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only for one chief, one Big Man.’
    â€˜Surely some opposition is good in a democracy?’ Jimfish asked.
    â€˜In our authentic Zairean system, democracy is the foundation on which the leader bases his divine right to rule. When opposition is needed, I provide it by calling an election and standing against the President. That wayvoters may choose freely between me and myself, but there can be only one winner.’
    Jimfish was a little confused by this. ‘I take it, then, you don’t like change?’
    The tall man smiled and waved his wooden sceptre. ‘I am warming to it all the time. But it must be carefully managed. Many of the greatest African leaders have been in power for decades, thanks to their understanding of the proper use of elections. When I consider what I call the Ceauşescu conundrum, I think I see where he went wrong. Freedom is better than stagnation and repression, so long as it’s regulated. I begin to think encouraging democracy and allowing several parties to compaign might be useful. Why should I be held to account for everything? Let them also share the blame.’
    Jimfish returned the borrowed and now bloody silk handkerchief to his new friend.
    â€˜The Romanians could profit from your advice. As far as I can see, and I may be wrong, those running their revolution look like the same people who ran the old regime.’
    The gentleman from Zaire nodded. ‘No doubt. And mark my words, soon they will be claiming the high moral ground and lecturing African leaders about their appalling habits. This is the way of Europeans. They enslave Africa, pillage the continent and then preach sermons to their former slaves. I prefer their lash to their lectures. Enough of savage Europe. You need to get home again and I can help. Come with me.’
    With that the elegant stranger in the leopard-skin toque took a handful of dollars from his Vuitton bag, hailed a taxiand they rode out to the airport. There on the tarmac was a most beautiful needle-nosed jet, which, his friend from Zaire explained, he rented from the French. Jimfish was greatly impressed. What a people these French must be! The cloud of radioactive dust from Chernobyl had stopped at their border and then gone around the sides of the country. And supersonic jets were loans they lavished on African heads of state.
    â€˜Since we are compatriots,’ said Sese Seko, ‘let us dispense with titles for a while. At least in private. You are called Jimfish . . . Well, when I was a boy at the Christian Brothers College, in what was then Elizabethville, my name was Joseph-Désiré, but the other boys called me Jeff.’
    It was agreed they would maintain this friendly informality, at least until they returned home, when Jimfish would have a variety of choices as to the name he preferred for his new friend: Messiah, Lion King, Redeemer, Guide or Great Helmsman. And so it was that, in the spirit of school friends, Jimfish and Jeff boarded the waiting Concorde and flew off to Africa.

C HAPTER 12
    Zaire/Gbadolite, 1989–90
    The needle-nosed jet taxied along the runway in tropical sunshine and Jimfish was glad to be home, even if this Africa of red dust and dark green bush was one he did not know. On the flight from Bucharest he had been pampered with caviar and Laurent-Perrier champagne, which, along with Coca-Cola, was the favourite beverage of the inventor of Zaire, whose destiny was an extension of his dreams, and who now gently reminded Jimfish that – as he was back in his country and must take on again the duties of his office – there would be no more schoolboy names.
    â€˜Which of my many titles would you feel happiest to use? You may choose any one of them. Feel free, my fellow African friend.’
    â€˜â€œGreat Leopard” seems the best suited, I think. Especially because of your signature hat,’ Jimfish told him.
    His companion was delighted, because it showed how well