I Do Not Come to You by Chance (39 page)

‘But I work for my uncle, though.’

She stiffened.

‘Work for him doing what?’

‘I help him with some investments . . . sort of like consultancy. He didn’t like the way other people were handling some of his business deals, so he decided that he wanted a relative to do it for him.’

‘Oh.’ She relaxed. ‘I hear he has a lot of businesses on the side.’

On the side of what? Like my mother, Merit was using euphemisms. Probably to spare me the embarrassment of having an uncle who was a 419 kingpin. The nice girl.

‘Anyway, be careful about first impressions,’ I said. ‘The mind’s construction is not written on the face.’

‘Or in the clothes,’ she added.

I laughed. She laughed. My cellular rang. It was Mr Winterbottom. I stood hastily.

‘Excuse me, let me take this call,’ I said to Merit and moved some distance away.

‘It was really tough trying to convince some of the senior bankers, ’ Mr Winterbottom said. ‘We’ve been arguing about it all day. They agreed to release this last $4.5 million dollars under the condition that the CBN will pay the full amount before the end of next month.’

I smiled.

‘But I’m definitely not paying any more fees,’ he continued. ‘The bank has decided that this is the last.’

No need for Mr Winterbottom to take his bank’s words too seriously. If given another good enough reason, they would cough out more.

I hurried back to Merit. We talked some more about false appearances, about life and current affairs.

‘Do you have my house land phone number?’ she asked at the end of the evening.

‘No. You only gave me your office number.’

‘OK, I’ll give it to you. But whenever you call, please, if it’s my dad or mum who picks up, pretend that you want to speak to my older brother. His name is Mezie.’

There was something suspicious about Edgar Hooverson’s email. I read it several times even though it was very brief. My suspicion grew with each reread.

Suddenly, it hit me. I realised what had nagged at my mind when Azuka showed me the email from his Iranian mugu. I rang his cellular phone immediately.

‘Azuka, where are you?’ I asked.

‘I’m at the airport. We’re just about to board.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that email from your Iranian mugu. Something doesn’t sound right.’

‘How?’

The Iranian mugu’s email was similar to Mr Hooverson’s.

After the meeting in Amsterdam, Mr Hooverson had started trying to raise the $70,000 for the lactima base 69%. When it was taking too long, Dr Wazobia asked him to send an initial instalment of $15,000 to see if the people at the chemical plant would be persuaded to give us at least quarter of a bottle. Mr Hooverson made the payment in three instalments. Afterwards, the chemical plant said it was impossible to sell quarter bottles. Fortunately, Dr Wazobia also had a friend who had a contact at the chemical plant who could arrange half a bottle. If Mr Hooverson could come up with at least half of the outstanding amount.

No reply from Mr Hooverson.

This was the first I had heard from him since then. After ignoring all my emails and voice messages, he had now written to say that he had the rest of the money for the lactima base 69%. He was eager for another trip to the security company and would prefer bringing the raw cash all the way to Amsterdam rather than wiring it. In his email, he spent too much time emphasising all the cash he was bringing along. Plus some extra in case we needed unexpected funds.

‘Azuka, your mugu spent half of the email talking about the money he was going to give you and the plans for your trip to Iran. He didn’t even talk much about the business proposal and his own cut from the deal. Are you sure he’s not trying to bait you?’

Azuka laughed.

‘Seriously. That’s what it looks like to me.’

‘Kings, don’t worry. I’ve cooked the man very well in my pot. This is a clear deal.’

‘Azuka, why not tell him you couldn’t make it? Schedule another date.’

‘Nooooo! Hei! Don’t you know that he’s already told all his partners I’m coming tomorrow? If I cancel, it might look as if I’m unserious. Especially after all the trouble he went through to help me with my visa. Don’t forget we’re talking about 150,000 dollars here - US dollars, not Taiwan dollars. Kings, after all my years of suffering, God has remembered me. This is my time.’

‘You don’t get it. It’s not about the money. What’s the point goi—’

‘Kings, don’t forget that I’m older than you,’ he said testily. ‘I’m old enough to know when something is not good for me and when it is. Relax. I have this thing under control.’

I sighed.

‘Look. Kings, relax.’

‘OK. But please ring me as soon as you get into Iran, so that at least I’ll know that you arrived safely.’

‘No probs. See you next week.’

I sat looking at my phone for a long time. Then, I went back to work. It was not always sensible to jump to conclusions, so I created a fresh email account.

I hoped the email was vague enough to keep Mr Hooverson singing my tune even if my suspicion turned out to be wrong. But his reply, which was almost instantaneous, settled the whole matter.

I went on to read about how he got to know that he was being scammed through a co-worker whom he had asked for a loan and how he had been in and out of hospital ever since; how his therapist had suggested that he contact the Oprah and Montel shows for an opportunity to tell the world what he had been through.

As usual, Cash Daddy had been right. Mr Hooverson, described me as ‘a YOUNG MAN in his twenties who looked and sounded WELL-EDUCATED and who had a very HONEST FACE’. He had even attached copies of all our email correspondence. Honestly, these white people were so funny. Did they really think that everybody else had the energy to expend on all sorts of fanciful troubles like they did? Dr Ribadu was too busy running after the billions of dollars that were going missing from the national and state coffers every day. When would the poor man have time to read all this?

But letter writing was my source of income, so I had all the time in the world to reply.

We never saw Azuka again. Four days after he was due back in Nigeria, I rang the Tehran hotel and confirmed that he had not come back to his room since his first night. I rang the airline and was informed that his return ticket had not yet been used. I rang his mugu’s contact numbers and was greeted by a polite female voice who responded in Arabic from beginning to end. Or maybe the language was Iranian. After a week of searching and trying, the whole Central Intelligence Agency was bleak with despair.

‘Kings, do you think he’s been arrested?’ Buchi asked.

‘I have no idea.’

‘But had he seen the mugu by the time he called you?’ Wizard asked.

‘No. They had spoken, but he was just leaving the hotel for the meeting. The hotel said he hasn’t come back since. All his stuff is still in the room.’

‘Can’t we go to the Iranian Embassy and make a report?’ Buchi asked.

‘How can?’ Wizard and Ogbonna replied at the same time.

‘Even if we pretend to be his relatives,’ I explained, ‘that means we’ll have to give them our contact details to get back to us when they find him. That could just be a neat trap for them to catch all of us.’

The two new recruits flashed wide open eyes, their faces flooded with dread.

‘How about the Nigerian Embassy in Tehran?’ one of them asked.

‘Who will we tell them we’re looking for?’ Ogbonna asked back. ‘Sheik Shamshudeen or what?’

‘What do you think they could have done to him?’ the second one asked.

‘Ah,’ Wizard replied. ‘You know in Iran they use Sharia law. They can either cut off his two hands or just behead him. Simple.’

There was a deathly silence.

‘Kings, maybe you should let Cash Daddy know,’ Buchi suggested quietly.

‘Let’s wait a little and see what happens,’ I replied. ‘I’ll try to think of something.’

After all, it was all my fault. Why had I changed Azuka’s mind about his bad luck? His pessimism might have been his salvation. Perhaps, I did not present my misgivings strongly enough. He might have been dissuaded from going.

‘We’re here worrying ourselves,’ Wizard said with an attempt at cheer in his voice. ‘For all we know, they might have given him seventy virgins to keep him busy. That might be why he’s forgotten to call.’

Nobody laughed.

I went through the rest of the day’s tasks like a zombie. All my colleagues looked as if they had been sautéed in a deep fog. I thought, kept thinking, and continued thinking, but no solution came to mind. This 419 thing had always been like a game to me - hooking mugus, making hits, returning to the scene of the crime and making more hits. For the first time, I was seeing a chill wind in our game. My sang-froid was in ribbons.

Eventually, I rang Merit. Thankfully, her evening was free.

‘I’ll be at your house around six,’ I said.

‘OK, I’ll ask my brother to watch out for you.’

At least there was something cheerful to look forward to after all this gloom. Merit’s company was a true delight. She could discuss any topic intelligently, her opinions always made sense, but unlike Ola, she was quick to say whatever she thought. At first, I was concerned that she might be an Aunty Dimma in training, but Merit knew the limits of womanhood. On one of the evenings we were out together, I got tired of wincing each time she leaned towards me and finally told her what I thought of her new hairdo.

‘You look much better with your natural hair,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you need to use hair extensions.’

Plus, the hair reminded me too much of the Camille crew. There was never any of them who did not have someone else’s hair stitched into her scalp.

For almost thirty minutes after my comment, Merit made her strong arguments for hair extensions. At a point, I just kept quiet and let her talk.

‘And who says it’s someone else’s hair?’ she concluded. ‘After all, I paid for it with my own money.’

Nevertheless, she had taken off the extensions the very next day.

After all was said and done, I preferred a girl who was forthright from the beginning to one who was coy and submissive when things were good and who ended up shutting you out coldly when things went bad.

And best of all, since meeting Merit, I had never once rung Camille.

 

Days later, I was still worrying about Azuka. I acknowledged defeat at last. Cash Daddy’s phone rang out the first time. The second time, he answered after seven rings. His environment sounded rowdy.

‘Cash Daddy, please, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s about the office.’

‘What type of rubbish is that?’ he yelled. ‘Why didn’t he sign the document?’

I heard a cowering response from someone in the background and was relieved to realise that my uncle had not been talking to me.