Wirraway
25-04-2005, 02:09
Perhaps it should have been seen sooner, caught my the myriad of overlapping intelligence networks that crisscrossed the vast Concordat, but even then could it have stopped?
Most probably the answer was no. The Concordat’s leadership had turned its head from Mozambique decades ago, viewed as only a minor colony, its sole importance came from a small naval base which served as a refitting yard for the small number of Concordat vessels passing through the area. Like a festering, but hidden wound Mozambique fell deeper and deeper into disarray and chaos. Corruption was rampant, unemployment at almost 60%, crime rate out of control, and the basic infrastructure installed upon its capture and forced modernization beginning to break down.
It was in this slowly worsening hellhole that Patrice Nemumba had grown up. It hadn’t always been this bad. Born 10 years after the subjugation to a single mother, actually a prostitute, he had witnessed the colony at its height and lured by the promising future afforded him by the Concordat had joined the government service.
Initially the service had proved everything he had dreamed it would be. Working the governor’s office he had presided over the continuing process of modernization. The sight of his people being lifted out of their ignorance and lifted up the highest form of civilization known yet filled him with a sense of pride and purpose. Roads, schools and factories sprouted out of the tough Mozambique soil bringing prosperity and the first peace in years.
But just as soon as the work was done the money began to dry up. Patrice was first unconcerned, surely the Concordat knew he needed more funds to maintain the new things he had built, he left it to bureaucratic oversight but after a year still no new money came. After repeated pleas through letters and phone-calls the colony was given currency, but barely enough o keep the vital services running. Already he could the newly constructed roads falling in disrepair, and the nation’s first police force disbanding due to lack of a salary.
The final straw came when the sewage treatment plant broke. Raw waste filled the streets, its fetid mass carrying a unknown disease that killed over 200,000 in the capital city of Pemba alone. The event was beamed out all over the Concordat, thousands of dollars flooded in from concerned citizens, but yet, the central government took no action. Now the acting governor he pleaded for help over the telephone but was told to wait, the next time he called an electronic voice told him that the number was not in service. This was the final affirmation of what he known in his heart and now his mind. They had been forgotten.
In his dusty gubernatorial office Patrice looked out the only modern clean area of the city, the Concordat’s prized naval base. He sniffed with displeasure, turned and looked out at the mass of beggars clustered on Burma Street, some waved hats while others slept in their own filth. With a detached glance he watched a woman being raped an in alley way while another man stole the light bulb from a streetlight.
He sat down heavily and leaned his elbows in the massive oak desk. With his head cradled in his hands an idea crystallized, if the Concordat would not help his nation than it was time to help them.
If the Concordat would do nothing to save his dying nation then matters would have be taken into his own hands.
To be continued...
Most probably the answer was no. The Concordat’s leadership had turned its head from Mozambique decades ago, viewed as only a minor colony, its sole importance came from a small naval base which served as a refitting yard for the small number of Concordat vessels passing through the area. Like a festering, but hidden wound Mozambique fell deeper and deeper into disarray and chaos. Corruption was rampant, unemployment at almost 60%, crime rate out of control, and the basic infrastructure installed upon its capture and forced modernization beginning to break down.
It was in this slowly worsening hellhole that Patrice Nemumba had grown up. It hadn’t always been this bad. Born 10 years after the subjugation to a single mother, actually a prostitute, he had witnessed the colony at its height and lured by the promising future afforded him by the Concordat had joined the government service.
Initially the service had proved everything he had dreamed it would be. Working the governor’s office he had presided over the continuing process of modernization. The sight of his people being lifted out of their ignorance and lifted up the highest form of civilization known yet filled him with a sense of pride and purpose. Roads, schools and factories sprouted out of the tough Mozambique soil bringing prosperity and the first peace in years.
But just as soon as the work was done the money began to dry up. Patrice was first unconcerned, surely the Concordat knew he needed more funds to maintain the new things he had built, he left it to bureaucratic oversight but after a year still no new money came. After repeated pleas through letters and phone-calls the colony was given currency, but barely enough o keep the vital services running. Already he could the newly constructed roads falling in disrepair, and the nation’s first police force disbanding due to lack of a salary.
The final straw came when the sewage treatment plant broke. Raw waste filled the streets, its fetid mass carrying a unknown disease that killed over 200,000 in the capital city of Pemba alone. The event was beamed out all over the Concordat, thousands of dollars flooded in from concerned citizens, but yet, the central government took no action. Now the acting governor he pleaded for help over the telephone but was told to wait, the next time he called an electronic voice told him that the number was not in service. This was the final affirmation of what he known in his heart and now his mind. They had been forgotten.
In his dusty gubernatorial office Patrice looked out the only modern clean area of the city, the Concordat’s prized naval base. He sniffed with displeasure, turned and looked out at the mass of beggars clustered on Burma Street, some waved hats while others slept in their own filth. With a detached glance he watched a woman being raped an in alley way while another man stole the light bulb from a streetlight.
He sat down heavily and leaned his elbows in the massive oak desk. With his head cradled in his hands an idea crystallized, if the Concordat would not help his nation than it was time to help them.
If the Concordat would do nothing to save his dying nation then matters would have be taken into his own hands.
To be continued...