“Yes, it takes imagination but also hard work and courage. Our people can do more than just dream of a better future. They can learn and work and walk together to make it happen. It is Africa’s time.
“I share the same dreams that our speakers have presented to you during the workshops. We all know that achieving the UN Millennium Development Goals by 2015 is now impossibility but we can make it happen for our own nations by 2020. Let us do it together.
“I am truly inspired and excited to be living in an era when we will become the masters of our own fate. I lay the challenge before you. In the words by Martin Luther King Jr, which Wesley quoted earlier, and which I have taken the liberty of changing slightly, ‘This will be the day when we bring into full realization the African dream -- a dream yet unfulfilled. A dream of equality of opportunity, of privilege and property widely distributed; a dream of lands where men will not take necessities from the many to give luxuries to the few; a dream of lands where men will not argue that the colour of a man's skin or his tribal origins determines the content of his character; a dream of nations where all our gifts and resources are held not for ourselves alone, but as instruments of service for all of our citizens; the dream of an African Continent, where every man will respect the dignity and worth of the human personality. ’ Will you take these words and make them yours?
“Please stand and commit your country to this dream. Men and women of Africa let us roar and our people will eat!”
A ripple of laughter was drowned as the delegates rose together. Chairs scrapped against the wooden floor then they clapped and stamped to show their support. Wesley felt the floor shake under his feet. Everything depended on his pledge. In the euphoria of that moment, Akili and the cheering delegates felt as if they could not fail. Her eyes sought him out. He raised his clapping hands in approval. Her determination pierced through him and as she smiled down at him, Wesley knew that she’d thrown him a challenge. Would he, could he deliver? He took a sharp breath. Her eyes suddenly shot him a look of ... of what? Of warning? Of ultimatum? He wiped his forehead.
CHAPTER 23
Pania hummed a carol as she tidied up her desk. It was Christmas Eve and she was feeling in the mood. At midday the office would close for two weeks.
In the staff lunch room, the PA’s had arranged the tables in the centre of the room, covered them with festive red and white plastic and were setting out the food for a shared lunch. The faint scent of pine was fading as they opened the doors and windows to cool the room. Streamers hung from the ceiling and in one corner the branches of the overdressed Christmas tree sagged in the summer heat, carelessly dropping needles in unseasonal drifts. With the holidays looming, work was taking a back seat.
As she checked her emails one last time a new one dropped into her inbox. The subject line read ‘George Ritmeyer’. The sender was unknown. She clicked it open and gasped.
‘Don’t trust George, he’s got blood on his hands. He’s not what he seems. Ask him about his last girl friend. She came to a sorry end. You’d better watch your back.’
She’d never received hate mail or threats before. Instinctively she pressed the delete key and the message vanished yet the words remained etched in her memory. She took some deep breaths and told herself to forget it. She told herself that she had the measure of George and he wasn’t a killer! She turned off her machine, grabbed her handbag and headed for the lunch room glad it was the Christmas break and she could forget work for a while.
The days before Christmas were always hectic with the heat and the crowds and all the parties but as an actual social event it was quiet. New Year’s Eve on the other hand was not. It had become a regular event amongst the staff of the DPS in Wellington. The evening was a boozy hotchpotch, a mongrel cobbling of traditions resulting in a jovial noisy celebration. Out with the old, in with the new. It was the best excuse for a party.
The tradition had started in 2000 when the new millennium was welcomed so enthusiastically and had been repeated every year since. The party went all night, well after the haggis had been piped in. It didn’t end till they all gathered on the beach and heard above the sound of the waves the lonely cry of a conch shell calling the sun out of darkness to start a new year.
Pania had fallen into bed just as the chooks started laying. She was woken some few hours later by the Sargeson’s kids shouting and splashing in their pool. She dragged herself up and made a strong coffee and relaxed on the deck in the sun. The day stretched pleasantly before her. It was a good start to the New Year. Time to make some resolutions.
Pania had always loved summer and especially the holidays. For two weeks the politicians disappeared from public view and no events of national significance were ever planned. Many of her workmates exchanged the hot city streets for water cooled campsites next to a beach, river or lake. This year she stayed put, determined to chill out and turned a blind eye to her normal routines. Each new day invited her to bounce out of bed and get going before the temperatures soared. Housework ignored, she spent afternoons cooling in the Sargeson’s pool or in a deckchair under a large shady tree soaking up the lazy heat and reading magazines. As the sun crept round, their edges started to curl, the moisture sucked from the paper. The Woman’s Weekly was full of predictions for the year ahead. Half interested Pania read about 2014, the year of the horse. ‘This will be a year when the fight against injustice will succeed, when humanitarian causes will flourish.’ That sounds promising she thought drowsily. She read on. ‘With the wooden horse in ascendancy, decision making will be uncomplicated. There will be times of difficulty which must be endured and the horse may stumble but it will not fall. Expect upheavals in spring when the horse will become frisky ....’
Pania shook her head. Horoscopes were all so obvious. She could write them herself without all that psychic mumbo jumbo. Winter was cold and dark and spring was warm and hopeful. It was an easy step from there to frisky horses. She shut the magazine and lay back with closed eyes hardly aware of the somnolent air gently caressing her skin.
All too soon the holidays came to an end and the rhythms of industry and commerce restarted. Just before George was due to visit Pania received a second email. It was equally malicious. This time she did not delete it but forwarded it to IT asking for information on the sender and for all further mail from that address to be treated as spam and diverted. A few hours later she learned that the email had originated in South America, probably Colombia and that they would need several emails from the same source to make it worthwhile pursuing the culprit. All further mail from that address would be intercepted.
She tried to put the poisonous words out of her mind. All around her an overriding atmosphere of optimism reigned. Business confidence was up, unemployment down and the weather continued warm. The fortune teller’s predictions flashed into her mind and she crossed her fingers. She reminded herself that the future was unknowable, hidden always around a blind corner.
CHAPTER 24
George felt the mood of optimism which coloured the forum preparations. Its subtle pressure was relentless, fuelled by his sense that he was missing something. Those responsible for security continued to confidently reassure him that they could keep terror out and manage any internal protests on their own. After all they repeated with pride, they had protected Bill Clinton and the Queen, not to mention all those dignitaries who’d attended the Rugby World Cup. George was sick of hearing about rugby, Clinton and the Queen, tired of reminding them that the Forum was in a different league altogether. No-one except Pania really believed him. He was grateful for her loyalty but he could see that it annoyed Parsons and this added to his worries.
He hid his concerns in constant activity. He used every free minute to double-check security at the proposed Forum venues. He walked around them all, studied their entrances and exits and wandered around the surrounding streets. He inspected the hotels and officially approved accommodations. He studied the reports prepared for him and evaluated for the umpt
eenth time the various security measures being implemented. He looked for gaps but to no avail; everything, he had to agree, was satisfactory. His global security network remained ominously silent and the usual markers of impending crises were absent. Locals seemed to be slumbering under political apathy. No-one was greatly concerned about anything it seemed. The NAB (National Assessments Bureau) detected no new threats and no rumours of terrorism disturbed the Forum plans. Everyone, except for a sceptical George, was reassured.
The organisers continued their planning. George had no jurisdiction or input into domestic matters. This was all under Parsons direct control. He had delegated authority to a number of sub-committees and restricted his involvement to what was little more than a rubber stamp. Their budgets were tightly controlled. They called for tenders to manage the venues, serve morning, afternoon teas and lunches and clear up. Additional duties included the preparation and cleaning of meeting rooms and reception areas.
Under Brady’s direction Ms Baildon prepared the tender document and using company letterhead, she supported it with her personal recommendation. If successful, Change Makers pledged that all profits would be invested into their youth development program. After much deliberation the successful tender was announced and Ms Baildon had the pleasant task of informing Brady. It was the only possible decision, she told him. There were rumours that their tender was the lowest. Their guarantee that all youth leaders would attend the appropriate training courses at no cost to the organisers had swung it in their favour.
Parsons approved. He immediately saw the advantages of their decision. It would be good publicity. He authorised the release of a series of media articles to be published while the forum was sitting. No-one informed him that his budget was too tight or that a decision was made to sidestep security regulations. Instead of obtaining police checks they elected to rely on the charity organisation’s internal vetting. Ms Baildon’s support as guarantor gave them confidence in this decision.
George continued to worry; convinced that something was happening right under their noses. He felt as if he was chained to a sleeping volcano and no-one could tell him when it would explode. His UN colleagues ribbed him relentlessly. They thought it was obvious. Terrorist activity had not lessened, they assured him, but was focussed on a more convenient and media-centric event; the Sochi Winter Olympics. That was the most newsworthy and vulnerable event on the calendar, an event easily subverted. Situated on the Black Sea, Sochi was accessible, close to the terrorist bases in Russia, the Middle East and Asia, with the additional smoke and mirrors complication of dealing with the Russians.
Maybe, George tried to tell himself, his instincts were wrong. Perhaps New Zealand’s isolation was sufficient protection; even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unseen, undetected lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back or explode in his face. He read and reread the reports coming from the stakeholders, searching for the breakthrough he knew was there just beyond his reach.
The shenanigans in London during the Olympics had been a sobering experience for them all and yet in Wellington and Auckland they found it almost impossible to believe that anything major could disrupt their Forum. At least London had had some warning but there was nothing to raise alarms in New Zealand. Secretly they were beginning to think that George was just crying wolf and he sensed their growing scepticism.
Pania overheard Parsons saying that in his opinion, George was scared of his own shadow. This type of threat had no relevance in the Pacific, he’d said in knowing tones, and a different approach was required. That fool Ritmeyer hadn’t realised that Wellington was neither Brussels nor London; that New Zealand was not in Europe and not in any risk. He was considering mentioning this in his post Forum report. In fact, he opined, Kiwis were paying the UN too much for an unwanted and unnecessary service. Ritmeyer was not adding value. He was merely a drain on budget. Pania listened and kept quiet.
All through his visit she observed George closely and he sensed her tension. As they sat in the airport departure lounge drinking coffee he finally asked “What’s been troubling you Pania? I’ve noticed you’re not your usual self.”
“Nothing important. I’m a bit distracted. Sorry. I had a couple of nasty emails but it’s all under control.”
“Related to the Forum?” George was suddenly alert.
“Um sort of. Don’t worry I contacted the IT department and they’re blocking further emails from my inbox. Some lunatic who wants to make trouble, I won’t let it bother me.”
“Have they been able to trace the sender?”
“The email came from Colombia so unless I get more they won’t do anything further for now.”
“Colombia! Who could you possibly know in Colombia?” His surprise was unmistakable.
“No-one, I hardly know where it is.”
“So it can’t be personal. Do you think it’s related to the Forum?”
Pania shook her head. George held her gaze for a long moment as if to see if she really meant it. Reassured, he smiled warmly.
“I’ll quiz my UN colleagues who specialise in South America and see if there’s anything happening there which might affect us. You’ll let me know if you get anymore won’t you?”
“It’s unlikely, given that IT has added that address to their screening process. Do you know anyone in Colombia who could be behind this?”
“No. There are unsavoury organisations; drug cartels and warlords, and suchlike but I’ve never been to Colombia or had any dealings with officials. I can’t see any obvious links to you. Try to forget it.”
Pania nodded her expression serious. George was telling the truth, of that she was sure. Neither of them had any links with Colombia; at least not that they were aware.
CHAPTER 25
Pania couldn’t help grinning as she looked at the photo Mira had sent. There was something extremely endearing about the chubby infant with dark eyes and a gummy smile. How time was flying. It was already autumn. Mira had never been a regular correspondent yet here was the third email since Christmas. Perhaps, Pania mused, Mira felt isolated by motherhood and the backblocks. She could hear her cousin’s voice as she read. She examined the photo for family likenesses. Although she hadn’t yet met Mira’s husband or the baby, Mira had filled her in, told her all about Rawiri’s Ngati Whare and Nga Potiki whakapapa and his job as Director for three Ngati Whare Schools. The wedding had clashed with a state visit and then immediately after they’d moved to Minginui. Rawiri, Mira’s child of the mists, sounded like an interesting man, she thought.
The email stirred up an urgent desire to take a trip north. It was high time she made an effort to visit and besides, Pania told herself, the car needed a good run and she needed a holiday. With the Forum date coming closer, she reasoned, now was the best time. 2014 had brought an Indian summer; hot, dry days with hardly a breeze to cool temperatures, without air-conditioning the office would have been unbearable. Still, it wouldn’t last forever besides babies grew quickly and she’d miss this cute phase if she didn’t make up her mind. The more she thought about it the more reasons she found to justify a visit.
Yes, she thought decisively, now’s the best time to take a break. She submitted a request for two weeks leave and was pleasantly surprised when she received approval the same day. That night she emailed Mira and started planning her trip.
Mostly Pania’s car sat in the carport. Everyday she took the train into Wellington and used one of the departmental cars whenever she needed to travel for her work. She’d bought the bright blue VW Beetle secondhand and she loved its iconic shape. Its compact size and manoeuvrability suited her perfectly. Every time she used it, the flower in the vase made her smile. In the summer when the garden was in full bloom she kept the silk daisy in the glove box, filled the little vase with water and placed a fresh rose stem into it. Its fragrance would fill the car as she drove and lighten her mood.
It was a long drive from Wellington t
o Mira’s place so Pania stopped in Taupo and spent an hour relaxing in the hot pools. She still had a couple of hours driving before reaching her destination so she ordered a double shot long black before getting back behind the wheel for the final leg. She took the road to Rotorua and then turned off towards Murupara. The landscape was becoming rugged and wild, the road narrowed. She reduced her speed as she navigated potholes and flattened road kill. This was a forgotten, isolated corner of New Zealand and Pania felt its brooding presence follow her.
As she reached the scattering of dwellings she slowed, looking for the right house. Minginui was a small settlement almost at the end of the sealed road. It was a long way from the city but Pania sensed that this was a community with hope. Almost every house was neat and surrounded by tidy gardens. It was greener and brighter than the country she’d driven through. Everywhere she saw large gardens with the last of the summer harvest or newly growing winter crops. The community board outside the hall was bristling with posters and notices and there were kids playing in the street.
She found the number on the letterbox, drew to a stop outside, and turned the engine off. For a moment she sat in the sudden silence and felt the relief of a safe arrival then the stillness was broken by Mira’s excited voice.
“Pania you’ve arrived, haere mai.”
Pania jumped out of the car into Mira’s warm hug.
“Hey cuz it’s great to be here. Let me look at you. Ah-ha I can see motherhood suits you. Where's bubs? Wait” she dived into the boot and brought out a parcel, carefully wrapped.
2014 Year of the Horse Page 10
