“But how will we get anything accomplished if we have members from each African nation?” one representative asked. “Could you imagine all the strife we would have? Too many opposing views. We’ll never agree.”
“I hear you, brother,” another said. “But just like America has senators and congressmen, we can vote, majority rules.”
A third countered, “And America has a president. Eh? The president?”
“Let’s not go there. You remember what he called us, o.”
They grumbled for a full minute about “shithole countries.” It was a line they would never forgive or forget. Nena wouldn’t either.
“My point is America has senators for each state that vote on American matters.”
Another: “America is one country. We are many countries. And we are not a government, eh. We’re not politicians; we are businessmen.”
“And women.”
“The point is we don’t need representatives from every damn country we get on board. We can make the rules the rest of the Tribe will follow. Simple as that.”
Like big business or government lobbyists who influenced politicians to do their bidding and push their interests, Nena came to learn, that was how these wealthy Africans wielded the amount of power they had to do whatever they wanted.
Noble cut in, terminating the debate. “We are one Africa. This is our vision, eh? All of Africa united into a large multinational business entity—thriving, prospering, and cultivating our own lands and resources and gaining riches and selling as we choose. Imagine Africa as the sole benefactor of all our unmined resources and minerals. Leaders instead of workhorses.”
Nena had heard this speech a time or two, and she believed wholeheartedly in her family and the Tribe’s vision. But her job was to enforce those ideals, not chat about them.
“I still think we should allow more time before voting,” someone said. “Think this through. Make sure this new member is worth all the trouble to secure his seat at the Council table.”
Nena kept her head up, staring at the screen without moving, when what she really wanted to do was slink away. She wouldn’t let the rest of the Council see her squirm. Her parents would want her to remain stoic despite the fact she did feel some shame at not following orders, and at the little glimpses of disappointment she caught from her dad whenever he looked her way.
Another representative, one who hadn’t yet spoken, said, “If Lucien’s business merger with territories in Gabon is successful, then it’s worth his spot. We’re going to bring all coastal countries into the fold of the African Tribal Council for imports and exports. Then we will shore up the central countries and align them to our goal of a unified Africa. Soon the Tribe will be like the United Nations, but even better because it’s for Africa, by Africans.”
“I like that better,” the rep who’d brought up the president’s insult chimed in. “I’d rather be like the United Nations than the United States.”
Nena liked him. He was a jokester. The room exploded in laughter, and Nena relaxed now that the conversation had veered away from land mines. She felt a buzz in her back pocket, and as the voting commenced, she checked her phone.
GEORGIA: Dinner at our house? 6 ok?
It was nearly three thirty. She’d need a bit more time to finish up the meeting, chat with the parents, and freshen up.
NENA: Can do 7.
GEORGIA: You like lasagna? Dad says we can have something else if you like.
Lasagna wasn’t her favorite. She didn’t like the texture of ricotta.
NENA: Lasagna’s fine.
GEORGIA: Great!
Nena’s mouth twitched. She still couldn’t figure out why she found the girl so endearing when she’d never had a place for children in her life before. Never gave them a second thought and had lost any notion of being a mother. Yet here she was, her heart swelling weirdly with pleasure at the lines of silly smiley face, plate, fork, and knife emojis Georgia assailed her screen with.
Then a slither of unease followed when Nena remembered her promise to her father, her sister, and Witt—find out what Cortland Baxter knew of the Tribe. Now, she had the way in.
30
BEFORE
Which is worse? The physical or psychological cruelties Robach inflicts on me? I do not know. What I do know is once I arrive at Robach’s home in Paris, it does not take long for his sadistic nature to show itself. He enjoys small tortures, needling me with instruments or repetitive irritants, like flicking the tops of my ears until they sting so badly I shrink whenever he raises a hand, like a dog trained to stay away from an electrified fence.