The Last King of Scotland (1998) Read online

  Later that week, as a sign of his clemency, Amin releases some pro-Obote detainees. They present him with two gifts, a Bible and a Koran, and make a curious statement: “General Amin has delivered this country from tyranny, oppression and political enslavement, just as Moses delivered the Jews from Pharaoh’s bondage.”

  Writes King Freddie, from his dingy London bedsit: “In the end I shall return to the land of my fathers and my people.”

  And he does come back, but in a coffin, his plane flanked by four Uganda Air Force MiGs – from the same squadron I had myself seen on arrival at Entebbe Airport.

  But that’s by the by. Amin responds to the restoration crisis (will Prince Ronnie take up his father’s empty throne, as the Baganda elders wish, or return to his studies in England?) by making the following announcement: “I want to take this opportunity to state clearly and categorically that the kingdoms will not be introduced and Uganda will not go back to the 1962 constitutional set-up. It is my wish and, after all, the wish of the vast majority of Ugandans that Uganda should remain a strong and united country. We are inaugurating a year which will be characterized by the promotion of human understanding. This demands, among other things, that every Ugandan must free himself from the clutches of factionalism and tribalism.”

  As I worked at the clinic in my second year in Mbarara, during the summer of 1972, Amin’s itinerary was (as I have pieced it together) as follows:

  (1) To Israel, to firm up joint policy on the Sudan and military co-operation. Talks with Moshe Dayan and Golda Meir. Selective arms deal established. (Flight made on Israeli jet, Israeli pilot ‘Colonel Sapristi’ at the controls.)

  (2) From Israel to Gatwick. The government wasn’t expecting him, but a black-tie dinner with Edward Heath, Alec Douglas-Home and Reginald Maudling takes place none the less.

  “I want the Harrier jump jet,” announces Amin. “What for?” says Douglas Home. “To bomb Tanzania,” Amin replies. That request is turned down, but an arms deal is discussed with Lord Carrington the next morning; finally, a new £10 million aid programme for Uganda is thrashed out.

  Visit by H.E. to Sandhurst. An impromptu lunch with Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip at Buckingham Palace. “Mr Philip,” as Amin calls him.

  “Tell me, Mr President,” the Queen asks, “to what do we owe the unexpected honour of your visit?”

  “In Uganda, your majesty,” he replies, “it is very difficult to find a pair of size thirteen shoes.”

  Later that day, Idi purchases shoes and clothes at London’s ‘Large Man’ shop.

  (3) The highlight of the trip: Scotland. Visit to Holyrood, seat of the old kings. The Ugandan flag hoisted over Edinburgh Castle. Does it flutter in the wind, with a flesh-slapping flag-noise, or does it hang limp? Who knows? Amin takes the salute. Shopping on Princes Street: scarlet plastic bags, boxes with ribbons. H.E.’s nine-year-old son, Campbell, wears a kilt for a Beating the Retreat by the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. The end of an old song.

  17

  Following the diplomatic reception at State House on my first day in my new job, I didn’t see Amin for some time. Whenever I approached Wasswa, the Minister, about being presented to him, I was fobbed off. As his physician, I thought that I should (at the very least) make a preliminary examination. It would only be right and proper. Otherwise, what was the point of me? But Amin was too busy, apparently. Not doing anything important, if the manner in which I was finally to see him was anything to go by.

  It was about a month after the reception. I had gone up to the pool at one of the city’s big hotels. As a non-resident, you could use it by paying a daily fee. I changed in the little concrete room. One side of it was full of chugging machinery – for cleaning or pumping out the pool, I supposed – with dials and a couple of green-handled levers sticking out of it. On the other was a steel door with a rubber seal, padlocked and marked PRIVATE in red letters.

  I put my stuff in a locker and went out. There were lots of people out there, mostly whites, lying on sun-loungers like Romans at a feast, sipping their Cokes and Fantas and reading paperback books as the waiters moved stealthily among them.

  One of them, I realized, was Marina Perkins, the Ambassador’s wife. She was wearing sun-glasses. I toyed with the idea of going up to her but was embarrassed to do so in my swimming trunks. So I dropped my towel by the side and dived right in. I did some lengths, enjoying the feeling of it after so much time in the heat, and then hauled myself out next to where I’d left my towel.

  With the water on me, and the towel in my hands, I felt bold enough to go up to Marina Perkins.

  “Hello,” I said. My eyes were stinging from the chlorine.

  Hers were obscured by the dark glasses. She pushed them up. “Doctor Garrigan. I didn’t count you as a swimmer.”

  “I do try to keep in shape.” I was conscious, however, of a certain nervousness about the disposition of my body as I said this. I moved gawkily, fiddling with a corner of the towel.

  “Come and talk to me,” she said. “I’m tired of sitting around in the sun doing nothing.”

  I laid the towel out.

  “It won’t be comfy on the ground. Why don’t you get one of those?” She pointed at one of the loungers.

  I dragged one over as she suggested, its plastic feet scraping the concrete, and then lay down beside her. Well, a few feet away. I still felt a bit embarrassed. Talking to an attractive woman on a neighbouring sun-lounger is more difficult a matter than one might think – especially if she is someone else’s wife. I found it hard not to let my gaze wander over the sideways-falling cup of her blue bikini. And so on, awkward cur that I was.

  “So why did you leave Mbarara, really?” she asked. “It must have been quite exciting out there. An old-fashioned adventure.”

  Feeling the heat from the plastic lounger, an inauspicious augury coming up through the cushions and my damp towel, I decided not to tell her about Sara.

  “Not really,” I said. “Everything just becomes a job after a while. The problem was, I got tired of treating people with shoddy equipment and time-expired medicines. It became hardly worth it.”

  “It must always have been worth it, surely, to help people?”

  “Up to a point. But a lot of the time, they were cases we just couldn’t cope with. And anyway, it wasn’t the most exciting life after work. I’m not cut out for endless dinner parties with the same people.”

  “Well, don’t think it will be any different in Kampala. You’ll find it gets the same here too. The list of things to do comes round again sooner than you think. There’s hardly anything I haven’t done: game park, Rwanda gorillas, Murchison Falls. The only one I haven’t done is taking a boat out on Lake Vic. They say you can catch really big fish. I keep asking Robert, but he never has the time nowadays, after all that Asian stuff. He doesn’t like water much anyway.”

  “I do,” I said, and then suddenly felt gauche that I had shown interest where her husband had failed.

  “I…used to go fishing a lot when I was a kid,” I explained quickly. “With my father.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  I tried to change the subject. “You can’t be that bored, though?”

  “I am. It’s all right for you. You’ve got an interesting job. You’ve got a use in the world. I’m just expected to hang around. I always feel as if I’m waiting for something.”

  I nodded, and looked down at my toes on the end of the sun-lounger.

  “When you’re a diplomat’s wife, you’ve got to be like a diplomat. It’s like you’re under contract. I mean, I shouldn’t really be talking to you like this. Not done – you know.”

  She pulled her dark glasses back down, like a spy in a comic. A Mata Hari.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, jovially, “I won’t tell anyone.”

  We chatted a bit about the political situation. She said that the same British journalists who had applauded Amin’s coup were now writing critical articles, and that this was causing trouble
for her husband. As she spoke, I noticed that one of the pool attendants was taking a keen interest in our conversation. I gave him a hard look. It was fruitless, and he continued to hang around while we were talking.

  “I don’t think it’ll come to much,” Marina said, when I asked her about the Economic War that Amin had announced. “There won’t be a purge. Robert says it’s just the aftermath of the Asian thing. It won’t affect you or me.”

  Looking back, it seems crazy. All the time, in spite of myself, I was searching like a rubbish-picker among her words as they came out, poking about for an intimation that she found me attractive. None came. I must have been mad – what on earth did I expect?

  “I suppose I ought to get back,” she said, eventually. “We’ve got dinner with the East German Ambassador.”

  She gathered up her bag and towel and I watched her walk, little feet on the concrete, up towards the changing rooms.

  I lay in the sun a bit more and then went for another swim. Pushing the water: forty lengths, changing my stroke every ten. Breast, back, side and a final burn of crawl. I can’t do butterfly, it doesn’t seem natural.

  It was when I got out, as I was drying myself, that it happened. I had noticed several Ugandans, including a couple of soldiers, come into the pool area while I was swimming, and now they were sitting on the loungers, some fully dressed, some in trunks. One soldier was on mine but I didn’t have the courage to challenge him.

  On another lounger, over the other side, sat Wasswa. He beckoned to me, shouting across the water.

  “Come and sit next to me, Doctor Garrigan. I have something to show you.”

  I went over and sat down on the cushioned plastic next to him.

  “What is it?”

  “You will see. It is very special.”

  He was wearing a pair of very skimpy trunks, I noticed – and then there was a kind of roaring sound from the centre of the pool. A column of water, five or six feet high, rose up like a fountain. I spotted something dark underneath it. The roaring gave way to a mechanical grinding, and the Ugandans began to clap and cheer. A head came out as the plume cascaded down – oversized, like a bust of some great hero of the past – then broad shoulders, a stout belly in shorts, thighs, two doughty knees (one scarred) and finally a pair of surprisingly delicate ankles.

  Amin waved at the jubilant bunch of flunkies and soldiers and dived off the platform. I could see the black X of him swimming underwater towards where Wasswa and I were sitting.

  “It is a special machine His Excellency had put in,” Wasswa said, pointing at the pillar in the centre of the pool. “It brings him up from underneath.”

  And then Amin’s smiling face was breaking the surface in front of us, his eyes red and blinking. He pulled himself up, water falling off him on to the kerb-like edge. As if he had forgotten himself, Wasswa hurriedly got up and draped a towel around the President’s shoulders. I stood up too.

  Amin, at his full height, looked down at me closely. He wasn’t smiling any more.

  “So…my personal physician. Why are you wasting your time around the swimming pool? You should be out healing the people of Uganda!”

  “Uh-m,” I said, bewildered, “I have been very busy, Your Excellency. I have been catching up on research. Anyway, in case you drowned…”

  He stared like a bullfrog for a second, and then burst out laughing, pounding me on the back with his wet hand.

  “Ah, Doctor Nicholas, you are a funny man. I was only joking. How is it going with you in Uganda? Do you like your new job?”

  “Yes, but I really need to get the chance to check you over.”

  “Of course, of course. If I am sick. Now I am healthy.”

  He patted his stomach. “Very very healthy. Come, enjoy yourself at our pool.”

  He turned away but paused then, and spun back round. Involuntarily, I took a step back.

  “No!” he said. “I want show you my secret weapon. Follow me.”

  He led me over towards the changing room, the retinue following too, whispering like naughty schoolchildren behind us. We went inside the room, past the bank of machinery. On the door marked PRIVATE, the padlock was hanging off its clasp. Amin pulled one of the levers and a noise came from inside. The pillar coming down, I guessed, from the wet suck of hydraulic air.

  “This is very significant advance, this very important in our technology in Uganda,” said Amin. “The Israeli people made it for me.”

  He turned to me, jabbing the air with his finger.

  “Good engineers, bad politicians in Tel Aviv. Now, you look inside.” He opened the door.

  I did as he said. There was a dark little cubicle there, with a metal floor and walls, all dripping with water.

  Suddenly I felt a hand in the small of my back pushing me in, and a deep laugh as the door closed behind. Complete darkness. The mechanical noise again. And then a wall of water coming down on me. The force of it almost knocked me over. The roof had opened and I thought was going to drown – except that, at the same time, the floor of the cubicle was rising and there were powerful jets of air coming up all around. I could see light above me through the falling water.

  I emerged spluttering, crouched on the platform as it rose above the surface of the pool. The Ugandans, who had presumably rushed back outside, and the few Europeans who hadn’t slunk off when Amin appeared, were gathered there – cheering me now.

  Trying not to look cross, I slid into the water. Amin himself pulled me out at the edge. He hurt my arm, and he was laughing like a drain.

  “Oh doctor, doctor. I am sorry. But it is good that you learn to swim in a proper manner. I myself have been swimming in more rough water. You should be better. One day you may be in a war situation, doctoring for the Uganda Army.”

  He gave me his towel, which was large, and decorated with the crested-crane symbol.

  “You frightened me,” I said, drying myself slightly queasily.

  “Do not be frightened. It is foolish to be frightened. Come, sit down. Eh, you!”

  He beckoned at one of his retinue. “Order sandwiches. And fried chicken. And Coca-Cola also.”

  The man rushed off: his immediate, mute response was something I’d get used to seeing around Amin. I sat down on one of the loungers, rather shaken.

  “No, doctor, you must not be frightened. To be afraid is a coward, and I do not think my own doctor can be a coward. Not possible. All of you, listen to me!”

  Amin dived into the pool. With powerful strokes, he swam across to the pillar, which was still elevated from my own adventure. He clambered on to the platform and clapped his hands.

  “All of you people. Listen to me. I want to talk to about afraid-ness and cowardice in Uganda.”

  He smoothed the front of his wet trunks. “The truth is, afraid-ness is bad. I was not afraid to take the presidency from Obote or to send the Kabaka to England. It was the best thing for my country. I think God will not punish me for it.”

  There were murmurs of assent from the retinue. Beside me, Wasswa was nodding his head eagerly.

  “It is true, I like to be head man. I do not like to be told, ‘Amin, carry this gun,’ or, ‘Amin, dig latrine here.’” He pretended to dig on the platform, and then continued: “I like this not at all, it is not right for my people for the white man to come and tell him this thing, that thing. But I do like it after, when the officer in the army before say, ‘Well done Amin.’ Just like when the Queen of England go and tell Scottish people, make planting here, build wall there. To keep antelope. The Scots eat antelope daily. Look how strong they are.”

  He pointed at me. Everyone looked, nodding at me, smiling at me.

  “And myself, you know. You know in my heart, as I have said before, I am the king. That is why I like these machines. Machines are the things for kings.”

  He stamped on the metal, the funereal sound ringing out across the pool. I thought of my father and his Bell’s, and then of that old Jacobite toast: “To the king over the water
…”

  “For it is true, also, out of my nature, I love to rule! No claim is first but mine. But the peoples of Uganda are good and therefore they deserve, to have a good leader like me. If they were bad, they would deserve a bad leader. It is an obvious thing. It is logical. God would send this bad man to plague them. It would be horrible for them indeed.”

  Amin paused then and coughed, as if the water had got into his lungs.

  “This man, yes, he would chase people and not be good, and he would take women from, ah, all over the place – black women and white women also. He could not make friends with any man who was a good man and he could not see a woman he did not want to make pregnant. He would say, this thing happen and then…this thing happen! Just because of his cleverness. And so he would slip here and run down there, thinking he is being very clever following his own plan. Eh, you, bring me some foods!”

  A waiter from the hotel had brought the ordered refreshments out on a tray. He looked around nervously when Amin addressed him.

  “Go, go,” said Wasswa urgently. “Take it inside.”

  The waiter looked aghast.

  “Take the tray into the pool.”

  The waiter walked round to the steps and gingerly went down into the water. Holding the tray above him he walked as far as he could up the shallow end, the water steadily soaking his white coat – until, forced to swim, he struggled to reach the platform. At one point the bottles of Coke and the plates nearly slid off the tray, and there was a palpable gasp around the pool. Eventually he got there. Amin squatted down and took the tray off him.

  “Well, I am very glad you are not a diver in my navy, Mr Waiter. You should get some training in swimming and sub-aqua.”