She gave directions. I drove. As soon as we arrived, I understood why Merit had been so eager to come here, why this was the place where everybody went these days. There was a white couple and child sitting at one table and two white men sitting at another. These ones were not real white people like Britons and Americans, though. They looked more like Lebanese or Syrians or one of that type of people, but it did not matter. I had observed the same phenomenon in every Nigerian city I had visited. Any joint that was frequented by any category of white people automatically shot up in ratings amongst indigenes. The place was jammed. As Merit and I searched for a free table, someone called out to me.

‘Graveyard!’

I turned.

‘Graveyard! Longest time!’

It was my roommate from university.

‘Ah! Enyi. How are you?’

We shook hands. I had not seen him since my father’s burial.

‘Graveyard, you look good. You look really good. I hear you’re now a big-’

I cut him off.

‘Merit, this is Enyi. We were roommates on campus.’

I asked her to go ahead and find somewhere to sit.

‘I’ll join you soon,’ I said.

‘Graveyard, you look really good,’ Enyi continued after Merit left. ‘I hear you’re now a bigger boy in Aba. I hear you’re doing very, very well. And you’ve put on weight!’

Who would ever have imagined? When they came to spend time with me during their last holidays, I had handed down a mountain of tight shirts to my brothers. I would probably have to pass on yet another batch when next any one of them was around.

‘Honestly, Graveyard, I’m so glad I saw you today. The other day, I was telling some people that both of us were very good friends in school and they thought I was lying.’

I smiled some more. He dipped into the messenger bag strapped across his chest and extracted a book.

‘Graveyard, I just wrote my first novel. Honestly, I’ll be very honoured if you can attend my book launching.’

He handed me the book. From Morocco to Spain in 80 Days.

I was impressed.

‘I didn’t know you were a writer. That’s great. Who’re your publishers?’

‘My uncle owns a printing press in Ngwa. They published it for me.’

I flipped through the uneven, poorly printed pages and paused to read. At least nine muscular typographical errors rose from the page and gave me a slap across the face.

‘This book is just too much,’ Enyi continued. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be a bestseller. It’s about my experiences while travelling across the Sahara to Europe.’

I had heard of several Nigerians ready to risk wind and limb by making this treacherous journey across the desert in search of greener pastures. Some died or were arrested along the way, some were captured and kept in detention camps the moment they arrived. I considered myself lucky for the opportunity to sit at my desk and reach across to greener pastures with my keyboard.

I handed back the book.

‘No, keep it. This one is your own copy. You can give me the money for it even if you’re not attending the launching.’

I asked him how much it was; he told me.

‘But that’s the official price,’ he added, then smiled and winked. ‘A bigger boy like you, you can’t just pay the official price. You have to put something good on top.’

‘I haven’t got much with me here,’ I smiled back. ‘I just came out with enough for our meal.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can stop over at your office and collect it some other time. Is it not that building behind Bon Bonny Hotel?’

I handed him a complimentary card, anyway – as an act of noblesse oblige. He assured me that he would see me soon.

I joined Merit at the obscure table she had chosen in a far corner of the room. A waiter came round and took our orders. With Ola, we always requested that the waiters go and come back later to allow us calculate what aspects of the menu our pockets could handle. Merit made her choice of appetizer, main meal, and dessert without restraint. I felt like a real man.

We laughed and talked while we ate. She was an Accountancy graduate and worked with her father’s friend’s private firm in Aba. She was a year younger than I. She had an elder brother, an elder sister, and three younger ones. Her father had a private law practice, her mother was a civil servant. Her elder brother was doing a Masters in International Law, her elder sister had finished university two years ago and was now doing a course at Bible School.

‘You know, you’re very different from the first impression I had of you when I saw you at the wedding,’ Merit said.

‘What first impression?’

‘Hmmmmm…?’

‘Was it the way I looked?’

‘No, not the way you looked. I’m not really sure what it was. Maybe it’s the people I saw you sitting with. I was a bit confused because you looked different from them, but at the same time I was wondering why you were sitting with them. It was after you told me Cash Daddy was your uncle that I understood.’

I shifted about in my chair. Perhaps I should hint at the truth.

‘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.’

Forty-one

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.