Uganda: The White Man's Hangover

It was a jolly good bash, in the best "sundowner" tradition. The big stone house on Kampala's Tank Hill swarmed with 180 laughing, hard-drinking whites clad in the most outlandish colonial costumes: solar topees and fly veils, pith helmets and mosquito boots. One girl came wrapped in a Union Jack. The idea was to spoof East Africa's rapidly fading tradition of Blimpism, and the guests had all been asked to "R.S.V.P. by native bearer in cleft stick or by tom-tom." Promptly at midnight the laughter stopped, and with mock solemnity everyone sang God Save the Queen, for at that very moment the British flag was fluttering down for the last time in neighboring Kenya.

"Snakes in Our Pot." Though no Africans attended the party, word of the goings on quickly leaked out—and even more quickly was distorted. Before a bwana could say "Sanders of the River," police were searching the homes of partygoers for evidence of anti-government activity. At an angry session of Parliament, outraged ministers called for vengeance. "I am sure the Uganda flag must have been trampled on," shouted one backbencher. There were cries of "What a shame!" and "Tut-tut."

Prime Minister Milton Apollo Obote came up with the most violent accusation. Calling the whites "snakes in our pot," he angrily quoted to Parliament some verses from a song he claimed was sung at the party:

The sewage works will soon break down,

The place will stink like mad.

But it isn't bad for the African—It's what we've always had.

We are bound to make a few mistakes,

We haven't got the brains,

And also it's undignified

For men to clean out drains.

Bananas on His Head. The five young Britons who threw the party denied that the song had been sung, claimed that their party was harmless tomfoolery. But despite their protestations, Uganda was in an ugly mood. The manager of the Uganda Argus, who had not even attended the party, was abducted by nine angry Africans and marched through Kampala's marketplace carrying a bunch of bananas on his head.

Then, one night last week, the Tank Hill house where the party had been held mysteriously went up in flames, and gasoline cans were found in its gutted ruins. Wisely, the owner and his family packed up and left for England. Soon thereafter, they were unwillingly followed by the party's five organizers, a woman who had gone to the party in African dress, and eight white civil servants (including an assistant prisons commissioner) accused of having been there on the fatal night. Along with their families, the deportees were hustled abruptly onto London-bound airplanes—leaving behind them lost jobs and abandoned homes. What began as a celebration of "the end of the white man's burden" had become only a white man's hangover.