Wings of the Morning (37 page)

‘Put all that together and what d’you get? Or rather, what have I got? How do I describe it? There’s no name for the feeling. I could stand here all evening and not find a
proper summary. I could talk of satisfaction, completeness, fulfilment maybe. But there’s no language available to sum it up. There’s no poetry to capture the sense of it. Aischa, the
best I can say is that when we’re making love and you invite me inside you, my excitement is mingled with the sensation of coming home.’

He shrugged helplessly as he finished and Aischa couldn’t stop herself. A tear welled in her eye as she moved forward on the window seat and stretched out her hand towards him.

David smiled and said, ‘Now don’t you dare start now! I haven’t finished yet and if you touch me now, I’ll only disgrace myself and start blubbering again’

So Aischa sat back again as he continued.

‘That’s what I feel. What I want for our future is for us to be together. Not as we are now. Not on this — this sort of timeshare arrangement, but permanently. All day and
every day. But there’s a roadblock, Aischa, a barrier. The barrier is self imposed and only by me. You know about my pinnacle plan. It’s getting close now, I can’t say quite how
close because I don’t know, but close anyway. Win or lose, what I want is for us to be permanently together. But I just can’t start yet. There’s no explanation for that in logic.
Not really. It’s much more a thing of the heart for me. Maybe it’s a primeval urge. Stake out your territory first, then put down your foundations. Whatever, I’ve searched my soul
often enough and I know I’m stuck with it. I can’t change it, or perhaps better to say that I know I won’t change it. That’s me.’

He broke off for a pause which seemed eternal to them both. Finally, and in a voice that sounded unusually shaky,

‘Aischa, please wait for me. Please. But if you can’t or won’t, you’ll still be my only and my complete love.’

She stood then and walked over to him, putting her arms around his neck and pulling his face down to hers.

‘You’re a very demanding guy, David my Darling, but I love you too and it sounds as if you should come home. Right now and right here.’

Midsummer brought an especially happy occasion for Aischa. During the heat of July, Anna and Oscar Aveling came to Lisbon for a holiday week, bringing their two children with them. Oliver had
been born on New Year’s Day 1991 and his brother Edward followed in August of the following year.

It was therefore quite a family unit which Aischa collected from the airport and she drove them home while chattering to Anna about all the child bag and baggage which she had got in, and all
the things which they might do together. Anna was very aware that Alves had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and although he was holding his own, the prognosis did not sound bright. Aischa had
planned a few outings with her grandchildren so that Anna could spend time with him.

It amused Aischa that Anna and Oscar appeared as a couple acting rather older than their years, and traditional too. She half expected Oscar to arrive into the heat of Portuguese summer in his
cords and tweed jacket and she smiled when she saw his blazer and tie. But he was good fun and good company. Her daughter was looking brilliant. Anna was a stunning girl with an inherited sense of
style and presentation. Aischa was proud of her.

They seemed to be naturally marvellous parents, seldom fussed, always in gentle control and seamlessly sharing in the constant work and guidance. This made for ease of existence in a household
unused to small children and they had happy days and varied outings together, a few of them including Alves.

David arrived in Lisbon at the end of the week and joined them at the Mori’s restaurant for a tea time party which Aischa had planned with Isabella, who produced a feast topped off by her
legendary ice cream. David had a comforting conversation with Alves who sounded much stronger than he looked, and they were both impressed to hear how Oscar’s career was advancing. He’s
calm, confident and bright is that one, thought David to himself. Not as much mischievous fun as his brother Peter, but more set for stardom. And young Oliver was a treat. The little chap was sent
by his father to say hello to David, who squatted on his haunches to exchange a few words.

‘I admire your outfit, Oliver,’ he said to him, ‘very smart,’ and he waved a hand at the military fatigue jacket and trousers. There was a bit of a wriggle of self
consciousness before the boy replied.

‘Thank you. But sorry I can’t talk now. I’m a soldier you see.’ As David nodded in sober understanding, the child added as if in secret aside, ‘my friends call me
Olty.’

Shortly afterwards they were all gone, leaving a lonely table for David to occupy by himself. After lunch the following day, Aischa came to him. She had left a nurse with Alves and driven the
young Aveling family to the airport. They would now be in the air on their way home to Hereford.

David thought she looked tired and sounded subdued, understandably so after a week of visitors and children. Whilst he read, she went into their bedroom in the apartment and slept for a while.
Later, he heard her from his chair in the sitting room as she ran a bath, and some time afterwards, she appeared looking her best and normal self, radiant and happy.

They talked for a while as she told him more of what they’d been doing over the last few days, dwelling on the antics of the children and the pleasure which she took from their outings
together. ‘But golly,’ she finished, ‘it does wear you out.’

They moved on with their conversation ranging over other things, including dates and what were to be their next plans. David had a note of his travel commitments for the following couple of
months, and Aischa used this as a prompt.

‘Darling one, I’m going to travel myself next month, assuming no crisis with Alves.’

David looked up at her. This was unusual, and the question was in his eyes.

‘I‘m going down to Angola. I want to say Harisha to my father.’

‘Well,’ remarked David without thinking, ‘Say so from me too.’

He knew it was a flippant comment, but he was surprised at her forceful response.

‘Don’t be stupid David. I can’t do that.’

After a pause, she came to sit on the sofa which was placed near to his chair. She tucked her legs under her and looked at him.

‘I’m sorry to snap like that. It’s not your fault that you wouldn’t understand.’

‘That’s OK,’ he smiled, mollified, ‘but what does it mean, this word you used?’

‘Harisha. It’s one word which encapsulates a custom and a practice which for us goes back as far as time itself. Harisha means literally ‘I see you’. It’s a
salutation and a greeting, but also a form of farewell. I believe there are other words and phrases in the tongues of Africa which carry the equivalent message, but for our people, the Ovimbundu,
it’s Harisha.

Harisha is a word used only by a woman in speaking to a man. Harisha is employed as an expression of farewell with honour and affection. And so it may be said by wife to husband, by daughter to
father, by mother to son and so on.

She will use it only once, although she may say Harisha to more than one man. I don’t know all the details of provenance, I don’t believe anyone does know except that it stems from
long ago days when women stayed at home to watch over children and to keep the fires burning while their men were off hunting and fighting. That’s why it may also be used when a woman greets
her man with ‘Harisha’ if he is returning from a tribal fight or such an extreme hunt that it may be recognised as his pinnacle achievement — as good as it can get, you might say.
That’s Harisha.’

Aischa stopped abruptly and looked at him, much more relaxed now and a smile playing around her lips.

‘Thank you,’ said David, ‘that’s interesting and strangely moving. We have no equivalent really, do we?’

She shook her head, ‘No. We don’t.’

Then he continued with a question, posed gently, ‘and why now, my love, if I may ask you that? Why must you go now?’

‘Of course: I suppose it’s now for a combination of reasons. First, I think my father is going to get more and more difficult to find — in his mind I mean as much as in
location. Even with the Accord signed last year, I don’t think he can accept that it means a future which merits his support. I don’t say he’s right and I don’t think he is
right. I’m just saying that I’m sure he will never stop trying to fulfil his own obsession. That means he will become more and more driven and increasingly desperate. I’m afraid
that he’ll lose support. More and more Angolans want to lay down the hatchet and start working in cooperation to build a new life. I honestly think he’s being left behind and I know
he’ll never understand that. I’m fearful that he’ll never come in from the bush. I think we’ll lose him there and I believe that he will almost certainly die a violent
death. But I still love him and I respect him. And so I need to go and find him one more time, to say Harisha.’

DAVID HEAVEN — 1995

Nigeria loomed large in the business plan of The Mansion House. Africa’s most populous and energetic nation could never be ignored and David had loved his frequent visits
over many years. He cherished days spent in the north — anywhere from Jos to Kano and west into Sokoto State, but business demanded him in Lagos and later in Abuja. Then there was Port
Harcourt where they had interests in oil extraction and drilling equipment.

Towards the end of the year, the world’s media was fixed on the fate of Ken Saro-Wiwa, musician, author and the coherent voice of MOSOP — the Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni
People, a small tribe in the Niger Delta whose existence was under threat from the Federal government. Ken and his eight colleagues were tried by a military tribunal, convened for the purpose by
Nigeria’s de facto President, General Sani Abacha. The general had assumed power in mid 1993 and was soon recognised as a villainous dictator, repressing opposition and extorting vast bribes
from the international community. He was particularly vindictive towards the Ogoni Nine and saw to it that the Tribunal found them guilty with a sentence of death by hanging.

David was distressed. He had met Ken only once, but he knew well another member of the group who had acted as a Mansion House Scribe for many years. David had been negotiating behind the scenes
and believed he had a deal for their pardon and release. It was simple enough — alms for Abacha and plenty of them. He was familiar with the General’s scheming and he had the measure of
his bagman, Colonel Peter Hamza Tahawa-Hamadou who was based as Military Attaché at the Nigerian High Commission in London.

Hamadou was tall, lean and good looking. He was dedicated to Abacha and acceptable because he was a Muslim from somewhere near Kano, which was the General’s birthplace. He was as
unprincipled as his boss and since he loved all the good things of life, he needed the money to make the most of his chances. David had made contact much earlier in the year, wining and dining the
Attaché, pushing some extra money his way while using him to settle a deal with Abacha. A fifty per cent down payment on the figure finally agreed had been paid, the balance to follow by
transfer to a Swiss bank as soon as the plane carrying the Ogoni Nine had left Nigerian airspace.

But then they hanged them anyway, all Nine and one by one, with Ken the last after multiple botched attempts. David got the news by telephone that November Friday evening and he sat at his desk
at 100 Piccadilly late into the night, chilled to the core, furious, thinking and finally planning. He started with an obsessive fear that he was losing his touch, convinced that he had misread the
signs and had bungled his handling of things. But then he brought his icy logic into play, backed by his experience of the passions and power play of Africa. He just knew he’d done all he
could. He had used the right contact in Hamadou and he had made the right offer. He had lost, and Abacha, well documented as a corrupt kleptomaniac, had been better bribed by someone with a
different agenda. The bonus to the General was that he could now make off with the down payment while thumbing his nose at the world-striding white man of big business. Probably, it had not
mattered a toss to him whether the Ogoni Nine had lived or died. David went to see Martin at home the following day, Saturday morning. He set out his thoughts and his plan. He both needed and
wanted his partner’s agreement which was not withheld.

‘I’ll go along with that, David,’ Martin told him, ‘of course I will. The bastard deserves what’s coming to him and the cash is something of nothing in the scheme
of things. Do it, but do it quickly.’

David nodded his thanks and left to return to The Mansion House. At the door, he met Bill Evans, their Head of Security who had come in at his special request. Evans was a proper Cockney, having
hardly been out of London in his life. He had been a high-flying police officer, but was retired early following a car accident whilst in hot pursuit of a stolen car. The Mansion House had been
lucky to find Bill and now he sat quietly, waiting for his brief from David. When he had finished, Bill ran a hand over his close cropped hair as he responded.