Pensativities: Selected Essays

Our Poor Rich People

The greatest misfortune for a poor country is that, instead of producing wealth, it produces rich people. But rich people without wealth. In fact, it would be better to call them moneyed rather than rich: a rich person is one who possesses the means of production. A rich person is someone who generates money and provides jobs. A moneyed person is someone who quite simply has some cash. Or rather, he thinks he has. For, in reality, it’s the cash that has him.

The truth is this: our rich are too poor. What they have, they don’t hold on to. Worse still, that which they exhibit as being theirs is the property of others. It’s the product of robbery and sharp practice. Yet, our moneyed friends are unable to enjoy all they have stolen in peace and quiet. They live obsessed by the possibility that they may be robbed. They would need a police force of an appropriate standard. But a police force of an appropriate standard would throw them all in jail. They would need a social order in which there were few reasons to pursue crime. But if they have grown rich, it is precisely thanks to this same disorder.

The biggest dream of our new-rich in the end is quite small: a luxury car, a bit of temporary bling. But the luxury car cannot have too many dreams of its own, as it is shaken by the potholes of the city thoroughfares. A Mercedes or a BMW can’t make full use of its lustre, as it busily swerves to avoid the very convex buses along very concave roads. The existence of good roads would depend upon another type of wealth. A wealth that might serve the city. And the wealth of our new-rich originated in an opposing trend: the impoverishment of our city and our society.

The luxury houses of our false rich are designed less for living and more for being seen. They were built for the eyes of those passing by. But as they exhibit themselves in this way, full of frills and showing off, they end up attracting the greed of outsiders. No matter how many guards they may have at the door, our poor-rich cannot escape the fear of envy and the spells and curses that this envy invites. The solemn grandeur of their residences doesn’t make them immune. Our poor little rich people!

They are like a glass of draft beer. They are poured in an instant, but they’re mostly froth. Anything real that’s left belongs to the glass rather than the content. They could raise livestock or grow vegetables. But no. Instead, our moneyed friends, poured out on tap, create lovers. But these lovers (whether female or male) are a source of serious inconvenience: they need to be maintained with expensive gifts. The biggest snag, however, is the absence of any product guarantee. Someone’s lover today may be another’s tomorrow. The collector of lovers finds no peace of mind: whoever has betrayed, may be betrayed.

Our hurriedly assembled moneyed classes don’t feel comfortable in their own skins. They dream of being Americans, South Africans. They aspire to be others, far removed from their origins, their condition. And so there they are imitating others, assimilating the foibles of the really rich, from places that are really rich. But our aspiring entrepreneurs aren’t even capable of resolving the most basic dilemma: why they can buy appearances, but they cannot buy the respect and affection of others. Those others who see them parading their barely explained luxuries. Those others who recognize within them the translation of a lie. Our moneyed elite isn’t an elite: it’s a distortion, a hasty imitation.

The struggle for national liberation was guided by a moral principle: it was not intended to substitute an exploiting elite with another one, even if it was of a different racial composition. They didn’t want a mere change of shift among oppressors. Today, we are on the threshold of a decision: who are we going to play in the race for development? Is it these people who are going to represent us on the field known as “the struggle for progress”? Our new-rich (who can’t even explain where their money came from) have already picked themselves for the squad, anxious to take their turn in pillaging the country. They are national representatives, but only in appearance. For they’re prepared to be the servants of others, of foreigners. As long as these others promise them reward enough, they’ll end up selling off the little we have left.

Some of our moneyed elites are not far removed from the kids who ask to look after our cars. Our aspirants for power ask to look after the country. The donating community can go shopping or go and have a relaxed lunch, safe in the knowledge that the elite will look after the nation.

Our moneyed elite reflect a childish image of who we are. They’re like children who go into a candy store. They go weak-kneed, fascinated by the array of ostentatious goods. They help themselves to the public purse as if it were their own personal pot of money. Their arrogance shames us, as does their lack of culture, their scorn for the people, their elitist attitude towards poverty.

How I wish Mozambique had rich people with a true, honestly earned wealth! Rich people who loved and defended their country and its people. Rich people who created wealth. Who provided jobs and developed the economy. Who obeyed the rules of the game. In short, rich people who enriched us.

Let’s hope our elite commits suicide alone. Don’t let them drag us and the whole country into the abyss.

Published in the Mozambican newspaper,

Savana, December, 2002