Almost a year after the DIC publically opened the Portem bids, none of the top three bids had been accepted. Suspiciously, all three bidders failed to supply a sufficient bid bond—at least that was the official explanation. Nor had DIC invited Omanhene to enter formal divestiture negotiations, the obvious next step if the top three previous bidders failed to comply with the rules. I weighed my options. The absence of a decision on divestiture was tantamount to a good decision for Omanhene; it meant we could continue production in partnership with Portem, at least in the short term. Maybe this delay-and-see gambit was the Government of Ghana’s desired end game: wait for the World Bank to find other conditionalities to pursue so that Portem remained part of the national cocoa patrimony. If Omanhene likewise waited out the divestiture, then we just might prevail and get what we wanted, too. On the other hand, the uncertainty swirling around divestiture dissuaded me (and other potential investors) from funding the Omanhene project. It’s arduous to raise funds for growth when, at any moment, your government-mandated production partner might be sold. I understood the patriotic, economic imperative of my beloved Ghana and its unwillingness to sell Portem. But I accepted the inevitability of loan requirements imposed by any creditor. I could not predict who would prevail in this high-stakes game of Chocolate Hold ’em: the World Bank or the Government of Ghana? Who will blink first? Chicken or fish?
I decided to press the Government of Ghana to resolve the Portem divestiture. The waiting-game limbo was draining, both emotionally and financially. I turned to the US government for help, hoping they might persuade Ghana to invite Omanhene to negotiate for Portem—or at least persuade Ghana to choose an Omanhene-friendly bidder so that a US company might benefit.
Omanhene couldn’t afford Washington lobbyists. Instead, I relied on the inherent appeal of the Omanhene Idea—and any personal connections I could cultivate. These included Ghana’s Ambassador to the US, Arthur Antwi, who (as luck would have it) knew President Clinton from his Arkansas days; and Senator Russ Feingold of Wisconsin, who (as luck would also have it) chaired the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s Subcommittee on African Affairs. In February 1996, I learned that Secretary of Commerce Ron Brown was planning a trade mission to West Africa that would include a stop in Ghana, and that, during the trip, bilateral trade negotiations—including trade advocacy—would take place. Secretary Brown’s outstanding staff were enthusiastic about the Omanhene story and offered to bring secretarial-level advocacy to bear on the divestiture issue. For the Department of Commerce, it was a question of a US company, Omanhene, facing potential discrimination and unfair dealing at the hands of a foreign government, Ghana, with a shadowy German company benefitting. And all the parties were covered in chocolate. Commerce was itching for this fight. I was too.
Secretary Brown delighted in advocating on behalf US firms doing business abroad and made it a top priority. A relentless traveler who relished the business of doing business, Brown understood that US firms are often at a disadvantage when competing internationally. For example, German firms can legally take a tax deduction for what amount to bribes paid to foreign governments. US law forbids companies from offering bribes, a rule that obviously works to the detriment of US firms competing for overseas contracts. Secretary Brown was determined to level this playing field as best he could by using his bully pulpit and his gregarious personality to promote US companies abroad. Learning of Omanhene and our divestiture dilemma, his office framed the situation as one in which a German company, ZBN, might be getting preferential treatment at the expense of Omanhene. In no time at all, a decision was reached to include Omanhene on the agenda of top-level advocacy.
At the last minute, I decided to go to Ghana to participate in that leg of Ron Brown’s trade mission. The trip was an unexpected expense, and the timing was difficult, both in maintaining Omanhene’s domestic business and on my own home front. I would miss my twins’ sixth birthday. I hoped Hannah and Josh would understand. And all the while, I continued to pour into this crazy Ghanaian chocolate business money that should have gone into the children’s college fund.
Kojo Bamford and I were invited to attend Secretary Brown’s keynote luncheon address in Accra. The Secretary commanded the podium. Goodwill and high expectation filled the ballroom. Brown said that he wanted to highlight “three US companies doing wonderful work here in Ghana.” I winked at Kojo, who sat across the table from me. When we were not the first company mentioned, I was still brimming with optimism. Surely the Secretary was saving Omanhene for special recognition. Then he mentioned a second company on the trade mission, also not Omanhene. I surmised: he was saving the best for last. Then he mentioned the third company … and it wasn’t Omanhene, either. Shattering disappointment! I caught my breath. This is how it feels to force a smile when your Oscar’s just been awarded to Tom Hanks. Kojo looked at me incredulously as if to say, “I thought Omanhene was on the agenda, what happened?”
What was I thinking, anyway? The companies mentioned in Ron Brown’s speech were substantial commercial concerns with global footprints who were expert at playing the Washington, DC game. Moments ago, I was glowing with self-satisfaction, and now this—public humiliation.
Only Secretary Brown was not quite finished: “But ladies and gentlemen, there is one US company that has done more than any other to showcase US inventiveness and build entrepreneurial bridges with our host country of Ghana … and that company is Omanhene.”
Hallelujah.
Finally, someone publically recognized what we’d been trying so hard to accomplish here in Ghana. And not just anyone, but one of the most charismatic cabinet secretaries in modern US history. Secretary Brown, by all accounts, was a singular individual. He cared as passionately for a small business as he did for a global conglomerate. The man simply loved business, sympathized with underdogs, and relished the stories behind companies. I was later told by his staff that the Secretary served Omanhene on his flight over to Africa and regaled the official delegation with the saga of my company. Omanhene couldn’t ask for a better champion.
Two weeks later, Ron Brown and several of his senior staff were killed in an airplane crash while on a trade mission to Dubrovnik.
* * *
I came to appreciate how “the little chocolate factory that could” storyline was useful to the governments of both Ghana and the United States. Ghana desperately wanted to demonstrate to a global audience that it did something well, that it was more than just a source of bauxite, gold, or cocoa. Ghana wanted to ascend the manufacturing value chain and to craft upscale products. The US wanted to dispel the stereotype of the Ugly American, lacking any cross-cultural nuance, and to demonstrate that its economy consisted of smaller companies, too, not just consumer-product conglomerates seeking to enter virgin markets and displace local shopkeepers. There were moments when I felt that each country was—what is the word here—exploiting Omanhene rather than advancing the interests of the company. And yet, I confess, attention from either country (for whatever the reason) didn’t hurt Omanhene’s cause, either. Such is the give-and-take of any commercial exchange. We all need each other—and we use each other, too.
Back home, Omanhene continued to grow, adding new customers, including the Smithsonian Museum gift shop. I hired my first sales representatives, who secured a meeting with Starbucks. Based upon an initial product review, we were invited to hold a blind taste test of our hot chocolate at the Starbucks regional office in Chicago. At the tasting, about a dozen store managers sampled both the Starbucks house brand of hot cocoa and Omanhene. The results of the side-by-side taste test were impressive: every single manager selected Omanhene as the favorite. But a few weeks later, Starbucks executives decided to purchase their own cocoa processing facility, putting an end to talks of selling Omanhene in its cafés.
* * *
My seesaw existence continued: bad news, good news, often both at once. The US Commerce Department invited me to return to Accra and join a panel of US business executives, sharing insig
hts and wisdom with African government leaders. The occasion was the annual meeting of developing economies that benefit from the African Growth and Opportunity Act, known as AGOA, a compilation of laws and regulatory incentives designed to promote bilateral trade among more than three dozen African countries and the US. Think of AGOA as NAFTA for Africa—only far less threatening to the US economy, since Africa produces so few manufactured goods that the displacement of US jobs is minimal, by comparison.
If you were an African trade minister, the subtext for this panel presentation might be titled “Things You Need to Change If You Hope to Attract US Business Investment.” On the other hand, I wondered how many of the assembled ministers saw that the AGOA summit was also part of a US-composed counterpoint to the symphonic crescendo of Chinese expansionism in Africa.
Each panel member was allotted twenty minutes for individual remarks before the panel took questions from the floor. Tone was important. I didn’t want to insult this audience of senior ministers and central bank officials, most of whom had MBAs and PhDs from the top universities in the world.
How to distill my thoughts on globalism? Taking the long view, it is axiomatic that international trade creates overall economic wealth, opens new markets, and promotes efficiency—the rational allocation of scarce resources—or so a mainstream economist would argue. Put less artfully, free trade allows US companies to sell outside the US market, a market that, despite its aggregate size, is no longer fast-growing. With modest population growth and a rising inequality of income, the US consumer market is unlikely to generate anything beyond incremental annual growth. Writ large, it’s easy to argue that globalism, if practiced wisely, is a good thing for … the globe. Writ small, there are winners and losers. Think of US steel workers losing jobs to steel workers in India. Or consider the shoe industry, where manufacturing is now located primarily in Asia. Since all politics is local, trade issues become devilishly difficult for your average parliamentarian or congressperson. We all love affordable athletic shoes; so by extension, we all ought to support the notion of free trade, the framework that allows inexpensive shoes from abroad to enter local markets. But if you happen to live in a constituency with the last remaining shoe factory, say, in Vermont or Blackpool, and that company is being undersold by cheap imports and is now facing bankruptcy, then free trade is tantamount to economic ruin.
So, in this context, I understood that the Omanhene story is especially compelling. This panel presentation was not the first time I had found myself serving as a poster child for how globalism, if skillfully rendered, can result in benefits to both trading countries. I would bring a contrarian bilateral message, advocating for the necessity of granting African countries access to the lucrative US market and promoting the export of US ingenuity and creativity. I had a lot to say but not much time to say it. I can do this, I concluded hopefully—plus, I would share my “Twelve Rules for Dealing with Americans,” a welcome respite, I hoped, from the quant-speak and business buzzword-laden speeches typical of these conferences—all in the allotted twenty minutes.
Wallace’s Twelve Rules for Dealing with Americans
1. It’s not how you dress, it’s whether you show up on time. (Americans would rather be on time than catch a glimpse of the famed Ashanti Golden Stool.) Speak quickly and execute quickly.
2. Americans say they love free enterprise but secretly they want to be monopolists—and they behave that way.
3. The person at the top really does call all the shots.
4. There is nothing free about the free enterprise system. You get what you pay for (and don’t get what you don’t pay for). And so help me, you can’t believe how much you really have to pay for. Often, intangibles such as credit information, legal counsel, market research, design expertise, and business advice are valuable commodities—you should expect to pay for everything.
5. The American who is dying to do a deal with you may well be the worst possible partner for you.
6. Your ideal American partner likely doesn’t know you exist, can’t find your country with two hands and a map, and has absolutely no interest in your product. It’s your job to transform this ignorance.
7. Americans abhor meetings.
8. Not all American businesses are as rich as Croesus. Beware the company that promises you the world. No company can deliver the entire lucrative US market for free. Concentrate on your market segment. Your choices: price, service, and quality. Choose two.
9. Americans often want quality or perceived quality more than they want a cheap price. This places great importance on proper long-term (i.e., costly) brand management. If you execute this strategy properly, you will own a valuable brand name. Exploitation of a brand name—by means of intellectual property law—is one of the only ways you can legally operate as a monopolist in the US.
10. You don’t have to own the whole US market to make money in the US. The most profitable firms often sell only to a tightly defined market niche. You should have a predilection for working with smaller businesses that are less likely to demand unreasonable terms in your business dealings.
11. Quality really is more important than quantity. Don’t assume you need to devote all of your production to the US or let yourself be pushed into doing so.
12. Americans take things personally.
I would not share with the AGOA audience in Accra my “Seven Rules for Dealing with Ghanaians”:
Wallace’s Seven Rules for Dealing with Ghanaians
1. The managing director likely wears sandals, a short-sleeve shirt, and no tie; he will probably show up late with two cell phones, and he will interrupt your meeting by taking outside calls. Don’t mistake delay and interruptions for rudeness. Patience isn’t merely a virtue; it’s a necessity. Ghanaians view haste with suspicion.
2. Ghanaians hate monopolists and wouldn’t want to be one even if they could. Note: Most Ghanaians work within a monopoly. When I first started Omanhene, the public sector comprised 85 percent of all jobs in the country.
3. The person at the top (or who you think is the top) doesn’t likely call the shots. Titles matter a lot and seniority is firmly entrenched. Talent is infrequently rewarded. Often the deputy chief is the real power behind the title. A deputy can operate out of the public eye, while a minister or chief executive cannot.
4. Ghanaians love meetings. Indeed, they covet a “sitting allowance”—money paid for just showing up to board meetings.
5. Not all Ghanaians are financially poor (i.e., not every Ghanaian wants to do business with you on your terms). Consider: You’re not doing them a favor by dealing with them—or are you?
6. When purchasing from Ghanaians, quantity is perceived to be more important than quality. Big numbers impress. Great big numbers impress greatly. Ghanaians think you want their entire production capacity. If you don’t, what’s wrong with you?
7. Ghanaians take things personally.
* * *
The AGOA conference was held at Accra’s new International Exhibition Center, an aspirational cubist structure painted bright pink. It was, in the manner of many municipal convention centers, more pomp (or in this case pouf) than circumstance. On the afternoon before our presentation, the chair of our panel, the Deputy Administrator of the Small Business Administration (SBA), wanted to meet with the American contingent to go over the logistics. This was not surprising, considering she was a former UPS senior executive in charge of air operations, a charming, soft-spoken, political appointee. For all her Texas sweetness, however, the Deputy Administrator had a disarming “let’s-keep-this-tight-we-represent-the-United-States-of-America” authoritativeness, the demeanor of a strict high school honors English teacher about to discourse on the bawdy parts of the Decameron. I liked her immediately.
Panelists and administrators alike, nearly a dozen of us, greeted one another briefly in the lobby and climbed three flights of stairs to find our designated meeting room. The door was locked. A key was eventually found. The sweltering room
filled with serious people, cell phones un-holstered, clipboards, Day-Timers, and Filofaxes at the ready.
I reflected on how the US government is not unlike the British monarchy. The Queen has her equerries, ladies-in-waiting, subalterns of various sorts, as do Prince Philip, Prince Charles, Prince Andrew, and the lesser royals. The Deputy Administrator of the SBA had an assistant, a self-actualized twentysomething balancing a four-inch briefing binder on her lap—a binder in which the Deputy Administrator’s bathroom breaks were presumably, and precisely, scheduled. Also present, the Assistant Secretary of Commerce for Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, who had her own assistant. The State Department had people “from post” (the US Embassy in Accra) and people from Washington, DC. All senior people had an assistant. Acronyms flew: USAID, TDA, PEPFAR, MCC, AGOA.
The Deputy Assistant’s undersecretary (from Commerce, State, Treasury? I got confused) waved her hand in the direction of her assistant, like a choir director requesting pianissimo from the alto section. The assistant nodded knowingly but said nothing. The drama unfolded:
DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR OF THE SBA:
If I can have everyone’s attention for a moment. Thank you. I want to review logistics for tomorrow. I suggest that we take our places on stage as a group, and then I’ll introduce the first panel.
DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR OF THE SBA’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT:
[Forever tugging at her skirt to better cover her stockinged thighs]
Excuse me, ma’am. Will you be at the podium or speaking from the head table?
DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR OF THE SBA:
I suppose I’ll be sitting.
COMMISSAR FOR AFRICAN AID:
[A man sporting a tonsure and wearing a short-sleeve dress shirt]
So, we all sit until you call us up to speak, correct?
DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR OF THE SBA:
Yes, of course. By the way, how many panelists do we have?
ASSISTANT TO THE DEPUTY ADMINISTRATOR OF THE SBA’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT:
Obroni and the Chocolate Factory Page 18
