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Which is rather odd.

Because no one visiting Malabo will see any sign of this wealth. The four-lane Carretera del Aeropuerto which leads from the airport right into its colonial centre is still the only tarmacked road in the country. The old town, partly renovated, partly disintegrated, is ridden with brothels and drinking holes. Extravagant cross-country vehicles are parked in front of the air-conditioned and ugly government palace. The only hotel exudes all the charm of an emergency accommodation building. There’s no school anywhere worthy of the name. There are no daily papers, no smiles on the faces, no public voice. Here and there, scaffolding leans against scaffolding like drunk men huddling together, but only on constructions carried out for the Obiangs; apart from the villas of the kleptocracy, hardly any building work gets finished. Those are the only new structures: monuments of monstrous tastelessness, just like the warehouses and quarters for foreign oil workers which spring out of the ground overnight. As if embarrassed to be there, the American Embassy cowers between the surrounding houses, while a little further on, the other side of the cordoned-off Exxon grounds, the Chinese Embassy flaunts itself brazenly.

* * *

‘So they did start to court Obiang,’ said Yoyo. ‘Even though almost everything was owned by the Americans.’

‘They tried, anyway,’ said Jericho. ‘But they weren’t that successful to begin with. After all, Obiang’s new circle of friends didn’t just include the Bush dynasty. Even the EU Commission was eagerly rolling out the red carpet for him, especially the French. What did a ban on religion or torture matter? The fact that the only human rights organisation in the country was controlled by the government, along with the radio and television; they couldn’t care less. The fact that two-thirds of the population were living on less than two dollars a day;
mei you ban fa
, there was nothing that could be done. The region was of vital interest, anyone who comes too late loses out, and the Chinese were just too slow.’

‘And how did the locals react to the oil workers being there?’

‘They didn’t. The workers were flown straight into sealed-off company grounds. Marathon built their own town not far from Malabo, around a gas-to-liquid plant, and at times there were more than four thousand people living there: a highly secured Green Zone with its own energy grid, water supply, restaurants, shops and cinemas. Do you know what the workers called it? Pleasantville.’

‘How sweet.’

‘Indeed. When a dictator gives you permission to plunder his mineral resources while his own people are butchering monkeys out of sheer hunger, you don’t exactly want to let those people catch sight of you. And
they
certainly don’t want to see
you. But they aren’t even put in that awkward situation, because the companies are self-sufficient. The local private economy doesn’t benefit in the slightest from the fact that several thousand Americans are squatting just a few kilometres away. Most of the oil workers spent months in ghettos like those or on their rig, fucking AIDS-free girls from Cameroon, gobbling down piles of malaria tablets and making sure they arrived back home without having made any contact with the country. No one wanted contact. The main thing was that Obiang was firmly in the saddle, and, therefore, the American oil industry too.’

‘But something must have gone wrong. For the Yanks, I mean. By Mayé’s time they were practically out of the game.’

‘It did go wrong,’ said Jericho. ‘The decline began in 2004. But that was actually down to an Englishman. I’d hazard a guess that our story and the mess we’ve got mixed up in really started after the Wonga Coup.’

* * *

Wonga Coup. A Bantu term. Wonga meaning money, dosh, dough, moolah. A flippant way of describing one of the most ridiculous attempted coups of all time.

In March 2004, a rattling Boeing of prehistoric design lands in Harare Airport in Zimbabwe, packed full of mercenaries from South Africa, Angola and Namibia. The plan is to take weapons and ammunition on board, fly on to Malabo and meet up with a little group of fighters smuggled in ahead of them. Together, they plan to overthrow the government in a surprise attack, shoot down Obiang or throw him into his own prison, the main priority being a change of power. The day before, and as if by magic, the leader of the oppositional progressive party, Severo Moto, arrives in nearby Mali from his Madrid exile, thereby enabling him to get to Malabo within the hour to have his feet kissed by the grateful hordes.

But it didn’t quite turn out like that. The South African Secret Services – on the alert against the now unemployed henchmen of apartheid – got wind of the plan and warned Obiang. Simultaneously, the Zimbabwe government was informed of the arrival of a bunch of dreamers convinced they could rewrite history by letting rip with some decommissioned Kalashnikovs. The trap snaps down on both sides: they were all arrested and given immediate prison sentences, and that was that.

Or that
would have been
that.

Because unfortunately – for those behind the coup – the people questioned betrayed their confidentially vows in the hope of lighter sentences. And so the full force of the law makes itself felt. One of the ringleaders of the unlucky commandos was a former British officer and long-time leader of a private mercenary firm, which had links with a certain Jan Kees Vogelaar. The officer, imprisoned in Zimbabwe, is able to tell them that a dodgy oil manager with a British passport is behind the
whole thing, and above all a relative of a British prime minister, who is alleged to have put up considerable sums of money for the operation. Just this information alone is enough to elicit statements from Obiang, hinting at handing over certain parts of the perpetrator’s anatomy to his cook, if they ever get their hands on him. Pretty soon Simon Mann is threatened with extradition. This, and the prospect of dance lessons in Black Beach – and worse – contribute immensely to the loosening of the mercenary leader’s tongue. Then the truth comes out.

The real financers are British oil companies, the crème of the trade, who were disgruntled at the sputtering wealth being divided up between American companies and the impossibility of getting a foot in the door with Obiang. No offence intended, but they wanted to change a few things. Severo Moto had been chosen to undertake the distribution of the cake. A puppet president who, amongst other things, had promised to favour Spanish oil companies too.

And then the mercenary drops the real bomb:

They all knew about it!

The CIA. British MI6. The Spanish Secret Service. They all knew – and they all helped. It was said even Spanish warships had been en route to Equatorial Guinea, an infinite loop of colonialism. Obiang was outraged. Even his brunch buddy from Washington stabbed him in the back. No longer willing to stabilise him, Bush was prepared to divide up shares amongst the English and the Spanish in the interest of a puppet government, and to negotiate more favourable mining conditions in turn. Obiang rages against the whole sorry lot of them – and decides to help put their plan into action: he really does redistribute the mining rights – just in a completely different way from how the global strategists imagined. American companies get the boot, and in their place the South Africans get the lot. Relations with José Maria Aznar, Severo Moto’s friend and host to forty thousand Equatorial Guinea residents in exile, are suspended. France, on the other hand, is alleged to have helped to prevent the coup, and so Obiang looks favourably on the Grande Nation.

And wasn’t there a country on the starting blocks, waiting for America to go it alone?

* * *

‘China comes into play.’

‘Yes, although treading delicately. Obiang seems prepared to forgive and forget at first. Aznar has been voted out by then, making Spain approachable again, so he launches into a charm offensive. By the same token, Washington tries its hand with diplomatic reparations. Smiling competitions with Condoleezza Rice, new contracts, all of that. By 2008, the companies are pumping half a million barrels a year from the sea off Obiang’s
own country
, the country that records the highest income per
capita in the whole of Africa. Analysts estimate that there is more oil stored in Equatorial Guinea than in Kuwait. The bulk of it flows into the USA, a little to France, Italy and Spain, but the real winner—’

‘—is China.’

‘Exactly! They caught up with America. Slyly and quietly.’

‘I get it.’ Yoyo looked at him, her eyelids drooping. Jericho felt strangely spaced out too. The lack of sleep and the jet gliding at twice the speed of sound were starting to have a narcotic effect. ‘And Obiang?’

‘Still angry. Furious! He realises, of course, that high-ranking members of his government must have known about the plans to overthrow him. You can only arrange a coup like that with support from the inside. So heads roll, and from then on he doesn’t trust anyone. He gets himself a Moroccan bodyguard out of fear of his own people. At the same time, though, he demands to be courted in a bizarre way. When the Exxon bosses arrive, they have to address his ministers and generals as
Excellentissimo
. Former slaves encounter former slave traders, everyone detests everyone else. The board members of the oil firms hate having to sit at a table with the jungle chiefs, but they do it regardless because both sides stand to make a huge profit.’

‘And the country is still on its knees.’

‘There are some benefits for the Fang, but generally speaking the economy is corrupt. Sure, there are a few more nice cars parked in the slums, but running water and electricity are still in short supply. The country is paying for the curse of having natural resources. Who would still want to work or educate themselves if money were flowing into their accounts of its own accord? The wealth transforms some into predators and others into zombies. Bush states that he plans to pump the sea floor near Malabo empty by 2030, and promises Obiang he’ll leave him in peace with regard to human rights and coup plans, as well as reward him appropriately.’

‘That sounds like a good deal. For Obiang, I mean.’

‘Yes, he could have contented himself with that. But he didn’t. Because good old Obiang—’

* * *

—is an elephant: unforgiving, mistrustful. As elephants tend to be. He just can’t forget that Bush, the Brits and the Spanish wanted to do the dirty on him. The pistons of his lubricated power machine rise and fall cheerfully, everything running like clockwork, including his sparkling re-election in 2009. There’s such immense wealth that lesser quantities finally spill over to the middle and lower classes too, enough to anaesthetise any revolutionary ideas for the time being. But Obiang still plots his revenge.

Ironically, of all things it’s the change of government in Washington that heralds
the new era. In a way, it was possible to rely on Bush, who lacked the same amount of morals as he endeavoured to fake in his speeches. Barack Obama, on the other hand, the high priest of Change, dreaded the thought of tucking into hard-boiled eggs in the company of cannibals behind closed doors. Eagerly attempting to reestablish America’s worse for wear image around the world, he hauled terms like democracy and human rights out of the sewers of Bush’s vocabulary, listened courteously to the UN when sanctions against rogue regimes were the topic of debate, and aggravated Obiang with his humanitarian demands.

In the fanfare of changed American rhetoric, Obiang is probably the only one to notice that two heavily armed US military bases have sprung up in São Tomé and Príncipe overnight, right in front of his nose. Oil is suspected around this small island state too. By now, China and the USA are engaged in a real race in the resources market. The treasures of the earth seem solely destined to be divided up between the two economic giants. Officially, the two bases are supposed to secure trouble-free transport of gas and oil in the Gulf of Guinea, but Obiang senses betrayal. His fall would make things a great deal easier for the Americans. And they will force his fall, as long as he continues to go to bed with each and every whore instead of marrying just one of them.

Obiang looks to the East.

In 2010, Beijing ascended to become Africa’s biggest financial backer, ahead of even the World Bank. The president figures out two geostrategic equations. The first is that China is least likely to carry out a coup against him, so long as he favours them in commodities poker. The second is that Beijing is most likely to overthrow him if he doesn’t, so he gives more licences to China. The alarm bells start to ring in Washington. Just like before, they still try to maintain close relations with states that have something they want. US representatives travel to corrupt meetings under the soaking skies of Malabo. An unblemished cosmopolitan on the surface, Obiang assures his American friends of his undiminished appreciation while, behind their backs, he puts an end to contracts, redistributes mining rights at will, commences licence fees and stirs up public opinion against the Western ‘exploiters’. These actions result in infringements on US institutions, imprisonments and the deportation of American workers. Washington considers it necessary to threaten Obiang with sanctions and isolation, and the climate rapidly deteriorates.

Then, drunk on power, Obiang crosses the line. Peeved at the extension of the American military bases, he has Marathon’s oil town ‘Pleasantville’ attacked in the dead of night. This culminates in a real battle at Punta Europa, with casualties on both sides. As always, the president denies any part in it, expresses deep consternation and promises that he, like his uncle before him, plans to nail the guilty parties
to stakes along the side of the highway. But in doing so, he makes the mistake of casting the blame onto the Bubi, a spark that triggers an explosion. Distracted by geo-strategy, Obiang failed to notice that the ethnic conflict had long since overstepped the border of controllability. The Bubi defend themselves against the accusations, attack Fangs of the Esangui clan, and are riddled with bullets by Obiang’s paramilitaries, but this time his intimidation tactics don’t have the usual impact. Marathon people identify the corpse of a fallen attacker as an officer of the Equatorial Guinea army, a Fang who was loyal to the party line, and one who was also related by marriage to Obiang. Washington doesn’t rule out taking military action. Obiang pointedly has Americans arrested and accuses Obama of trying to engineer his overthrow, a statement which encourages Bubi politicians to send signals to Washington. Severo Moto, the unlucky almost-president, who has little else to do but chew on the bones of failure in Spanish exile, conveys the details: if Malabo, the capital city, can be successfully brought under control, then – and only then! – can a coup have any chance of success. The hearts of the Bubi beat for America. And so a new equation is made: America plus Bubi equals coup equals China out and America in. Officially, the Americans turn down a coup, of course, but the trenches are dug.