When we flew to Zanzibar in
December 1963 for a vacation,
we had no idea we'd find ourselves caught
up in a revolution.
During my service with the Kenya
Government, we had always taken our
overseas leave back home in Goa. However
in 1963 the Government offered generous
cash inducements for officials choosing
to spend their vacation leave within East
Africa.
My maternal uncle and his family, who
had lived in Zanzibar for many years, had
often invited us to spend our holidays with
them. Zanzibar was also the place where my
mother grew up, and where my grand uncle,
Father Lucien D'Sa, served as the first non-white Holy Ghost missionary. We seized
on the opportunity, and after spending
Christmas with a dear friend Bis Noronha at
his palatial Oyster Bay residence in Dar es
Salaam, Tanganyika, we flew to Zanzibar on
Boxing Day.
From the moment we touched down on
this clove-famed island, we fell in love with
the place and even decided we would retire
there when the time came. We enjoyed
our daily trips to the seafront, picnics to Mangapwani beach and the friendly
atmosphere that prevailed everywhere.
Outwardly the different races seemed to get
on well together.
All this changed on the morning of
January 1964, just a month after the island
had attained independence from Britain. My
uncle and I had just returned from church
and Elsie and my aunt were ready to leave
for a later service, it being thee feast of the
Holy Family. We asked them to be careful, as
the priest at Mass had warned of impending
trouble on the island. Hardly had they
reached the front door on returning from
church, when it seemed like all hell broke
loose and the sound of heavy gunfire filled
the air. An eerie silence descended on the
once peaceful isle.
I was very concerned that the powdered
milk supplies for our baby daughter Josey
were fast running out. To add to our problems
Andrew, our second son, had developed
whooping cough.
From the intermittent messages broadcast
from the local radio station, we found out
a young Ugandan soldier, self-styled 'Field
Marshall' John Okello , had overthrown the
Shamte government in a bloody revolution aiming to rid the island of the Arab
population.
All local communications with the
outside world had been cut off and the BBC
World Service provided our main source
of news. We heard the roar of vehicles and
the shouts of what appeared to be drunken
trigger happy men. The Sultan and his family,
who were threatened with death, had fled
to neighbouring Tanganyika where Britain
made arrangements for their safety. What happened
to Prime Minister Shamte was not
immediately known.
The local radio station broadcast
intermittent and confusing messages. At one
stage we were all told to remain indoors.
Later Field Marshall John Okello broadcast an
order asking all traders to open their shops
so people could buy essential goods.
Those venturing out were asked to wear a
distinctive-coloured armband to signify their
approval of the new government. I plucked up my courage and went out to buy Josey's
baby food and other essentials. Despite being
challenged by untrained and undisciplined
'soldiers' I managed to get home unharmed
and in one piece, but visibly shaken.
Sporadic shooting continued and since
my uncle's house was close to the Cable and
Wireless station and the American Embassy,
several of the bullets whizzed past our
window. We spoke in soft tones around the
house and even had to try and get Andrew
to suppress his cough as soldiers were going
around from house to house and we didn't
know what to expect. We were all in a state
of shock.
While shopping that morning, I'd met
an Englishman who told me there was to
be a meeting at the English Club where the
British High Commissioner would advise
on evacuation arrangements. I attended the
meeting, and heard the Commissioner Mr
Crossthwaite attempt to allay people's fears by announcing that the Army would evacuate
those willing to leave. As my uncle and aunt
were reluctant to leave we decided to stay
put. It was very fortunate that our eldest son
Clyde and cousin Naty had left to go back
to school in Nairobi before the revolution
broke out.
We had heard stories of a massacre of
several people in the predominantly Arab
quarter, which we had visited a few days
earlier; some of my uncle's friends had also
lost their lives.
When a semblance of normality returned,
I visited the local post office to post some
of the letters I'd been writing to family
and friends. I was not allowed to use
independence stamps on these letters unless
the postal staff first crossed out the Sultan's
head! Some days later, they had managed
to rubber stamp all stamps across with the
word 'Jarnhuri' meaning Republic. I bought
a few of these new stamps, as I was a keen
collector in those days.
The previous carefree attitude on the
island had disappeared. People moved
about cautiously. An air of suspicion hung
over the whole island. Our contacts told us
harrowing accounts of looting and death.
The once-bustling town of Zanzibar took on
the appearance of a ghost town.
Since my uncle and aunt were reluctant
to leave despite the trauma of the revolution ,
we decided we should spend the remainder of my leave with relatives in Mombasa. We
flew back to Dar es Salaam and stayed a few
days with my cousin Nico Pinto, who
drove us all the way to Mombasa. Many of
our relatives and friends were pleased to see
us. Some had given up all hope of seeing
us alive. I later learnt that my good friend
Robert Ouko - then attached to the Foreign
Ministry in Nairobi, and later to become
Kenya's Foreign Minister - played no small
part in making enquiries about us and our
situation.
On returning to my job in Njoro after a
relaxing few days at the Coast, I wrote and
thanked Robert for his efforts on our behalf.
When we set out on our Zanzibar holiday,
we never imagined we would encounter a
bloody revolution. To have escaped without
a scratch was nothing short of a miracle.
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