or other. I remember how they knelt down in front of him, some fiddling with their equipment, some scribbling in little notebooks with spiral wire bindings. They always wore light brown, or even khaki, as I recall, and sometimes it seemed as if one soldier was interviewing another.

Except for on one occasion I remember, when Idi – all his elephantine bulk – was stuffed into an orange jump-suit. We were in the banqueting room at State House. The dark wooden table had been pushed against the wall, like a longboat moored at a quayside, and Idi sat in the displaced carver chair, with a semi-circle of journalists in front of him.

“This is my astronaut suit,” he announced, as the press conference began. “I will wear it when Uganda goes to the moon. I have been having words with NASA, and they say it is possible for me to be the first black man to go there.”

Everyone laughed.

“I am serious,” Amin protested. The collectively dour, bewhisk-ered gaze of the governor-generals seemed to say otherwise, as they frowned down from their portraits on the unfolding scene.

“Mr President, do you sleep with all of your wives at once?” began one of the journalists.

“You are a very cheeky man.”

Everyone laughed again. I noticed that there were a bunch of thuggish aides – probably State Research Bureau men – standing at the back of the room, under the crested-crane dish. The latter needed a polish, having become tarnished and covered with verdigris.

A correspondent from one of the US networks put up his hand. “Why did you expel the Israelis from Uganda, after all they had done for you in terms of building roads and supplying aircraft to the Uganda Air Force?”

Amin looked surprised, as if it was inconceivable that anyone could ask such a question. I thought of Sara, her feet – their thonged skin the colour of olive oil – in my sandals, the feeling of her long hair brushing across my chest.

“Because Arab victory in the war with Israel is inevitable and the Prime Minister Mrs Golda Meir’s only recourse was to tuck up her knickers and run away in the direction of New York and Washington. Also when the Israelis were in Uganda, yes, the Americans and the Israelis made Uganda the headquarters of the CIA in Africa. If you see Mrs Meir, tell her I am not a person who fears anyone. I am over six foot tall and a former heavyweight boxing champion. When Muhammad Ali finished with George Foreman across the border in Zaire, I told him, come and fight me now in Uganda. But he was too scared!”

They all scribbled furiously. For a moment the room was silent except for the sound of rustling paper and the faint hum of camera equipment.

The
Daily Mirror
reporter broke the silence. “How do you find it, being President of Uganda?” he asked.

“It is very hard, but I like it very much and enjoy it very much. One must have a very good brain, work very hard and not be a coward. But I love Uganda and was given the insight to lead the country, so it is OK.”

“Why did you ask Britain to supply you with Harrier jets?” asked the
Sunday Times
stringer, a tough-looking Rhodesian. His accent reminded me of Swanepoel’s clipped South African tones, though I seemed to recall him telling me that a native of either country wouldn’t think they were similar. Well, not a
real
one…So many traps and pratfalls in describing these things.

“I was sincere,” Amin replied. “I asked the Defence Secretary in my meeting with him. I had to go and attack South Africa. I asked them even for a destroyer and an aircraft carrier so I could move on to South Africa with ultimate force. The common enemies of all Africa are South Africa and Rhodesia. Military might will eventually displace the racists from Southern Africa. Imperialists will face fire. A truly volunteer African army is already being raised to fight unless Pretoria and Rhodesia give majority rule to their black populations. A division of thousands of South African exiles has been trained and is ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Some of these people are already there and are simply awaiting the green light from me.”

“Will you therefore be joining the Communists in South Africa, to fight against the apartheid regime?”

“Oh no! I am very grateful for the free gifts such as tanks, mobile trucks, guns and fighter planes that the Soviet Union has given me, but I am not a puppet. No way. I don’t dance for criminals who try to act like the Vice-President of Uganda. The Soviet attitude is equivalent to me going to Moscow to advise what policy to follow in Czechoslovakia.”

He got up and started walking around in the space between the carver chair and the knees of the journalists – like a schoolmaster, or a football manager giving a pep talk.

“It is always the same. Everyone is always telling me what to do. Even the Israelis, when they were on my side in the great struggle with Obote, told me to liquidate all people in the army who were opposing me. They did tell me that, you know. In all truth. Their agents and the British ones, too, they helped me with the coup. Though I could have done it on my own, without him.”

I wondered vaguely whether he was referring to Stone. Or Weir. Probably both. Amin started to run on the spot and box the air in front of the journalists.

“Yes, though the British also have told me many bad things. When I thought they were a good people. BBC, you must say it. Though I know very well that you are the voice of the British Empire, a criminal organization which I have conquered and which was built by the sweat and labour of people in chains. Ugandans. Kenyans. Tanzanians. Burmese. Even Scots.”

With mention of each of these nations came a forceful punch into the air until, with the last, Amin collapsed back into his seat, breathing heavy as a bull, his legs wide apart. There was silence as we stared at him, the orange fabric of the jump-suit staggered here and there by the black plastic wires and other gadgets that were attached to it.

“How do you feel about being surrounded by so many pro-Communist states?” said the American, eventually. “Does it make you nervous?”

“Well, yes, you are right. It is quite tough. You see, we are not Communist here in Uganda. I very much want the wananchi to be free. In Communist countries like Tanzania, you do not feel free to talk: there is one spy for every three people. Not here. No one is afraid here. It’s like Ugandan girls. I tell them to be proud, not shy. It’s no good taking a girl to bed if she is shy…Do you get my point?”

He laughed, and a barrage of flash bulbs went off. It was a favourite trick to print pictures of him laughing maniacally. That Prince-of-Darkness, dead-of-night laugh he pulled off so well.

“What is your policy attitude to the United States, Field Marshal Amin?” the American asked.

“I love the American people very much and I love Ford very much also. But I wish to alert him to a situation fraught with dangers, namely the position of black people in his country. He is aware Africans were kidnapped from Africa by whites and forced against their will to leave their motherland and to go in chains to the United States. For the smooth running of his country, President Ford must not discriminate against them. Not only should he appoint them to high offices in his White House staff but he should also appoint them as secretaries of state. They are entitled to their rightful share in the running of the country.”

The journalist glanced anxiously up at his cameraman to see if he had got this. And he had, hunched over the matt-plastic sucker of his eyepiece – like part of a sea creature, I’d thought, when they were setting up – recording for posterity Idi Amin in full flood: legs akimbo, arms a windmill.

“And the British?” asked the
Mirror
man.

“They are my friends, they just forget sometimes. Long live the Queen! Yes, I love them very much, until recently, when they have been attacking me. Nor do I want to see them kill the Irish Catholics, because, as a former colonial of Britain myself, I feel embarrassed. Regrettable developments in Ulster call for Britain’s true friends to come to her assistance. The leaders of Ireland, Catholic and Protestant and English and Irish, should come to Uganda and negotiate peace – far away from the site of battle and antagonism.”

He sighed and spread his enormous hands out wide, like a pair of oars before they hit the water.

“I don’t know. What is to be done about Britain? I am the greatest politician in the world, I have shaken the British so much I deserve a degree in philosophy. But…when members of the same family quarrel, they are always ready to forgive and forget. I have many Irish, Scottish and Welsh friends, also. I like the Scots best, because they are the best fighters in Britain and do not practise discrimination. The English are the most hopeless. I really don’t understand why Scotland does not decide to become independent and leave the English to suffer.”

“When are you going to hand back power to a civilian government?” asked a woman with her hair in a bandanna.

“I am not quite able at this moment to hand back the reins of government to politicians because corruption is still rampant among civilians. Let me remind you that it is only through my efforts that we have undone the effects of many centuries of underdogism in Uganda. Uganda is a paradise in Africa. If you have a shirt and trousers, you can live in Uganda for years – even without working. I am the hero of Africa because of this.”

“So why is everyone afraid of you?” she said, bravely I thought.

Amin beamed. “It is my brilliance that frightens them. And perhaps also I am not liked because I am not a puppet leader. The Europeans carried me on their backs on a litter into my reception. Why did they do that? Because they considered me a brilliant, tough African leader who has done much to help create better understanding between Europeans and Africans.”

“But what about atrocities committed by your soldiers?” The woman said this with emphasis, and an air of uneasiness fell over the room.

“There have been a few mistakes,” Amin replied, quietly. “It is only true that a few badly trained soldiers have misbehaved. And some criminals pretending to act on my orders have been killing drivers and then stealing their cars. I have told them, if you are not happy with me, then kill me or make me resign – but don’t disturb the people of Uganda at night by running about shooting. Uganda is going at supersonic speed and the people should not be made unnecessarily to panic.”

“If it is just mistakes,” she persisted, “why are there so many stories within Uganda about soldiers killing people?”

Amin replied with a question, and a curious look. “Are you married?”

There was laughter from one or two quarters.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Because if you are, I am sure your husband finds you very difficult to deal with. He should divorce you.”

More nervous laughter. And then silence.

“What about the killings?” she said, emphasizing her syllables again.

The atmosphere in the room was piercingly apprehensive.

“Let me repeat. We are a government of action. If we have evidence that an army officer is guilty of kidnapping and murder, then he will face justice. But there is no evidence to back up your allegations. You should not suggest these things about the Uganda Army. I have served with the British, Italian and Indian Armies, even with the US Army in Korea, and I can tell you, Uganda forces are up to international standard.”

He stood up abruptly then and looked at his big gold watch – a present from King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, he had once told me. Then he approached the woman, wagging his fat finger in front of her face.

“My dear,” he said, “don’t forget that no one can run faster than a bullet. You people are very bad. You ask me so many questions. How much do you need to know? By Allah, do you want me to pull down my trousers so you can see my behind?”

He walked up and down in front of them in the orange suit, and then pointed at a reporter with a BBC badge on his lapel.

“Yes, instead of rectifying colonial wrongs of her own making, Britain has found fit to wage a dirty press war on Uganda. Certainly we cannot help thinking that racism is the motivating factor in this situation.”

Then he turned to one of the thuggish aides, and said, angrily: “Get these people out of here, clear them all out the way.”

‘He’s Mad – Official’ was the headline in the
Mirror
the following day, citing the opinion of some famous psychiatrist, and that night five journalists, including the woman, were detained at Nakasero. When they were released and finally made their way back to Europe, the stories about their imprisonment incensed Amin still further.

“The Western press,” he said to me one afternoon shortly afterwards, when I was seeing to his gut problems again, “has the habit of exaggerating everything. These magazines and newspapers select the worst photos, which show me like an overfed monkey. Whether or not they agree, my face is the most beautiful face in the world. That’s what my wives and mother say, and they are surely right. Eh?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” I replied wearily, and turned him upside down on the steel trellis to which I had strapped him. I was in the process of administering a barium enema. The process involves pressing in the barium sulphate from a bag with a rubber nozzle – like a cake-maker’s icing piper. It was a curious sight – the naked President of Uganda turned on his head so that the white radioactive paste would flow through his bowels while I took the X-rays.