18
It was soon after the announcement that Kireba was to be redeveloped that Philimon Ogata, looking as happy as a butcher’s dog, turned up at the bar and made an expansive gesture.
“Tuskers on me,” he announced. “One each,” he added, looking round. “Dough balls for the boys.”
Charity, who was tending the bar, looked sceptical. While Ogata was not a mean man, he was not a well-off man either. He made good money out of the funeral business, but three of his sons were still at high school, and his parents, blessed with a long life, relied on him.
Ogata slapped 100 ngwee on the counter.
“Deposit! And more where that came from,” he said, tapping a brown envelope that Charity could see bulged with cash.
It did not take her long to work out the source of Ogata’s wealth.
“So, Mr Ogata, you have been sleeping with lawyers. Be careful! Lawyers are very cunning. You may think you can beat them, and then, poof, you have no money. Indeed, you will have to repay money that you think is yours. Tell me what happened.”
Ogata’s tale was a familiar one.
It began, he said, with the visit of a well-known lawyer, Dr Strong Kapundu. After an exchange of pleasantries, they got down to business.
“How long have you lived at number 79 Uhuru Lane?” asked Kapundu.
It was not an easy question to answer. If the truth were made known to the City Council, it could prove an expensive business. He had not paid local taxes for many years. Ogata, who had in fact been living in Kireba for nigh on 30 years, decided to take a gamble.
“I’ve lived here for 15 years,” he said.
“Very good,” said Kapundu and went on to ask a series of other questions.
Had the terms of the lease changed? Had the owner changed?
Ogata thought carefully once again. The owner was a Luya company, whose main objectives were to buy land for its members and extract as much money as possible in as short a time as possible from its non-Luya tenants. The last thing Ogata wanted was trouble with landlords.
He decided to stick to his relatively honest approach. He named the company but his concern was apparent to the lawyer.
“Don’t worry,” said Kapundu. “Don’t worry.”
He produced a calculator, pressed several buttons, and showed the result to Ogata.
“This,” he said, “is how much you will get if you sign these papers.”
It was a small fortune but Ogata remained wary.
“And if I do not sign?”
Kapundu shrugged.
“Do you need the money?”
“Of course,” said Ogata.
Kapundu shrugged again: “Why should one beat a horse to make it drink if it is already thirsty?”
“So I signed,” said Ogata. “And here is the money.”
Who could blame him?
As word spread about Nduka’s project, residents of Kireba took advantage of the situation. You did not need to own the hovel in which you lived, or the land on which it was built, to benefit from a compensation scheme – at least, that was the claim of lawyers who, in the words of Charity, were “cleverer than lawyers from London, even”.
All that was necessary was to make a plausible claim that you had lived on the land for five years – or three years, or ten years, depending on the lawyer. This gave you the right, according to the law of the land, to compensation from the property developer.
“But remember,” she said to Ogata or anyone else who asked her advice: “The judge has sold himself to the man who offers the most money.”
Just then her mobile went off.
Pearson and Lucy were on their way and Digby would follow.
Anders Berksson looked out at the audience of a specially convened meeting. It was time to rally the troops. Morale in the development agencies was suffering. Cement delays and land compensation claims, not to mention the fact that the road lobby and the rail lobby were in a state of open war, had combined to make the timetable of the Kireba project look like wishful thinking. Indeed, the assessment of the operating environment had changed from “challenging” to “demanding”. Any more setbacks and it would be termed “hostile”.
The audience was packed with front-line fighters in the battle for change, veterans of the struggle for the soul of Kuwisha. In an inspiring display of unity and common purpose, UNICEF and UNHCR, WFP, HABITAT, UNESCO and UNEP sat shoulder to shoulder with representatives from WorldFeed, DanAid, ScanHelp, GOAT and HARE. Between them they accounted for a substantial chunk of Kuwisha’s foreign exchange earnings, not far behind tea, coffee and tourism.
“Time is running out,” Berksson told his anxious assembly.
“Unless we put our weight behind the president’s proposal for Kireba, we face the real prospect of a cut in our spending allocations next year. We all know what this means . . .”
As long as he headed UNDP, he told the gathering, the battle against poverty would be ceaselessly and untiringly waged.
“So let us reject the isolated piecemeal planning of the past. Let us make a clear shift away from the over-preoccupation with foreign exchange problems external to the region. Let us make a decisive move towards the integrated development of the urban resources, institutional mechanisms and technological capacities required to assess and utilise the natural resources and raw material endowments of the region. Let us expand local markets, enlarge the range of complementarities and strengthen the links between industry and other sectors of the economy. Time is running out,” Berksson repeated, “but help is at hand, from friends in high places.”
He paused for effect.
“I am sure you will join me in sending a warm Kuwisha welcome to one of our distinguished goodwill ambassadors for NoseAid, who has promised to support us . . . let me be first to bring wonderful news . . . the famous columnist for the Clarion, the fearless campaigner for rhinos and true friend of the people . . . Mr Jasper Japer!”
For some in the audience, the name rang no bells. But the spontaneous gasp of appreciation and round of applause that came from the rest of the gathering warmed Berksson’s heart.