Free Dark Oil by Nora James Page A

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    â€œIt’s a losing battle, Lara. My bet is, it does cross his mind and he’d love to come in with us. But we can’t right all wrongs. He’s not the worst off here. Look around.”
    A sudden sense of injustice overwhelmed her. Perhaps they couldn’t right all wrongs, but they could make a start, couldn’t they? What were they doing if not making the lives of the local workers better, much, much better? Playing imperialists?
    â€œI want to make a difference, Jack.” Her voice quavered.
    â€œSo do I, Lara.” He came closer to her, so close she could smell his cologne, again, and something more attractive: his warm skin. “But we have to act within the framework of what was agreed. We’re doing a lot. Building a school, helping with the hospital. And one day, the revenue from the oil will make a real difference to all these people.”
    Martin sniggered. “Unless a few government officials use it to feather their own nest. Transfers to anonymous Swiss bank accounts aren’t unheard of. Anyway, bottom line is we’re here to get oil and sell it, not for charity purposes. Nothing else matters.” As they all climbed into the car, Martin turned to the driver and without a please or thank you, muttered “The camel market.”
    Jack leaned over to Lara and as his shoulder touched hers, she tensed her body to stop a shiver. “It’s a good point, though. I’ll raise it at the next project meeting, see what others think. You never know.”
    He crossed his arms and turned towards Martin in the front seat. “You make it sound like getting oil and selling it is the only thing the company cares about and it’s not. That’s not how we operate and you know it. Sure, we have to make money. We have to keep the shareholders happy. But there’s more to it. There are good people at Global, people with a conscience.”
    Martin clicked his tongue. “Oh, please. If you think anyone’s going to care about an illiterate worker, think again.”
    Lara covered her eyes with her hand for an instant, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. The man had no shame.
    They drove down the nearly empty main street, passing only two men on foot and a few battered cars. After negotiating pot holes that would have engulfed a small vehicle, the four-wheel drive turned left onto what seemed to be a track. Within seconds they were driving through the shanty town.
    Lara had caught a glimpse of it before, when they’d first arrived in Zakra, but now she was amongst these people, who owned nothing but a few pieces of rusty tin, a few planks of wood from discarded pallets from the port. She could see their pained expressions, their worn hands, as the car slowed down.
    Children with fly-covered faces stopped and waved to them, amused by the spectacle of white skin and a shiny vehicle. Lara smiled and waved back, but her heart was breaking. How many of these thin boys and girls would spend the rest of their lives in rags, without enough food to ever feel satisfied, dreaming of what could have been had they been born on a different continent?
    Emaciated donkeys struggling under the burden of heavy drums, their beautiful warm eyes begging for a better life, trotted next to the car, their owners whipping them along.
    â€œWhat are they carrying?” she asked after a while. “What’s in the drums?”
    â€œWater,” Jack said. “No mains here. They’ve got electricity, though.”
    That was clear to Lara, even without Jack’s comment, from the number of satellite dishes on the shacks. It was amazing. There was no running water but, she’d read, as many as thirty television channels—in any case many more than she had at home.
    They turned again and the shantytown disappeared behind them. They passed concrete houses, small and grey, and a street where the homes seemed slightly larger. A few sported a sign on their