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Obiang gets nervous.

He tries to unite the Fang to support him, but their belated rage at his failings puts paid to that. Most Fang had no better a time of it under his regime than the Bubi. By now, they are discontented and disunited. The ruling clan in particular shows itself to be a stronghold of Shakespearean plotting. Barricaded behind his puppet guard, the president fails to notice that America has begun to buy Fang and Bubi leaders off in secret, urging them to shake hands and make peace. China makes a bid too. The Equatorial Guinea parliament is up for auction, a Sotheby’s full of corruption. The scattered Bubi parties at home and abroad find themselves in shaky alliances. Obiang responds with terror; civil-war-like conditions shake the country and draw the attention of the foreign media. The USA finally drops the oil prince. He is ordered to call a re-election or, preferably, to step down immediately. Beside himself with rage, Obiang threatens the Bubi with genocide and expresses his desire to eat a whole lot of fried liver. But by now the resistance can no longer be contained.

To add to the confusion, Fang clans from the less than wealthy hinterlands unexpectedly join the Bubi side. Obiang shouts for military helicopters, Beijing hesitates. The hands-off principle, the most important cornerstone of Chinese foreign policy, won’t tolerate military intervention. At the same time, the UN assembly strives for resolutions against Equatorial Guinea. China exercises its veto, the EU demands Obiang’s resignation. Cameroon wants to mediate, but both sides of the Atlantic are
in agreement: Obiang’s time is up. The guy has to go. One way or another.

In 2015, a year before his time in office is up, weakened by both politics and his prostate, the dictator finally buckles. A tired old man is shown on State TV describing his health, citing it as the reason why he is no longer able to serve his beloved people in the reliable way they have become accustomed to. Ergo, for the good of Equatorial Guinea, he is now handing over his power to younger hands, and in particular to – to – to—

According to the script, Obiang’s eldest son Teodorin was supposed to rush out from behind the curtain in full presidential regalia, but he had planned ahead, making himself scarce in the Bermuda triangle of the jet set. In any case, the majority of his uncles and cousins wanted to see Obiang’s second-born in power instead: Gabriel, who managed the oil trade. The USA – a bitter opponent of Teodorin since he had boasted years ago of wanting to renegotiate all the oil treaties to America’s disadvantage – spread rumours that Teodorin was planning Gabriel’s murder. Suddenly, no one seems to want to take the reins any more. Obiang, disgusted by the whiff of cowardice, decides without further ado to nominate an interim candidate, one who will lead government business for the duration of his office and then organise fair elections with the inclusion of all parties and candidates. The chosen one is the commander in chief of the armed forces, a cousin of Obiang’s, whose chest is covered with medals for loyal service, including the prevention of numerous assassination and coup attempts as well as the imprisonment and torture of innumerable Bubi and Fang. He is—

* * *

Brigadier General Juan Alfonso Nguema Mayé. Huge and bald-headed, with a broad, captivating smile. Mayé, running a store for oil tankers in Berlin and devouring Yoyo’s eyeballs with relish, while Jan Kees Vogelaar—

‘Owen.’

Mayé transforms into Kenny, comes closer, black against a wall of flames, raises his arm, and Jericho sees that he’s waving Yoyo’s eyeless skull.

Give me your computer, he says.

Give me—

‘Owen, wake up.’

* * *

Someone is shaking him by the shoulder. Yoyo’s voice snuggles into his ear. He breathes in her scent and opens his eyes. Tu is standing behind her, grinning down at him.

‘What’s going on?’ Jericho gestures towards the cockpit with his thumb. ‘Shouldn’t you be sitting up front?’

‘Autopilot,
xiongdi
, ’ said Tu. ‘A wonderful invention. I had to stand in for you temporarily. Do you want to hear how the Mayé story continues?’

‘Erm—’

‘That might have been a yes,’ whispered Yoyo, turned towards Tu. ‘What do you reckon, did he say yes?’

‘It sounds more like he wants coffee. Would you like a coffee, Owen?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘I— No, no coffee.’

‘He’s in another world, our innterrrrimm candidaaaa,’ whispered Yoyo conspiratorially.

Tu chortled. ‘Innterrrrimm candidaaaa’ he repeated, against a backdrop of Yoyo’s melodic giggling. Both seemed to be highly amused, and Owen was clearly the source of their merriment. Disgruntled, he looked out of the window into the night and then back again.

‘How long was I out for?’

‘Oh, a good hour.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

Yoyo stared at him. She tried to keep a straight face, then she and Tu burst out out laughing. They cackled idiotically at the tops of their voices, nervous and breathless.

‘Hey! What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing.’ They were still panting and laughing.

‘There’s clearly something.’

‘No, nothing, Owen, it’s nothing. It’s just that—’

‘What?’

Altitude sickness, he thought. The beginnings of hysteria. You hear of people who start laughing after traumatic events and then just can’t stop. Astonishingly, even though he didn’t have the faintest clue what it was about, he felt a painful longing to laugh along, whatever it was. That’s not good, he thought. We’re all going crazy.

‘So?’

‘Well.’ Yoyo blew her nose and wiped the corners of her eyes. ‘Oh, it’s silly really, Owen. I lost you in the middle of a sentence. Your last word was—’

‘What?’

‘I guess it was meant to be interim candidate. You said, Obiang had an inteeeeriiim—’

Tu was making bleating noises.

‘Candidaaaaaa—’

‘You’ve both lost your minds.’

‘Come on, Owen. It’s funny,’ grunted Tu. ‘It’s really funny!’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘You fell asleep in the middle of the sentence,’ giggled Yoyo. ‘Your head fell forward in a funny way, your lower jaw dropped down, like …’

Jericho waited patiently until her re-enactment of his degradation had reached its drooling conclusion. Tu dabbed the sweat from his bald head. In moments like these, the English and Chinese senses of humour seemed to be galaxies apart, but Jericho suddenly realised he was laughing too. For some reason it felt good. As if someone had put the furniture inside his mind in order and let some fresh air in.

‘Right then.’ Tu patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going up front again. Yoyo will tell you the rest. Then we can draw our conclusions.’

‘Where did we get to?’ asked Jericho.

‘To interiiiiiim—’ chirruped Yoyo.

‘Enough now.’

‘No, I’m being serious. To General Mayé.’

She was right, that was where they had left off. Obiang had named his highest commander in chief as his successor. Mayé was supposed to use the time the outgoing president had left in office to prepare for democratic elections, and yet—

* * *

No one trusted the brigadier general. Mayé was seen as a hard-liner and as Obiang’s puppet. There was no doubt that the elections would result in either Mayé himself or one of the president’s sons seizing power. Definitely not the kind of result anyone would like.

Apart from Beijing, that is.

What happened next was so surprising, both for Obiang and Mayé, that even weeks later they were still convinced it was a bad dream. On the day when office was to be handed over, a boldly soldered-together alliance of Bubi and Fang, including members of the armed forces, simultaneously stormed numerous police stations in Malabo as well as the seat of government, taking the dictator and his designated successor prisoner. They drove them to the Cameroon border and threw them out of the country without any further ado. America’s investment had paid off: practically every key position in government circles had been bought. This even turned out to be to Obiang’s advantage, because America refused to tolerate any cases of lynch justice for the logistic and strategic support of the coup.

For the next few hours, the country seemed to have no leader.

Then Severo Moto’s successor emerged from an aeroplane, a university-educated economist by the name of Juan Aristide Ndongo, from the Bubi
clan. He had once been forced to reside in Black Beach for a number of years for his criticism of the regime, and for that reason had gained the trust of a large proportion of the population. Ndongo was known to be clever, friendly and weak, the ideal Manchurian candidate. The Fang and Bubi agreed on him in advance with the USA, Great Britain and Spain, expecting to be able to spoon-feed good old Ndongo to their heart’s desire, but he surprised them by having his own plans. The speedy dissolution of parliament is followed by the equally speedy formation of a new government, in which the Bubi and Fang are equally represented. Ndongo promises to create the long overdue infrastructure, a pulsing educational system, to reinvigorate the economy and to provide healthcare and prosperity for everyone. But, above all, he rails against China’s bloodsucking vampire capitalism, which he sees as having destroyed Equatorial Guinea in collaboration with Obiang’s recklessness. He also puts a stop to Beijing’s licence treaties and puts the American ones back in force, without forgetting – with wise foresight – the Spanish, British, French and Germans.

But reality catches up with Ndongo like a pack of hungry dogs. His attempts to put his plans into action aggravate the Fang elite, who hadn’t reckoned with his political survival instinct. He puts oil income into trust funds instead of transferring it to private accounts, and by doing so keeps the money out of the reach of corruption. He keeps to his promise and builds streets and hospitals, kick-starts the wood trade, and relaxes censorship. In doing so, he provokes the hate of the Obiang clique who, they now realise, let themselves be bought without taking into consideration that the preaching Bubi politician intended to take the lead. Within the first year after the coup, the hard-liners move over to the opposition. Ndongo’s successes just feed their hatred, so they try to sabotage him wherever possible, denouncing his inability to rid the world of ethnic resentment and stirring it up in the process. They claim that Ndongo is just another Obiang, a puppet of the USA, and that he will discriminate against the Fang. Many bravely initiated projects grind to a halt. Aids grows rampant, crime is rife, and Ndongo’s parliament proves itself to be just as corrupt as his predecessor’s, while the president, hobbling around defiantly on the crutches of legality, begins to lose touch.

In the second year under Ndongo’s rule, radical Esangui-Fang launch attacks on American and European oil institutions. Bubi and Fang go for each other’s necks as they have since time immemorial, terrorist cells thwart every attempt at political stabilisation, and Ndongo’s idea of a better world collapses with a crash. He has gone too far for his opponents, but not far enough for his friends. In a painful act of
self-denial, Ndongo takes a harsher stance, carries out mass arrests and loses what was once his only capital overnight: integrity.

Meanwhile, Mayé is warming up on the sidelines in Cameroon.

* * *

‘From the outside,’ said Yoyo, ‘it looked like this: Obiang, sick and bitter, hangs around in the neighbouring country and pressures Mayé to force Ndongo out of office at the next available opportunity. But the old man doesn’t want Mayé himself to rule, but rather to prepare the ground for Teodorin and Gabriel, who have sunk sobbing into one another’s arms at the mere thought of Ndongo. Rivalry is no longer the issue. The country is destabilised and Ndongo is for it. All Mayé would really need to do is travel in and say Boo! Aside from the fact that he can’t enter the country of course.’

‘But because putschists don’t need a visa—’

‘—he agrees and sets off. It’s common knowledge by then that Mayé has already made contact with a private mercenary firm, African Protection Services, APS for short. And they’ – Yoyo paused for a short, dramatic moment – ‘are of interest to us!’

‘Let me guess. This is where Vogelaar comes back into the picture.’

Yoyo smiled smugly. ‘I’ve found the missing years. Does the name ArmourGroup ring any bells with you?’

‘It does. It’s a London security giant.’

‘In 2008 ArmourGroup took on a mandate in Kenya. Around that time, a smaller company, Armed African Services, went through a de-merger. Vogelaar’s Mamba was operating in the same crisis area. They crossed paths, perhaps one of them approached the other and borrowed some ammunition or something, but to cut a long story short they took a liking to one another and formed APS in 2010, with Vogelaar at management level. Do you see?’

‘I do. So Mayé overthrew Ndongo with the help of APS. But who paid APS?’

‘That’s exactly the point. Mayé was incredibly friendly with China.’

‘You mean—’

‘I mean that we assumed the whole time that the coup attempt discussed in the text fragment was the one from last year. But Beijing would have had far more reason to pull the strings in 2017.’

‘And how did Mayé’s coup go?’

‘Without a hitch. As a precaution, Ndongo was out of the country. But no one seemed particularly surprised by it. No resistance, no fatalities. The only one who was shocked was Obiang. Mayé had numerous opposition members imprisoned, including Obiang’s closest confidants, Teodorin supporters, Gabrielists—’

‘Because he had no intention of stepping down.’

‘Bingo.’

‘And Vogelaar became his security boss.’

‘Yep.’

‘Is there proof that China was tied up in it?’

‘Owen, what’s wrong with you?’ Yoyo reprimanded him. ‘There’s never proof, you know that. But on the other hand you would have to be a zombie to overlook the fact that Exxon, Marathon and Co. got the chop immediately after the putsch, whereas the Chinese company Sinopec was suddenly swimming in oil from Equatorial Guinea. Then there’s Mayé’s speeches: they owed the Chinese their gratitude, China had always been a brother, blah blah blah. When it came down to it, he wholeheartedly agreed to his country being sold out to China.’