He held me by the upper arm and escorted me to the window. He walked very close, almost leaning his chest against my shoulder. For a while, we stood and stared out of the glass panes without speaking. The window overlooked his front gate.

Almost all the buildings on Iweka and on farther streets were in total darkness. NEPA had struck. In the distance, I made out the bright lights of World Bank’s humongous house. Like Cash Daddy, he had a power generator. After a while, I peeped at my uncle. He had a faraway gaze on his face, like an emperor wondering by how much more he should reduce his subjects’ taxes.

‘Kings,’ he said suddenly, ‘do you sometimes feel as if God is talking to you?’

I gave it some thought.

‘No.’

He turned away from the window and looked at me.

‘Kings, don’t you read your Bible?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘You should read your Bible often and memorise passages,’ he said, shaking his head slowly and wagging his finger at me. ‘It’s very, very important.’

Sermon over, he returned his eyes to the window and took in a deep breath.

‘Kings,’ he exhaled, ‘each time I stand and look out through this window, I feel as if God is talking to me. It’s as if I can hear Him saying that He’s given me the land as far as my eyes can see, just like He said to Papa Abraham.’

He paused and looked at me.

‘Kings, I’ve decided to run for governor of Abia State in the coming elections.’

The fact that I did not drop to the floor with shock was simply supernatural.

Twenty-four

My regular visits to Umuahia came with mixed feelings. A blend of nostalgia about the good old days – the times spent there as a child – and anger about the hard times – our poverty and my father’s illness and premature death. These days, a new feeling had been stirred into the concoction – apprehension about facing my mother.

Heads turned as my Lexus sped through the streets. Eyes followed in wonder and admiration. Without braking, I honked at some pedestrians occupying the better part of a pothole-riddled road. The three men jumped away in fright. My windows were up and the air-conditioning was on full blast, so I could barely make out their invectives.

I noticed that the scallywags had now gone beyond traffic signs and dustbins. There were election posters on the face and torso of the bronze statue in the Michael Opara Square. To think that Cash Daddy’s face would soon be joining them. He had not yet made his gubernatorial aspirations publicly known, so none of his posters were out. If not for the potbellied, important-looking strangers with whom he had been holding endless meetings at the office, I would have assumed he had changed his mind.

I parked beside Mr Nwude’s blue Volkswagen. The back windscreen of the faithful car was completely gone and had been replaced by a cellophane sheet. I made a mental note to greet his family before I left. As usual, I would pretend it was a gift for the children and give them some cash.

As soon as I switched off my engine, Charity screamed. Nanoseconds later, she dashed out of the house.

‘Kings, I didn’t know you were coming today!’

We hugged.

‘How’s school?’

‘We’re closing soon,’ she said with excitement. ‘Kings, I’m coming to spend my holidays with you. I’ve already told Mummy and she said it’s OK.’

My siblings could go in and out of my house anytime they pleased without giving me notice. I had reminded them several times.

‘But that means Mummy will be at home alone,’ she said with concern. ‘ Eugene is not likely to come back till after Easter.’

‘Don’t worry. We can both drive down to visit her often. What of your JAMB forms? Have you bought them?’

‘Since last week.’

‘OK, we’ll fill them together before I leave.’

I gave Charity the McVities biscuits and the pair of high heels I’d bought for her. She accompanied me to my mother’s bedroom.

‘Mummy, Kings is here,’ she chimed.

As I was about to open the door, Charity held back my hand.

‘Kings,’ she whispered with tilted head and pleading eyes, ‘can I use your phone? Please?’

Two of Charity’s friends had land phones in their houses. Each time I was around, she wanted to ring them with my cellular, never mind that she saw them in school almost every day. I handed her the phone and she scampered back to the living room, gleeful as a fly.

My mother was lying in bed – staring – with her upper body propped up on two pillows. For a widow whose first son had come to visit, her smile appeared some seconds too late.

‘Mummy.’

‘Kings.’

I sat beside her and entered her embrace. Even that was not as cosy as it should have been. Her face appeared more furrowed than on my last visit. She was wearing one of her old dresses stained with the sticky fluid from my father’s unripe plantains. Maybe it was her age, maybe it was her grief, but the hair on my mother’s head was taking its time in growing back. And I could see her scalp clearly through the grey strands. Unlike the former, the new growth was scanty.

‘Mummy, how have you been getting on?’

‘I’m fine.’

With cheeks pressed against her face, I scanned the room with my eyes. Everything was exactly as it had been when my father was alive. His jumper was still hooked to the wardrobe door. His bathroom slippers were arranged neatly at the foot of the bed, as if he were about to step right into them. A half-empty bottle of Old Spice aftershave lotion was sitting beside a half-empty Vaseline hair cream jar on his side of the dresser. In a corner of the room, I sighted the machines I had recently purchased for my mother’s shop. The large, brown cartons were sealed and unopened. I pulled myself away from her and walked towards them. My suspicions were confirmed.

‘Mummy,’ I asked wearily, ‘what about these machines? Haven’t you started using them yet?’

My mother bent her eyes to the floor. She was composing another lie.

When I replaced the television in the house, came back to visit, and saw the old one back in its place, my mother had said it was because she could not figure out how the new one worked. When I mentioned repainting and refurbishing the flat, she had said she preferred if it remained the exact way it was when my father was alive, never mind that I had promised not to tamper with his favourite armchair. When I bought a generator to supply electricity when NEPA took the light, she had said it made too much noise. I hated seeing her put herself through all this just to make a point. Now I watched her struggle to make up another excuse.

She raised her eyes.

‘Kingsley, the only thing that can make me happy is if you get a proper job. You know I’m very uncomfortable with whatever work it is you say you’re doing for Boniface.’

‘Mummy, I’m working and I’m doing this for all of you.’

‘Kings, if you really want to make me happy, you’ll stop it.’

She said the ‘it’ with force. My mother was a person who could provide a euphemism for every embarrassing word that existed. Her cache included at least fifty different replacements for sex and for the various private body parts. She had more for single mothers and divorcees. But when it came to 419, this ability had completely failed her. She never had a name for exactly what it was that she wanted me to stop.

I was tempted to change the topic by telling her that her brother was planning to be the next governor of Abia State, but that would simply be kindling another inferno. On behalf of her absent husband, my mother would probably explode with outrage. It was better to just go straight to the point of my visit.

‘Mummy, I came to let you know that I’m travelling abroad next week. I’m going to London for a meeting.’

‘Is it with Boniface you’re going?’

‘Yes.’

She sighed.

‘How long are you going for?’