"I have nothing left I can give you. You understand, my life is in danger. Please. Help me get out of Nigeria. I have had some troubles getting a visa, due to a past misunderstanding. Sponsor me and I will come to your country, I will work hard, I will bring my parents over. We will contribute to your nation. I will pay you back five times what I owe."
An educated young man, brimming with ambition and business acumen? He certainly would contribute.
"Help me get out, miss. It's the only way I can make amends. If you leave me here, I will be beaten and massacred. You have taken every scrap of money I have. Help me get a visa, and I will pay you back tenfold."
"Fivefold is fine. Let me deposit this, make sure everything goes through, and then we'll talk about getting you a visa."
"Thank you, thank you. You won't regret it."
He was still sitting there, hopeful and buoyant, when security arrived.
Laura had unpacked the stacks of high-denomination naira at the hotel bank counter. She'd set aside a fold of bills for the taxi to the airport the next day, but had given the rest to the teller to be counted and converted, had filled in the forms and presented the bank with her passport number. It was unusual for naira to flow the other way, but not unheard of; this was the Airport Ambassador Hotel, and business deals were consummated here every day. By hotel standards, it wasn't even that large an amount. Large enough to require government notification on the forms Laura dutifully completed, but not large enough to raise alarm. There were millionaires staying here, after all. The teller stamped the necessary forms, obtained the necessary signatures from the necessary office managers, gave Laura a confirmation slip.
"So the money's now in my account? Back home?" she asked the teller.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Laura walked across the lobby and asked one of the doormen to summon security. When the guards arrived, she informed them that a young man had been harassing her whenever she went to the pool. "He was threatening me, making sexual advances. I suspect he's not a guest at this hotel. I think he may be a thief."
Laura watched as the guards manhandled Winston through the lobby and out the door even as he pleaded with them, eyes searching the lobby, frantically looking for her. Goodbye, Winston.
She'd won, and yet—
She felt, not triumphant, but only alone. No bursts of confetti appeared, no balloons rained down. No champagne. No Dad, either.
She had a drink at the hotel bar, something frothy and sweet, and then slipped into the comfort of chlorine, taking long, slow victory laps in the swimming pool. Exhale, inhale. Breathe out under water, breathe in above. The crawl, the breast stroke, the butterfly. As she swam, it entered her mind, fleetingly, that perhaps she shouldn't have wired the money home quite so quickly, that having sent Winston's funds out of the country, she now had nothing to bargain with if things turned bad. It was a thought that sank as quickly as it surfaced, though, and she flipped over, floated on her back, eyes closed, leaving slow spreading waves in her wake.
The ride through Lagos the day before had left its mark on Laura in the form of prickly heat. Sweat, trapped in her pores, had formed small blisters along her neck and forearms, and the itch only grew worse with the scratching. She'd applied soothing creams she'd bought in the hotel pharmacy, but the rash still bubbled and burned below the surface. She felt as though she were stewing in her own body, and after her swim she stood for a long time under the changing-room showers, letting the water wash over her.
Laura patted herself dry, wrung out her swimsuit, had another drink in the hotel lounge as the television above the bar played images of riots with the sound turned down. Petrol shortages in Abuja. Ethnic violence in Jos. Beauty contestants in Lagos.
A tickertape of headlines scrolled along the bottom of the screen as an officer in battle fatigues spoke into a mike, his mouth chewing the words in silence. Behind him, bodies were being loaded onto a Coast Guard vessel labelled JTF, militants and hostages alike, according to the tickertape, all of them draped in oilskin.
It was evening by the time she got back to her room, wobbly on margaritas and missing her dad. It took three swipes of her card to open the door and several more miscues to reach the bathroom.
Why must they make hotel rooms so dim? She hung her swimsuit over the shower bar to dry, splashed water on her face, studied herself in the mirror. This is me in Africa. She had pulled it off, had made it out alive, would be heading home tomorrow.
It was only then that she realized someone else was in the room.
As she stepped out of the bathroom, she sensed it. There was a phone beside the toilet. She might have barricaded herself inside and called down to security, raised a mighty tumult. But she didn't.
Instead, she did what anyone else might have done. She said in a loud voice, "Who's there?"
Housekeeping staff? A radio left on at levels so low you could hear it only when things were completely quiet?
It was none of those. It was a smile, with a boy attached. He was sitting on a chair beside the window under the half-light of an early moon. He was holding what looked like a letter opener, but wasn't.
Laura Curtis had fallen through to the other side, into that counterfeit world she'd helped create. Miss Scarlet, in the bedroom, with an ice pick.
"Hello, madam."
CHAPTER 107
Cousin guyman had leaned in so close Nnamdi could feel each puff of breath, could smell the sweet sticky smell of blood in Mr.
Ironsi-Egobia's lungs.
"You've speared fish?" Ironsi-Egobia asked.
"Of course, cousin. I'm of the Delta, we grow up spearing fish."
"Such is so. It's like that now. One, two, through the gills, twist it wide and let it bleed. One, two—and everything you want is yours. The market stall, the mechanic's tools, a future for your child. The only thing required is this: one, two, and walk away."
Everything we need. Nnamdi had tossed the stones, had looked for guidance, but there was none coming. He was on his own.
And so was the oyibo woman.
CHAPTER 108
Laura, throat dry. Voice a whisper. "Is this about the money?"
His smile turned sad. "It's always about the money, madam."
The young man sounded resigned to what was going to happen.
He'd sat in the darkness long enough for the nervousness and fears to dissipate. All that was left was this: he and her, and a task that needed doing.
When Laura spoke, her voice wavered. "Did Winston send you?"
He sounded puzzled. "Who is Winston?"
"He's... a business associate."
"No, that is not why I am here. Please, madam." He gestured to the chair across from him. "I wish to tell you a story."
CHAPTER 109
Palm wine and moonlight. Sleepy children and a tale wrapped within a larger story.
Nnamdi's father was lulling the young ones into slumber:
"Once there was a hunter who had many friends. Everyone enjoyed the hunter's company. They enjoyed his drinks, his dancing, his food. But most of all, they enjoyed this: the hunter always paid. He paid for everyone. He paid for the palm wine and the pepper stew, he paid for the drummers, he paid for the music, paid for the sweets. He always kept the dancing going when the others had begun to tire. Everyone liked him, and the hunter carried on in such a manner until, sad to say, one day his money was all gone. So he asked his friend, ‘Please give me twenty kobo so I can buy some corn. ' But his friend said, ‘Not give, lend. ' And this friend demanded the hunter's gun as a guarantee. ‘When you pay me back, I will return your gun.' Now the hunter, he needed his gun to hunt the animals to sell in the market to make the money to pay back the twenty kobo to his friend. But his friend was firm on this.
He took the gun and he warned the hunter, 'I will be at your home tomorrow morning to collect payment. If you do not have it, I will keep the gun as mine.' So the hunter went to see his fri
end the leopard, and he said, 'Please, I need twenty kobo to pay my debt. 'The leopard agreed to lend the hunter the money but warned him, 'I will be at your home tomorrow. If you do not have the money, I will take what I want.' The hunter hurried now to his friend the goat and asked for money to pay the leopard. The goat lent the money, but he too said, 'I will be at your house tomorrow to collect.' So now this hunter, he went to the bush cat to get money to pay the goat to pay the leopard to pay the friend. 'I will be at your house tomorrow morning,' the bush cat said. ‘And. if you are not there, I will take what I wish. ' So the hunter asked the village rooster for money to pay the bush cat to pay the goat to pay the leopard to pay the friend, to get his gun back. The rooster gave him the money, but warned as well: 'I will come at first light, and if you do not have my money, I will take what I wish.' The hunter agreed to this. But the next morning, he woke before everyone else and scattered the last of his corn on the ground outside his house. Then he hid behind a tree and waited. Soon after arrived the rooster, crowing for payment. Finding the hunter was not at home, the rooster said ‘Fine, I will eat his corn then.' As the rooster was pecking at the corn, the bush cat arrived and, seeing the hunter gone, decided to take the rooster as payment. The bush cat was eating the rooster when the goat arrived. Angry that the hunter was not there to pay him, the goat charged the bush cat, knocking him into the forest to die. The goat began to call for his money.
But the leopard was now on his way. He heard the goat's bleatings and he followed the sound all the way to the hunter's home. When he found the hunter gone, the leopard pounced, taking the goat as payment. As the leopard was eating the goat, the hunter's friend appeared, carrying the gun. Seeing the leopard, he quickly took aim and—pa-dang!—he shot the leopard dead. At which point, the hunter jumped out, angry and shouting. ‘You have killed my friend the leopard! You will be punished!' The other man was startled, and he begged the hunter for forgiveness. 'I did not know the leopard was your friend! Here, have back your gun. Your debt is paid. Let me go.' After the other man had gone, the hunter skinned the leopard, cooked the meat, and sold the skin in the market. And that was the end of that."
CHAPTER 110
"Miss," said Nnamdi. "Don't you think it would have been better for everyone if the hunter's friend had let him keep his gun? Had not demanded repayment so fervently?"
When Laura spoke, her voice was so faint it almost dissolved into the air between them. "I've done nothing wrong," she said.
"Why are you here, madam, causing such mischief?"
"My father."
"Your father sent you?"
"No, my father died."
"I'm sorry to hear this. My father also died. How did yours?"
"He fell."
"Mine drowned."
"He didn't fall," she said. "He was pushed."
"Mine too."
For the first time, she recognized the beauty of the boy's smile.
Saw in it a sliver of opportunity. If she could establish a human connection with him... "I'm sorry about your father," she said.
"We've both suffered, it seems."
But this only puzzled him more. "My father—he suffered. I was very sad. But it was my father who died, not me. Soon, my wife will give birth, and I will become a papa myself. Do you have any children?"
She shook her head.
"That is a shame, madam. Because then you would understand what is going to happen. My father said the test of a parent is to ask, Would you die for your child? Until you can answer yes to that question, you are not ready to become one. But, madam, I think the greater test is, Would you kill for your child?"
"Don't," she said. "There's no need."
"Every day," he said, "I see children picking through mountains of rubbish. Mountains, madam. My child will not crawl through rubbish. I think that is every parent's wish, don't you? That their children do not have to climb through rubbish."
"Wait, no, don't. Listen—here. I have..." She dug out the bill she had in her pocket. She unfolded it now for the first time, hands shaking, and offered it to him. "A hundred dollars. Take it, please, as a gift. I'm—I'm not going to the police, I'm not going to the EFCC, the only place I'm going is home. Please, just let me go home."
"A gift?"
"A gift."
One, two, in and out, let it bleed and walk away. Ransack the room, make it look like a robbery, opening drawers, flinging belongings this way and that. But just make sure she dies.
"Don't," she said when she saw his expression change. "You can't. I'm—I'm pregnant." It was the only card left to play.
This took him aback. "You are with child?"
"Yes, I found out just today. If you kill me, you'd be killing my child, too."
Nnamdi smiled. "I would wish you a heartfelt congratulations, madam."
"Thank you."
"But we both know you are not with child. It is a ruse, madam.
You are simply trying to 419 me. We both know this."
CHAPTER 111
Amina was waiting in the stairwell with a change of clothes for Nnamdi. But when he appeared, there was no blood. A clean kill?
Or no kill at all? If we go down, we will go down, swords raised.
"Here," he said, palming the bill into Amina's hand. "One hundred dollars. That's a midwife and swaddling, that's an electric fan, a cradle."
"The oyibo woman?"
"Gone."
"Gone, dead?"
"Gone soon. She will be leaving first thing in the morning and will be making no more mischief. She promised on her papa's soul."
He was out of breath.
"But guyman will be asking—"
"Only just you and me knowin'. We tell guyman faddah she never showed. Tell him she was already gone away home. Now, hide the money quick, so it can't be found."
He ran down the stairs, two at a time, feet clattering echoes all the way. He'd answered his own question. He might die for his child. But he wouldn't kill.
Nnamdi tossed the ice pick down a stairwell laundry chute as he ran, heard it bounce metallic against the sides as it fell. It would be discovered in among the hotel bedding that night, when the laundry was dumped into the washing bins, but by then it wouldn't matter.
They were waiting for Nnamdi when he reached the lobby.
As the door clicked shut behind the young man, Laura had scrambled to shove the chain into the slot. She'd turned the deadbolt, hands palsied with fear.
She was having trouble breathing, felt the panic come in waves.
Hands still trembling, she'd called down to the front desk, had said,
"I've just been robbed. He's on his way. Hurry. You might catch him."
And they did.
CHAPTER 112
"Sit down there." A shove.
His face was badly swollen, with one eye puffed shut. But he felt thankful nonetheless; he'd been plucked free of police custody just moments before they were going to start breaking bones.
Hotel security had yelled one question at Nnamdi, again and again. "Who let you into the room?" They wanted to know if he'd been working alone or in tandem with others.
"Door was unlocked, sir," Nnamdi said through a mouth full of blood. "I let myself in, alone, sir." It was the truth. And even after he was carted off by the police, and no matter how hard they hit him, he never wavered. The door was open. I let myself in.
Surveillance tapes from the hotel showed Nnamdi slipping in, and this was enough for the police to convict him in advance of any trial. Had they rewound the tape further, to several hours earlier, they would have seen a cleaning girl enter the room with extra rolls of toilet paper, might have noticed the door not quite close as she left, might have noticed it held open—ever so slightly—by a deadbolt, half-turned. But it would never come to that. As abruptly as Nnamdi had been arrested, he was released. The officers tossed his belongings back at him, not even bothering to steal the few kobo in coins he had before dumping him out the back door.
A car was wa
iting for him.
And now he was here, in a crumbling courtyard that smelled of petrol. High walls, no windows.
A familiar cough. "Gently, gently. There is no call for any roughhousing. Fetch the boy some water."
Nnamdi squinted at the figure moving toward him. "Cousin guyman?"
CHAPTER 113
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