40
Freetown, Sierra Leone, June 28
DJEMMA GARAND STOOD
TALL in the commander’s position in the turret of an aging
Russian-made battle tank. His nation had only forty of them, and as
Djemma sprung his nationalization plan on the world he intended to
put together a show of force in the most public way
possible.
While infantry units
supported by helicopters and militiamen took control of the mines
out in the country, Djemma and twenty of his precious tanks rolled
through downtown.
They traveled in a
long column, flanked by missile-carrying transports and jeeps and
armored personnel carriers. They flowed through the center of town
to the sound of thunderous cheers. Tens of thousands of civilians
had come out on their own after hearing Djemma promise them better
jobs and higher wages once the nationalization was complete.
Thousands more had been prodded to line the parade route by the
subtle suggestions of Djemma’s security apparatus.
As the convoy rolled
past, the cheers sounded genuine, and Djemma took pride in what he
was doing. His force was headed to the port in a ceremonial
gesture. It was already in his hands, as was the large refinery a
few miles to the north and the airport and the few factories on
Sierra Leone’s soil.
Riding beside him, a
handpicked reporter and cameraman recorded the event.
“President Garand,”
the reporter said, almost yelling to be heard over the roaring tank
engine and its rumbling, squeaking tracks, “I understand you’ve
informed the IMF that Sierra Leone will no longer be making
payments on its outstanding portfolio of loans. Is this
correct?”
“Yes,” Djemma said.
“We are tired of breaking our backs just to pay
interest.”
“And that choice is
tied to today’s actions?” the reporter asked right on
cue.
“Today is a day of
liberty,” Djemma said. “Once upon a time, we became free of
colonialism. Today we are freeing ourselves from a different kind
of oppression. Economic oppression.”
The reporter nodded.
“Are you concerned that there will be reprisals for this action?”
the man said. “Surely the world will not stand by while you violate
the property rights of dozens of multinational
corporations.”
“I am only obeying
the principle of an eye for an eye,” Djemma said. “For centuries
they have violated the property rights of my people. They have come
here and taken from us precious gems and metals and treasures and
given us only pain in return. A cook in one of these companies’
executive lunchrooms makes twenty times more than a miner who toils
in heat and danger, risking his life every day. Not to mention the
executive who does less work than the cook.”
Djemma laughed as he
spoke. A little good cheer went a long way.
“But the mines, the
refinery, the infrastructure, these things cost billions of dollars
in investment money,” the reporter said.
“And my people have
already paid for them,” Djemma said. “In blood.”
The tanks rolled on,
rumbling toward the dockside cranes. A small cloud of dark smoke
rose into the sky to the west of the port. It was definitely a
fire, but Djemma doubted there had been any real
resistance.
Perhaps someone had
done something foolish. Or perhaps the black smoke had nothing to
do with the events. A car or truck fire or some other industrial
incident.
No matter, it made
for a good visual. “Film the smoke,” he said to the cameraman. “Let
them know we mean business.”
The cameraman turned
and zoomed his lens, getting a closer shot of the rising cloud. His
recording, and the video of Djemma aboard the tank, would play in
endless loops on CNN, FOX, and the BBC.
In twenty-four hours
people around the world would know all about him and a country most
had never heard of. By then Djemma would have most of the foreign
nationals rounded up and placed on flights back to their respective
countries.
Their nations would
bluster and bluff, and freeze Sierra Leone’s all-but-nonexistent
foreign assets. They’d demand he explain himself, which he would
gladly, again and again if necessary. In his mind the actions were
legitimate; why should he not speak of them?
And then they’d come
to him, demanding all kinds of things. The negotiations would
begin. They would try very hard not to offer anything at first,
lest they be seen to be giving in. But it would matter little as he
would not budge.
They would grow angry
and pound the desk and rant and rave and threaten things. And then
it would get dicey, for with the nations of the world finally
interested in him Djemma would not give in but instead he would
demand more.
He knew the risks.
But for the first time in two thousand years an African general was
in possession of a weapon that could bring down an
empire.