The Garden of Burning Sand

“Ever heard of Nyambo Energy?” he inquired.

She stared at him. “What’s Nyambo’s interest in the Batoka Gorge?”

“I don’t know the precise terms of the deal. But I have a theory.”

Zoe leaned forward intently. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“You know the story of Batoka, I take it?” he began. “Zimbabwe and Zambia are in crisis mode; there isn’t enough electricity to power the grid. The Zambezi River is the obvious savior, but Zambia won’t invest in another hydroelectric project until Zimbabwe pays off its Rhodesia debt. Zimbabwe threatens to go forward alone, but nobody believes Mugabe has the money to make it happen. In comes Frederick Nyambo with an offer to cover the debt and start construction. Everyone thinks he’s crazy. Why invest in a floundering state like Zimbabwe?”

“Unless the floundering state offers you something you can’t refuse,” she said. “Like a kickback from the sale of power.”

Whitaker looked at her closely. “Or a stake in the power company itself. Zimbabwe is considering privatizing its public utility. If Nyambo were to acquire a majority stake—”

“Then he would be entitled to a large portion of the profits.”

“Exactly. It’s a gambit fifteen years in the making.”

Zoe narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Whitaker folded his hands. “Zimbabwe commissioned its first private power project in 1996. Nyambo Energy was the contractor. When the Batoka project ran into the debt roadblock and privatization stalled, Frederick Nyambo directed the commercialization of Zambia’s public utility as Minister of Energy. The way I see it, he’s been playing both sides of the fence, lobbying the Zambian and Zim governments to divest ownership of the utilities while positioning himself as the heir apparent.”

Zoe was astonished. Frederick Nyambo was either a financial daredevil or one of the shrewdest entrepreneurial visionaries in Africa—or both.

“Anyone need another drink?” Kelly asked, over the din of intersecting conversations.

Whitaker held up his glass. “I’ll take some more red.”

Zoe met Joseph’s eyes. “Will you walk with me?”

They left the yard by the front gate and took the path that led to the pool. The gardens were empty and the dark water still.

“Batoka is near Victoria Falls,” she said. “I wonder if there’s a connection to Bella.”

Joseph shook his head. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence. Frederick’s interest in building a hydro plant on the Zambezi has no relation to his son’s appetite for prostitutes.”

“Can I ask you a question? I want an honest answer.”

“Of course.”

“Will the courts give us a fair trial?”

He met her eyes. “Nyambo isn’t invincible. Every adversary has a weakness.”

She stared at him, wondering at the uncanny symmetry between his words and her father’s so long ago. “Someone once told me the same thing. He called it the Rule of Achilles.”

Joseph smiled. “Whoever he was, he was right.”





PART TWO





A clear conscience fears no accusation.




—African proverb





Bella




Lusaka, Zambia

July, 2004

The air in the bar was warmer than the night itself. So many bodies pressed together on the dance floor, it felt like a pocket of summer in the middle of winter. She was dancing near the center of the crowd, as she did when she was looking for clients. Everyone could see her here. She was wearing red—her favorite color. Her dress was a slinky thing, poorly suited to the cold but a magnet for attention. The song they were playing was new to her, but it had the sort of thumping beat that infused her with courage.

Bella knew everyone at Alpha: the bartenders, the regular customers, and the girls. On Saturday nights, there was at least one girl for every man in the place. The competition was cutthroat, and Bella trusted no one but Doris. The price of a transaction was influenced by many factors: the duration of the encounter, the presence or absence of a condom, the need for a hotel room, and the visible means of the client. To Bella, the client mattered more than anything. She charged foreigners more than Zambians, coloreds more than blacks, Zambians with nice watches more than those without, and so on. The system worked because demand for her services was high. Even at twenty-seven, she was still one of the prettiest girls in the room.

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