Porter Arthur - The man behind the bow tie : Arthur Porter on business, politics and intrigue

In my jail cell in Panama, I have a bed, a lamp and a fan. A thin curtain separates me from the nine other prisoners sharing this cell. Beyond, hundreds of hardened criminals are roaming the halls. I have swelling around my ankles and shortness of breath. When I put my stethoscope to my chest, I hear more crackles than before. I have an idea of what a chest x-ray would show, and its not good. I occasionally cough blood, but overall, thanks to drugs I smuggled into prison, I am functioning well for a fifty-seven-year-old man with lung cancer, who hasnt seen a doctor in months.

Sitting here, I think about the world beyond these walls. I think about my wife, who is under house arrest in Montreal, and my four daughters, spread out across the globe. I think about the charges against me in Canada. Fraud. Conspiracy to commit fraud. Fraud against the government. I think about the damage to my reputation and the fair-weather friends who have come and gone. And I think about the next meeting with my lawyer and how I will get out of this place.

It is a lot to take in, and it is not always easy to keep a brave face. But there are many ways to get through it. One way is to view my cancer dispassionately, as something outside myself. I notice improvements or setbacks and move on.

Another way is to stay as busy and productive as I can. I never sit still. I solve problems and perform tasks. I improve my living quarters. I go for walks and conduct business. Or I treat patients, my fellow inmates, for injuries, infections and diseases. I focus on the next goal. That is how I survive.

Days like today are especially difficult. After all, it was two years ago today that my life started to unravel.

When the media has turned their attention to me, whether in glowing or disparaging articles in the newspaper or on the nightly news, they always seem to be fascinated with just how a half-black, half-white boy from Africa got to where he was. Perhaps because Ive never stayed in one place for too long, or because Im always making new friends and pursuing new business partnerships, or maybe its as simple as my being neither black nor whitefor whatever reason, people have always had difficulty pinning me down or slotting me into a category. Some have considered me chameleon-like, changing colours to suit my environment.

Its true: I have lived and worked in Sierra Leone, England, Canada, the United States, the Caribbean and everywhere in between. But that is where the comparison ends. Unlike a chameleon, I have never blended into my environmentever. Nor have I wanted to do so. I got people to adapt to suit me, regardless of race, religion or social position. I reshaped the environment to the way I wanted it. I made other peoples colours change.

Recently, a good friend of mine died. Winston Derrick was the former editor of the Antigua Observer . He was a gregarious man, full of jokes, argument and wit, and always with a twinkle in his eye. While having dinner with a friend at a restaurant, he succumbed to a massive pulmonary embolism, a blockage to the main artery in the lung that caused a near-instant death.

I was not there at the time, but the image of Winston sprawled on a restaurant floor, amid panic and confusion, has stuck in my mind. He had no time to think about or plan his departure from this earth. He did not get to say goodbye to whomever he wished or to deal with his affairs. He believed he was in perfect health.

I know better. I have terminal lung cancer, and I am fighting to stay alive in an environment far from ideal for my (or anyones) health and well-being. My entire life has been devoted to climbing, winning and succeeding. But with the end drawing near, it is inevitable that I, like anyone else, wonder if what I have accomplished truly matters. I wonder how I will be remembered. Unlike Winston, I have this moment to consider these questions.

If my situation has a silver lining, I think it is this: my illness has prioritized what is important. And so I have decided to tell my own story, in my own words, about how a Sierra Leonean reached the highest offices in Canada and the U.S. I challenge my critics to keep an open mind. Amid all the controversies and allegations, there is another side to this story. There is an African boy with a heart, a mind and a desire to succeeda human being. Now we can all look back and see more clearly how Arthur Porterdoctor, businessman, statesman, spy watchdog, husband and fatherwent from the halls of power to the hell of La Joya.

Whether the journey is worthy of remembrance, I leave to you, the reader.

November 8, 2013

La Joya Prison, Panama