BAMAKO, Aribert Raphael [read out loud books .TXT] 📗

applications will be processed as soon as some of the irregularities in the submissions have been corrected.”
“Do we know what he means by ‘irregularities’?”
“No, not really. Kane says he wants to see someone empowered to assume responsibilities for these applications. He says Savoi hasn’t given them all the documentation they needed or … something like that anyway.”
“Okay, I’ll see about that when I get there. Anything else I should know before I go?”
“Yes…” He hesitated. “There are rumours floating around…” Silence. “Talya, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here. But what do you mean by ‘rumours floating around’?”
“Just what I’ve said. Somebody’s been saying that we’re about to start mining several sites in Northwest Mali. They say we’ve got as many as a dozen concessions up there and that we’ve found gold.”
Talya was stunned, to put it mildly. “That’s ridiculous! You know as well as I do we haven’t got any permits to do anything. And who’s been spreading these rumours anyway?”
“I have no idea. But you know people down here—they’d say anything to show they’d know more than the next man.” He sounded embarrassed.
She hated gossips, and poor Jean-Claude felt the brunt of her irritation when she assaulted him over the line. “We need to know who’s been spreading these rumours. Damn it, you’re right there. You should know who has been doing all the talking and you should have told James or me. At least you should’ve mentioned something in those reports you’ve been sending…”
“Hold on, Talya. I’ve told you these are only rumours and they shouldn’t amount to anything. That’s why I didn’t mention it before. Anyway, it’s not like people are shouting from rooftops.” They might as well have.
“Do you have any idea what this sort of speculation could do to our stock? You and I, my friend, would not have a job by the weekend. Do you realize that?” If the letter to James was anything to go by, the damaging flood of speculations had possibly begun. “Listen, I’m sorry to jump on you like this, but this isn’t something we could correct easily, and you know it.” Her anger was abating slightly. “I’ll talk to James before I leave and he’ll probably issue a press release to stave off any possible repercussion.”
“But, but … I really didn’t think these gossips would reach the stock exchange from here.” His discomfiture was audible now.
“Okay, let’s hope you’re right. Don’t worry about it for now. We’ll get to the bottom of this one way or the other. Just keep your hat on until I get there, and please, tell Monsieur Kane that I’ll meet with him as soon as he’ll be able to see me. Oh, one more thing, have you seen Savoi?”
“No, I haven’t seen him anywhere, but he’s been around, that’s for sure.”
Talya apologized once more for her outburst and hung up.
4
In the early seventies, Talya’s father, a physician, decided to go and cure the ills of Africa. Through a tireless dedication to his work, he unwittingly showed his daughter what a young girl should never see. The misery and the pain of fighting for mere survival were staring her in the face, around her, every day. She saw people implore for pity and simple kindness or attention to their never-ending sickness. She saw humans reduced to animal-like forms by diseases and horrible living conditions. The Dark Continent was bleeding from the scars of colonization. It was suffering from a long, incurable disease called ‘Progress’.
The first time she returned to Africa after spending several years in Europe, going to college and hesitantly taking her first steps into the business world, Talya found that modernization had trespassed on the ancient continent. It had helped several countries emerge from the anarchy of independence. Wasn’t it Churchill who once remarked, “Independence was an unwelcome disruption to nations which prior to the First World War had shared a common economy, government and laws”?
As the years marched on, unfortunately, progress and poverty became bedfellows. Today, many people are merely subsisting in slums that emerged from the vestige of dead colonies, while many others are living in luxury homes mushrooming from foreign investments. This atmosphere breeds corruption, which, bar a few exceptions, is now running rampant almost everywhere throughout Africa.

On her way to Mali, since there were no connecting flights to Bamako on the day, Talya decided, with James’s approval, to stop over in Dakar; the capital of Senegal situated at the western-most point of Africa. This city is a relic of an Old French settlement with busy streets and narrow sidewalks, where people jostled to fray a passage amid the dense horde of cars, buses, donkeys, horse-drawn carts and hobbling beggars. Even the many large tree-lined thoroughfares bearing such names as ‘Avenue George Pompidou’ or ‘Boulevard Charles de Gaulle’ ail from the seldom-interrupted traffic jams.
Throughout the years of abundance and hardship, this old city kept its charm. In Dakar you could find the most luxurious mansions abutting the poorest shacks and the cleanest beaches strewn among the filthiest fishing coves, and not unlike a small version of Marseille, with its very busy port, markets everywhere, selling everything—if you need it, you’ll find it in Dakar.
Yet, Talya had another reason for visiting the Old Marseille. Three months before her departure, a man who, by all accounts, was seeking to find a mining partner, paid a visit to Carmine. He was a handsome, tall African man. He walked down the corridor leading to the boardroom with a graceful, yet purposeful stride. The broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waistline hinted at the man’s muscular stature. However, the two long scars on his left cheek, deeply etched on his coffee-coloured skin, distracted Talya from noticing the tentative and somewhat timid smile that brightened his face when he came near. His allure and manner exuded charm, but his eyes reflected anxiety and distrust. His name was Ahmed Hjamal. He came to Vancouver in need of professional assistance. Apparently, he had planned and had begun the construction of a gold-processing plant in Senegal and now wanted to engage Carmine and hire their technical knowledge.
James and Talya met with him. During the meeting, Ahmed Hjamal showed his pretentious side as well as his grandiloquent egotism. James told him at once that his company was not for hire but he also made it clear that the Directors could look into a form of association that would eventually benefit all parties concerned. Monsieur Hjamal wanted nothing to do with that offer. He wanted control. He had money, he said. He wanted to buy the knowledge he did not have. The meeting ended quickly, and their guest showed his displeasure by marching out of the office without awarding another glance to his hosts or to the bewildered receptionist; perhaps understandably so, since he had travelled to Vancouver intending to buy help and was now going home empty handed. Whatever this man wanted or coveted in life, this man got. He would not easily take ‘no’ for an answer.
5
Richard went through the double doors of the Eaton Centre quickly. The temperature had dropped drastically the night before, and the walk from the parking lot nearby chilled him to the bones. He could have parked underground but it was quicker this way.
As he entered the restaurant, he spotted Hjamal immediately. He was impeccably dressed as usual. His investments must have paid dividends, Richard thought. That was the thing about Africa, you made it big, or you died a pauper—or both.
Richard sat down and looked at the African inquisitively—he waited.
Peering into the eyes of the man sitting opposite him, Hjamal said, “Here is your ticket,” handing Richard an envelope.
“Not so fast,” Richard retorted, pushing away the envelope from under his nose. “I haven’t said that I’ll go back. I want some explanation first.”
“What sort of explanation?” Hjamal asked, leaning to the back of his chair. “There’s nothing to explain.”
“You said on the phone that ‘all will be made clear’. I need some sort of assurance from you. I don’t want the same problems as I had the last time I was working for you.”
“Correction—last time you were at the site I was not your employer, this time I am. You work for me now.”
“Again, I should remind you that I haven’t said I’d go back.”
“The envelope contains your contract, the advance, and your return fare—what other assurance do you want?”
“How much?”
“What I consider a fair salary.”
“How much?”
“Look for yourself—”
Richard grabbed the envelope. He opened it and gasped.
“I thought that it would sway your decision somewhat,” said the African with a faint smile crossing his lips.
“Yeah, it sways it all right, but let me hear what I have to do for that much money.”
Hjamal told him.
6
Following her meeting with Hjamal, two weeks later, Talya received a phone call from “a friend,” the man said. His name was Abdul Rasheed. He asked her if she could assist Hjamal in his venture.
“Again!” she uttered with annoyance. “I thought we made it quite clear during our meeting. Carmine is not for hire.”
“Yes, yes, so you said … but, if you could, we would appreciate your assistance in helping matters along. We would like to find a company that we could engage to do the job and complete the building of the plant.”
“Mr. Rasheed, let me say this: I’ll look into it for you. And if I find a company ready to take a look at your proposal I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you. Your assistance will be much appreciated.”
After a few parting words, Talya slammed the receiver down in sheer exasperation. At the time, she remembered thinking that she, definitely, did not like the man’s voice or his smooth appeal. They sent shivers down her spine.
Why doesn’t he take a hike? Why indeed? Abdul Rasheed’s persistence was peculiar. On the other hand, she felt Ahmed Hjamal failed to divulge vital information when he came to Vancouver. In the end, during one last conversation with this Monsieur Rasheed—he had called a couple more times in between—she had arranged to meet with Monsieur Hjamal in Dakar.

7
The aircraft landed at Léopold Sédar Senghor International Airport in the middle of the night. Talya had not been there in many years. What she remembered of Dakar’s airport—formerly known as Yoff’s Airport—had nothing to do with what she saw when she alighted from the plane. The terminal building was modern, well organized and very well lit. A bus came to fetch the passengers from the aircraft and carried them two hundred yards to the entrance marked ‘arrivals’.
She walked in with the herd toward the immigration desks. She filled out the forms and after fifteen minutes of waiting in line, she presented her passport to a man in khaki uniform. He stamped the first blank page available, asked her where she was staying and waved her to move on. Abdul Rasheed had told her that he (or someone) would meet her in the arrivals’ lounge. She doubted she could rely on that promise. She was right. There was a handful of people waiting for passengers and holding pieces of cardboard with the name of their party on it. None remotely resembled hers.
Coming out of the immigration enclosure, Talya was assailed by porters;