The boy hadn't even waited, but had sat down without being invited. Where was the respect in that? This was the problem with success in Nigeria: it brought out every relative and rat in a thousand miles, lining up with hands outstretched, demanding dollops of unearned reward.
Ironsi-Egobia smiled. "A fortunate day, then. When I was taken away without a name to be raised by the Fathers in Calabar, none of my relations came to claim me. None. The Fathers brought me back to the Delta. Did you know that? As a young man. They wanted to repatriate me. That's what the Fathers called it. But no one wanted me. And now, here I am in Lagos, a successful man, and my relations have come calling. A fortunate day indeed. So."
He pulled a stack of five-hundred-naira notes from his billfold.
"Allow me to welcome you to Lagos in proper fashion."
"Too kind, sir."
Nnamdi smiled at him, but Ironsi-Egobia was immune to smiles. "Tunde, come here a moment."
A thin figure appeared. "Yes, bruddah guyman?"
"Tunde, this is my cousin and his woman. Find a room for them." Then, to Nnamdi, "It will be nothing fancy, I'm sad to say. In Lagos, space is always at a premium." He passed the money across to the boy, then tucked his billfold back into his jacket pocket and stood up. They were being dismissed.
Nnamdi extended his hand. Ironsi-Egobia hesitated, then clasped it forearm to forearm.
"Thank you, cousin bruddah," said Nnamdi.
"What is family, if not this?"
Ironsi-Egobia turned, but Nnamdi stopped him. "Sorry-o. I hate to be an imposition, cousin. But this girl, she was hoping to have a stall in one of the markets, on the Island, sir."
"A stall?"
"Yes, sir."
"On Lagos Island?"
"Yes, sir. My mother had said you might arrange this for us.
A stall with a small room behind to live in. As for me, I am a mechanic of some renown. Just recently, I have seen a tanker truck through from Port Harcourt all the way to Kaduna and back again, which as you know—"
"A stall? On Lagos Island?" Ironsi-Egobia could feel the arteries in his neck constrict. He had to fight the urge to strike the boy down then and there. "A market stall?
With living quarters?
On Lagos Island?"
Amina could see the rage that was coming. She touched Nnamdi's arm, but it was too late.
"Have you any conception," said Ironsi-Egobia, "how much a stall on Lagos Island costs? The market ladies have it sewn up. Do you have 700,000 naira in your back pocket to pay the fees? And you—a mechanic, as well? You might as well ask for the moon in a teacup. Do you think I am some sort of magician? Do you think I own the guilds? That I am made of money?" He glared now at Amina, at the scars on her face. "And you? Do you think I am some sort of Hausa cattle for you to milk? You want to slit my skin?
Drink my blood? Is that what you want?"
Nnamdi was baffled and embarrassed. "No, sir. My mother, you see..."
Ironsi-Egobia fought his anger down.
He comes in here, stinking of the Delta.
"The girl. Her, I can find work for. Cleaning rooms, washing toilets. And you—I will find something for you. And you will pay back this debt, cousins or not. You understand?"
"Yes, sir." Nnamdi's smile was gone.
"Tunde will take you." Ironsi-Egobia scribbled down a name and an address. "The Ambassador Hotel," he said. "In Ikeja. Ask for housekeeping. Now go—go before I change my mind."
As they were hustled away, they could hear the coughing begin anew, deep bronchial rasps, wet with blood.
Amina didn't have her market stall, but she had work. And Nnamdi? He had a cousin protector.
"We are blessed," he whispered, as much to the child as to Amina.
CHAPTER 91
"Hello, Mr. Driscoll? My name is Laura Curtis."
"Laura who?"
"Curtis. I was the copy editor on your book. We met at the launch."
"Of course! How are you, Laura?"
He didn't remember her, but they must have met. She was with his publisher, after all.
Gerry Driscoll, CEO and founding president of WestAir, was an upstart young cowboy who'd taken on the fat cats of the airline industry and won. Or at least, that was how he'd spun it in
Mavericks of the Sky: The WestAir Story,
his business memoir-cum-motivational tract.
"If you can think it, you can do it!"
Pliant airline regulators and a rejigged corporate tax scheme helped as well.
"In business, as in life, you must put yourself on the right side of history and then blaze a trail toward it!"
It was a book rife with exclamation marks.
"You gave me your card," she said. "At WordFest."
"Yes! Of course!"
He had no idea who she was. Laura had been hired to copy-edit
Mavericks of the Sky:
punctuation, grammar, the usual. The platitudes and bromides had been someone else's editorial responsibility. Laura and he had dealt with each other only via email, and amid the hubbub of the book launch, Gerry Driscoll, heady on wine and the sound of his own voice, had mistaken her for his actual editor. That editor wasn't there that night, but Laura was. It was one of the few outings she'd attended all year, so it may have stood out in more detail for her.
"You offered me a weekend getaway," she said. "Anywhere that WestAir flies."
Of course he had.
Mr. Driscoll was constantly comping tickets to people, both as a way of repaying social debts and, just as importantly, engendering obligations in return. After all,
a favour received is a debt unpaid!
He didn't remember this particular editor exactly, but it was easier just to give her the freebie than try to welch on the offer, especially when his as-yet-to-be-written follow-up—a memoir that she would presumably be working on—was titled
My Word Is My Bond!
"Sure thing," he said. "Where would you like to go, Laura?"
"Nigeria."
He laughed. "I'm sorry, I thought you said Nigeria."
"I did."
There was a pause. "You know, I give out a lot of flights. Most people pick Hawaii or Cancun."
"Nigeria, please. Lagos."
"We don't fly to Lagos. We don't fly to Africa."
"But you partner with Virgin Air, and they do. The schedules line up. I checked. Four flights in, three flights out, every week."
Mr. Driscoll comped tickets through his partner carriers all the time, and they did likewise; it was one of the perks of being CEO. Certainly WestAir had flown in enough Virgin employees and families over the years, en route to Banff, to more than make up for it. He sighed. "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want. I'll put you through to my assistant, and you can work out the details with her. Good to hear from you, Laura."
"Thank you. And Mr. Driscoll?"
"Yes?"
"I'll need a hotel as well."
CHAPTER 92
Dear Mr. Ogun,
I must apologize for the mix-up at the airport.
Colonel Mustard and Mrs. Peacock no longer work for our organization; please ignore any further communications from them. I will be arriving at Murtala Muhammed Airport in two weeks' time, on Flight VS651 at 15:05.
I believe you and I have some unfinished business.
With best wishes on behalf of Corporate Living Unified Executives
(a division of Parker Bros.),
Miss Scarlet
Laura was at the top of a tall tower, feeling empty and unafraid.
When the CEO of WestAir had first offered her those tickets to anywhere, there hadn't been anywhere she wanted to go. If nothing else, she now had a destination.
She looked out her window, down at the city shimmering below, and slowly, she began to tie her long, flowing hair to a bedpost...
CHAPTER 93
The heat was making her queasy. "I'm sorry, but who did you say you were? Airport security? Police?"
He slid a business card across his desk. "EFCC. The Nigerian Economic and Financial Crimes Commission."
She looked at the card, embossed with name and number.
"Well, Mr. Ribadu..."
"David, please," he reminded her. "Up against Goliath, I'm afraid. The EFCC has been charged with addressing 419 crimes.
Bank fraud, advance fee swindles, cyber crimes, et cetera. Such activities are damaging Nigeria's reputation. They are hurting our chances with legitimate investors. When people hear the word
‘Nigeria,' it is too often the swindle merchants and never-do-wells they imagine. Suffice it to say, these crimes have caused our dear country and its many innocent citizens a lot of embarrassment abroad. Of course," he held her gaze uncomfortably long, "when it comes to obtaining wealth through false pretenses, the white man is still the expert. I'm afraid the black man is an amateur when it comes to 4l9ing others. One might say, my entire country was obtained under false pretenses."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ribadu, but I'm not sure what this has to do with—"
"We at the EFCC have been taking the hunt to the hunters.
We have raided the cyber dens in FestacTown, we have rounded up the forgers along Akwele Road. We are authorized to trace emails, reclaim ill-gotten wealth. Indeed, madam, we have such powers as to confiscate assets, seize passports, freeze bank accounts. We can impound luxury cars, even take away the homes of 4l9ers.
And, if we are not winning the war, we are at least harrying our foes. Unfortunately, every so often, some—shall I say
?—gullible
foreigner arrives and mucks things up, causing many sorts of trouble. It is precisely why we at the EFCC maintain an office here at Murtala Muhammed."
Laura hadn't even made it out of the airport, and already things were starting to derail. If it got nasty with Inspector Ribadu, she needed to know who to appeal to, who to go to above the inspector's head. "I'm still a little confused," she said. "You answer to the police?"
"The police answer to me."
I see.
"Am I under arrest, then?"
He laughed. "Arrest? No. We are having a conversation, that is all."
After he'd checked her documents and repacked her carry-on, Laura asked, "So... I'm free to go?"
"Madam, these gullible foreigners I mentioned, the ones who keep showing up at our airport, are lured to Nigeria. They are lured by the promise of easy money. But I assure you, it is skulduggery, plain and simple. These foreigners come to Lagos thinking they will claim a lost inheritance or take possession of trunks filled with money, dyed solid black with ink, so they are told. They are swiftly robbed by the 4l9ers. The lucky ones, at least. Some are kidnapped for ransom, some are tortured, some murdered. And we in law enforcement have to deal with the mess. The paperwork alone is very distressing. Embassies are involved, and so on.
Wouldn't you say, madam, that it's better if these foreigners had never come?"
"I suppose..."
"You seem tired, madam. Such a long flight, for such a short stay. With the stopover in London, it must have taken, what? A day or more just to get here."
"Something like that, yes."
"And returning so soon. I dare say, you will probably spend more time in transit than you will here in Nigeria. A strange sort of holiday. Tell me. You aren't one of those foolish people, are you, madam? You haven't come to Lagos to reclaim your lost millions, have you?"
"No."
Not millions.
"Well, you have my card. You may ring me any time, night or day, should any difficulties bedevil you. It's best you don't go to the regular police, and certainly not to some random officer on the street. Contact me directly instead. The police in Nigeria are woefully underpaid, you see. Mostly hard-working fellows, but some have been, how shall I say, compromised. Madam, we are cracking down hard on the 4l9ers. Please do not get caught in the middle. It won't end well."
He rose and walked her to the door, opened it for her with a gentlemanly grace. "Enjoy Lagos, madam. Enjoy the music, enjoy the food, enjoy the friendly nature. But please take care for your safety. Don't be fooled by smiles. Shady characters abound. Promise me you will take precautions."
"I will."
I have.
CHAPTER 94
He was younger than she expected—and handsome, though she noted this more with a sense of detached judgment than anything.
She'd spotted him right away on the other side of the fence, holding up his sign:
MISS SCARLET PLEASE.
A crisp white robe with a matching cap that was tightly fitted and beautifully embroidered.
He looked like a king, but called himself a chief, and as she crossed the sidewalk toward him he held his arms wide in a regal greeting.
"Welcome to Nigeria!"
Such a low baritone from such a young man.
He watched her coming. On sage advice, he'd donned a full
babban-riga.
If you were going to present yourself as a Big Man of Africa, you needed to dress the part, and the
oyibos
were disappointed if you didn't show up looking like a Nubian potentate. But what of her? What effort had she made? Very little from the looks of it. She certainly didn't project the aura of a high-level liaison to an international banking cartel, what with her peasant skirt and wrinkled cotton top. Then again,
oyibos
were strange; everyone knew this. They didn't behave like normal people. "Treat them as you would children." That too was advice he had received.
Children with money.
"Hello," she said.
He smiled, but not with his eyes. "Greetings! I am Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo, and I welcome you!"
