Malawi: President Banda Dogged by Cash-gate and Demands of Re-Election

During Nelson Mandela’s burial ceremony, Malawi President, Joyce Banda, received a standing ovation from foreign dignitaries and the South African audience. She eulogized Mandela and called him “a great reformer.”

A prophet, it is said, is not respected in his home country.

Back in Malawi, Banda is a besieged and bruised leader who has been engulfed by a string of corruption allegations. She came to power last year when President Bingu wa Mutharika, a man who had attempted to fire her from her position as vice president, suddenly died of a heart failure. She became the first female president of Malawi and the second female president in the entire continent of Africa. Banda won accolades and international recognition as she spearheaded a campaign against graft. She sold her government jet, slashed her salary by half, and regained the confidence and the support of Western donors. Her predecessor had denounced foreign donors for meddling in the affairs of the country and trying to topple his regime. He simply told them to “go to hell.” In contrast, Banda courted the donor countries and they rewarded her by releasing frozen aid.

The influential American money magazine Forbes named Banda “the most powerful woman in the world.” Time magazine, not to be outdone, listed her as one of the most influential 100 people on the planet. Banda’s memorable stand against the Sudanese president, Omar al-Bashir, a fugitive of the international court, earned her widespread commendation from the West; she refused to host the African Union’s annual summit if al-Bashir attended.

Recently, the pendulum has swung to the other extreme and the once-lauded Banda has become a politician reviled for her failings. She has become embroiled in a corruption scandal aptly called Cash-gate. Government coffers have been systematically looted by civil servants. A priest of Malawi’s Catholic Church recently called Banda the “greatest thief in the world.” In testimony before the Parliament, Peter Chinoko of the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace (CCJP) accused President Banda of being “part and parcel” of the Cash-gate scandal. The genesis of the scandal, according to Chinoko, was an attempt by Banda and her supporters to raise funds for the upcoming elections that will take place in May.

The most damning report regarding corruption in Malawi was issued last month by a UK-based Malawian attorney and former presidential legal advisor, Z. Allan Ntata, tersely titled “License to Loot.” The 67-page report is a disparaging assessment of a presidential leadership in which endemic corruption is the norm, not the exception. Speaking in absolute terms, Ntata called the Cash-gate scandal “the biggest fraud case ever recorded in the country.” According to Ntata, corruption is perpetrated by the executive branch and there is an elaborate and deliberate scheme to cover it up. The following are examples of this corruption:

1. An accountant in Banda’s office, Frank Mwanza, authorized a payment of $3 million to a ghost firm.

2. In a police raid, a junior government official, who makes about $100 per month, was found in possession of $25,000.

3. Patrick Sithole, an account assistant in the Ministry of Environment and Climate Change, was arrested in possession of an equivalent of $310,000 in various currencies.

4. Fourteen government officials have been arrested in relation to the Cash-gate scandal.

5. Three months ago, nine police officers were convicted of fraud involving $164,000.

6. The budget director of the finance ministry was shot three times in dubious circumstances to uncover juicy details of the Cash-gate scandal.

Banda issued a curt denial of the allegations of corruption and portrayed herself as a victim of insidious innuendo. In an interview with Al-Jazeerah TV, she tried to obfuscate: “We have not failed [fighting corruption].” Banda shifted the blame to her predecessors by saying that the problems of graft started 15 years earlier. She has refused to declare her own assets or appoint an independent commission to investigate corruption. Currently, all the entities investigating graft—including the Anti-Corruption Bureau, the Financial Intelligence Unit, and the police—report to the president. In October, Banda dismissed her cabinet and then re-instated it save for four ministers.

Western donors have frozen their aid to Malawi, which constitutes 40% of the government’s budget, until February 2014 when the International Monetary Fund will conclude its review. Banda, however, seems unruffled. In an interview with the UK’s Telegraph, she dismissively pointed out that it was not the first time that Western donors had walked away from Malawi. “They [donors] come and go and come and go but we are here, we did not die,” she scoffed.

President Banda is not the first African leader who has become the darling of the international community while at the same time being vilified at home. This bifurcation of trying to appeal to two different yet mutually exclusive audiences is taxing. The Western donations are badly needed and, in many cases, are the key pillars that sustain a developing country like Malawi. However, other domestic factors need to be considered if an African leader like Banda is to survive politically. One drawback of being an international icon is that the status does not necessarily translate into actual votes at home. Banda has been saying the right things to Western donors about fighting corruption and instituting measures of austerity. However, when all is said and done, she is a politician who is concerned about re-election. Staying in power in a semi-democratic country may involve patronage and the greasing of palms. In other words, it involves a set of rules and practices that may not be acceptable in the countries that provide aid. It is, perhaps, this dilemma of reconciling one’s international standing and the reality of politics at home that is haunting President Banda.

(Reprinted with permission from African Arguments).

12 Years in Somali Prison: The Forgotten Senegalese Prisoner

Abdullahi Jama, 60, is a Somali professional in Seattle, Washington. He is a man of medium height who has legal training and is multi-lingual. He speaks Italian, English, Russian, and, of course, Somali fluently. He is a walking encyclopedia having witnessed the historical events of Somalia. He was born in the 1950s in what is now the Somali region of Ethiopia but grew up in Mogadishu.

He was sent to several European countries for officer training and law courses and later reached the rank of colonel in the army. He worked in various government ministries, including a stint in the president’s office under the Siad Barre regime. Amazingly, Jama knows who is who in Somali politics and can regale one with tales from his various sojourns in government.

However, one incident has left a bad taste in his mouth. “It was a scalding moment of embarrassment for the government,” he said. The unusual encounter with a foreigner left a lasting impact on both men. Jama told me he only remembers his first name.

Abdisalam, a young Senegalese freelance writer, came to Mogadishu in 1976 to interview the country’s officials and people.  He was vibrantly intelligent, gregarious, and demonstrated princely manners. Abdisalam was excited to write about Somalia, then an African regime that had adopted socialism. He visited Ethiopia first, and then came to Somalia through Djibouti. Somalia, during that period of heightened ideological fervor and rhetoric, harbored anti-West sentiments, and the officials were suspicious of foreigners. The fear was that some of these foreign visitors were under cover spies commissioned by the American CIA or European governments. As was the custom, Abdisalam was questioned by agents of the Somali National Security, better known by its Italian acronym of NSS.

Abdisalam was a man of mystery to the secret police. He was Senegalese by birth, but his mother was Gambian, thus making him a man of dual nationality. He had visited an arch enemy of Somalia (Ethiopia) and—most damning of all—he was a roving journalist. Somalia’s dictatorial regime did not allow room for free press or give foreign journalists the opportunity to roam the country.

The secret police were at a loss of what to do: They opened a case file on Abdisalam and took him straight to Laanta Buur, a notorious prison 40 kilometers south of Mogadishu. Abdisalam was confused, helpless, and petrified. He was in an alien country and had lost his freedom. He felt that his life was in utter shambles.  No one told him why he was in prison.

That was 1976.

Twelve years later, in 1988, something odd happened. Colonel Jama and Abdisalam came face to face for the first time. Jama was asked to inspect Laanta Buur prison. He was talking to inmates when someone tapped on his shoulder and asked, “Excuse me sir, do you speak English?”
Jama answered, “Yes."

Jama did not expect to encounter a foreign inmate among the Somali prisoners. Moreover, to the officer, Abdisalam did not stand out: A black man, lean-built, and haggard-looking. “Can you help me?” the foreigner requested. “I have been in prison for 12 years and no one has told me why.”

Jama conferred with the man on the side to learn his story. Upon hearing the man’s ordeal, Jama’s face contorted in pain. The Senegalese man seemed oddly relaxed for someone whose life had been taken from him. Jama wondered how this man had spent 12 years in a prison without anyone charging him with a crime or checking on his welfare. It was stunning news that drew incredulous stares. Gasps of disbelief echoed in the corridors of the prison administration. Abdisalam himself could not provide an adequate answer about his presence in the prison. Jama first notified his boss, General Ismail Ismail, the head of the country’s prison bureau. Jama then contacted the NSS to inquire about the man’s case. To his astonishment, the Senegalese man’s file was bare and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was neither an ongoing investigation nor a closed one, a case of purgatory coming early, only no one knew Abdisalam’s sins.

Furthermore, there had been no entries since the foreigner’s initial arrival date in the country. This was a serious matter and a ghastly tale. Intelligence officers are paid to be suspicious, but this was a case of smart people making elementary mistakes. No one had followed up on the case for 12 years.

President Siad Barre was immediately informed. Barre was shocked and asked for more information about Abdisalam.

The secret agents went through Abdisalam’s luggage and made a discovery, one that turned the case upside down. The Senegalese man had written laudable articles about Barre and his socialist-leaning government.  Some of the clippings of his writings were worn out, others torn, but there was no iota of doubt that the writer was progressive in his ideas and supportive of the regime. Barre ordered Abdisalam released and he was taken to Shabelle Hotel. The International Red Cross was immediately contacted to locate the man’s family. Jama told this writer that the government apologized profusely to Abdisalam and gave him $20,000 in cash as compensation for his ill-treatment. He left the country in 1988. His important message to Somalia was one left unsaid: “I have survived.”

The president of International Red Cross was pleased with Jama and his hard work of doing all the legwork in the process of releasing Abdisalam. Jama received an award from the international organization. “This is the best job recognition and award I have ever received,” said Jama. That, however, did not provide solace for how badly he felt about the case. ”It is the saddest incidence that I ever witnessed in my long civil service career,” he added.

Sometime in 1988, Abdisalam contacted members of the Somali government and told them he wanted to visit Somalia again. It was not clear whether his request was a sign of Stockholm syndrome—a psychological condition in which one develops positive feelings toward his captor— or whether Abdisalam was  seeking closure to his harrowing ordeal. He was politely advised not to come to Somalia due to the political turmoil the country was experiencing. “No one has heard from him since,” said Jama. “I wonder what he is doing now.”

Like a camera revealing an image, Abdisalam’s case exposed a web of incompetence, cruelty, and a broken system of injustice and accountability. The case was a tale of sadness and tragedy. No one was blamed for the string of catastrophic errors. Jama makes no excuses: “The Somali government messed up, big time,” he laments.

(Reprinted with permission from Sahan Journal, December 11, 2013).