Land of Promise (7 page)

Chapter 7: TIA

“He changeth the times and the seasons,

He removeth kings, and setteth up kings,

He giveth wisdom unto the wise

and knowledge to them that know understanding.”
-- Daniel 2:21 KJV

Edinburgh, Scotland -- July, Three Years After Declaration of the Caliphate

Rick asked, “So, do we recruit leadership first, or do we pitch the concept first and then look for leaders?”

“That’s a tough question,” Alan replied. “I think we’ll need to pray about it.”

Three days later, Alan and Rick were on a plane bound for London, with a connecting flight to Johannesburg. Meital took a separate flight by way of Paris a few hours later to reduce the risk of relationship metrics tracking.

On the long leg of their flight, Alan intently read a battered copy of the science fiction novel
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
by Robert A. Heinlein. To Rick, Alan commented, “This wasn’t written from a Christian perspective, but it certainly captures the Libertarian viewpoint.”

As the plane banked to line up on their final descent, Alan looked out his window and said, “It feels good to get back to my red soil.”

“
Your…
?”

“I never told you that I was born in Africa, did I? Both of my parents are British, but I was born in Kampala, Uganda. My dad was a low-level diplomat, and my mum was a telecommunications specialist. They were both working at the UK consulate in Kampala at the time. My mum was scheduled to travel back to London for my birth, but I was impatient and arrived six weeks early. ”

“Well, then you’re certainly more African than I’ll ever be. This is my first time here.”

“With the change in the OAS naturalization law back in 2044, I now qualify for a Ugandan passport, but I’ve never applied.”

“You should,” Rick said. “A man who is above draft age can never have too many passports.”

They arrived exhausted, but enthusiastic. They queued up in the line for one of three booths marked “Other Passports – No-Visa Countries Only.” The passport clerk was polite but casual, chit-chatting in Xhosa with the co-worker occupying the next booth while he glanced with little interest at Rick’s passport. He stamped it without delay, and the two men breezed through the passageway under the green-lit “Nothing To Declare” sign, drawing hardly a glance.

They had a two-hour layover in Johannesburg before their flight to Lusaka. The flight to Lusaka was on an aging Airbus A319-SLEP-700 that had obviously seen better days. The plane’s seats were stained and frayed, and the cabin retained the faint odor of urine.

As they flew north, Alan pointed out a few prominent landmarks: The Limpopo River, the city of Bulawayo, the Kariba Dam on the Zambezi River, and the Kafue River. After they’d crossed the Limpopo, Alan said dryly, “Back in the 1960s they had tourism posters that read, ‘Visit Rhodesia and see the Zimbabwe Ruins.’ But now, posters could read, ‘Visit Zimbabwe and see the Ruins of Rhodesia.’ A pity, that.”

After passing through the sleek, cosmopolitan Johannesburg airport, Lusaka’s Kenneth Kaunda Airport seemed shabby and decrepit. Clearing customs for the second time in a day went more slowly, with a detailed examination of their luggage. One of the inspectors seemed to be angling for a bribe, taking an inordinately long time looking at Alan’s luggage, carefully studying the prescription label on the card-packaged blood pressure medicine, and then comparing it to Alan’s name on his passport. He whispered slyly, “You need to talk like a man.”

Alan recognized this as a subtle but typical African demand for a bribe. But he would hear none of this and demanded in a fairly loud voice, “What is it,
exactly
, that is out of order with my bags, my medication, or my passport? Either send me on my way, or let me talk to whomever is in charge!”

The inspector’s face dropped and he handed Alan his passport, answering in a monotone, “Enjoy your stay in Zambia.”

The terminal building handled both domestic and international passengers. It was constructed in 1967, using the first in-rush of foreign investment capital after the country changed names from Northern Rhodesia to Zambia. Nine decades later the building was crumbling. The longer Rick and Alan sat in their frayed chairs in the lounge, the more their eyes were drawn to problems with the building: Stained and faded carpets, peeling paint, cracked facades, partially disassembled electrical junction boxes with patch cables and coils of loose electrical tape hanging in festoons, streaks of black mold in many corners, and other sure signs of chronic leaks in the ceilings.

Rick quipped, “This terminal has clearly reached its terminal stage.”

An elderly black man wearing stained coveralls with a large embroidered “ELECTRICIAN” patch sewn between his stooped shoulders pushed a service cart with an annoyingly squeaky wheel through the lounge. Beside him was a much younger man who was listening to music on earbuds. His coveralls bore a similar patch reading “ASST. ELECTRICIAN.” The pair moved about their tasks at a snail’s pace. The cart had a collapsing ladder and was well stocked with boxes of fluorescent bulbs and tubes. But instead of changing the two ceiling fluorescent tubes that were blinking erratically, the two men tapped their fingernails on working light bulbs and changed two that seemed to be operating normally. Surreptitiously studying the men and the contents of their cart, Alan concluded that they weren’t servicing listening devices.

After the old man and his assistant had left, Rick asked, “Did you see what I just saw?”

Alan nodded and whispered, “Yes, I did. And the scary thing is that the older half of that dynamic duo is probably one of the highest-paid employees here at the airport.”

After a pause he added, “T-I-A, my friend.”

TIA was the acronym universally used on the continent to describe the African way of doing things. It stood for, “This is Africa.”

After a minute, Alan said, “A few months ago, I read an article about South African Airways, comparing it to other air carriers. Did you see it?”

“No. What did it say?”

“It quoted that worldwide, the average number of airline employees in all categories was between 125 and 165 per aircraft. But for South African Airways, it was 957 employees. And that comes as no great surprise: The bywords in Africa are: nepotism, corruption, “ghost employees,” funds funneled into offshore accounts, and outright theft. From the way my father described it, seeing the decline of South Africa in the 2030s and 2040s has been like watching Zimbabwe’s collapse in the 1990s and early 2000s, in slow motion.”

After more than an hour of chatting while resting in their chairs, they got up to stretch their legs, walking the full length of the open areas of the terminal. At the far end of the terminal, a large mural depicted a planned new National Airports Corporation terminal to replace the current building. It optimistically proclaimed, “Opening in 2032,” but that deadline obviously had been delayed. Even this announcement mural was stained, faded, and tattered. Alan muttered resignedly, “TIA, again.”

Meital arrived exhausted but still enthusiastic, 45 minutes late. Alan and Rick greeted her just outside of the Customs area, where Meital surprised Rick by giving him a peck on the cheek. Then she did the same for Alan. Rick wondered if she was finally warming up to him, or if this was just customary behavior for Israelis at airports.

They found a car waiting for them at the terminal’s curb, with the help of a hand-written sign reading “Scotland-Globol-M.A.P.” taped on the side window. The driver cheerfully helped them with their bags, and then explained in his slightly fractured English, “I am taking you gentlemen and lady to the hotel. I will return there tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., after you are refreshened.”

Their meeting with Mtume began at 9:30 a.m. Rick and Alan both wore suits, and Meital wore one of her Baghdad Bags. This one was tan with more embroidery than the others that they had seen. Rick’s brown suit was one that he brought with him from Texas, so it was lightweight. But Alan’s was a heavy navy blue wool suit from Harrods in London. Although it fit him well -- it had just been taken in, to adjust for his recent weight loss -- it left Alan noticeably perspiring. Rick wondered how much they’d all be sweating in the heat of the afternoon.

Mark Mtume’s office in Nairobi’s Westlands district was utilitarian, with just a few diplomas, certificates, and photographs for decorations. Mtume was just as they had expected him: polite, devout, witty, and articulate. Dressed in casual clothes and wearing a “No Abd” International Slavery Awareness Campaign pin on his shirt collar, Mtume said a prayer aloud before they began their conversation, asking that the end result of their conversation would be to God’s glory. Then he put his forefinger to his forehead and said, “After my prayers last night I dreamed that this would be a very important talk when I met you. I know very little about your company and nothing about what you want to discuss with me, but my dream told me that this will be a turning point.” He looked from one to another. “Why?”

His words immediately struck his three visitors. Rick began, “We are great admirers of you and what you’ve already accomplished. We come to you as deeply-devoted fellow Christians. For several months we have felt strongly convicted to make a positive change in the struggle against the global Caliphate. And what we want to suggest to you is a considerable departure from what you have been doing thus far.”

Alan jumped in. “Up until now, you’ve been visiting country after country, seeking the good graces of governments and NGOs, and asking for sanctuary for persecuted Christians. That is admirable, but we believe the time has come to form
an entirely new nation
that will be a Libertarian Christian Republic, and that it will be dedicated as a nation of refuge. This nation will be something much like the restoration of modern Israel. With its formation we aim to turn the world upside down.”

“That sounds amazing. But I feel the need to back up a bit and ask: Are you Kinists?”

Rick answered quickly, “No, sir. We soundly reject Kinism, since that is inherently racist. We only believe in one race and that is the
human
race. If there is any partition, then it needs to be along the lines of religious affiliation, not because of skin color or ethnicity.”

Mtume nodded and said, “Correct answer. Now, the next question is: Where should this homeland be?”

Rick shot back, “Have you heard of the Ilemi Triangle?”

“Yes! This is an amazing coincidence. You see, I have actually driven through part of it, all the way to a small village called Liwan, 200 kilometers north of Lodwar, near the end of the dry season. That was five years ago, but I remember it quite distinctly. We drove north from Nairobi through Kitale to Lodwar. We stayed the night in a small hotel at Lodwar, refueled, and set out early the next morning. We drove west to the little roadside village of Nadwat. From there, we turned off on a track toward Kibish, and then proceeded north into the Ilemi proper, all the way to the village of Liwan. Once past Nadwat the roads are poor, but for some reason I felt that I needed to explore up there. My Turkana driver thought I was crazy to press on, once we had got west of Lodwar. He said, ‘Beyond here, there is just empty cattle country, and
Shifta
-- bandits.’”

Mark took a deep breath and then continued. “So,
yes
, I’ve seen part of the Ilemi. And, in fact, I once proposed establishing a refugee camp west of Liwan, but we were told by the Kenyans that it was too remote and ownership of that land was in dispute, so the GCC Board of Directors turned down my proposal.”

After a pause he added, “There are some forested mountains that rise up west of Liwan. I distinctly remember watching a lightning storm roll over those Lorionetom Mountains. There is a big plateau up there. I recall wondering what it would be like to stand on one of those mountaintops with the lightning coming down all around me. That was a powerful moment for me, but at the time I wondered why. Why, when I was out in what you call ‘The Middle of Nowhere’?”