Thirty-five
There were many possible explanations for the
atrocious traffic in Lagos - population explosion, insufficient
mass transit, tokunbo vehicles going kaput, potholes in the roads,
undisciplined drivers, random police checkpoints, and fuel queues.
But in Cash Daddy’s opinion, the go-slow started whenever the devil
and his wives were on their way to the market. I think he was
right. Certainly, today’s traffic looked as if the devil was behind
it. Car bumpers were locked in French kisses. The masses, crammed
into molues like slaves for sale, hopped out of the geriatric
yellow buses and continued the rest of their journeys on foot. At
this rate, I would be lucky not to miss my flight back home.
I had been granted leave to travel in and out of
the United States of America for as many times as I pleased over
the next two years. Hallelujah. Yet my mind was still troubled.
Dear Ola. She seemed to hold some magical power over me. She could
take over the steering wheel of my life anytime she pleased, drive
me in whatever direction she chose, and then abandon me to navigate
from there. Since yesterday, I had not stopped replaying my
conversation with her.
Was the sacrifice I was making in 419 worth
it?
Did it make sense to set my dreams aside in keen
pursuit of cash?
I could do without the eight-bedroom house and the
driver and the gardener and the cook, but how about the welfare of
my family? My sister could do without McVities biscuits and Gucci
shoes, but how about a good education? I sensed some motion by my
window and turned. It was a muscular boy dangling a string of seven
rats.
‘Rat poison! Rat poison!’ he shouted.
He rattled a row of red sachets in his other hand.
Two of the rats twitched. I ignored the hawker until he got tired
and left. I also ignored the ones that came with toilet seats,
standing fans, cold drinks, gala sausage snacks, plantain chips,
handkerchiefs, curtain rails, Irish potatoes, and apples. Then
along came the boy selling books. When was the last time I read a
book? The boy noticed my interest and clung to the body of the jeep
when the traffic appeared to be moving a little bit faster. I wound
the window halfway down.
‘Oga, which one you want?’ he asked.
I browsed the titles on display: Rich Dad, Poor Dad
; The Richest Man in Babylon ; God’s Plan for Your Financial
Increase ; Why God Wants You Rich ; Wealth Building 101 ; Cracking
the Millionaire Code ; Talent is Never Enough ; Nine Steps to
Financial Freedom; Think and Grow Rich ; Money Making for Dummies .
. . Then I noticed a colourful series of booklets.
‘Let me see that,’ I said.
The boy tossed four of the miniature books onto my
lap: Prosperity Scriptures ; Healing Scriptures ; Marriage
Scriptures ; Wisdom Scriptures. I flipped through the prosperity
booklet and chuckled at the first scripture that caught my eyes: ‘A
feast is made for laughter, and wine makes life merry, but money is
the answer for everything.’
‘How much is it?’ I asked.
I paid the hawker for one copy. Then on second
thoughts, I asked for another one. And one of the marriage ones, as
well. Cash Daddy would probably find these books very helpful - an
easy way to memorise yet more scriptures without wading through the
entire books of the Bible.
Mr Winterbottom’s patience was wearing thin. After
disbursing several million-dollar instalments through different
foreign bank accounts to cover the Akanu Ibiam International
Airport project, he had every right to be upset. He had been
ringing almost daily. It was time to pacify him. Straight from the
airport, I went to the office. I switched on my computer and went
to work.
The Contracts Review Panel
Central Bank of Nigeria
Abuja
Nigeria
Dear Mr Winterbottom,
PAYMENT OF OUTSTANDING DEBTS TO FOREIGN
CONTRACTORS
Following a recent review, it has come to our
notice that you have duly executed contract number (FMA/132/019/
82) awarded by the Federal Ministry of Aviation. The contract sum
for the first, second, and final phase of the contract is
$187,381,000 (USD). This excludes an interest of $13,470,070 (USD)
which has accrued owing to delays in payment by the Central Bank of
Nigeria. Therefore, the amount due to you currently stands at
$200,851,070 (USD).
Our office will immediately process this
outstanding $200,851,070 (USD) funds as soon as we receive
fluctuational charges of $6,730,000 (USD).
We apologise for any inconvenience caused by
previous delays. As soon as we receive the above sum, we shall
forward your outstanding $200,851,070 (USD).
Yours faithfully,
Mr Joseph Sanusi
Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria
I printed the letter on CBN letterhead and put it
through the fax machine.
There was no dial tone.
I pressed on and off; still no dial tone. I sat at
my desk, stood, pressed again and again. Still nothing. With my
cellular, I dialled Camille.
‘Is there anybody you can send to me this evening?’
I asked.
‘What time?’ she replied.
‘As soon as possible. I’m leaving work soon.’
‘The notice is quite short but I’ll see.’
Over time, Camille had done quite well for herself.
She was now the recognised mistress of one of the state governors.
Last time I spoke with her, she was on her way to Paris to shop for
her birthday party. But she still made some extra income on the
side by being helpful with organising girls for busy men like us as
and when needed. Even when it was impromptu, like now.
‘Is it the same place as the last time?’ she
asked.
‘Yes. Same place, same room number.’
As a personal policy, because my siblings popped in
and out of my house from school whenever they pleased, I never
brought any strange girl back home. I had a permanent reservation
at Cash Daddy’s hotel. On his advice, for security reasons, I
switched rooms after every few weeks.
‘OK. I’ll get back to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you
know if there’s any problem.’
I knew there would be no problem. There never was
with Camille.
Ninety-five minutes and some hgs of blood pressure
later, the fax eventually went.
Afterwards, the girl had started watching The
Jerry Springer Show. So far, I had stomached the transvestite dwarf
and the ragamuffin playboy. But now, the 400kg black American woman
was yanking the brassiere off the anorexic peroxide blonde.
‘Could you please change the channel?’ I said to
her.
‘Oh, sure, sure,’ she chanted, and reached for the
remote control. ‘What channel do you want?’
‘Anything else,’ I replied.
She started flicking through. She hovered too long
on MTV.
‘Put it on CNN,’ I suggested. The Daily Show should
be on about this time.
It turned out that I was wrong. Instead of The
Daily Show, Christiane Amanpour was telling the story of yet
another man-made calamity that had erupted somewhere in East
Africa. My cellular phone rang.
‘Kings, hurry down to the house,’ Protocol Officer
whispered urgently. ‘Come quickly.’
‘Is everyth—?’
He hung up.
As I turned the doorknob, the girl switched back to
Jerry Springer.
My driver was making the turn into Cash Daddy’s
street when I noticed the police cars parked in front of the gate.
It was not the usual nonchalant policemen that hung around
checkpoints extorting money. This posse patrolled decisively, like
they actually had some work to do.
‘Reverse!’ I yelled. ‘Turn! Quick! Quick!’
My driver obeyed and fled so fast that anyone would
have thought the car was running on rocket engines.
‘Just keep driving,’ I said. I did not care if we
went as far as Ouagadougou.
When I was certain that we were far away enough
from danger, I collected myself and resumed the normal thinking
processes that set man apart from the beasts of the field.
‘Find somewhere to park the car,’ I said.
We had found ourselves on the kind of street that
was largely populated by dried maize husks, torn pure water
wrappers, and straggling youngsters. My driver parked in front of
an uncompleted building with a bold warning painted in red on the
front wall: ‘BUYER BEWARE OF 419! THIS BUILDING IS NOT FOR
SALE!’
My driver looked at me in the rearview
mirror.
‘Oga, the policemen there were plenty,’ he
said.
He looked in the rearview mirror again.
‘There must have been about twenty of them,’ he
added.
I was not in the mood for chin-wagging. This could
be the very end of me. I could just imagine my mother’s face when
she heard that I had been arrested. What would happen to Godfrey
and Eugene and Charity if I went to jail? I rang Protocol Officer
and insisted.
‘Tell me. What exactly is going on?’
‘They’re taking Cash Daddy to the station for
questioning,’ Protocol Officer whispered. ‘But I just spoke with
Police Commissioner and he said it’s just routine. Hurry up because
we’ll be leaving soon.’
Back at Cash Daddy’s house, some policemen who wore
pot-bellies beneath their black uniforms were sitting with an
almost empty bottle of Irish Cream and some wine glasses. I greeted
them and strode past to join Protocol Officer, who was standing by
the staircase in the dining area. He was flanked by the otimkpu and
about seven of Cash Daddy’s campaign team bigwigs, all muttering
indignantly.
‘Where’s Cash Daddy?’ I whispered to Protocol
Officer.
‘He’s having a bath.’
I jerked my head furtively in the direction of the
police officers.
‘Do they know he’s upstairs?’
‘He told them to wait,’ Protocol Officer replied
impatiently, and returned his full attention to the group.
I turned to go upstairs and saw Cash Daddy on his
way down. The policemen all stood and greeted him.
‘I hope they took care of you people?’ he
asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the officer who looked like he
was in charge.
‘Very good, very good.’
‘Are you ready to go, sir?’ the same man
inquired.
‘Let’s go,’ Cash Daddy replied.
The policemen allowed him to walk ahead and
followed at a respectful distance. One of them rushed to open the
back door of one of their vans. We watched Cash Daddy settle
uncomfortably into the backseat before we jumped into our different
cars and followed behind. On the way, my cellular rang. It was my
house phone.
‘Kings, are you back to Aba, yet?’ It was
Charity.
‘Yes. I’m still at the office. I’m working a bit
late today. I didn’t know you were at home.’
‘I just came in today. I’ll be going back first
thing tomorrow but there’s something important I want to discuss
with you.’
‘What’s the matter? Is everything OK?’
‘Everything is fine. It’s just something we need to
discuss face-to-face. ’
Face-to-face? I died with fear. Was she having
problems in school? Were her girlfriends gossiping about me seeing
strange girls? Had my mother been complaining about my lifestyle?
It would be very unfair if she transferred her misgivings to my
siblings. Whatever my mother felt about me was her business
alone.
‘Charity, I’ll see you soon, OK? I’m just finishing
up something urgent at the office.’
Cash Daddy’s campaign manager was waiting at the
police station, muttering into a cellular phone. Cash Daddy’s
lawyer was with him. The notable human rights activist accompanied
his client inside for questioning. On the way, Cash Daddy stopped
suddenly.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I almost forgot.’
He removed the watch from his wrist, the phone from
his pocket, the belt from his trousers, and handed them to Protocol
Officer.
‘Kings, let me give you some advice,’ he said.
‘Never take anything with you into the police station if you’re not
ready to part with it forever.’
God forbid. I, Kingsley Onyeaghalanwanneya Ibe, was
being given advice for a trip to jail.
Soon, the lawyer emerged from the bowels of the
station. Without Cash Daddy.
We panicked.
‘Where’s Cash Daddy?’
‘They decided to keep him,’ the lawyer replied.
‘But they can’t hold him for too long because they don’t really
have any evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’ one of the campaign team
asked.
‘Money laundering. The allegation was made at the
Zonal Command in Calabar, so the police here have to pretend as if
they’re really doing something serious about it.’
‘Who made the allegation?’ I asked.
‘It’s politics,’ the campaign manager answered.
‘They just want to get Cash Daddy out of the way. They know he’s
definitely going to win the elections.’
‘These are the dangers I warned him to expect right
from the beginning,’ the human-rights-activist lawyer added.
‘Nigerian politics is a dirty game.’
‘They’re wasting their time,’ Protocol Officer said
with flames in his voice.
‘They’ve been writing all sorts of rubbish about
Cash Daddy in the newspapers,’ another one added indignantly, ‘but
thank God the people of Abia State are not foolish enough to
believe everything they read.’
‘No matter what they do,’ yet another one added,
‘Cash Daddy is still going to win.’
‘Of course,’ they all responded.
‘Cash Daddy is our man.’
Back at home, I saw that in my absence Charity had
once again arranged my shoes according to their colours. Wondering
for how long I would be able to maintain the order this time, I
unbuckled the Prada shoes I was wearing and placed them carefully
in the caramel row. Then I sat beside her on the bed, where she had
been waiting for me. Seeing the gravity of her facial expression, I
became more deeply immersed in dread.
‘Kings,’ she began. ‘There’s this very close friend
of mine I met through one of my friends in school.’
I swallowed a hard lump of fear.
‘Kings,’ she looked up at me with shy eyes, ‘he
asked me to marry him and I told him yes.’
Because of how serious she looked, I immediately
resisted the temptation to burst out laughing. Truly, the idea of
marriage makes girls suddenly behave strangely. I had never seen my
sister like this before.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked, strictly for want of
speech.
‘His name is Johnny,’ she replied. ‘But he’s Igbo,’
she added quickly. ‘His Igbo name is Nwokeoma. Nwokeoma
Nwabekee.’
Naturally, I would not want my sister to marry
someone who was not Igbo, but right now, that was the least of my
concerns. Throughout that night, I tossed and turned in bed,
tormented by various fears. What would become of my family - what
would become of my sister - if anything were to happen to me?
Losing a father was bad enough. But losing their source of life and
sustenance would bring unimaginable disaster.
And what would happen to me, their source of life
and sustenance, if anything were to happen to Cash Daddy?
It was not until five in the morning that I
remembered the girl waiting for me at the hotel.