a thirty million rand deal to construct houses in the Elim area of Limpopo province. Ganyani had long forgotten his past as a primary school teacher in Elim; his huge stomach dominated the corner of the Hyatt hotel bar.
Kimathi put all three of his cellphones on the table, including the one he had just taken from his cream Dunhill jacket. Ganyani sipped his whisky without talking. Kimathi winked at him joyously, and held up his glass. “Relax and enjoy your whisky, com,” he said, studying the amber-coloured liquid before sipping it. “You Shanganese like to complain a lot, just like you did in exile.”
There was mild laughter from the others, including George, who was the only qualified engineer among them. George worked for TTZ, one of the country’s “big five” construction companies, which had in the past benefited from government tenders of more than one billion rand. Ludwe, Ganyani, Sechaba and Kimathi had known each other since exile days, but George’s link to this group of comrades was his company’s need for a recognised BEE partner in order to be considered for tender applications. This was the only reason TTZ was interested in Mandulo, which belonged to Kimathi and Sechaba.
“Point of correction, comrade,” interjected Ganyani after the laughter had subsided. “It’s actually Shangaan, not Shanganese. You mean to tell me that since you came back from Angola you haven’t learned anything about our country? You don’t even know how to pronounce the word ‘Shangaan’? You are pathetic, comrade.”
“You can’t blame me for being born in exile, com,” Kimathi said defensively. “It was not my choice, but the revolution’s. Anyway, there is only one language in this world, and that is what brought us together here. Currency, comrade! Money!”
There were nods of approval around the table at the mention of the word “currency”. Kimathi sipped from his glass again, popped an olive in his mouth, removed the pit and put it on the plate in front of him.
“All right, this is what your role is, Mr Novela,” said George to Ganyani.
George was the only white man in the group. A Greek-American, originally from Ames, Iowa, had grown up on the banks of the Skunk River, and had studied engineering at Iowa State University. He wore a cheap blue shirt, a beltless pair of old blue jeans and his beard needed trimming.
George retrieved a file from the table and opened it. He paged through to a map. “There are about thirty farms in this area of Soutpansberg Coal Reef in the Vhembe Region,” he said, running his finger along the map and pointing at an area around Louis Trichardt. “Your job will be to inspect them for us,” he paused, “and since we assume they know you there, you can talk to the chiefs and farmers about the possibility of buying them out. That is, if it’s necessary.”
“Is that all you want me to do?” Ganyani’s asked.
“Exactly that,” said George.
“Like we said, it’s nothing much,” emphasised Kimathi, after George looked at him for approval.
“And what’s my cut on this nothing much job?” asked Ganyani sarcastically.
“Comrade, this is not a big job, as you can see,” said Sechaba. “We are prepared to give you seven per cent.”
“Seven what?” asked Ganyani, feigning surprise. “No ways, comrades! Why are you guys asking me to bring just a knife if you’re bringing machetes for the so-called fallen fat cow? I didn’t join the struggle and go into exile to be a poor man when liberation came. I cannot betray the spirit of our noble revolution by taking such a small percentage while you guys walk away with the lion’s share. I also have kids to feed, comrade.”
“We know, chief.” Sechaba’s tone was conciliatory. “Of course, the spilled blood of our 1976 student revolution has oiled the wheels of economic change. But we promise you that your kids will be well taken care of for the rest of their lives. Just imagine how much seven per cent is of nine hundred million? It’s a lot for doing nothing really. From today on, consider yourself a multi-millionaire, comrade. You can buy the whole Elim village and all of the surrounding villages with that kind of currency.”
They all studied Ganyani, but his dark face gave nothing away. Only a gold pen glimmered from the pocket of his navy Valentino jacket.
Kimathi picked the olive pit off his plate and rolled it between his fingers. “Comrade, perhaps let me tell you how we came to the seven per cent,” he reasoned, realising that Ganyani was not going to respond as quickly as they had anticipated. “First of all, you know that your construction company doesn’t have a level nine rating. So we –”
“What are you talking about, comrade?” interrupted Ganyani, his brows creasing. “I won a thirty million rand tender with my company nine years ago, and I had just formed it then. So, I don’t think there is an issue with my rating.”
“That’s true. But I guess that’s also the reason you abandoned the project, comrade,” answered Kimathi, using both his hands to emphasise the point he was making. “It’s clear that you didn’t have the capacity; what you had were the contacts. And now you’re in the bad books of the government in Limpopo.”
“He’s right,” affirmed George as if it was obligatory for him to speak.
Although TTZ was registered as a South African company, it was actually owned by PMB, its sister company in France. One of the first major tenders TTZ had scored from the government was for the resurfacing of the N3 between Johannesburg and Durban. Their formula for securing the job, then as now, had been to partner with small black-owned construction companies. To win the Soutpansberg tender, they desperately needed both Ganyani’s company and his contacts in government.
Ganyani began to think about what Kimathi and George had just said, but at that moment he saw a waitress appear at the far end of the bar and waved at her. As she approached the table, he emptied his glass in two swallows and ordered another drink. Kimathi, Sechaba and Ludwe also ordered more drinks as the waitress wiped their table and removed the empty dishes and the menu. The waitress left the table. Kimathi took out a toothpick from the small glass next to him and put it between his teeth.
“Maybe let me remind you of something, chief,” said Sechaba, adjusting his silk tie on his pink Fabiani shirt. “According to the Construction Industry Development Board you are at the lower rating level.”
“So what if I have a lower rating? Am I going to be discriminated against because of it?” Ganyani asked. There was arrogance in his tone.
“Obviously, comrade. You know for sure that out of the one hundred and eighteen contractors with the highest rating, only two are black-owned. You are not one of them, of course.”
“Bad, but what does all of this have to do with me, then?” asked Ganyani. “If I don’t have the right rating?”
“We will help you to get a higher rating from the board if you work with us,” Sechaba offered. “We have friends on the board.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks. There was a moment of silence as she put the glasses on the table. Kimathi smiled mirthlessly as she left.
“This is different, comrade,” said Kimathi, removing the toothpick from between his teeth. “We are talking here of a nine hundred million rand tender. Nine hundred million, comrade,” he repeated, lifting his whisky glass.
“I know, but –”
Kimathi would not let Ganyani finish his sentence. “You definitely need us and our level nine rating to win it, and of course we also need you.” He took a swig from his glass. “You can’t go it alone. Even if we gave you all the time in the world, I don’t think you’d ever reach the requirement. Not because we’d undermine you, but because there is a serious lack of engineers and other professionals in this country.” He pointed at George and Sechaba. “We have been around for a long time now, and we have all the necessary skills.”
“We’ll see about that when the tender is announced,” said Ganyani, unconvinced.
“May I remind you again, chief,