Boom Town Legacy

By Kenneth C Ryeland

Boom Town Legacy is a story about the corrosive effects of corruption on a young man new to the ways of 1960s post-colonial Africa. In 1967 Charlie Robinson is tasked to open a new branch for the company in the swampy delta region of Nibana in West Africa, where oil has recently been discovered. New to the ways of Africa, Charlie struggles to come to terms with the tribalism, nepotism and, above all, the corruption that confronts him on all sides. Despite all the difficulties and setbacks, he eventually succeeds and the business thrives, but civil war looms and soon all Charlie’s efforts are undone by a single incident. He survives the devastation and ponders on his future when an opportunity to make himself comfortably rich suddenly presents itself. Having put together a plan, Charlie embarks on a long journey through Africa to cover his tracks. He eventually ends up in Europe where he uses the secrecy imbedded in the banking system to his advantage. After some months he returns to a different part of Africa and eventually makes his way to Ian Smith’s rebel Rhodesia, where he hopes to settle down to a quiet, anonymous and newly married life as a tobacco farmer. However, an incident at his farm initiates a period of extreme pressure on Charlie and as tragedy strikes his life disintegrates and his past begins to catch up with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth C Ryeland
• Release date: Jun 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005773724

Kenneth C Ryeland

After 20 years living and working in Africa, the Far East and the Middle East, the author returned to the UK and occupied various senior engineering and research posts within the motor and insurance industries before retiring in 2004. He is a widower, has three grown children and likes gardening, writing, cross-country walking, classic British motorcycles and fine red wines.

Book preview

Boom Town Legacy

A story about the corrosive effects of corruption on a young man new to the ways of Africa.

by

Kenneth C Ryeland

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 Kenneth C Ryeland

Discover other titles by Kenneth C Ryeland at

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/travelman

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This book is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Map of the Republic of Nibana

Author’s Note

There is no country called Nibana on the West African coast. In fact, there is no country quite like Nibana anywhere in the world; it is merely a figment of my imagination.

This story draws on my own experiences gained as a result of several years living and working in West Africa during the immediate post-colonial era of the 1960s. Though the story is a work of fiction; some of the situations described are loosely based on actual events.

The lifestyles, attitudes and opinions expressed by the characters are prevalent of the era and all the characters – with the exception of those people of note referred to by their true names – are fictitious and not intended to represent any specific living people.

Kenneth C. Ryeland

Berkshire, England.

June 2021

Lady Luck

Luck is flirty, luck is coy,

And she may go with any boy.

Respect and cherish her and she’ll stay

All through your life ‘til the very last day.

But if you do not treat her well,

She will consign you right to hell.

1

The twin-engine Piper Aztec skimmed perilously close to the tops of the palm trees as it came in to land at the Warunda airstrip. It had rained heavily an hour since and Charlie Robinson could see a lot of water lying on the surface of the crude laterite runway. He swallowed nervously, hoping the pilot had recovered fully from his boozy session at the Laguna Island Club the night before and could maintain full control over the aircraft as he made the final approach.

Charlie knew that landing an aircraft was the most dangerous part of flying and, having heard so many horrific stories about the antics of the local bush pilots, he had good reason to be scared. Especially since the behaviour of this particular pilot had given him no cause whatsoever to disbelieve any of the sorry tales.

Their departure from Laguna Airport had started out badly, to say the least. The plane had taken off without any luggage on-board and the pilot, though reluctant, had been forced to return to the airport when the error was pointed out by one of the passengers. Then, as they were climbing away from Laguna Airport for the second time in an hour, Charlie, who’d been sitting next to the Australian pilot, noticed that the two fuel gauges on the dashboard were reading empty. Not wishing to alarm the other four passengers or appear stupid, he simply sat in the co-pilot’s seat to which he’d been assigned and allowed the fuel gauge needles to mesmerise him, as they bounced rhythmically on the stop pins. However, fear and anxiety soon overcame him and he felt duty-bound to quietly mention his concern to the pilot.

After all, if the bloody man forgot to have the luggage loaded, he could also forget to have the aircraft fuelled up, thought Charlie.

Having decided to do something, Charlie leant forward and simply pointed at the gauges. Any form of dialogue over the roar of the engines was impossible, so he relied solely on hand signals and facial expressions.

In the true tradition of all irresponsible bush pilots, the Australian did no more than stare wide-eyed at Charlie, put the aircraft into a steep dive and then began cursing the ground staff for not having filled the fuel tanks. When everyone on-board was sufficiently rigid with fear he pulled out of the dive, laughed loudly, flicked the tank changeover switch a few times, pointed to the gauges that now showed nearly full and shouted at Charlie.

Don’t try to teach me how to fly this bloody aircraft you stupid pommy bastard. The fuel tank changeover switch is a bit crook, that’s all.

Charlie glanced at the other passengers behind him, felt himself colour up and sank into his seat, sick with embarrassment.

Later in the flight, to show there were no hard feelings between them, the pilot had let go of his control column and casually instructed Charlie to fly the aircraft utilising the co-pilot’s column. Though never having flown a plane before and taken by complete surprise, let alone frightened out of his wits, Charlie managed to prevent the Aztec from plunging into the mangrove swamp, but failed miserably to fly a straight and level course. The pilot waited for several agonising minutes before taking control of his column again, by which time the other passengers, weary of his childish and dangerous pranks, began screaming abuse at the pilot from the rear of the cabin.

By the time they’d reached the airstrip at Warunda, a heavy tropical rainstorm had just cleared the area and the landing strip was awash with surface water that was now steaming as the sun emerged from behind the storm clouds. Charlie, already a nervous wreck following the pilot’s odd antics earlier in the flight, was not inspired at the sight of so much water.

As the wheels touched the ground the little Aztec slewed and began to skid from side to side over the full width of the landing strip. Red laterite mud and water sprayed up from the surface and was blown on to the windscreen and fuselage by the wash from both propellers. The Australian cursed and struggled with the controls for what seemed like an age, only managing to master them just in time to prevent the aircraft from slithering off the narrow runway and plunging into the dense bush which lined the strip on each side.

Charlie, and indeed everyone else on-board, let out an audible sigh of relief when the pilot switched off the engines, grinned at them all and announced, quite unnecessarily, that they had arrived safely at Warunda.

Thankful that all the fun and games were over, Charlie made ready to disembark. However, just as the pilot opened his side door, one of the tough oilmen sitting directly behind tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned to acknowledge the beckoning, the sun-tanned grin on the Australian pilot’s face quickly disappeared when the oilman’s clenched fist smacked squarely into his mouth.

That, my friend, will teach you not to play around with my bloody life. You bastard son of a convict, said the oilman, wiping his bloodied fist on the back of the pilot’s clean white shirt.

The pilot made no attempt to retaliate or reply. He simply permitted himself to be helped down from his seat by one of the African ground staff, while Charlie and the rest of the passengers looked on with beaming smiles all over their faces.

2

Charlie Robinson had arrived in the Republic of Nibana at the beginning of April 1967. Five years after the West African state had been awarded its independence from Britain. He’d seen the job when undertaking his usual weekly scan of the vacancies advertised in the Daily Telegraph.

Both Charlie’s parents were dead and, having no siblings, he was all alone in the world. His job had occupied most of his attention for several years, so he was also a single man with no ties. However, he had always wanted to travel and see exotic places; so, rekindling his sense of adventure, Charlie decided to apply for the job immediately despite the somewhat nebulous description of it being offered by a British company operating ‘somewhere in West Africa’.

Several weeks later, much to his surprise, he received a reply asking him to attend an interview at the Savoy Hotel in London. All expenses paid.

One of Charlie’s many passions in life included vehicle engineering. He had left school at the age of 15 and served an apprenticeship with a major car and commercial vehicle distributor in the Midlands of England. After completing his training, he steadily rose through the ranks to become the senior service manager there. Being a fully qualified automotive engineer with lots of experience in the repair and maintenance side of the industry had been rewarding for Charlie. However, to add a challenge to his life, Charlie had recently decided to diversify, transferring to the planning department of his company and concentrating his talents on opening up new ventures on greenfield sites. Recently, however, the retail motor industry had experienced something of a slowdown in the Midlands and Charlie soon discovered that his company’s future expansion plans had been placed on hold until things picked up. Worried that the slowdown would last for a couple of years, Charlie began searching for a job with better prospects.

The Daily Telegraph job had called for someone with Charlie’s experience to work in West Africa, selling and maintaining British-made vehicles ranging from Land-Rovers to Leyland/Albion trucks/buses and Massey-Ferguson tractors.

Worried about his current position due to the downturn and more than ready for a change, Charlie had already convinced himself that he alone would best fit the job description as he boarded the early morning train at Birmingham’s New Street Station for the journey to London.

The interview began well, despite the fact that the company director who conducted the drawn-out procedure reminded Charlie of his old headmaster; a paranoid disciplinarian with a fetish for minute detail.

After a general chat about his previous experience and answering some technical questions, Charlie thought it was appropriate to enquire exactly where the job was located. When the director told him the name of the country in West Africa where the company had its operations, Charlie found it difficult to contain his feelings of shock and surprise.

Nibana! Isn’t there a lot of political trouble going on there, sir? said Charlie, uneasily.

The director waved his hand dismissively. He was used to such reactions from young men joining the company.

Yes, yes, but that was ages ago and the press exaggerated most of the stories, as usual. Still, I suppose I’d better tell you the facts. Then you can make up your own mind about it.

The director, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, continued.

"Since independence five years ago, Nibana has suffered three military coups, a spate of civil unrest, the like of which you’ve never seen before in your whole life, and they’re probably heading for civil war, if I’m any judge. Tribalism, that’s the problem. There are three main tribes in Nibana; The Yubas in the Western Region; the Obis in the Eastern Region and of course the Usmars in the largest region; The North. The Yubas are a noisy lot, always complaining and causing trouble. We used to call them ‘palavermen’ when I was stationed in Ndabi with the Royal West African Frontier Force (RWAFF) during the war. The Obis are a clever crowd, a very commercially orientated and enterprising people and that’s why the other two tribes are jealous of them. They’re generally quite successful at whatever they do. The old Usmar is an easy-going character, although quite ferocious soldiers if roused, as the early British colonisers soon discovered when they tried to annex the north in 1911. It took the British Army’s RWAFF expeditionary force from the south and several large cannons to subdue them at Kabala. However, the Usmar is quite content to let others organise things as long as there is no interference with his subsistence farming and his religion. They’re Muslims you see. The Yubas are a mix of Christians and Animists and the Obis are very devout Catholic Christians, so there lies another source of friction between the tribes. They all positively hate each other and the tribal chiefs are always vying for political control of the country. That’s why they’ve had so many military coups.