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.
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.