“Makabate, what the hell do you think you’re doing? This number is for emergencies only!” The voice was very English, and the enunciation was very definitely developed at a public school.

“This is an emergency! The Hokobu woman is speaking to the conference now. This is a disaster for all of us, and it is your fault because you allowed her into your country.”

“I told you before, I can’t keep operatives at every port of entry, it would draw attention to our arrangement.” The Englishman paused and shuffled some papers whilst he drummed up a convincing lie. “Jalou, I have a scrolling message running across the bottom of my laptop screen, highlighted in yellow. It that tells me that Mrs Hokobu and her husband are dead and that the police are investigating. She simply cannot be speaking in that hall. It’s impossible. Now, tell the Ambassador that I will do all that I can to ensure that the British Establishment gather around to discredit this insane woman, and we can all get back to profiting from the Tanzanite mining.”

Jalou Makabate was not appeased. He ended the call, then sat down heavily on a stone bench and waited whilst his life, and possibly Marat itself, was brought down by the indestructible Victoria Hokobu.

***

Behind the podium hung a huge screen onto which was projected a map showing exactly where Marat was situated. It was followed by a series of slides showing the undeniable beauty of the central African veldt and the more rugged rocky landscape rising from it. The pictures showed lush pastureland, bony looking cattle and healthy looking goats. There were views of flowing rivers edged with reeds and overhanging branches. Finally there were shots of the wildlife lying lazily in the sun, looking inquisitively at the cameraman.

“My dear friends from around the world, this is my country, the country where fifteen generations of my family were born and where they lived. Invaders have come and gone over centuries; the last was King Leopold of Belgium, but seldom did their influence reach as far as Marat. I doubt that my ancestors would even have known who their ruler was, had it not been for the Christian missionaries who accompanied the soldiers and who strayed further than they were told was wise.

As a result many people in our peaceful communities, numbering around two hundred and thirty five thousand souls in total, a few less than live in Brighton and Hove on the English south coast not far from here, converted to Christianity.

With the landscape you see before you, with the rivers for water and the pastureland for grazing, it was possible for us to live, eat and celebrate our good fortune without desecrating the landscape or forcing away the wildlife.

Until independence Marat never asked for, nor was it offered, any aid from the central government or from the international community. We led simple lives and we were even able to trade goat meat and wheat to the other tribes in the Congo region who lived in less friendly environments.

Then a mining company named De Souza discovered Tanzanite in our mountains, and our lives changed.”

Photographs of the mountains were replaced with pictures of beautifully cut tanzanite stones in hues of blue and violet. Mrs Hokobu continued, and in a soft, soulful voice reflected to the silent audience, “Oh, how could something so beautiful bring with it such ugliness?”

There appeared on the screen mines, roads, shantytowns and crude mud huts built to house miners. Broken down vehicles and mining equipment had been left rusting by the side of the road, as newer versions were brought in to increase production.

“Old Mr De Souza promised to make us all rich, and perhaps at the beginning he meant what he said. The men left the villages and the farms and went to work in the mines for money. They worked hard and were paid well, but the farms were left to the women, who despite their hard work could not produce enough food to feed Marat. Soon all of our money was going to buy essential foods from elsewhere, food that we could easily have grown for ourselves. We were no longer self-sufficient.

Then came independence and a new government, and hope was restored. They would rein in the mining company and ensure that we could once again have a mixed economy, where mining and agriculture worked together to provide our prosperity.”

The whole time she was speaking, this robust and healthy vision of African womanhood held her audience entranced as photographs were projected one after another on to the large screen behind her, to illustrate her words and accentuate her mood.

“Since independence the Maratis have become virtual slaves to the mine owners. When the miners complain about safety, working conditions or poor pay, their demonstrations are put down by the government forces supplemented with mercenaries, all of whom are well fed, clothed and armed. They have the latest military equipment and they drive the best European cars, whilst the miners and the farmers live in poverty.”

Pictures showing barren farms and tired miners were projected behind the speaker. They were followed by pictures of robust, healthy police officers and soldiers smiling at the camera in their smart uniforms and proudly showcasing their shining vehicles.

“Then we had a visit from the UN. Mr Kofi Annan, you are a beloved figure in Marat,” Victoria said, looking directly at the elderly statesman in the audience.

“Your help and aid has been generous and continuous. However, the UN officials sent to assist the poor, the enslaved and the sick have gradually been restricted to the capital. Their travel permits have been revoked, in an attempt to prevent them distributing the aid fairly and to monitor how it is spent.

If you choose not to believe me, then please do the maths yourself. We are a nation of two hundred and thirty five thousand souls and the government in 2007, the last year for which figures are available, received one hundred and thirty five million dollars in aid. Now you can see that represents almost six hundred dollars per year per person. Usually our miners and their families survive on less than five hundred dollars a year.

Add to that the generous aid provided by charities and we should be a country with a healthy and well-fed population, but we are not.

The United States and Great Britain built us twelve schools to assist in the African literacy programme; four still operate, but the others are now regional government offices, mining company offices and even a private dwelling.

We had a hospital built by the European Union. For the first two years Europeans staffed it whilst we had our people trained. As soon as the Europeans left, the funds to pay for staff were redirected and the trained staff were not paid. Some remain as volunteers, but many left for jobs abroad.”

Pictures of forlorn schools and a hospital were projected.

“You may have seen the photographs of Nation Day in Marat recently, where dancers and performers entertained the President and lauded his accomplishments. Please look at this photograph.” She paused.

A colourful photo of dancers in native dress filled the screen. More followed, all showing happy smiling faces and healthy bodies.

“Not one of the people in the pictures you have seen is Marati. They are wearing the tribal dress of the Congo. They were employed to take part in these celebrations.

So, you ask, is this big African lady mad? Is she a liar? Does she seek to deceive you in order to ask for more aid?

Please feel free to make your own decisions about my motives but, having done so, please act on your feelings. Do not line the pockets of greedy mining companies and Mercedes-driving ministers with luxury villas in the south of France.

My plea to the UN, and to all of you within the sound of my voice, is this; you ensure that the corruption is ended and that the current aid gets to the people and I will guarantee you that in three years we will be offering aid to others, not asking for aid for ourselves.”