Читать книгу The Song of Mawu - Jeff Edwards - Страница 14

8

In the heat of the midday sun, four men sat in folding chairs beneath a canvas awning, sipping imported German beer from an ice filled cooler while surveying the scene below and discussing the future.

The helicopter they had arrived in sat at the end of the airstrip beside the village. It was one of the few aircraft operated by the Grand Army of Namola that was still airworthy. Lack of a routine maintenance programme caused by a lack of funds was causing Lattua’s men to cannibalise other aircraft in order to keep a small number of their helicopters in service.

President Joseph Lattua stretched out his left arm, waving it slowly from right to left over the valley to emphasise his point. ‘With what the English army engineers created and the charity added to, we have the making of a very productive oasis in the midst of this barren landscape.’

‘Ashloko was well-named,’ agreed ex-President Francis Bollan, as he surveyed the stark landscape of the valley below. ‘I can almost see Lisa using his power to destroy Loko.’

‘You actually believe that old tale!’ laughed General Thamas Lattua.

‘Of course not!’ snorted Bollan, ‘An old woman’s tale.’

The four men snickered and sipped at their beers. Of course they didn’t believe in the old tales. They were educated men after all.

Bollan took in a breath of the hot, dusty air and considered the plan that had been placed before him.

Since his escape from Sonateria mere minutes ahead of the rampaging Hansa tribes, he and his entourage had been forced to take over a floor of the Lobacra International Hotel in Namola’s capital, where now he spent his days attempting to organise a triumphal return to his homeland and resumption of power.

Due to the inhumane treatment of his fellow countrymen over many years, particularly the members of the Hansa tribes, the United Nations had denied Bollan any assistance, declaring him a ‘persona non grata’, and refusing him permission to travel abroad on a diplomatic passport. Luckily for Bollan, Joseph Lattua was not a man who was inclined to heed the directives of United Nations and other international organisations, particularly after the World Bank had refused to lend Namola any further developmental monies. So ex-President Bollan was welcome to remain in Namola just as long as he continued to spend the money he had secreted in his overseas accounts.

Bollan’s gaze lingered on the distant horizon, where, at the mouth of the valley, smoke from cooking fires rose into the air from the refugee camp. The refugee camp contained Sontarian survivors of the genocide in his former homeland. However Bollan refused to acknowledge the fact that as a Sontar himself it was his actions toward the Hansa which had caused them to rise up in bloody revolt.

Now the Hansa were in control of Sonateria and his fellow tribesmen were either dead or struggling to survive in the refugee camp with no immediate sign of ever being allowed to return to their homes and farms. Those farms had quickly been annexed by their former Hansa servants.

‘I think this will be an ideal place for me to establish a base,’ nodded Francis Bollan, ‘My loyal fellow citizens are nearby and I’ll be able to organise them into an Army of Liberation.’

‘That’s if there are enough able bodied men left standing to form an army,’ said General Lattua.

‘It’s that bad in the camp?’ asked Bollan.

‘You haven’t been there?’

Bollan shrugged his shoulders and sipped at his cold beer. ‘There isn’t anything that I can do for them that the charities aren’t already doing. I’d only be placing myself at risk of catching something deadly by going down there.’

‘Risk from disease, or are you afraid your fellow tribesmen would try to murder you?’ asked General Lattua sarcastically.

‘My people love me. They would follow me to hell and back if I asked them.’

Joseph Lattua nodded at the man’s words and let the matter drop.

The fourth member of the group was Governor Trong. He was the governor of the province of Victoria and as the lowest member of the group by rank had trailed a short distance behind the others as they had made their inspection of the facilities. He had heard the Sontar workers whispering behind the group’s back and seen the men spitting in disgust when they thought Francis Bollan could not see. He had no doubt that if Bollan visited the refugee camp without sufficient guards his life would certainly be at risk.

‘Well President Bollan, have you selected where you wish to set up your new home?’ asked Joseph Lattua.

‘I thought I’d be taking over the whole area.’

‘Oh no. A major portion of the camp is to be the new headquarters for The Grand Army of Namola. We’ll have one of our regiments stationed here. You’ll be able to share the facilities while you build your own compound, but our army will control what’s here now.’

‘Then why would I want to spend more money building a home? I’m quite comfortable where I am.’

‘You said it yourself. You’ll be close to your people and close to the border of your country. You need to be here,’ said Joseph Lattua with an ingratiating smile. ‘All we need do now is to agree on a suitable rent payment.’

***

Later that day the group broke up and went their separate ways.

After considering the many arguments as to why he should move to the country, Francis Bollan was satisfied. Despite the exorbitant rent he was being asked to pay, he would now have a suitable base from which he could launch his strikes on the Hansa across the border.

General Lattua was happy too. He had come to an agreement with Bollan and was about to be paid to supply Francis Bollan’s new army with weapons and to help train them.

President Joseph Lattua, with a year’s pre-paid rent in his pocket was well on his way to purchasing his private jet, and he looked forward to returning to his office where he could search the internet for a plane that would satisfy his needs. His only immediate problem was that there was no one in his country with the training to fly such a modern aircraft. Still, he thought, that shouldn’t prove to be a major obstacle. I can always hire a crew.

***

As he climbed into his car to make his way home, Governor Trong was the only one who was disappointed with the day’s outcome. He had attended the meeting in the hope of finding a way to increase his own income from both the refugees and from having half the country’s army stationed permanently in his province. However, nothing of the sort had taken place.

Everyone else at the meeting stood to gain but him, and to make matters worse the provinces sudden increase in population had placed an increasing burden on Victoria’s infrastructure. This burden was growing larger every day. Already the overworked public service was falling apart at the seams, while lack of maintenance, and no sign of the extra money needed to make the necessary repairs, meant that important items like the province’s roads were a disaster. The governor could clearly see that the province’s problems would continue well into the future.

A more enlightened and far sighted man would have recognised that if a relatively small injection of funds could turn a desert into an oasis as had been done in Ashloko, then other such nearby valleys could also be brought to bear fruit.

Unfortunately, Governor Trong was a venal man with a narrow view of his world. All he could think about was where to find the money to pay the tax levy that President Lattua insisted upon each quarter and the consequences for him if he failed to to so.

His driver swerved to avoid a herd of goats who were munching on the meagre strands of grass that grew along the side of the pothole riddled ‘highway.’ The sudden lurch caused Trong to hit his head on his side window and he swore loudly, more out of frustration than pain, and cursed his bad luck.