Yet another excerpt from: “The 2nd Scramble for Africa: Further Colonial Adventures on the ‘Dark Continent’”

God was punishing them for some transgression or other—of this Peter Gabriel was now certain. A merciless, torrential rain had blanketed the area, unabated, for nearly a fortnight. This made navigating the dense, Burundi woodland especially difficult. They had marched a week solid, buoyed by, what had seemed at the time to be signs of progress, only to find themselves exactly at the spot they had decamped from. Then there was that rain. At times it seemed to be merely indifferent to the misfortunes of the expedition; at others it exhibited what can only be described as consciousness—it knew what they were thinking, their intentions, and it derived some sick pleasure in thwarting them at every turn. Their stores of powder and cannon shot had grown so waterlogged as to be unusable. They were forced to leave it all behind in the jungle. It was only when they stumbled upon these selfsame powder-kegs a week later that they realized they’d been traveling in circles, otherwise they’d be marching blindly still. Now they could only wait, wait for a break in the rain.

Peter Gabriel had a dream—or a waking hallucination—his experience in the Congo had taught him there is no proper difference between the two. Whatever it was, it disturbed him. In it, he found himself transformed—older and wiser, with a long, white beard—a second Noah charged with the task of saving all that was worth saving in the world from the flood that was to come. He built an Ark, one that looked suspiciously like a matte-painted spaceship they’d used as a backdrop at a Genesis concert once. Two of every type of beast on earth boarded the ship. Biko, his beloved Yorkshire terrier-mix was there, as were his goldfish and a long-dead parakeet he’d owned as a boy. Humanity was represented by Kate Bush and himself; he felt strangely at ease about this. The flood itself was pleasant, like the drawing up of a hot bath after a long day out in the garden. The boat rocked gently atop the surface of the water. There was always plenty to eat, and they entertained themselves playing cribbage, games that lasted all night and which, somehow, both sides seemed to win every time.

The rest went according to the Good Book—forty days and forty nights, three birds and the whole bit. The waters receded and they soon found themselves on dry land. Peter Gabriel opened the hatch. But what he saw there was not a new dawning, a clean slate for mankind and another crack at redemption. No—he saw African faces with African smiles, in a colorful array of African garb from every tribe, as far as the eye could see. He was momentarily overjoyed at this sight—having feared all of this was lost to the flood—but that moment was burst instantly when he heard a familiar snickering from the front of the crowd. It was Paul Simon again. And Steve Winwood—inexplicably—was there, admiring some rustic thumb-piano. The American said nothing, only looked at Peter with that wicked grin on his face, and blew a single note from a harmonica. That was the cue, apparently, as Peter was hoisted in the air by the crowd, and carried away helplessly by a river of hands towards certain death…

Peter Gabriel awoke from the dream disoriented, but quickly regained his bearings by the incessant pounding of the rain on his tent. He peered outside. Most of his men were still asleep, save for a few quietly smoking and playing cards. Simon! He cursed the man’s name silently to himself. It was bad enough that there was no place on the continent where he was safe from this man’s grasp, but now the bastard was colonizing his own dreams as well. Peter was seized by one of his now-frequent migraines. He fumbled around through his rucksack for some laudanum but found none—he had used up the last of it in an unsuccessful suicide attempt that, naturally, he had no recollection of. They were really bent over the barrel now, he thought. Here they were, trapped in the jungle with precious little in the way of provisions and even less ammunition, a date with destiny looming on the horizon. Simon was less a man than a force of nature at this point. His army grew at the rate Gabriel’s was dwindling, and was fully stocked with all the latest artillery. This was a man who would dynamite Victoria Falls to rubble if he thought it would shave just one hour off his travel time. And it was this very man who awaited them—exactly where no one could say—this man with whom they were now locked in some dance of death, circling the continent. The throbbing in Peter’s temples worsened, as if the very drums of war were pounding in his head, hastening towards one final, dramatic confrontation that grew more inevitable by the hour…

 

Another excerpt from: “The 2nd Scramble For Africa: Further Colonial Adventures on the ‘Dark Continent’”

Margaret Thatcher
10 Downing Street
London
SW1A 2AA

Madam Prime Minister,

I wish I could be writing under happier circumstances but the situation here is more dire than previously let on. While I am well of body my spirit is considerably worse off. I have simply seen too much for it to be otherwise. The conditions here are appalling. The view from my tent resembles nothing so much as some infernal vision of Hieronymous Bosch, only more exaggerated. Men, women, and children all indistinguishable from one another, black skeletons boiling in the sun—there is not a single tree or patch of shade to be found. Babies wail through the night as their mother’s teats have all run dry until they are too weak to do even that. I’ve seen women desperately gather up grain husks and dead grass, mix it all with mud and salt, boil it over an open flame and ladle it into bowls. The men, driven mad with hunger, set out into the night so as to die away from their families out of some perverse sense of shame—as though they could’ve done something to prevent any of this from happening!

The sporadic air-drops of mealy, substandard grain are met with sheer anarchy: one sees the scene from a distance and can’t help but think of so many ants devouring a cube of sugar. They all push each other out of the way to get there first, though they know full well that the early birds are often crushed to death by the mass of humanity nipping at their heels. I can still hear the sounds of screaming and breaking limbs in my nightmares.

For the love of God, send aid! And by aid I don’t mean sacks of flour and powdered milk and medicines of dubious origin—no, I speak of human beings with love in their hearts, sturdy constitutions, and a sense of purpose and the magnitude of the situation here. While economic aid is indeed necessary, I fear it is useless without the right people to carry it out. It is only by a combination of these, of economic and LIVE AID, that we can rescue these unfortunate souls from the brink of extinction. But time is of the essence, Madam Prime Minister, as I can feel the mouth of Hades growing wider everyday.

But I am not entirely without hope. Sting, despite all the rumours swirling that he is about to bust up the Police and light out for New Orleans to practice “hot nigger jazz”, has given me his word and pledged aid. Paul Weller remains solid as an oak and can be counted on whatever the situation. Ditto Billy Bragg. Even Jimmy Somerville, bless the lad, has offered to help once he has cleared himself of this latest round of buggery charges. Can the Human League and Kevin Rowland of Dexy’s Midnight Runners be far behind? Live aid, indeed!

I had hoped to end this missive on a more hopeful note, but I look at the calendar and realize it is already Boxing Day; meaning that yet another Christmas has come and gone in this god-forsaken land entirely unnoticed. I wonder if these people even know it’s Christmastime at all? But who could blame them if they didn’t? It is my hope that this time next year, we will let them know it’s Christmastime by our deeds, by spreading goodwill through charitable acts, and letting all share in our joy. If not, then I fear these people are doomed. I remain

Your Faithful Servant,
Bob Geldof

 

Excerpt from: “The 2nd Scramble for Africa: Further Colonial Adventures on the ‘Dark Continent’”

Day broke ominously on the shores of Lake Tanganyika the morning of 15 May. Dark clouds encircled the sun in sinister, secretive motions, like so many hyena around a wounded gazelle fallen behind the herd—an open-ended dread in anticipation of some terrible finishing blow to come. But come it never did; while the skies remained lead-dark the whole day long, it yielded not a drop of rain. This was both blessing and curse for, while the party remained dry, the oppressive heat—under such baleful, darkened skies—made one feel as if he were shoveling coal in the belly of some accursed steamer set out from Liverpool to the Cape of Good Hope. Whatever the outcome, it was to be a trying day.

The rag-tag group assembled there scarcely resembled the one that had disembarked at Dar es Salaam with such optimism just six weeks prior. It was not a pretty picture: just under sixty of Her Majesty’s regulars remained, with an accompaniment of 250 Nyamwezi tribesmen armed with a few dozen rusting muzzle-loaders and nary a cartridge in sight. Clashes with the Hutsis had been bad enough—they had lost nearly as many from desertion as in combat, and a cholera outbreak a week later claimed many times that number. That was followed by the wire from London informing them there would be no reinforcements forthcoming until the conclusion of Parliamentary elections the last week of June. “Oh well,” Peter Gabriel thought to himself, “never a dull moment, I suppose.” He was now about as far removed from Solsbury Hill as one could possibly find oneself.

The past several weeks had been marked by profound depression, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since leaving Genesis for good following the birth of his first child in ’75. Whatever misfortune he suffered, no matter how harrowing, was made that much worse by the fear that something even more terrible lay just around the corner. Where in the first few weeks the days passed like Sissyphus’—every triumph neutralized by some setback—these last few weeks the days passed like Prometheus’—chained to a tree, his liver pecked out by vultures until death, only to be reincarnated to do it all over again the next day and the next for all eternity. He had taken to using laudanum but insisted he wasn’t hooked. Nonetheless, the expedition’s supplies of it were dwindling. He justified this to himself thusly: they would all be dead soon enough, and no amount of laudanum was going to change that.

Two days out from Tanganyika the party encountered a native frantically digging in the dirt with his fingernails, presumably for roots or bugs or sustenance of any kind. It didn’t take a native speaker to figure out what was going on; one look at the man’s face was all it took to realize something terrible had just befallen his people. Youssou N’Dour, Gabriel’s most trusted lieutenant, translator, and confidant, approached the man to assess the situation. The man babbled hysterically, his arms flailing wildly, fists pounding the dirt for emphasis. It wasn’t until N’Dour procured some food and water for the man that he was calm enough to explain exactly what had happened. The man spoke to N’Dour at length, in sober, hushed tones. Gabriel simply stood by, powerless, fearing things had once again grown from bad to worse. After what had seemed an eternity, N’Dour walked back over to the party, took Gabriel aside, and explained to him what the man had just told him.

Two days prior, a very powerful, very short white chief had showed up with many armed men and much hongo. This in itself was not so strange, as white men had been coming to the village to trade for many years now. They set up camp and a great feast took place with music and dancing. The chief proudly declared that the stranger was now N’Gogo, or “small white brother from another mother”. The tribe cheered and the feast continued deep into the night. The next morning, the two sides met to discuss trade. The chief proudly displayed the village’s stores of ivory, gold, and cloth. The white chief, though, merely scoffed at all this, and instead walked over to the center of the village and began pointing out several of the musicians, singers, and dancers from the night before. He told them he had come from a magical place far, far away, where ivory, gold and cloth were in such abundance as to be worthless, and that instead of currency, they used music. People there never went hungry, and there was no such thing as drought or crocodiles or the sleeping sickness. He wanted to take them all there to prove he was not lying. He was going to hold a feast for them that would put last night’s to shame. He was certain that, once they had seen this magical kingdom they would never want to leave. They would all be very rich there. He called this place “Graceland”.

Peter Gabriel grew increasingly nauseous as he heard this. “Then he took the people away with him,” N’Dour continued, “and headed for the coast. Now there is no one left to herd the goats. There is no one left to tend the crops. Everyone left in the village is either very old or very young—everyone but him,” he said, pointing to the distraught native. “He does not know how to sing or dance. He knows how to farm, but he is but one man with many mouths to feed. The white chief took half the village with him, leaving behind only these.” N’Dour motioned to some crates stacked against a wall at the edge of the village. He walked over, opened one, and pulled out a long player record. He placed it on the village’s lone gramaphone and played it. A hissing, crackling silence was violently interrupted by a tune Gabriel recognized instantly, the insipid “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard”. He’d heard enough.

The thought that Paul Simon had stolen a march on him, and was nearing the coast with precious human cargo in tow, made Gabriel’s blood boil. Dread was replaced with indignation and a renewed sense of purpose. The sabers had been drawn. He had caught up with Simon once before, in Leopoldville; he would do so again. Or he would die trying…