Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  “That’s outrageous. Don’t they have trade unions?”

  “They do, but how would you feel if you were a trade union leader staring at half a dozen AK-47-toting soldiers under the command of an eye-rolling, frothing-at-the-mouth captain or major?”

  “I can understand why the rebels are trying to overthrow the government. Will the people be better off if they win?”

  “It’s sad,” Frank said, turning off his bedside lamp. “Their leaders are Marxists, and their followers are bloodthirsty thugs. The type who killed Joseph’s father. The Marxists will do what Mugabe did in Zimbabwe with the same terrible results. They’ll kill or kick the foreigners out and nationalize the mines and farms. They’ll go to wrack and ruin, and the country will be even worse off.”

  “Why can’t the blacks run the farms and mines?”

  “They can. It’s got nothing to do with color and everything to do with education. When Mugabe gave the farms to the blacks in Zimbabwe, they burned the farmhouses and crops. The pristine fields of wheat, maize, and corn of only twenty years ago are now barren fields of weeds, and Zimbabwe is a basket case. Of course, Mugabe lives in a palace and is as corrupt as the Congolese leaders. Had he given the farms to educated blacks, like Joseph, those farms would be no less efficient and productive than if they’d been managed by the whites.”

  “Give me a hug. I’m glad Joseph will never set foot in that horrible place again. He’s ours, isn’t he, Frank?”

  “He’s ours, darling.”

  Two years later, the Rafters received notification of the death of Joseph’s mother. She had died three months earlier after tuberculosis had ripped through the village, killing more than fifty villagers. Unable to afford vaccination, and her immune system weak from malnutrition, she had been unable to fight it off. According to the government’s notification, she weighed just sixty-eight pounds at the time of her passing.

  Joseph wept, and asked to return again, this time to look after his remaining siblings.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Son, but there have been hundreds of thousands killed in the war, and even more have starved to death or died from diseases. The probability of your brothers and sisters being found alive is remote. I’m sorry,” Frank said.

  “I won’t know if they’re alive unless I go home.”

  Frank sighed. “This is your home, Joseph. You know you’ll never make it back to Katanga alive. Bravery and self-sacrifice are noble but only if they achieve something. Your death won’t accomplish anything. The war will eventually end, and then you can return home. Your siblings, if they’ve survived, will still be there.”

  “If you hadn’t bought me, I’d be dead.”

  Frank paused and rested his hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “I don’t own you. You are free to do what you want. I adopted you, and no father could love a son or be prouder of him than me.”

  “I love you too, Dad,” Joseph said, squeezing Frank’s hand. “You’re right, but one day I will return.”

  Later, Joseph lay on his bed reflecting. He was surrounded by material items he had come to take for granted: the television, desk, computers, library, pictures of his sporting heroes, the wardrobe laden with clothes and shoes, the baseball mitt, football, and helmet. He was living the American dream, but the deaths of his parents and siblings tore at his conscience. Why had God chosen to take him from the poverty-stricken Congo and deliver him to the land of milk and honey? Had he stayed in Katanga, could he have saved his parents and brothers’? How many of his siblings were still alive? Where were they? He knew God had saved him for a greater calling but didn’t know what it was.

  Joseph tried to block the troubling thoughts from his mind, pondered his fate, and fell into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  ..................

  WHEN JOSEPH TURNED EIGHTEEN, FRANK and Michelle surprised him with the gift of a Ford Taurus. They didn’t say anything, but it was equipped with every conceivable safety device.

  By the time he commenced college, he was over six feet tall and weighed nearly 190 pounds. The skinny little African boy had morphed into Superman. He was popular but had only one close friend. Floyd Coffey was a sports-mad African-American who, unfortunately, didn’t have the skills to make it to the top in any sport. Instead, determined to stay involved, he studied sports journalism. Because of their love for sport, Joseph and Floyd became inseparable. Joseph’s relationships with girls were plentiful, but he was careful not to let them become serious. He knew he had a greater calling in life – though what that calling was, he didn’t know yet.

  As he learned more about America, he became curious to find out how the world’s financial levers worked and grew obsessed with economics and politics. He knew Frank and Michelle were Republicans, and while he never said anything, the policies of the Democrats appealed to him more. Ron Patterson had undertaken his undergraduate degree in economics at UCLA before completing his master’s. Joseph decided to follow in his footsteps. At UCLA, one of his professors said, “You’re a fantastic athlete, Joseph, but if you want to be the best, you need to specialize in one sport.”

  “But I like all sports,” Joseph responded.

  “Perhaps you should take up the decathlon.” The professor laughed.

  The decathlon was an event Joseph had never thought of, but when he looked at the ten disciplines, nine held no fear for him. Only the pole vault caused concern, but when he cleared four meters at his first trial, it was just a matter of how high in the future.

  During semester breaks, Joseph worked at Capel & Lambert doing everything from photocopying to preparing research reports. Capel & Lambert occupied floors thirty and thirty-one of the Stanford Building on Wilshire Boulevard. The boutique firm known as Capel’s boasted some of California’s wealthiest citizens as clients. It was one of the few firms in the U.S. that got its clients in and out of the tech boom early. When the NASDAQ crashed in March 2001, most of Capel’s clients were in cash.

  When Joseph finished college, joining Capel’s as an analyst was a no-brainer. Where else was he going to get an office, a PA, and a parking space in the underground garage for the Mercedes convertible his parents had given him for his twenty-first birthday? Not to say anything of a starting salary of three hundred thousand. He was a fixture at parties and always had a gorgeous girl on his arm, but eschewed drugs or alcohol. Obsessed with winning Olympic gold, he knew clean living and eating were essential to attaining that goal.

  Also critical to that goal was how Capel let him have unlimited time off for training, and paid his travel expenses. Being a senior partner’s son sure had its benefits. However, he knew how lucky he was and, when he was at the office, worked long hours to produce detailed, highly rated research reports. The firm’s brokers welcomed and seized on Joseph’s research to add to their clients’ wealth. If there was any angst or jealousy, it came when his co-workers discovered he had opted not to try out for the U.S. Olympics team.

  In June 2007, Joseph traveled to Indianapolis with his coach, Greg Foreman, for the U.S. Outdoor Track and Field Championships, where the best he could manage in the decathlon was sixth. He performed dismally in his pet event, the javelin, failing to throw sixty meters. The fifteen hundred meters, always his Achilles’ heel, was a disaster, and the five minutes and thirty seconds he clocked was his worst result in two years. Greg went ballistic, saying, “Forget gold. You’re not even going to make the team.”

  Joseph laughed, seeming unperturbed. “I’ll be first chosen.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me how.”

  “I’ll be competing for the Congo. That’s where I was born.”

  “You don’t think you’re good enough to make the U.S. team?”

  “Of course I am. Forget the last two days. I’ll peak in August next year and win gold. I’ve been racking my brain over who I should represent. I owe this country everything, but even if I win gold, it won’t have much effect. If I win gold for the Congo, I’ll never be forgotten. Does it make any diff
erence to you?”

  “I’d prefer it if you were in the colors of the U.S., but I understand your reasoning. I’m happy to keep coaching you for as long as I can. Were you tanking today?”

  Joseph laughed. “Dad says the best cards are the ones in your hand you haven’t played. Everyone will write me off after they see my Indianapolis results.”

  In late 2007, Frank Rafter called his old friend and client, George Faraday, and told him to pull some strings so his son could be selected by the DRC to compete in the Beijing Olympics.

  “He easily exceeds the U.S. qualifying standards,” Frank said.

  Faraday chuckled. “It wouldn’t make any difference if he didn’t. He could have two left feet, and I could still get him selected. It just comes down to how much you’re prepared to pay.”

  “Hang on. He at least has to meet the Olympic qualifying standards.”

  “You still don’t understand how the Congo works. For enough money, they’d rig a history of past events where he smashed the qualifying standards. There’s nothing you can’t buy in the Congo. It’s subject only to price.”

  “You won’t have to rig anything with Joseph. He’s got the score on the board.”

  “That helps,” Faraday said. “We won’t have to pay as much, but you’ll still be looking at twenty thousand.”

  “It’s worth it. He’ll win gold.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Frank. I know he’s an exceptional athlete, but he’s not ranked in the world’s top ten. Don’t forget, the German decathlete Wolfgang Boesch hasn’t been beaten for six years. He’s a freak.”

  “You’ll see, George. You’ll see. Talk to your contacts in the Congo and pay whatever you have to. And George, don’t breathe a word to Joseph. He’s a proud young man and would hate it if he knew we were bribing corrupt officials.”

  Greg Foreman was reluctant to leave the athletes he was training in LA, but if money shouted in the Congo, it talked discreetly in the U.S. After an hour-long meeting with Frank Rafter – and the receipt of a large check – Greg saw the light and agreed to coach Joseph exclusively.

  In early May 2008, they traveled to La Loma Altitude Training Center in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. They both knew Joseph’s weakness was the fifteen hundred meters, and he’d have to take forty seconds off his PB if he were to win gold. Many American and international athletes were training at La Loma. Greg and Joseph, anxious to keep their training secret, took off early in the morning to run in the woods. It averaged eighty-four degrees during the day, and Greg pushed Joseph to exhaustion, knowing it was the only way he could pump endurance into the young man’s legs and lungs. Once a week, late at night when there were no lights and no one was around, they would go to the track, and Joseph would run a time trial.

  Every third day, they trained at the track for the other events in the decathlon, focusing on the javelin because it was Joseph’s strongest event. They concentrated on technique rather than distance, and subsequently the length of Joseph’s practice throws was of no concern to his rivals.

  On their last night in La Loma, Greg took Joseph to the track just before midnight and told him not to hold back. Four minutes and twenty seconds later, Joseph flashed past the finish line. He’d beaten his PB by thirty-five seconds, and Greg knew he’d run at least ten seconds faster at sea level. When they climbed aboard the plane for LA, Greg knew he had the favorite for gold in Beijing.

  CHAPTER 6

  ..................

  TEAM U.S.A. LED THE MEDAL tally at Beijing with 110 medals, but surprisingly the U.S. public and media were captivated by Joseph Muamba’s achievements. By the time he left Beijing, he had done more than fifty interviews and was sick of the press. Two of those interviews were with his old high school friend, the gangly Floyd Coffey. Over dinner, he said, “I don’t understand, Floyd. There are plenty of athletes on the U.S. team who won gold. The media’s not hounding them for interviews. My cellphone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

  His friend smiled and whistled through the gap in his front teeth. “You’re a novelty. You live and train in the U.S. and yet competed for the Congo. Add winning their first gold and running a sensational fifteen hundred, and you have your answer.”

  “Well, I hope it’s over soon.”

  “It’s going to be even worse when you get back to the U.S. You’re the flavor of the month. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “How?”

  “Give me an exclusive interview when you return,” Floyd replied.

  In the Congo, pictures of Joseph and stories of his feats dominated the media and he was lauded as a national hero, despite not having set foot in the country for fourteen years.

  Frank and Michelle Rafter were beside themselves with pride. It wasn’t every day your son won Olympic gold in the toughest event in the world. Michelle bought him the strangest present: a gold chain and what looked like a gold ingot pendant that, when pulled apart, was a USB flash drive.

  “You’re always losing or looking for USBs. Wear this one around your neck, and you’ll never have to stress again.”

  “You think of everything, Mom. Where would I be without you?” Joseph said, warmly hugging his mother. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Joseph.”

  When Joseph’s flight from Beijing landed at LAX, he groaned when he saw the waiting media pack. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve signed a contract with Mr. Floyd Coffey for an exclusive interview.”

  The media took no notice and plied him with questions as he pushed his way through them, saying, “No comment. No comment.”

  The following Sunday night, Floyd interviewed Joseph for ninety minutes in prime time on CBS. Millions across the nation were glued to their screens, enraptured by the story of the little boy from the Congo who grew up in the U.S., and won Olympic gold. The media continued to call, but Joseph refused to take their calls and didn’t respond to their messages. The interview propelled Floyd to interviewer stardom, just as he had hoped.

  On his first day back in the office, Joseph was swarmed by staff and clients. Delighted by his success, they wanted to congratulate him and bask in his glory. Family friend and client, George Faraday, was particularly anxious to see him, and had arranged a meeting with his father.

  “Good morning, George. What’s so urgent?” Frank Rafter asked, taking a chair at the head of a twenty-seat boardroom table, with Joseph on his right and Faraday on his left.

  “President Bodho wants Joseph to return to the Congo for a ticker-tape parade. He’ll send the presidential 707 for him. He’ll get a red-carpet welcome and stay at the palace. It’s a great opportunity.”

  Frank rested his hand on Joseph’s forearm. “Bodho was one of the army officers we paid to get you out of the Congo.”

  “Will he remember me?”

  “Not likely,” Frank said. “He probably sold lots of kids, but he wasn’t the only one. Other generals and politicians were doing it too, and he never saw you. Do you remember Colonel Zamenka?”

  “Yes. He was fat. He was at the village the morning you took me.”

  “It’s General Zamenka now, and he’s the army’s strongman. He keeps Bodho in power,” Faraday said.

  “What’s this great opportunity, George?” Frank asked. “As if we don’t already know.”

  “The Congo’s sitting on trillions of dollars of untapped mineral wealth. I haven’t spoken to Bodho or Zamenka for years. They’re too big-time for me now. I’m still doing smaller deals, but there’s no door Joseph couldn’t open. We could provide the means by which the world’s biggest miners access the Congo.”

  “What type of deals? And how are you doing them?” Joseph asked.

  “Smaller entrepreneurial ventures. I help folks with capital find profitable projects. I assist with permits, tax, and labor. And there’s still only one way to do business in the Congo. The guys who have been helping me have a limit on the size of the projects they can approve.”

  Joseph studied the tall man with rapidly r
eceding gray hair, a craggy face, and a hawkish nose. From the minute he had set eyes on him in the village all those years ago, he’d felt an instant dislike. Still, Faraday was his father’s friend, and he had to show him respect.

  “I think you’re overrating my value, George.”

  “No, I’m not. Bodho would do or pay anything to see you in Kinshasa,” Faraday said. “Frank, we have the opportunity to make hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions. Let’s not blow it.”

  Joseph was about to protest when Frank raised his hand. “George, my son’s not some pawn who’s going to make you rich.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Faraday said. “It would be good for the Congo, good for American companies, and good for us. What’s wrong with that?”

  “What do you think, Joseph?”

  “I’m eventually going to go back, Dad. It might as well be now.”

  “Will you visit your village?”

  Before Joseph could reply, Faraday said, “No, it’s far too dangerous. The rebels have been running amok in Katanga. Besides, you wouldn’t recognize it. The gold mine they built a few years after you left has had a huge impact. Houses have replaced many of the huts.”

  “You know you’re not going to be able to change anything,” Frank said. “I don’t want you to go back if you think you’re going to be the country’s savior. The rebels are still active, but the country would be no better off if they won. It’s still a dangerous place.”

  “Dad, I know how dangerous and corrupt it is. I’ve read the terrible stories on the Internet. I’m not going there to be the messiah. I’m going to visit for a few weeks and then return home. Don’t worry.”

  “Joseph will be safer there than he is here,” Faraday chipped in. “He’ll be surrounded by soldiers night and day. Bodho wouldn’t survive if anything were to happen to the nation’s new hero. You have no idea how popular you are among the people.”