by Chris Mullin
To the President’s left, World Bank chief Jim Wolfensohn, who has jetted in this morning from Kenya and who departs this evening for Iraq. Wolfensohn, hunched shoulders, mane of white hair – a wise old snowy owl, the only person in the room older than the President and, therefore, the only one who stands a chance of being taken seriously. Age counts in Nigeria.
Our side of the table is considerably lighter. Valerie Amos, in a luminous orange two-piece, flanked by myself and Suma Chakrabarti, the Permanent Secretary at DFID, and last, but by no means least, Philip Thomas, our excellent High Commissioner with whom I dined in Lagos last week.
Valerie invites the President to open. He does so with a rambling, barely audible, deeply uninspiring speech which eventually (but not before some time) grinds to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Then the bright new finance minister delivers, in stark contrast to her master, a brisk, competent analysis of Nigeria’s plight and what must be done to haul the country out of the deep, deep pit into which it has sunk. Her recipe: stabilise, reform, privatise, cleanse. Although she has the attention of everyone else it is soon apparent that the President’s concentration is wandering, eyes constantly on the move, gazing at the ceiling, then at the floor, right, left and so on. Before long his fingers are drumming audibly on the table.
A flunky appears with a pot of coffee and, lo, the huge man seated immediately behind – The Bearer of the President’s Sweeteners? – produces a pack of saccharine tablets which he discreetly places on the table in front of his master. Music from the Guards’ band in the Mall, drifts in through open windows. From somewhere within his voluminous robes His Magnificence produces a large nut which he proceeds noisily to bite.
Jim Wolfensohn speaks. His tone is friendly, but firm. He calls for ‘clear, unambiguous steps’ without which, he says, there is absolutely no point in Nigeria approaching the Club of Paris for debt relief. ‘To do so risks rebuff.’ At this point it is apparent that, for the first time in the proceedings, he has the President’s full attention. Obasanjo’s fingers have ceased drumming; he has pulled himself out of slouch-mode; he is sitting bolt-upright, half facing Wolfensohn. And to be fair, he appears to be taking the message in good heart.
The discussion wanders on. Various other Nigerians contribute from time to time, amiably interrupted by their leader. Then it is our turn. Valerie first, then Chakrabarti and finally myself. The buzzwords from all sides are the same; transparency, benchmarks, quick wins. How easily these New Labour slogans trip from Nigerian tongues.
Even the President seems familiar with them. The issue: how to translate words into action.
Tuesday, 2 September
Sunderland
Among the items in the box that came from London, a questionnaire from Government Hospitality about my entertainment preferences.
Do you prefer pre-theatre or post-theatre suppers?
Do you have a preference for either champagne or sweet wine with dessert?
Are you content for port to be served at dinner for Toasts?
To most questions I answered ‘pass’ and at the end scribbled, ‘I prefer simplicity and lack of extravagance to pomp.’
Monday, 6 October
An afternoon with the SIS at Vauxhall Cross. As with MI5 at Thames House, the building seems eerily empty and yet about a thousand people work there. SIS have managed to avoid many of the controversies that have engulfed their brethren over the river and still seem to indulge in many of the Cold War wheezes – the top man likes to be known as C even though everyone knows his name is Richard Dearlove – with which MI5 long ago dispensed.
I asked what had changed in the last 30 years and they were at pains to assure me that these days they were more ethnically diverse and employed more women (even though just about everyone I met was a white man in a suit). I was told there is also a degree of internal democracy. They hold ‘town hall meetings’ at which any employee can attend and speak; those on Iraq apparently attracted up to 500 people. On Iraq, they remained surprisingly robust, saying they were still hopeful that something would turn up once the Iraqi scientists had been offered immunity from prosecution.
Tuesday, 7 October
M from Washington called in. He says that, contrary to what I was told yesterday at Vauxhall Cross, many of the Iraqi scientists are talking, they are all singing the same tune and believed to be telling the truth. Namely that Saddam disposed of his remaining chemical and biological weapons after his sons-in-law defected and has had nothing for the last seven years.
Wednesday, 8 October
A day of meetings, ten altogether, including two with Jack. Through my office come a constant flow of officials, ambassadors, high commissioners, ministers from countries great and small. Many of the Africans are impressive, sophisticated people, fluent in several languages, soft-spoken, modest, wise – in short, hard to reconcile with the corruption and violence laying waste to their continent.
We talk of good governance, democracy, transparency and they make all the right noises. Only on one subject – Zimbabwe – do they have their heads firmly in the sand. Despite Mugabe’s evident wickedness, despite the ruin he has inflicted on his country (which in private they usually acknowledge), no African, or virtually none, will say a word against him in public.
The South Africans (who are playing host to a million Zimbabwean refugees) talk of quiet diplomacy, although their efforts are so quiet as to be inaudible. There are mutterings about African solidarity, plenty of foot-shuffling and suggestions that it is all our fault for failing to come up with the cash to buy out the white farmers. When pressed, even the good guys like President Kuofor of Ghana come out with that line. Mugabe may not be much good at feeding his people, but he has certainly done a good job of persuading his neighbours that his country’s troubles are all someone else’s fault.
Friday, 31 October
Kisumu, Kenya
My first taste of Big Man politics. The Big Man in question is Raila Odinga, overlord of the Luo tribe and son of the late nationalist hero Oginga Odinga. All day we raced around in a convoy of gleaming Land Cruisers, mobbed by cheering crowds. At every stop a visitors’ book was produced. At first, I duly filled in my name and details across a single line. The Honourable Raila was unimpressed. ‘That’s not how you do it,’ he snorts, ‘you must fill the whole page.’ I flicked back through the book. Everyone else seemed to have made do with a single line, but that apparently is not how Big Men sign their names.
Honourable Raila takes the book and scrawls his signature across a full page. ‘There.’ He holds it out for me to admire. Try as I may, I cannot rise to the occasion. By the end of the day I am managing a mere three lines.
Tuesday, 4 November
Johannesburg, South Africa
An audience with the great Mandela. ‘Make sure to organise a photographer,’ I kept saying to the High Commissioner. I said it so often that I was becoming tedious. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all in hand,’ she kept assuring me. Barry the High Commission fixer has been charged with this important mission.
We spent 40 minutes with the great man, chatting away in an entirely relaxed fashion about Aids, the Queen, Mugabe, until a young woman came to remind him that he had to catch a flight to Cape Town, where he is being deployed to persuade a delegation from FIFA to let South Africa host the football World Cup. The High Commissioner and I helped him to his feet. One of us on each arm, he walked to the door and out into the waiting area, where the wretched Barry was loitering, but even as he clicked away I could see that he was making a mess of it. He kept his distance and after two or three shots stood aside. Mandela hovered for a full five minutes, arm around my shoulder, but Barry just stood gawping, camera at his side. I could cheerfully have strangled him.
Sure enough, we returned to the High Commission only to discover that Barry’s pictures were all out of focus and no amount of digital jiggery pokery could make any difference. To be fair, it wasn’t Barry’s fault. Unknown to us he had been told not to use flas
h because of the old man’s eyes.
So that was that. The photo opportunity of a lifetime, squandered.
Thursday, 20 November
London
To the office amid insane levels of security. Helicopters, armed response units, you name it. My bag was searched twice on the way in. Bush and Blair were due to give their press conference in the Locarno Room at noon. I went out onto the steps at the King Charles Street end of the building and found myself alone except for one security man with an earpiece who ordered me back inside. I pulled rank shamelessly (‘I’m a minister, I can go where I like’), regretting the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. The poor fellow was only obeying orders which seemed to be coming from a goon on the roof.
Several minutes elapsed. The vast courtyard was empty apart from security men and a small group of journalists wearing special passes penned up against the north wall. By now I had been joined by Tom, my Private Secretary. The hapless security man made several more attempts to persuade us to go inside, each of which I firmly rebuffed. Eventually George Bush and The Man appeared through the arch that leads from Downing Street, striding purposefully towards the Ambassadors’ Entrance. As they turned, much to my amazement and quite unprompted, Bush waved in my direction. I assumed he was waving at someone else. I glanced at the windows behind, but there was no one.
Prime Minister’s Room, House of Commons, early evening
With other junior ministers, a meeting with The Man. Amazing that he has time, given everything else that’s going on. He looked washed out. Taut, tense, dehydrated. When holding forth he’s as lively and engaging as ever and he’s still a good listener, but increasingly I notice that when others are speaking he fidgets. The purpose was to brief us on New Labour’s latest wheeze – an alleged consultation on the contents of our next manifesto. From beyond the hallowed confines we could hear the distant chants of anti-Bush demonstrators.
As we were leaving he called me back. ‘I saw you at the Foreign Office this morning,’ he said. ‘I told George you were one of his greatest fans.’
Thursday, 27 November
A hilarious incident. I was due to see the Sudanese Ambassador this afternoon and we duly received a call from reception to say that he was on his way up. Kay opened the big door to my office which opens directly out onto the corridor and a man was ushered in together with the young woman from the Sudan desk who was there to take notes. We sat him down, offered him a cup of tea. I asked if he had enjoyed his two years in England and he replied that in fact he had only been here six months. ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘I have been given the wrong information.’ At this point a pained expression appeared on the face of the young woman from the Sudan desk.
Unfazed, I asked how the peace talks were going.
He looked puzzled. ‘Er, which peace talks?’
‘You know, between North and South.’
At this point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young woman from the Sudan desk making a dash for the door.
‘You are the Sudanese Ambassador?’ I inquired.
‘No, I am the Ambassador of Brazil. Who are you?’
He took it well. It turned out that he had been passing when the door of my office opened and he found himself ushered inside. Meanwhile the real Sudanese Ambassador had arrived and was waiting outside. We had a good laugh, shook hands and the Brazilian went on his way.
Friday, 5 December
Commonwealth Conference, Abuja, Nigeria
Jack has gone home so I am ‘attending upon’ the Queen, who is officially opening the new British Council offices. We are on the roof terrace. Her Majesty, the Duke, a fresh-faced equerry, an immaculate lady-in-waiting and myself. David Green, the Council’s top man, has just read out a little speech with the Queen standing impassively beside him. I am next to the Duke, alongside a group of English women. When Green has finished the Duke remarks loudly, ‘Huh, that speech contained more jargon per square inch than any I’ve heard for a long time.’ Then he turned to the women. ‘You’re teachers, aren’t you? Can you tell me what all that meant?’
One of the women, a bit right-on, replies, ‘No, sir. We’re not actually teachers …’
‘Not teachers? What are you then?’
‘Well, sir, we empower people.’
That set him off. ‘EMPOWER? Doesn’t sound like English to me …’
By now the Queen, noticing that trouble is brewing, has turned and is pointing vaguely over the balcony. ‘Look …’
The Duke, stopping mid-sentence, retreats instantly to her side, somewhat bemused.
‘… at the pottery.’
When they have gone, I go and look. I see no pottery.
Sunday, 7 December
Abuja
This morning I called in quick succession on three presidents: Mogae of Botswana, Museveni of Uganda and Muluzi of Malawi. Inevitably much of the talk was about Zimbabwe. The Botswanans, who have had decades of hassle from their Zimbabwean neighbours, were fine. Museveni, an intelligent, engaging man, who I had expected to be sound, was wobbly; clearly he is beginning to suffer delusions of grandeur (he is presently trying to change the constitution in order to wangle himself a third term – in reality his fifth since he had already served two terms before the constitution came into existence); he talked a lot about vision. Muluzi (who I expected to be the dodgiest) turned out to be the most robust. He spoke with passion about the damage Mugabe was doing to his people and claimed to have said as much both to Mugabe himself and to Mbeki, who has been lobbying furiously for Mugabe to be readmitted to the Commonwealth. He agreed that the only way out was a dignified retirement for Mugabe and I said that it was important for African leaders to be seen to be speaking up so that Mugabe couldn’t pretend that it was a blacks versus whites issue.
The row over Zimbabwe was due to come to a head this afternoon when the leaders went into their Retreat in the presidential compound. Tom and I drove to the Residence to await the outcome. It was as though I had stumbled onto a film set: Cherie, in a swimsuit, sunbathing in the garden; the entourage lounging around the pool; officials at the table in the dining room drafting a statement for The Man to make in the House on Tuesday. Our plan was to hitch a ride home with the Prime Minister rather than hang on for another two days. While Tom drafted reports of this morning’s meetings, I spent a pleasant hour chatting to Cherie. ‘What do you think of student fees, Chris?’ she inquired archly (there is apparently a report in this morning’s Daily Express suggesting falsely that I am threatening to resign in protest). I replied that, while accepting the principle that students should contribute, I remained to be convinced that universities should be allowed to charge variable fees. She argued strongly in favour of the whole package and seemed confident that, when the middle classes discovered that they would no longer have to pay their children’s fees upfront, they would be in favour too. ‘I hope Tony’s not going to put his life on the line over this,’ I said.
‘Oh I think he will,’ she replied. ‘And he thinks he will win.’
7 p.m.
Still no sign of The Man. Such slivers of information as have drifted down to us from the Big House indicate that a fierce struggle is in progress. Much to my embarrassment (since none of the officials are offered food) Cherie invites me to supper on the verandah with the newly knighted High Commissioner Sir Philip Thomas (surely our only senior diplomat sporting a number one haircut). We dine on elephant fish, rice and green beans washed down by champagne, and talk of Cherie’s ambition to become a judge. She thinks it will never happen because (a) she will be too old by the time she is eligible (i.e. when Tony is no longer prime minister) and (b) she will also be vulnerable to the allegation that she is too close to government to be impartial.
Just before 8 p.m. The Man returns. We can hear the sirens from his convoy long before he arrives. He is in good humour considering he has just emerged from five and a half hours of tedious haggling. The outcome is good: Zimbabwe will remain suspended. The South Africans a
re mightily upset. Thabo Mbeki and Chissano of Mozambique made most of the running on Mugabe’s behalf. As ever, it was left to the leaders of the white Commonwealth to insist that Mugabe remained suspended although the presidents of Ghana and Kenya made some mildly helpful points. Museveni was unhelpful. Most other African leaders, including Muluzi of Malawi (despite what he said to me a few hours earlier), kept their heads down. Improbably the hero of the hour was Obasanjo who, according to The Man, chaired the meeting with great dexterity.
By now officials are beginning to flap. The window of opportunity for take-off is rapidly closing. Kate Garvey practically orders the Prime Minister – ‘and you too, Minister Mullin’ – into the car.
Then 30 miles to the airport in a convoy of seven or eight vehicles; sirens, flashing lights, two carloads of (British) protection flanking The Man’s car on either side. Little knots of curious Nigerians gathered by the roadside to watch us pass. Sir Philip and I mid-convoy in his bombproof, bulletproof white Range Rover which two days ago was used to ferry the Queen. At the airport we are ushered straight to the plane. Tony and Cherie stand aside to let us pass, as if they are waving us off. Protocol dictates that they must be the last to board – along a red carpet that leads from the terminal to the steps up to the front of the plane upon which only they can tread.
