Dr Wazobia met us up at the hotel lobby. He collected the cash, dashed out again, and returned shortly after with the anti-terrorist certificate. Now we could officially pick up our trunk of millions. We hailed a taxi to the security company. Mr Hooverson knew the address by heart.
The security company office was complete with signboard, reception, and inner office. There was even a Caucasian man and woman in charge of things. Cash Daddy had exhumed this setup from where-I-do-not-know, but it looked perfectly authentic.
Shortly after we arrived, the receptionist ushered us into the inner office.
‘Which one of you is the beneficiary?’ the white man asked.
‘I am,’ the mugu replied.
Mr Hooverson whipped out his navy blue American passport. The white man examined the photo and stared up into Mr Hooverson’s face. He did this at least three more times before he was finally satisfied. Then he unfolded some documents that had been tightly clamped inside his armpit.
‘Could you please sign here,’ he said.
The mugu signed - after perusing carefully - and handed back the documents. The white woman collected the documents, took them away, and returned.
‘Everything seems alright,’ she said. ‘I’ve just spoken to the courier. He’ll be here very soon.’
Indeed, soon, Amuche arrived dragging a trunk box that looked exactly like the one where my mother kept her precious belongings in Umuahia.
‘The second one will arrive in about an hour,’ he explained. ‘For security purposes, we deliver one at a time.’
He unlocked the box with a great deal of panache, making a show of removing the bundle of keys from his pocket, choosing the right one, and sticking it into the lock. He turned the key and paused some extra seconds before opening the lid. The trunk box appeared jammed with dollar notes. All of them stained black.
Thus, we moved to Stage three.
In a corner of the box, was a dark brown 150cl bottle. Mr Hooverson was speechless. Elation and confusion were fighting for space on his face.
‘What’s this?’ he asked at last.
‘That’s where Dr Wazobia comes in,’ I replied. ‘He’s a professional chemist who’ll help us wash the money.’
‘Wash the money?’
‘For security purposes,’ Dr Wazobia explained, ‘we had the dollar notes invalidated with a fluid known as phosphorus sulphuric benzomate. It turns them black. All we have to do is wash them in the lactima base 69% contained in that bottle.’
Dr Wazobia raised the bottle from the box.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.
‘What?’ Mr Hooverson and I replied simultaneously. Our voices had equal degrees of curiosity.
‘The chemical has congealed,’ Dr Wazobia said. ‘It was left in here for too long. But there’s a little left in it.’ He swished the leftover liquid in the bottle about. ‘Let’s see how much we can wash with this. I’ll need to dilute it with some water.’
We followed him to the bathroom. Dr Wazobia put the bottle to the mouth of the running tap, placed some black notes in the sink, and poured from the bottle onto the notes.
‘Wow!’ Mr Hooverson gasped.
The black paint had washed off, leaving gleaming dollar notes behind. Only the first row of notes in the trunk box were real. The rest were old newspapers, painted black and cut to dollar size. Pray tell, who was that 419er who first thought up these serpentine scams? Men and women had received the acknowledgment of History for displaying less ingenuity in other fields.
After Dr Wazobia had washed about $1,000, the liquid in the brown bottle finished.
‘Sorry, this is all I can do for now,’ Dr Wazobia said. ‘You’ll have to order a fresh batch from the chemical plant. A full bottle of this size is about seventy thousand dollars. That should be more than enough to wash all the money in that trunk.’
From the corner of my eyes, I watched Mr Hooverson, in case he actually had a gun. I expected that he might wake up at the mention of yet another payment.
But no, the money he had seen was scattering his thoughts. In front of my eyes, Mr Hooverson became a mental case. He started shivering and pacing like someone sleepwalking. All his ten fingers went into his mouth.
‘We have to get that chemical. We have to get that chemical,’ he muttered. His head shot up. ‘How long does it take?’ He blew a crumb of fingernail into the air. ‘The chemical. The chemical for washing the money. How long does it take to arrive?’
‘Oh, the lactima base 69%. Almost immediately. They usually have it permanently in stock. It’s mostly reserved for use by the FBI and Interpol, but I have my contacts at the plant.’
‘We need to get that chemical. We need to get that chemical,’ Mr Hooverson repeated over and over again.
Out of the blue, Dr Wazobia came up with a smart plan.
‘Why don’t we leave this with the security company until we’re ready with the money for the chemical?’
Mr Hooverson’s face did not seem to like the idea. For a moment, he left off chewing his nails.
‘So, next time, after we get the chemical, all we have to do is come here, collect the keys, and take the two trunks?’ Mr Hooverson asked.
‘Then you can take your share and keep the rest for them,’ he nodded at me, ‘in your account. But you have to get that chemical first.’
Mr Hooverson was pacing again. Then he stopped abruptly.
‘I’m not sure how long it will take,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure I can raise the funds.’
I gasped. I considered clutching my chest, but restrained myself. No need to take the acting too far.
‘Mr Hooverson, I can’t let you do this,’ I said. ‘You’ve done so much for my sister and her family already.’
‘The sooner we get this money out, the better it is for all of us,’ he replied matter-of-factly. Clearly, the time of pretence was over.
We parted outside the security company, but not before I drew Mr Hooverson towards me and gave him another United Nations hug.
Cash Daddy was right. These white people were harmless.
Thirty-two
Too drenched in sleep, it was not until the passengers broke into a loud cheer that I jolted back to reality and realised that the plane had landed in Port Harcourt. Nigerians always clap when an international flight touches on home soil. Who could blame us? With the number of tribulations that were lurking out there, to have gone and returned in one piece was worth celebrating.
I had spent my last few hours in Amsterdam looking over my shoulders for Interpol and the FBI. It was not until the plane lifted off the tarmac that I finally relaxed.
The air hostess smiled and thanked me for flying with them. Having flown first class, I was entitled to their free limousine service to convey me from the airport to wherever I was going, but I had declined. I preferred for my driver to pick me up. That way, I could make personal phone calls on the journey home without worrying about being overheard.
On my way to immigration, I switched on my phone. It rang almost immediately. It was my father’s sister.
‘Kings, I’m in serious trouble here. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past two days.’
She sounded very anxious. She gave me a number and asked me to ring her back on it immediately.
‘Kings, I don’t know what to do. NEPA has been giving us low current and my fridge has broken down. I don’t know for how long I’ll have to keep cooking fresh food every day. It’s not easy for me at all.’
‘Aunty Ada, relax . . . relax. Have you asked them how much it will cost to repair the fridge?’
‘Hmm. Kings, it’s a very old fridge. I don’t know if anybody can repair it. Most people don’t use this type of model anymore.’
I got the message.
‘Aunty Ada, how much will a new one cost?’
She told me. I promised to send the money before the week ran out.
‘Only God knows how I’ll be able to do without a fridge till the weekend but thank you, anyway. I’ll try and manage somehow.’
‘OK, Aunty. Don’t worry. I’ll try and send the money by tomorrow.’
‘You really are your father’s son. God bless you my dear child. You’re such a blessing to this family.’
The officer at immigration beamed a broad smile and lifted his right hand in amateur salute.
‘Welcome, sir!’ he shouted.
Poverty had a way of sharpening the sense of smell. These sorts of people could sniff out a prospective heavy tipper. I smiled and gave him my passport.
‘Is there anything you’d like us to do for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ I replied.
The last time I travelled with Cash Daddy, he had required the immigration officer’s assistance to adjust their stamp so that his passport could read as if he had entered Nigeria on a previous date. These minor peccadilloes were necessary to keep the people at the embassies happy.
The immigration officer finished and held my passport towards me. I took the dark green booklet and sneaked him some Euro notes. Hopefully, the tip was heavy enough to ensure that my face was stamped in his memory for eternity, just in case I needed his help someday.
On my way to baggage collection, I dialled Camille.
‘Kings, Kings! You’re back! I really missed you!’
Camille and I had spent several more nights together since our first meeting. I would ring when I needed her, we would meet at the hotel, and she would leave the following morning. The girl had special ways of helping me forget my sorrows. Come to think of it, I did not even know her surname. But what was the point getting to know everything about a girl, only for her to dump you in the end? With Camille, I was free - free to extract as much pleasure as I wanted from our relationship whenever I wanted. That was the most important thing.
‘Can you meet me later tonight?’ I asked.
‘Sure. What time?’
‘I’m still at the airport. I’ll ring you when I get to Aba and let you know.’
‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Kings. I hope you brought back something from Amsterdam for me.’
Even her voice had something mesmerising about it. Was there a certain school where these types of girls went to master their art or was it an inborn talent? No wonder she charged so much. I rammed into someone who had been walking too slowly. He turned. I was about to apologise.
‘Kingsley Ibe!’ he exclaimed.
‘Andrew Onyeije!’
We shook hands.
Andrew and I had competed in a science quiz back in form five. After a tough battle, I had won. Fresh complexion, robust cheeks . . . he looked very well.
‘So what are you up to these days?’ he asked.
‘I’m based in Aba.’
‘Oh, really? Where do you work?’
‘I’m sort of doing my own thing. I’m into business. Importing and exporting.’
He laughed.
‘What happened? Didn’t you always say you wanted to read Engineering?’
‘Actually, I read Chemical Engineering.’
He laughed again.
‘And now you’re importing and exporting. What was the point of going into sciences if you weren’t intending to use it in the end?’
I tried to smile, but I was not doing it very well.
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What do you do?’ Perhaps he had developed a contraceptive pill for men.
‘I’m into IT,’ he replied contentedly. ‘I’m based in the States.’
That explained his fresh complexion. The wicked Nigerian sun had not smiled on him for a long time.
‘You know IBM, don’t you?’ he continued. ‘I’m with the head office in New York. I just flew in for my sister’s wedding. I’ll be in Nigeria for just about a week. Then I’ve gotta be back in the States for an important meeting.’
No wonder he could afford to open his mouth and make all sorts of stupid comments. He was so busy munching frankfurters in America, he had probably not yet seen any of the engineers and lawyers and medical doctors who were wearing hunger from head to sole.
‘I’m soooo glad to be back home,’ he went on. ‘The last time I was in Nigeria was ages ago. There’s nothing like being back in your own country, amongst your own brothers and sisters. It’s such a wonderful feeling.’
Together, we stood by the sluggish conveyor belt and waited. Some lackeys promptly arrived beside us with trolleys.
‘I’ve missed Nigeria so much,’ Andrew said.
I pointed out my first suitcase. The lackey rushed to grab it.
‘What and what did you do your Masters in?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t yet done a Masters.’
He gasped.
‘Kingsley Ibe! You don’t have a Masters? I don’t believe it! These days, you can’t move forward in this world without one. I have a Masters in Cyber Informatics from Rutgers, a Masters in Tetrachoric Correlations from Cornell, a Masters in Data Transmogrification from Yale, and next fall, I’ll be starting my PhD with Harvard.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, still struggling to smile.
‘Wonderful?’ He laughed. ‘You’re really cracking me up. My brother at Princeton has seven postgraduate degrees. My cousin at Brown is starting her third PhD soon. Honestly, there are so many great minds in this country. Yet once you mention you’re from Nigeria, all they think about in the States is 419. It’s sad.’
His voice had turned burgundy with nationalistic fervour. I felt like tipping him over a cliff. Were the minds of the 419ers any less great than the minds of the Masters degree and PhD holders? It would have been interesting to see what would have become of his great IBM mind if he had remained here in Nigeria.
Andrew reached for his suitcase. The lackey leapt forward and did the rest.
‘I love Nigeria soooooo much,’ he belched on. ‘Whatever happens, I’m gonna come back here and settle someday. With my family.’
I pointed out my second suitcase. Held hostage by his effusion of nationalism, I could not immediately take my leave. His second suitcase arrived. The hot air merchant was still talking. He talked and talked and talked and talked. With each new word, my dislike for him increased. My guardian angel flapped a wing and caused my cellular to ring. It was Camille.