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Satchu's Rich Wrap-Up
Tuesday 03rd of August 2021

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You have it all wrong The Pink Tulips aren't Trading Tulips, they're investing Tulips @StockCats
World Of Finance

Anybody can be decisive during a panic It takes a strong Man to act during a Boom. VS NAIPAUL
“The businessman bought at ten and was happy to get out at twelve; the mathematician saw his ten rise to eighteen, but didn’t sell because he wanted to double his ten to twenty.”

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“No one at all sees Death'' Gilgamesh

No one at all sees Death
no one at all sees the face [of Death,]
no one at all [hears] the voice of Death,
Death so savage, who hacks men down
. . . .
Ever the river has risen and brought us the flood,
the mayfly floating on the water.
On the face of the sun its countenance gazes,
then all of a sudden nothing is there!”

Some weeks ago now, My Father passed away far away in Chicago. I attended the Funeral via Zoom which is a strange experience because it was strangely personal. I could see his face and it was as if I was in the same room. Many Folks called to express their condolences and I would respond as if I was reading a script. Frankly, I did not know what to say 

because I was wrestling with so many emotions. He had caught COVID-19, he had miraculously recovered after two weeks in ICU, we had spoken and he had asked many deep and meaningful questions and then a few days later he was gone and there I was in front of a screen looking at My Father in a coffin. Thankfully, he looked at peace and his face a little 

like it must have been when he was a little Boy. During the ceremony my Mind wandered to my Mother who passed away more than twenty years ago and a story she had told me.

She was a Member of the Ghusul [Burial arrangements] committee and she would be one of the Folks who cleaned up the dead and she had described how one day she was doing just that and she realised it was her best Friend from school wom she had not seen for years.

So there I am and since then a little stupefied my Mind thinking back and forth. For some reason I went back to a time in 2017 I think when Dad had been very ill and delirious and when I would go to speak to him, he would be talking and tell me my Mum, his Mum and various other Family members were in the room. And I would never disavow him of that notion 

because that was his reality.

Dad was very clever he had a 1st from Cambridge, It could be intimidating and had a tongue like a thousand razors. 

''Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.” [Rainer Maria Rilke]

I was oftentimes intimidated and when I was younger hanging around my Mother who was a wonderful Cook and baked spectacular cakes whose tidbits I was allowed to taste during the journey and this was always I found an easier option than being quizzed about Shakespeare's plays.

I recalled when Nishet flew down to Mombasa and gave  her blood to him because the Aga Khan Hospital did not have any blood. My Wife had literally given her blood to my Father. 

I recalled his Alfa Romeo and him telling me about his childhood and his boarding school experiences and how once he lived with a Family who for the entire holiday did not let him leave his room. 

How he remembered the War and his Father sending them to Zanzibar from Dar es Salaam and him falling into the sea. He had wanted to be a Pianist but that idea was given short shrift

but he always loved classical music and of course the BBC world service and the second half Football League commentary we would all listen to on his Radio. 

I have 55 years of memories and they are fragmentary but also non linear. I am still sifting trough all the fragments

I have been reading a lot of @MargaretAtwood [whom I discovered only recently and whose literary and oftentimes dystopian World I entered via The Year of the Flood] and Isabel Allende whom I discovered a while back.

Both Writers have invaded my dreams and warped the fabric of my reality to the Point My Wife was definitely considering banning me from reading Atwood. 

I attach two snippets. 

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“...memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events.” ― Isabel Allende

“...memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously.” ― Isabel Allende

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Meeting with Enrique Lihn By Roberto Bolaño @NewYorker

In 1999, after returning from Venezuela, I dreamed that I was being taken to Enrique Lihn’s apartment, in a country that could well have been Chile, in a city that could well have been Santiago, bearing in mind that Chile and Santiago once resembled Hell, a resemblance that, in some subterranean layer of the real city and the imaginary city, will forever remain. 

Of course, I knew that Lihn was dead, but when the people I was with offered to take me to meet him I accepted without hesitation. Maybe I thought that they were playing a joke, or that a miracle might be possible. 

But probably I just wasn’t thinking, or had misunderstood the invitation. 

In any case, we came to a seven-story building with a façade painted a faded yellow and a bar on the ground floor, a bar of considerable dimensions, with a long counter and several booths, and my friends (although it seems odd to describe them that way; let’s just say the enthusiasts who had offered to take me to meet the poet) led me to a booth, and there was Lihn. 

At first, I could hardly recognize him, it wasn’t the face I had seen on his books; he’d grown thinner and younger, he’d become handsomer, and his eyes looked much brighter than the black-and-white eyes in the jacket photographs. 

In fact, Lihn didn’t look like Lihn at all; he looked like a Hollywood actor, a B-list actor, the kind who stars in TV movies or films that are never shown in European cinemas and go straight to video

But at the same time he was Lihn; I was in no doubt about that. 

The enthusiasts greeted him, calling him Enrique with a fake-sounding familiarity, and asked him questions I couldn’t understand, and then they introduced us, although to tell the truth I didn’t need to be introduced, because for a time, a short time, 

I had corresponded with him, and his letters had, in a way, kept me going; I’m talking about 1981 or 1982, when I was living like a recluse in a house outside Gerona, with no money and no prospect of ever having any, and literature was a vast minefield occupied by enemies, except for a few classic authors (just a few), and every day I had to walk through that minefield, where any false move could be fatal, with only the poems of Archilochus to guide me. 

It’s like that for all young writers. There comes a time when you have no support, not even from friends, forget about mentors, and there’s no one to give you a hand; publication, prizes, and grants are reserved for the others, the ones who said “Yes, sir,” over and over, or those who praised the literary mandarins, a never-ending horde distinguished only by their aptitude for discipline and punishment—nothing escapes them and they forgive nothing. 

Anyway, as I was saying, all young writers feel this way at some point or other in their lives. 

But at the time I was twenty-eight years old and under no circumstances could I consider myself a young writer. I was adrift. I wasn’t the typical Latin-American writer living in Europe thanks to some government sinecure. I was a nobody and not inclined to beg for mercy or to show it. 

Then I started corresponding with Enrique Lihn. Naturally, I was the one who initiated the correspondence. 

I didn’t have to wait long for his reply. A long, crotchety letter, as we might say in Chile: gloomy and irritable. 

In my reply I told him about my life, my house in the country, on one of the hills outside Gerona, the medieval city in front of it, the countryside or the void behind. 

I also told him about my dog, Laika, and said that in my opinion Chilean literature, with one or two exceptions, was shit. 

It was evident from his next letter that we were already friends. What followed was what typically happens when a famous poet befriends an unknown. 

He read my poems and included some of them in a kind of reading he organized to present the work of the younger generation at a Chilean-North American institute. 

In his letter he identified a group of hopefuls destined, so he thought, to be the six tigers of Chilean poetry in the year 2000. 

The six tigers were Bertoni, Maquieira, Gonzalo Muñoz, Martínez, Rodrigo Lira, and myself. I think. Maybe there were seven tigers. But I think there were only six. 

It would have been hard for the six of us to be anything much in 2000, because by then Rodrigo Lira, the best of the lot, had killed himself, and what was left of him had either been rotting for years in some cemetery or was ash, blowing around the streets and mingling with the filth of Santiago. 

Cats would have been more appropriate than tigers. Bertoni, as far as I know, is a kind of hippie who lives by the sea collecting shells and seaweed. 

Maquieira wrote a careful study of Cardenal and Coronel Urtecho’s anthology of North American poetry, published two books, and then settled down to drinking. 

Gonzalo Muñoz went to Mexico, I heard, where he disappeared, not into ethylic oblivion, like Lowry’s consul, but into the advertising industry. 

Martínez did a critical analysis of “Duchamp du Signe” and then died. 

As for Rodrigo Lira, well, I already explained what had become of him. Not so much tigers as cats, however you want to look at it. The kittens of a far-flung province. 

Anyway, what I wanted to say is that I knew Lihn, so no introduction was necessary. 

Nevertheless, the enthusiasts proceeded to introduce me, and neither I nor Lihn objected. 

So there we were, in a booth, and voices were saying, This is Roberto Bolaño, and I held out my hand, my arm enveloped by the darkness of the booth, and I grasped Lihn’s hand, a slightly cold hand, which squeezed mine for a few seconds—the hand of a sad person, I thought, a hand and a handshake that corresponded perfectly to the face that was scrutinizing me without showing any sign of recognition. 

That correspondence was gestural, bodily, and opened onto an opaque eloquence that had nothing to say, or at least not to me. 

Once that moment was past, the enthusiasts started talking again and the silence receded; they were all asking Lihn for his opinions on the most disparate issues and events, and at that point my disdain for them evaporated, because I realized that they were just as I had once been: young poets with no support, kids who’d been shut out by the new center-left Chilean government and didn’t have any backing or patronage, all they had was Lihn, a Lihn who looked not like the real Enrique Lihn as he appeared in his author photos but like a much handsomer and more prepossessing Lihn, a Lihn who resembled his poems, who had adopted their age, who lived in a building similar to his poems, and who could vanish in the elegant, resolute way that his poems sometimes had of vanishing. 

When I realized this, I remember, I felt better. I mean I began to make sense of the situation and find it amusing. I had nothing to fear: I was at home, with friends, with a writer I had always admired. 

It wasn’t a horror movie. Or not an out-and-out horror movie, but a horror movie leavened with large doses of black humor. 

And just as I thought of black humor Lihn extracted a little bottle of pills from his pocket. I have to take one every three hours, he said. 

The enthusiasts fell silent once again. A waiter brought a glass of water. 

The pill was big. That’s what I thought when I saw it fall into the glass of water. But in fact it wasn’t big. It was dense. Lihn began to break it up with a spoon, and I realized that the pill looked like an onion with countless layers. I leaned forward and peered into the glass. For a moment I was quite sure that it was an infinite pill. 

The curved glass had a magnifying effect, like a lens: inside, the pale-pink pill was disintegrating as if giving birth to a galaxy or the universe. 

But galaxies are born or die (I forget which) suddenly, and what I could see through the curved side of that glass was unfolding in slow motion, each incomprehensible stage, every retraction and shudder drawn out as I watched. 

Then, feeling exhausted, I sat back, and my gaze, detached from the medicine, rose to meet Lihn’s, which seemed to be saying, 

No comment, it’s bad enough having to swallow this concoction every three hours, don’t go looking for symbolic meanings—the water, the onion, the slow march of the stars. 

The enthusiasts had moved away from our table. Some were at the bar. I couldn’t see the others. But when I looked at Lihn again there was an enthusiast with him, whispering something in his ear before leaving the booth to find his friends, who were scattered around the room. 

And at that moment I knew that Lihn knew he was dead. My heart’s given up on me, he said. It doesn’t exist anymore. Something’s not right here, I thought. Lihn died of cancer, not a heart attack. 

An enormous heaviness was coming over me. So I got up and went to stretch my legs, but not in the bar; I went out into the street. 

The sidewalks were gray and uneven, and the sky looked like a mirror without a tain, the place where everything should have been reflected but where, in the end, nothing was. 

Nevertheless, a feeling of normality prevailed and pervaded all vision. When I felt I’d had enough fresh air and it was time to get back to the bar, I climbed the steps up to the door (stone steps, single blocks of a stone that had a granitelike consistency and the sheen of a gem) and ran into a guy who was shorter than me and dressed like a fifties gangster, a guy who had something of the caricature about him, the classic affable killer, who got me mixed up with someone he knew and greeted me. 

I replied to his greeting, although from the start I was sure that I didn’t know him and that he was mistaken, but I behaved as if I knew him, as if I, too, had mixed him up with someone else, so the two of us greeted each other as we attempted ineffectively to climb those shining (yet deeply humble) stone steps. 

But the hit man’s confusion lasted no more than a few seconds, he soon realized that he was mistaken, and then he looked at me in a different way, as if he were asking himself if I was mistaken, too, or if, on the contrary, I had been having him on from the start, and since he was thick and suspicious (though sharp in his own paradoxical way), he asked me who I was, he asked me with a malicious smile on his lips, and I said, Shit, Jara, it’s me, Bolaño, and it would have been clear to anyone from his smile that he wasn’t Jara, but he played the game, as if suddenly, struck by a lightning bolt (and no, I’m not quoting one of Lihn’s poems, much less one of mine), he fancied the idea of living the life of that unknown Jara for a minute or two, the Jara he would never be, except right there, stalled at the top of those radiant steps, and he asked me about my life, he asked me (thick as a plank) who I was, admitting de facto that he was Jara, but a Jara who had forgotten the very existence of Bolaño, which is perfectly understandable, after all, so I explained to him who I was and, while I was at it, who he was, too, thereby creating a Jara to suit me and him, that is, to suit that moment—an improbable, intelligent, courageous, rich, generous, daring Jara, in love with a beautiful woman and loved by her in return—and then the gangster smiled, more and more deeply convinced that I was having him on but unable to bring the episode to a close, as if he had suddenly fallen for the image I was constructing for him, and encouraged me to go on telling him not just about Jara but also about Jara’s friends and finally the world, a world that seemed too wide even for Jara, a world in which the great Jara was an ant whose death on a shining stair would not have mattered at all to anyone, and then, at last, his friends appeared, two taller hit men wearing light-colored double-breasted suits, who looked at me and at the false Jara as if to ask him who I was, and he had no choice but to say, It’s Bolaño, and the two hit men greeted me

I shook their hands (rings, expensive watches, gold bracelets), and when they invited me to have a drink with them I said, I can’t, I’m with a friend, and pushed past Jara through the door and disappeared inside. Lihn was still in the booth. 

But now there were no enthusiasts to be seen in his vicinity. The glass was empty. He had taken the medicine and was waiting. 

Without saying a word, we went up to his apartment. He lived on the seventh floor, and we took the elevator, a very large elevator, into which more than thirty people could have fit. 

His apartment was rather small, especially for a Chilean writer, and there were no books. 

To a question from me he replied that he hardly needed to read anymore. But there are always books, he added. 

You could see the bar from his apartment. As if the floor were made of glass. I spent a while on my knees, watching the people down there, looking for the enthusiasts, or the three gangsters, but I could see only unfamiliar people, eating or drinking, but mostly moving from one table or booth to another, or up and down the bar, all seized by a feverish excitement, as if in a novel from the first half of the twentieth century. 

After a while, I reached the conclusion that something was wrong. If the floor of Lihn’s apartment was glass and so was the ceiling of the bar, what about all the stories from the second to the sixth? Were they made of glass, too? 

Then I looked down again and realized that between the first floor and the seventh floor there was nothing but empty space. This discovery distressed me. Jesus, Lihn, where have you brought me, I thought, though soon I was thinking, Jesus, Lihn, where have they brought you? 

I got to my feet carefully, because I knew that in that place, as opposed to the normal world, objects were more fragile than people, and I went looking for Lihn, who had disappeared, 

in the various rooms of the apartment, which didn’t seem small anymore, like a European writer’s apartment, but spacious, enormous, like a writer’s apartment in Chile, in the Third World, with cheap domestic help and expensive, delicate objects, an apartment full of shifting shadows and rooms in semi-darkness, in which I found two books, one a classic, like a smooth stone, the other modern, timeless, like shit, and gradually, as I looked for Lihn, I, too, began to grow cold, increasingly manic and cold. 

I started feeling ill, as if the apartment were turning on an imaginary axis, but then a door opened and I saw a swimming pool, and there was Lihn, swimming, and before I could open my mouth and say something about entropy Lihn said that the bad thing about his medicine, the medicine he was taking to keep him alive, was that in a way it was turning him into a guinea pig for the drug company, words that I had somehow expected to hear, as if the whole thing were a play and I had suddenly remembered my lines and the lines of my fellow-actors, and then Lihn got out of the swimming pool and we went down to the ground floor, and we made our way through the crowded bar, and Lihn said, The tigers are finished, and, It was sweet while it lasted, and, You’re not going to believe this, Bolaño, but in this neighborhood only the dead go out for a walk. And by then we had reached the front of the bar and were standing at a window, looking out at the streets and the façades of the buildings in that peculiar neighborhood where the only people walking around were dead. 

And we looked and looked, and the façades were clearly the façades of another time, like the sidewalks covered with parked cars that also belonged to another time, a time that was silent yet mobile (Lihn was watching it move), a terrible time that endured for no reason other than sheer inertia. ♦

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Boris Johnson’s rating among Conservative Party members has plummeted by nearly 36 points in four weeks, while Rishi Sunak has emerged as the most popular candidate to succeed him. @thetimes
Law & Politics

The prime minister is now the fifth-most unpopular cabinet minister among the Tory grassroots, according to a survey published yesterday by the Conservative Home website.
Johnson’s net satisfaction rating is at 3.4, barely in positive territory and just above Robert Jenrick, the housing secretary, who had a rating of 1.3.

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World Region #COVID19 2wk avg case/day increase @Jmlukens

North America: 106%
Middle East: 66%
Oceania: 13%
Asia: 12%
Africa: -1%
Europe: -4%
South America: -23%

19-JUL-2021 :: COVID-19

Today the relative viral loads in the Delta variant infections are 1260 times higher than the 19A/19B strains infections @GuptaR_lab

We now further define Delta immune evasion using a panel of 38 monoclonal antibodies, showing significant loss of potency of NTD and RBD targeting antibodies. @GuptaR_lab 

Far from ebbing, the virus has gained virulence and you have to be a Naif to believe the Microbe is licked.

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Hundreds of people were removed from a luxury hotel in central Beijing and quarantined after a member of a group staying there with Zimbabwe’s vice president tested positive for Covid-19 @WSJ.

Zimbabwe’s vice president, Constantino Chiwenga, who also serves as health minister, arrived in Beijing by chartered jet on July 23 with four other officials to receive medical treatment for a throat problem, according to officials with the Zimbabwean health ministry.
Two members of Mr. Chiwenga’s initial entourage were unable to join the trip after testing positive for Covid-19, the officials said, adding that the vice president and others who traveled with him had received two doses of a vaccine made by China’s Sinopharm.
A senior Zimbabwean security official confirmed that a member of the group tested positive after arriving in China, but said it wasn’t the vice president.
In recent days, police have maintained a heavy presence around the five-star Legendale Hotel near Tiananmen Square, which has been cordoned off since Sunday, according to local business owners and people who work in the area. 

Inside the cordon, workers in head-to-toe protective medical suits could be seen during a recent visit by The Wall Street Journal.

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09-MAY-2021 The Lotos-eaters
World Of Finance

The Consensus View appears to be that the Global economy is going to accelerate big time and that its going to BOOM!  I beg to differ

Given the volume of money Printing and the extraordinary stimulus I have to say that the US Recovery is actually really weak and I believe it will be very short lived and the Penny will drop soon with the Bond Market and the Shorts will be forced to cover.

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Despite extreme fiscal package and continued monetary stimulus from the Fed. Growth is on downward trend. Law of diminishing marginal returns. @HenrikZeberg
World Of Finance

Despite extreme fiscal package and continued monetary stimulus from the Fed. Growth is on downward trend. Law of diminishing marginal returns. A bigger tool will be needed every time Fed tries to inflate market - this time it did not last long. http://

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And we become Japan: a nation pushing on strings, to no avail. @coloradotravis
World Of Finance

And the more of it we do, the less potent our monetary creating abilities. Velocity falls.

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Currency Markets at a Glance WSJ
World Currencies

Euro 1.1872
Dollar Index 92.044
Japan Yen 109.13
Swiss Franc 0.9054
Pound 1.38945
Aussie 0.7392
India Rupee 74.287
South Korea Won 1148.125
Brazil Real 5.1761
Egypt Pound 15.68
South Africa Rand 14.4383

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Ray Dalio is missing the fundamenal shift underway in China in relations between the state & private sector. Xi Jinping is reversing the trend toward greater economic freedom started in 1978 @MichaelSchuman
World Of Finance

Ray Dalio is missing the fundamenal shift underway in China in relations between the state & private sector. Xi Jinping is reversing the trend toward greater economic freedom started in 1978 & that will have major consequences for China's future.

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For stock investors, this is toxic. I wouldn't be surprised to see a wave of Chinese companies delisting from US exchanges. Man will continue to have strong prospects but the political risk could trump that. @MichaelSchuman
World Of Finance

For stock investors, this is toxic. I wouldn't be surprised to see a wave of Chinese companies delisting from US exchanges. Man will continue to have strong prospects but the political risk could trump that. Xi's agenda will weigh on private companies for years to come.

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19-JUL-2021 :: Now lets turn to Africa. lets look at the Virus first

"Over the past month, #Africa recorded an additional 1 million cases. This is the shortest time it’s taken so far to add one million cases." Dr @MoetiTshidi #COVID19 @WHOAFRO
"Comparatively, it took around three months to move from 4 million to 5 million cases." - Dr @MoetiTshidi #COVID19

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Africa is currently reporting a million new infections about every 26 days @ReutersGraphics

7 countries are still at the peak of their infection curve.

Morocco Mozambique Mauritania at peak Algeria & Libya at 97%  ReUnion 96% Burundi 92%

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A weekly update of #COVID19 in South Africa @rid1tweets

National decline driven by Gauteng, but indicators still increasing in coastal provinces

• Cases -6%
• Tests +4%
• Test positivity at 23.7% (-10%)
• Hospitalisations -12%
• Deaths -10%

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Rwanda raised $620m from investors on Monday from 10-year debt that drew more than $1.6bn of orders and was priced at 5.5%. @FT.


$220m new money [$400m used to pay down 2013 Eurobond] Issue at 430 basis points over 

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And now we have two visions of the Future

And now we have two visions of the Future. One Vision played out on our screens, the Protestors could have been our Wives, our Children, our Daughters and Sons. 

The Other Vision is that of MBS, MBZ and Al-Sisi and its red in tooth and claw. 

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January 15, 2011 Tunisia's Jasmine Revolution @csmonitor

Mr. Ben Ali in a speech on Monday called the riots “terrorist acts” that were the work of “masked gangs” operating for foreign parties.
"We are not afraid, we are not afraid, we are afraid only of God," the crowds chanted on Tuesday in Tunis.
On Thursday, the American secretary of State said the following in Qatar.
“In too many places, in too many ways, the region’s foundations are sinking into the sand,” said Secretary Hillary Clinton. 

“Those who cling to the status quo may be able to hold back the full impact of their countries’ problems for a little while, but not forever, If leaders don’t offer a positive vision and give young people meaningful ways to contribute, others will fill the vacuum.”
Change is never incremental, it tips and surges. Looking at Tunisia and Africa, I see so many similarities. 

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10-JUN-2019 :: The "zeitgeist" of the Revolution in Khartoum was intoxicating

The ‘’zeitgeist’’ of the Revolution in Khartoum was intoxicating. As I watched events unfold it felt like Sudan was a portal into a whole new normal.

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Ethiopia will reopen bidding for its second telecoms operator licence this month, two senior government officials said on Monday, including the right to operate mobile financial services. @Reuters

"We have made some changes that can uplift its value, for instance mobile financial service," Balcha Reba, director general of the Ethiopian Communication Authority, told Reuters.

Safaricom's winning bid of $850 million could serve as a guide for the price of the remaining licence.
"At least there is a benchmark and to uplift this benchmark we are working on amending the policy," Brook said, citing the automatic inclusion of the right to operate mobile financial services, which was not present in Safaricom's licence.

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@Absa PMI plunged in July From an elevated 57.4 in June, the headline PMI suffered a record single month decline of almost 14 pts, dropping to 43.5 in July @BERcoza

The Absa PMI plunged in July. This signals that the output recovery in the  manufacturing sector was set back notably at the start of Q3. From an elevated 57.4 in June, the headline PMI suffered a record single month decline of almost 14 pts, dropping to 43.5 in July

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Non Performing Loans by sector: @moneyacademyKE/
Kenyan Economy

Agriculture: 23.7%
Construction: 23.5%
Trade: 19.1%
Transport: 17.7%
Manufacturing: 16.0%
Real Estate: 15.9%
Personal Loans: 8.4%

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by Aly Khan Satchu (www.rich.co.ke)
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August 2021

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