CHAPTER ONE
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.
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