Counterfeit!
Elizabeth Ducie
A Chudleigh Phoenix Publications Book
A Chudleigh Phoenix Publications book
Copyright ©: Elizabeth Ducie 2016
Cover design: Berni Stevens
The right of Elizabeth Ducie to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Licence Notes
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Contents
Prologue: Zambia; Dec 2003
Part I
1: Swaziland; Sept 2004
2: Swaziland; Sept 2004
3: England; Oct 2004
4: England; Oct 2004
5: England; Oct 2004
6: England; Oct 2004
7: England; Oct 2004
8: England; Oct 2004
9: Zambia; Nov 2004
10: England; Nov 2004
11: Swaziland; Nov 2004
Part II
12: Zambia; Dec 2004
13: Zambia; Dec 2004
14: Zambia; Dec 2004
15: Zambia; Dec 2004
16: Zambia; Dec 2004
17: Zambia; Dec 2004
18: Zambia; Dec 2004
19: Zambia; Dec 2004
20: Zambia; Dec 2004
21: Zambia; Dec 2004
22: Kenya; Dec 2004
23: Kenya; Dec 2004
24: Kenya; Dec 2004
25: Zambia; Dec 2004
26: Zambia; Dec 2004
Part III
27: England; Mar 2005
28: England; Mar 2005
29: England; Mar 2005
30: England; Mar 2005
31: England; Apr 2005
32: England; Apr 2005
33: England; Apr 2005
34: England; Apr 2005
35: England; Apr 2005
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Enjoyed This Book?
Other Books By Elizabeth Ducie
For the original Chibesa and WB;
Their fight goes on.
PROLOGUE: ZAMBIA; DEC 2003
Kabwe Mazoka walks up the hill, scuffing his feet in the rutted and baked red earth. It’s been dry for months, but today thick clouds mask the sun and when the rains come, this will be a water course, pouring mud and stinking filth into the main street below. He turns through a broken-down gate and walks across the yard. A mangy dog, tied with rope to a ring on the fence, jumps to its feet yelping before sinking back on its haunches, eyeing him warily.
The building was painted white once. Pale flakes cluster around rusty lines where the reinforcing bars are breaking through the pitted concrete. In the single row of windows running below the flat roof, most of the panes of glass are missing.
A line of women sit in the dirt against the wall, taking advantage of the shade from the over-hanging roof. As Kabwe unlocks the shiny new padlock on the door, they rise and slowly follow him into the building. The first raindrops splash into the dust.
The downpour hits the corrugated iron roof like stones from an angry crowd. Kabwe uses a metal pole to stir the thick, creamy liquid in the cleaned-out oil drum.
The men were coming back today, bringing brightly coloured labels and delivery instructions. They would be cross if the bottles weren’t filled ready for labelling and packing. He didn’t want them to be cross again.
They’d been cross when he suggested testing the ingredients before making the medicine. They showed him pieces of paper with green stickers and words in another language. They told him to ‘just get on with it.’ So he did.
When Kabwe ran out of the glycerol used to sweeten the cough medicines, they brought him drums in a battered lorry and told him to ‘get them unloaded and stored in the lock-up.’ The drums were different from the ones he’d had previously. These were red. Last time they were blue. The name was different too, longer. They told him it was just the chemical name for the same material. He pointed to the place where warning symbols and storage conditions were usually printed. The labels had been scratched and scraped; none of the words were legible. The men laughed at him and told him to ‘just get on with it.’ So he did.
Today, the men arrive just as the last of the brown bottles is being filled. They’d been pleased with Kabwe when he managed to source these from the local glass plant. For eleven months each year, the plant makes beer bottles, then the mechanics switch the moulds and they make medicine bottles, a year’s supply in just four weeks. They need a lot more beer bottles than medicine bottles in Africa.
These bottles are rejects, slightly misshapen, no good for an automated bottling line. But Kabwe’s filling team holds bottles under a tap, one at a time, operating the pump with a foot-pedal. He was able to negotiate a good price for them—and the bottling plant was able to hide the true reject rate, so everyone gained.
The perfect bottles would be sold to the reputable companies, the subsidiaries of multinationals or local companies working under licence to one of the well-known names. Kabwe’s father’s company had been one of those. For more than twenty years, they made cough syrups with someone else’s name and logo on them. Once a year, auditors would fly in from London, talk to all the managers and some of the staff, check through a couple of batch documents—and confirm the renewal of their licence.
Then, five years ago, in a meeting far away, a decision was made and a takeover launched; two companies became one and thousands of lives were changed forever. With a super-sized factory in South Africa supplying the entire region, there was no need for licensees producing their cough syrups. Kabwe’s father lost the contract and, with it, his factory. Within six months, he was dead and Kabwe was head of the family. Two months later, the men came to visit for the first time.
The new labels are pink and blue with white writing. The company name—this time an American one with an address in Milwaukee—is printed in small letters at the bottom. The picture of a mother and child looks comforting, although Kabwe wonders why they always use white people as models.
Just before the men drive away, they hand Kabwe an envelope, stuffed with stained and greasy banknotes. Now he’ll be able to pay the filling team. Now he’ll be able to buy supplies on the way home. Now his mother will be able to keep her appointment at the clinic.
The vans drive off into the night, heading for unprotected borders, to meet other vehicles driven by other desperate men trying to earn enough to feed their families. Kabwe sits slumped in his office, too tired to move, and tries to still the doubts flying around his head.
The men had told him the American company wouldn’t mind. ‘They sell medicines all over the world,’ they said. ‘They won’t miss a few sales in Africa,’ they said. ‘You’re helping people get hold of medicines they couldn’t normally afford,’ they said. ‘It’s a public service really,’ they said.
Kabwe glances at the dispatch instructions for the latest batches of cough syrup. There are six names on the list: three government purchase houses; two regional hospitals; and a large distributor. They are spread across Angola, Malawi, Zimbabwe and Tanzania. He is relieved, as always, to see his own country missing from the list. Not his people, not this time. But one day, he knows, it will be their turn.
PART I
1: SWAZILAND; SEPT 2004
‘In conclusion, lack of controls on imports makes it inev
itable that many of the medicines available in Africa today are counterfeit.’ Suzanne Jones looked up from her notes. The light was dim. Moth-eaten gold velvet curtains had been closed to block out the midday sun, but she knew the hall contained representatives of every branch of healthcare in the region. There were regulators, mainly black Africans, from Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Mozambique, Zambia and Zimbabwe, hoping to learn from their South African colleagues, known to be even stricter than the American Food and Drug Administration. There were the Asian owners of local pharmaceutical factories, desperate for hints on how they could win vital government tenders. The very few white faces in the room belonged to the Afrikaans distributors or ex-pat managers of the handful of multinational companies still trying to maintain a presence in Southern Africa.
Suzanne took a deep breath and spoke directly to the hundred-plus delegates. ‘The Intergovernmental Health Forum knows the problem is particularly bad here in Africa. We’re doing everything we can to disrupt the supply chains at the factories. However, Africa must play its part by tightening controls.’ She paused, smiling to take the sting out of her words. ‘Thank you for your attention. Are there any questions?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have the luxury of worrying about quality. My responsibility is to provide enough drugs for all the people. If a few bad ones get through, it’s the price we have to pay.’ The Honourable Walter Mukooyo, Kenyan Minister of Health, leaned back in his chair. He mopped his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief, and glared over his half-moon glasses at the crowded hall, as though challenging anyone in the audience to disagree with him. The minor civil servants who made up the Minister’s entourage were sitting in the front row, nodding vigorously.
Suzanne bit back angry words. She tucked damp strands of long, straw-coloured hair behind her ears and tried to ignore the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades, down her back and soaking into the elastic of her knickers. She really didn’t want to lose her temper in front of this group.
‘That’s an interesting viewpoint, Minister,’ she said. ‘I’d like to return to that during the panel discussion this afternoon. We’re running a little behind on the agenda. Can I suggest we break for lunch now and pick up with Dr Businge’s presentation in an hour’s time?’
Someone switched the lights on and the delegates began filing out of the conference hall. Suzanne shoved her papers into her briefcase, muttering to herself. She looked around for the rest of her team.
‘We did warn you he might be difficult,’ said Chibesa Desai, who was lounging against the side of the stage. ‘This is the guy who stood up in Parliament last week and announced he’d secured a huge consignment of drugs through his charity connections. The fact that they’re out-of-date batches from China is irrelevant. He’s the hero of the moment in this region.’
‘I know, Chibesa,’ Suzanne said through gritted teeth, ‘I should have listened to you and WB. But I so wanted my first conference to go well, especially as I’m standing in for the Director General.’
‘Don’t fret, you’re doing fine,’ said a voice from the back of the hall, where Wilberforce ‘WB’ Businge was sitting waiting for them. ‘Most of the delegates arrived on time and I’m sure the rest will be here by the time we reconvene. Even the Minister was only ninety minutes late and with a bit of luck, he’ll have left before we start the panel discussion.’
‘Not if I have any say in it, he won’t,’ said Suzanne. ‘He can’t make an outrageous statement like that and then disappear without justifying it. I’m going to insist he stays for the debate.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said WB with a grin, ‘The Honourable Minister won’t take kindly to being bullied, especially by a woman!’ He pulled himself out of his seat and brushed the shoulders of his already immaculate pin-striped, three-piece suit. ‘Anyway, aren’t you two coming for some food?’ he continued. ‘Come on—if we don’t hurry it’ll all be gone.’
Suzanne spent the lunch break thinking over what WB had said, and planning how she would handle the Minister. When he approached her after lunch, she was ready for him.
‘Your campaign is admirable, Mrs Suzanne,’ he said, grasping her hand in both of his. ‘I salute what you are trying to do. You have my full support—just so long as it doesn’t affect my budget.’ He turned towards the door, where a uniformed driver was standing waiting, but Suzanne raised her voice so the delegates around her could hear her words.
‘I’m sorry you have to leave so soon, Minister,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you could spare the time to tell us about your recent success in obtaining charitable donations. I’m sure we could all benefit from your experience.’ She saw him pause and pushed home her advantage. ‘And it would be great background for the Director General when he’s drawing up recommendations for the next round of appointments within IHF.’
The International Health Forum had been set up the previous year as an inter-agency group to tackle the growing problem of counterfeit drugs, especially in the developing world. Supported by the World Health Organization, the European Union, the US government and a couple of philanthropic billionaires, it was well-funded and had in its gift a number of short-term ambassadorial appointments which were proving very popular.
The silence lengthened as Suzanne could almost see the thought processes going on in the Minister’s head. Then he waved away his driver and turned back to her with a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Well, my plane’s not due to leave until this evening, so I would be happy to stay a while longer.’
‘That’s great news, Minister; I’m sure the delegates will appreciate your continued participation.’
Back in the conference hall, WB talked of fighting counterfeiters in Kampala. Despite the heat and the fact that he was speaking during the ‘graveyard slot’, straight after a carbohydrate-rich lunch, most of the delegates managed to stay awake. However, Suzanne was very glad she’d chosen to sit in the auditorium rather than on the stage in full view of everyone. Her eyelids felt heavy and her legs stuck to the yellow leatherette seat. She wriggled to free herself and tried not to doze off.
But she was wide awake again when she took to the stage for the closing discussion. She’d asked WB to chair this session; the tall Ugandan knew many of the delegates and appeared to have their respect. She also wanted the opportunity to take part in the debate herself.
The Minister had declined to make a speech, saying he’d not been pre-warned and therefore had nothing prepared, but he agreed to sit on the stage with Suzanne to take questions.
‘So, Minister,’ she began, ‘we’re interested to hear about your recent success.’
‘Well, Mrs Suzanne, it’s not really my success. I was merely an intermediary.’
‘Oh, I think you’re being too modest, Minister. I read the report of the events last week and I understand you received a standing ovation from all members of the National Assembly when you announced the latest acquisition of aid.’
‘My colleagues were being too kind.’ He waved away her comments.
‘Well, anyway, let’s talk about the deal itself, Minister. I believe the donations came from China, is that correct?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Although it’s not a full donation; my government is paying for the drugs, just at a hugely subsidised rate.’
‘And can you tell us what types of drugs are being donated?’
‘It’s a mix of medicines including antibiotics, antivirals and antimalarials.’
‘That’s very impressive—and particularly important in view of the growth in the number of cases of Aids, TB and malaria in your country.’
‘Well, not just in my country; it’s the trinity of diseases the WHO is concentrating on at the moment. I believe you’ve even got some problems with them in Europe.’
‘But it’s true to say it’s a major problem in Kenya, isn’t it?’
‘Correct.’ He nodded.
‘So being able to access significant quantities of medicines
is a major coup.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is, yes.’
‘So we can see why you are such a hero at the moment.’ She paused, allowing him time to bask in the praise, before continuing. ‘Tell me Minister; is the additional testing going to cause problems for your government laboratories?’
‘Testing, what testing?’
‘The quality checks on all these drugs you’re going to import.’
‘Oh, no, we won’t need to do that; they’ve all been tested on release in China.’
‘Really? That’s very courageous of you.’ Suzanne thought she detected a slight shift in the man’s self-satisfied smirk.
‘I’m not sure I understand your point, Mrs Suzanne.’
‘Well, China’s pharmaceutical companies are not exactly known for the effectiveness of their quality systems, now are they?’
‘I’m sure the Chinese authorities wouldn’t—’
‘Wouldn’t what, Minister? Allow poor quality drugs to be sold overseas? Allow local Chinese companies to export pirated drugs? Allow fake medicines to be sent to Africa?’
The Kenyan sat up straight and pounded his fist on the arm of his chair.
‘This is outrageous! You have no basis for these accusations.’
Suzanne swallowed hard and forced a smile back onto her face.
‘Minister, I’m not making any accusations. I’m merely asking how you can be sure that these things—which we know are happening elsewhere—aren’t happening in this case. That’s why I asked about your quality checks.’
‘Mrs Suzanne, I can’t be expected to have these sorts of details at my fingertips. I will go back to my Ministry and find the answers for you. I’m sure there is nothing for IHF to worry about.’
‘Me too, Minister; me too. Incidentally, how did you manage to get the multinationals to agree to their products being included in the deal?’
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