by Luke Bencie
There is no jet way, which extends out from the terminal and connects with the aircraft’s main cabin door. Instead, I am to be the first passenger to disembark down a set of wobbly metal stairs that have been propped up against the plane’s fuselage. The attractive flight attendant, who kept my cocktails refreshed during the flight, wishes me good luck and reminds me to call her the next time I’m in Paris. She is not sticking around this African hellhole on a layover. The plane is immediately departing. I could find more than one use for this girl, especially since I’ve used Lola’s apartment too many times already. Right now, however, getting the flight attendant’s phone number is going to prove much easier than traversing this hazardous set of stairs.
When I eventually step down onto concrete, a young gentleman in a black suit with a skinny black tie greets me. He looks like he could be the brother of Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Pulp Fiction.
“Mr. Abraham, welcome, welcome. I am Amin,” he tells me in a heavily-accented English.
“Hello, Amin,” I reply.
“Mr. Mohammed would like to meet you right away. We shall drive to see him now. Yes?”
“Can we stop by the hotel first? I would like to freshen up before the meeting.”
“Yes, yes. We will go to see Mohammed now.”
I switch to French and explain that I would prefer to go to the hotel first. Yet once again he tells me, this time in French, that we will be going to see Mr. Mohammed first. That is the end of that discussion.
Oh well, I think. It’s not a big deal. I’m on the clock. Let’s just get this consulting engagement started.
I climb into the backseat of an armored black Land Rover SUV with my new friend Amin. As he starts the vehicle, a Beyoncé song blasts from the speakers. He quickly presses a button to cut off the music.
He smiles and says, “Sorry, I like Beyoncé very much; she has nice butt!”
“Yes, she does have nice butt,” I agree.
That is the extent of our conversation during the drive.
Looking out the window, I see abject poverty. The roads are packed orange clay, electricity is scarce, and there are no stoplights. Malnourished humans stand around like zombies. Their clothes hang off them like skeletons. Cripples and beggars approach our car every time we come to a brief stop. Amin shoos them away with a flip of his hand. During my research of this place, official statistics put unemployment at 30 percent. However, as I am quickly discovering, that figure has to be closer to 80 percent.
As we turn a corner we begin to leave the starving crowds in our rearview mirror. The grass becomes greener and more manicured, and clean white paint begins to outline the buildings.
The SUV pulls into the driveway of a walled compound off the main road. The exterior resembles a fortress. The gates are pure steel painted a bright red. Amin honks his horn and the gate magically opens inward.
As we drive in, I see that the massive grounds resemble the finest manicured golf courses. There is a small pond with a fountain shooting a stream of water a few meters in the air. I see four athletically-built African girls in colorful bikinis playing a game of two-on-two volleyball at a court set up on the lawn. The road is lined with expensive pink brink pavers.
“Amin. Is this the king’s palace?”
“No, this is Mr. Mohammed’s residence.”
The road ends at Mohammed’s home. It is a two-story mansion that resembles the White House in Washington. Perhaps Mohammed has his own aspirations to be king one day. I file that potential lead away for another time.
Amin parks in front of the door of the impressive home. Immediately, Mohammed dances out with arms open to greet me. He is wearing a bright green, traditional robe, which is meant to keep him cool in the heat.
“Ah, Mr. Abraham, you finally made it! I am so happy to see you again my friend!”
“Thank you, Mohammed. I am so glad to see you as well.”
Pleasantries are exchanged and Mohammed provides me with a short tour of his home. After seeing his well-stocked wine cellar, antique gun collection, in-home movie theater, and high-end fitness center, which obviously does not get a lot of use, I find myself on his back patio with cognac and cigar in hand, furnished to me by his elderly butler, who is sporting a crisp white servant’s jacket.
The view is limited to his oval swimming pool, a few acres of fruit trees, and the four high walls of the compound. I am somewhat hoping that the volleyball girls are finishing up their game and decide to cool off with a swim. I feel very secure and comfortable—at least for the time being. Stevie Wonder’s classic “Superstition” ironically plays from the outdoor speakers built into to the patio roof.
“Tell me, Mr. Abraham, do you have a plan to crush Mr. David?”
Mohammed is getting right down to business for once.
“I have a few ideas,” I respond with confidence.
“I hope so. The king is getting very upset with Mr. David’s continued disrespectful rhetoric in the media. Nobody insults my king! I am doing all I can to prevent Mr. David from having an unfortunate accident. If you do not solve this problem quickly and quietly, Abraham, I shall have to take matters into my own hands. This means that I won’t be needing your services any longer and you may forfeit your payment.”
“Mohammed, the job will get done when the time is right.”
“What are you planning? Is it some kind of campaign to discredit his reputation? As you know Mr. David is a very moral person. There may not be a lot of—how do you say—“skeletons in his closet.”
“Trust me, Mohammed. I have been doing this for a long time. Everyone has something to hide.”
“How about you? Do you have something to hide?”
“Of course, I do. That is how I have been able to stay in this business so long.”Mohammed smiles widely and lifts his glass as if to make a toast.
“Tell me, Mr. Abraham. What is your secret to success? You obviously know things other men don’t. I want to understand you and how you plan on keeping my king in power.”
I can sense that Mohammed is trying to flatter me so that he can coax information from me. I decide to play along and just throw him some bullshit answer. This is a specialty of any good consultant.
“Well Mohammed, to win an election you essentially need to understand that an individual person is different from a group of people. The power of “groupthink”—the concept that we somehow comprehend less rationally as a collective member of society than we do as a lone person—is how politicians channel their message.”
“I am afraid that I do not understand,” he admits.
“It’s simple. Everyone knows the difference between right and wrong. However, when we are included as part of a group, we somehow lose our way. It’s like when you cut the line in a crowd because other people are doing it. You know it is wrong, but since others are also doing it, it allows your actions to somehow be justified. You don’t have the guilt.”
“And this will help my brother win how, exactly?”
I have underestimated Mohammed. Perhaps he has more common sense than I initially believed.
I continue my lecture. “At the end of the day, citizens vote for a candidate for essentially three reasons, and three reasons only:
“They recognize the candidate’s name on the ballot—probably from a political ad or from overhearing a conversation about them—and/or have been told who to vote for ahead of time by unions, family members, the media, colleagues, teachers, etc.
“They believe the candidate will improve their personal situation.
“They simply like the candidate more—they pass the ‘which candidate would you rather sit down over a beer with’ test.
“In fact, for all the time, money, and effort that go into a presidential election, victory—in most cases—still comes down to which candidate ran a more effective campaign.”
“Ah, I am beginning to understand now,” says Mohammed, “You plan on running a more effective campaign for my brother?”
/> “Ha!” I laugh, which surprises Mohammed. “On the contrary, Mr. David is already running a campaign that is far superior to anything that me, your brother, or David Axelrod (President Obama’s campaign manager) could put together.”
“Then what exactly is your plan?” asks a confused Mohammed.
“Submission,” I whisper back to him for effect.
Mohammed sits in stunned silence for a moment attempting to process what I just said. He then breaks into a hearty belly laugh, throwing his head back in his chair. He obviously likes my answer.
“Tomorrow, I shall take you to meet the king. And then you, Mr. Abraham, will rid us of our political opponent forever!”
I neglect to warn him to be careful what he wishes for. I hear a loud splash and then giggling. The girls have decided to jump in the pool after all.
HIS MAJESTY
Location: The Royal Palace
Time: 1003 hours
After my discussion and drinks with Mohammed yesterday—followed by lively conversations with the volleyball girls—Amin drove me to my hotel. I am staying at the country’s finest luxury establishment, which would be considered two-star accommodations in any first-world nation. Because the reservations were made under Mohammed’s name, I of course, am given the penthouse suite, which in this case simply means that I have a room with both a living room and bedroom, high atop a rundown four-story building. The moldy wallpaper that adorns the room is bright red, while the water that flows out of the faucets is a soupy brown color. This is still Africa.
I slept fairly well last night. Although I always try to start my day with a swim, typically one-mile in the pool of whatever five-star hotel I’m staying in, I have little faith that the outdoor pool of this shoddy establishment is free of fungi, bacteria, and God knows what other yet to be discovered disease is in there. I opt instead to knock out 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 air-squats, and 100 “burpees” (up and downs) in the ample-sized living room. Because I travel so much, and enjoy my food and drink, it is important that I try to get in a good calorie-burning sweat each morning. My breakfast of salmon eggs Benedict, French bread with orange marmalade, yogurt, fresh squeezed carrot juice, and Lavazza espresso was surprising edible. I ask the waiter who is cooking in the kitchen only to discover that the chef was recruited from the prestigious L’ Hermitage Hotel in Monte Carlo (he must be paid a fortune to be working here in this country). I’m dressed in my finest 5,000 euro custom-tailored Brioni suit, and my 1,000 euro Ferragamo shoes are polished to perfection. It’s not every day I get an audience with a king; it’s more like twice a year for me these days.
I push through the revolving door of the hotel lobby into the humid, tropical climate of this shithole country. It’s still early in the morning, but I know that within just a few hours’ time, my suit will become sweaty and uncomfortable. That’s when the mosquitoes start to swarm and the chance for malaria increases. Good thing I am taking my doxycycline pills as a prophylaxis.
I notice that Amin is parked with the Land Rover directly in the circular driveway. He must be assigned to me for the duration of my trip. This is both good and bad. Good in a sense that I will always conveniently have a ride available and bad because he can always keep tabs on my comings and goings.
After a short drive through the city, I now find myself at the royal palace, seated right outside his majesty’s office. As I look around the opulent waiting area, I see numerous pictures of the king’s father—the previous king—hanging on the walls. In one picture he is wearing his crown and royal jewels. In yet another, he wears traditional native garb in order to look like a man of the people. In another, he dons a safari suit waving to the crowd from a convertible Cadillac. About the only thing that each picture has in common is that the king is wearing his 1980s mirrored aviator sunglasses. In my experience in Africa (which includes pretty much every country), I have found that the only real prerequisite for being king is that you have to look good in your sunglasses . . . and even that rule can be overlooked if you’re ruthless enough.
Sitting across from me is whom I can only assume is the king’s bodyguard. This guy is as big as a wardrobe chest. He is roughly thirty years old and easily 300 pounds of solid muscle. In fact, I can see his muscles bulging from underneath his silver suit, which is far too small for him. His neck is nonexistent and he has rolls of meat on the back of his bald head. I imagine that he must have been plucked from some African village after he won a tribal hand-to-hand combat competition. But he is no primitive tribesman. A 9-mm Beretta handgun hangs from a shoulder holster underneath his tight jacket. He’s probably received advanced weapons training from either the Brits or South Africans, which is par for the course in this part of the world. If he is lucky, he might have even by trained by a former Rhodesian soldier. I have found the “Rhodies” to be especially tough. The funny thing is, this man-child has his face intensely buried in his cell phone playing the phone app, Angry Birds. If an army were to storm the palace right now, there’s a good chance that this guy might miss it.
A buzzer goes off and a red light above the king’s door begins to flash. To the big man across from me, it seems like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. A strikingly beautiful and athletic African girl, who introduces herself as “Destiny,” walks out of the king’s office and informs me that his highness will see me now. I might not be wrong in assuming that she was either her nation’s representative for the Miss Universe contest or a stripper plucked out of one of the local Lebanese-owned gentlemen’s clubs. Those girls usually go onto administrative jobs for high-ranking government officials after their pageant/dancing days.
I gladly follow the girl’s shapely figure into the office, which is more of a ballroom than workspace. At the far end of the room, I see the king sitting at a colossal wooden desk. It is so big that a small family could actually live inside it. Across from the desk are two ordinary leather chairs. Mohammed is sitting in one of them.
“Ah, Mr. Abraham. Thank you for coming,” says a cheery Mohammed. “Allow me to introduce to you His Majesty.”
Following international protocol where a person of higher stature receives the person of lesser authority, and using a regal voice, Mohammed turns to the king and announces, “Your Highness, please allow me to introduce you to our new consultant, Mr. Abraham.”
I bow my head.
“Your Majesty,” I begin, “it is my sincerest honor to meet you. Thank you for this opportunity.”
The king remains seated in his chair and returns the nod without saying a word.
Mohammed jumps in immediately, “Your Highness, as I told you before, Mr. Abraham comes highly recommended. In fact, it may be fair to say that he is the finest consultant available in his chosen profession.”
Once again, the king simply nods.
“Your Majesty, if I may?” as I point to the seat.
The king points to the chair, instructing me to sit.
“Sir, I believe that I have an idea that may be of value to you. However, it may initially sound a bit unconventional compared to what you’re used to.”
The king turns to Mohammed and declares, “Leave us.”
“What?” says a confused Mohammed.
“I want to talk with this man alone.”
Mohammed looks dejectedly at the king, looks at me, and then quietly excuses himself from the room.
The king looks back at me and demands, “Tell me about this plan of yours.”
For the next twenty minutes I describe to the king how I am going to bring down his opponent. The king asks no questions. He merely nods occasionally, while never breaking eye contact with me. For an older gentlemen whose health is fading, he has the presence of a regal lion. Although I do this for a living, I catch a few drops of sweat nervously forming on my forehead. It has been a while since I’ve been intimidated during a presentation. I hope the king is buying what I’m trying to sell right now. I trust that my discussion with the king is going well, although he offers no wor
ds of encouragement. After it is clear that I have laid out my strategy and am open to questions, the king simply says to me, “That will be all.”
Not certain if I have been hired or fired, I get up from my chair to depart the room, but not before bowing to his majesty. As my hand is on the doorknob to his office, the king offers me one more breath of instruction.
“Mr. Abraham, you will crush David for me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I have the feeling I cannot let this man down; otherwise, I will be the one who ends up getting crushed.
***
Later that evening, my Beyoncé-loving driver Amin drops me off at the finest restaurant in town. He tells me that he will be back in two hours to collect me. This small French-Vietnamese establishment has been around for nearly forty years. The owners emigrated to what was then a sleepy little outpost, carrying their life savings on their backs.
I enjoy cod brochettes with spicy pepper sauce and puffed rice cakes for an appetizer. My entrée consists of sea bass and fried rice. I chase it all down with a bottle of fine pinot grigio. Dessert is a glass of port and a Partagas Cuban cigar. Brazilian bossa nova music is playing in the background. I laugh and think that the real “Girl from Ipanema” has probably never been to this country. It has been a long day and I am ready to retire for the evening.
I head back outside to the car, only to find Amin napping in the driver’s seat. Beyoncé’s mellow ballad, “If I Were a Boy,” is softly playing from the speakers. The sight of the imposing tree trunk of a man, dozing off to a chick tune, makes me shake my head in bewilderment. I am convinced that this is one of those rare moments that I won’t soon forget. Only in Africa.
I insert the brass key into my hotel room door and immediately know that something is amiss. The lights are on and I can hear the television blaring in the bedroom. I think to myself that it must have been done by housekeeping during evening turndown service. Walking deeper into the room, I hear a voice from the bedroom.
“Finally, you’re home.”
