AT THE local radio station I get to see the director of news. But she is too frightened to talk. Then I go to the British High Commission. It is, appropriately enough, in Gladstone Road. A sign outside says that they close on Fridays at noon. It is Friday. It is 12.30pm. They are closed ….
The barracks are on a hill on the outskirts of town. The army has got them sealed off or, at least, they think they have. Novelli knows differently. It takes him half an hour to find the little service road that not many people know about which leads down to the camp from behind a row of shops. We have a bird's-eye view. Down below us all hell is breaking loose. The chatter of machine-gun fire, single cracks of pistol shots, the big thumps of exploding grenades ….
The Fax machine starts to hum again. It is a draft from the Prime Minister of a speech he wants to put out on TV. Mr Bomani hands it to me. "What do you think?" he asks. Now the phone is going again. "It's the BBC - your BBC ," he says with a grin ….
"Eight soldiers now known to have died in last night's mutiny. Another 21 in hospital. Loyal forces hunting 20 armed rebels through the streets," I file to London.
…. At one stage I set off, either bravely or foolishly, to walk to the Ministry of Information. The so-helpful Director from last night is now unobtainable by phone. As I get near the offices several soldiers appear from behind trees and buildings to bar my way and brandish their rifles. They are a jittery lot. But who wouldn't be when the only person they might expect to see is a former colleague who wants to kill them?