The Happy Fortunes Of An African Dictator - Money Galore , A Yacht, And A New Home In St. Tropez

Alphonse M'bele, Supreme Leader of a West African state, long in power, and beneficiary of generous grants from the United States, was wondering where his next check would come from.  Not that he was living hand to mouth by any means.  M'bele had a king's ransom safely secured in offshore bank accounts, but 'development' was coming into question, and formerly generous countries were becoming more circumspect and cautious about their 'investments'. 

 

M'bele was once asked by an international development official how the money his institution had so generously granted had disappeared; and why the children of the Western Province were still without schoolbooks, a hot lunch, and tin roofs over their heads. Impatient, frustrated, and angry that the millions in foreign aid provided to this poor, desperate country had gone missing, he pointed at the President and said, 'I demand an answer'. 

President M'bele smiled at his associates, stood up slowly, drew himself up to his full, impressive height, straightened the folds on his embroidered white silk caftan, and said in his familiar resonant voice, 'Mr. Rosenthal, I am here thanks to my family, my tribe, my friends, and my country; and I will repay them in that order'. He motioned to his aides, and walked slowly, magisterially out of the ornate, high-ceilinged replica of the ceremonial hall of the Elysees Palace. 

The American sat down, shuffled his papers, and looked at the gold sconces, the Tiepolo-themed ceiling, the Carrera marble, and the wall-sized portrait of the President, dressed in a military uniform bedecked with medals, adorned with hand-woven gold epaulettes, gold buttons, and a red ceremonial sash.  He had been schooled, insulted, and berated by this petty tinpot dictator, this black African hoodlum, this....

Here Rosenthal shook his head, rose slowly rose from his seat, gathered his composure and walked with as much dignity as he could muster down the long allée to the carved oak doors, and out into the bright, baking African sun. 

Development was not supposed to be this way, he thought.  There must be some humanity in the continent, but after years administering and managing soft loans and grants designed to alleviate the poverty and the suffering of its people, he saw that nothing of substance had ever come from his country's generosity. Every red cent of the millions of dollars earmarked for health, education, and welfare had gone with the wind, disappeared. 

This was the last straw.  Never before had he spoken so honestly and never before had he been rebuffed with such dismissiveness.  He, after all, was an appointed representative of the United States government, a respected official, a man here on a people-to-people mission of mercy, and this baboon had spoken to him this way? 

The very next day he went to the office of the American Ambassador and complained.  Something must be done, Rosenthal insisted, to bring this man in line, to see our money invested where it was intended, to show respect for the intentions of the American people. 

The Ambassador smiled, thanked Rosenthal for his honesty and his concern, and went on in rotund oratory to praise President M'bele for his defense of the United States at the United Nations, his open-ended contracts with Exxon Mobil and Anaconda, and his personal friendship with the President of the United States himself. 

 

Rosenthal waited for the Ambassador to finish and started in on his prepared speech.  'With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador....' but the Ambassador raised his hand and said, 'Let me stop you right there, Mr. Rosenthal, before you embarrass yourself.  The ties between America and this great, black, African nation are indissoluble, and we will do whatever we can to strengthen them'; and with that Rosenthal was shown the door. 

Traffic had come to a standstill outside the Embassy.  In fact all traffic had stopped, pedestrians had moved to the curb and stood at attention.  For what seemed forever, a quiet hush came over the streets until sirens were heard coming from the east, announcing the passage of the Presidential cavalcade, led by a phalanx of Harley-mounted police, armored Suburbans, and finally the magnificent 1937 Rolls Royce Phantom, brilliantly polished and restored to mint condition from which M'bele waved to cheering onlookers. 

What irony, thought Rosenthal.  What a slap in the face.  What a monstrosity; but there it was all compressed in the twenty minutes spent on Embassy Row - the cravenness, the corruption, the venality on both sides. 

'Have you heard the news?', asked a colleague of Rosenthal when he returned from the Embassy. 'Trump has closed down USAID.  We're finished'. 

The chicanery, the blatant, bald-faced American corruption would finally be over.  The scam had been outed and dismantled. More power to the White House.  Although Rosenthal would have to find work, at least it would not be the smoke and mirrors game which he fronted for so many years. 

In M'bele's palace, the mood was somewhat different.  'A pittance', replied the President to his chief financial officers. 'A drop in the bucket.  A spit in the ocean'; and with that he received a call from the Chinese Ambassador who offered his country's services.  In the blink of an eye, the tables had been turned but M'bele's fortunes not only remained untouched but increased.  

The Chinese were well-known for their Machiavellian politics.  Sell them oil, gas, and rare earths at concessionary prices, and they would look the other way.  No more moralistic badgering from the United States.  No more hectoring, no more conditionalities.  It was open season once again. 

The very next day Lao Ming Tze was welcomed with pomp and circumstance to the Presidential palace, festooned with Chinese flags.  An honor guard fired a twenty-one gun salute as the Ambassador stood beside his car, looking up the steps to where M'bele waited.

'This is my day, and a fine one it is', M'bele said to an aide as the Chinese Ambassador made his way to his welcoming arms.  A new home in the south of France and one atop the highest mountain in the Alps, a symbol of African supremacy, the rightful place for the black man. 

'Fuck 'em', said Trump when he heard the news of the new Sino-African alliance. 'We've got other fish to fry' and a new cover for his policy of America-first rare earth mining of the Arizona desert, eliminating dependency on this shithole countries like M'bele's.  'Let the chinks have it', the President said, dismissing the messenger. 

This is the new geopolitics.  Everyone ends up happy.  M'bele is delighted with his newfound wealth and homes in St. Tropez and beyond.  The Chinese are happy to have secured minerals long sought but hard to secure in war-torn Congo; and Donald Trump is delighted that he can now make good on his promise to make America an economically independent country. 

Harry Rosenthal thought he might try the World Bank to pursue his career; but balked at the thought of more toadying to the likes of Alphonse M'bele, rounds of renegotiated loans which are never repaid, conditionalities which are never respected, mountains of exaggerated Baroque wealth in every Presidential palace up and down the continent.  No thanks, I would rather sell used cars rather than go along with that charade. 

And as irony and fate would have it, that is exactly what he did - Associate Sales Manager at Bill Page Toyota in Arlington, Virginia, an upbeat place, regular hours, modest but acceptable paycheck with benefits and incentives. 

 

M'bele chose to sleep with his Fulani wife that evening - the beautiful, light-skinned model from the northern tribes, his favorite, and the one he always chose after a victory.  They drank champagne on the Presidential balcony, watched the sun set over the river and the mountains beyond, and retired for the night.