Foreign Aid (Part 1)

The room looked ordinary and nondescript, like the home of a middle-class artisan. It had a round ornate table with six chairs spread evenly around it. An old but expensive looking chandelier hung over the center of the table, illuminating the room adequately enough. A grandfather clock stands proudly in the corner, ticking away. No natural light slipped through the heavy drapes that hung over the windows.

On the table in front of each man was an ashtray, a bottle of their preferred liquor, and a tumbler in varying degrees of emptiness. One man had only a glass of water before him. Seated on the chairs were six men, four blacks and two whites, all talking quietly and occasionally exchanging documents.

Each of the blacks represented an African nation with a burgeoning economy looking to make gains internationally via trade and bilateral relations. Each African had on an expensive tailored suit and occasionally sipped on the liquor, with the exception of one.

This man had on his tribe’s traditional attire. Before him, an untouched glass of water. The slim, clean-shaven white man with the handlebar mustache and the large, portly man with a thick cigar desperately on the edge of his lips represented the western powers with an interest in the economies of the African countries.

The group banters on for a while, with the representatives of the western powers actively shooting down all suggestions brought forth by the Africans. Seeing no breakthrough in sight, one of the Africans (the one in the traditional attire) calmly asks, “What do you want in return for our national development?” The whites share a knowing look and a smile.

The portly man pulls out a one-button remote from within the fat folds of his jacket and pushes the button. Nothing happens for a moment, then the door opens and a butler wheels in what appears to be a very large screen. He hands the controller to the slim man and leaves. The slim man pushes a couple of buttons, then asks the Africans to watch.

On the screen, images of the African countries flash across the screen, showing their valuable natural resources. The video plays on for a while, then stops abruptly.

An awkward silence follows. The slim man just sits and stares at the Africans with a slight smirk. The portly man drags on his cigar, inhales deeply, then exhales, blowing smoke in the general direction of the Africans.

He takes a huge swing from his drink, swallows, then clears his throat and says, “As you lot can see from the video, we’ve done our homework." So here’s the deal: we want sole exploration and first purchase rights on all those sites. "

The slim man hands them each a folder, still smirking. The portly man goes on, “In these folders are our terms for the “bilateral” partnership. You could go through them if you wish. That would be futile, however, as none of those terms are negotiable, we expect an immediate response”.

The Africans go through the folders, quietly assimilating the information within. A couple of minutes later, one of them drops the folder, pulls out a pen, signs at the end of the folder, looks up at the white men and smiles, “The terms appear in good order. How soon can we get the first payment?”

The other well-dressed Africans nod approvingly, and with the exception of the traditional-attired one who still sits quietly and stares smugly at the folder in his hands, they proceed to sign the document, smiling happily.

The whites appear pleased and shake the hands of the three well-dressed Africans. The portly man pushes another button. The Butler appears. The slim man addresses the Africans, “If you could be so kind as to follow the butler, he would take your bank details and issue the first payments."

The Africans stand up and move towards the door, congratulating each other as they leave the room. The door closes and an eerie silence fills the room, the sounds from the clock weighing heavy like a cloak over the room.

The last African calmly drops the folder on the table, looks up at the whites and, in an even voice, says, “If I understand this correctly, you would like me to mortgage the lives and growth of my people for foreign direct investment.” The portly man replies, “Plainly speaking, yes! Your country would not get a dime from our clients otherwise.

The African smiles, arranges his papers carefully, places them in his briefcase, stands up, and leaves the room without another word.

The white men watch him exit and shut the door gently behind him. No one speaks for a moment, then the portly man says to his counterpart, “he’ll be back... him or someone else from his fragile strip of dirt at any rate." Greed always wins. "

The slim man nods knowingly.