The Zanzibar Chest: A Memoir of Love and War

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He stopped, looked around in surprise. Almost as if he was pinning a medal to my chest, then and there, he awarded me a string.

‘Dream job, my lad. What you want to do is get out there, to where there’s nothing but warm beer and smelly pussy, and bring us back some real stories.’

He painted my destiny for me. What he wanted was to have me cover the huge zones on the African map that were under rebel control. There was no way of doing it except to be there for long periods. Remote and pulverized by war, these areas were almost entirely cut off from the outside world, and lacked twentieth-century gizmos like phones or telexes. To travel in to those places was to enter a topsy-turvy universe, where the warriors, who could be Maoists by day or naked aboriginals who followed witch doctors and prophets by night, were armed to the teeth with Cold War weaponry.

‘See, I can’t lose a staffer on full pay for more than a few days. Out of the question, unreasonable. I need all the help I’ve got in the office…All hands on deck…No, no, no,’ Jonathan tutted. He pointed at me like Lord Kitchener.