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Business in Africa

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CONTEMPORARY AFRICA

Nigeria, Zambia, Ghana, Ethiopia, Tanzania, Uganda and Mozambique, once among Africa’s poorest and most politically challenged states, are now among the best performers on the continent, with some of the highest growth rates and measures of gross domestic product (GDP) in the world.

This sea change in Africa’s fortunes has seen growing interest in the continent’s bounty from resource-hungry emerging markets – China and India key among them – for more than a decade. Standard Bank predicts that China’s investment could rise by 70 per cent from its 2009 figure to $50  billion by 2015 and that the volume of bilateral trade between China and Africa might rise to $300 billion by 2015.

China has been a key driver of the global commodities ‘super cycle’ that has been turning since the dawn of the new century. The heightened demand for Africa’s oil and minerals, due in part to China’s resource-intensive growth over the past decade, has been a trigger not just for growth, but for large investments in infrastructure as part of offset agreements for acquisition of those resources. New emerging market interest in Africa has also provided a catalyst for global investors to pay attention to what Africa has to offer. Executives who have been sitting on the fence are taking a closer look at the investment opportunities.

Since 2008, emerging market performance has stood in sharp relief to the relative decline of developed world economies following the global financial crisis that pushed investors to look for frontier markets with better potential. Africa, which has experienced average growth of more than four per cent for a decade, seems to fit the bill.

One clear signal of the way the world has changed is reflected in the appeal in 2011 by a former colonial master, Portugal, to its former colony, Angola, for investment to boost the eurozone country’s ailing economy. Angola has been one of the fastest growing economies in the world, with double-digit growth between 2004 and 2008, touching nearly 20 per cent in 2005. Angolan companies have already made significant investments into Portugal in the banking sector, telecommunications and energy and this appears set to rise as Portugal faces further GDP contraction.

Africa’s high population growth, of major concern to development experts a decade ago, is now regarded by some as a key driver of growth and new investment. It is seen as a ‘demographic dividend’ on the back of sustained economic growth across the continent – rather than as a crisis waiting to happen. The African Development Bank in 2011 stated that the size of Africa’s middle class, which it measures as being people of higher than the average income among Africans, but with a lower average than elsewhere, has tripled over the last 30 years to 313 million people, or about 30 per cent of the continent’s population.

Standard Bank of South Africa estimates that more than half of Africa’s population will be living in urban areas by 2030 and 60 per cent by 2050 when the population is expected to be two billion. This trend will have particular significance in already heavily populated countries such as Nigeria, where the cities are likely to have 140 million more people living in them by 2050, and South Africa and Angola, which could see up to 80 per cent of their people living in cities.

Urbanisation, too, was viewed as a major threat to Africa’s progress a decade ago but is now seen as an inevitable part of growth, providing opportunities in a range of sectors because of economies of scale and easy access to infrastructure – which are now considered to be tools in the advancement of socio-economic well-being. Urban poverty rates in Africa are about 35 per cent, compared to 52 per cent for rural areas.

Underpinning this new economic order is greater relative political stability. Peaceful governing transitions through elections have become the norm in many countries. Although Africa experienced two coups d’etat in 2012, in Mali and Guinea Bissau, the continent has generally become more adept at taking action against blatantly undemocratic actions – even though it has failed to act effectively on the subversion of democracy through rigged elections and human rights abuses in countries such as Zimbabwe. Nonetheless, several ‘liberation era’ leaders, many with dubious political records, are moving on and the door is opening to younger leaders more in tune with the growing numbers of young people that make up Africa’s population of one billion.

New technology has played a positive role. The impact of mobile phones has been significant, driving economic growth by enabling business activity at a new level. By 2012 there were more than 700 million mobile phone users in Africa and it is predicted that by 2015 the continent will have the highest mobile subscription rate in the world. This phenomenon has unleashed a range of new opportunities for Africa’s inhabitants in trade, banking, information flows, consumer messaging and other areas. New sea cables connecting Africa to the world have pushed up the availability of bandwidth by more than 60 per cent since 2010, albeit off a low base. The highest increase was in sub-Saharan Africa – 82 per cent to reach 368 Gbps – and in North Africa, which increased by 45 per cent to reach 433 Gbps.

Global brands are jostling for centre stage in an increasingly crowded marketplace as the African consumer becomes a target for international companies, particularly from developed countries, but also from emerging markets and Africa itself. Marketing executives say the message to African consumers needs to expand outwards from traditional media to social networks and mobile phones as people on the continent become increasingly sophisticated.

Multinationals from developed countries are positioning themselves for increased competition from emerging markets. Standard Chartered Bank, brewer Diageo and manufacturers Unilever and Nestlé are among the firms that are ramping up their investments. Nestlé has invested $446 million in Nigeria alone since 2003 and planned another investment of more than $80 million in 2012, with a view to doubling the size of its Nigerian business by 2015. Standard Chartered, which makes ten per cent of its profit from African operations, planned to double its number of branches in Nigeria in 2012 and is looking at expansion elsewhere on the continent, while Diageo has been on the acquisition trail to boost African sales, which already account for 14 per cent of total group sales and have shown annual growth of 15 per cent since 2007.

African companies, too, are growing and expanding. Corporate entities from South Africa, which has been a serious investor on the continent for almost two decades, retain a strong foothold in most sectors and a new wave of top executives from Africa’s biggest economy is rolling across the continent. In other large markets, the number of multinationals is growing as companies in Nigeria, Kenya and other places increasingly take a regional view and are setting up shop, both in their immediate hinterland and further afield.

These companies are mostly in a few sectors – financial services, agriculture and consumer goods. But there is also growth in oil and gas where, out of about 800 companies operating in the sector, more than 100 are African players – in addition to several dozen African state-owned oil companies.

Increasing amounts of private equity are chasing acquisitions and funds are seeing new interest from emerging markets as they exit thriving African companies. The growth of the African private sector has been one of the key changes over the past decade, with West and East African firms in banking, retail and manufacturing increasingly focusing on regional expansion.

Many governments have improved the operating environment for private investors. The World Bank’s Doing Business Index shows that African countries are among the fastest reformers in recent times, with 36 out of 46 countries measured between June 2010 and May 2011 having implemented reforms in at least one of the areas measured by this report. In the six years up to 2011, 43 sub-Saharan countries had made the regulatory environment more business friendly while steps had been taken to harmonise regional business regulation, for example with the 16 Francophone countries that are members of the Organisation for the Harmonisation of Business Law in Africa (OHADA).

African entrepreneurs have a new-found confidence, not least due to the ‘leap frog’ new technologies and media that have given them effective new business tools. Skilled Africans are returning to the continent to take up opportunities with both international and African companies, opportunities that are proliferating in an era of increasing pressure for local hire.

 

The Mystery of Mercy Close

Information about the book
I wouldn’t mind – I mean, this is the sheer irony of  the thing 
– but I’m the only person I know who doesn’t think it would 
be delicious to go into ‘someplace’ for ‘a rest’. You’d want to 
hear my sister Claire going on about it, as if  waking up one 
morning and finding herself  in a mental hospital would be 
the most delightful experience imaginable.
‘I’ve a great idea,’ she declared to her friend, Judy. ‘Let’s 
have our nervous breakdowns at the same time.’
‘Brilliant!’ Judy said.
‘We’ll get a double room. It’ll be gorgeous.’
‘Paint me a picture.’
‘Weeeeell. Kind people . . . soft, welcoming hands . . . 
whispering voices . . . white bed-linen, white sofas, white 
orchids, everything white . . .’
‘Like in heaven,’ Judy said.
‘Just like in heaven!’
Not just like in heaven! I opened my mouth to protest, but 
there was no stopping them.
‘. . . the sound of  tinkling water . . .’
‘. . . the smell of  jasmine . . .’
‘. . . a clock ticking in the near distance . . .’
‘. . . the plangent chime of  a bell . . .’
‘. . . and us lying in bed off our heads on Xanax . . .’
‘. . . dreamily gazing at dust motes . . .’
‘. . . or reading Grazia . . .’
‘. . . or buying Magnum Golds from the man who goes 
from ward to ward selling ice cream . . .’
But there would be no man selling Magnum Golds. Or 
any of  the other nice things either.
 
‘A wise voice will say –’ Judy paused for effect: ‘“Lay down 
your burdens, Judy.”’
‘And some lovely wafty nurse will cancel all our appointments,’ Claire said. ‘She’ll tell everyone to leave us alone. 
She’ll tell all the ungrateful bastards that we’re having a nervous breakdown and it was their fault and they’ll have to be a 
lot nicer to us if  we ever come out again.’
Both Claire and Judy had savagely busy lives – kids, dogs, 
husbands, jobs and an onerous, time-consuming dedication 
to looking ten years younger than their actual age. They were 
perpetually whizzing around in people carriers, dropping 
sons to rugby practice, picking daughters up from the dentist, racing across town to get to a meeting. Multitasking was 
an art form for them – they used the dead seconds stuck at 
traffic lights to rub their calves with fake-tan wipes, they 
answered emails from their seat at the cinema and they baked 
red velvet cupcakes at midnight while simultaneously being 
mocked by their teenage daughters as ‘a pitiful fat old cow’. 
Not a moment was wasted.
‘They’ll give us Xanax.’ Claire was back in her reverie.
‘Oh lovvvvely.’
‘As much as we want. The second the bliss starts to wear 
off, we’ll ring a bell and a nurse will come and give us a topup.’
‘We’ll never have to get dressed. Every morning they’ll 
bring us new cotton pyjamas, brand new, out of  the packet. 
And we’ll sleep sixteen hours a day.’
‘Oh sleep . . .’ 
‘It’ll be like being wrapped up in a big marshmallow 
cocoon; we’ll feel all floaty and happy and dreamy . . .’ 
It was time to point out the one big nasty flaw in their delicious vision. ‘But you’d be in a psychiatric hospital.’
Both Claire and Judy looked wildly startled. 
Eventually Claire said, ‘I’m not talking about a psychiatric 
hospital. Just a place you’d go for...a rest.’
‘The place people go for “a rest” is a psychiatric hospital.’
They fell silent. Judy chewed her bottom lip. They were 
obviously thinking about this.
‘What did you think it was?’ I asked.
‘Well . . . sort of  like a spa,’ Claire said. ‘With, you know 
. . . prescription drugs.’
‘They have mad people in there,’ I said. ‘Proper mad people. Ill people.’
More silence followed, then Claire looked up at me, her 
face bright red. ‘God, Helen,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re such a 
cow. Can’t you ever let anyone have anything nice?’
 
THURSDAY
I was thinking about food. Stuck in traffic, it’s what I do. 
What any normal person does, of  course, but now that I 
thought about it, I hadn’t had anything to eat since seven 
o’clock this morning, about ten hours ago. A Laddz song 
came on the radio for the second time that day – how about 
that for bad luck? – and as the maudlin syrupy harmonies 
filled the car I had a brief  but powerful urge to drive into a 
pole. 
There was a petrol station coming up on the left, the red 
sign of  refreshment hanging invitingly in the sky. I could 
extricate myself  from this gridlock and go in and buy a 
doughnut. But the doughnuts they sold in those places were 
as tasteless as the sponges you find at the bottom of  the 
ocean; I’d be better off just washing myself  with one. Besides, 
a swarm of  huge black vultures was circling over the petrol 
pumps and they were kind of  putting me off. No, I decided, 
I’d hang on and – 
Wait a minute! Vultures?
In a city? 
At a petrol station?
I took a second look and they weren’t vultures. Just seagulls. Ordinary Irish seagulls.
Then I thought: Ah no, not again.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled up outside my parents’ house, 
took a moment to gather myself, then started rummaging for 
a key to let myself  in. They’d tried to make me give it back 
when I moved out three years ago but – thinking strategically 
– I’d hung on to it. Mum had made noises about changing
the locks but seeing as she and Dad took eight years to decide 
to buy a yellow bucket, what were the chances that they’d 
manage something as complicated as getting a new lock? 
I found them in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking 
tea and eating cake. Old people. What a great life they had. 
Even those who don’t do t’ai chi. (Which I’ll get to.) 
They looked up and stared at me with barely concealed 
resentment.
‘I’ve news,’ I said.
Mum found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’
‘You don’t. We got rid of  you. We painted your room. 
We’ve never been happier.’
‘I said I’ve news. That’s my news. I live here.’
The fear was starting to creep into her face now. ‘You have 
your own place.’ She was blustering but she was losing conviction. After all, she must have been expecting this.
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Not as of  this morning. I’ve nowhere to 
live.’
‘The mortgage people?’ She was ashen. (Beneath her 
regulation-issue Irish-Mammy orange foundation.)
‘What’s going on?’ Dad was deaf. Also frequently confused. It was hard to know which disability was in the driving 
seat at any particular time.
‘She didn’t pay her MORTGAGE,’ Mum said, into his 
good ear. ‘Her flat’s been RECLAIMED.’
‘I couldn’t  afford to pay the mortgage. You’re making it 
sound like it’s my fault. Anyway, it’s more complicated than 
that.’ 
‘You have a boyfriend,’ Mum said hopefully. ‘Can’t you 
live with him?’
‘You’ve changed your tune, you rampant Catholic.’
‘We have to keep up with the times.’ 
I shook my head. ‘I can’t move in with Artie. His kids 
won’t let me.’ Not exactly. Only Bruno. He absolutely hated 
me but Iona was pleasant enough and Bella positively adored 
me. ‘You’re my parents. Unconditional love, might I remind 
you. My stuff is in the car.’ 
‘What! All of  it?’
‘No.’ I’d spent the day with two cash-in-hand blokes. The 
last few sticks of  furniture I owned were now stashed in a 
massive self-storage place out past the airport, waiting for 
the good times to come again. ‘Just my clothes and work 
stuff.’ Quite a lot of  work stuff, actually, seeing as I’d had to 
let my office go over a year ago. And quite a lot of  clothes 
too, even though I’d thrown out tons and tons while I’d been 
packing.
‘But when will it end?’ Mum said querulously. ‘When do 
we get our golden years?’
‘Never.’ Dad spoke with sudden confidence. ‘She’s part of  
a syndrome. Generation Boomerang. Adult children coming 
back to live in the family home. I read about it in Grazia.’
There was no disagreeing with Grazia. 
‘You can stay for a few days,’ Mum conceded. ‘But be 
warned. We might want to sell this house and go on a Caribbean cruise.’
Property prices being as low as they were, the sale of  this 
house probably wouldn’t fetch enough money to send them 
on a cruise of  the Aran Islands. But, as I made my way out 
to the car to start lugging in my boxes of  stuff, I decided 
not to rub it in. After all, they were giving me a roof  over 
my head.
‘What time is dinner?’ I wasn’t hungry but I wanted to know 
the drill.
‘Dinner?’
There was no dinner. 
‘We don’t really bother any more,’ Mum confessed. ‘Not 
now it’s just the two of  us.’
This was distressing news. I was feeling bad enough, without 
my parents suddenly behaving like they were in death’s waiting room. ‘But what do you eat?’
They looked at each other in surprise, then at the cake on 
the table. ‘Well . . . cake, I suppose.’
Back in the day this arrangement couldn’t have suited me 
better – all through my childhood my four sisters and I considered it a high-risk activity to eat anything that Mum had 
cooked – but I wasn’t myself.
‘So what time is cake?’
‘Whatever time you like.’
That wouldn’t do. ‘I need a time.’ 
‘Seven, then.’
‘Okay. Listen . . . I saw a swarm of  vultures over the petrol 
station.’
Mum tightened her lips. 
‘There are no vultures in Ireland,’ Dad said. ‘Saint Patrick 
drove them out.’
‘He’s right,’ Mum said forcefully. ‘You didn’t see any vultures.’
‘But –’ I stopped. What was the point? I opened my mouth 
to suck in some air. 
‘What are you doing?’ Mum sounded alarmed.
‘I’m . . .’ What was I doing? ‘I’m trying to breathe. My 
chest is stuck. There isn’t enough room to let the air in.’
‘Of  course there’s room. Breathing is the most natural 
thing in the world.’
‘I think my ribs have shrunk. You know the way your 
bones shrink when you get old.’
‘You’re only thirty-three. Wait till you get to my age and 
then you’ll know all about shrunken bones.’
Even though I didn’t know what age Mum was – she lied 
about it constantly and elaborately, sometimes making reference to the vital part she played in the 1916 Rising (‘I helped 
type up the Declaration of  Independence for young Padraig 
to read on the steps of  the GPO’), other times waxing lyrical 
on the teenage years she spent jiving to ‘The Hucklebuck’ 
the time Elvis came to Ireland (Elvis never came to Ireland 
and never sang ‘The Hucklebuck’, but if  you try telling her 
that, she just gets worse, insisting that Elvis made a secret 
visit on his way to Germany and that he sang ‘The Hucklebuck’ specifically because she asked him to) – she seemed 
bigger and more robust than ever. 
‘Catch your breath there, come on, come on, anyone can 
do it,’ she urged. ‘A small child can do it. So what are you 
doing this evening? After your . . . cake? Will we watch telly? 
We’ve got twenty-nine episodes of   Come Dine With Me
recorded.’
‘Ah . . .’ I didn’t want to watch Come Dine With Me. Normally I watched at least two shows a day, but suddenly I was 
sick of  it. 
I had an open invitation to Artie’s. His kids would be there 
tonight and I wasn’t sure I had the strength for talking to 
them; also their presence interfered with my full and free 
sexual access to him. But he’d been working in Belfast all 
week and I’d . . . yes, spit it out, might as well admit it . . . I’d 
missed him. 
‘I’ll probably go to Artie’s,’ I said.
Mum lit up. ‘Can I come?’
‘Of  course you can’t! I’ve warned you!’
Mum had a thing for Artie’s house. You’ve probably seen 
the type, if  you read interiors magazines. From the outside it 
looks like a salt-of-the-earth working-class cottage, crouched 
right on the pavement, doffing its cap and knowing its place. 
The slate roof  is crooked and the front door is so low that the 
only person who could sail through with full confidence that 
they wouldn’t crack their skull would be a certified midget. 
But when you actually get into the house you find that 
someone has knocked off the entire back wall and replaced it 
with a glassy futuristic wonderland of  floating staircases and 
suspended bird’s-nest bedrooms and faraway skylights.
Mum had been there only once, by accident – I had warned 
her not to get out of  the car but she had blatantly disobeyed 
me – and it had made such a big impression on her that she 
had caused me considerable embarrassment. I would not 
permit it to happen again. 
‘All right, I won’t come,’ she said. ‘But I’ve a favour to ask.’
‘What?’
‘Would you come to the Laddz reunion concert with me?’
‘Are you out of  your mind?’
‘Out of  my mind? You’re a fine one to talk, you and your 
vultures.’
 
Midgety working-class cottages are all well and good except 
that they don’t tend to have handy underground parking lots 
– it took me longer to find a parking place than it had taken 
to drive the three kilometres to Artie’s. Eventually I edged 
my Fiat 500 (black with black interiors) between two ginormous SUVs then let myself  into the heavenly perspex 
cocoon-world. I had my own key – it was a mere six weeks 
since Artie and I had done the ceremonious exchange. He’d 
given me a key to his place; I’d given him a key to my place. 
Because back then I’d had a place.
Dazzled by the June evening sunlight I blindly followed 
the sound of  voices through the house and down the magic, 
free-floating steps, to the deck, where a cluster of  goodlooking, fair-haired people were gathered around, doing – of  
all wholesome things – a jigsaw puzzle. Artie, my beautiful 
Viking, Artie. And Iona and Bruno and Bella, his beautiful 
children. And Vonnie, his beautiful ex-wife. Sitting on the 
boards next to Artie, she was, her skinny brown shoulder 
bumping up against his big broad one. 
I hadn’t been expecting to see her, but she lived nearby and 
often dropped in, usually with her partner, Steffan, in tow.
She was the first one to notice me. ‘Helen!’ she exclaimed 
with great warmth.
A chorus of  greetings and flashbulb smiles reached out 
for me and I was drawn down into a sea of  welcoming arms, 
to be kissed by everyone. A cordial family, the Devlins. Only 
Bruno withheld and he needn’t think I hadn’t noticed; I kept 
a mental tally of  the many, many times he’d slighted me. 
Nothing escaped me. We all have our gifts. 
Bella, head-to-toe pink and reeking of  cherry bubblegum, 
was thrilled by my arrival. ‘Helen, Helen.’ She flung herself  at 
me. ‘Dad didn’t say you were coming. Can I do your hair?’
‘Bella, give Helen a moment,’ Artie said. 
Aged nine and of  a loving disposition, Bella was the 
youngest and weakest member of  the group. Nevertheless it 
would be foolhardy to alienate her. But first I had business to 
attend to. I gazed at the region where Vonnie’s upper arm 
met Artie’s. ‘Move away,’ I said. ‘You’re too close to him.’
‘She’s his wife.’ Bruno’s ladyboy cheekbones blazed indignant colour . . . was he wearing blusher? 
‘Ex-wife,’ I said. ‘And I’m his girlfriend. He’s mine now.’ 
Quickly and insincerely I added, ‘Hahaha.’ (So that if  anyone 
ever criticized me for selfishness and immaturity and said, 
‘What about poor Bruno?’ I could always reply, ‘God’s sake, 
it was a joke. He has to learn to take a joke.’)
‘In fact Artie was leaning against me,’ Vonnie said.
‘He wasn’t.’ Tonight I was quite wearied by this game that 
I always had to play with Vonnie. I could hardly summon the 
words to press on with the charade. ‘You’re always at him. 
But give it up, Vonnie. He’s mad about me.’
‘Ah, fair enough.’ Good-naturedly Vonnie shifted along 
the deck, putting lots of  space between herself  and Artie.
It wasn’t my way but I couldn’t help but like her.
And what about Artie in all of  this? Taking a highly focused 
interest in the lower-side, left-hand corner of  the jigsaw, 
that’s what. At the best of  times he had a touch of  the Strong 
Silents about him, but whenever Vonnie and I started our 
alpha-female jostling, he had learned – on my instructions – 
to absent himself  entirely. 
In the beginning he’d tried to protect me from her but I 
was mortally offended. ‘It’s as if,’ I’d said, ‘you’re saying that 
she’s scarier than me.’ 
Actually, it was thirteen-year-old Bruno who was the real 
problem. He was bitchier than the most spiteful girl, and yes, 
I knew he had good reason – his parents had split up when 
he was at the tender age of  nine and now he was an adolescent in the grip of  anger hormones, which he expressed by 
dressing in fascist chic, in form-fitting black shirts, narrowcut black pants tucked into shiny black knee boots, and with 
very, very blond hair, tightly cut, except for a big sweeping 
eighties fringe. Also he wore mascara and it looked like he’d 
started on the blusher. 
‘Well!’ I smiled, somewhat tensely, at the assembled faces. 
Artie looked up from the jigsaw and gave me an intense, 
blue-eyed stare. God. I swallowed hard. Instantly I wanted 
Vonnie to go home and the kids to go to bed so I could have 
some alone time with Artie. Would it be impolite to ask them 
to hop it?
‘Something to drink?’ he asked, holding my gaze. I nodded mutely. 
I was expecting he’d get to his feet and I could follow him 
down to the kitchen and cop a quick sneaky smell of  him. 
‘I’ll get it,’ Iona said dreamily.
Biting back a howl of  frustration, I watched her waft down 
the floating stairs to the kitchen, to where the drink lived. 
She was fifteen. I found it amazing that she could be trusted 
to carry a glass of  wine from one room to the next without 
guzzling the lot. When I was fifteen I drank anything that 
wasn’t nailed down. It was just what you did, what everyone 
did. Maybe it was shortage of  pocket money, I didn’t really 
know; I just knew that I didn’t understand Iona and her trustworthy, abstemious ilk.
‘Some food, Helen?’ Vonnie asked. ‘There’s a fennel and 
Vacherin salad in the fridge.’ 
My stomach clenched tight: no way was it letting anything 
in. ‘I’ve eaten.’ I hadn’t. I hadn’t even been able to force down 
a slice of  Mum and Dad’s dinner-time cake. 
‘You sure?’ Vonnie gave me a shrewd once-over. ‘You’re 
looking a little skinny. Don’t want you getting skinnier than 
me!’
‘No fear of  that.’ But maybe there was. I hadn’t eaten a 
proper meal since . . . well, a while – I couldn’t actually 
remember; it was a week or so ago, perhaps a bit longer. My 
body seemed to have stopped notifying my mind that it 
wanted food. Or maybe my mind was so full of  worry that it 
couldn’t handle the information. The odd time that the message had actually got through I was unable to do anything 
remotely complicated, like pouring milk on to Cheerios, to 
quell the hunger. Even eating popcorn, which I’d tried last 
night, had struck me as the strangest thing – why would anyone eat those rough little balls of  styrofoam, which cut the 
inside of  your mouth and then rubbed salt into the wounds? 
‘Helen!’ Bella said. ‘It’s time to play!’ She produced a pink 
plastic comb and a pink Tupperware box filled with pink 
hairclips and pink furry elastic bands. ‘Take a seat.’
Oh God. Hairdressers. At least it wasn’t Motor Vehicle 
Registration Lady, I supposed. That was the very worst of  
our games – I had to queue for hours and she sat at an imaginary glass hatch. I kept telling her we could do it online, but 
she protested that then it wouldn’t be a game.
‘Here’s your drink,’ she said, then hissed at Iona, ‘Quick, 
give it to her – can’t you see she’s stressed?’
Iona presented me with a goblet of  red wine and a tall, 
chilled glass clinking with ice cubes. ‘Shiraz or home-made 
valerian iced tea. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer so I brought 
both.’
There was a second when I considered the wine, then 
decided against it. I was afraid that if  I started drinking I’d 
never be able to stop and I couldn’t take the horror of  a 
hangover.
‘No wine, thanks.’
I braced myself  for the pandemonium that usually followed that sort of  statement: ‘What? No wine! Did she say, 
“No wine”? She’s gone quite mad!’ I expected the Devlins to 
rise up as one and wrestle me into an immobile headlock so 
that the glass of  Shiraz could be poured into me via a plastic 
funnel, like a sheep being hoosed, but it passed without comment. I’d forgotten for a moment that I wasn’t with my 
family of  origin.
‘Diet Coke instead?’ Iona asked.
God, the Devlins were the perfect hosts, even a flaky, 
floaty type like Iona. They always had Diet Coke in their 
fridge for me, although none of  them drank it.
‘No, no thanks, all fine.’
I took a sip of  the valerian tea – not unpleasant, although 
not pleasant either – then lowered myself  on to a massive 
floor cushion. Bella knelt by my side and began to stroke my 
scalp. ‘You have beautiful hair,’ she murmured.
‘Thanks very much.’ 
Mind you, she thought I had beautiful everything; she 
wasn’t exactly a reliable witness.
Her small fingers combed and separated strands and my 
shoulders started to drop and for the first time in about ten 
days I had the relief  of  a proper breath, where my lungs 
filled fully with air and then eased it out again. ‘God, that’s so 
relaxing . . .’ 
‘Bad day?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘You have no idea, my little pink amiga.’
‘Try me,’ she said.
I was all set to launch into the whole miserable business, 
then I remembered she was only nine. 
‘Well . . .’ I said, working hard to put a cheery spin on 
things. ‘Because I haven’t been able to pay the bills, I had to 
move out of  my flat –’
‘What?’ Artie was startled. ‘When?’
‘Today. But it’s fine.’ I was speaking more to Bella than to 
him.
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
Why hadn’t I told him? When I’d given him the key six 
weeks ago I’d warned him that it was a possibility, but I’d 
made it sound like I was joking; after all, the entire country 
was in mortgage arrears and up to their eyeballs in debt. 
But he’d had the kids last weekend and he’d been away all 
week and I found it hard to have heavy conversations on 
the phone. And, in fairness, I hadn’t told anyone what was 
going on. 
Yesterday morning, when I realized I’d reached the end of  
the road – that in fact the end of  the road had been reached 
a while back, but I’d been in denial, hoping the road people 
might come along with their tarmac and white lines and build 
a few more miles for me – I just quietly organized the two 
removal men for today. Shame was probably what had kept 
me silent. Or sadness? Or shock? Hard to know for sure. 
‘What will you do?’ Bella sounded distraught.
‘I’ve moved back in with my mum and dad for a while. 
They’re going through an old patch at the moment, so there 
isn’t much food, but that might pass . . .’ 
‘Why don’t you live here?’ Bella asked.
Instantly Bruno’s peachy little face lit up with fury. He was 
generally so angry that you’d think he’d be carpeted with 
spots, an external manifestation, if  you will, of  all his inner 
bile, but actually he had very soft, smooth, delicate skin. 
‘Because your dad and I have been going out with each 
other only a short time –’
‘Five months, three weeks and six days,’ Bella said. ‘That’s 
nearly six months. That’s half  a year.’
Anxiously, I looked at her fervent little face. 
‘And you’re good together,’ she said with enthusiasm. 
‘Mum says. Don’t you, Mum?’
‘I certainly do,’ Vonnie said, smiling wryly.
‘I couldn’t move in.’ I tried hard to sound jolly. ‘Because 
Bruno would stab me in the middle of  the night.’ Then steal 
my make-up. 
Bella was appalled. ‘He wouldn’t.’
‘I would,’ Bruno said.
‘Bruno!’ Artie yelled at him.
‘Sorry, Helen.’ Bruno knew the drill. He turned away, but not 
before I’d seen him mouth the words, ‘Fuck you, cunt-face.’
It took all of  my self-control not to mouth back, ‘No, fuck 
you, fascist-boy.’ I was almost thirty-four, I reminded myself. 
And Artie might see. 
I was diverted by a light flashing on my phone. A new 
email fresh in. Intriguingly entitled ‘Large slice of  humble 
pie’. Then I saw who it was from: Jay Parker. I nearly dropped 
the machine.
Dearest Helen, my delicious little curmudgeon. Although it kills me 
to say it, I need your help. How about we let bygones be bygones 
and you get in touch?
A one-word reply. It took me less than a second to type. 
No. 
I let Bella fiddle about with my hair and I sipped my valerian 
tea and I watched the Devlins do their jigsaw and I wished 
the lot of  them – except Artie, of  course – would piss off. 
Couldn’t we at least go inside and turn on the telly? In the 
house I’d grown up in we’d treated ‘outside’ with suspicion. 
Even at the height of  summer we never really got the point 
of  gardens, especially because the lead on the telly didn’t 
stretch that far. And the telly had been important to the 
Walshes; nothing, but  nothing, had ever happened – births, 
deaths, marriages – without the telly on in the background, 
preferably some sort of  shouty soap opera. How could the 
Devlins stand all this conversation? 
Perhaps the problem wasn’t them, I realized. Perhaps the 
problem was me. The ability to talk to other people seemed 
to be leaking out of  me like air out of  an old balloon. I was 
worse now than I was an hour ago.
Bella’s soft fingers plucked at my scalp and she clucked 
and fussed and eventually reached some sort of  resolution 
that she was happy with. 
‘Perfect! You look like a Mayan princess. Look.’ She thrust 
a hand-mirror at my face. I caught a quick glimpse of  my hair 
in two long plaits and some sort of  handwoven thing tied 
across my fringe. ‘Look at Helen,’ she canvassed the crowd. 
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Beautiful,’ Vonnie said, sounding utterly sincere. 
‘Like a Mayan princess,’ Bella stressed.
‘Is it true that the Mayans invented Magnums?’ I asked. 
There was a brief  startled silence, then the conversation 
resumed as though I hadn’t said anything. I was way off my 
wavelength here.
‘She’s exactly like a Mayan princess,’ Vonnie said. ‘Except 
that Helen’s eyes are green and a Mayan princess’s would 
probably be brown. But the hair is perfect. Well done, Bella. 
More tea, Helen?’
To my surprise, I’d – at least for the moment – had it with 
the Devlins, with their good looks and grace and manners, 
with their board games and amicable break-ups and halfglasses-of-wine-at-dinner-for-the-children. I really wanted to 
get Artie on his own but it wasn’t going to happen and I 
couldn’t even muster the energy to be pissed off – it wasn’t 
his fault he had three kids and a demanding job. He didn’t 
know the day I’d had today. Or yesterday. Or indeed the week 
I’d had. 
‘No tea, thanks, Vonnie. I’d better head off.’ I got to my 
feet.
‘You’re going?’ Artie looked concerned.
‘I’ll see you at the weekend.’ Or whenever Vonnie next 
had the kids. I’d lost track of  their schedule, which was a very 
complicated one. Its basic premise was that the three kids 
spent scrupulously equal amounts of  time at the homes of  
both their parents, but the actual days varied from week to 
week to factor in things like Artie or Vonnie (mostly Vonnie, 
if  you ask me) going on mini-breaks, weddings down the 
country, etc. 
‘Are you okay?’ Artie was starting to look worried. 
‘Fine.’ I couldn’t get into it now.
He caught my wrist. ‘Won’t you hang on a while?’ In a 
quieter voice he said, ‘I’ll ask Vonnie to leave. And the kids 
will have to go to bed at some stage.’
But it might be hours and hours. Artie and I never went to 
bed before them. Of  course I was often there in the morning 
so it was obvious I’d stayed the night but we’d – all of  us – 
fallen into a pretence that I’d slept in some imaginary spare 
bed and that Artie had spent the night alone. Even though I 
was Artie’s lovair we tended to behave as though I was just a 
family friend.
‘I’ve got to go.’ I couldn’t do any more deck-sitting, waiting to get Artie on his own, for the chance to take the clothes 
off his fine body. I’d burst.
But first, the farewells. They took about twenty minutes. I 
had no truck with lengthy valedictions; if  it was up to me, I’d 
rather mutter something about going to the loo, then just slip 
away and be halfway home before anyone even noticed I was 
missing. 
I find saying goodbye almost  unendurably boring; in my 
head I’m already gone, so it seems like a total waste of  time, 
all that ‘Be well’ and ‘Take care’ and smiling and stuff. 
Sometimes I want to tear people’s hands from my shoulders and push them away and just bolt for freedom. But 
making a big production of  it was the Devlin way – hugs and 
double kisses – even from Bruno, who clearly couldn’t entirely 
break free from his middle-class conditioning – and quadruple kisses (both cheeks, the forehead and the chin) from 
Bella, who suggested that we do a sleepover soon in her room.
‘I’ll loan you my strawberry shortcake pyjamas,’ she 
promised. 
‘You’re nine,’ Bruno said, super-sneery. ‘She’s like, old. 
How’re your pyjamas going to fit her?’ 
‘We’re the same size,’ Bella said. 
And the funny thing was, we practically were. I was short 
for my age and Bella was tall for hers. They were all tall, the 
Devlins; they got it from Artie.
‘Are you sure you should be on your own?’ Artie asked, as 
he walked me to the front door. ‘You’ve had a really bad day.’
‘Ah, yeah, I’m grand.’
He took my hand and rubbed the palm of  it against his 
T-shirt, over his pecs, then down towards the muscles of  his 
stomach.
‘Stop.’ I pulled away from him. ‘No point starting something we can’t finish.’
‘Oookay. But let’s just take this off before you go.’
‘Artie, I said –’ 
Tenderly he untied the Mayan headband that Bella had put 
on me, demonstrated it with a flourish, then let it drop to the 
floor.
‘Oh,’ I said. Then ‘Oh,’ again, as he slid his hands under 
my hairline and over my poor tormented scalp, and began to 
free up the two plaits. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting 
his hands work their way through my hair. He circled his 
thumbs around my ears, on my forehead, on the frown lines 
between my eyebrows, at the tight spot where my neck met 
my scalp. My face began to soften and the hinge of  my jaw 
started to unclamp, and when eventually he stopped I was so 
blissed out that a lesser woman would have toppled over.
I managed to stand up straight. ‘Did I dribble on you?’ I 
asked.
‘Not this time.’ 
‘Okay, I’m off.’
He bent his head and kissed me, a kiss that was more 
restrained than I would have preferred, but best not to start 
any fires. 
slid my hand up, to the back of  his head. I liked tangling 
my fingers in the hair at the nape of  his neck and pulling it, 
not hard enough to hurt. Not exactly. 
When we drew apart I said, ‘I like your hair.’
‘Vonnie says I need a haircut.’
‘I say you don’t. And I am the decider.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll call you later.’ 
We’d got into a – well, I suppose it was a routine – over the 
past few weeks where we had a quick little chat just before 
we went to sleep.
‘And about your question,’ he said. ‘The answer is yes.’
‘What question?’
‘Did the Mayans invent Magnums?’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Yes, of  course the Mayans invented Magnums.’
 

12 Years a Slave (Movie Tie-In)

Solomon Northup
For a free black man who lived in a society in which most black people were politically proscribed, economically impoverished, and socially ostracized, Solomon Northup lived a good life. He, his wife, and children enjoyed a modest prosperity in the upstate New York community of Saratoga Springs where his reputation as a clever jack-of-all-trades and an accomplished fiddler gained him the respect of white and black.
 
But free status and admirable reputation meant little in a slave society, where the worth of black flesh was measured by labor transformed into dollars. While slavery may have been abolished in the North, kidnappers and their confederates-driven by the swelling demand for men and women to grow cotton, sugar, and other valuable commodities-roamed the land. The lack of respect for black humanity put all black people, no matter what their standing, at risk.
 
In the spring of 1841, Northup's wife left Saratoga for short-term employment in a nearby town.
 
In her absence, Northup-eager to earn a few extra dollars, display his talents, and perhaps see a bit of the world-eagerly accepted an invitation to join a traveling circus. His travels went well until Northup reached the nation's capital where his companions drugged and sold him to a local slave trader. Beaten mercilessly when he asserted his claim to freedom, Northup was shipped to Louisiana where he labored as a slave for more than a decade.
 
In Twelve Years a Slave, Solomon Northup tells the story of his captivity. His account is distinguished from the some 150 slave-authored narratives published before the Civil War, as Northup had been born free. It is a brutal story, which provides an unvarnished view of the inhumanity inherent in the system of chattel bondage. More than any contemporary account of slavery, Northup's provides a full sense of how slavery compounded the most sordid human instincts and twisted even well-meaning acts beyond recognition. But Northup was determined neither to exaggerate slaveholder's inequity nor the slave's virtue. Slave masters were both good and bad; slaves strong and weak. Rather than rehearse the well-known stereotypes, Northup exposed complex ways in which men and women, master and slave reacted to the unspeakable evil of enslavement. It was not a pretty picture.
 
But if slavery was a hellish nightmare, living death in the words of one scholar, it was also life. Twelve Years a Slave explains how some men and women refused to be dehumanized by dehumanizing circumstances, creating meaningful relationships and maintaining estimable values in the most difficult of circumstances. Others collapsed before the unrelenting brutality that was the essence of slavery. Northup's narrative tells both stories and historians have declared his harsh truths to be one of the best accounts of slavery.
 
Through his years of enslavement, Northup never surrendered his desire to reclaim his birthright in freedom. Heart-rending betrayals frustrated his several attempts to escape. Eventually, however, a chance encounter with an eccentric Canadian journeyman carpenter-whose antislavery views were so beyond the conventional wisdom that most white Southerners dismissed them as harmless-informed Northup's wife of his whereabouts. She, in turn, mobilized Northup's friends and local officials to secure his liberty.
 
In 1853, Northup reunited with his family. His escape from bondage made national news, elevating Northup to celebrity status. With the aid of abolitionist friends, he took to the lecture circuit and a local littérateur helped him pen Twelve Years a Slave, which went through several editions during its first years in print. By 1856, it had sold some 30,000 copies. Although the book enabled Northup to restore his family's prosperity, his fame was fleeting. Attempts to bring his kidnappers to justice foundered in the courts and came to nothing. Northup enjoyed his last years with his family in nearly total anonymity. Nothing is known of when or where he died. But with Twelve Years a Slave, he left his mark for posterity.
 
ABOUT SOLOMON NORTHUP
 
Solomon Northup was a free man kidnapped into slavery in Washington, D.C, in 1841. Shortly after his escape, he published his memoirs to great acclaim and brought legal action against his abductors, though they were never prosecuted. The details of his life thereafter are unknown, but he is believed to have died in Glen Falls, New York, around 1863.
 
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  • Solomon Northup's Twelve Years a Slave was one of some 150 so-called "Slave Narratives" published before the Civil War. Their purpose was to give the white Northerners a first-hand glimpse of slavery and to enlist them in the antislavery crusade. They were both literature and propaganda. What is the essence of Northup's description of Southern slavery?
  • One of the distinguishing features of Twelve Years a Slave is its specificity. Unlike most slave narratives, Northup did not employ pseudonyms for persons or places and rarely wrote in generalities. Northup also studiously avoided stereotypes: there are good masters and bad; slaves who resist and those who collapse before white power. Northup hoped that this frank portrayal would convince readers of the authenticity of his story. Does it? How does it achieve that aim?
  • After witnessing the brutalities not only of white masters against enslaved blacks, but also white brutality against other whites, Northup observed, "It is not the fault of the slaveholder that he is cruel, so much as it is the fault of the system under which he lives" (p. 135). Do you think this observation is accurate? Does it seem accurate to state that both whites and enslaved blacks that lived in the South were mutually affected by the system of slavery?
  • Although Northup says little directly about the struggle against slavery that is preoccupying the nation in the decade before the Civil War, Twelve Years a Slave is one of the most powerful weapons in the antislavery arsenal. What makes it so?
  • Another distinguishing mark of Twelve Years a Slave is the author's free status. Most of the slave narratives-like that of Frederick Douglass, for example-were written by an author who had been born into slavery. How does Northup's free status shape his narrative? How might it have influenced the book's reception?
  • How does Northup depict black life in the North?
  • In the North, free black people lived in fear of kidnappers, who operated with near impunity in almost all Northern cities. Yet, Northup seems impervious to the possibilities that he might be targeted and that the offer to join a circus might be too good to be true. What might have made Northup miss the seemingly obvious danger?
  • Solomon Northup was a keen observer of human nature. Did his ability to discern people's character build solidarity with his fellow slaves or did his analytic skills to observe how others dealt with the reality of enslavement distance him from the slave community? With what types of men and women did Northup find commonality or comradeship?
  • Solomon Northup never gave up hope of regaining his freedom and resisted the dehumanization of enslavement in many ways. How did he and other slaves resist slavery?
  • The family played a critical role in Northup's life in both freedom and slavery. How does his portrayal of black family life shape his narrative and his critique of slavery?
  • Related to the emphasis on family life is the role played by women, black and white, in Northup's narrative. In fact, females are among the most important characters in Twelve Years a Slave. How do women serve as a measure for the nature of slavery?
  • Describe the position of women within the slaveholding world. How would you characterize someone like Eliza or Patsy? What are the differences between the experiences of enslaved women and slaveholding mistresses like Mrs. Epps? Are women more or less vulnerable than men to the brutality of a slave society, or is it a different kind of vulnerability altogether? What advantages or disadvantages might enslaved women have over enslaved men?
  • Northup has a good deal to say about labor. What is his understanding of the nature of work, the development of a work ethic, the relations between employees and employers (in the North) and slave and masters (in the South), and the quality and productivity of labor in both sections?
  • Music plays a large role in Northup's life. Northup's omnipresent fiddle was a source of empowerment and a symbol of his subordination. What does the fiddle tell us about Northup and African American life in slavery and freedom?

12-21

Information about the book

PROLOGUE

He stands silently in the moonlight against the wall of  the 
temple, the small bundle held tightly under his arm. The 
sisal wrapping chafes against his skin, but he welcomes 
the feeling. It reassures him. In this drought-stricken city, 
he would not trade this package, even for water. The 
ground beneath his sandals is cracked and dry. The green 
world of  his childhood is gone, and he is beginning to 
wonder if  soon he will be too.
Satisfied that the temple guards haven’t detected his 
presence, he hurries toward the central square, where artisans and tattoo-painters once thrived. Now it is populated 
only by beggars, and beggars, when hungry, can be dangerous. But tonight he is lucky. There are only two men 
standing by the east temple. They have seen him before, 
and they know he gives to them what he can. Still, he 
holds the bundle close as he goes.
At the boundary between the central square and the 
maize silos, there is a guard posted. No more than a boy. 
For a moment, he considers burying the bundle and 
returning for it later, but the earth is dust, and the winds 
drive through fields where trees once stood. Nothing in 
this parched city remains buried for long.
He takes a breath and continues walking forward.
‘Royal and Holy One,’ calls the boy. ‘Where are you 
going?’ The boy’s eyes are tired, hungry, but spark when 
they take in the bundle under the man’s arm.
‘To my fasting cave.’
‘What are you carrying?’
‘Incense for my dedications.’
The man tightens his arm around the parcel and prays 
silently to Itzamnaaj.
‘But there has been no incense at the market for days, 
Royal and Holy One.’ The guard’s voice is jaded. As if  all 
men lie now to survive. As if  all innocence has fled with 
the rains. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Warrior, you are right. It is not incense but a gift for 
the king.’ He has no choice but to invoke the king’s name, 
though the king would have his heart ripped out if  he 
knew what he was carrying.
‘Give it to me,’ the boy says again.
The man reluctantly obeys.
The boy’s fingers unwrap the bundle roughly, but when 
the sisal falls away, he sees disappointment in the young 
guard’s eyes. What had he been hoping for? Maize? Cacao? 
He does not understand what he has seen. Like most boys 
in these times, he understands only hunger.
Rewrapping it quickly, the man hurries away from the 
guard, offering thanks to the gods for his good fortune. 
His small cave lies at the eastern edge of  the city, and he 
slips through the opening undetected.
There are cloths spread across the floor, placed here in 
preparation for this moment. He lights his candle, sets the 
bundle at a careful distance from the wax, then carefully 
wipes his hands. He drops to his knees and reaches for the 
sisal. Inside is a folded stack of  pages made from the bark 
of  a fig tree, hardened with a glaze of  limestone paste.
With the great but seemingly effortless care of  a man 
who has trained for this act his entire life, he unfolds the 
paper. Twenty-five times it has been doubled back on 
itself, and when it is completely unfurled, the blank pages 
stretch across the width of  the cave.
From behind his hearth, he gathers three small bowls 
of  paint. He has scraped cooking pots to make black ink, 
shaved rust from the rocks to make red, and searched 
fields and riverbeds for anil and clay to make indigo. 
Finally, he makes a puncture in the skin of  his arm. He 
watches the crimson rivulets run over his wrist and into 
the bowls of  paint before him, sanctifying the ink with his 
blood.
Then he begins to write.
 
12.19.19.17.10
December 11, 2012
 
Dr Gabriel Stanton’s condo sat at the end of  the Boardwalk, before the Venice Beach footpath morphed into 
lush lawns where the tai chi lovers gathered. The modest 
duplex wasn’t entirely to Stanton’s taste. He would have 
preferred something with more history. But on this odd 
stretch of  the California coastline, the only options to 
choose between were run-down shacks and contemporary stone and glass. Stanton left his home just after 
seven a.m. on his old Gary Fisher bike and headed south 
with Dogma, his yellow Labrador, running beside him. 
Groundwork, the best coffee in LA, was only six blocks 
away, and there Jillian would have a triple shot of  Black 
Gold ready for him the minute he walked in.
Dogma loved the mornings as much as his owner did. 
But the dog wasn’t allowed into Groundwork, so after 
Stanton tied him up, he made his way inside alone, waved 
at Jillian, collected his cup, and checked out the scene. 
A lot of  the early clientele were surfers, their wetsuits still 
dripping. Stanton was usually up by six, but these guys had 
been up for hours.
Sitting at his usual table was one of  the boardwalk’s 
best-known and strangest-looking residents. His entire 
face and shaved head were covered with intricate designs, 
as well as rings, studs, and small chains protruding from 
his earlobes, nose, and lips. Stanton often wondered where 
a man like Monster came from. What had happened to 
him in early life that led to the decision to cover his body 
entirely with art? For some reason, whenever Stanton 
imagined Monster’s origins, he saw a split-level home near 
a military base – exactly the type of  houses in which he 
himself  had spent his childhood.
‘How’s the world out there doing?’ Stanton asked.
Monster looked up from his computer. He was an 
obsessive news junkie, and when he wasn’t working at his 
tattoo shop or entertaining tourists as part of  the Venice 
Beach Freak Show, he was here posting comments on 
political blogs.
‘Other than there being only two weeks before the 
galactic alignment makes the magnetic poles reverse and 
we all die?’ he asked.
‘Other than that.’
‘Hell of  a nice day out there.’
‘How’s your lady?’
‘Electrifying, thanks.’
Stanton headed for the door. ‘If  we’re still here, I’ll see 
you tomorrow, Monster.’
After Stanton downed his Black Gold outside, he and 
Dogma continued south. A century ago, miles of  canals 
snaked through the streets of  Venice, tobacco magnate 
Abbot Kinney’s re-creation of  the famed Italian city. Now 
virtually all of  the waterways where gondoliers once ferried 
residents were paved over and covered with steroid-fueled 
gyms, greasy-food stands, and novelty T-shirt shops.
Stanton had ruefully watched a rash of  ‘Mayan apocalypse’ graffiti and trinkets pop up all over Venice in recent 
weeks, vendors taking advantage of  all the hype. He’d 
been raised Catholic but hadn’t been in a church in years. 
If  people wanted to seek their destiny or believe in some 
ancient clock, they could go right ahead; he’d stick to testable hypotheses and the scientific method.
Fortunately, it seemed not everyone in Venice believed 
December 21 would bring the end of  the world; red and 
green lights also decorated the boardwalk, just in case the 
crackpots had it wrong. Yuletide was a strange time in LA. 
Few transplants understood how to celebrate the holidays 
at seventy degrees, but Stanton loved the contrast – Santa 
hats on rollerbladers, suntan lotion in stockings, surfboards 
festooned with antlers. A ride along the beach on Christmas was as spiritual as he got these days.
Ten minutes later, he and the dog reached the northern 
tip of  Marina del Rey. They made their way past the old 
lighthouse and the sailboats and souped-up fishing vessels 
bobbing quietly in the harbor. Stanton let Dogma off his 
leash, and the dog bounded ahead while Stanton trotted 
behind, listening for music. The woman they were here to 
see surrounded herself  with jazz at all times, and when 
you heard Bill Evans’s piano or Miles’s trumpet over the 
other noises of  the waterfront, she wasn’t far. For most 
of  the last decade, Nina Countner had been the woman in 
Stanton’s life. While there had been a few others in the 
three years since they’d split, none had been more than a 
substitute for her.
Stanton trailed Dogma onto the dock of  the marina 
and caught the mournful sound of  a saxophone in the 
distance. The dog had arrived at the tip of  the south jetty 
above Nina’s massive dual-engine McGray, twenty-two 
pristine feet of  metal and wood, squeezed into the last 
slip at the end of  the dock.
Nina crouched beside Dogma, already rubbing his 
belly. ‘You guys found me.’
‘In an actual marina for a change,’ said Stanton.
He kissed her on the cheek and breathed her in. Despite 
spending most of  her time at sea, Nina always managed 
to smell like rose-water. Stanton stepped back to look at 
her. She had a dimpled chin and striking green eyes, but 
her nose was a little crooked, and her mouth was small. To 
Stanton, it was all just right.
‘You ever going to let me get you a real slip?’ he asked.
Nina gave him a look. He’d offered to rent her a permanent boat slip so many times, hoping it would lure her 
back to shore more often, but she’d never accepted, and he 
knew she probably never would. Her freelance magazine 
assignments hardly provided a steady income, so she’d 
mastered the art of  finding open slips, out-of-sight beaches, 
and off-the-radar docks that few others knew about.
‘How’s the experiment coming?’ Nina asked as Stanton 
followed her onto the boat.  Plan A’s deck was simply 
appointed, just two folding seats, a collection of  loose 
CDs strewn around the skipper’s chair, and bowls for 
Dogma’s water and food.
‘More results this morning,’ he told her. ‘Should be 
interesting.’
She took the captain’s seat. ‘You look tired.’
He wondered if  it was the encroaching tide of  age she 
was seeing on his face, crow’s-feet beneath his rimless 
glasses. But Stanton had slept a full seven hours last night. 
Rare for him. ‘I feel fine.’
‘The lawsuit’s all over? For good?’
‘It’s been over for weeks. Let’s celebrate. Got some 
champagne in my fridge.’
‘Skipper and I are headed to Catalina,’ Nina said. She 
flipped the gauges and switches that Stanton had never 
bothered to really master, firing up the boat’s GPS and 
electrical system.
The faint outline of  Catalina Island was just visible 
through the marine layer. ‘What if  I came with you?’ he 
asked.
‘While you waited patiently for results from the center? 
Please, Gabe.’
‘Don’t patronize me.’
Nina walked up, cupped his chin in her hand. ‘I’m not 
your ex-wife for nothing.’
The decision had been hers, but Stanton blamed himself, and part of  him had never given up on a future for 
them together. During the three years they were married, 
his work took him out of  the country for months at a 
time, while she escaped to the ocean, where her heart had 
always been. He’d let her drift away, and it seemed like she 
was happiest that way – sailing solo.
A container ship sounded its horn in the distance, 
sending Dogma into a frenzy. He barked repeatedly at the 
noise before proceeding to chase his own tail.
‘I’ll bring him back tomorrow night,’ Nina said.
‘Stay for dinner,’ Stanton told her. ‘I’ll cook whatever 
you want.’
Nina eyed him. ‘How will your girlfriend feel about us 
having dinner?’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘What happened to what’s-her-name? The mathematician.’
‘We went on four dates.’
‘And?’
‘I had to go see a man about a horse.’
‘Come on.’
‘Seriously. I had to check out a horse in England they 
thought might have scrapie, and she told me I wasn’t fully 
committed to her.’
‘Was she right?’
‘We went on four dates. So, are we on for dinner tomorrow?’
Nina fired up Plan A’s engine as Stanton hopped onto 
the dock to collect his bike. ‘Get a decent bottle of  wine,’ 
she called back as she un-moored, leaving him once again 
in her wake. ‘Then we’ll see. . . .’
The Centers for Disease Control’s Prion Center in Boyle 
Heights had been Stanton’s professional home for nearly 
ten years. When he moved west to become its first director, the center had occupied only one small lab in a 
mobile trailer at Los Angeles County & USC Medical Center. Now it spanned the entire sixth floor of  the LAC & 
USC main hospital building, the same building that for 
more than three decades had served as the exterior for the 
soap opera General Hospital.
Stanton headed through the double doors into what his 
postdocs often referred to as his ‘lair’. One of  them had 
strung Christmas lights around the main area, and Stanton flipped them on along with the halogens, casting 
green and red across the microscope benches stretching 
across the lab. After dropping his bag in his office, Stanton threw on a mask and gloves and headed for the back. 
This was the first morning they’d be able to collect results 
in an experiment his team had been working on for weeks, 
and he was very eager for them.
The center’s ‘Animal Room’ was nearly the length of  a 
basketball court and contained computerized inventory 
stalls, touch-screen data-recording centers, and electronic 
vivisection and autopsy stations. Stanton made his way 
toward the first of  twelve cages shelved on the south wall 
and peered inside. The cage contained two animals: a twofoot-long black-and-orange coral snake and a small gray 
mouse. At first glance it looked like the most natural thing 
in the world: a snake waiting for the right moment to feed 
on its prey. But in reality something unnatural was happening inside this cage.
The mouse was nonchalantly poking the snake’s head 
with its nose. Even when the snake hissed, the mouse 
continued to nudge it carelessly – it didn’t run to the corner of  the cage or try to escape. The mouse was as unafraid 
of  the snake as it would have been of  another mouse. 
The  first time Stanton saw this behavior, he and his 
team at the Prion Center erupted in cheers. Using genetic 
engineering, they’d removed a set of  tiny proteins called 
‘prions’ from the surface membrane of  the mouse’s 
brain cells. They’d succeded in their strange experiment, 
disrupting the natural order in the mouse’s brain and 
eradicating its innate fear of  the snake. It was a crucial 
step toward understanding the deadly proteins that had 
been Stanton’s life’s work.
Prions occur in all normal animal brains, including 
those of  humans, yet after decades of  research, neither he 
nor anyone else understood why they existed. Some of  
Stanton’s colleagues believed prion proteins were involved 
in memory or were important in the formation of  bone 
marrow. No one knew for sure.
Most of  the time, these prions sat benignly on neuron 
cells in the brain. But in rare cases, these proteins could 
become ‘sick’ and multiply. Like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, prion diseases destroyed healthy tissue and replaced 
it with useless plaques, squeezing out the normal function 
of  the brain. But there was one key, terrifying difference: 
While Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s were strictly genetic 
diseases, certain prion diseases could be passed through 
contaminated meat. In the mid-1980s, mutated prions 
from sick cows in England got into the local food supply 
through tainted beef, and the entire world became familiar with a prion infection. Mad cow disease killed two 
hundred thousand cattle in Europe and then spread to 
humans. First patients had difficulty walking and shook 
uncontrollably, then they lost their memories and the 
ability to identify friends and family. Brain death soon 
followed.
Early in his career, Stanton had become one of  the 
world’s experts on mad cow, and when the CDC founded 
the National Prion Center, he was the natural choice to 
head it. Back then it had seemed like the opportunity of  a 
lifetime, and he was thrilled to make the move to California; never before had there been a dedicated research 
center for the study of  prions and prion diseases in the 
United States. With Stanton’s leadership, the center was 
created to diagnose, study, and eventually fight the most 
mysterious infectious agents on earth.
Only it never happened. By the end of  the decade, the 
beef  industry had launched a successful campaign to 
show that just one person living in the United States had 
ever been diagnosed with mad cow. Grants for Stanton’s 
lab became smaller, and, with fewer cases in England as 
well, the public quickly lost interest. The worst part was 
they still couldn’t cure a single prion disease; years of  testing various drugs and other therapies had produced 
one  false hope after the next. Yet Stanton had always 
been as stubborn as he was optimistic and had never given 
up on the possibility that answers were just one experiment away.
Moving on to the next animal cage, he found another 
snake and another tiny mouse merely bored by its 
predator. Through this experiment, Stanton and his team 
were  exploring a role for prions in controlling ‘innate 
instincts’, including fear. Mice didn’t have to be taught to 
be afraid of  the rustling of  the grass signaling a predator’s 
approach – terror was programmed into their genes. But 
after their prions were genetically ‘knocked out’ in an 
earlier experiment, the mice began acting aggressively and 
irrationally. So Stanton and his staff started directly testing 
the effects of  deleting prions on the animals’ most fundamental fears.
Stanton’s cellphone vibrated in the pocket of  his white 
coat. ‘Hello?’
‘Is this Dr Stanton?’ It was a female voice he didn’t recognize, but it had to be a doctor or a nurse; only a health 
professional wouldn’t apologize first for calling before 
eight in the morning.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘My name’s Michaela Thane,’ she said. ‘Third-year 
resident at East LA Presbyterian Hospital. CDC gave me 
your number. We believe we have a case of  prion disease 
here.’
Stanton smiled, pushed his glasses up the bridge of  his 
nose, and said, ‘Okay,’ as he moved on to the third animal 
cage. Inside, another mouse pawed its predator’s tail. The 
snake seemed almost befuddled by this reversal of  nature.
‘ “Okay?” ’ Thane asked. ‘That’s it?’
‘Send over the samples to my office and my team will 
look at them,’ he said. ‘A Dr Davies will call you back with 
the results.’
‘Which will be when? A week? Maybe I wasn’t being 
clear, Doctor. Sometimes I talk too fast for people. We 
think we have a case of  prion disease here.’
‘I understand that’s what you believe,’ Stanton said. 
‘What about the genetic tests? Have they come back?’
‘No, but –’
‘Listen, Dr  . . . Thane? We get thousands of  calls a 
year,’ Stanton interrupted, ‘and only a handful turn out 
to be prion disease. If  the genetic tests are positive, call 
us back.’
‘Doctor, the symptoms are highly consistent with a 
diagnosis of  –’
‘Let me guess. Your patient is having trouble walking.’
‘No.’
‘Memory loss?’
‘We don’t know.’
Stanton tapped on the glass of  one of  the cages, curious to see if  either of  the animals would react. Neither 
acknowledged him. ‘Then what’s your presumptive symptom, Doctor?’ he asked Thane.
‘Dementia and hallucinations, erratic behavior, tremor, 
and sweating. And a terrible case of  insomnia.’
‘Insomnia?’
‘We thought it was alcohol withdrawal when he was 
admitted,’ Thane said. ‘But there was no folate deficiency 
to indicate alcoholism, so I ran more tests, and I believe it 
could be fatal familial insomnia.’
Now she had Stanton’s attention.
‘When was he admitted?’
‘Three days ago.’
FFI was a strange and rapidly progressing condition 
that arose because of  a mutated gene. Passed down from 
parent to child, it was one of  the few prion diseases that 
was strictly genetic. Stanton had seen half  a dozen cases 
in his career. Most FFI patients first came in for medical 
attention because they were sweating constantly and having trouble falling asleep at night. Within months, their 
insomnia was total. Patients became impotent, experienced 
panic attacks, had difficulty walking. Caught between a 
hallucinatory waking state and panic-inducing alertness, 
nearly all FFI patients died after a few weeks of  total 
sleeplessness, and there was nothing Stanton or any other 
doctor could do to help them.
‘Don’t get ahead of  yourself,’ he told Thane. ‘Worldwide incidence of  FFI is one in thirty-three million.’
‘What else could cause complete insomnia?’ Thane 
asked.
‘A misdiagnosed methamphetamine addiction.’
‘This is East L.A. I get the pleasure of  smelling methbreath every day. This guy’s tox screen was negative.’
‘FFI affects fewer than forty families in the world,’ 
Stanton said, moving down the line of  cages. ‘And if  there 
was a family history, you would’ve told me already.’
‘Actually, we haven’t been able to talk to him, because 
we can’t understand him. He looks Latino or possibly 
indigenous. Central or South American maybe. We’re 
working on it with the translator service. ’Course, most 
days here, that’s one guy with a GED and a stack of  
remaindered dictionaries.’
Stanton peered through the glass of  the next cage. This 
snake was still, and there was a tiny gray tail hanging out 
of  its mouth. In the next twenty-four hours, when the 
other snakes got hungry, it would happen in every cage in 
the room. Even after years in the lab, Stanton didn’t enjoy 
dwelling on his role in the death of  these mice.
‘Who brought the patient in?’ he asked.
‘Ambulance, according to the admission report, but I 
can’t find a record of  what service it was.’
This was consistent with everything Stanton knew about 
Presbyterian Hospital, one of  the most overcrowded and 
debt-ridden facilities in East LA. ‘How old is the patient?’ 
Stanton asked.
‘Early thirties probably. I know that’s unusual, but I 
read your paper on age aberrations in prion diseases, and 
I thought maybe this could be one.’
Thane was doing her job right, but her diligence didn’t 
change the facts. ‘I’m sure when genetics comes back, it 
will clear all this up quickly,’ he told her. ‘Feel free to call 
Dr Davies later with any further questions.’
‘Wait, Doctor. Hold on. Don’t hang up.’
Stanton had to admire her insistence; he was a pain in 
the ass when he was a resident too. ‘Yes?’
‘There was a study last year on amylase levels, how 
they’re markers for sleep debt.’
‘I’m aware of  the study. And?’
‘With my patient it was three hundred units per milliliter, which suggests he hasn’t slept in more than a week.’
Stanton stood up from the cage. A week without sleep?
‘Have there been seizures?’
‘There’s some evidence on his brain scan,’ Thane said.
‘And what do the patient’s pupils look like?’
‘Pinpricks.’
‘What happens in reaction to light?’
‘Unresponsive.’
A week of  insomnia. Sweating. Seizures.
Pinprick pupils.
Of  the few conditions that could cause that combination of  symptoms, the others were even rarer than FFI. 
Stanton peeled off his gloves, his mice forgotten. ‘Don’t 
let anyone in the room until I get there.’

22 Britannia Road

Amanda Hodgkinson

World War II has just ended and Silvana Novak and her eight-year-old son Aurek arrive in Ipswich, England, where they are reunited with Silvana’s husband, Janusz, after six years of estrangement. Silvana and Aurek have spent that time hiding from both the Germans and the Russians in the forests of Poland. Janusz, meanwhile, escaped to France before settling in England. Relieved and deeply grateful to have his family back, Janusz has set up a brand-new life for them in a small house in a town in East Anglia. He’s found work in an engineering firm and he’s hoping they can start, despite what they have lived through. Aurek, who’s grown up eating raw bird’s eggs and tree bark, will have to learn how to tie his shoes and interact with children his age. 

Download the 22 Britannia Road Reading Guide. 

A New Earth

Eckhart Tolle

The book, The Power of Now established Eckhart Tolle as one of the leading spiritual teachers writing today. Now in A New Earth, his long-awaited follow-up brings his inspiring and profound message to a whole new audience.

Building on the astonishing success of The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle takes us beyond our own lives to show that we now have the opportunity to birth a new, more loving world. This involves a radical inner leap of consciousness from the current identification with our ego to an entirely new way of thinking about who we are. For this to happen, the very strictures of the human mind need to undergo an evolutionary transformation.

In A New Earth, Tolle shows how this transformation can occur not only in ourselves, but in the world around us. In illuminating the nature of this shift of consciousness, Tolle describes in detail how our current ego-based state of consciousness operates. He then gently and in very practical terms leads us into this new consciousness. We will come to experience who we are truly are, which is infinitely greater than anything we currently think we are. 

Download the A New Earth Reading Guide. 

A Rural Affair

Information about the book

If I’m being totally honest I had fantasized about Phil dying. Only in a mild, half- baked, Thursday morning in Sainsbury’s sort of way. I’m not talking about lying awake at night plotting his demise, no, just idly cruising those aisles, popping in the Weetabix, or driving to pick Clemmie up from nursery, dreaming a little dream, that sort of thing. Like you do when you’re bored and you’ve got two small children on your hands and you’ve been married for a while to an irritating man. Wondering what life would be like without a husband. And always the life afterwards bit, the nicer bit, not the horrid bit of the death itself.

Having the house to myself appealed. Getting rid of those ghastly leather sofas in tummy-upset brown, never having to hoover them again and get right down into the cracks, or keep the house immaculate as he liked, and as his mother had so assiduously done. No more wiping the skirting boards weekly, or turning the mattress monthly. No more meat and two veg and a lot more pasta. Or just a boiled egg. No more frantically raking up autumn leaves, I mused to myself now as one fluttered onto my windscreen, a beautiful, blood-red sycamore, spiralling down, winking at me. They could just lie where they fell, in a red and gold carpet on the grass as nature intended, instead of having to rush out like a lunatic when the first one dropped, Phil shouting, ‘Quick! They’re coming!’, raking furiously. These sorts of thoughts – innocuous, harmless ones, that crested, then sank, only to resurface some weeks later. Being alone with my babies, for instance; I glanced in my rear-view mirror at my toddler son as I drove along, watched as his thumb dropped wetly from his mouth and his eyes slowly closed. I reached back and deftly took the carton of juice he’d been clasping.
 
And OK – I straightened myself back at the wheel – just very occasionally, very fleetingly, my mind had inevitably turned to the mechanics of it. A piece of scaffolding perhaps, falling on his head from the construction site he walked under every morning, on his way from Charing Cross to Ludgate Circus: the one outside the Savoy, where they’d been at it for months. One of the workmen dropping a hammer. Clunk. But after six months, the scaffolding had come down – I’d checked. So . . . what about a mosquito bite? Turning septic? Quickly and painlessly, on one of our annual trips abroad – always Spain and always cycling. Same hotel every year, with other cycling enthusiasts. I read, mostly, and looked after the children. But the summer would slip by and Phil would remain unbitten, so, to embrace the winter months, I’d fondly imagined him slipping on ice as he went to get the paper in the village shop.
 
‘It all happened so quickly,’ Yvonne, who ran the shop, would say, her saucer eyes seeing everything before it happened anyway. ‘One minute he was breezing out with the Telegraph, the next he was flat on his back, blood pouring from his head!’
 
No, not blood, that would be horrid. All internal. I turned down the lane that led to my house, so narrow in places the hedges brushed the sides of the car. And unlikely too, because since when had an icy fall actually killed anyone? So then I’d had him falling off ladders while clearing gutters, but Phil didn’t do much gutter clearance so that didn’t really work; but then, it wasn’t supposed to work. It was just a run-of-the-mill, quotidian fantasy most housewives surely toy with occasionally when they’re married to – not a bad man, and not a complete fool, but not a terribly interesting or exciting man either.
 
I narrowed my eyes at the low autumn sun, pulling the visor down in defence. And since the cycling bug had bitten – he’d taken it up with messianic zeal a few years ago – he was almost permanently clad in blue Lycra, which didn’t help. Even to Clemmie’s first parents’ evening, complete with extraordinary Lycra shoes. He’d arrived in the classroom, where Miss Hawkins and I were waiting, looking like Jacques Cousteau emerging from the depths. Miss Hawkins had dropped the register she’d been so flustered, and as he’d sat down beside me on an infant-sized chair, peering over his nylon knees like a garden gnome, I’d thought: not entirely the man I’d envisaged spending the rest of my life with. But then again he paid the bills, worked extremely hard, was faithful, didn’t beat me, loved his children – despite sometimes behaving as if they were annoying relations of mine who’d come to stay: ‘ Your daughter thinks it’s a good idea to throw her food on the floor!’ Surely his daughter too? And even though he liked to be in complete control of our little household at all times – even taking the TV remote to the loo with him – I didn’t really hold it against him. Didn’t really want him dead.
 
It was a shock, therefore, to open the door to the policeman.
 
‘Mrs Shilling? May I have a word?’
 
Whilst he’d been cycling along the Dunstable Downs, the ridge of hills above our house, an easyJet plane returning from Lanzarote had simultaneously prepared for its descent at Luton. Dropping from freezing high altitude into warmer air, it had relieved itself: had fall-out. A chunk of ice, eighteen inches in diameter, had broken off from the fuselage and, five thousand feet below, found Phil, pedalling furiously. As my husband strove to render his body a temple, God, it seemed, had had other ideas.
 
I remember struggling to comprehend this; remember gaping at the policeman as he perched opposite me on my sofa, twisting his hat in his hands.
 
‘A piece of ice? From where exactly?’
 
‘From the undercarriage.’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘From the toilet, as a matter of fact.’
 
‘The toilet?’
 
‘Yes. Blue Ice is how it’s known. Being as how it’s mixed with detergent.’
 
‘What is?’
 
‘The urine.’
 
I stared. Not in a million years could I have dreamed this up. Fantasized about this in Sainsbury’s. Phil had been killed by a piece of piss. A hefty, frozen block of pee, travelling at spectacular speed and velocity – and which, it later transpired, hadn’t actually claimed him as he’d been cycling but, as bad luck would have it, when he’d stopped at a stile, taken his helmet off to scratch his head and wonder how to get the bike over. A freak accident, but not the first of its kind, the coroner would later inform me sympathetically over his bifocals as I sat at the back of his court in a navy-blue suit, hands clenched. ‘Thirty-five similar instances in the last year alone.’
 
‘Although in the last forty years, only five fatalities,’ the man from the Civil Aviation Authority had added stiffly. Six, then, with Phil.
 
‘Right. Thank you so much. I mean – for telling me.’ This, to the policeman in the here and now, in my sitting room. I stood up shakily.
 
The officer got to his feet, uncertain. He spread his hands helplessly.
 
‘Do you . . . want to see him?’
 
My mind reeled. ‘Where is he?’
 
‘In the hospital morgue.’
 
I caught my breath. Oh, God. On a trolley. In a bag. ‘No,’ I gasped instinctively.
 
‘No, not everyone does.’ He hesitated, unwilling to leave so soon. ‘Well, is there . . . anyone you’d like to contact? Have with you?’
 
‘No, no one. I mean, there is. Are. Plenty. But – not now. I’ll be fine, really.’
 
‘Your mother, perhaps?’
 
‘No, she’s dead.’
 
He looked shocked. So many dead.
 
‘Really, I’ll be fine.’ I was helping him, now. But he was only young.
 
‘And the children?’
 
‘Yes, I’ll pick them up from school.’
 
And pick them up I had. Well, only Clemmie. Archie was asleep in his cot upstairs, and I’d taken him with me and driven very slowly, because I was pretty sure I was in shock. I was a quiet mother at the gates, but not a distraught one, so Clemmie didn’t notice anything, and then I’d driven back and given them tea. Chicken nuggets, I remember, which I only serve in extremis. At the table Clemmie had told me about Miss Perkins, Mummy, who’s an assassin. ‘Assistant?’ Yes, and got a moustache. And later I’d bathed them and put them to bed. And then I’d walked around the house on that chilly, blustery evening, clutching the tops of my arms, gazing out of the window at the shivering late roses, the clouds rushing through the dark blue sky, flashes of sunshine casting long shadows on the lawn, waiting, waiting for something to happen. For the sluice gate to open. For my hand to clap my mouth as I gasped, ‘Oh, God!’ and fell, like Phil must have fallen, I told myself looking for a trigger, in a terrible heap to the ground. I tried to imagine him lying in the bracken, his bike a tangled mess, his face broken, shattered. Nothing. So I walked round the house some more, the house we’d lived in together for several years – happy years, I told myself sternly. This lovely cottage, in this beautiful village, which we’d stretched ourselves to afford, had done up meticulously, sourcing terracotta tiles from Italy, Victorian light switches from Somerset, cast-iron door handles from Wales, and from whence Phil had commuted into London every day, toiling in on a packed train, to bring back the wherewithal to raise our children. A selfless, dedicated man. I waited. Nothing.
 
Shock. Definitely shock. I’d read about it.

Africa's Third Liberation

Information about the book

Africa’s third liberation

By 2012, not only were all countries free from colonialism, but most had also overthrown the autocrats who all too often followed foreign rule. In some cases the original liberation movements have virtually disappeared. For example, Patrice Lumumba’s Mouvement National Congolais, which led what we now call the Democratic Republic of the Congo to independence in 1960, never recovered from its leader’s assassination and Mobutu Sese Seko’s 32-year one-party state. In Ghana, the Convention People’s Party of the first post-independence British colonial leader, Kwame Nkrumah, won just one seat in parliament in the 2008 election. The National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons, along with the Nigeria People’s Congress, which jointly led the West African giant after independence, are no longer active forces.

Outside Southern Africa, it is only in Eritrea where there has been a one-party state since independence in 1993, and in Cameroon, under Ahmadou Ahidjo from 1960 and, since 1982, Paul Biya, that the original liberation party still holds sway. Gabon’s original ruling party, the Bloc Démocratique Gabonais, was replaced by the Parti Démocratique Gabonais although the Bongo thread remained unbroken, first with Omar and now his son Ali. In Kenya, the Kenya African National Union is part of the coalition government, though neither the president nor the prime minister is from the party of liberation icon, Jomo Kenyatta. In Ethiopia and Rwanda, liberation movements rule, though in both cases these removed post-independence governments. They appear, however, to have picked up bad habits, having been in power since 1991 and 1994 respectively.

It is true that the situation is more mixed in Southern Africa. Not only do Robert Mugabe and his Zimbabwe African National Union – Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) clique cling to power at any cost in Zimbabwe, but the ruling parties in Namibia, Mozambique, Angola, Botswana, Tanzania and South Africa are the same ones that once brought democratic freedoms. Swaziland did away with political parties altogether in 1973. In Lesotho, however, the once-dominant Basotho National Party has withered to the point of virtual disappearance, as has the United National Independence Party in Zambia. Hastings Banda’s Malawi Congress Party has gone from all-powerful one-party dominance to official opposition, where it has been since 1994.

The continental shift away from the one-time liberators has gone hand in hand with the extension of democracy, from just three African countries regularly holding multiparty elections at the end of the 1970s (Botswana, Gambia and Mauritius) to more than 40 today. As the next chapter reports, while many of these processes are imperfect at best and often fraudulent, and the consolidation of democratic institutions lags, democracy as an organising political orthodoxy has no ideological contenders in today’s Africa. This is not to say that leaders willingly give in to these rights. Democracy is often a hard-fought process, and even today some suggest mischievously (and not without self-interest) that things would work more smoothly without the ‘costs’ of democratic niceties.

Africa’s political evolution points to a third liberation that most of the continent has yet to experience, one that will likely prove as important as the political freedoms earned over the past half century, or perhaps even more important: the liberation from political economies characterised by graft, crony capitalism, rent-seeking, elitism and, inevitably, widening (and destabilising) social inequality. Such an emancipation is necessary to open up economic space in which business can compete, a necessary condition to expand employment.

One part of this third liberation has already happened: the evolution from seeing foreign development aid as the key source of development to more realistically portraying money brought in by outsiders as potentially useful, but only in the context of good governance. Remarkably, as recently as 2005, Tony Blair, backed by celebrity economists and a chorus of ageing pop-stars, led a campaign at the Gleneagles G8 summit to double aid to Africa as apparently the last, best hope of transforming the continent’s fortunes. Within just half a decade, a combination of higher commodity prices and better governance has relegated the aid debate, which distorted economic practices and the accountability of leaders to citizens, to a secondary development consideration. The focus has refreshingly shifted to the growth imperative and the need to lessen inequality by creating jobs, especially among the youth. Accordingly, in many parts of Africa (the conversation is still somewhat different in Washington DC, and Europe), foreign aid is no longer central to debates about growth.

Instead, the debate is about how Africa can realise its enormous economic potential and thereby avoid the dashed hopes and disappointments so common in the first 50 years of independence. The stakes – which, for hundreds of millions of people in what is the world’s poorest continent, include their chance of escaping poverty – could not be higher.

 

Can Africa join in the world’s progress?

Now is a particularly appropriate time to examine Africa’s prospects, because the world record on poverty reduction over the past 50 years has been excellent. All signs indicate that it will be possible for at least some African countries to participate in an international economy that continues to be robust as long as they institutionalise and enhance their reforms. Whether all, or even most, African countries can find space to grow in the international economy is a separate question. Individual nations should feel a sense of urgency to enter the international economy while the window is open.

To see how much the world has changed, it is important to remember that in 1968, when Swedish economist and Nobel Prize winner, Gunnar Myrdal, published his three-volume work Asian Drama, instability, corruption and poverty were widespread, and development seemed a long way off.3 Singapore was just emerging under Lee Kuan Yew; Malaysia was a year away from the race riots that sparked Mahathir’s reforms; Vietnam was in the midst of a very hot war, its neighbours Thailand, Cambodia and Laos wobbling between insurgencies and military regimes; Indonesia had just suffered a palace coup as General Suharto took over from Sukarno in March 1968; South Korea seemed caught between student unrest and the ruthlessness of a military dictator; and Taiwan was still in the iron grip of Chiang Kai-shek, not yet eased by the modernising influence of his son Chiang Ching-Kuo. Engagement by external forces scarcely helped: the United States and Soviet Union poured military resources into their allies in Vietnam, which were locked in pitched battle, while economic growth in China and India was at a standstill. In the former, development had been halted by the destructiveness of the Cultural Revolution; in India the Licence Raj and centrally planned economy drip-fed a burgeoning population.

While his pessimism seems out of place, given what we know today, Myrdal’s book reflects the conventional wisdom of the day. It argued that the only way for Southeast Asia to develop was to control its population, redistribute agricultural land and invest in health care and education. While there is little wrong, even today, with these prescriptions, the region’s dramatic shift from being the epitome of conflict to peace and rapid economic growth demonstrates how quickly things can change with the right ingredients of policy, political will, external opportunities and domestic ownership.

Already in 1968 there were signs of the rapid change that was to become the regional hallmark. Japan’s annual economic growth averaged nearly 11 per cent between 1967 and 1970, surpassing West Germany to become the third-largest economy in the world behind the United States and the Soviet Union. And South Korea was already on the path to rapid transformation, as Figure 1 indicates, under General Park Chung-hee, who was intent on emulating Japan’s rapid route to prosperity. It took the United States 164 years, from 1820 to 1984, to get its per capita income from US$1 257 to US$20 123, while South Korea managed approximately the same jump (from US$1 092 to US$19 614) in the 88 years between 1920 and 2008.4 And Singapore, Taiwan, and Hong Kong experienced similar leaps ahead in the first roar of the ‘tigers’.

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