from the 1970s rubbed shoulders with brand new Mercs. Famine or feast: this was more like the Africa I knew. Kids darted down alleyways, their runny noses clogged with dust. Meat hung from street stalls, swarming with flies. Bored-looking men and women squatted beside piles of bruised fruit at the roadside. One guy under a beach parasol sold nothing but batteries.
The buildings were in better condition here, and slightly more substantial: two, three and four floors, with air-conditioners humming on the outside walls. Water streamed from the units, staining the already badly stained white paintwork. It wasn’t the only clue that this part of town was where the money hung out. The ads here weren’t faded and the latest BlackBerrys and iPads were on display in the shop windows.
Metres from the brand new Mercs in the traffic, guys sat in old armchairs with weapons across their knees. They were probably guarding the
The lads in the armchairs weren’t short of competition. Every man in sight was toting some form of eastern-bloc AK or light machine-gun. The really flash boys carried RPGs in their ancient canvas day sacks.
5
Stopping and starting every ten seconds, we ground our way through the chaos. The driver of the technical in front eventually got bored and his gunner, who had the best sun-gigs of all — massive blue mirrored stars with white frames — raised the weapon and loosed off two long forty-five-degree bursts. The moment people realized they weren’t under attack they just got on with their lives again, but the birds didn’t come back in a hurry.
We bounced from pothole to pothole. My head shunted left and right. Awaale closed down his phone and slid it under his Marlboros. His eyes scanned left and right as we picked up speed.
‘Where are you from, Mr Nick?’
‘London. What about you? Where did you learn such good English?’
‘With my father.’ He pointed beyond the huge snake of illegal wiring that hung from pole to pole across the street, towards a five-storey building with shuttered windows. The wall facing us had a large painting of a TV, and next to it the words
‘Look, Mr Nick. Do you know what that building is?’
‘I guess it must be where we’re going to meet Tracy and the other two.’
He tilted his head towards the driver and told him of my stupidity. He had to shout over the music. They both had another chuckle.
‘No, Mr Nick. That’s the Olympic Hotel. Black Hawk Down — have you seen the movie? My father — he’s famous.’
‘I haven’t, but I know the story.’
We came level with the building. A leaking pipe had filled the ruts in the road with water. Dogs lapped at it like they hadn’t drunk for days.
‘This is where the attack started. The Americans came to capture General Aidid, but it was a trap. The general was a great man.’
The driver had started scanning left and right as well. The lads on the back were edgy. Everyone was on his toes.
‘You know about General Aidid and the trap?’
I nodded. General Mohammed Farrah Aidid hadn’t actually been a general but the clan warlord who’d controlled the city back in 1992. Operation Restore Hope hadn’t been designed as America’s biggest gangfuck since their failed attempt to rescue hostages from their Tehran embassy in 1980. It was intended to relieve the famine by securing a corridor for the aid to get through. The clans had carved up the country for themselves. With no overall government or structure, the whole country was dying of starvation. The aid convoys were hijacked. The clans fed themselves and their machine, just like Joe’s mate Mugabe was still doing in Zimbabwe. Control the food and you control the people.
The Americans began to make headway. By 1993, the famine was winding down. George Bush Senior came to witness their success for himself. US forces were looking to leave, and undergoing a lengthy handover to the UN. The Pakistani Army and a handful of others flew in, ready to continue the good work. But there was a problem. Aidid was pissed off at being marginalized by the rest of the clan leaders. He decided he was going to show everyone who was boss. In June that year twenty-four Pakistani UN soldiers were ambushed and massacred. Some were disembowelled; others had their eyes gouged out.
Suddenly the Americans were no longer on a humanitarian mission. They were at war. The soldiers who’d come to feed the hungry were back in combat. The next few months became one long street battle. Casualties on both sides were high.
The US’s resolve weakened. They looked for an exit. On 3 October they thought they had the answer. They’d received information that Aidid was holed up in the Olympic Hotel. Delta Force — the D Boys — assaulted the building. It was an ambush. Two Black Hawks were taken down by RPGs in the middle of the city. Firefights kicked off as US forces tried to extricate the aircrew. Nineteen US soldiers were killed and eighty-four wounded, along with an unconfirmed number of clan fighters. The Americans said more than a thousand; the clans said 113.
The world didn’t see the street fighting and the casualties. They saw a Black Hawk pilot being dragged through the streets in his underpants with ropes round his ankles. It played for days on CNN and all the national outlets. Bill Clinton had taken over from Bush Senior. He couldn’t understand how a humanitarian operation had turned into a complete disaster. He ordered US forces out. And he was wary of helping anyone again. That was why the Rwanda genocide was allowed to happen in 1994, and the Srebrenica massacre in 1995. Nobody in the White House wanted another dead American dragged through the streets of a foreign city.
We bounced past the hotel and off the main drag, through a rotting labyrinth of muddy stone rag-covered huts. Hundreds of thousands of human beings existed here and mangy dogs skulked in the shadows. Kids with misshapen heads and contorted limbs haunted the irregular dirt streets and cactus-lined paths, massive growths hanging from their bodies.
High-voltage cables sagged dangerously low across the gaps between tin-roofed dwellings. The whole place was strewn with rubble, fetid rubbish and, of course, burning tyres.
Rubble, rubbish and yet more smoking tyres lay around a large man-made mound about two hundred metres away, on top of which stood a lone shack with a cart outside. The king must have lived there.
The locals melted away as soon as they saw the technicals screeching to a halt. Faces appeared at the grilles of old steel doors. A dog barked at the tailgate of the wagon in front of us and was soon kicked away by one of the lads in trainers.
Awaale leapt out. ‘Mr Nick, come.’ He motioned for me to follow. Kids screamed on either side. We walked down a narrow alley. The traffic noise became a distant hum. Birds twittered. It was almost like a Sunday stroll, until a distant burst of automatic fire broke the spell.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I want to show you what the tourists are missing.’
6
We found ourselves beside four single-storey houses that had been blasted and burnt out years ago. In their midst stood a copse of bright green cactuses about the size of a tennis court. They were just over head height, some with bright red flowers.
Awaale stood there proudly. ‘This place, my father made it famous.’
I knew I should have been admiring his dad’s cactus allotment, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘You think tourists would flock here to look at this? Awaale, I don’t have the time, mate. I really need to see Tracy and—’
