Political Appointment

The President looked dismissively at the next paper on his desk. Somalia ... wasn't that controlled by warlords? That was what he remembered from that old movie. Why the fuck did they need an ambassador there? It was a shithole. All those countries were.

After a few minutes of ranting at his foreign advisors, it was made clear that the embassy had been started under the last dumbfuck, and it was now a gleaming and secure facility in the southern tip of the country. The Somalian Democratic Alliance, was it was now being called, was the latest and most promising effort to tame the wartorn region, and give the United States vital insight into unrest that plagued the region as a whole.

The President blanched looked at the totals to construct the embassy. He could have done that for ten times cheaper. Someone should investigate them, he concluded. He looked at the proposed ambassador. Big money in South Carolina. The President snorted. Appointing a Black man from South Carolina, one with so ... rough ... a name went against every instinct. But he had a doctorate and was a small-time business success. And that wife of his ... smoking. He signed the papers. After all, sending Dr. Yusuuf Barre to an African shithole was no plum position.