Shaka II Read Online Free

Africa. I have to admit that he was an exceptionally effective President for the first year. The unions had a stranglehold on labor. He broke it. Not with armies of thugs as unions had been fought in the past, but with the carrot and the stick.
        Every government agency, from the spaceport traffic controllers to the servants in the Parliament’s private dining room, was run with union labor. He went out of his way to antagonize the unions, and every time a union struck, he would fire all the members who were working for the government, declaring that that particular union or brotherhood of unions could no longer expect government contracts in the future. Then, a week later, he offered work to the same employees who had been fired, usually at twenty percent more than they had been making-and that came to even more money when they realized they did not have to pay union dues.
        When the mine owners began to speak about running a candidate to oppose him in the next election, he nationalized the biggest mining company, and the rest of the owners took the hint.
        Namibia, to the west of us, opposed a trade policy. He cut off all trade until they decided the policy wasn’t so bad after all.
        He was a masterful politician, adept at all forms of power politics. In less than two years he had the shining, modern capital of South Africa-and indeed the whole country-running like clockwork. Not all the people were happy, not all the businesses were prospering, but he had enough of both on his side that he had nothing to worry about. I thought this would give him an incentive to relax and slow down, but it seemed to have just the opposite effect.
        For two years he had a map of South Africa on the wall to the left of his desk. Then one day it was gone, and was replaced by a map of the lower half of the African continent. That afternoon I was summoned to his office.
        “Yes, Mr. President?” I said, for I always referred to him by his formal title.
        “John, my brother,” he said, “I think your talents are being wasted. You are my Postmaster, and yet hardly anyone uses the post office any more. It’s been decades since anyone sent a letter, even a legal document, by mail rather than electronically, and as for parcels, we are competing with half a dozen carriers. Our postal service is an anachronism; I foresee better things for you.”
        I remained silent, trying to figure out what he was leading up to, since we had never discussed my future, only his, and only in grandiose if non-specific terms.
        “As of this afternoon, you are my ambassador to Mozambique.”
        “Mozambique?” I repeated, surprised. It was an impoverished neighboring country, and our primary interaction with them was turning back thousands of illegal immigrants at the border every day.
        He nodded. “Don’t look so disappointed. This is a very important posting.”
        “Perhaps you will explain what makes it so?” I said, for in my mind it was actually a lesser position than Postmaster, which wasn’t much to begin with.
        He smiled. “Take a week to find your way around Beira. Play some golf, visit the casino, do a little sailing.”
        “It sounds easy enough,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
        “At the end of the week, you will pay a visit to the President of Mozambique and deliver this.” He handed me an envelope bearing the official seal of the President. Another smile. “It will be your last duty as Postmaster.”
        “What’s in it?”
        “Our demand that they turn over their half of the Kruger National Park to us. It was unfairly divided centuries ago.”
        “Do we care?” I asked. “Are you planning on building a city on park land?”
        “Certainly not. It is home to the last wild animals on the continent. I wouldn’t dream of changing it.”
        “Then I repeat - what is this all