How Poverty Soothes The Soul, An African Tale - The Demise Of USAID, Beautiful Women, And Feel-Good Idealism

It wasn't so much the poverty, but the islands of sensual pleasure within it.  Arthur Morgan's goal was never to remedy the persistent, pervasive, and seemingly intractable misery around him - that was an impossibility given the idealism and hopeless nature of the projects he was asked to manage - but to enjoy the fertile, sensuous, and satisfying life of an international development consultant. 

The Independence was the five-star hotel that Olatunji M'bele, long time President of _______, a mineral-rich African country, endowed with oil and diamonds and now happily with rare earths, the minerals essential for computers and cell-phones.  Thanks to this discovery, M'bele became a fabulously wealthy man.  The millions already secure in offshore accounts in the Caymans, Barbuda, and St. Kitts were nothing compared to the inestimable deposits from this new, high-tech treasure.

M'bele had built the hotel for the many corporate visitors who came courting, for only the best would do for them.  The lobby floor was of Carrera marble, the sconces and chandeliers from Venice, the food imported daily from France, and the restaurant staff trained by the best sommeliers and maître d's of Europe. 

M'bele had been careful to situate it far from Cite Paradis, the pestilential slum that extended from the port to the hills, landscaped it so that the views were only of the mountains and the rich, verdant jungles below; so any visitor entering the hotel compound would think he was in Shangri La. 

The room rates stretched Morgan's per diem, but the President's aide de camp and consort, a beautiful Fulani woman, had taken a liking to him, so gracious and polite he had been to her and her colleagues - so different from the arrogant World Bank lot whose insistence on 'conditionalities', those codicils which were intended to encourage judicial and financial reform, were nuisances at best and irritations at worst, gave them an unpleasant sourness.  

Morgan never gave any inkling of displeasure at the blatant corruption of the regime, the sprawling slums, and the grandiose style of living of the President.  On the contrary, he was generous in his praise, almost adulatory in fact, and quickly became the favorite of the President's beautiful associate.  As such he was given concessionary rates at the hotel, a car and driver when visiting the Presidential palace, and a special escort in and out of the airport.  

This last was the most appreciated, for M'bele International Airport was a stinking, malaria-infested, stifling gantlet of shakedowns and intimidation.  The President liked the idea of making the European and American corporate envoys suffer a taste of ‘the real Africa’ before they settled in to the sybaritic comfort of the Independence. 

Morgan was privileged in a way, for he was not coming with billions, only with the promise of helping the country's poor to better health and welfare.  The USAID projects he was bringing were designed ‘in the interest of the people, the poorest of the poor, the marginalized...'  Morgan read the preamble to the grant agreement and smiled.  The disingenuousness of his patrons was something to behold.  

Neither M'bele nor any of his African counterpart Heads of State had any intention of investing in development.  Elections were but Western fantasies, accountability was unheard of, and such guaranteed political longevity obviated any unnecessary forays into the jungle. 

Morgan had always been a realist and never persuaded by his Washington colleagues' heady idealism. Africa had been in a downward spiral since Independence more than sixty years ago.  Little had changed, and the prospects of catching up with the giants of Asia which, starting from the same moment of history, had become economic and financial powerhouses were nil.  Africa was still the sinkhole of debt, poverty, corruption, and mismanagement it had always been once the British, French, and Portuguese had left. 

So living in luxury while organizing irrelevant training sessions, community participation, seminars and colloquies was unquestioned.  He would do his best at his job, report back to his Washington handlers how he had met the fictitious performance targets they had set, sent a number of promising African educators and physicians to Johns Hopkins on government scholarship, and return early to the Independence, the Palm Bar by the pool, and a three-course Michelin-starred meal at the Forest Grove. 

The aide de camp also introduced him to a number of her Fulani colleagues, young women with sinecures at the palace but who more importantly were social ambassadors.  These women whose native origins were far different from Bantu genealogy and graced with a Caucasian fineness and lithe beauty, were greatly prized by Europeans from the earliest days of colonialism.  Fatima, the young woman first introduced to Morgan was la creme de la creme, a woman of striking beauty, demureness and irresistible charm; and it wasn't long that she was sharing his bed. 

 

Life was good for Arthur Morgan, and he had chosen his profession well.  Here was a life of adventure, untethered from home, office, and routine, interrupted only occasionally by the predictable dislocations common in Africa even in secure dictatorships.  Firing was often heard in the slum below, phalanxes of soldiers often surrounded the hotel, and fires burned throughout the city. The acrid smell of 'rubber necklaces' tires hung around the necks of dissenters and set on fire drifted up to the Independence if the wind was right, and police escorts were necessary for any travel within the city; but these were acceptable risks, and the cordon of security around those bringing untold wealth to the President was never breached. 

Then it all ended.  The new Trump Administration and the Musk avant-garde dismantled USAID, fired all employees, and cancelled all grants and loans.  The show was over.  After decades of largesse, unaccountable generosity, and legions of well-paid consultants shepherding useless projects, the doors to the agency were closed. 

The young women who had chosen international development as their chosen career were disconsolate and angry.  Despite the perennial failure of their projects, the total indifference of the governments who were to benefit from their initiatives, and the continuing erosion of civil governance, they held placards in front of the Ronald Reagan building.  'HOW COULD YOU?!' one said, summing up their frustration and bitter disappointment.  Yet Trump was serious in intent - no longer would the taxpayer's hard-earned money be so profligately spent.  Besides it was time for Africa to man up. 

Morgan, a dual citizen of both the United States and the UK and a close acquaintance of the British Ambassador, quickly secured a senior position at the World Bank and his travels to Africa continued.  He carried a different portfolio, different earmarks and different caveats, but engagement and operations were no different from those of his former employer. 

His relationship with Fatima, the beautiful Fulani model, and his stays in the executive suite of the Independence went uninterrupted, and he was greeted personally by the President on his first visit as World Bank official. 

Life was good for Morgan and promised to continue.  The UK, EU, and the World Bank seemed undeterred in their commitment to Africa and unbothered by the waste, fraud, and corruption endemic there.  

'I love the smell of rubber necklaces in the morning', Morgan said as he opened his penthouse suite windows.  ‘It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood'