Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies

by Michael Holman

  “And I urge you to make a mark at this conference and find an alternative word or phrase to replace that ugly word ‘aid’.

  “So, friends and colleagues, let me set the linguistic ball rolling. How about this? Instead of using the word ‘aid’ let us vow to find a new value free word like ‘instep’ – ‘international support to encourage potential’.

  “ ‘International’ represents the world community; ‘support’ is a word that is constructive, without any patronising associations; ‘encourage’ does not imply any agenda which has been foisted on the recipient; and ‘potential’ is a word which indicates that there are no limitations as to what can be achieved.”

  Hardwicke was on a roll.

  “Momentum,” he said, “must be sustained; poverty must be reduced; the region moved forward; the path must be one of sustainable development; argument must be persuasive; more must be done.”

  His peroration this time brought the whole audience to its feet.

  “Additional resources . . .” said Hardwicke.

  “Must be freed up,” came the response, uncertain at first, then gathering in intensity.

  “Challenges . . .”

  “. . . must be overcome,” his audience replied.

  “Developments . . .”

  “. . . are highly encouraging.”

  Louder and louder came the exchange, and Hardwicke fell into a liturgical cadence.

  “Strong economic performance . . .”

  “. . . must be sustained,” the audience roared back.

  “Regional policy makers’ resolve . . .”

  “. . . must be strong.”

  “And the tough challenges of development . . .”

  “. . . must be tackled.”

  “And so, my friends, let us apply ourselves afresh, ‘instep’ with each other and above all, ‘instep’ with Africa.”

  During the debate that followed, the Germans tried to change “international support” to “interest free”, backed by Japan, on the grounds that it left open the possibility of interest rates; the Scandinavians were uneasy about “encourage potential”, which was prescriptive, they argued, while “enable potential” allowed for choice, so important if the concept of policy ownership was to have any meaning.

  Such was the enthusiastic response, and so intense was the discussion that delegates overran the scheduled time for the coffee break by a good fifteen minutes.

  One intervention, however, threatened to turn this excellent start into disaster. A nattily dressed delegate, a member of the Kuwisha official delegation, stood up.

  “I object,” said Newman Kibwana. “The word ‘encourage’ smacks of the worst of colonial rule. It is the language of the sjambok!”

  And he reminded delegates of a notorious case from Kuwisha’s colonial past, when a white settler accused of flogging his “house boy” behind the kia, or servants’ quarters, had been acquitted.

  “He said the sjambok was only there to ‘encourage’ his boy to talk.”

  When the murmur of shock had died down, Kibwana continued in much the same vein, condemning corruption, but at the same time making a vigorous attack on the IMF and the World Bank – “our economic masters whom we cannot vote out of office; whose own development failures are buried in an elephants’ graveyard; and who send us their child-graduates to become men at Africa’s expense.”

  Thanks to the intervention of the World Bank resident representative, Kibwana withdrew his objection. But he had made his point.

  “Damned impressive,” said Norway’s aid minister.

  It was the turn of his counterpart at UKAID to speak. He did not pull any punches in a speech which Mullivant had helped draft.

  “Britain leads the way in support of ‘instep’. We have a long-term commitment to Kuwisha and its people. And the support we provide has only one condition – it must be used effectively and efficiently.

  “We will not abandon the poorest in your community. Together, Kuwisha and Britain will stay ‘instep’ as we pledge international support to encourage potential.”

  Seldom had there been a clearer example of Britain’s long-term commitment to Kuwisha and the applause he received could not have been warmer.

  The conference press statement summed up the outcome: “ ‘Change the language of support: ownership by stakeholders vital,’ says bank chief.”

  30

  It was only fitting that, immediately after the coffee break, Newman Kibwana would have the honour of introducing Geoffrey to the conference.

  Newman was at his best on occasions like this.

  In the opinion of many of those present, including Western diplomats, he personified the future of Kuwisha. Plucked from the private sector, along with seven more of the country’s brightest and best, he was part of the “dream team” of technocrats appointed by President Nduka to steer the country through the minefield of economic reform urged on Kuwisha by the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank.

  Articulate, well-educated, the 30-something lawyer turned senior civil servant was one of the leading members of the post-independence “born free” generation.

  The parents of Kibwana and his contemporaries had first ensured their own material welfare through an economic system that functioned in the interests of the Kibwana family, their sons and daughters, and their peers.

  If you failed, or fell out of favour, whether in business or as a top party official or civil servant, there was always a place for you as the chief executive officer of the government steel plant that was fundamental to genuine economic independence, or one of the other state-owned outfits, with company car, and company house, and a non-contributory pension scheme, and medical insurance for you and your family – not to mention unlimited travel to international conferences that discussed the future of whatever it was your company was involved in, with generous per diems.

  Forty years after independence, this safety net for the elite of Kuwisha still worked, and when the cabinet was reshuffled, or top military brass were purged, there would be a job or – to be exact – a title to be found that would cushion bruised egos and sustain lifestyles, whether as chairman or board member of a state-owned company.

  Those who suggested that Kuwisha did not have the iron ore to sustain a steel plant, or the supply of electrical power needed to run it, were no better than defeatists, who lacked vision and ambition.

  Who better to overhaul this system and to bring Kuwisha into the modern age than the iconoclastic figure of Newman Kapwepwe Kibwana?

  And none better to set out the details of the debt-for-rhino proposal, whose approval seemed all but certain. All the delegates had received a summary of the plan, initially derided when raised in a World Bank study, but now gaining credibility after a favourable appraisal by Martin Fox, leading columnist in the Financial News.

  “Before I introduce our distinguished guest,” said Newman, I want to draw your attention to a document that was distributed earlier. You will see that it is marked Strictly Confidential, Limited Circulation . . .”

  He paused, and added with great timing and a straight face, “. . . in the hope that this might encourage the press to take an interest in the subject it covers.”

  He winked at Pearson, who had looked up from his notebook.

  After the laughter had died down, Kibwana went on to explain how the scheme would work: “The country’s total external debt will be divided by the total number of rhinos still existing in our game reserves – say 100 rhinos. If, as in the case of Kuwisha, the country’s total debt was $6bn, each rhino is worth $60,000,000.

  Should the stock of rhinos fall below 100, the government pays what would be called a ‘rhino’ – i.e. $60,000,000 – into an escrow account. But if the stock rises above 100, the donors contribute a ‘rhino’ by reducing the external debt by $120,000,000. Payment by the government would be guaranteed, for it would have to put 10 per cent of tourism earnings into the same escrow account. The government can draw on the money –
provided the rhino stock has been maintained at the agreed level, and provided that any money drawn will be spent subject to the donors’ agreement about the specific use to which it will be put, although it would be spent in the interest of conservation.

  “In short,” concluded Kibwana, “the more rhinos, the better off is Kuwisha, and of course the more rhinos, the more tourists; and the more tourists, the more foreign exchange is earned.

  “And the more forex, the better off Kuwisha’s economy, which in turn would improve the country’s capacity to deal with street children, by providing jobs.”

  “Very impressive,” said Noraid. “Very impressive indeed.”

  Led by Kibwana, all Japer had to do was to raise his hands aloft, one grasping the document, one grasping Newman’s hand: “Please welcome one of NoseAid’s most passionate international ambassadors, friend of our children, defender of our rhinos . . . the well-known British newsreader, Mr Geoffrey Jaaaaper!”

  Newman led the applause that followed.

  “Save the fooking rhino,” cried Japer, imitating an Irish accent, “wipe out the fooking debt! Just be sure we get it the right way round!”

  “Very impressive,” said Mullivant as he joined fellow delegates in a queue for Japer’s autograph. “Very impressive indeed.”

  31

  It had taken Podmore several attempts and the best part of a long day, by the time he got through to Lazarus Mpofu who had not returned the High Commission calls.

  “Impossible. Not enough time, and there is a backlog of special cases,” said Mpofu.

  Podmore was in no mood to be told that he would have to be patient.

  “Come on, Lazarus. We will choose a 14-year-old street boy, offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I will accompany whoever is chosen to London. This is an exceptional case – as deserving of help as the father who wants to attend his son’s degree ceremony.”

  Since the dad in question happened to be Lazarus’s local MP, it was a telling point.

  “As I was saying,” Mpofu continued after a pause, “a passport is not possible. But we can issue a travel document to minors – 15 years and younger. It needs the same information, and the usual passport photos of course, valid only for a specified journey, must be surrendered on return, is valid for four weeks, and the bearer must be accompanied by a responsible adult.”

  So far so good, thought Podmore, and waited for the catch.

  “Who must be approved by the minister, or a designated official.”

  Mpofu had indicated that he would be the designated official, and would repay the favour that Podmore would do in dealing promptly with the MP’s application.

  “Done,” said Podmore. “I’m sure the visa will come through tomorrow; end of the week at the latest.”

  Lazarus chuckled.

  “The forms are on their way to you. Return them, and the travel document will be with you twenty-four hours later.”

  A more sensitive man would have realised that his welcome at Harrods was less than wholehearted even under the best of circumstances. On this occasion he interrupted what, over the past couple of years, had become something of a ritual: the gathering of a group of regulars at the bar, over coffee or tea or, on an especially hot day, one of the fruit drinks.

  Charity would preside, and Mildred would be there to lend a helping hand; Philimon Ogata had started to attend regularly as had Clarence Mudenge; Furniver, of course, turned out, and so did Lucy and Pearson; while Ntoto and Rutere would make themselves useful, and listen to the exchanges across the table, in slack-jawed concentration as they battled the impact of changa or glue. And there would often be various other aid workers, the odd diplomat and the usual run of disaster tourists and celebrities.

  This time they had been joined by a middle-aged Brit, a shock of thick fair hair flopping to one side, with a bottom that said more about his mood than his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy for that matter. When he was depressed, the bottom seemed to all but disappear; when he was in a good mood, it was like a dog’s tail, wagging from side to side.

  “Hiya,” said Podmore.

  “Hiya,” replied Lucy, while the others mumbled their greetings with mixed degrees of enthusiasm.

  “Hello, Podsman,” offered Furniver.

  “Podmore,” said Podmore.

  He outlined the Clarion’s fund-raising plans, and the paper’s intention to fly a street child from Kireba to London, for an appearance on the NoseAid evening.

  “Wondered if one of your lot would be interested?” he asked. “I’ll sort out the visa, and the lucky chap will have me as an escort. I’m going back for a spot of home leave anyway.”

  Charity shrugged.

  “Ask the boys.”

  Podmore could not remember the names of the two street children who hung around Harrods.

  “Do you want to visit Lon-don?” he asked, enunciating the words slowly and loudly. “Chance to visit Buck-ing-ham Palace for the lucky boy . . .”

  Rutere, who had been running his finger around his left nostril, stopped in mid-circuit, and Ntoto, who until then had been examining his feet for jiggers, looked up.

  “We are not boys,” said Rutere.

  “If you are not boys, then what are you?” said Podmore, speaking normally now.

  “We are youths,” said Rutere. “We are not your servants.”

  Podmore gave an exasperated sigh.

  The cheeky little bugger deserved a clip over the ear-hole.

  He looked in vain to Charity for assistance but she was preoccupied in the kitchen.

  “How much money?” asked Rutere.

  “It will be free,” said Podmore.

  Ntoto intervened.

  “He is asking how much the man who goes to London will be paid.”

  “How much what? Money?”

  Rutere exchanged glances with Ntoto.

  What else did Podmore think they were referring to?

  “How does money come into it?” said the diplomat, clearly shocked.

  He turned to Charity, back from the kitchen with corn-bread. As he had expected, she disapproved of the Clarion’s plan.

  “Foolish,” she sniffed.

  “But if one wants to go, he can go.”

  She went to attend to a customer, and Podmore turned to Furniver.

  “Why on earth should the boy be paid? The lucky blighter is getting the trip of a lifetime, and you ask what he will be paid,” he said, now looking at Rutere. “Don’t know what things are coming to when street boys expect to be paid for going to Rondon.”

  It was said in a jocular tone, but the underlying irritation was clear.

  “London,” said Rutere. “It is London.”

  Nose-picking little creep, Podmore thought. He said to Furniver:

  “The Clarion will cover a return ticket, meals and bed for five days. My problem is that we need to move pretty sharpish, Eddie. We need to apply for a travel document for the boy. Whoever is sent over, I will travel with them,” promised Podmore, “as long as I don’t have to sit next to them.” He laughed.

  The duo looked at Podmore through glazed eyes, their pupils dilated, and Rutere deliberately and slowly thrust his forefinger into his right nostril.

  “Want pay,” said Ntoto.

  “Give me present,” Rutere demanded. “Where is my present?”

  “Bugger off, you two,” said Furniver.

  He apologised to Podmore. “Blighters act up, seem worse than they are. Go on, bugger off you two, haven’t you got work to do?”

  The boys reluctantly went into the kitchen, and climbed onto the container roof, where they usually prepared the vegetables.

  From that secure vantage point they looked down at Podmore.

  “Give us presents,” said Rutere, finger again buried in his left nostril.

  Charity emerged from the kitchen with a plate of dough balls, which she plonked down on the table, and looked up.

  “Rutere . . .”

  “I washed my han
ds, before touching the vegetables,” he protested, holding them out as if for inspection.

  “Don’t be rude to visitor . . .”

  It was time to intervene, thought Furniver. He shrugged and looked apologetic. “Boy has a point,” he began, but this comment simply poured fuel on Podmore’s fury.

  “Greedy sods. Bloody typical.”

  Furniver let Podmore’s wrath run its course.

  “If you get the application form, Charity and I will pick one of the boys. Let me have it, asap.”

  Why did he bother, Podmore asked himself. One tries to help, and is it appreciated? Is it hell.

  “Have a dough ball, Mr Podman,” said Charity.

  “Podmore,” said Podmore. “Thanks, but must dash.”

  As he made his way back to his car, stepping carefully as he navigated piles of refuse, he was surrounded by a group of Mboya Boys who had appeared from nowhere.

  “Give me ngwee.”

  “Boss, give me ngwee.”

  “Fuck off!” he hissed, trying to ensure that his voice did not carry back to Harrods.

  “You are shit,” said a child, who could not have been more than 10 years old.

  Podmore brushed away their entreaties.

  Safe in the sanctuary of his Range Rover, he turned the ignition key and was about to drive off when he noticed the brown streaks that had appeared on the windscreen.

  “Little bastards!”

  The awful pong outlasted a cigarette, and Podmore lit a second and sat back in his seat.

  “You do so much for these people, and how do they repay you? By shitting on your car!”

  Conversation at Harrods resumed. When Mildred returned from her nap, there would be more discussion of the tokolosh. In the meantime, Lucy was on her mobile, negotiating the release of a consignment of cooking oil for delivery to the drought-stricken north-east.

  “Our food aid reaches parts of Kuwisha where no-one used to live before independence,” she boasted to whoever it was at the other end. Whatever she had been saying had achieved its purpose, and Lucy finished the call.

  “Couldn’t help hearing what you were saying,” said Furniver diffidently. “Perhaps that is why . . .”