The statue of Queen Victoria stood majestically in front of the Mauritian Assembly House. It was a cool and breezy morning. The bell of the town cathedral rang loudly. It was ten o’clock. People were walking leisurely along the pavement, suddenly four police cars appeared from nowhere, a dozen policemen leaped out of their cars. Two grabbed my arms, snatched the leaflet from my hand, and dragged me to the police car.
“I am arresting you for subversion” one said.
As they grabbed me, I froze as if time and space had stopped. As they drove off, I saw across the window, Mr. Salman Cambo, the leader of the Friends of Cuba party, He was carried by four policemen, thrown unceremoniously into the car. He was laughing and showing the two finger victory sign. The car came to a sudden halt and the two policemen turned their attention to me.
“Can you count?” They asked simultaneously. I gathered my thoughts and made an effort to appear calm.
“Yes, I happen to be very good at it.” I said assertively
“Good! Now shut up!” They shouted.
They drove towards the Head Quarters of the police force, instead of the local station and it was at that point I realised the seriousness of my situation.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked quietly
“SHUT UP!” They replied.
My knees began to shake uncontrollably, I suddenly felt very thirsty. After ten minutes the car stopped. They got out together, opened the back door, grabbed my arms and pulled me out. They frog-marched me to the stairs, my feet hardly touched the steps. They opened a wooden door and pushed me in. It was pitch black, I stood motionless. They switched on the light, pushed me towards the middle of the room towards a chair big enough for two grown men. They shut the wooden door loudly and the noise echoed down from all the four corners of the interview room. It smelt of a strong Savlon detergent. The first policeman was tall and slender, in his mid thirties at a guess, with a bushy moustache. The second was tall, rather fat, mid fifties with a thin grey moustache, both of them in full police uniforms. They immediately got to work. In complete silence they removed their jackets simultaneously, and placed them methodically behind two tall chairs. They turned up their shirt sleeves to their elbows. Suddenly they stopped, and starred at me for a few minutes. They pulled out their truncheons and dropped them loudly on a thick wooden desk in front of the chairs; the noise reverberated around the room like an explosion of army guns in battle. The younger of the two opened the drawer and removed a large wooden frame, placed it on the. They both stood in front of the frame, both adjusting the string which held it. They turned to me as if to invite me to read it, the writing on the frame was in red, dripping ink.
“YOU LIE,
YOU DIE”.
As I read it, my heart began to beat faster, my mouth was completely dry, I felt the sweat running down my back, and my knees were shaking uncontrollably. They resumed their eye contact. I looked down and noticed at the bottom of my chair, several clots of dried blood. I was seventeen years old, five foot two inches, and still growing.
They sat on their tall chairs and I was sitting like a canary on a big perch. The older policeman picked up one of my leaflets, whilst the younger policeman kept his eyes on me. I tried to muster the courage to keep up the eye contact, but within seconds, I looked down. I saw the dried blood on the floor, and just looked at my hands. The older policeman cleared his throat,
“VOTE FOR CAMBO
LEADER OF THE FRIENDS OF CUBA PARTY
OR
FACE THE REVOLUTION.
LONG LIVE CASTRO
LONG LIVE MAO
LONG LIVE CAMBO.”
He opened the drawer, took out a small bag and emptied the contents on the desk. What fell out were lentils mixed with small black stones,
“Why do you want to start a revolution?” asked the older policeman.
“Well actually, I don’t” I said casually
“Yes you do!” shouted the younger policeman.
“Do you know how long it will take to count this bag of lentils?”
I looked up and made an effort to gather my thoughts.
“Four hours!” shouted the young policeman
“Do you know how long it will take you to count ten tonnes of lentils in prison?”
“Twenty five years,” shouted the young officer “and you will be bald, toothless, fat and crazy!”
I did not know whether to reply or let the younger policeman reply for me. It was bad cop and bad cop situation. ‘Have they never heard of human rights, or Amnesty International?’ I thought helplessly. Then suddenly, it began again.
“What is your name?” asked the older policeman.
“Answer the officer” shouted the younger policeman.
“Hmm, Hmm. Oh yes, Suffee” I said softly.
“Your profession?”
“S-Student.” I replied quickly.
“Your fathers’ profession?”
“Principal Prison Officer”
They looked at each other, and at me, I noticed for the first time a change in their piercing eyes. My father as the Principal Prison Officer is a member of the establishment, a player in the legal profession and most important, a government man. A government job is the ultimate ambition of every student on the island of Mauritius. A job in the government means a pension after twenty five years service, holiday pay, sickness benefit and most of all, legal protection. They got up, pushed back their chairs, put on their jackets and shouted:
“Don’t move!”
They hurriedly left, shutting the wooden door loudly behind them. Never before had I ever felt so helpless. In my hours of darkness, wished I had never met that man, Salman Cambo.
It was the mid sixties and Mauritius was in the grip of election fever. It was then a British colony and the elections were to decide its’ destiny, its’ independence. Everyone was talking about the benefits of gaining independence and the disadvantages of remaining a British colony. Out of that political dilemma Mr. Salman Cambo seized his opportunity. He was in his early thirties, thin and short. He had applied for a government job as a hospital porter but his application was, as always, rejected. He ended as a street vendor, and decided to stand as a candidate under his own party, “The Friends of Cuba”. He began to hold hustings every evening in my street.
“In Cuba everything is free,
In Cuba everybody is equal,
In Cuba everybody can be a doctor, a dentist, a lawyer,
In Cuba, anything is possible.”
I was immediately persuaded and convinced. I applauded exuberantly at the end of each husting. Cambo noticed my enthusiasm and came to look for me among the crowd.
“Are you a student?” asked Cambo smiling,
“Yes.” I said
He nodded in approval; he winked at me and whispered closely to my ear,
“I have ten scholarships from Cuba, are you interested in becoming a doctor?”
“Sure!” I replied with no hesitation.
“Good. Then get all your friends to help with my campaign”.
I immediately told my school friends of Cambo, and his association with Cuba. The very next day I brought few of my friends who too had big dreams and we set up the microphone, distributed his leaflets and endured his speech, his only speech every evening. He discovered the power of the press and began to insult prominent politicians.
The door opened abruptly, I jumped out of my chair. The younger policeman brought a tray with a jug of water and three glasses on it. The older policeman poured two glasses of water and they drank it simultaneously. They starring began all over again.
“Do you hate your father?” asked the older policeman.
“Yes, he does”
I suddenly got out of my chair; I stood up and shouted back
“No, I don’t!”
The older policeman turned to the younger one
“You don’t have to shout at the boy!” he said firmly. He then said, pouring the water in the unused glass, “I am going to ask you one question, one very important question which will determine your destiny.” There was a long pause. “Are you a Communist, or a Capitalist?”
I jumped out of my chair and said quickly,
“I am a capitalist.”
“Very good answer” said the older policeman
“Excellent” smiled the younger policeman
The older policeman gave me a glass of water; I drank it in one gulp.
“Cuba has never heard of Cambo” said the older policeman. “Are you ready to sign a statement that you are not a communist?”
“Yes, I do, I do!” I said quickly.
The Statement read;
“Cambo told me that he is planning a bloody revolution to over throw the government. I am not a communist, he lied to me. I am willing to be a witness for the prosecution”.
I signed the statement. It was five o’clock in the afternoon when I regained my freedom. By the time I arrived home, the rumours had already spread in the street that Cambo had never received any scholarships; he had winded the party down, and had joined another political party. Mauritius did gain its’ independence, and weeks after the elections, Cambo got a job as a hospital porter. I lost all interest in politics, and instead I became a long distance runner.
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