The President’S Anointed

By Sangani Harawa

The Presidents term of office is coming to an end and he is ineligible for re-election. A litany of corruption scandals and human rights violations haunts him of potential prosecution once out of office. He must gamble between the unpopular decision of manipulating the constitution to secure another term of office or carefully anoint a successor who will shelter him from prosecution.

This novel is a political thriller that unveils the mystery behind some presidents passionate disinterest to leave office even at the expiry of their tenures. It is intertwined with shrewd political maneuvering from State Houses to surreptitious locales across the country, espionage and counterespionage, and climaxes with The Presidents Anointeds illicit relationship with a minor

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496985439

Sangani Harawa

Sangani Harawa is a Malawian and has published several short stories in local newspapers in Malawi. His short story, “What Goes Around,” was published in a Malawi Writers Union anthology entitled “The Bachelor of Chikanda.”

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© 2014 Sangani Harawa. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/07/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8542-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8543-9 (e)

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Contents

Author’s Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

A special tribute to the late Jika Nkolokosa and Chipiliro Matiya, highly talented, pleasant and humble men who had shared with me their literary skills but passed away before this novel was published.

May their souls rest in peace!

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

This novel is inspired by the common leadership succession quandaries across Africa, especially when the terms of office for incumbent Presidents are on the verge of expiring. While some of the locales and institutions are real, all characters and events are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any living or dead persons is purely coincidental.

I am indebted to several people who had contributed in various ways for the successful accomplishment of this project. Nonetheless, I wish to acknowledge in a special way Jika Nkolokosa, Emily Mkamanga, Ernest Mdzinga and Mbiliyawaka Kapanga for their editorial input. Chipiliro Matiya and Tithokoze Khonyongwa of BECH Media for the cover page. Vincent Nhlema for the author’s photo. Madalitso, Alinane and Wongani for their benevolence. Clayton Kagunda for enriching my understanding of the post independence History of Malawi. And the talented team of Authorhouse Publishing.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?

Jeremiah 17 verse 9

PROLOGUE

20th October 2003, Lilongwe

THE President’s Aide-de-Camp, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Malawi Defence Force, was disturbed when the President’s Top Priority line rang at half past one in the night, and the caller was the Director General of Special Branch. ‘I must see the President now.’

‘The President is not feeling too well,’ the Aide-de-Camp replied.

‘He won’t forgive both of us if I don’t meet him.’

‘I’m sure it should really be very urgent for you to call this time. Allow me to get back to you.’

‘Time is running out. Why don’t I drive over as you’re setting up the meeting to save time?’

‘He might refuse to see you…’

‘It won’t matter as long as we’ve tried.’

‘I’ll speak to the Guard Commander now.’

The Director General drove from the operation’s makeshift headquarters in Area 3 to State House in Area 9. It wasn’t too unusual for him to meet the President during weird hours. He was held up in a lounge until the Chief-of-Staff appeared, fully dressed in his regulation suit, ‘The President will see you in his quarters.’

The President was still in his pyjamas and leaning on the headboard when the Director General walked into his bedroom. ‘McLeod…is everything alright?’ he wondered.

‘We have a problem, bwana.’

‘Sit here,’ the President pointed to a seat a State House steward had set close to the bed.

‘It’s about our Operation Acid Test. Remember Paul Anderson was scheduled for a business dinner with Anusa on a major test?’

‘You tipped us.’

‘I’m afraid the news is not too good…’

‘Anusa failed the test?’

‘I don’t know. The bad news is Anderson died in an automobile accident just before midnight.’

The President digested the shock momentarily and inquired in a feeble tone, ‘What happened?’

‘He didn’t report at our office as planned so I became suspicious and found his vehicle upside down by the traffic lights at Nature Sanctuary. I’ve personally confirmed his death at the morgue.’

The President sighed heavily, ‘I must be alone for a while.’ He pressed a button on the sideboard. His Aide-de-Camp and Guard Commander walked in immediately and led the Director General out. They waited in an adjoining lounge for nearly half an hour before the President asked for the Director General. This time the President was seated on his bed, his feet on the Scottish rug, and he looked more composed. ‘Give me the details,’ he ordered.

The Director General narrated the incident as the President listened attentively, without interruption.

‘It’s too late to do anything worthwhile at the moment,’ the President began. ‘Let’s sleep over it. Meanwhile use that phone,’ it was a silver-plaited antique handset on the sideboard. ‘…to inform the Five of this calamity and call for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning at eight.’

The Minister of Finance was fast asleep in his official residence in the Capital when his wife passed him the telephone handset at twenty minutes past two in the morning. The Minister couldn’t sleep anymore.

The Secretary General of the ruling party was fast asleep in a riverfront resort along Shire River at Liwonde on party errands when he got the message at half past two in the morning. He delegated the errands to the party’s Organizing Secretary accompanying him and was in the backseat of his official Toyota Prado on M1 heading back to the Capital.

The Minister of Home Affairs was asleep in the deluxe Ryalls Hotel in Blantyre the night prior to officially opening a workshop on Community Policing when his mobile phone rang at twenty-three minutes to three. He delegated the task to the Inspector General of the National Police Service, who was one of the dignitaries to make keynote speeches. The Minister planned to board the six a.m. shuttle at Chileka International Airport to the Capital.

The President’s brother-in-law had always been a stone-throw from the President. And as such, was at his mansion in Area 10 when he received the call at a quarter-to-three.

CHAPTER 1

20th April 2003, Presidential Palace, Blantyre

THE dignitaries were chauffeur-driven in their elegant Mercedes Benzes to the portico entrance of the palace. State House stewards in regulation suits led them into the foyer, climbing a flight of stairs straight to a spacious drawing room lit with silver-plated chandeliers, walls embellished with neoclassical wallpaper from Scotland and a thick red Arabian carpet. They occupied white Georgian couches facing the imposing wingchair with gold armrests, its Presidential Seal engraved on the backrest.

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SEATED on the right of the wingchair was the Minister of Finance doubling as a Member of Parliament for the ruling party. He was Dr. Victor Gama, boasting of two uninterrupted decades in cabinet in the ministries of Economic and Planning, Commerce and Industry, and his incumbent portfolio. He was renowned for extensive pro-poor national budgets such that a controversial foreign journalist once labeled him a Capitalist in a Socialist’s garbs!

Jericho Masina was a Member of Parliament and the ruling party’s Secretary General. He was nicknamed The Fixer within the party’s National Executive Committee for his notable achievements in silencing rebellious politicians and muzzling the media whenever the party’s leadership or government blundered, tasks that contributed to the party’s successes in the consecutive two contentious general elections.

Dr. Nicholas Honde was Minister of Home Affairs, a Member of Parliament and the ruling party’s Director of Campaign, which meant propaganda too! He had been a former university professor and researcher in political science in Poland, Hungary and Soviet Union at the climax of Cold War before the President had poached him to strengthen his cabinet with rare skills.

Lastly, was the President’s brother-in-law, Mr. Grivanzio Selemani. His job description or title either in government or the ruling party’s National Executive Committee was unclear but he was the omnipresent figure around the President within or abroad, on official or private errands, disclosed or undisclosed. His presence in the government and the ruling party’s uppermost circles in a vague capacity annoyed many although nobody dared to express their reservations for obvious reasons!

This evening’s agenda stirred a dreadful atmosphere. They were all pensive and droopy. The meeting was supposed to start in forty-five minutes. The President’s closest people customarily arrived at least an hour earlier to avoid last minute setbacks for the President was too punctilious.

The last visitor was one of the most feared men in the country, arriving in a left-hand drive white Volvo with private registration number plate. He was Mr. McLeod Jawadu, Director General of Special Branch: the notorious de facto intelligence arm of the police.

He acknowledged his colleagues before occupying his designated seat. The President was too systematic that he wanted his guests seated on specific seats. He was too particular that slight variations in the percentage of cotton in his pairs of socks and underwear, the temperature on air conditioners in his study room could cost the responsible culprits a severe rebuke!

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A knock echoed thrice on an inconspicuous door before opening, forewarning the men in the room of the President’s imminent entry. They stood up and began clapping in the same rhythm: it was the official token of subservience to the President, conceived by one of his earliest sycophants. He was impeccably smart in a black suit, a white shirt, and a red necktie but hobbling on a clutch, engulfed by his Aide-de-Camp in an equally dark suit and the Guard Commander in PMF’s combat gear.

He recognized their loyalty with an adulatory smile, ‘Good afternoon comrades?’

‘Good afternoon sir?’ they chorused like kindergarten kids reciting a melodious poem.

The two adjutants for the President left in line with the classification of the meeting to wait for him on the bench outside the door.

The President caught them staring on his clutches. ‘I developed a harm string last week in the palace gardens. I was walking my dog, aging I guess.’

‘Get well soon sir,’ it might have been a popular phrase for the men to chorus again in a harmonic excellence.

‘Thank you…’ he turned to Dr. Victor Gama. ‘How are we faring in the treasury?’

Last month’s depreciation of the local currency had elicited a countrywide outcry. ‘There’s a significant improvement,’ he studied the President stealthily. It was rumoured that the President’s unwillingness to maintain eye contact was an omen for falling out of favour! ‘My ministry is forecasting a continued favourable performance into the subsequent quarter.’

‘I hope it’s not transitory.’

‘The outlook is promising with the world’s major coffee growing countries in South America and East Africa anticipating relatively lower yields against our record yields, and IMF remitting the second tranche under the Extended Credit Facility.’

‘Very good,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Comrades, get ready for not too palatable news in the forthcoming general elections,’ he paused and sighed heavily, ‘I am abolishing our plans to amend the constitution to allow my third term of office. Consequently, I will retire at the end of my tenure.’

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THE effect of the President’s disclosure sent the distinguished men to the edges of their wingchairs, sunk in a pool of shock, chocking with utmost disbelief. Yes, they knew that nothing earthly lasts forever but they were not psychologically prepared for the President’s retirement.

‘No, no, no,’ Mr. Jericho Masina recovered from the shock ahead of his comrades. ‘You must not retire bwana. You’re our country’s messiah.’

‘Our insistence to amend the constitution to allow me to contest for a third term of office will provoke riots in our major cities, tension in our already volatile parliament and the media will tear us apart.’

‘We can contain the pressure,’ Mr. Jericho Masina interjected the President passionately.

‘The international community is developing a sickening interest in our political affairs. I envisage our donors suspending their budgetary aid to spur an economic crisis to foment my unpopularity. I don’t want to put at stake lives of millions of my people…’

‘Our constitution stipulates a maximum of two five year consecutive terms,’ Dr. Victor Gama began. ‘In the USA and Ghana it’s a maximum of two four year terms. A prime minister in the United Kingdom can contest as long as he or she is popular. The international community is therefore bound to respect any legitimate constitutional amendment.’

‘I don’t want another election ordeal…’ he shook his head firmly. ‘…competing with these excited lads that went to the schools we built, taught by professors we hired, worked in companies we established, and eventually joined politics the other day after tasting our money. I will be stooping too low.’

‘Please bwana, reconsider your decision for the party’s sake,’ Mr. Jericho Masina folded his hands on the chest, pleading painstakingly.

‘I expect dismal chances of winning anyway. Our people have a peculiar appetite for change lately. It is too late to bring any further meaningful development to this country.’

‘Mr. President,’ tears gathered in the eyes of Dr. Nicholas Honde. ‘You’re the only one who can hold out to the opposition in the elections…’

‘My health is failing me. The hectic itineraries of this office are worsening my health. I want to hand over power, retire from politics and return to the village to enjoy again my good old life of a peasant. I want to personally tend to my cattle and vegetables …’

The men hoped that the anthills of painkillers and antibiotics the President was swallowing were not corrupting his sanity!

‘I have hardly known privacy for decades…’ he continued. ‘…always thronged by people. I want to enjoy a normal life once more before I die…do my own shopping, self-driving. My driving license expired in 1965. I am not sure if I can still drive. The roads were less busy then. You could practically count cars on the M1 between Blantyre and Lilongwe. Please do not exclude a chauffeur when deliberating my retirement package in parliament!’

The men’s faces were expressionless like statues yet the tension was palpable.

‘I will never leave the party in limbo. Can a wise father forsake his own child?’

‘No sir,’ the men chorused.

‘I will use my wisdom, connectivity and wealth for us to remain in power.’

There was an abrupt subtle shifting on the seats, the folding and unfolding of hands…

He waited for the tension to subside. ‘I have dreaded the prospect of my retirement because it puts me in an awkward position to pick one from our several capable comrades. However I cannot shirk from this responsibility lest it will be too late.’

He coughed and cleared his throat again. ‘It is imprudent to make vital decisions based on sentimental reasons. We cannot afford to lose the next elections,’ he studied the men.

They nodded enthusiastically.

‘The future leadership of the party surpasses our individual aspirations. We need a candidate without links to our dirty past to appeal to skeptics that our party is indeed genuinely transformed…reaping benefits of the positive attributes of our regime yet untainted by our dark past.’

None of the men twitched or blinked and a tummy rumbled at the shocking realization of the missed opportunity.

‘I want you…’ he pointed at Mr. McLeod Jawadu. ‘…to provide full information on the Minister of Agriculture at our next meeting.’

CHAPTER 2

‘OH shit!’ the Minister of Finance cursed instinctively on the backseat of his Mercedes Benz upon passing through the last gate of the Presidential Palace. Both his chauffeur and bodyguard ignored him. Were they not habituated to his soliloquies? Probably the big bwana had roasted him!

He was unarguably the most hurt for he’d not only coveted the country’s presidency for so long and felt was an outright successor of the President. It was common knowledge that he commanded a lot of respect amongst his peers such that, in the absence of the President, he was the only one who could tame the party’s National Executive Committee or cabinet meetings gone haywire.

Wasn’t he the most senior cabinet minister? The President relied on him heavily. A day hardly elapsed without the President talking to him either face-to-face or by phone. Rarely did the President make major decisions without consulting or briefing him.

He’d fought gallantly for the President’s survival. How many nights had he stayed by the President’s desk while jointly resolving the country’s crises; exploring potential funding sources for civil servants salaries when the conventional coffers were literally empty, strategizing on diplomatic relations with vital international allies disenfranchised with the regime, planning alongside heads of security machineries on combating the sporadic political instabilities, managing national food shortages and environmental disasters…

Much as the President was justified to nominate a new-kid-on-the-block to enhance the party’s chances of winning in the impending elections, he felt betrayed for being completely overlooked. He wished the President had risked him as a vote of confidence and to make amends for his incredible triumphs against the several critical economic dynamics that had inundated the regime for so long.

‘Are we going straight to Mount Soche Hotel?’ the minister’s bodyguard wondered as they were passing Blantyre Sports Club’s golf course.

The question ejected him from his reverie: he figured change of environment would disrupt his productive thinking mode. ‘Let’s drive for a while. Turn right at the traffic lights.’

The Mercedes Benz passed the Magistrate Court, Old Town Hall, Delamere House, Blantyre Sports Club’s main entrance, Victoria Hotel, Mudi River Bridge…

‘Chikwawa Road,’ he ordered.

At least the President should’ve tipped me…sought my input rather than hearing the news with the rest…

The Mercedes Benz passed Sunny Side, a premier residential suburb in the city. Its countrywide uniqueness was the predominant Colonial-style villas and the abundant rare species of trees. They took a straight road to Chikwawa at the roundabout at Catholic Institute more popularly known by its abbreviation, passing the turnoff to Moth Club, Southend School…

The President’s anointed was a brilliant fellow, one of the country’s crème-de-la-crème though from a different generation. There was an ideological gulf between the two generations and he feared it could render his generation expendable in an Anusa Limu’s presidency.

His generation had experienced the colonial government’s diabolic policies, had participated in the fight for independence and was directly involved in laying the foundation for establishing the current republican government. On the other hand, Anusa Limu’s generation was the first beneficiary of the country’s independence: first cohort of students in the primary and secondary schools the colonialists had forbidden the indigenous, first cohort of students at the country’s then only University of Malawi.

The sharp variations in the upbringing of the two generations alone fomented their ideological gulf and the cabinet was the battleground. Didn’t the two fronts clash frequently over the privatization of perennial loss-making state corporations and increasing subventions to the health and educational sectors to reduce government expenditure? The new generation lobbied simply for an enabling environment for the private sector to render goods and services at competitive prices driven by market forces.

The two generations differed radically on security. The old generation, perhaps coming from the background of the independence struggle and exposure to the debauchery covert national security games played by the respected global powers during the Cold War advocated for a big army, police, and intelligence apparatuses whereas the new generation’s uncontroversial post independence’s legacy influenced their push for lean funding in security to divert the significant billions into public infrastructure as they presumed no foreseeable serious threat to justify the purported extravagance.

Foreign policy was another contentious issue. The country had intense relations with countries and political movements dating to the independence struggle, some of whose relations were deemed costly now because the allies had either deviated from the noble ideals that had prompted their relationship or were internationally condemned due to hostile relationships with the world’s movers and shakers.

Zimbabwe was a proper example. The regime had collaborated in various ways with ZANU Party and its Robert Mugabe et al in their concerted efforts to liberate both countries from the colonial government when Zimbabwe was Southern Rhodesia and Malawi was Nyasaland. The new generation lacked this hindsight hence lobbied for austerity measures against such historical allies.

The Minister of Finance feared for his political future if the leadership mantle went to the new generation. By now the Mercedes Benz was nearing the sharp bends in the highlands overlooking Lower Shire plains towards Shire River which empties its waters into the great Zambezi River in Mozambique which finally empties its waters into Indian Ocean when he ordered his chauffeur to return to Blantyre.

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AROUND the same time, parents of students of Mchesi Community Day Secondary School gathered in the school’s hall for fundraising of the school’s library. Seated at the high table was Guest of Honour, Minister of Agriculture nestled between the constituency’s MP and the school’s headmaster.

Student groups entertained the audience with poems, secular and religious songs, traditional and contemporary dances. Ushers served snacks and refreshments on trays and glasses at the