3
Life President Dr Josiah Nduka, Ngwazi Who Mounts All the Hens, graduate magna cum laude in econometrics, whose University of Edinburgh doctorate thesis, Money Supply in Authoritarian States, remained the definitive work on the subject, was in a reflective mood as he sat in his study at State House.
He watched the beams of sunlight move across the carpet as the morning advanced. This was his inner sanctum to which only his personal secretary and Bunty Benton, the chief housekeeper, enjoyed the privilege of regular entry, together with his head of security and the kitchen toto, whose presence was taken for granted.
The room was dominated by an old sofa and two armchairs, newly covered in a floral print, and an oak desk, its top bare except for the day’s newspapers, and with silver-framed signed photos of Queen Elizabeth, Prince Philip and Margaret Thatcher. On the side table by the desk stood a cut-glass vase holding a single fresh rose. A fireplace, the wood laid but unlit, gave out the fragrant scent of smoke.
Nduka looked with satisfaction at the pattern on the cloth of the sofa, just back from its bi-annual change of cover, carried out by a family firm in Godalming, Surrey. They had been doing it for years.
The firm was cheating, Nduka soon realised, when he studied the latest bill. They either thought he was a stupid native who could easily be duped, or regarded him as a lazy native, too lazy to check the bill. They did a good job on the sofa, though . . .
But I am not stupid, and I am not lazy, he thought to himself. He passed a few happy minutes devising a suitable punishment. Perhaps he would invite them to Kuwisha, as his guests, hinting that they would receive an honour for their services to the State; then confront them with evidence of over-invoicing and double invoicing.
“Oh yes, I know these tricks, all too very well,” he muttered.
Nduka summoned the toto with a ring of the service bell, set into the wall behind his desk.
“Where is my honey water?”
In his seventies, fast approaching eighty, Nduka was finding that his memory was letting him down. He could not remember if this was the first or the second time he had tried to order his honey water.
He called again: “Where is my honey water?”
This time a small boy, bare-footed, in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, appeared in the doorway, shaking slightly from nerves – or it could have been malaria.
“It is on your side table, suh.”
There it was, below the main flower arrangement by Mrs Benton. Every day except Sunday the housekeeper set out a mixture of carnations and freesias in a silver vase on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
The single rose, placed in exactly the same spot on the side table, at exactly the same time each day, displayed in a slim crystal glass, had been picked that morning from the State House rose garden, established by his old friend, adviser and jailer, the last governor of the former British colony.
The building had been neglected since independence, and had long been showing the strain. At first glance, and from afar, State House looked like wedding cake on a bed of green, sitting amidst daubs of red bougainvillaea and purple jacaranda blossom. The surrounding lawns, with a nine-hole golf course running through them, were watered and trimmed by a team of elderly gardeners.
On closer inspection, however, all was not as it should be. The greens – especially those on the 5th and 7th holes – needed professional attention, for termites had created several brown patches.
Within State House itself, the seat of government built in the 1920s, cracks could be seen below the white paint. The French doors that opened from the ballroom onto the rose garden, let in the rain. And the stuffed lion in the entrance hallway, shot by a previous governor less than 500 metres from where the beast now stood, was starting to moult, while its tail, tugged by generations of visitors, had been sewn back on by Mrs Benton several times.
The air conditioners creaked and groaned to little effect, and the ceiling fans spun sporadically and erratically, and did no more than move the heavy warm air around the poorly lit rooms.
It all would have been far worse were it not for the efforts of Mrs Benton, who had devoted her life to the service of the president. But as she approached forty years in the job, its constant demands were proving too much for her . . .
Nduka savoured the sweet scent of the rose, and then pondered the statement he had made at the press conference the day before.
Kireba to be reborn, declared the newspaper headlines.
Kuwisha teams up with donors.
The editorial in the Standard concluded with a question:
“Is this the long overdue end of an eyesore called Kireba?”
The president rose with the aid of an ebony walking stick, moved slowly round the desk and reached the mantelpiece, where he adjusted one of the freesias.
According to the papers, within hours of the announcement, cement prices had soared. His ministers had moved fast and cornered the market. Some had called their lawyers, instructing them to “discover” title deeds to plots in the slum, for which they could claim compensation when the state issued compulsory purchase orders.
Where was that toto?
“Boy! Bring me my honey water.”
Hardwicke Hardwicke looked out of the window in his office at the Washington headquarters of the World Bank and dug his heels in.
“Nduka made me look stupid and naïve on my first visit. I’ll never forget sitting in the State House waiting room drinking warm orangeade. Finally saw him after waiting an hour. Told myself: Never again. Meant it then, mean it now. I won’t set foot in Kuwisha as long as he is in charge.”
Jim “Fingers” Adams, the long-serving senior adviser on interaction with stakeholders, stopped chewing on a toothpick.
“But this is no ordinary crisis. As president of the World Bank you should really be there, if only to represent the international donor community.”
“It is precisely because I am the president of the World Bank that I will not be there,” fumed Hardwicke. “All it would do is add to the credibility of a nasty piece of work.”
Fingers flicked the toothpick in the direction of the wastepaper bin and thought hard. It was precisely this situation in which his skills were best employed.
He owed his nickname to the speed with which his stubby forefingers raced over the keyboard of his laptop, and the phrases that emerged invariably won him the respect of donors and debt-burdened delegations alike.
The unacceptable features of governments throughout Africa were described in language that was inoffensive yet accurate. Thus “pre-humanitarian assistance” had allowed international donors to turn a blind eye to the re-arming of half the continent’s armies, most of whom had experienced what he termed “dysfunctional military activity” – or coups, to use a term generally regarded as unhelpful. Government delegations that took offence at crude references to corruption, did not object to expressions of donors’ concerns about “budgetary anomalies”.
In short, Fingers had elevated the code-word vocabulary of conference communiqués to an art form.
“What about a message of support?” he asked Hardwicke. “I can knock something up for you in a jiffy.”
Fingers sucked his teeth while his fingers raced over the keypad.
“Got it! How about this: ‘Kuwisha, land of promise . . .’ That’s not a bad start.”
Hardwicke stuck his little finger in his ear, wriggled it vigorously, withdrew it with a squishing sound, and grunted his assent. “Go ahead.”
Thirty minutes later the statement was ready.
“Needs a bit of polishing,” said Fingers, “but you’ll get the drift. The reference to Tanzania may be a bit close to the bone . . .”
Hardwicke read the statement, rubbed his hands with enthusiasm.
“Don’t change a word. About time I had a go at Berksson . . .”
The election violence had left international aid donors in no doubt: only a coalition government could halt Kuwisha’s drift
toward anarchy, a prospect that threatened aid programmes across the country, and left at risk the donor targets for development spending.
“We politicians must put Kuwisha first,” Nduka had told the news conference that marked the end of a three-day exchange with aid partners, under the sponsorship of the World Bank.
He looked into the cameras, rheumy eyes narrowing, a canny tortoise with the bite of a snake.
“In creating this new alliance of political parties, we will give the highest priority to the welfare of the citizens of Kuwisha and to the consolidation of peace, progress and unity. A slum eradication programme”, he declared, “is an essential first step in the modernising of Kuwisha. It is evidence that the parties that make up the government I lead will overcome our differences and deliver to the people. It also marks the start of a new relationship with our friends from abroad . . . I appeal to the international community to be generous in their support for Kuwisha and to put their weight behind the new coalition. The long-suffering people of that slum they call Kireba deserve better – and this coalition will make its transformation our number one priority . . .”
The diplomatic corps, called to State House to attend the announcement, broadcast live, enthusiastically applauded.
“I wish to acknowledge the invaluable role of the United Nations Development Programme,” said Nduka, lingering over each syllable of the organisation, and pausing between letters as he pronounced the letters that made up its acronym – “the U – N – D – P has been a loyal and reliable ally of Kuwisha. Their work in the past has shown that their strategy of meeting together, and resolving our problems, is productive, highly productive. I now invite our development partner to say a few words about the history of our association, and how we can take it forward.”
As Anders Berksson, the long-serving UNDP resident representative, got to his feet, the British High Commissioner confided in his German colleague.
“Seems to me that the old man is looking to his legacy.”
“When you Brits call an African president ‘the old man’”, muttered the ambassador, “and talk about his ‘legacy’, there is usually a defence contract in the offing.”
The high commissioner’s reply was lost in the applause that greeted Berksson.
“Friends of Kuwisha,” he began, and Nduka knew this was the right man for the job. “One of Kuwisha’s oldest, most steadfast supporters is unable to be with us in person today, but he is here in spirit. And it is my pleasure to present a truly inspirational message from Mr Hardwicke Hardwicke, president of the World Bank . . .”
Berksson cleared his throat and began reading the statement prepared by Fingers on Hardwicke Hardwick’s behalf.
“I have fond memories of Kuwisha and its brave and resilient people, led with such distinction by President Nduka. Violence is no way to resolve differences. I urge cooperation with the international efforts to assist . . . The appointment of my old colleague Berksson, whose radical role in Tanzania transformed the economy, in particular the restructuring of the sisal sector, has made him uniquely well equipped to preside over constructive change in Kuwisha.”
4
Digby Adams looked around the arrivals hall at Kuwisha International Airport in case Cecil Pearson had yet to come through. True, the journalist was on holiday. His successor, however, was away in Angola, covering a UN conference on culture and development. It was just possible that Cecil might be persuaded to do Dolly’s story – particularly if it was offered as an exclusive. First Digby had to introduce him to Dolly. Clearly she was still shaking off the effects of the sedative, but he hoped that her charm would work its usual magic.
Then he remembered the journalist’s boast about travelling light, hand luggage only, and guessed Pearson would probably be half way into the city by now . . .
There was no shortage of taxi drivers at the airport, and in a sea of welcoming faces, Digby chose the driver with the biggest smile.
“Aloysius,” said Aloysius Hatende.
“Digby,” said Digby, and the two shook hands.
He negotiated a fare, which, although high, had to take into account an unfortunate fact, about which it was only fair to warn Aloysius. If the journey to Heathrow had been any indicator, Dolly had a tendency to get severely car sick.
Aloysius shrugged. Car sickness he could tolerate and even sympathise with. It was the violent vomiting of passengers who had over-indulged in Tuskers that he couldn’t understand. A waste of good beer!
He pocketed the extra 100 ngwee that Digby had offered.
Dolly safely ensconced, they set off for the office of WorldFeed.
If all went to plan, Digby and Dolly would meet David Podmore, the UKAid director in Kuwisha. A photo opportunity, followed by a briefing of the foreign press corps, would be chaired by Lucy Gomball, but with Digby answering the questions.
In one of his last acts before he left for Kuwisha, Digby had prepared the ground for the event, planting the story with the subtlety of his trade. He had phoned the foreign desks of several of the leading newspapers, urging them to ignore rumours that WorldFeed had appointed Mia Farrow as a “development ambassador” to Kuwisha.
“Absolutely not true,” he said.
When pressed, he acknowledged that WorldFeed had indeed appointed an ambassador, code-named Dolly, but sought their cooperation.
“Look chaps, you know me. I have never lied to you and I don’t intend to start now,” he had told the news desks before he set off for Kuwisha. “Let me categorically rule out one name that’s come up. Kate Moss is not, I repeat not, Dolly.”
Alerted by their London offices, the foreign press corps in Kuwisha concluded that there was a strong chance that Angelina Jolie was the mysterious “Dolly” – and the prospect of seeing this celeb in the flesh was enough to ensure interest in the promised photo opportunity.
The journey into the city had been slow and tedious. Pearson was right in his advice to take carry-on baggage only. The wait at the luggage carousel could take half an hour – and in that time, traffic conditions could change. Unlike Pearson, who had managed to miss the worst of the hold-up, they were caught in the morning rush.
Although the Chinese contractors had completed their road-widening project, the highway was nevertheless clogged. Huge lorries, belching fumes, matatus with horns blaring, four-wheel drive vehicles, taxis in various stages of decrepitude, buses and cars, all competed for space.
The traffic lights had been switched off, their function taken over by policemen who manned makeshift road blocks, and whose job appeared to be to slow the flow and allow colleagues time to impose fines for offences that were largely imagined.
“Police,” said Aloysius, shaking his head, “always eating.”
His hand carried invisible food to his mouth in the symbol of corruption.
Digby looked on as the vehicles, with a bewildering range of acronyms emblazoned on their frames, crawled along, hooting their frustration. Most of the names were familiar to him and he felt proud to be joining their cause, a dedicated infantryman in Africa’s battle against debt, disease and deprivation.
“Not a bad line,” he thought to himself and took out his notebook.
“Infantryman in the battle against disease and deprivation . . .” he jotted down, with his local paper in mind. “Our man in Africa experiences life on poverty’s front line . . . foot soldier in the struggle against deprivation . . .”
As he wrote, the four-wheel drives carrying the resident representatives of the high and the mighty of the aid industry rolled into the city, like a squadron of tanks: Danida and UNDP, Dfid and UKAid, UNDP and UNIDO, NorAid and Christian Aid, Oxfam and Save the Children, all part of a parade of international concern and compassion. The organisations they represented pursued every cause that involved or afflicted mankind in general and Kuwisha in particular.
Female genital mutilation, environmental degradation, child abuse, renewable energy, gender discrimination, intermediate technology, health ca
re for nomads, promotion of the informal sector, the welfare of pastoralists, teaching illiterates: it seemed that not a concern was neglected and not an interest group unrepresented. Even obesity had joined the ranks, and PAD (Promoting an African Diet) was in the vanguard of change to the continent’s eating habits.
Within the air-conditioned interior of their vehicles sat the men and women who did so much to help the frail economy of Kuwisha tick over. They were rich targets for the street vendors, who were making the most of this opportunity.
On a normal day the vendors would be sprinting alongside a customer’s car as it gathered speed, handing over the purchase, delving for change, and dodging oncoming traffic. Today they were moving at a leisurely pace, up and down the marooned vehicles, whose occupants had become a captive market. From car to car they went, adroitly sidestepping the potholes that had reappeared after the first rains, moving back and forth, to and fro, as alert to a flicker of curiosity or interest as an auctioneer on a slow day at market, as assiduous and as persuasive in their patter as life assurance salesmen, while they good-humouredly touted their wares.
Festooned with fake mobile phones and battery-driven fans from Taiwan, apples from South Africa, screwdrivers from China, clocks and DVDs, the variety seemed endless.
Dolly looked around benignly. The sedative that she had taken before her journey must have been wearing off, yet she seemed unfazed by the cacophony that surrounded them.
“Not long now,” said Digby and gave her a pat. It was overfamiliar, and Dolly moved away. He regretted his gesture, for it was presumptuous. Worse than that, it may have had a bearing on what happened a few minutes later.
With their progress reduced to a walking pace, Aloysius pressed the door locks on his side of the car, and motioned to Digby to do the same.
“Thieves,” he said, clearing his throat with a long rasping cough. “Bang-bang boys. Pretend that a car has hit them. When it stops, they steal. Very bad.”
Dizzy Worms Page 3
