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.’