:: Africans In Ireland
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The Guardian

By Baba Galleh Jallow

OUR little town was not unblessed in its prayers to the powers that they grant our common townsfolk some guidance and light in those dark days of heathenism and spiritual blindness. Month after month, year after year, our common townsfolk prayed for salvation, for protection, for a light that would rise from the dark and shine its rays on the slippery paths of life. At long last, their prayers seemed to have been answered when a flamboyant guy who called himself the Guardian materialized on the scene.

He was immediately welcomed with open arms and joined the crowds of our jubilant common townsfolk in rendering thanks and praises to the powers for sending them this gem of a townsfolk who, by his very first actions, showed that the dark forces of this evil world could easily be dispelled with the proper lighting, the obsequious peep, and the ultimate unmasking that could only be performed by folks of such superior intellectual clout and intelligence as himself, the one and only Chickenbrain Rattlemouth, alias Blokey Pokey of hum hum fame.

Now Chickenbrain Rattlemouth was one of those well-endowed folks who were absolutely certain that whatever they thought in their minds was a manifestation of the absolute reality. He never could have been appointed by the powers as the Guardian of our common townsfolk in those troubled days had facts and reality not been planted in his soul long before he was even born. Why else should he find himself in our little town and see himself as the pious guardian of the lost, the light that expels the darkness from the world if he weren't blessed with the power to think in facts rather than in thoughts like other common folks? How else could he have been called Blokey Pokey of hum hum fame had he not been the naturally chosen and appointed dude with the piercing and infallible mind that could see beyond all the layers of fake meaning with which scheming hypocrites and sneaking parasites try to hide their nefarious designs and dark activities?

Indeed, how could he have been possibly called, at birth, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth when his brain was but a dot and his mouth far from the days when it could offer the slightest coherent and intelligible syllable if he was not destined to become, as he became, the infallible and discerning guardian of our common townsfolk in those troubled days of pious demons and innocent looking monsters that pounce upon the unwary and try to hide in plain sight while acting out their devil deeds? No, it could not have been so in any possible way. The future was in the past and the past, well, that ruled the future in the clever personal philosophy of our indomitable Chickenbrain Rattlemouth, alias Blokey Pokey of hum hum fame.

And so having established himself as the ultimate Guardian of our little town, Blokey Pokey set out his schedule of daily activities, making certain that he left ample time and energy for the tasks of guarding and guiding some of the redeemable lost souls of our common townsfolk. So every day, and at every moment of the day and night, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth would make the usual discreet rounds around the silent and dark corners of our little town, taking particular care to creep stealthily among the dark shadows of the notorious alleys and carefully listen to obnoxious gossip or peep into dark nooks and crannies totally confident of catching some sneaky devil in the act or exposing some pious hypocrite or fly by night who paraded themselves as upright dudes during the day. Blokey Pokey particularly watched out for those of our common townsfolk who thought the world was a stage upon which they could act out their nefarious scripts, pretending to be this when they are that, pretending to say this when they mean that. That kind of hypocrite so angered our pious Blokey Pokey that he always took a minute to weep and whimper and angrily shake his head before taking note of the odious crimes that were to be brutally exposed to the amazed attention of our common townsfolk.

Sometimes, when he was at his best, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth, alias Blokey Pokey of hum hum fame, would pretend to be just a humble folk with no merit of note and no secret powers of discernment. In his guise of the humble innocent, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth would kindly smile and munch his cheeks and peer softly around as he mingled with some of our unwary common townsfolk. At such times, he was quick to offer some lofty yeses and vigorously nod his head in agreement with any and every opinion expressed by even the most unsophisticated of our common townsfolk. He would loudly laugh and hail all hi and say what a pleasure it was to learn so much in so little time. Having his full of the odious gossip, Blokey Pokey would kindly excuse himself with profuse apologies as befitted a true gent and walk quietly away.

As soon as he was out of sight of the chatting dudes, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth would get the Angry Poots and squat to the ground. He would slap himself and loudly wail and bitterly weep at the stupid audacity of those stupid folks. What had our world come to when we had such sloppy snakes! Such daft ignoramuses that strut around pretending to be wise! The very monstrosity of the idea made Blokey Pokey so mad that he would eat some sand and say a hundred hum to placate his soul and muster the will to carry on doing the good work that he was doing for our ignorant common townsfolk. Come rain come shine, he was going to shine the way!

Thus pacified in body and soul, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth would immediately proceed to the general meeting place at the center of our little town. There, he would launch into a serious and vigorous lecture about the evils of hidden deeds and the virtues of pious thought. He would wax lyrical and loudly rattle his moral saber and shake his captive audience to its core by deploying some really fantastic pointers to what he called the one and only Good Way. He would warn our common townsfolk of the evils of know-it-all and condemn the habit of pretending to be tall when you were nothing but a moral and intellectual midget of embarrassing proportions.

His lectures never failed to elicit the most generous praises from our common townsfolk. When they asked him how come he knew all this hidden stuff, Chickenbrain Rattlemouth would slowly raise his arms to heaven and heave a heavy sigh and smile the Blokey smile. Then, in his most measured tones and with honeyed tongue, he would drop his arms and kindly smile and shake his head and gently say, "well, you know, no tree is too tall to climb, if you know what I mean. To not see is see, to not know is know." Some of common townsfolk would get so carried away by these ancient yet modern words of wisdom that they would swoon while others would loudly hail him Sir and called him Peeeep, Mbarass, and Wachabess!!

By Baba Jallow

In a classic work of historical and political theory, the German philosopher of history Reinhart Koselleck discourses a "space of experience" and "horizon of expectation" that may be used to chart the trajectory of historical evolution. Koselleck suggests that the past, the present, and the future are all part of a single movement of historical time within which society is embedded. Today's "space of experience" was yesterday's "horizon of expectation." In other words, all human actions in the present are informed by past experience and motivated by future expectation. It is within this framework of historical temporality that I propose to examine the idea of African independence, which, I will argue, represents a myth for the great majority of Africans on the continent.

During the colonial period, nationalist leaders and their peoples shared a common horizon of expectation as a result of their common interest in ending colonial rule. This horizon of expectation was one of freedom from colonial oppression and the attainment of human dignity for all. Both leaders and people looked forward to a day when they shall all be free and equal, when exploitation and political oppression shall be a thing of the past, when together, they shall forge a nation of sovereign, proud and independent peoples. Their common space of experience under colonial rule was one of blatant abuse and near bondage to the whims, caprices and interests of a distant power that had no interest in the advancement of African peoples, in spite of loud protestations to the contrary. Thus, the struggle for independence was waged on a manifesto of freedom and equality that held lofty promises of emancipation for the peoples of the colonies.

Today, about five decades later, the bright horizon of expectation for which ordinary people struggled remains elusive. Millions of people across the continent remain oppressed, in some cases, more oppressed than their forbears and ancestors were by the colonial powers. The horizon of expectation ostensibly shared by the nationalist leaders and the people remains real for the people, but now represents a horizon of fear and insecurity for their leaders. Ideas of freedom and equality that were deployed to fight colonial rule have become taboo to the eyes, ears, and minds of African leaders because they threaten their power and privileges. Like the colonial rulers before them, African leaders of the post-colonial period have no intention of facilitating the realization of a society of free and equal citizens. Capitalizing on the alleged otherness of African people that make them incapable and unsuited for living in a world of equality and freedom on one hand, and choosing to perpetuate the oppressive culture of the colonial system on the other hand, African leaders of the post-independence era continue to treat their peoples as if they are still colonized. And indeed they are - by their own pockets of greedy political cliques whose only interest is the perpetuation of their own selfish agendas.

The evidence for an argument against the reality of true independence for African peoples is overwhelming. The very structures of the colonial state remain in place. Even the buildings and residences of the colonial governments continue to be occupied, unchanged, by most African governments. The boundaries, divisions and districts demarcated by the colonial rulers remain largely unchanged. And the coercive methods and approaches deployed to oppress the African people have simply been rendered more efficient at what it does, and redeployed against the African people. Poorly trained and armed colonial security forces have been replaced by brutal professional militaries, secret police and insidious surveillance mechanisms - all of these placed at the beck and calling of the a state whose arch enemies have become its very own people. Indeed, one can talk of a "war against society" that has been consistently waged by African governments against their peoples since the departure of the European colonizers. Rather than becoming the agent of peace and freedom for its people, the African state has become a brutal agent of conflict and bondage for its people. The post-colonial African state appropriates the oppressive strategies of the colonial state, including its draconian legal codes, and redeploys them against their supposedly free and sovereign peoples.

Across the continent, ineffectual governments headed by brutal dictators make it a point to whip up public euphoria every now and then in the name of independence celebrations. Ironically, some of the most telling symbols of colonial rule and domination are displayed during these celebrations. The president, who has conveniently replaced the colonial governor and monarch, perches on a high platform, bedecked in shining garb often glittering with the insignia of naked power. Behind him stand stone-faced and aggressive bodyguards to protect him from his own people. Around him are ranged the various dignitaries and privileged cream - often all rotten to the core - of an oppressed society. For hundreds of meters below the elevated platform of the powerful and the privileged, the powerless and often sadly clueless crowds yell and gaze at the performance of banal power, to the accompaniment of ear splitting drumming and dancing in praise of an equally clueless despot. And then the ceremonies begin. The various symbols of the imperial spectacle - those archaic invented neo-traditions of the colonial system, originally designed to showcase the power of the colonial monarch and condition the minds of the subject peoples to unquestioning loyalty - are now deployed in even greater grandeur. The army and police bands come marching in perfect order, beating their booming drums, and blowing their sonorous trombones to the accompaniment of clapping shiny boots. Ahead of them marches the master sergeant with the swishing sword shouting oh hoch! Making the soldiers and police turn their eyes right and salute that fat, grinning embodiment of banal state power. After these come the school children holding their institutional banners and also doing the eyes right! Then come the scouts and all the other uniformed symbols of fake sovereignty. After the march past, everyone stands erect and the national anthem is sung, now replacing God Save the King! And then the president-cum-monarch gives his address to the nation in which he extols the prowess of the African peoples in defeating colonialism and attaining independence - an independence that for millions of ordinary Africans remains a very insidious myth - a socially useful lie that is deployed as occasion demands for the convenience of the new oppressors.

Independence is about much more than the building of schools, hospitals, universities, roads, televisions, radio stations, telecommunications facilities, and other institutions that are now cited as signs of sovereign development. In time, the colonial powers would have built these anyway. They would have had to. They had done so elsewhere. Independence, above everything else, suggests independence from oppression; it suggests freedom of expression and association -freedom from fear of the state; it suggests the right of the people to better living conditions; it suggests, above all perhaps, the existence of a state whose primary role is that of servant to the enlightened and empowered people of a sovereign nation. In short, independence requires strict adherence to all those lofty ideals for which the African people demanded freedom from colonial bondage, which are ensconced in all our national constitutions and which, sadly, are conveniently by-passed and neglected by those who claim to be governing in the name of the oppressed African people. Short of this, independence remains a very ugly myth - a socially useful lie - for the overwhelming majority of African peoples across the continent.

By Baba G. Jallow

As his plane touched the tarmac at Anjula international airport, Moses Mijofa felt a galloping sensation in his chest. No, it was not the bumping effect of the landing that made him feel as if a horse suddenly galloped off in his heart. It was the prospect of returning home after so many years of exile. The prospect of walking the beloved grounds of his dear homeland after twelve long years was in itself almost unreal. But even more surreal was the thought of what awaits him on the ground. Below leaving his safe haven in distant Europe, he had received all manner of assurances that he would be just fine. But how could he be sure of those assurances? Now that he had taken the great plunge into uncertainty, he figured he would just have to wait and see what happens and to hope, almost against all hope, that everything would be just fine.

Down the plane he walked, pausing briefly to scour the environment with a pair of dazed eyes. Everything looked strange and somehow filled with a certain sense of gloom. Everything looked gray and dusty compared to the neat illumination of European airports and topography. He felt as if he had traveled out of the real world into some distant country buried in the gray and archaic past. He walked down, holding on to the rails for fear that he might get dizzy and fall headlong onto that sizzling tarmac. He managed the descent and walked along with the trickle of passengers towards the quaint airport terminal. International Airport indeed, he thought. This looks like a hamlet compared to even the smallest airports in Europe. And this regime makes so much noise about building the best airport in Africa! He almost spat out in disgust but managed to keep from doing so.

With a sense of trepidation and a biting expectation of the unknown, Moses Mijofa waited nervously in line as Immigration officers checked the passports of the arriving passengers and waved them through. He knew without any doubt that there were some secret service agents at that passport checking point, just as they were everywhere in this country. But he had been assured that everything would be just fine, and those assurances helped him retain enough self-control to keep from displaying the torrents of anxiety raging inside his tummy and making his chest tight.

At long last, it was his turn to be processed. He handed over his passport to a stone-faced Immigration officer with blood-shot eyes. He wondered if that officer was not on alcohol or some kind of drug. It was inconceivable that a man's eyes could be that naturally red. The officer looked at the passport and looked up at him. He then reached down and pulled out a drawer, lifting out what looked like a picture from it. He compared the picture in the passport to the one he had taken out of the drawer. Then he called out to one of the men seated in a corner behind him. The man came over and looked at the passport and the picture the Immigration man was showing him. He looked up at Moses Mijofa.

"Aha, so you are the famous Mr. Moses Mijofa," the second man said with a hint of a cynical smile on his lips.

"Well, Moses Mijofa is my name. I'm not sure I am the famous one you referring to," Moses said, his heart throbbing wildly inside his chest.

"But you are this man in this picture," the man said, showing him the picture. Moses looked.

"Yes, that's definitely me," he said.

"All right," the man said. "We need you to come with us Mr. Mijofa."

Moses Mijofa picked up his brief case and walked round the counter. He was escorted by two men out of the terminal and towards a brand new SUV packed a few meters away.

"I need to pick up my luggage," Moses said. "And I need to tell my family what's happening and have them take my luggage home."

"Your luggage will be taken care of Mr. Mijofa," one of the men told him as he held the door of the SUV open for him. "And you can see your family later, after we have finished with you. You can call them with my cell phone and tell them that just we need to ask you a few questions and that everything is fine."

"But who are you?" Moses asked.

"State security," the man said. "Just say that state security wants to ask you a few questions and then you will be back home in a little while. Now get in the car Mr. Mijofa."

Moses Mijofa climbed into the car and the man climbed in after him. He was sandwiched between two stone-faced men as the SUV got onto the highway and sped off into the growing darkness of the dusty evening.

The room into which Moses Mijofa was escorted looked more like a long, wide corridor, completely dark except for the flicker of two candlelights on either side of the wall halfway inside. Just before the flickering candles in the middle of the room stood an empty chair looking eerily like the chairs in which dead row inmates are electrocuted in the movies. When he reached the chair, he was asked to please sit down Mr. Mijofa. He walked over and sat in the chair, facing the dimly visible wall of the long dark corridor of a room several meters away. His two escorts stood behind him, their arms folded across their chests, as if they were waiting for somebody to appear or something to happen.

A deep, ominous silence fell on the room, except for the dim noise and chatter of the outside world, which seemed to come from some other strange planet. Strange how the world could be reduced to such dark, restricted spaces Moses thought. He remembered Agamben's spaces of exception - created by law yet outside law, in which human beings are reduced to mere bodies that can be killed but cannot be sacrificed, mere homo sacer. He still hung on to the many assurances he had received that everything would be just fine, even though events since he stepped off that plane had proven otherwise so far. Was this a torture chamber, an interrogation room, an execution chamber? He remembered gruesome details from the stories of victims of this regime's torture tactics. They spoke of being soaked naked in ice-cold water in the mornings, followed by severe caning, tongue-pulling, violent tooth-uprooting by pincers, electrocution of the ears, the nose and the genitals. But he could see no electric outlet in this dark corridor of a room, and that gave him some kind of strange relief.

"Oho oho, so this is our famous radical Moses Mijofa!"

The booming voice seemingly coming from everywhere made Moses start. He glanced back and peered ahead into the semi-darkness from where he thought the voice came.

"Welcome, welcome Mr. Moses. We are very happy to have you here with us tonight. Well, let me introduce you to our chat room where we are right now. Our boys like to call it the dungeon, but I prefer to just call it the chat room because that's all we do in here, chat with our distinguished guests like you."

Moses could still not see the source of that voice. He glanced up at the faces of his two
statue-like escorts but could not catch their eyes. They seemed totally unconscious of his presence or the booming sound of that strange voice. Yet he knew they all heard it. He was not dreaming.

"Relax, relax Mr. Moses," the voice continued. "You cannot see us from where you are but we are seeing you just fine and that is the important thing. Now tell us Mr. Moses, what brings you to our corrupt country as you like to call it in your speeches and lectures and writings?"

‘This is my homeland," Moses said, trying to sound as composed as he could in the circumstances. "I have a right to visit my homeland."

"Ho ho ho ho ho. Oh yes, I almost forgot about your human rights and your rule of law. You like to use those words Mr. Moses. Yes, yes you have your rights and your rule of law and you always use those rights and rule of law to insult His Excellency the President of this country; and you use those rights and rule of law to call us animals - no, sorry not animals, what's the word I'm looking for - ehm - oh yes, you call us dictators and depots or something like that. And you say that we have destroyed this country and that we kill people and even that His Excellency himself kills people with his own hands and gives them to his crocodiles and steals this country's money. Did you not say all those things Mr. Moses? And were you not afraid that as killers we would kill you if you come here? Just a friendly chat here Mr. Moses. Just a friendly chat."

Moses Mijofa was stunned. He was in a complete daze and did not know where or how to begin talking to his invisible interrogator. He had imagined that things might get difficult, but this was beyond his wildest nightmares. He tried to resign himself to his fate. If he must die, he must die with his integrity.

"No I was not afraid. I have the right to express my opinions about things going on in my country."

"All right, you have the right to express your opinions Mr. Moses. But can you prove that we kill people in this country and that His Excellency kills people and gives them to his crocodiles? Who told you that His Excellency has crocodiles in the first place? If you have your rights to make accusations Mr. Moses, you must be ready to provide evidence to prove them when required by your rule of law. So, do you have proof to back up your serious allegations against all of us in this room and even against His Excellency the President of this republic?"

Moses Mijofa stayed silent. In spite of himself, he was almost trembling on the chair. Drops of cold sweat plopped up on his forehead and he felt as if he was being suffocated. He just could not believe what was happening. And he could not think of any sensible answers to give that insistent interrogator. He had not expected any of this. He had trusted in the many strong assurances he received that nothing would happen to him. That everything would be just fine. Now, his life seemed to be hanging by a tiny thread.

"And just so you know Mr. Moses," the voice continued, "we have many, many files and documents about your activities in Europe and around the world. You think we don't know what you are doing out there but we know. We also have our rights and our rule of law. We know about your connections with some bad elements planning to overthrow the democratically elected government of His Excellency the President. And we expect you to tell us more about that in the morning. But we will let you get some sleep for now if you can. Take him away boys."

The two men grabbed Moses Mijofa by the armpits and roughly lifted him up from the chair. They pushed him before them and marched him towards the entrance to that ominous corridor of a room. He wondered who the man with the booming voice was and what the hell all that nonsense about connections with bad elements was.

By Baba G. Jallow

AT ABOUT 10am the next morning, the door to Moses Mijofa's cell creaked open and a state security agent asked him to please come with me Mr. Mijofa. Moses was drenched in stale sweat, his face was swollen and his head throbbed from a very long sleepless night of mosquito bites and the horrible stench of stale urine mixed with a faint smell of dry feces. The floor of the tiny, oven-hot cell was dirty and dusty as hell, with dark stains of what looked like dried blood. There was neither mat nor mattress. He couldn't bring himself to lie down on that nasty floor. He preferred to sit up all night, tapping and whacking away at the vicious mosquitoes, occasionally covering his nose with his sleeve to keep off the horrible stench, and dozing involuntarily on and off.

The security man escorted him into a small office at the edge of the huge building covering most of the grounds of state security headquarters. Inside the small office stood a lone desk behind which sat a small man in a black felt hat and dark glasses. The small man looked up as Moses entered the room and motioned for him to sit down. The security agent stood behind him.

"Moses Mijofa," the man behind the desk said, as if he was addressing the papers before him. "Two things. One, you have been charged with seditious libel against the state and the people of this country; seditious libel against His Excellency the president and head of state; conspiracy to commit treason and treasonable felony against the legally constituted government of this republic; and intent to destabilize and disrupt the peace and tranquility of this country. We need you to write a statement explaining why you should not be considered guilty of these crimes. You must know that anything you write will be used against you in a court of law.

"Two, after you write your statement, you will be granted self-bail but you must report to this office every morning at 8am until the date of your appearance in court. Failure to do so will result in a revocation of your bail. At the same time, we are holding on to all the documents in your briefcase - your passport, ID card and everything else in there. So, here is a pen and the forms for your statement. After you finish writing your statement, you will sign your bail bond and will be free to go for now. But you must report back here at 8am tomorrow morning." He looked up at the security man who had escorted Moses to that office and said, "Vulture, sit here with Mr. Moses and have him sign the bond before leaving." The small man got up and walked out. Vulture took his place at the table and Moses Mijofa started the tedious process of writing his statement. At least he knew he would be let out shortly and then he would demand an explanation.

Outside the headquarters of the state security service Moses Mijofa hailed a taxi and headed for the Ministry of National Intelligence. As he came through the front door the secretary looked up and asked him what he wanted.

‘I'm here to see Minister Marrtaat," he said.

"Is the minister expecting you?"

Moses told her he was expected and announced his name. The girl spoke into the phone and hung up. Almost immediately, the Honorable Minister of National Intelligence, Mr. Muchukat Marrtaat himself stood at the door, holding it wide open for Moses Mijofa and hailing him hi and welcome.

"Hello, hello my dear little brother. Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in. I was expecting you."

Moses walked through the door, the honorable minister's arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"Sit down, sit down little brother. And I'm so sorry about last night, you know, the inconvenience and all . . ."

"So you know about last night?" Moses was surprised and stared at Minister Marrtaat as he walked around the huge desk and slumped into his easy chair.

"Oh yes, oh yes I know about last night. We all know about last night. I was there at the - what did he call it - oh yes, oh yes, the chat room when the director was asking you those questions. And you know even His Excellency was there. Clever chap, clever chap; he was there himself . . ."

"But . . . so . . . what is all this about? I was arrested at the airport, humiliated and locked up in a stinking cell all night. And you had assured me that I would be just fine . . ."

"Come on, come on little brother, you are just fine. Everything is just fine," Minister Marrtaat laughed. "You are a smart boy. We know you a smart boy and that you will understand. You see, it's all part of His Excellency's grand design for you. He designed this whole project for you. You are a lucky chap boy. His Excellency likes you. He said so himself last night."

"What grand design are you talking about Mr. Marrtaat? I was charged with all manner of crimes this morning and I will be appearing in court. I'm supposed to report to the state security every morning at 8am."

"Oh yes, oh yes my brother. It's all part of His Excellency's grand design. You see, let me tell you something. I have a doctorate of philosophy but I lay my hat at the feet of His Excellency. That young man is a genius little brother. A genius I tell you. You'll see."

"So what is this grand design you are talking about? I came here for debriefing and orientation etc and I find myself spending the night in a stinking cell and being charged with treasonable felony . . ."

"Relax, relax my brother," Minister Marrtaat laughed. "Listen, here is how it works. As at now, only three people know about your mission here. You, me, and His Excellency. He will personally supervise your training himself because you will be reporting directly to him. Not even the boys at state security know about this. So everything has to look real. You have been charged, you will appear in court, and your trial will proceed and all the newspapers will cover your story and all those so-called human rights groups will make fools of themselves shouting out their sick lungs about the injustice being done to you. But it's all a show. It's all a big bad show my boy. His Excellency likes a good show and we all enjoy a good show. So after your trial is made to drag on for as long as necessary, the judge or magistrate will receive orders from His Excellency to throw the case out and you will hop on a plane and fly back to your base in Europe and start your patriotic work for your country. Does that sound like a good plan my boy? Do you see His Excellency's point, my boy?"

Moses Mijofa nodded again and again as the ingenuity of the whole plan struck him with full force. Yes, he would be a hero. He would still be a hero. He would still act the radical. And he would earn lots of money as a deep cover personal agent for His Excellency. Not bad, not bad at all.

"Well it all makes sense now, Mr. Marrtaat," he said. "It all makes sense now. But do I still have to report to the state security every morning at 8am?"

Oh yes, oh yes for now, for a few days at least. Remember, this is a top-secret mission. Those boys at state security have no idea what's going on. I just told the director last night that you should be granted self bail but that they must hold on to all your papers. His Excellency justified his presence there last night by feigning great anger at you and saying that he wanted to be there personally to see you in person at close quarters. They are in the dark and they must remain in the dark. Everyone must remain in the dark about this project. But you will be meeting His Excellency himself in the next few days and getting more specific details of your training schedule. You will love the man my boy. You will love him. In fact, he has something for you. There is $5,000 in cash in this envelope and a personal letter of welcome from His Excellency. So go home, my boy; have a good rest and I will contact you on this cell phone as soon as His Excellency is ready to see you. Does that sound like a plan?"

Moses Mijofa thanked the honorable minister and picked up the bulging envelope and the cell phone as he stood up.

"Don't worry my boy. Be happy," Minister Muchukat Marrtaat hailed as he reached across the desk to shake his hand. He headed for the door feeling a strange mixture of guilt and elation. He was just fine after all. He was just fine. All's well that ends well, he thought with a smile on his swollen face. All's well that ends well.