One year ago
Jean Michel Mbozi thumped the mahogany table with such force that the empty glasses jumped and those with water wobbled, prompting the owners to reach out and steady them. The soldier at the panelled wood door shuffled his feet, and then relaxed as he removed his hand from his side arm, resuming his At Attention posture.
‘I will not be spoken to in this way!’
‘Mr. Mbozi …’
‘You promised me a fair, negotiated settlement if I brought my people to the table …’
‘Mr. Mbozi …’
‘… and this is how you treat me?’
‘Mr. Mbozi …’
‘We are a sovereign country. We are not cow dung under your shoes that you simply scrape off and dispose of like …’
‘Will you shut up! God damn it, man.’
There was stunned silence in the room. Mr. Mbozi looked across the table with his mouth open, stalled in mid-sentence, his eyes wide open. The only audible sound was the hum of the fan, labouring in its task of futility.
Mr. Johnson mopped his brow, took a deep breath, and scratched behind his ear with his little finger. He did not like losing his temper, or for that matter showing any sign of loss of control. ‘This is as good as it will get,’ he said slowly.
‘But last year we were getting seventy-five cents on the dollar,’ Mr. Mbozi objected.
‘Mr. Mbozi. With all due respect, look around you.’
Slowly, Mr. Mbozi and his party followed Mr. Johnson’s arm as he gestured around the low-ceilinged, single-room structure in which they were meeting. To their right, sunlight streamed through the east-facing window, its inexorable path to the dusty concrete floor partially interrupted by the edge of the mahogany table. A green lizard lazily sat motionless on the window ledge. Suddenly, its tongue flicked out and caught a fly, and for a few moments there was detectable movement of its lower jaw and throat, before it became motionless again. Behind Mr. Johnson, a chimpanzee flickered between the slits in the louvered window as it floated through the trees in the distance. To their left, the floor-standing fan slowly circulated the warm air blowing in through the open west-facing window. Mr. Johnson picked up his handkerchief, leaving a layer of moisture on the table, and again mopped his brow. He surveyed the Mbozi party.
The attaché, sitting to Mr. Mbozi’s right, had intelligent-looking bright, round eyes that matched his young round face, and bright white teeth.
The security officer standing behind Mr. Mbozi was overweight and had a very unsteady gaze. A bead of perspiration ebbed its way down his cheek before he used a thumb to flick it away. His dark suit was crumpled, and his shirt collar looked like it was a size too small.
The woman on Mr. Mbozi’s left was a mystery to Mr. Johnson. He had to force himself not to stare into her alluring light brown eyes. Her very low, black afro enhanced her long, high-cheek-boned face. Despite the uncomfortably warm conditions, not a bead of perspiration could be seen on her face. She seemed to be impatient for proceedings to end, glancing at her watch on a regular basis, and not really taking any interest in the discussions. He did not recognise her as Mr. Mbozi’s wife from the Intelligence pictures he had seen, nor did his information shed any light on her identity, nor was she formally introduced when the meeting began. Mr. Johnson felt some unease, but he was not sure why.
‘Fifteen cents,’ Mr. Johnson said quietly, refocusing his attention on Mr. Mbozi.
Mr. Mbozi shifted in his chair. ‘This is …’
Mr. Johnson held up a very thin hand, its whiteness contrasted starkly against the dark complexions of Mr. Mbozi’s party across the table. ‘Fifteen,’ he said more firmly.
‘Twenty?’ Mr. Mbozi asked feebly.
Mr. Johnson’s hand gesture was almost indiscernible. Mr. Mbozi dropped his head and after a moment’s pause, nodded. Mr. Johnson opened his briefcase and slid a neat stack of papers across the table, and placed a silver Parker pen on top. Mr. Mbozi reluctantly glanced at the papers, and then looked at his attaché, who promptly picked up the papers and started reading, quickly flicking through them.
‘Wait! This says fourteen cents. I thought we just agreed to fifteen?’ the attaché said; his deep voice bounced off the bare, whitewashed concrete walls, resonating in the small room.
‘Does it? Didn’t I mention my one percent fee? I’m sorry.’
‘What? This is outrageous!’ the attaché barked. He started to push the papers across the table. Mr. Mbozi softly but firmly grabbed his attaché’s arm.
‘Mr. President. I must insist that we walk away from …’ the attaché started.
‘No,’ Mr. Mbozi rebuffed. ‘At this stage we have no choice.’
In a hushed tone, the attaché leaned closer to Mr. Mbozi, ‘Monsieur le Président. Avec tout le respect … (Mr. President, with all due respect …)’
‘In English please,’ Mr. Johnson said, but Mr. Mbozi held up his free hand, turned to his attaché, and nodded.
‘… I am sure the French would show us more respect than these greedy dogs.’
‘The French have been clear about what they want in return, and that price is too high to pay.’
‘English, please,’ Mr. Johnson interjected.
The attaché ignored him. ‘Surely someone in Europe will listen to reason. We are being raped by these people. They have no class, no tradition, no pedigree.’
‘English?’ Mr. Johnson asked, now exasperated.
Mr. Mbozi held up his hand again. ‘You may be right my friend.’ Mr. Mbozi started to release his hand from his attaché’s arm, when the mystery woman reached over and softly put her hand on the papers.
‘Qu’est-ce? Vous préférez être souillée par des hommes en chapeau haut de forme et de perruques bouclées? (You prefer to be defiled by men in top hats and curly wigs?) Their headgear distracts you from the pain that you feel? Who were the imperialists who enslaved us for centuries? Suddenly we can trust them?’ Although she matched the hushed tones of Mr. Mbozi and the attaché, the venom in her words made the attaché subconsciously shrink in his chair. ‘We do this now to set the stage for a new beginning. We will learn who are our friends, and who are our enemies.’ She looked Mr. Mbozi in the eye, and then suddenly smiled, the very small diamond embedded in her nose twinkled.
‘Jean Michel, you have a choice, but you have to make it soon.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘In thirty seconds the guard is going to become ill. It should then take me about twenty seconds to kill this white fool and the guard, just before our snipers open fire on the guards around this camp.’
‘How?’ an incredulous Jean Michel whispered.
‘The Americans are over-confident. Sign the papers, Jean Michel, or let me kill them. If you sign, this is a bed in which we must lay, but only for a time.’
Mr. Mbozi looked from the ‘diamond’ woman to his attaché, who curtly nodded his head and positioned the top sheet of paper in front of Mr. Mbozi, who quickly signed the paper, and with no further notice or ceremony rose from the table.
‘Mr. Johnson, I can’t say this was a pleasure, but I was probably naive to think that it would have been.’ He turned and strode towards the door, his party hurriedly following. The soldier unsteadily stepped aside.
The metal reinforced wooden door was flung open by the attaché, and a wall of hot air crashed into the room. Mr. Johnson, who was standing behind them, instantly turned a brighter shade of pink. He watched as the Mbozi party climbed into their Toyota Land Cruisers and disappeared into the heavy jungle foliage of the Congo. The soldier pushed past Mr. Johnson and stumbled out the door. Mr. Johnson briefly glanced at the soldier retching in the bushes beside the concrete bunker before closing the door. Back at the table, he picked up a bulky satellite phone from his briefcase.
‘We’re all set. Start putting things in motion.’
He walked back towards the door, loosening his tie and allowing himself a smile.
‘Can someone get me something cold to drink?’ he shouted as he opened the door and stepped into the jungle heat.