Semler pinched the lit cigarette between his fingers, took a deep drag, and watched as Jabba Liso clipped the tip of his cigar before lighting it with a custom-made, thick matchstick.
The fat Black man held the matchstick in his right hand and, with his left, turned the cigar around in the flame. Wisps of light blue smoke drifted from his thick, coffee-colored lips.
After a session of smoking, Jabba tapped his ash into the cloisonné ashtray on the coffee table, then leisurely asked, "So, my friend, what can I do for you this time?"
"Your Excellency, I've come to you because I need something." Semler stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and continued, "As I wrote in my letter, I hope to recruit a group of soldiers from your tribe."
"I’ve already handed over the chieftain position to my son. I'm afraid I can't help you now."
"But Your Excellency, your influence still holds. Your people remain loyal to you."
Jabba smiled noncommittally and then asked, "How many do you need this time?"
"A hundred men, preferably those I’ve trained before."
Jabba took a puff of his cigar, silently pondering for a moment before saying, "I love my country! But you people..." He paused before adding, "First, it was the Portuguese, then came the Cubans, the Russians, later the Americans and South Africans, and now it’s the Chinese. They come with all kinds of excuses, using AK-47s and moldy wheat to plunder our oil and diamonds, but they’ve never done anything real for us. Especially the white men—they only cause trouble in Africa. I don't want to help you and then find I can't stay in this country."
"I’m not asking you to commit treason." Semler quickly replied.
Jabba glanced at him, and Semler said earnestly, "I assure you, this task will not harm the interests of the Angolan government."
"Let’s hope you never forget that." Jabba nodded and said, "If this won’t harm my country or my people, then I can help you."
"Thank..."
Before Semler could finish, Jabba interrupted, "But the fee needs to be raised."
"Damned old bastard!" Semler couldn’t help cursing inwardly, but he quickly put on a smile and began negotiating with the fat Black man in front of him.
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Jabba complained that recruiting so many people would be a lot of work, and since he was no longer the chief, he’d have to spend money to smooth things over with the tribal elders. So, he asked for $100 per person. But Semler thought $50 was already well above the local rate, and only agreed to raise the commission by $10.
After more than an hour of debate, they finally settled on $80 per person. Jabba agreed to send out his men immediately and arrange a recruitment meeting in the next couple of days.
Once the deal was settled, Semler felt a wave of relief wash over him. Having rushed to the airport for an early flight that morning without eating, he was already feeling hungry. Now that the tension had lifted, a mix of hunger and fatigue hit him all at once.
However, there was still some time before lunch, so he decided to rest in the guesthouse.
The "guesthouse" was actually a standalone poolside cabin located at the northwest corner of the viewing deck, about twenty yards from the villa. This cabin, with over 1,300 square feet of space, was divided into a living room and a bedroom. The west and north sides were fitted with large floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view of the vast blue Atlantic Ocean through the glass.
Not only was the cabin air-conditioned, but it also had a 52-inch flat-screen TV in the living room with access to 36 satellite channels. The bathroom had hot water available 24/7. Semler could guarantee that even in Luanda’s most luxurious Talatona Conference Hotel, you wouldn’t find a room better than this.
When he first met Jabba, the man was just a tribal chief controlling a village of no more than six or seven hundred people, feeling proud of being able to ride in a Nissan car. But now, the yacht, the seaside villa, and this luxurious guesthouse left Semler feeling dizzy from the stark contrast.
He walked into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, where his luggage was neatly stored. He took out his satellite phone from his bag, intending to report to Durban before lunch. But the roof was too thick, and the windows were too awkwardly angled, so the phone couldn’t get a signal.
Just as he hesitated about whether to step outside by the pool to make the call, a servant knocked on the thick glass door of the "guesthouse," inviting him to the villa for lunch with Jabba.
The lunch was lavish: lemon-seasoned black pepper duck breast salad, potato soup, a fresh vegetable salad, French bread baked with butter and garlic, and charcoal-grilled veal. Judging by the spread, even in South Africa, this would count as a luxurious meal.
Due to Angola’s underdeveloped agriculture, foodstuffs were heavily reliant on imports, causing prices to remain high for a long time. Semler estimated that, if in a high-end restaurant in Luanda, just the food on this table would cost one or two hundred dollars; with the two bottles of South African wine they had with the meal, the bill would certainly exceed $300. Moreover, since Soyo didn’t have upscale restaurants, the ingredients had to be specially shipped in from Luanda or Congo, making the transport costs an added expense.
It’s worth noting that an Angolan civil servant’s annual income was less than 100,000 kwanzas, meaning this lunch cost a typical working-class person three to four months' salary. Jabba’s luxurious lifestyle was evident.
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Notes:
Angolan Kwanza (AON): The official currency of Angola. In February 2009, the exchange rate was 74.1 kwanzas to 1 U.S. dollar.