Wings of the Morning (58 page)

Back to Joe Kaba and his Aurora Programme. That’s what he called it: Aurora as in dawn. He wanted us to create not a new beginning but a new chapter, a new day. The name fitted well
enough. Joe’s strategy was clear. Millennium was to host a conference in Century City, inviting chosen Heads of State from around the world. The main item was to be Orphans of Africa: what it
meant, how it worked, what it had achieved both in our country and across this continent. That it was ready now for roll out across the rest of the globe as Orphans of the World.

Joe had a second agenda. The event would serve to showcase Millennium — everything about us: who we are, where we’ve come from, what we stand for and where we’re going. It
would be the opportunity to show the doubters and the cynics that we’re not colonisers and we’re not pirates. Millennium is an established sovereign state and there’s no
comparison to be drawn with the breakaway enclaves further south. And that we’ve risen from a fresh start, not struggled out of some internal strife. Communicating this message would also
give Joe the opportunity to bury Hugh Dundas. Much as he admired Hugh, Joe told us, it was time for him to depart the scene. Hugh was the last link with the controversies of the past. He had been a
pivotal figure without whom there would have been no Chapter One in the Millennium story. But he has no place in Chapter Two and that, Joe assured us, is precisely how he feels himself. Hugh is
about to turn eighty and he wants to retire from any form of public life.

So then we all went to work. There was a lot of it and all the practical stuff was demanding enough: the building at the airport, a couple of roads and then all the detail of the programme,
where to go, what to see, who to meet.

The less predictable revolved around the guest list and I guess I was flattered that Joe involved me in this. It was crucial that we got it right. No point in a flash theatre with a great new
show if nobody comes to watch. In this case, there was never going to be a problem in getting an audience. The Chinese were immediately up for it and probably looking to get a further piece of our
action. India also was keen. The Japanese accepted and so did the Koreans. Australasia said ‘yes please’ and we included everyone from our home continent. We were more picky with the
South Americans but we asked Brazil, of course and Argentina plus a few more. We included Russia for sure, also Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan. With tongue in cheek I asked Joe about Armenia and he
almost exploded before he saw me grinning. The Middle East was a minefield except for the obvious — the Saudis and UAE. And Israel. We asked a couple from the Balkans and from South East Asia
too. Joe was particularly anxious to attract the Thais. We rounded off the guest list with some international big hitters — the UN, the World Bank, WHO and the like.

The real challenge was to get people — but the right people — to come from Western Europe and the USA. To be fair to the Yanks, it was difficult timing for them because 2020 was an
Election year in the States. They couldn’t be sure who’d be in power after November and our week the following January would be very close to Inauguration date. Sorting this out and
making sure that we could count on a representative of sufficient stature was a delicate business for Joe Kaba and had me travelling to and from Washington to present his suggestions. It was on one
of these trips that I side tracked to see King Offenbach.

The greatest problem was in Europe. Not with the French or the Germans who were as keen as mustard. So was the EU and the European Development Bank. The problem lay with the Brits. There was yet
another coalition in Downing Street, this one a patchwork between Labour and the LibDems. The Foreign Secretary was a particularly mousy individual and the PM highly distracted by domestic matters.
After Parliament’s summer recess, we finally got a breakthrough. If Joe Kaba could get himself to London at the start of November, the Prime Minister would fit in a meeting and they could get
the matter settled. The PM was, in principle, willing to lend support.

This was great news and Joe was determined to take full advantage. Of course he would go to the UK but he would also take in France and Germany plus a flying visit to the Portuguese. He set
aside a week in all to include three days in London for Downing Street, the City, a parliamentary group which backed us and a couple of charities. He was delighted at the whole prospect and so was
I as he was sending me over ten days in advance to get his schedule set up to the minute. I’d be busy, but still have the time to see all my family. Before I flew out, Joe was on a charge and
working all hours, partly to pull forward other work which he was doing on behalf of Helen Menendez. Our President’s health had been very bad and although she was improving, her time was
limited under strict medical orders and she was aiming to be completely fit for Aurora.

There was only one evening free in Joe’s week in England, the Thursday, and then he filled that too. He received an invitation to speak at the Oxford Union, to take the lead in opposing
the Motion ‘This House deplores neo-colonialism in all its forms’. Joe expostulated with excitement as I was leaving the office for the Airport.

‘I can’t miss out on this one Olty. It’s a great chance to tell it like it is.’

I was rushed off my feet in Europe but the adrenalin was flowing and I loved every minute. I did the other capitals first, especially enjoying a day in Lisbon where I had never been and which
holds obvious significance for me. In London, Martin Kirchoff gave discreet but vital advice on those whom Joe Kaba should meet. Martin was looking ten years younger than his seventy-seven and Ruth
even better as she mothered me in their house from which they had never moved. Martin was pretty much retired although he still went to The Mansion House once a fortnight. He wouldn’t let me
go there.

‘Don’t do anything to resurrect old connections,’ he advised, ‘it wouldn’t be helpful.’

The day before Joe Kaba’s arrival, I was ready, waiting and excited. I had everything arranged and he had approved the tight timetable over the phone. We had many phone conversations and I
thought it was him again when my mobile went off that afternoon. It wasn’t. It was his aide in Century, Jerome, ringing to tell me that Joe had suffered a heart attack.

Apparently it was not too serious and the medics were confident of his full recovery. But it would take some time. Joe had been working flat out for months and he had exhausted himself. This was
his body telling him to slow down and take a break. Yes, probably he’ll be OK for Aurora in January, but as for flying tonight? Forget it.

I was horrified but I started to unpick the arrangements immediately. I wanted my contacts in Europe and London to hear from me personally rather than getting the news via the media or social
sites. It took me almost twenty-four hours to reach everybody — the conversation with the Prime Minister’s office was pretty testing — and at the end of it I realised that I had
forgotten about Oxford. Before I could get to dial again, my phone rang with Mrs Menendez herself calling. I gave her a rundown and finished with the one thing I had left to do. There was silence
for a few seconds and then the President spoke again in her mellifluous tone.

‘You know, Olty, I believe you should carry out that engagement on Joe’s behalf. You should at least make that offer. You won’t mind me saying this, but it’s the one
appearance which you could take on and I’d like everyone to see that Millennium is doing all it possibly can under these difficult circumstances. Would you do this for me please?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’ve got his notes? What he planned to say?’

‘I’ve got the speech in detail. He mailed it to me.’

‘Alright then. Just do your best for us, Olty, and good luck.’

I took the train to Oxford on the Wednesday, arriving in the early evening. I had booked a room at the Randolph hotel for two nights, thinking that I may as well do this in some style. There was
no pressure of time on me now and I wanted to take the opportunity to see something of this city and the university which had been, in a sense, the birthplace for my country. I gave myself a brief
walk around before having dinner in the hotel, and a far more extended tour during the daylight of the following morning. I was captivated by the place.

There is a timeless peace to Oxford which wraps you to its bosom, insisting that you appreciate the past and block out for a while the frantic hurrying of the world around you. Guided only by my
tourist map, I meandered through the streets and market places and courtyards. My inclination was to absorb the atmosphere rather than to take instruction on the specifics. So I wandered past the
Bodleian and the Ashmolean, I flirted with the Cathedral at Christ Church, I nodded at the Pitt Rivers Museum and paraded down Broad Walk and around the Botanical Gardens. I pottered past a fair
number of the colleges, lingering outside the entrance to Brasenose which had sheltered my grandfather during his time here. Instinctively, I was projecting myself back through two generations to
days of sixty years ago when the Oxford Five would have been indistinguishable from the undergraduates who crossed my path today in their scruffy clothes on their clapped out bikes. And when I
stopped for a sandwich and a pint of bitter in a pub steeped in history, I could not help but wonder if it had been there that King Offenbach had first been introduced into their gathering. And the
underlying message which sprang from those majestic buildings and ancient thoroughfares was unchanging: forget about sixty years, try six hundred and more.

I finally returned to the hotel at tea time and gave myself some time to change and prepare for the evening. I was looking forward to it, more surroundings of ancient history in the location and
the practice of the Union and without any onerous responsibility for me. I simply had to make a reasonable job of reading the script. Thursday debates commence at 8.30 in the evening and there was
a drink and a light dinner arranged beforehand for the Officers of the Union and their invited guest speakers. It gave us a chance to meet each other before debating battle was joined.

I knew already that the Oxford Union Society, to give it the full and proper title, was founded in 1823 and its home is in Frewin Court off St Michaels Street in the heart of Oxford, just around
the corner from the Randolph Hotel. The President for the year was an affable guy, a citizen of Afghanistan and probably a bit of a fan of Millennium judging by his informed and enthusiastic
comments. But he was also mindful of protocol and manners and he moved on swiftly with his duties as host for the evening.

For every Union Debate, one student and two guest speakers are fielded both for and against the Motion of the day. Mary Clovelly was from Belfast, in her third year at Jesus College, a bright
and bubbly girl and a passionate debater, she confided, as she took me under her wing. She would open the argument for us in Opposition. Mishaal Rahman was to lead the speeches for the Motion. He
was a second year student from Chittagong, Bangladesh. A bit older than most, Mary told me, good on his feet with a fiery disposition reflected in the dreadlocks which hung to the shoulders of his
gangling frame.

The first guest speaker on our side was a burly, bearded man called Kurt Kruger. Born of German parents, Kruger had been brought up in Zimbabwe and farmed outside Bulawayo until the Mugabe
regime banished him. For the last twenty years he had lived in Johannesburg, managing his fast developing business which offered ‘resettlement advice’. He was closely connected to the
Future Group and a strong advocate for the principle of the Dedicated Territories. In the Debate, I was to follow Kurt as the final speaker against the Motion, quoting the pre prepared thoughts of
Joe Kaba. I wondered and worried if Joe had ever met or spoken to Kruger. It didn’t sound as if their views would be complementary. But then again, one little evening in Oxford was hardly
going to be life changing.

Ranged against us were a couple of big names, but at least I knew a bit about the first of them. Trevor Mullen was in his late sixties, a United Nations man only just retired at the most senior
level. He had a blue chip background. He was worthy but dull. He was overweight and overblown, inclined to patronise and very sure of the excellence of his opinions. I thought of him as a bit of a
dinosaur but still with a punch to throw.

The senior member of their team was a different proposition and I don’t mind admitting that I quailed at the thought of her. Marion Albermarle — aka Marble Mo — was the US
Ambassador to Britain. She was only mid-forties and already something of a legend. She was extremely good looking, immaculately presented. No husband, no partner, no children. Thought to be lesbian
but without evidence. Diamond hard and sharp as nails. Fiercely ambitious. Publically stated aim to become President of the United States. Understood to have stepped aside in the race for this
year’s nominees because she has so much time on her side. They say she took this key diplomatic post as her reward for not rocking the US domestic boat. Not yet anyway. A tough customer by
any standard. We exchanged a brief handshake when introduced before dinner and later I heard her aside to Mullen about ‘a boy for a man’s job’.

Thinking back, it’s strange that I didn’t feel more nervous as we were all escorted through to the debate. I was being pushed into the lion’s den, yet it didn’t seem such
a big deal. I had Joe’s speech in my pocket — it certainly sounded good to me — and anyway, this was simply a provincial event. What’s to worry about?

The Oxford Union still lays claim to being ‘the world’s most prestigious debating society’ and there’s no denying the number of quality figures who have appeared there
over many years past. They won’t have been there for the surroundings. It’s of a good size, seating several hundred when the gallery is full, but the decoration is drab, the seating
basic and the acoustics poor. But none of that matters. It’s the atmosphere which is everything and from the moment you enter, you feel the hand of history on your shoulder. And there is the
dynamism. There is brain power and the skill of expression permanently at work here. There’s a charge which runs through the whole chamber and it invades your soul from the outset.