Wagner in Africa: Mercenaries, Russian foreign policy and some worried presidents now looking for a new military protector

The agreement that ended the mutiny and march on Moscow by Yevgeny Prigozhin and his Wagner Group may, for now at least, be allowing Russia’s President Putin to sleep a bit more soundly. But in presidential palaces in Bamako, Bangui and elsewhere in Africa, an observer might witness sleepless worried midnight-pacing by heads of regimes concerned about what it might mean for them

Under the terms of the agreement that ended the mutiny-that-didn’t, Wagner Group fighters are now expected to either join the Russian army, or their leader Prigozhin in exile in Belarus. And the determination of the Russian state to remove Wagner’s presence from Russia is extending to other areas of its operation: in the last few days there have been reports that Wagner camps in Syria have been raided by Russian forces and its fighters detained.

All of this is creating problems for governments that have made extensive use of the Private Military Company’s (PMC) military services, who must now be wondering whether Prigozhin can maintain his outfit without its links to the Russian government and continue to provide those services, or if they will need to seek a new group of mercenaries to support their regimes.

But this isn’t as simple as scouring the Checkatrade equivalent for PMCs to find a new bunch of fighters to come in and take over. Hiring the Wagner Group was to be enfolded into an embrace with the Russian government; and the price of its engagement was mostly in the form of control over key parts of the national economic sector (the companies holding those valuable contracts presumably still retaining them, despite what is happening to Wagner). So will still-operating Wagner fighters still come with links to Putin’s regime; and if not, how to extricate economies from the firm grasp of the group?

Although badged as a PMC, a private (i.e. non-state) mercenary group offering services to those bidding enough for its services, in truth the Wagner Group has always dad very close ties to the Russian state and (before Prigozhin’s increasingly erratic behaviour in Ukraine) to Putin himself. Wagner emerged in 2014 as part of a group of fighters supporting Russian separatist forces in the east of Ukraine, and played a key role in the annexation of Crimea. In Syria, Wagner fighters have participated alongside formal Russian forces in protecting the Assad regime and fighting against rebel groups. And they have been a critical element of the Russian war in Ukraine since 2022. Formal closer relationships between Russia and other states have often coincided with the arrival soon after of Wagner military trainers, fighters and weapons.

So the Wagner Group must be seen for what it is (or was): a useful tool, and a closely linked one, for the Russian state. Until 2022 it was not registered as a company anywhere (officially, Russian law bans mercenary organisations), and for a long-time it operated in a murky, twilight world that gave the Russian state plausible deniability over its links to the organisation and its activities. In Ukraine, Syria and elsewhere, it was able to do the dirty work of military engagement (accusations of war crimes and serious abuses of human rights have long followed its activities), leaving the Russian state with clean hands but a reputation for effective hard support for its allies.

But at the same time, Wagner was able to build up an independent source of wealth by securing lucrative mining and other natural resource sector concessions in return for its military services. In Syria companies linked to Prigozhin have been awarded offshore oil and gas exploration licences. One deal gave it 25% of gas and oil revenues in areas liberated from Islamic State control. Where Wagner is, so too are shadowy companies securing rights to valuable commodities, companies like Lobaye Invest, Midas Ressources [sic], and Diamville. So a key question for those still relying on Wagner’s services is whether that independent wealth is truly independent, and whether the newly-exiled Prigozhin can use it to rebuild his mercenary army.

And these are questions which are of great importance to a number of African countries, and the wider regions in which they are based. Over recent years, Wagner has become significant presence across the African continent, popping up to support government forces in fighting against rebel forces here; ensuring unpopular regimes can maintain power there; and even potentially playing sides off each other and contributing to national and regional instability.

Mali	From the end of 2021, Wagner fighters have been providing military support to the regime following the pivot away from France as a traditional ally. It has taken part in action against rebel forces, and has been accused of deliberate targeting of civilians in its actions.
Central African Republic	Wagner has been propping up the President Touadéra’s regime since 2018, in return for lucrative gold and diamond mining concessions. Officially sent as ‘trainers’, since 2020 the group has taken on a more direct combat role, and as in Mali has faced allegations of war crimes.
Sudan	The Wagner group initially went into Sudan to provide services to prop up the regime of then president Omar al-Bashir (as elsewhere, a gold mining concession was granted to a company that was later shown to be directly linked to Prigozhin), and was involved in the violent repression of protests in 2019. It has survived shifts in regime. Although Wagner claimed it had not been present in Sudan since 2020, there have been reports that its fighters remain present in the country, defending their valuable mining activities. But it also stands accused of having supplied both sides in the current conflict with arms and weapons; and with Hemedti and the Rapid Support Services in particular following yet another exchange of services for gold.
Libya	Wagner fighters were reported to be supporting the rebel Libyan Arab Armed Forces led by Khalifa Hiftar, and to have participated in the attack on Tripoli in 2020. It has been accused of illegal use of landmines and other booby-traps which have killed civilians, as well as of torture and other war crimes.
Mozambique	In 2019, Wagner fighters were sent to Cabo Delgado (in exchange for, guess what, yes more gas contracts) to assist in the fight against Islamist groups in the region. This was a rare complete failure, with the group pulled back from the fighting within a few months after disastrous encounters.

Are you getting a Russian ally or a Wagner private mercenary?

But to understand the growing influence of Wagner in Africa, we need to understand the recent shift in Russian foreign policy that has seen it make a concerted effort to build alliances in recent years. Wagner’s presence in Africa has been inextricably linked to Russia’s increasing presence across the continent. Over the past year alone we have seen a flurry of activity: in the summer of 2022 Russian Foreign Minister, Sergei Lavrov, paid court to the governments of Egypt, Ethiopia, Uganda and Congo-Brazzaville. A second tour at the start of 2023 saw Lavrov pay official visits to Mali, Mauritania, Sudan, South Africa, Swaziland, Angola and Eritrea.

Although the most immediate objective in the recent trips was to boost support for Russia as part of an effort to counter European and North American criticism and sanctions for its war in Ukraine, the visits were also part of a longer-standing more muscular foreign policy aimed at reviving Russian standing on the international stage. Since the end of the 2010s, Russian activity in Africa has picked up pace and intensity, and it has also undertaken much work to renew relationships and influence in Latin America (vaccine diplomacy during the early phases of the Covid crisis, for example).

But whilst relationship-building in Africa has been building on warmly remembered, for the most part, ties from Russia’s long legacy of Soviet-era anti-colonial and anti-Apartheid support, the role of the Wagner group has been a critical, if written out of the public narrative, part of negotiations and discussions: the hard fist in the velvet glove of warm words of mutual support.

The question for Russia is how it will continue to provide material military support for regimes in the region without the useful, deniable, mercenary forces on which it has hitherto relied. Support from the Russian army is unlikely in the midst of a prolonged war in Ukraine, and there is no sign yet of an alternative force who could play this role.

And for those African countries relying on Wagner’s services, will its extensive and lucrative contracts allow it to still function as a mercenary group, albeit now based in Belarus and more as a private, non-state actor than before; or will the Russian government be able to take control of what would be a very useful source of revenue at a time of international sanctions? And what might that mean for regimes whose survival is dependent on this group of Russian fighters?

Whatever happens, the ripples from the unfolding of the bizarre aborted mutiny of 23^rd-24^th June, in a town little known outside Russia, will continue to impact African regimes, regions, and Russian foreign policy for some time yet.

A new Big Dam Era? Why does development love a dam?

At the COP27 climate summit, President William Ruto of Kenya and Prime Minister Rishi Sunak of the UK announced a Strategic Partnership to support UK investment and trade with Kenya, backed by £400 million in British aid funding. A core part of the partnership was a commitment to fast track six climate-related projects, including geothermal and solar energy schemes, green investment in Nairobi’s transport infrastructure, and investment in a climate-resistant agricultural hub in Kisumu. The biggest, and potentially most controversial of these investments, will be for the Tana River Grand High Falls (GHF) dam project.

There was a period in the 1990s when on every flight to eastern Africa, I would be sat next to a hydro engineer, usually from one of the Nordic countries, flying out to advise on one project or another. I was never sure whether, towards the end of the decade and into the 2000s, the replacement of my row-mate with a missionary was a sign that dams were falling out of fashion, or the hydro engineers had managed to move up to business class.

In any case, the news that the UK will be helping to fund the GHF project as part of its climate finance to Kenya  may well see those seats filling up again, probably alongside critics of dam development due to their huge human and environmental costs.

The Grand High Falls dam project is part of the wider LAPSETT Corridor project, a major infrastructure and transport programme which seeks to link the Kenyan port of Lamu to Ethiopia and South Sudan. Planners say the dam will generate a gigawatt of power, be used to irrigate around one million acres of farmland, offer flood protection for those downstream during periods of very high rainfall, and act as a source of rural water supplies for around 15 million people.

Whilst the benefits appear huge, as with development more widely, it’s a matter of perspective as to whether the potential gains outweigh the costs. A 2015 IVM Institute for Environmental Studies report noted “the negative downstream effects of the [proposed] GHF dam often outweigh the positive effects of the dam upstream”. Whilst it didn’t conclude the project should be abandoned, it did call for more research into the nature and extent of those potential “negative downstream effects”. A key question is whether those investigations have, in fact, been done and what conclusions we might draw from them.

Even before the climate emergency made a powerful case for building dams to generate hydropower, dams have long been a feature of large-scale development projects, not always with an honourable history (the history of the Volta Dam project, anyone?). Zambia’s Kariba dam was built in the 1950s. Two dams (Inga I and Inga II) were constructed on the Congo in DRC in the 1970s and 1980s. Mozambique’s Cahora Bassa Dam was finished in the mid-1970s. Uganda’s  Bujagali Dam, on the River Nile, was completed in 2012. And of course, more recently the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam will be Africa’s largest hydro-generating plant when it is completed. And these are just a few of the biggest projects.

So why does development love a dam? For this, we have to look back to the United States during the height of its Big Dam Era, roughly the 1930s to the 1950s. During this period the construction of massive dams, beginning with the Hoover Dam in 1935, rolled out not only massive amounts of hydropower, but large-scale irrigation, secure urban water supplies, and flood control over huge parts of the west. These parched lands flourished economically, and towns and agricultural production expanded massively on their backs. The fruits of modernisation theory grew from the growing walls of concrete, extending spider-webs of transmission lines, and narrow water channels cut into the ground.

The faith in what dams could deliver for economies and societies spread outwards and into the global South in particular, where new schemes for planned development were being drafted, and new finance was being made available to support. Dams were not just the future, they brought that future closer.

The problem was that the environmental cost of dams was also becoming more apparent. In the US, the Big Dam Era was ending by the 1960s, and environmental legislation made construction of new dams increasingly difficult. In the global South, however, across Asia, Africa and Latin America, they remained prestige projects for national governments, and donors continued to support their construction despite a falling-out-of-love with these monoliths in their own countries.

The dream that dams could serve energy and social and agricultural development was becoming increasingly unconvincing, but it remained (and remains – just look at the case made for the GHF dam) and essential part of their narrative. The result was an increasing disconnect between the reality of what a dam might do, and the promises made for it. But with support contingent on the rhetoric rather than the likely reality, were local communities essentially being sold a lie?

The Steigler’s Gorge Project* on the Rufiji River in Tanzania is a classic example. A FAO study in 1961 concluded it was just too expensive to use a dam in the gorge to expand agricultural land. A Norconsult study just over a decade later looked at the feasibility of a multi-purpose dam, but concluded that hydropower was the most likely activity that would bring a return on investment. The final study, in 1980, concluded that it was not possible to meet the needs of (a) flood control and irrigation, and (b) maximum power production (the water run-off needs of each were diametrically opposed). But with the government keen to move ahead, and the World Bank keen to support it, the end report was inevitably positive. And despite previous studies making it clear any dam could only serve a single-purpose, the pretence that it could be multi-purpose was embedded in its conclusions.

It isn’t just that the claims made for dams (especially their social dimensions) are often unrealistic. Nor that the areas required for dams mean communities are forcibly displaced with varying levels of compensation. In the context of a climate emergency, an argument might be made that such disruption – appropriately compensated – is a necessary part of a transition to cleaner energy and to limiting the damage to those communities from increased temperatures.

The reality is that poor (generally rural) communities don’t benefit much, if at all, from their construction. Their interests are sidelined and marginalised, rationalised away in a Benthamite greater good. Irrigated land is often intended for large-scale commercial farming, not small-scale households struggling to survive. Transmission lines don’t always (rarely?) connect to local villages, but take the power to already wealthier areas and industrial zones. The water supplies of urban areas come at the cost of those living in the affected area. The jobs that are created may be very distant from those most directly impacted by the presence of a dam in their river basin.

Moreover, local communities often suffer actual harm as well as neglect. The environmental costs of dams are significant, often outweighing the potential benefits dams can bring (even in this time of climate emergency and desperate need for renewable energy). Dam construction is associated with increases in water-borne and water-related diseases, especially bilharzia (known, with good reason, as a ‘disease of development’). As the WHO noted, back in 1961:

“The incidence of bilharzia has increased but it is of man’s doing. As he constructs dams, irrigation ditches, etc, to alleviate the world’s hunger, he sets up the ideal conditions … for the spread of disease”

The investment in dam construction rarely includes funding for adequate latrines, piped water, good sanitation. And the simplified ecosystems associated with dams allow parasites to grow in density and increase levels of infection in local communities.

As well as a worsened health environment, the entire downstream ecology is changed, often for the worse. The changes in water flows reduce the flow of nutritious sediments downstream; and silting becomes more likely (which can make floods more likely).

Increases in climate finance, and the commitment to invest in renewable energy, is a good thing and urgently required. But it remains questionable whether large-scale dam projects are the solution. One thing is certain, feasibility studies need to consider all aspects and impacts of dams; and local communities need to be engaged with properly and meaningfully, and all their interests explored.

Destroying valuable ecosystems, leaving communities more at risk from disease, reducing natural mechanisms for ensuring soil nutrition and potentially increasing the poverty of the already poor is no solution to the climate emergency.

* For a more detailed analysis of the Steigler’s Gorge Project, see the excellent Kjell J Havnevik’s Tanzania: The Limits to Development from Above (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet: 1993)

Benin, Rwanda and French Influence in Africa

Benin and Rwanda look on the cusp of an agreement by which Rwanda will provide military support to Benin’s government in its conflict in the north of the country. Rumours began circulating over summer of negotiations, with reports now suggesting the deal is being finalised.

This isn’t the first time Rwanda has agreed to provide military support to assist against insurgencies in other African countries. For just over a year, the Rwanda Defence Force has been fighting the insurgency in Mozambique’s Cabo Delgado province, pushing back insurgents from key towns and areas.

This latest deployment – if confirmed – is part of a wider strategy to position Rwanda as a key regional power-broker, both within sub-Saharan Africa, and to external powers seeking a reliable partner capable of making a difference in conflicts in which they have a stake. Ethiopia, long-seen as the key regional power, is now in the midst of conflict, unable to play this role; and Uganda, which also deliberately emphasised its credentials with key western powers in the ‘Global War on Terror’, is becoming increasingly tarnished in the eyes of global powers.

Meanwhile, Rwanda has been burnishing its military intervention credentials as part of international peacekeeping efforts for almost a decade now. Back in 2014, it participated in the UN mission in Central African Republic, and it has since contributed to missions in Sudan, South Sudan, Mali and Haiti.

But increasingly, it seems, there is a new strategy of unilateral intervention: Rwanda’s presence in Mozambique is not part of the wider regional command; and Rwanda’s presence in Benin will similarly be under its own command. Rwanda is keen to showcase its military prowess, making much of its success in rolling back the insurgents in Mozambique in a way the southern African mission was unable to.

So is this just a continuation of President Kagame’s efforts to assert Rwandan power within the region and beyond as an extension of its diplomacy? Mozambique and Benin tell us there’s something more going on here, most readily seen in the fact that Rwanda’s liberation of the strategic port of Mocimboa da Praia in Mozambique has allowed the resumption of French company Total’s $20 billion natural gas project. Certainly, it is helpful to have Rwandan troops in the country for France’s own strategic interests, especially as it was rumoured having French boots on the ground was deemed politically unacceptable in Maputo. And France is rumoured to be playing a key role in brokering the deal between Rwanda and Benin.

It seems clear that France is supporting and assisting Rwanda’s efforts to assert its regional power status partly (perhaps mainly) in response to the challenge it is facing over its own presence, especially in west Africa. Having left Central African Republic in 2016, this year they withdrew from Mali after a falling-out with the government there. It’s continued presence in other west African countries is feeling increasingly precarious. And into these former sites of French influence, Russia appears to be implanting and enhancing its own influence, not least through the Russian-state linked Wagner Group mercenary forces, to whom Mali’s government turned to replace the French.

The search for a proxy through which France can exercise continued, but less visible, influence has been the driving force of the rapprochement between the French and Rwandan governments. France’s continued refusal to acknowledge any culpability in the events that led to the 1994 genocide led to a significant cooling of relations between the two for the next twenty-five. The decision of Rwanda to join the Commonwealth, a grouping of largely former British colonies, was seen as a dangerous expansion of Anglophone power into the previously jealously guarded fortress of French influence in Africa. Gabon and Togo joining the grouping in 2022 was regarded by French politicians with similar dismay. French President Emmanual Macron has sought to reset relationships with Rwanda, publicly asking forgiveness for French complicity in the 1994 genocide during an official visit to the country in 2021.

For Kagame, the benefits of being a proxy for French strategic interests are clear: it pushed France to recognise its role in the genocide, and more tangible benefits will undoubtedly follow. But its military endeavours also allow it to cement its reputation with other global powers. Kagame’s strategy is straight out of the Museveni playbook: by presenting Rwanda, and his leadership, as essential partners for maintaining regional security, and participating in the war against Jihadist insurgency, he can hope that criticisms around governance and human rights will be muted. He is probably right – it took a long time for criticism of Museveni to emerge. Ethiopia, too, benefited from its position as regional power, criticism over its governance record similarly muted in order to maintain a key ally.

But does this tell us anything about the new French strategy for its influence in sub-Saharan Africa? It suggests that there is a recognition that overt manifestations of France-in-Africa have become increasingly unpalatable to African governments. French strategic interests haven’t gone anywhere, but the means to achieving them has been forced to change, not least by the rising influence of Russia in western Africa through its own proxy of the Wagner Group.

So does this herald a revival of a Cold War in Africa, with ‘western’ allies (albeit often as much rivals as allies) seeking new ways to counter a resurgent Russian power in Africa? Certainly it has been interesting to see African government responses to the war in Ukraine, which have tended to be far more muted. And Russian interests in Africa have been picking up pace in recent years – the operations of Wagner Group and other private military companies being just one iteration of that. It has sought to broker peace agreements (for example in Central African Republic in 2019); signed formal military agreements for weapons and training (with Nigeria, in 2021); invested in energy; they are an increased presence in African institutions like the AU; and Russia makes much of its past (Soviet-era) anti-imperialist ally status.

But France’s main concern is not about a loss of influence to Russia per se, but a sense of a longer-term failure and competition from a whole host of other powers: China, Turkey, the US in Francophone Africa. Despite Macron’s ambitions for a stronger Africa policy and closer ties, going back to his first term as President, there is a sense that it is failing to deliver. More than that, indeed: there is a palpable fear that France is becoming unpopular despite Macron’s efforts to reset relations by apologising for its colonial past and legacy, restoring cultural artefacts taken from Africa, aid reforms and other efforts to re-establish political and economic closeness (efforts not helped by avoidable misfires, as last year when Macron angered Algeria with comments about whether Algeria had existed as a nation prior to colonialism).

Rwanda – apparently receptive to Macron’s re-set – looks like a good partner for reshaping the nature of French influence in Africa. It has the right political, diplomatic and military power; and it is highly regarded (whether rightly or wrongly) by global powers for its policies, governance and stability. But, Kagame is unlikely to settle for a role as France’s proxy. Where interests align, it may well be content to occupy the role France would like it to. But when it doesn’t? Rwanda is no weak client state, willing to oblige. It has its own regional ambitions. It will be interesting to see where this relationship goes, and whether Rwanda really does offer France its path back to a renewed, re-invigorated Africa policy, and whether that can begin to mend relationships across the continent.

DFID, UK-Africa engagement, and the death of an idea

Earlier this week The Conversation, Africa edition, published my article looking at the impact of the new Truss government on UK-Africa relations. Will we see a resurgence of interest in African politics and issues in the UK government? Or will internal and European-crises further reinforce the inward-looking tendency that has characterised Britain’s post-Brexit legacy? You can see what I wrote here, but my assessment won’t come as much of a surprise (even though, as I point out, the three most senior ministers have direct links to Africa or African heritage, and traditionally an interest in or link to Africa amongst senior politicians has been associated with a stronger relationship*).

A core part of the piece was a reflection on the importance the late Department for International Development (DFID) had, not just as a global development leader, but as a facilitator and champion for global South voices gaining entry to UK political debates and links to the government more widely. I thought it would be good to expand on that.

When the New Labour government established DFID in 1997, it rapidly became a government ministry unlike others. Not only because it was outward-looking and formally (legally) directed to put the needs of non-British citizens as its main policy and spending priority (unlike the also outward-facing, but British-interest led Foreign Office); and not only because its first minister was Clare Short – who shaped DFID’s early slightly chaotic, open and critical atmosphere. But also because it was a place in which civil society had a strong voice alongside civil servants, especially in the Short era (1997-2003). For British NGOs, and other civil society organisations, DFID’s door was open and it was in listening mode.

It was not just a space for UK global development NGOs, academics, think-tanks and other representatives. It increasingly became one for non-UK political and civil society leaders, too. In those regions and countries that were the focus of DFID activity, a new physical infrastructure emerged: DFID’s new country offices becoming a physical manifestation of the separation of UK global development and diplomatic functions. That in many instances the DFID country office was larger, with more staff, and grander than the High Commission or Embassy (anyone remember the contrast between the old UK High Commission offices and the new DFID building in Tanzania in the 1990s?) symbolised DFID’s growing authority, soft (and perhaps even hard) power.

These new palaces were sites of engagement with government ministers, with international organisations, civil society, and the occasional British academic. The initially-resisted focus on governance, democracy, human rights and so on aspects of global development, meant increased expertise on the politics of the countries and regions in which DFID was based, and linkages with those governments and societies. Speaking in confidence, diplomatic staff would bemoan the resources ploughed into DFID, and the incursion on their patch, as DFID rose in political influence and voice within both UK and foreign governments – supported by a rapidly growing budget.

It helped that both prime minister Tony Blair and his Chancellor of the Exchequer shared an interest in poverty eradication, and in sub-Saharan Africa itself. This ensured that UK engagement with Africa was more than just through a global development lens, or reliant on a single minister. But if Africa’s heightened place in UK political discourse was not due to DFID alone, nor framed entirely through that relationship, the new ministry nevertheless facilitated strong engagement and vision with African leaders and countries.

Contrary to many expectations, the accession of a Conservative-led coalition government in 2010 did not initially lead to a diminishing of DFID’s power and reach. David Cameron, whilst in opposition, had seen global development (and climate change) as fertile ground for changing perceptions about the ‘nasty party’. Cameron committed his government to further increases in UK international aid spending, meeting the 0.7% GNI target. As a result, at a time when other government departments were facing significant cuts to their budgets and services, DFID not only maintained its programmes, but grew.

It was helped by having a minister who shared a broad commitment to the goals and duty of DFID, even if increasingly framed within traditional Tory values around private sector growth. Andrew Mitchell had shadowed the role in opposition, had immersed himself in debates and policy around poverty-eradication, fragile states, and so on. And his commitment to the ministry meant he was willing and able to protect it from calls from party colleagues and certain newspapers for DFID to focus more on British self-interest.

Arguably, on might start to trace the decline of DFID from exit of Mitchell; and certainly after Justine Greening’s tenure (2012-16) who at least brought a commitment to social change. Its budget was protected. Its permanent staff remained globally recognised for their expertise, and it carried an influence that was never fully appreciated by many within the Conservative Party. But some of the subsequent ministers saw their appointment as a, hopefully brief, stepping stone to a more prestigious ministry, or as part of a glorious post-Brexit strategy. Priti Patel (2016-17), in particular, spoke frequently of using British aid as a lever for reaching trade deals. But if DFID was turning into a tool for the promotion of UK national economic, political, diplomatic influence, how was it different from the FCO’s remit?

With its budget protected as austerity dug in deeper after the 2015 general election (returning a Conservative majority government), DFID retained a façade of strength. But its minister was less likely to champion it, to fight for it, to argue that its budget was appropriate. When challenges to its role, mandate, and even existence came, it lacked the political strength to fight back. Rory Stewart (2019) might have put up a greater struggle to its dismantling, but his period in office was too brief, and he was too much a Tory-outsider to wield influence. And following his bid for the leadership, he in any case left front-line politics.

It wasn’t just that UK aid became enmeshed in a political vision that gradually replaced a focus on poverty with one on economic growth, jobs and the private sector. And it wasn’t just about the inexorable subsummation of policy and political thinking into the tunnel-vision of post-Brexit politics. It was to a significant extent the jealousy of the Foreign Office, determined to restore its power and authority as the leading representative of global Britain internally and externally. The result was perhaps inevitable, with the FCO swallowing DFID in 2020.

Yet the Foreign Office in recent years has turned as inward as the rest of this myopic government. Brexit continues to frame external relations; and ‘Africa’ has (been) gradually dropped as a priority for UK interests. It is hard to imagine a Blair, Brown, Cameron or even May government remaining quite so silent on events in Ethiopia. And the ridiculous idea of sending migrants entering the UK through non-formal channels to Rwanda just about encapsulates the shallow engagement of this government with African countries. (Though props to Rwanda for exploiting the UK government’s migration monomania. Its foreign relations team seem to be far better and more skilled at negotiation than their UK counterparts, given they have secured guaranteed funding in return for a policy that doesn’t look likely to be put into anything more than a cosmetic effect, if that).

Africa’s decline in importance to the UK government is in part reflects former prime minister Boris Johnson’s lack of interest and engagement, even when he was Foreign Secretary. And the new PM, Liz Truss, showed similar lack of engagement when she was in that role. But the destruction of DFID has also removed a key institution that – even when other parts of the UK government looked elsewhere – could be a point of engagement for global South leaders.

Of course, UK interest and engagement with Africa is only as good as the policies that emerge from those relationships. And such relationships were rarely collaborative partnerships of equals, but subject to the distortions of aid power. Even if DFID did still exist, the government’s failure to engage with a horizon much beyond the latest opinion poll or comment in the Daily Telegraph, and a blindspot in understanding why stronger engagement with Africa might be important, would present formidable obstacles.

But still, DFID was more than a space of concentrated expertise on global development and anti-poverty policies; a place in which one was as likely to hear a voice of civil society as that of the establishment. It was also a chamber in which global issues that didn’t speak directly to UK self-interest could be discussed, where links could be made and relationships forged, and where the idea of Britain as global citizen could be given form.

* Ministers with African links:

• Kwazi Kwarteng (Chancellor of the Exchequer) whose parents migrated from Ghana in the 1960s; and has written on the history of Empire (surprisingly, given the self-congratulatory woke credentials of the government, one that took a critical stance).
• James Cleverly (FCDO) whose mother moved to the UK from Sierra Leone.
• Suella Braverman, Home Office: although of south Asian heritage, her mother and father migration to the UK from Mauritius and Kenya respectively
• Not one of the big three ministers, but also Kemi Badenoch (Minister for International Trade), whose parents are Nigerian

A sorry appointment? Matt Hancock & Africa’s post-Covid recovery

There’s a clear sense of irony in the timing of the announcement of former Health Minister Matt Hancock’s appointment as UN special representative for Covid recovery in Africa, coinciding as it does with the release of a highly critical report on the UK government’s response to the Covid epidemic. My initial reaction was that someone had clearly opened their calendar to the wrong month, and it was an April Fool’s joke. But it turns out it’s real – someone actually thought Hancock was the most suitable person for this job; and Hancock himself saw nothing lacking in his own experience and reputation to convince him there could be a better appointment to be made.

The biggest elephant in the room must surely be the hubris of appointing a former minister from a government that performed so badly during the Covid crisis to oversee Africa’s Covid recovery. Whatever the final reckoning of the epidemic the UK will surely be in the top ranks of worst affected countries with over 160,000 deaths by mid-October 2021, immense disruption to the education of children who have also faced a severe mental health crisis, a stuttering policy of lockdowns and restrictions to prevent the dreaded R number from rising, and confused public health messaging.

To be fair, Hancock was not the sole architect of the government’s failed response. Indeed, in many cases he was pushing for greater interventions and controls against the more laissez-faire attitude of colleagues. He can take credit for much of what was done that was successful, even if he was not able to overcome resistance from the treasury and a loud, obstructive set of voices from the Conservative party lobbying for the easing of restrictions (yes Steve Baker, I am looking at you).

But he was also implicated in the disastrous saga of awarding PPE contracts. He must take responsibility for the failed testing regime (especially in respect of care homes), and for dropping community-testing amongst other policy failures. And as Minister for Health during the country’s worst public health crisis for a century, a crisis in which the government manifestly failed to respond effectively compared to other countries, he cannot evade responsibility.

But – and whilst these issues have already become the focus of growing incredulity about his appointment – this is not my main objection. Even if Hancock possessed a fantastic track record in responding to Covid, even if he was an internationally-regarded global statesperson capable of securing agreements (and funds) from global leaders and organisers, he would still not be the right person for the job. Indeed, Hancock has little in his CV to suggest any – even basic – knowledge of Africa, African health issues and infrastructure, or African politics, which is critical to such a role. What makes this appointment so egregious is that the not-so-hidden message being given, that there is no African who could do this job, and do it far better.

The idea that this is true is laughable. No, it’s insulting. Let’s look back to this time last year. Many African countries did a fantastic job in responding to the first wave of Covid, with far more limited resources, and yet often with far more imagination and far greater rapidity. Using experiences gained in tackling previous epidemics (Ebola HIV, ect), communities were mobilised, track and trace systems set up, lockdowns imposed. Of course there were challenges and controversies. Kenyan police, as well as forces in other countries, were accused of a heavy handed response in enforcing lockdowns. Some countries, like Tanzania, effectively ignored the crisis. But overall, it was not African countries who required lessons from the global North, but the other way round. Had global North leaders had a bit more humility, a bit less bombastic nationalist fervour, they might have listened to the experience of African health leaders and adapted their own policies.

You don’t have to look very deeply to see the wealth of experience, knowledge and expertise that could be drawn on for this UN Covid recovery role. Dr Agnes Binagwaho, former Rwandan Minister of Health, Senior Advisor to the Director General of the WHO, former Executive Secretary of Rwanda’s National AIDS Control Commission, combining political and public health experience. Or the newly appointed head of the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR), and the first African to head this US programme, Dr John Nkengasong: a virologist, who as Director of the Africa Centres for Disease Control and Prevention, has been leading the continent’s Covid response. Lia Tadesse, the Minister of Health for Ethiopia, leading the country’s Health Sector Transformation Strategy, is one of many serving Health Ministers who could help coordinate the Africa-wide response. Or the growing number of former African heads of state who have the political clout and international reach to mobilise resources and support.

In short, there is no dearth of talent, expertise and knowledge within Africa for this role, so why the need to look outside to a second rate former Minister with no experience of the continent? It seems the UK’s successful vaccine roll-out is held up as one reason. But, firstly, much of the success is down to others, not Hancock; and secondly, Africa doesn’t need such experience and expertise. It just needs vaccines. African health bodies have vast experience of vaccination campaigns. What they don’t have is a steady supply of vaccines in sufficient numbers – largely because of the policies of governments such as the one Hancock was a member of.

No-one involved in Hancock’s appointment comes out of this well. It shows, again, the continued marginalisation and exclusion of African voices in global health leadership, even in its own region. We should be surprised that Matt Hancock has been appointed as a special representative. It says something that, when we think about it, we are not.