"Masters in Our Own House"

Togoland is a hot, humid and tiny country, 75 miles wide and 330 miles long, named by the Germans, given to the French under a U.N. trusteeship, and stuck like an afterthought on the map of Africa, between Ghana and the even tinier French territory of Dahomey. Of all French African territories, it is closest to independence. At the same time, it has seemed closest to France. Since 1956 the government has been safely in the hands of Premier Nicolas Grunitzky, a naturalized French citizen and member of the French National Assembly. The boss of the ruling political party is also a naturalized French citizen. Last week, when Togoland held its first election under universal suffrage, not even the opposition thought that the voters would do anything but confirm the status quo.

Actually, France has maintained this surface harmony largely because the leading party in the land, in the years immediately following World War II, has beaten the drum for independence and boycotted all elections since 1952. Each year Sylvanus Olympio, 56, head of the Comite de l'Unite Togolaise (C.U.T.), journeyed to Manhattan to plead Togoland's cause before the U.N. He is a graduate of the left-wing-leaning London School of Economics, and Togoland's top businessman. As a result of his boycott, an Assembly was elected without a single member of the opposition represented, and France was able to keep control of defense, finance, labor and education, as well as the High Commissioner's power to veto any legislation. Last year, dissatisfied with Togoland's progress toward independence, the U.N. politely but firmly ordered a general election to be held under U.N. supervision.

"Ablode! Ablode!" As the U.N. poll watchers began to arrive at the end of February, the opposition was already protesting rigged conditions. Candidates' deposits were suddenly jacked up from 5,000 African francs ($24) to 50,000 African francs, which is more than the annual income of most Togolanders. An old law, dating back to 1881, was resurrected to curb political rallies. Finally, the opposition charged that the government's list of registered voters excluded the names of thousands of independence supporters. Though the government reopened the lists, it closed the Ghana border, to stem the flow of pro-independence ideas from that newly independent state next door. Nevertheless, the nationalist fever mounted. "Ablode! Ablode! Ablode!" (Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!) shouted nationalist speakers; the crowds roared back, "Wolo o wogebe o, milahoe!" (No matter what they say, we'll win!).

At the northern polling station of Koumea last week, the first voter of the day strode in stark naked except for a straw hat. In the south, nationalists regaled reporters with accusations of repeat voting by government supporters: the ink stamped on each voter's hand to prevent his voting twice apparently washed off easily. But when day was done, the unexpected news began to spread: Olympio's party had won 60% of the votes, and 31 out of 46 Assembly seats.

Powder Politics. All next day, jubilant crowds swarmed through the streets of Lome. They surrounded Olympio's house, doused him with white powder as a sign of victory, danced around him, singing and cheering. Olympio, who will probably be the new Premier, shouted at a victory rally: "I have always told you that no people was made by God to serve under another forever."

In both Paris and Lome, French officials took consolation in Olympio's announcement: "We have no intention of driving the French people away. We will need them for many years." But he also warned: "It should be our right to take over at any time--whenever we feel ready for it. We're masters in our own house. That's sure."

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