Jimfish complimented the gentleman on the size and wealth of his homeland.
‘Far more than a simple homeland,’ said the other. ‘Zaire is my personal invention. The very appellation, along with what my citizens are allowed to wear or name themselves, as well as how my nation’s riches are spent, are all extensions of my dreams. A country that began as a land of slaves and sadness, which greedy European imperialists called the Belgian Congo, is now, thanks to my vision, the glorious, authentic Republic of Zaire. People know me as its Great Marshal, Grand Chief and Messiah.’
‘And you were a friend of the late Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu?’ Jimfish guessed.
The gentleman held up two fingers tightly pressed together. ‘We were as close as this. Brothers under the skin. Imagine how I felt when, on Christmas Day, lying in bed in my palace, I tuned into satellite television to find myself witnessing the Genius of the Carpathians being done to death by barbarians. I ordered my jet to be made ready and flew post-haste here to Bucharest, hoping at least to arrange for my old friend a state funeral in Zaire. Too late, alas. Why do those who killed the great Ceauşescu not see they had the leader they deserved? A reflection of themselves?’
Jimfish reported what he had been told. ‘They called him a cruel tyrant.’
‘Cruelty in a leader is often plain common sense. In my country, for example, some say I don’t bother to feed my prisoners. But why should I, when I can’t even feed my own peasants? However, cruelty needs to be judiciously employed… I once had the pleasure of hanging four of my ministers in a popular public ceremony, attended by fifty thousand enthusiastic citizens. It was on the feast of Pentecost, as it happens. Punishment is all the more impressive — I speak as a fervent Catholic — when combined with piety. Murder, tout seul, is a clumsy tool. Better to pay off your rivals or have them done away with discreetly or buy them back into government on your own terms. Genial corruption is the key. Steal if you like, I counsel my ministers, soldiers and gendarmes — but not too much — and not all at once. That way you win more.’
‘What I can’t fathom about those who killed the Genius of the Carpathians and his wife,’ said Jimfish, ‘is their reasoning. They were socialists yesterday, call themselves democrats now and yet they beat those who disagree.’
The gentleman in the leopard-skin toque shook his head sadly. ‘We will never understand the reasoning of Europeans, if they possess anything of the sort worth bothering with. Western ways have no place in Africa and that’s why I have abolished Christian names. They’re nothing but sentimental western affectations, so I have banned them. And business suits may no longer be worn. They’re symbols of the old imperialism. Not fitting for the tiger-daughters and lion-sons of the New Africa, who deserve real leaders. In our tradition we have room only for one chief, one Big Man.’
‘Surely some opposition is good in a democracy?’ Jimfish asked.
‘In our authentic Zairean system, democracy is the foundation on which the leader bases his divine right to rule. When opposition is needed, I provide it by calling an election and standing against the President. That way voters may choose freely between me and myself, but there can be only one winner.’
Jimfish was a little confused by this. ‘I take it, then, you don’t like change?’
The tall man smiled and waved his wooden sceptre. ‘I am warming to it all the time. But it must be carefully managed. Many of the greatest African leaders have been in power for decades, thanks to their understanding of the proper use of elections. When I consider what I call the Ceauşescu conundrum, I think I see where he went wrong. Freedom is better than stagnation and repression, so long as it’s regulated. I begin to think encouraging democracy and allowing several parties to compaign might be useful. Why should I be held to account for everything? Let them also share the blame.’
Jimfish returned the borrowed and now bloody silk handkerchief to his new friend.
‘The Romanians could profit from your advice. As far as I can see, and I may be wrong, those running their revolution look like the same people who ran the old regime.’
The gentleman from Zaire nodded. ‘No doubt. And mark my words, soon they will be claiming the high moral ground and lecturing African leaders about their appalling habits. This is the way of Europeans. They enslave Africa, pillage the continent and then preach sermons to their former slaves. I prefer their lash to their lectures. Enough of savage Europe. You need to get home again and I can help. Come with me.’
With that the elegant stranger in the leopard-skin toque took a handful of dollars from his Vuitton bag, hailed a taxi and they rode out to the airport. There on the tarmac was a most beautiful needle-nosed jet, which, his friend from Zaire explained, he rented from the French. Jimfish was greatly impressed. What a people these French must be! The cloud of radioactive dust from Chernobyl had stopped at their border and then gone around the sides of the country. And supersonic jets were loans they lavished on African heads of state.
‘Since we are compatriots,’ said Sese Seko, ‘let us dispense with titles for a while. At least in private. You are called Jimfish… Well, when I was a boy at the Christian Brothers College, in what was then Elizabethville, my name was Joseph-Désiré, but the other boys called me Jeff.’
It was agreed they would maintain this friendly informality, at least until they returned home, when Jimfish would have a variety of choices as to the name he preferred for his new friend: Messiah, Lion King, Redeemer, Guide or Great Helmsman. And so it was that, in the spirit of school friends, Jimfish and Jeff boarded the waiting Concorde and flew off to Africa.
CHAPTER 12
Zaire/Gbadolite, 1989–90
The needle-nosed jet taxied along the runway in tropical sunshine and Jimfish was glad to be home, even if this Africa of red dust and dark green bush was one he did not know. On the flight from Bucharest he had been pampered with caviar and Laurent-Perrier champagne, which, along with Coca-Cola, was the favourite beverage of the inventor of Zaire, whose destiny was an extension of his dreams, and who now gently reminded Jimfish that — as he was back in his country and must take on again the duties of his office — there would be no more schoolboy names.
‘Which of my many titles would you feel happiest to use? You may choose any one of them. Feel free, my fellow African friend.’
‘“Great Leopard” seems the best suited, I think. Especially because of your signature hat,’ Jimfish told him.
His companion was delighted, because it showed how well Jimfish understood his very special relationship with the Mother Continent — something his compatriots too often failed to grasp.
‘A very wise choice. I have my toques specially made for me in Paris, using only the fur of leopards I myself have shot. As principal protector of the royal beasts of Africa I can assure you that the leopard selected to become my headgear counts itself lucky to crown an intellect of such distinction.’
Jimfish was impressed by the other’s unassailable certainty, as well as his remarkable ability to adapt to all circumstances, even if this left him a trifle uneasy. It was a flexibility he had seen in the men who executed Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu on Christmas Day, and who turned overnight from cowering flunkeys into incendiary revolutionaries. How he wished he might achieve a smidgeon of their adaptability or feel even a tenth of their revolutionary rage.
His found his deficiencies in both these qualities very distressing. Surely he had seen enough cruelty and heartbreak in the time since fleeing Port Pallid, moments before Sergeant Arlow could shoot him? He had been present at the massacres in Matabeleland led by General Jesus; endured the loss of his lovely Lunamiel, cruelly blown to bits as she said her prayers; watched helplessly as Ivan the Russian murdered the good Jagdish at Chernobyl; and he had looked on helplessly as his mentor Soviet Malala was executed by a drunken firing squad in the doomed city of Pripyat.