From early morning a euphoric crowd had begun to gather outside State House for the swearing-in of the new prime minister. The throng swelled through Independence Avenue and flowed down the hill and around the roots of the Cotton Tree. Students from Fourah Bay College, supporters from the provinces, locals, old, young, men, women and children turned out in their thousands. Music was playing on transistor radios tuned to pick up the next official announcement; some people began to dance. Young men climbed the Cotton Tree and lay like lizards along the branches; others perched on the walls of surrounding buildings; in the street everyone waited.
At about three o’clock a motorcade arrived and eased through the crowd. The applause rippled through the people and then rose up into a great roar as the heavy gates of State House swung open and the motorcade passed through. In the first car was the familiar profile of Siaka Stevens. In the next car were the four new APC MPs who were to be sworn in alongside him as members of the new government. They were the Taqi brothers and, sitting next to them, our father.
March is the hottest month of the year – in Temne Gbapron means ‘walk on the side’, in the shade of the trees because the sun is too high to walk down the middle of the road. Many in the crowd had been there all day, as the temperature nudged up to forty degrees. There was little to eat or drink, but the people ignored the heat and discomfort; they waited patiently for the country’s new leaders to emerge and greet them from the circular balcony overlooking the avenue on the top floor of State House. An hour passed.
At first it felt like a low rumble reverberating through the masses like distant thunder. The sensation shuddered through calves, thighs and chests, growing ever more distinct. It seemed to emanate from the road beneath them. The new sound replaced the chatter of the crowd as a hush fell. People began to look around.
The military convoy appeared at the top of Independence Avenue, where it turned and began its descent: truck after truck. The drivers didn’t slow as they neared the densely packed avenue: people were forced to scramble to one side. Armed soldiers were moving in on State House. At the gates they stopped. There was silence.
One, two, three, four, the soldiers jumped from the back – dozens of men. They ran, guns at the ready, until they had surrounded the entire building. Once in their positions the soldiers turned as one and slowly levelled their guns at the crowd.
Nobody moved. The heat shimmered across the white painted facade of State House and glinted on the metal balustrades. Sweat dripped from under the helmets of the soldiers, slipped down their faces and stung their eyes; it ran down the backs of the legs of the people as they stood; it trickled under the dresses and between the breasts of women; it bubbled on the backs of men and streamed down their spines. It bloomed darkly under thousands of arms, and prickled the soldiers’ palms wrapped around their gun barrels. Salt drops hung on the upper lip of the commander in charge.
All was still.
Inside State House Siaka Stevens had just taken the oath of office when the governor-general’s Mende aide-de-camp Hinga Norman stepped in and placed the governor, and the four men with him, under arrest. Briefly the governor-general continued, swearing in Ibrahim Taqi as minister of information. When he had finished Sir Henry turned and walked slowly past his disloyal lieutenant. He left the room and took the stairs up to his private quarters. No one stood in his way. The five remaining men sat down to wait in the company of their captor, while guards were posted outside every door of the building.
At 5.55 p.m. David Lansana’s voice came on the radio to tell the people of Sierra Leone that the country was under martial law.
At 6 p.m. the crowd of people outside State House were ordered to disperse.
Somebody began to chant: ‘No more Albert, No more Margai.’ In ones and twos, finally by the score, other voices joined the chorus. Some people sat down in an act of defiance, to show that they had no intention of ever leaving.
At 6.03 p.m. the order to disperse was repeated.
At 6.05 p.m. the soldiers raised their weapons and fired in the air above the heads of the crowd. The crowd fell silent, muscles tightened as fear spread from body to body, through bellies and bowels, but everyone clung to their positions.
‘They’re only blanks,’ a man swivelled around and called out to his comrades. ‘Blanks. That’s all.’ People nodded to each other. Just blanks, to scare them. They held their ground.
The soldiers lowered their weapons. The people sighed, in one great exhalation of air. One or two even laughed. Of course, these boys were their sons, their brothers, their cousins. Someone began to clap the soldiers, but then stopped.
The commander in charge wiped his upper lip. A minute had passed, according to the watch on his wrist. He gave the next order, as he had been told to do. The soldiers raised their guns and lowered the barrels in the direction of the crowd.
The commander gave his men the order to fire.
Among the first to fall was a teenage boy wearing a red T-shirt and green shorts. He went down face first under the Cotton Tree; his jaw hit the dirt with a crack, arms wrapped around his stomach, his legs began to perform a grim little jig as he lay in the dust. Someone close by bent down to help, saw the blood spreading like a shadow across the earth, red on red, and screamed.
The soldiers began to shoot indiscriminately. The crowd split apart as people scattered in every direction, pushing and grabbing each other, slipping in the blood of the fallen, silent, flailing, stumbling. From their bodies rose the thick odour of fear; it drifted up above the trees and the houses, where it hung in a cloud over the city for days.
By the time we reached the Cotton Tree the crowds were gone and the wounded dragged away. A knot of press men converged on the gates of State House, like a crowd gathered below a man threatening to throw himself from a rooftop. By now the world was alert to the possibility that one of the last democracies in Africa might be about to fall. All around the building soldiers remained in position, guns at the ready. We drove up Independence Avenue almost to the gates of State House before we were ordered to halt. Our two companions climbed down and we watched from the back seat while they argued and pleaded with some of the soldiers. Finally, they walked back to the car and started the engine. The gates of State House swung open and we drove inside.
Neither my mother nor our two companions had any idea of what had just occurred on the same spot or what would happen next; but whatever confusion our party felt was matched by that of the soldiers. They were under orders to stay at their posts and to hold the men inside until Brigadier Lansana and Albert Margai arrived at State House, but although the two men were expected imminently, hours had passed and yet there was no sign of them. The soldiers stayed on, with no idea what to do next.
My father appeared, walking easily and wearing a white shirt and grey trousers; he looked just as he did every day at home. He was alone and we stood in the courtyard of the prime minister’s offices while he kissed us and we gripped his knees. I held onto my mother’s hand. He told our mother he was fine; she should take us to our friends the Benjamins, where we would all be taken care of and perfectly safe in their house overlooking the city. ‘Don’t worry, my brothers and I will be OK.’
‘Won’t you come with us now?’
He refused: ‘I need to be with the others, with my colleagues. Ibrahim is here and so is Mohammed, we should stay together. You go on. I’ll see you all later. Ade and Bianca are there. You can send them my regards.’ He smiled and kissed us all again; his mood seemed light.
My mother allowed herself to be reassured by our father’s words but, she discovered many years later when I was able to tell her otherwise, his easy manner was deceptive. He wasn’t free to leave, although in front of us he acted as though he remained of his own volition. The men had been warned that if they tried to leave the