A Large Splodge of Wonga
By: Gwynne DyerSIMON Mann, heir to the Watney's beer fortune, graduate of Eton and the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, former co-founder of Executive Outcomes, a leading mercenary outfit in Africa in the 90s, currently resident at Chikurubi maximum security prison in Harare, Zimbabwe, believes that "a large splodge of wonga" (a large amount of money) would spare him most of the seven-year term to which he was sentenced last Friday.
A number of his co-conspirators apparently believe the same.
They just don't get it.
The conspiracy was classic African stuff: a plane-load of
mercenaries flying across Africa, picking up a consignment of
weapons as they went, to overthrow President Teodoro Obiang Nguema
of Equatorial Guinea, a tiny dictatorship that is Africa's
third-largest oil exporter.
The money was put up by a syndicate of British and South African
investors, the mercenary muscle was provided by British and South
African soldiers-of-fortune, and the pay-off would come in the form
of cash and a cut in future oil revenues for the investors plus a
contract for Simon Mann to provide security for the new regime.
The only problem with the scheme was that the "classic" period
in African history is long over.
South African law no longer permits mercenaries operating on its
soil to hatch plots against other African governments, and the idea
that Mann could recruit around eighty mercenaries to overthrow
Obiang's regime without attracting the attention of South African
intelligence was just stupid.
The police didn't intervene right away, but they kept everybody
informed, including Equatorial Guinea and Zimbabwe.
Zimbabwe was where Mann planned to pick up the weapons that he
could not legally obtain in South Africa, buying them direct from
Zimbabwean Defence Industries on the flimsy pretext that his group
of mercenaries were on their way to guard a diamond mine in the
Congo.
The Zimbabweans had been warned, and when Mann's private Boeing
727 touched down in Harare last March to collect the arms, the
Zimbabwean police instead collected all 66 mercenaries aboard and
dumped them in Chikurubi prison.
At the same time, another fifteen of the conspirators who were
already in Equatorial Guinea were arrested and thrown into an even
nastier prison.
President Obiang's exiled rival, opposition leader Severo Moto,
whom the plotters planned to put in his place, flew back and forth
between the Canary Islands and Mali as the scheme unravelled and
finally went back to Madrid.
Even if the coup had succeeded, it would not have been allowed
to stand.
The old Organisation of African Unity (now replaced by the
African Union) declared in 1999 that it would suspend any member
whose government came to power in a coup, and there have been
determined attempts to enforce the rule.
Not all have succeeded, but when the country is as small as
Equatorial Guinea and there are white mercenaries involved in the
coup, the AU would definitely intervene.
It would have been willing to use troops if necessary (probably
from South Africa and Nigeria) to undo a coup as flagrantly
insulting to Africans as Mann's.
Obiang's regime is monstrously oppressive and corrupt (and so is
Zimbabwe's, for that matter): things are very far from perfect in
Africa.
But the days when small gangs of heavily armed whites could kill
African people and even change their governments with impunity are
gone for good.
How is it that Simon Mann and his colleagues didn't notice?
Simon Mann belongs to that class of English ex-public schoolboys,
expensively educated but too dim to work in the high end of
business and finance that is the preferred career for their
brighter contemporaries, who end up, perhaps after a stint in the
army, living off their inherited money, their contacts and their
presumptive status as respectable people.
Except that often they are not respectable at all: some end up
as mercenary soldiers; more spend their lives messing around at the
seamier end of the business world.
Among the alleged investors in the syndicate is Sir Mark
Thatcher, son of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whose
advisers encouraged him to move to the United States when his
Middle Eastern business ventures trading on her name threatened to
embarrass her.
He moved on to South Africa in 1995 amid a number of
investigations into his business activities in Texas, and was in
the process of bailing out again and moving his family back to
Texas when South African police arrested him last week.
Other alleged investors include London-based Lebanese
millionaire Ely Calil, disgraced peer Lord Archer, and assorted
British and South African-based "businessmen" all of whom seem to
know one another, and none of whom you would want to spend much
time with.
These are the people on whom Simon Mann is now counting to raise
the "wonga" that he imagines will free him from jail in Zimbabwe,
but he is dreaming.
Even if these were people who would gladly part with large sums
of cash to help a friend in trouble (which seems unlikely), money
will not get Mann out of Chikurubi prison.
Zimbabwe is a corrupt place, but no African government could let
a man like him buy his way free.
It's a question of self-respect.
* Gwynne Dyer is a London-based independent journalist whose
articles are published in 45 countries.
They just don't get it.The conspiracy was classic African stuff: a
plane-load of mercenaries flying across Africa, picking up a
consignment of weapons as they went, to overthrow President Teodoro
Obiang Nguema of Equatorial Guinea, a tiny dictatorship that is
Africa's third-largest oil exporter.The money was put up by a
syndicate of British and South African investors, the mercenary
muscle was provided by British and South African
soldiers-of-fortune, and the pay-off would come in the form of cash
and a cut in future oil revenues for the investors plus a contract
for Simon Mann to provide security for the new regime.The only
problem with the scheme was that the "classic" period in African
history is long over.South African law no longer permits
mercenaries operating on its soil to hatch plots against other
African governments, and the idea that Mann could recruit around
eighty mercenaries to overthrow Obiang's regime without attracting
the attention of South African intelligence was just stupid.The
police didn't intervene right away, but they kept everybody
informed, including Equatorial Guinea and Zimbabwe.Zimbabwe was
where Mann planned to pick up the weapons that he could not legally
obtain in South Africa, buying them direct from Zimbabwean Defence
Industries on the flimsy pretext that his group of mercenaries were
on their way to guard a diamond mine in the Congo.The Zimbabweans
had been warned, and when Mann's private Boeing 727 touched down in
Harare last March to collect the arms, the Zimbabwean police
instead collected all 66 mercenaries aboard and dumped them in
Chikurubi prison.At the same time, another fifteen of the
conspirators who were already in Equatorial Guinea were arrested
and thrown into an even nastier prison.President Obiang's exiled
rival, opposition leader Severo Moto, whom the plotters planned to
put in his place, flew back and forth between the Canary Islands
and Mali as the scheme unravelled and finally went back to
Madrid.Even if the coup had succeeded, it would not have been
allowed to stand.The old Organisation of African Unity (now
replaced by the African Union) declared in 1999 that it would
suspend any member whose government came to power in a coup, and
there have been determined attempts to enforce the rule.Not all
have succeeded, but when the country is as small as Equatorial
Guinea and there are white mercenaries involved in the coup, the AU
would definitely intervene.It would have been willing to use troops
if necessary (probably from South Africa and Nigeria) to undo a
coup as flagrantly insulting to Africans as Mann's.Obiang's regime
is monstrously oppressive and corrupt (and so is Zimbabwe's, for
that matter): things are very far from perfect in Africa.But the
days when small gangs of heavily armed whites could kill African
people and even change their governments with impunity are gone for
good.How is it that Simon Mann and his colleagues didn't notice?
Simon Mann belongs to that class of English ex-public schoolboys,
expensively educated but too dim to work in the high end of
business and finance that is the preferred career for their
brighter contemporaries, who end up, perhaps after a stint in the
army, living off their inherited money, their contacts and their
presumptive status as respectable people.Except that often they are
not respectable at all: some end up as mercenary soldiers; more
spend their lives messing around at the seamier end of the business
world.Among the alleged investors in the syndicate is Sir Mark
Thatcher, son of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whose
advisers encouraged him to move to the United States when his
Middle Eastern business ventures trading on her name threatened to
embarrass her.He moved on to South Africa in 1995 amid a number of
investigations into his business activities in Texas, and was in
the process of bailing out again and moving his family back to
Texas when South African police arrested him last week.Other
alleged investors include London-based Lebanese millionaire Ely
Calil, disgraced peer Lord Archer, and assorted British and South
African-based "businessmen" all of whom seem to know one another,
and none of whom you would want to spend much time with.These are
the people on whom Simon Mann is now counting to raise the "wonga"
that he imagines will free him from jail in Zimbabwe, but he is
dreaming.Even if these were people who would gladly part with large
sums of cash to help a friend in trouble (which seems unlikely),
money will not get Mann out of Chikurubi prison.Zimbabwe is a
corrupt place, but no African government could let a man like him
buy his way free.It's a question of self-respect.* Gwynne Dyer is a
London-based independent journalist whose articles are published in
45 countries.