by Chris Mullin
Saturday, 29 January
Abuja, Milton Keynes on the Equator as someone called it. Monstrous, soulless, unfinished; dissected by vast treeless, people-free avenues, empty save for convoys of excellencies racing back and forth, sirens wailing, between the Hilton and the conference centre.
My first engagement, a visit to the new headquarters of the anti-corruption commission, run by an energetic, determined, courageous former police officer – a ray of light in this sea of darkness. Early days yet, but there have been one or two modest triumphs: the chief inspector of police has recently been dismissed after an unexplained £20 million was found in his bank account; the governor of Plateau state is in disgrace after having been found in London with a suitcase full of money and a bank account containing an unexplained £920,000 – he cannot be prosecuted (governors being immune whatever their degree of venality), but his associates can – and are. Oh, but there is such a mountain to climb. Nothing works normally in Nigeria: the State electricity company produces little or no electricity; virtually no trains run on the railways; smouldering, stinking piles of domestic waste lie uncollected; the four oil refineries refine little or no oil and, to crown all, the Ajaokuta Kogi steel mill, built 20 years ago at a cost of $4–5 billion, has yet to produce a single ingot of steel. Any notion that the solution to Nigeria’s problems is more aid or even debt relief (save under the most stringent conditions) is pure bunkum. Honest government is the issue.
Sunday, 30 January
The Residence, Abuja
Awoken at 7 a.m. by HE in dressing gown, fresh from his morning dip, bearing a mug of tea. Then to the Hilton for a prayer breakfast presided over by presidents Obasanjo, Njuoma, Kagame and Museveni, together with AU chairman Konare and Kofi Annan. They each took turns to read a lesson. All except Museveni (introduced by Obasanjo as ‘that great son of Africa’), who was called upon to deliver the homily. He started with a line from Deuteronomy about borrowing. ‘Africans specialise in borrowing. If they lend, they lend in ignorance. Uganda has been a donor many times, but we donate in ignorance. A kilo of raw cotton costs a dollar, yarn three dollars, finished cloth ten dollars. So Uganda has been donating at least nine dollars a kilo to the West …’
Then to Matthew 25: 14–29: the parable of the talents. The gist of Museveni’s argument is that the Asians used wisely the talents that God had given them, but Africans had squandered theirs. By now the Great Son of Africa was in full flow, treating us to a lengthy historical analysis of African history replete with references to the Russian Revolution, the wars in Europe. There were dangerous moments (‘I have not read the Koran. President Gaddafi gave me a copy, but I didn’t have time to read it.’). Frozen expressions on the faces of President Mubarak and the Egyptian delegation, a few tables away. An outrageous piece of grandstanding and when the Great Son of Africa finally resumed his seat, glowing with self-satisfaction, the applause was thin.
Then to the conference hall for the opening of the summit. In the best Nigerian tradition the leaders show up two hours late and when they do, the headphones don’t work so Chairman Konare’s speech, in beautifully enunciated French, is wasted on most of us; likewise the address in Arabic by the secretary of the Arab League. Obasanjo spoke in English, but mumbled, apparently unfamiliar with the text. Only Kofi Annan was calm, clear and to the point.
Monday, 31 January
The Residence, Abuja
A bad night; partly spent duelling with mosquitos, one of which was full of blood, mine presumably.
Tuesday, 1 February
The Attorney General – youngish, bright, sharp-suited – came to breakfast which, at my request, took place in the garden under the rubber tree by the pool. My brief, (a) to explain the difficulty of taking action against stolen assets in UK banks when the Nigerians were not doing so at source and (b) to request his urgent assistance regarding the signing of a memorandum on the return of illegal immigrants.
The Residence, Kaduna
A sad, tense, dusty place, half Christian, half Muslim. Crowds of desperate youths at every junction selling phone cards, washing windscreens … Sectarian violence never far below the surface. Five years ago a thousand people were hacked to death in Muslim–Christian rioting which could erupt again at any time.
We called first on the governor, an anaemic young man with a reputation for integrity and competence and aspirations to higher office. As we were leaving, a convoy arrived out of which tumbled a collection of pantomime figures in bright robes and headdresses – from the midst of which emerged no less a figure than the Emir of Zaria, one of the traditional rulers of the north. What a photo opportunity, but alas it didn’t occur to me until too late. We called at the offices of the regional newspaper, where I answered questions for an hour, taking care to emphasise that good governance rather than lots more foreign dosh was the key to resolving Nigeria’s many problems. Later the Archbishop, an infectiously friendly man in a purple shirt and slip-on shoes, called round for tea. And this evening we
entertained to dinner several local prominenti, including one of the lesser Foots, Ben (brother of the late Paul), who heads the Save the Children programme in the north.
The Sheraton, Abuja
The ballroom. Our hosts, the Commonwealth Business Forum. There are to be no less than eight speeches, mine included. Afterwards a banquet at which HE has arranged, or so he thinks, for me to be seated at the right hand of His Magnificence. Unprecedently, the President has arrived on time and is presently closeted with the executive of the said Commonwealth Business Forum. Should we be grateful for his timely arrival? I have my doubts and in due course they will be substantiated.
We are ushered into a partitioned section of the ballroom where 300 Commonwealth businesspersons are waiting. We, the speakers, are seated on a raised dais facing the audience. The seat next to mine is empty. A fanfare of trumpets. A loud voice commands that we be upstanding for the arrival of His Excellency the President. We duly rise. Today His Magnificence favours a lime green agbada with a matching cap. We remain upstanding for the national anthem. The President sits; we sit. He leans across and shakes my hand.
The speeches are entirely lacking in content. Mainly taken up with homage to the President and the lengthy list of other present excellencies. Nigerians love protocol. Everyone of any significance has to have his presence acknowledged. His Magnificence is visibly bored. Within minutes he is slumped in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrests, coming to life only to blow his nose loudly and at length.
My speech, double-spaced, covers just one side of paper. ‘You will be relieved to hear,’ I begin, ‘that I am a politician who believes in making short speeches.’ This is greeted with a round of applause more heartfelt than any so far. ‘I wish to make just four short points …’ And then I make them: one, two, three, four. Just like that. Again, loud applause. Even the President is sitting upright. Just one problem, smart arse. The next speaker is Himself and he has a rather lengthy speech. Thankfully, however, he is not offended. On the contrary, he begins with a self-deprecating little joke about my four short points to which he refers more than once. As ever, however, His Magnificence mumbles and stumbles his way through the text with which he seems entirely unfamiliar. I strongly suspect that he has never seen it until the moment a flunky placed it on the lectern in front of him.
Eventually, but not before some time, it is over. The President returns to his seat. The band strikes up the national anthem. Only now does it become apparent, as I have correctly anticipated, that he has no intention of attending the banquet; instead, to the dismay of the organisers, he is heading for the exit, pursued by a retinue of flunkies and supplicants; it must have been like this at the court of the Tudors. Emergency action is called for. I have a message to deliver. ‘Mr President,’ I whisper, ‘can you spare five minutes?’ Fortunately, I am in favour. He is taking me with him. Hand in hand we march out of the hall, across the lobby and into one of the conference rooms, where he guides me to a sofa
at the far end while the flunkies hover just beyond earshot. This is the moment. For several minutes I bend his ear on our urgent need to make progress on the removal of 4,000 illegal Nigerian immigrants, a matter about which his officials have been dragging their feet. I point out that we have an election coming up and the opposition have made immigration an issue: ‘If we are not careful it is going to damage relations between our countries.’ (Or to put it another way, ‘If you want our help with debt relief et al, then for goodness’ sake instruct your Foreign Minister to get his finger out.’) The point does not need to be laboured. His Magnificence, who is in many respects not unlike our own dear JP, has very sound political antennae. Assuring me that he will do the necessary he rises and disappears into the throng. A man in a suit approaches and introduces himself as the President’s Private Secretary, all the while glancing anxiously at the door through which his master is about to disappear. I repeat to him the message I have just delivered to the President and he scurries away. Suddenly I am alone.
There is time only for the first two courses of the banquet, during which I am showered with congratulations on the brevity of my speech although one astute Nigerian noted that my words of praise were hedged with caveats. ‘There may have been one or two,’ I say archly. ‘There were three,’ he replies.
At 21.30 Caron and I are whisked away to the airport in the flag car. By 23.00 we are airborne for Amsterdam. As we take off it occurs to me that this could be the last time I set foot on the soil of Africa. There will be no more outings between now and the election and, after that, who knows?
Thursday, 3 February
Touched down at Heathrow just after eight and straight to the office.
My first visitor was Michael Williams, who is concerned that Jack may give too much away to the Americans on the International Criminal Court and Sudan. Condi Rice is coming tomorrow and Mike is afraid that we may sign up to the American position, which is wholly untenable and will make us look foolish. I immediately penned a minute which I placed personally in Jack’s hands, after he had finished his statement on the EU White Paper. He was equivocal: ‘I don’t want to get into a head to head with Condi on this one. She’s a very tricky woman, nervous too. If it was Colin Powell, it would be different. It’s about tactics, not principle. We need to play it long.’ Personally, I can’t think of a better issue (Guantanamo apart) over which to take on the Americans. The rest of the world is on our side; and so is half the Administration; everybody except Rumsfeld and the President. We’d win, if we dug in our heels.
Thursday, 10 February
Ngoc reports an amusing, but ominous exchange with Emma:
‘Mum, don’t you think it would be nice if Sarah had a boyfriend?’
‘No, Sarah is too young. She needs to concentrate on her studies.’
‘But, Mum, there is a boy who fancies Sarah.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, …..’s cousin.’
The Small Person may be excited by the prospect. We, needless to say, are not. There are exams to be sat.
Monday, 14 February
Sunderland
Oh happiness. A week working out of the constituency office. To work at nine; home by six, just as normal people do. Apart from a visit to the Labour Club at York University, I have a week of local engagements; above all I shall be able to make a long-overdue start on the arrangements for my re-election.
Or so I thought. Late this afternoon the office called to say I have to fly to Beirut tomorrow. A former Lebanese prime minister has been assassinated and our embassy is advising that a minister be sent to express condolences. Liz Symons, whose bailiwick this is, is on holiday in California so who else but Yours Truly? Hang on a minute, say I, what precisely is the point of all this? First, I am told that no one in the Lebanese government will be available to receive me and then it turns out that the family have asked for a non-state funeral. That clinches it as far as I am concerned. I ask to speak with the bright spark who thought up this madness and I am referred to Kara Owen in the Foreign Secretary’s office. Kara, who seems to share my scepticism, says it was Our Man’s idea and the point is to show solidarity with the bereaved family. Surely the Ambassador can do that? After all, what is an ambassador for? And if a minister is required, wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until someone in the Lebanese government is available and then for the appropriate minister – in this case Liz Symons – to go? On the face of it this looks an entirely pointless exercise, but then – as we all know – there is so much pointless activity in politics. I have asked to speak to the Ambassador and the head of the Middle East section in the hope of talking them round, but if they appeal to Jack (who is in Pakistan) I’m done for.
Tuesday, 15 February
The threatened trip to Beirut seems to have faded. Neither the Ambassador nor the head of the Middle East section has responded to my request for a telephone conversation. Nor have they submitted anything in writing. The idea seems to have disappeared as quickly as it arose. Which only goes to show that one should never cave in at the first whiff of grapeshot.
Wednesday, 16 February
A long, sad telephone conversation with Mum. She sounds very down. ‘I wish I could die. It’s useless living like this. It would be better if I went to join Dad, wherever he is.’ I’ve never heard her talk like this before. Usually she is so stoic.
Monday, 21 February
This afternoon a visit from the South African defence minister, who is also chairman of the ANC. An engaging, impressive man with no visible chips on his shoulder (unlike Mbeki). He thought the reason Mugabe was reluctant to contemplate retirement was because he is afraid of being called to account for the slaughter in Matabeleland in the mid-eighties. ‘He has seen what has happened to Milosevic and Saddam and he doesn’t want it to happen to him.’
Tuesday, 22 February
This afternoon I ‘summoned’ the Zimbabwean Ambassador to upbraid him about the latest harassment of foreign journalists. A rotund, bearded fellow, he was jovial but shameless. ‘This is all because you don’t like our land reform,’ he said with mock indignation.
‘No,’ said I, ‘I was one of those who celebrated Mugabe’s election victory. What turned me off him was the massacres in Matabeleland in the mid-eighties.’
That set him off. He responded with a long, heartfelt diatribe about the problems in Matabeleland being the result of interference by the apartheid regime in South Africa, ‘which was supported by the British’.
I tried another tack. ‘If Zimbabwe was such a well-run country, why are there more than a million refugees in South Africa?’
‘Because of the drought. We have had three years of bad rainfall. In two or three years’ time we will be prosperous again. You will see.’
He had an answer for everything. Usually, except when replying to my point about the massacres, with a smile on his face which suggested that he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, although this was precisely what he alleged about me. ‘You are a stooge of your government. You are just saying this because you have to.’
The only time he got under my wire was with a reference to Belmarsh. ‘We have the rule of law in Zimbabwe. We don’t lock up people for years without trial, as you do in Belmarsh.’ Ouch.
To the gleaming new Home Office building in Marsham Street for a meeting with Des Browne about asylum. The big problem – to be discussed at our next meeting with The Man – is what to do about returns. Countries like Iran, India, Pakistan, China, Turkey, Nigeria – the main sources of failed asylum seekers – are just playing with us. As Des says, all we are asking them to do is take responsibility for their own citizens. I favour a much tougher line. So does Des. So indeed does The Man. The difficulty is persuading officials, who keep pointing out that we have other fish to fry with most of these countries (on terrorism with the Pakistanis, and the Chinese send us billions of quids’ worth of students). The way forward in my view is to pick a couple which need more from us than we do from them. Turk
ey and Nigeria are obvious candidates.
Wednesday, 23 February
Another visit to the Home Office. This time to discuss the growing trade in young east European girls who are being tricked and blackmailed into prostitution. Harriet Harman, who is trying to push the issue up the agenda, produced a grid charting successful prosecutions of traffickers; in nearly every case the culprit was Albanian or Kosovan, some of whom had been allowed in as refugees. Peter Goldsmith, the Attorney General, was there and as he was leaving I took the opportunity to press him about what can be done for the handful of British residents – for whom we have no legal responsibility – still stranded in the Guantanamo gulag. These people have been living here for up to 20 years, several have young families and the evidence against them is to say the least slender. In my view our position (that nothing can be done) is morally indefensible. That seems to be Peter’s, too. The trouble is, as he pointed out, the last time this subject came up Jack was adamant and The Man wasn’t interested either.
On the way over to the House I discussed with Mike O’Brien the inevitability of Gordon inheriting the throne, whenever the time comes. In Opposition Mike used to be on Gordon’s team and so knows him well. ‘Gordon,’ he says, ‘demands absolute loyalty and, if you let him down, he never forgives you.’
