Foreign Aid: The Finale

The Native Attired Man stepped into the presidential office, looked around, and inhaled. A sense of pride and optimism consumed him in the moment as he looked around the spacious room and took in his surroundings.

It had been over a decade since he'd sat in this same room and received the life-changing commission that had effectively led him back here. He walked slowly around the large office table, running his hand over the smooth surface of the solid oak. He smiled to himself as he thought of the policies that had been signed on the same desk and the exciting new ones to come. He exhaled as he sat on the President's chair and swiveled around to look out the window.

As the Native Attired Man sat there watching the trees on the lawn sway, he hoped he had made the older man proud. He thought back to the perilous journey he had undertaken, the trials, tribulations, and obstacles he'd encountered almost at every turn, as predicted by the Older Man. He clenched his fist in silent victory as he reveled in his success for a moment, only a moment... He knew he was only half way there, the second half was about to begin.

The day after he'd left the office he currently sat in, he had been put in charge of a newly created National Development Commission, formed by Presidential Decree. The Wily Old Man had created a watertight commission without funding from the national budget, free of the greedy grasp of cumbersome bureaucrats and self-sufficient with the single purpose of attracting foreign direct investment.

The Native Attired Man had applied himself to identifying all the human and natural resources available in the nation and seeking investments, not from foreign governments but from conglomerates, organizations, and professionals willing to enter into fair contracts of preset duration with the commission to develop the resources within.

The early days were tough; his commission was at first the source of ridicule and, later (when the successes became apparent), a point of envy. The greedy politicians, seeing the investments flowing in relentlessly, began to seek and plot to partake of the "riches" therein. Kickbacks and "10%" were proposed and promptly rejected by the Native Attired Man. Other means devised and hatched... All were met with a solid brick wall.

Then, as predicted by his mentor, the political attacks began. The greedy ones shot accusations, probes, and hearings at the commission, trying to find a chink in the ironclad legal armor the Old Man had entrenched in the commission with very little success. At this, the native-attired man smiled to himself, thinking, "If only they had known how close they were to breaking my resolve, they would have persisted."

At that time, he had been filled with such sorrow at the incessant attacks by his countrymen, the very people whose lives he sought to improve, so much so that he had almost quit the commission, but providence had other ideas.

When all hope seemed lost, He met a strong black, vibrant and intelligent woman who in those harrowing times became an inexhaustible source of strength, a pillar of support and a constant sea of encouragement. With that extra burst of energy, he pushed through and prevailed.

The cumulation of all those successes was the reason why he was in this office on this particular day. He exhaled and silently thanked the Old Man for believing in him... even in death, he could still feel his mentor's presence in the office.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door

"Come in" he said

An Aide pokes her head in, "they're ready for you Mr. President"

He smiled, "I'd be right out"

The Aide nods, retreats and shuts the door. The President gets up from the chair, buttons his suit jacket and looks around again, excited by the endless prospects coming his nation's way.

The Native Attired Man walked towards the podium, occasionally nodding at smiling people as he went, his path charged with an electric feeling of national pride. He looks up and sees his strong black woman waiting by the assortment of microphones from news agencies the world over, standing guard over the speech he was about to read.

Strong Black Woman holds out her hand, he takes it wondering for the millionth time how one so strong could have hands so soft...

That warm thought at the height of personal triumph, in his moment of greatness was so overwhelming, he did not feel the bullet that pierced noiselessly into the back of his head unhindered, searing through his brain like a hot knife through butter and shattering his nose as it exited and piercing; almost perfectly into Strong Black woman's right eye and lodged in her brain...

The room still looked ordinary, nondescript like the home of a middle class artisan. It still had the round ornate table but instead of six chairs spread evenly around, it had three. The old but expensive looking chandelier still hung over the center of the table illuminating the room adequately enough. The grandfather clock still stood 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. No man had a glass of water before him.

Seated on the chairs were three men; One African, two Caucasian.

The African was from the Nation of the Native Attired Man, but he wore an impeccably tailored suit. He (The African) had just handed the signed documents to the Caucasians moments earlier, smiling and shaking their hands energetically and was leaving the room with the butler delighted by the large sum of money he was about to receive.

The Older Caucasian puffed on his cigar as he watched the African leave, as the door shut behind the butler, the Older man blew out a generous plum of smoke watching it fade into the air for a couple of seconds then turned to his slim colleague who was looking down at the signed documents in his hands smiling and said, "Like I said Old Chap, Greed Always Wins"