They dig profitably the desert soil of Botswana searching for stones – that say more than words &#8211; for fingers from Belgium and China to New York. They are so tiny that according to diamond experts, all the diamonds mined in the world, since 1870, would not fill a London double-decker bus.
This is the 44-year story of Botswana’s diamonds. An industry that has overcome hurdles that have tripped many in a string of African countries: ownership laws; competition; land battles and the threat of blood diamonds.
This is also the story of the world’s richest and largest diamond mine, Jwaneng, a huge hole in the desert, ringed by roads, 200 kilometers north of the capital Gaborone.
Diamondfacts.org says diamonds earn approximately $8.4 billion a year for Africa and most come from Botswana. In Botswana, diamonds contribute 33% of GDP and are mined by a joint venture, between the government and De Beers, called Debswana. The venture also means life.
“For our people, every diamond purchase represents food on the table; better living conditions; better healthcare; safe drinking water; more roads to connect our remote communities and much more,” the former President, Festus Mogae, once said.
As a market leader, Debswana can defend itself by holding on to diamonds to keep prices up. This is one reason why production fell in 2015.
According to the General Manager of Jwaneng, Albert Milton, the mine produced about 11.3 million carats in 2014.
“This number went down by 14 percent in 2015 to nine million carats due to market related conditions. We invested about $2.2 billion in 2010 and we are positive about the outlook.”
The mine aims to more than double diamond production to 20 million carats this year.
The big threat that could dull Botswana’s sparkle comes from competition elsewhere.
The bosses at Jwaneng fear that miners from Zimbabwe, Angola, Namibia, Liberia, Canada and Russia will find more and more. This could loosen Botswana’s grip on supply and with it power over price.
A geological survey found that Russia could supply the world market for the next 3,000 years as there are trillions of carats lying beneath a 35-million-year-old asteroid crater in Siberia, in the east of the country – it has more than 10 times the global stockpile.
Hanns Spangenberg, a Senior Economist at NKC African Economics, says Botswana’s single largest rating constraint is the country’s dependence on the diamonds, which exposes the economy to external shocks.
“Depressed external demand for diamonds has had extreme consequences for the landlocked country, with real GDP contracting by 0.3 percent in 2015, while the government has been forced to record a fiscal deficit in 2015/16 after recording surpluses the previous three fiscal years,” he says.
Spangenberg adds that authorities are well aware of Botswana’s exposure to the diamond sector, and have tried to diversify the economy – the most significant being the Economic Diversification Drive (EDD). They are pouring state coffers into the dairy, textiles and clothing sectors with the hope of creating jobs.
Ahmed Bin Sulayem, the Chair of the Kimberley Process – an organization fighting to stem the flow of conflict diamonds – warned in a statement in February, that the outlook was not convincing for the diamond sales industry.
“[It] will be a challenging year for our industry with continuing oversupply, low commodity prices and tightening liquidity. The social impact of these combining factors is likely to be severe and felt across large parts of the world’s diamond producing regions.”
It seems the story of diamonds, that started with discoveries in 1870, in Kimberly, is far from over.

Diamonds  May Not Be  Forever

Oba Nsugbe isn’t your average stuffy British Queen’s Counsel (QC). He is a Lagos-born Nigerian for starters. He studied English law at unfashionable Hull University, often rides a mountain bike and is not adverse to relaxing in a hoodie and jeans on weekends. In fact, he’s the kind of mellow person you would happily go for a drink with after work.
Yet,it’s hard to underestimate the stir he created when, at the relatively tender age of 39, he became the first Nigerian practicing in Britain to be appointed as a Queen’s Counsel.
Today, he is head of Pump Court Chambers, based in the legal heartlands of London’s Temple district. He heads up a busy common law set of chambers with around 90 self-employed barristers (there were 30 when he arrived). Nsugbe, brought up in Lagos and Lusaka, in Zambia, operates at the very top of the legal profession in England and Nigeria. To get there he had to break through a ceiling of ignorance and prejudice.
Nsugbe is a specialist in commercial contracts and arbitration, with an emphasis on Nigeria, corruption and serious crime. He works for and against multi-national clients, sits as a judge himself, and advises and trains judges in Africa. As the Nigerian economy grows at 6 or 7%, so his practice thrives.
Many apply to become Queen’s Counsel, but few are chosen. As a matter of record, the lucky ones are listed in The Times newspaper. Nsugbe remembers his name appeared second from bottom.
“The list gets published in order of seniority and it was only then I realized how junior I was on the list, and that perhaps this was a big deal.”
In the ultra-conservative world of the English barrister, a 12,000-strong elite, merely one in ten take silk. Nsugbe remembers there were even those in his own chambers who thought that applying so young was: ‘being pushy and not the done thing old boy’.
“Today, I’m still introduced as Nigeria’s first QC, yet to me it feels like it happened a long time ago,” says Nsugbe.
“I hope you understand when I say I would prefer to be remembered for what I’m doing today?”
He has little desire to talk about it, but when pushed, he has fond memories of his appointment in the House of  Lords.
“Afterwards they give you the Queen’s Letters, and it’s a special moment in your life. I’m very lucky to be a barrister, it’s a unique world.’’
Eleven years on, Nsugbe has become a tireless advocate for all things African, and is passionate about Nigeria. He now understands how his father, an anthropologist and academic specializing in the history of African Man, has had a far greater influence on his life than he realized.
After public school in Oxford, Nsugbe studied law at Hull, where a large group of African students took Law and Economics. Many are still friends today.
“They made their mark in the UK and now most are back working in Nigeria. I was at a 50th birthday party in Lagos recently for a friend from the World Bank, and hear me, the world-class diaspora of talent is returning to join those already there.”
In 1986, Nsugbe studied at bar school, then went straight to Lagos to qualify in Nigerian as well as English law. It was a deeply unfashionable move.
“My friends were rushing to find pupillages in London, the final step to becoming a barrister.”
Today, only he and one other lawyer share the distinction of being both Queen’s Counsel and a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, the West African country’s equivalent. What seemed like career suicide in the 1980s has become the best move he ever made.
“The Nigerian economy is booming, and clients who are new to Nigeria like to be reassured that you have the right credentials, so this comes in very useful,” he says.
Life at the top of the legal pile can be difficult, with endless travel and long hours. But breaking into the profession was harder, with the blunt weapon of racial prejudice to be overcome.
Nsugbe had difficulty finding a London pupillage.
“It’s tough and competitive now, but there are more black lawyers in the system. When I was starting out, there were only a few black guys in total.”
At one job interview he was asked: “What would you do if you were prosecuting a black man in court, the gallery is full of black people and they were whispering ‘Uncle Tom, Uncle Tom’?”
“What? Needless to say that didn’t work out.”
Even when he did eventually get taken on for a pupillage by well-regarded chambers, he was told after six months: “You have done well, but we can’t keep you on. Solicitor’s can’t pronounce your name, they won’t instruct you… you won’t get any work.”
That just made Nsugbe more determined.
“Effectively he said you will never be a success at the bar. That same guy is now a QC and has been trying to attract me back to his chambers for the last five years—of course I’ve said I’m not going.”
Nsugbe works hard to make his voice heard, and increasingly in fields beyond the law. He says he chooses to sit on many committees which both talk and do. He champions the cause of black and minority ethnic (BME) lawyers, and founded the British Nigeria Law Forum of which he chaired in the past.
Nsugbe and his friends formed a business group which invests in Nigeria. He is a fellow of the Royal Society for the Arts. He is also quite rightly proud of his links with Tate Modern, where two years ago he became one of the members of the Africa Acquisitions Committee established to buy contemporary African art for the museum.
Although he doesn’t live there, Nsugbe swears Nigeria will always be home.
“My father sent us to good schools but in the long holidays he insisted we came home to Nsukka where he was teaching.”
Nigerians always rise to a challenge says Nsugbe, and they are the most resilient people he knows.
“It’s these characteristics which hold me in good stead when I’m abroad—and it’s what I call upon to advance in life.”

Sorry, We Can’t Pronounce Your Name

When Ruth Obih completed her legal studies she could see law and nothing else.
“I wanted to be a lawyer so badly, I was bent on it! That was my passion,” she recalls with a smile.
It didn’t work out that way for Obih. After practicing for a year, her first legal firm decided not to retain her. It was a blow to her dreams, to say the least. Few knew then, including her, that this set back was to put her on the path to a fortune.
Obih forgot law and made a 180 degree turn into fashion. She enrolled at the London College of Fashion and returned to Nigeria with her newly acquired skills.
“People always admired what I wore. So, when you tell me you like what I’m wearing, I’d tell you I sell it,” she says.
Fashion whiled away the time, but Obih yearned for more.
“I get bored really easily and always set new tasks for myself. On achieving them, I move on to my next task,” she says.
So it was back to London, where Obih enrolled for her Qualified Lawyers Transfer Test (QLTT) in the hope of practicing law again. While studying, she interned at a property law firm and became intrigued by the business of real estate. With no formal training in property, thoughts of using her legal skills in the real estate business flooded through her mind.
In 2006, Obih started 3Invest Limited UK, in London—a company focused on providing legal advice and property for those wanting to invest in real estate. A good response in London, led to thoughts of how this kind of service would fare in Nigeria.
Obih moved back to Nigeria later that year. She registered 3Invest Homes in Lagos and began hunting for properties to market with her legal advice.
In January 2007, Obih made her first big sale—a property worth millions of naira. She moved money from her thriving fashion label—Ruru Tunics—to secure the deal.
“I never went to the banks to ask for a loan. I almost have a phobia for that,” says Obih.
Sale after sale, 3Invest grew in leaps and bounds, as did Obih’s ambition.
“Yet again, it was time for me to do something different, I had toyed with the idea of starting a real estate advocacy platform using radio,” she says.
It took a number of approaches to radio stations and months of uncertainty. In the end, Obih’s proposal was accepted leading to the launch of Nigeria’s first real estate radio show, in March 2011, called Real Estate on Air.
“This show, is geared at empowering the Nigerian populace and helping them make better informed decisions when investing in real estate, the program is a one-stop shop, for real estate in Nigeria,” says Obih.
She also runs a real estate blog, driving traffic to the radio show.
With a fashion brand; a growing real estate business and a radio show under her belt, Obih is not done yet.
As a business woman, Obih describes herself as shrewd and dynamic.

Law, Fashion, Property, Radio, Success

Kofi Mensah, a partner at the law firm ABM Attorneys at Law, is in a back corner at a bourgeois dive bar in Accra, drinking vodka and discussing the evolution of legal practice in Ghana—specifically, the centuries-old tradition of wearing robes and white wigs to court.
“Why,” laughs the 34-year-old, “is a black guy wearing a white wig?”
The legal game in Ghana has long been dominated by old established firms headed by older, venerated attorneys. The rapid success of Mensah and his partners at ABM—all foreign-educated and under 45—heralds a new generation of cosmopolitan, business-savvy, attorneys.
<div id="attachment_274" style="width: 235px" class="wp-caption alignleft"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-274" class="size-medium wp-image-274" src="/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/Forbes-ABM-shoot-054-225x300.jpg" alt="" width="225" height="300" />Alfonso Amorin, Kofi Mensah, Richard Boateng</div>
Not that the three-man shop, with an estimated cash value of $2.5 million, hasn’t been met with scepticism.
“There’s a general perception of us as: ‘three young guys, what will they be able to do?’” Mensah says. “Most people still want to see their lawyers as 55-year-old men with grey hair. The legal landscape here is still conservative. And we’re young guys who are transaction-focused.”
Mensah was literally born to be a lawyer. His father, DK, is a legend—at 86, he is Ghana’s oldest practising attorney.
In 2007, Mensah met Richard Boateng, 44, and Alfonso Amorin, 37, in class at the Ghana School of Law. He had just returned from law school at Syracuse University in New York, the other two from England.
“We had established outside of Ghana; we had a certain way of doing things—we were used to a fast-paced environment and used to providing innovative legal solutions as opposed to just doing the same thing over and over again,” Mensah says. “We thought with our common background it would be easy to put together a firm. At the time most of the older firms were sort of moving at a snail’s pace.”
They also identified a gaping hole in the legal market. As investment and land development soared in Ghana, there were few firms to deal with the many contracts.
“There was a void, and we’d all returned with one objective: to plug that void,” Boateng says. “We had new ideas, we wanted them to actually breathe. At that time clients were unable to get what they were looking for and the whole system was very archaic. Five years ago, lawyers would elongate cases, clients would be frustrated. Our opening coincided with a new directive from the Ministry of Justices that said lawyers needed to be more accountable. No longer could you just go to court and get an injunction.”
Each man invested $33,000 in the company. The aim was to act as legal and business counsel. Their first client was a woman who had been unceremoniously fired and needed legal help to recover her salary. She paid the upstarts at ABM a grand total of $60.
“Six months from that day, we had a client who paid us six figures,” says Mensah.
On a given day the three lawyers balance 30 cases. Seventy-five per cent of the firm’s work is transaction-based, whether corporate, securities, real estate or commercial. The rest is geared to litigation that comes out of those transactions.
“It is still primarily a litigation shop. We don’t go for the obvious high-paying deals. We like the challenge,” says Mensah.
They go for the big fish too, including: Ghanaian-American investment bank Frontline Capital Advisers; 2GIH, the developer of the Radisson Conakry; the soon-to-open Accra Marriott; Maersk Line; and Waratah Investments, an Australian company which owns substantial stakes in publicly-traded mining companies.
Their youngest client is Aisha Obuobi, the 25-year-old design prodigy behind Ghanaian clothing label Christy Brown, which ABM is helping to open a flagship store in Accra.
That youthful energy is on display at the ABM offices, off a quiet street in the well-heeled suburb of Osu, not far from where Mensah was raised. Amorin is from the Volta region and Boateng grew up in Britain. The trio prefers custom Savile Row suits with colorful silk pocket squares and fast cars. Conference room walls are lined with golf trophies and books on sports law, the desks stacked with legal journals, alongside issues of Vanity Fair and John Grisham thrillers. Boateng, an avid golfer, invites clients to take a crack at the portable putting range in his office, before he sits down to tackle the case.
They play hard and work hard. Boateng was in the office the day after his daughter was born in October. Mensah pauses several times during a dinner to take calls from clients.
“We don’t have ‘bankers’ hours,’” he says sheepishly. “We’re available at 2 AM.”
These law geeks take glee in watching the country’s legal system modernize.
“Intellectual property has never been more respected,” Boateng says. Behind his desk hang both his long black court robes and a custom suit jacket—“it’s three button, double-breasted”—with a purple pocket square.
“We have a case in court right now in which the defendants don’t understand how they could be in court. We’ve had to explain intellectual property.”
Accra’s rapid expansion has also created a lot of problems in terms of litigation, says Amorin, the resident real estate specialist in the firm.
“Because when there are land shortages, you have people buying land that’s already been sold to other people. We’ve seen a big increase in land disputes and I’ve been conducting due diligence on real estate transactions. We’ve seen a rise of more than 10 new cases a week in the last three years, due to due diligence on real estate,” he says.
Just four years after its first case, ABM is working on transactions for the developing Radisson hotel projects in Benin and Guinea and plans to expand further afield. Their mission is to stay at the forefront of legal innovation as growth in West Africa skyrockets.
“You don’t want to be the firm that did well for its first four years and then is irrelevant,” Mensah says. “The client goes to bed, and their problem becomes your problem. We worry about failing the client or not being able to represent the client in a way that’s good for them.”
He’s asked if he ever loses, and scoffs. “Never,” he says. “Never.”

Tag: law

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