Having no baggage to claim, I proceeded through customs at Matsapha airport, Swaziland, without delays, thanks largely to holding a Commonwealth passport. I did not require a visa and had no cause to explain my situation to Swazi officials. I proceeded to Mbabane, the capital, taking a ride with an Eritrean UN official who had collected a relation from the same flight. By the time I arrived in Mbabane it was late afternoon, and I noted that the following day was a public holiday. Finding accommodation was my main concern as I wandered aimlessly along Allister Miller Street, Mbabanes main road. As I passed Jabula Inn, a main road hotel, a lean man who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties emerged. Apparently he had detached himself from a group of people he was conferring with in the hotel foyer. He wore a fez hat and was far too dark to be Swazi (most Swazis are light in complexion). His right hand held a set of joined beads which he counted quickly and repeatedly, as if he was meditating or praying although he continued to talk with people as he did this. He gesticulated and looked at me as if he recognised me. I returned the look, thinking I recognised him from somewhere. We exchanged glances and it occurred to me that I knew the man, but I couldnt recall from where. He made the first move, greeting me in Swahili. I returned his greeting, surging forward to shake his hand. There was no doubt the man I had just greeted was the renowned Nairobi-based Tanzanian astrologer, Sheikh Yahya Hussein. Now I remembered seeing his pictures in newspapers almost every day, advertising his trade, although I could never work out how he recognised someone like me he had never seen before.
Hussein led me into his room with quick, short strides, nodding at people in the queue. He was booked in Room 1 at Jabula Inn and had a room-within-a-room inside his quarters. This provided him with the space he needed: one room for consultancy, the other for his private sleeping quarters. He invited me into his private room; it seemed there was someone else in the consultation room. A beautiful woman, about half Husseins age, sat on the unkept bed, seemingly vegetating. She held a can of Castle Beer which seemed empty. Hussein talked briefly to the man in the other room, then joined us. Africans generally respect elders as sages of infinite wisdom. Husseins professional standing and the trust others confided in him encouraged me to tell all. Moreover, he had the title of sheikh, which, with its spiritual overtones, projected a sense of moral purity and authority. To my surprise, he knew quite a bit about my situation. Before I had finished my story Hussein telephoned the receptionist and asked her to come to his room. A tall, well-built woman with big eyes arrived and Hussein instructed her to give me a room for several nights at his expense. She agreed, but said the vacant room had to be tidied up. As we waited Hussein asked me to place my paper bag, which I still nursed on my lap, under his bed. He wanted me to go and buy some articles for him. On my return I picked up my paper bag and, being very tired, proceeded to the room Hussein had hired for me. It was there that I realised that some items were missing: the telex from Germany; the letter I had received from a friend, Amos Ole Chiwele, a refugee recognised by the UN; and the cover of my air ticket. I hastily returned to Husseins room hoping to retrieve these items, which I nevertheless doubted could have fallen out of the packet. A thorough check under Husseins bed revealed no trace of the missing items. Hussein supervised as I searched the bed, all the time claiming that nobody had touched my bag during my absence. I did not at any time imply this might have occurred. The items had unfortunately disappeared, rather mysteriously. Swaziland granted me political asylum within weeks
