Last Orders at Harrods

by Michael Holman

  Stretched out in the adjoining seat, mouth agape and snoring softly, was the legendary Jim “Fingers” Adams, guide, confidante, and chief public relations adviser to Hardwicke. The Bank was facing a testing time in Kuwisha, and Hardwicke was glad to have the services of one of the best jugglers of the code-word vocabulary of the aid and development business.

  It was Fingers, he recalled with appreciation, who had used the term “dysfunctional military activity” to describe a coup attempt in nearby Uganda. And “budgetary anomalies” had become a much-loved phrase by Bank economists who needed to account for “unaudited and unauthorised spending” – another Fingers coinage, and one which embraced presidential financial indulgences, from private jets to shopping trips to London.

  And in the opinion of Fingers, Hardwicke needed all the help he could get. He had not been long in the job. The former commercial banker had been widely acclaimed as the right man to lead the world’s most influential development agency. His boundless enthusiasm for Africa was matched by a belief in what he called “a new generation of leadership” on the continent. He advocated consultation with these leaders, urging African “ownership” of the policies they would be expected to implement, and calling for a fresh start in tackling the continent’s woes.

  His first speech, drafted by Fingers, had struck a provocative note.

  “The relationship between the Bank, the donors and most of the African governments is akin to a bad marriage,” he had declared:

  “The two parties have known each other intimately, but no longer can the one surprise, inspire, delight or engage the other. Indeed, the relationship is dominated by expectation of failure or disappointment, which in turn helps shape response. The Bank is not a marriage guidance agency. But I believe we can act as an honest broker, and help restore an excitement that has been lost, and help recover some of the magic that all couples need, but which has faded.”

  It was all good stuff. But Fingers had his doubts, even though he had written the speech. Who could be against the principles and policies that Hardwicke enunciated with such enthusiasm? African ownership of development blueprints, transparency and good governance, the involvement of civil society, the critical importance of locally trained management, the need to encourage the private sector, the role of the informal sector, all those words and phrases and concepts that were essential to the aid lexicon could be found in every subsequent speech Hardwicke had made, and which Fingers had drafted. But did his boss really understand the reason for this strange, damaging intimacy between the World Bank and its African clients?

  Or was he like a victim of Nigeria’s financial scams, which had become popular when Fingers was based in the Bank’s Lagos office. Known as “419s”, they were so called after the legal clause that set out the offence. ‘Obtaining money by deception’ was the dry, technical description. But it did not do justice to the shrewd con artists who drew on an acute understanding of the victims’ psychology, and appealed to an emotion nearly as powerful as the sex drive – greed.

  A typical 419 would begin with an offer of easy money.

  A letter or email to the victim would claim that a long dormant fund had been discovered, containing millions of dollars of an African dictator’s ill-gotten wealth. In return for the use of the victim’s bank account for deposits of the money abroad, the perpetrators of the scam would offer a cut of twenty per cent. From the start, the con men turned to advantage Nigeria’s dreadful and well-deserved reputation for corruption. If the country was as corrupt as was made out, the potential victims told themselves, then anything was possible.

  And if the targets of the scam, mainly businessmen and women in Europe and North America, felt that Africans were a bit dim and naïve, and untutored in the ways of the world, the psychological climate for deception was even better. Once sucked in, the victim became the greatest supporter and defender of those who were defrauding him. Perverse though it might seem, the victims would get angry with hapless consular officials in Nigeria who had the temerity to suggest that they were the targets of exceptionally clever con men. And when Fingers, or anyone else for that matter, urged them to cut their losses, and give up on their search for a windfall, few were prepared to do so.

  The easy life seemed so close, one tantalising step away. Just one more payment, just one more bribe for the Central Bank official who was holding up the paperwork, just one final “stamp tax”, all costing a few thousand dollars – which of course the victim would be asked to pay – and the vital document would then be released, allowing the transfer of millions of dollars. It never happened, of course. There was always one last hurdle to clear.

  In much the same way, claimed some critics, the Bank poured good money after bad, desperately believing that a development bonanza – Africa’s recovery – was just around the corner. A few hundred million dollars here, a low interest loan there, coupled with frank talking and appropriate reforms, and that elusive target of self-sustained growth would be reached. But twenty-five years after the Bank had first rung alarm bells, reporting a deepening economic crisis on what was then a war-torn continent, recovery remained a remote prospect.

  Hardwicke refused to accept that the Bank’s strategy was flawed, despite the growing misgivings among his staff. Dangling a carrot in front of a donkey might get the beast to move in the direction the owner wanted, Fingers cautioned his boss. But what if the animal was a carnivore? Big carrot, small stick, was bad enough – but the man who dangled a carrot in front of a lion was likely to get eaten.

  On the corners of the potholed streets of Kuwisha’s capital, the newspaper and stationery vendors had set out their wares. The papers and magazines, envelopes and rubber stamps, staplers and punches, bottles of glue and cartons of paper clips, were neatly laid out on the cracked and uneven pavement. Usually they were gritty with the dust of the land, but today they were damp from the endless rain.

  The newspaper headlines were dominated by lurid reports of a dreadful crash in which a bus and a local taxi, or matatu, racing to be first to a narrow bridge, had both tumbled into a ravine. There was also outrage over a road improvement fund that had gone missing. Some stories implied that the chairman of the fund, a senior member of the ruling party, was responsible. Two of Kuwisha’s dailies managed to squeeze a reference to the “critical visit” of World Bank president Hardwick Hardwicke on the front page, but for the third, it barely merited a mention, and the item was buried on an inside page.

  Kuwisha had been here before, had seen it all. Its officials had become adept at humouring the international donors and the charities and the institutional aid givers, responding to each development fashion and theory, as if living in a social laboratory where the rest of the world searched for an answer to the problems of the continent.

  It was not that the donors made no impact, or were unappreciated. The city thrived on aid. Restaurants and supermarkets catered for aid workers, garages did a roaring trade maintaining their vehicles, the property market flourished, airlines were kept in operation, all thanks to the custom of the workers at the United Nations agencies and the staff of the NGOs – the non-government organisations – whose numbers increased as Kuwisha’s problems deepened.

  But munificent a donor as the World Bank had become, most citizens of Kuwisha, however, were indifferent to Hardwicke’s arrival. The forthcoming talks on fresh aid were seen as just another step in the ritual dance involving donors and the government. It was a dance as familiar as that of the tall, lean Maasai, bouncing up and down, up again and down again, seeming to hover at the peak of their lift-off for a split second longer than any other member of the human race can manage, as they bounce, bounce, bounce for the tourist cameras.

  7

  “Beware the wildebeest that sleeps with the hare”

  Ntoto circled warily, well aware of the devastation that he could unleash during his metamorphosis into an airplane. He was not one of those fat, innocuous things from Europe that daily flew over Kireba, bringing
hundreds of thousands of tourists to Kuwisha each year. Those planes had no appeal for him, slow and cumbersome as they were. Indeed, he positively disliked them. One of them had killed an Mboya Boy called Justus. The twelve-year-old had stowed away in the compartment above the wheels, and Ntoto had been amongst a group of friends who had cheered from their vantage point at the airfield perimeter fence as the plane took off. According to customers at Harrods, who had read newspaper accounts of the tragedy, the frozen body of Justus had tumbled out as the plane approached Heathrow.

  No, Ntoto had become one of those jet fighters, the sort that flew so dangerously low, just above the city, in tight formation, on Uhuru day. He knew that it was as close as he would come to fulfilling his secret ambition to be a pilot.

  The Ntoto jet was small and fast and compact, with a devastating sting, delivered through the weapons slung under its wings. Once he had worked out his plan, he moved fast. Clutching the letter in his left hand, he made a high pitched whine to simulate the noise of the plane’s engine as it thrust in response to the revving motion of his right hand. Then, with both arms outstretched, he launched his attack. He had the advantage of surprise as he came in, and the rising sun was behind him. With a graceful swoop and pinpoint accuracy, he dropped the bomb, which looked remarkably like the just-collected letter, into Furniver’s briefcase, a split second before jumping nimbly over the foot that Pearson had suddenly thrust out in an effort to trip him.

  “Ack-ack-ack,” cried Pearson.

  An outraged Ntoto immediately made an emergency landing, and began to hover, like the helicopter from England that he had once seen on the outskirts of the city during a recent joint military exercise with Britain. He confronted the journalist.

  Pearson’s action was entirely in the spirit of the game – provided the journalist had kept to the rules. Ntoto was in no doubt. Pearson had broken them. What was more, it was not the first time this had happened.

  “You did not ack-ack-ack in time,” Titus said furiously.

  According to the rules, anyone who was seated and who came under attack was entitled to try and trip an approaching aircraft – provided they simulated the sound of anti-aircraft fire, and did so before extending their leg, crying out as they did so: “Ack-ack-ack.”

  “I bloody well did,” said Pearson, looking to Lucy for support.

  “No, you jolly well didn’t,” said Lucy. “Only after you tried to trip him. So childish, Cecil. Keep to the rules. After all, you helped draw them up. Childish! Ntoto wins a dough ball.”

  “You did not ack-ack-ack in time. Miss Lucy says so,” declared Ntoto with satisfaction, jogging on the spot to indicate that he was now a police helicopter, which he had seen on the black and white TV set at Harrods, which Charity had installed for her customers. The set usually worked – except when it was raining.

  Charity emerged from the kitchen, and coming up on him from behind, flicked Pearson’s ear with her forefinger.

  “Ouch! That damn well hurt,” said Pearson, grabbing his ear and massaging away the pain.

  “You swore. I will have no swearing, of any kind. And you cheated,” said Charity calmly. “You did not ack-ack-ack properly. You were late. I was watching.”

  Furniver chipped in.

  “Pearson, you’re a cheat. Get lost, Ntoto. Get your dough ball.”

  Ntoto stopped jogging. He shot a contemptuous glare at Pearson, dropped into a half crouch with his hands flapping, and radioed the control tower that he was preparing to fly off. Then with right wrist revving close to full throttle, he disappeared into the Harrods kitchen to collect his dough ball.

  Not before a final salvo in Pearson’s direction:

  “Cheat! Cheat!”

  “Scram, Ntoto,” said Furniver, exasperated.

  “We’ve got business to discuss,” he said, taking the letter out of his briefcase. He was about to open it, when Charity interrupted.

  “Later, Furniver, later. Private. It is private.”

  She held out her hand, and took the envelope Ntoto had just delivered. She examined it briefly before tucking it into her apron pocket. She had little doubt it was from the London lawyers. It took great resolve not to read it, then and there. But Furniver had to realise that while she appreciated his help and advice, Harrods was her responsibility; and this was certainly not a matter she wished to discuss while customers were round.

  Furniver gathered his case, gulped the last mouthful of his glass of mango juice, and was about to set off. Then he remembered the encounter with Nellson Githongo.

  As Charity listened to the story about Githongo and the bicycle, her frown deepened.

  “I’m stumped,” concluded Furniver. “Technically, he is right. He is in default. But I really don’t understand . . .”

  Charity interrupted.

  “Nellson Githongo is very clever. He must expect trouble.”

  “I don’t get it. Why the bicycle business?” asked Furniver.

  She looked at him pityingly.

  “Have you not seen that there are more scoundrels here in Kireba, always more troublemakers when people just want to vote at elections? You must have noticed, Furniver.” Sometimes she wondered if he saw anything around him.

  “So . . . ?”

  “If there is trouble in Kireba, his bike could be stolen. He wants it to be safe. So he leaves it where it cannot be stolen, safe in the bank, with you. Of course he could pay his loan if he wanted to. He has money. Last night, even, he had three Tuskers. Three!”

  Charity allowed herself a chuckle.

  “That Githongo, he is clever, very clever . . . and we must look out, Furniver. Trouble can come quickly to Kireba, with all this election nonsense.”

  Furniver could not help feeling rather foolish. It seemed that Githongo was no fool. Then he looked at his watch, and cursed. He was now certain to be late for the shareholders’ meeting.

  “About the shamba . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  He remembered the last time they had visited the plot, and he thought he had made his feelings for her clear.

  Charity had been roasting cobs of maize over a charcoal fire, and she offered one to Furniver. With strong broad hands and elegant fingers, she had gripped her own cob, and he had looked on fascinated as her splendid white teeth tore into the corn, raking the ears line by line, and giving the odd murmur of satisfaction.

  She had caught him watching, and admiring.

  Charity cocked her head, and gave him a quizzical look.

  “Why are you not eating? Do you want more beer? What are you looking at, English?”

  He could not help blushing. He had got used to the fact that for Charity it was a demonstration of friendship to address him by his family name. But when she called him English there was an intimacy which made his heart beat faster.

  He stammered his reply:

  “Your, er, teeth, Charity. Jolly, urn, jolly good, er, teeth. Yes, absolutely. Strong. Teeth.”

  Charity had returned to the maize cob. She seemed not to have got the message. Next time he would be even more explicit . . .

  “About the shamba,” said Furniver.

  “I’d urn, love to, er, stay.”

  Charity’s eyed him suspiciously.

  “You agree? No sort of nonsense at all? None. No hanky-hanky.”

  “Hanky-panky, hanky-panky,” he corrected her, and wondered if he could ask her to keep her voice down.

  “Of course not! For goodness sake, Charity. It’s not my, er, style, whatever.”

  She frowned.

  “I know you men, Furniver. And I do not care whether you call it hanky-hanky, or hanky-panky,” she said firmly. “It is for marriage only. Especially now days.”

  Suddenly she was shaking with laughter, and slapped a somewhat bemused Lucy on the back.

  “When will you get married, Lucy?” she asked, and dug Pearson in the ribs at the same time.

  Furniver made his excuses and left. In this mood Charity was positive
ly dangerous.

  “Back after lunch, my dear.”

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and there was a distinct spring in his step as he made the muddy journey to the nearest road, where he could flag down a matatu.

  The trio that remained continued their discussion.

  It had begun an hour earlier, when Lucy and Pearson had turned up at Harrods after first calling in at the clinic to interview Mercy and arrange for a photographer to take pictures of the patients queuing for treatment. The visit had sparked an idea from Lucy: why not launch a fund-raising appeal that would allow WorldFeed to revive a scheme to provide clean water for Kireba, she suggested?

  They picked up where they had left off.

  “Tell me, Lucy . . .”

  Lucy winced. Whenever Charity opened with these words, she knew she would be asked questions that would be hard to answer.

  “These non-government people, are they trained?”

  “Not as such.”

  “Are they paid? Is it true that they get more money than locals . . . Why are they so young? Why are there so many of these people?”

  Lucy struggled to answer. Yet she was as qualified to reply as anyone in the aid business. Indeed, she could serve as a role model in the aid generation: graduate of Sussex, a post-graduate diploma in development studies from London’s School of Oriental and African Studies, and possessed of a keen mind and a compassionate heart, concealed beneath a skin of carefully cultivated cynicism.

  Thousands upon thousands of non-government organisations, or NGOs, had been founded during the last twenty or so years, providing launching pads for the careers of countless young aid workers. And as the West withdrew from Africa, Lucy explained, reducing its number of diplomats and missions, so the NGO movement expanded to fill the vacuum left behind.

  Cecil couldn’t resist butting in.

  “The hacks’ most important contacts used to be dips. Not any more. Today it’s the NGOs. They provide the info, seat on the charter, transport when we arrive, place to stay. It’s called BB&B – Bed, bonk and briefing.”