That is how."
When they start quoting God, it is time to run. Run? Where?
The door behind the Oga's desk led—who knew where? Even if Winston managed to elude the silent Tunde, he would enter a labyrinth, might well end up running right back into this room.
"I talk to you intelligently, because you are an intelligent fellow," said Ironsi-Egobia. "I can see that. So, here is what I propose. I will protect you, and you will tithe me. Will you consider this arrangement?"
"Of course."
Tunde finally stirred, rising as his boss stood. Winston did likewise. The meeting was adjourned as abruptly as it had started, and it ended with an extended palm, one still moist from the coughing, that slipped, with Winstons, into a forearm-to-forearm clasp.
Winston didn't even return to the cyber cafe to collect his umbrella, but fled instead, waving down the first motorcycle taxi he could, pleading with the driver, "Get me far away gone. Take me to the Island."
Winston was swept across the bridge to Lagos Island, didn't look back, moved his base of operations to the upscale cyber haunts of Allen Avenue. This made him slightly nervous, for he was only a few streets over from his own neighbourhood, and there was always the risk of running into a relative or acquaintance. But if he felt less anonymous, he also felt more protected. His daily commute was shorter now as well, and the boutiques and boulevards, the jewellery shops and nightclubs he passed every day were as familiar to him as a parental smile.
Dear Mr. Curtis,
I apologize for the disruption. Many legalities have arisen, but nothing which cannot be surmounted. The money will be in your bank account by week's end, I give you my personal guarantee.
It was said that Eschu, the Trickster God of Yoruba mythology, was buried somewhere along Allen Avenue. Not dead, waiting. That was the tale, anyway—it wasn't something they'd ever covered in Sunday school. But even if Winston had made the proper offerings, even if he'd known the correct manner in which to appease Eschu, it wouldn't have mattered. There were other gods in play.
Scarcely a month had passed and Winston found himself caught up in another police raid. They swept through the cafe with flak jackets and AK-47s, shouting in pidgin English and Lagos street slang, the chaos and confusion allowing Winston to exit his screen with a single click as the officers moved from workstation to workstation, yelling. They were looking for someone. It never occurred to Winston that the someone could be him. He was hustled through the back exit even as he tried desperately to bargain his way out. "Look, this is a Rolex, take it. I have money, I can pay."
Into an unmarked patrol car and then dropped off, not at a police station, but back again on Cemetery Road. The officers themselves buzzed Winston in, turned him over.
Ironsi-Egobia was holding a postal money order up to the light when Winston entered the room. "This is wonderful! Right down to the watermark. Look." He passed it over. "A sample from the finest forgers on Akwele Road. Ikpu akwukwo. True artists. Now, Adam—or may I call you Winston? We haven't seen you in Festac Town for some while now. You aren't shunning us, are you?"
"No, sir."
They had tracked him down. A city of thirteen million people, and he couldn't even find a hiding place.
"I'm sorry to hear about your recent arrest," Ironsi-Egobia said.
"I protected you this time, paid your bail out of kindness. I'm not sure how long I can keep the police at bay, though."
Bail? Winston had never been fingerprinted, had never even reached the station.
"You can return the money when you are able," said the Oga with a magnanimous wave of his hand, as though that was what Winston was worrying about.
Run! Where? How?
Ironsi-Egobia held back a cough, and then looked at Winston with unblinking eyes. "We who traffic in falsehoods must put a premium on the truth. You ran. Why?"
"I was afraid."
"Of me?"
He nodded.
"Good. It's good you were afraid, you had reason to be." Ironsi-
Egobia stopped again to cough. A dry raspy hack, bloodless this time. "I chose my name with great care, great forethought. And later, some of the 419 boys, I overheard them having fun with it.
With their Lagos accents, I thought at first they were saying ‘Iron Eagle.' But no, they were calling me The Iron Ego. Not the Yoruba
ego, you understand, the English. I looked up the meaning. Did you know," he said, "that if you heat the human body fast enough, the skin will separate cleanly? Truly, it does. Slides off. Something to do with the fatty parts underneath melting quicker than the outside. Did you know that?"
When Winston spoke, his voice was barely audible. "No, sir."
"South Africans," he said. "They think they invented everything. Even something as ingenious as a Nigerian necklace, even this they try to claim. A humble ice pick can become a tool of persuasion, so too can a discarded tire and a bit of fuel execute the verdict. A bald tire, on its own? Merely some rubbish. But force it over the shoulders, pin the arms down in its grip, splash in a little petrol, and—well, you have a means of retribution. There is a beauty to it, a simplicity. The Rainbow Nation! That is what the South Africans call themselves now. Can you imagine such nonsense! Brown, black, and white. What kind of rainbow is that?
And not even white-pink, like pork. Have you ever seen a brown, black, and pork rainbow?"
Winston shook his head, mute.
"Now, the necklace—that was invented right here in Nigeria.
The trick is to split the tire, not down the middle, but lower, closer to one edge. You get a shallower scoop that way, but it is easier to force over the shoulders. Next, you have to add just enough fuel to get the rubber burning. Too much and the petrol is difficult to ignite. Not enough and, well, you have to put up with the screaming and whatnot. If you manage it properly, though, both tire and body will burn beautifully, and the skin? It will fall clean away. It's quite a sight." And then: "I asked them, you know. As they were burning, I asked them, What is my name?"
The room began to tilt. Winston felt ill.
"You will pay me a tithe." This was no longer a matter of debate; somewhere in the silence, Winston had acquiesced. "Sixty percent to me," said Ironsi-Egobia, "plus ten percent to the catcher, and another ten percent to cover expenses."
"The catcher?"
"The guyman who sends the original format, the one who receives the reply. The one who first makes contact. He passes the
mugu up, to a ‘storyman.' That be you. When the time comes, you pass the mugu on to a ‘banker.' The banker will arrange payments and will close the file when the time is right. The ‘enforcer' will put the final block on the mugu, make threatening phone calls and such. We have freelancers in England and the U.S. for doorstop visits too, if we need them. But we rarely do. Winston, don't look so glum! Your days of mass mailings and email extractors are done!
Finally, you can focus your talents properly. You won't need to waste them throwing blind formats, cutting-and-pasting letters, turning in circles. This is not some common shakedown. I'm not some area boy lying in wait under a bridge flyover, charging a toll with nothing rendered in return. I provide a service. Tell me, how many mugu you working, at this moment?"
"Three... possibly a fourth."
"Only that? Ha! I will give you that ten times over, I will make you rich and, most important, I will make sure no harm befalls you.
I can ensure that you are never arrested again. Here, let me show you something." He slid his hand into the pocket of his shirt, withdrew a pair of reading glasses, and put them on. Peering through them like a schoolteacher, he opened a heavy, leather-bound book. So heavy, Winston mistook it momentarily for a Bible.
"The Nigerian Criminal Code: Revised." Ironsi-Egobia flipped ahead to a well-marked page; evidently Winston wasn't the first person to be on the receiving end of this recitation. "Section 419 of the Criminal Code: Obtaining Goods Through False Pretenses.
Any person who obtains goo
ds or money through false pretenses with intent to defraud will be sentenced to a term of not less than five years' incarceration and—Well, it goes on. Confiscation of assets, the freezing of bank accounts and so forth. But, and this is the part worth taking note upon: Offenders can be arrested without a warrant only so long as said offender is found in the act of committing the offence."
He stopped, smiled at Winston above the lenses. "Do you see?
This is why they always storm in, kicking up such a ruckus. They are trying to catch the 4l9ers in the act. The regular police are civil about it, you can slip them a bit of dash, settle things like gentlemen.
But these EFCC rangers, they have been hitting the cafes in Festac Town and elsewhere with a singular lack of manners. That is what I am shielding you from. This is not some booth at one of my storefront shops where the low-rent yahoo boys congregate. That is not what I am offering you. I am offering you access to something much better. Not a cyber cafe, but a cyber club. A fully private establishment, members only, with bolted doors and mounted cameras. Even the most ardent of policemen and the most fervent of EFCC agents cannot simply charge in, willy-nilly, nor can they slip in by stealth, unnoticed. They must gain access, they must be buzzed through, signed in, properly verified. Plenty of time for the guymen inside to vacate the premises through other means."
It was clever. Even through his nausea and fear, Winston could see that.
"We are shadowmen," said Ironsi-Egobia. "The only thing we have to fear is sunshine, publicity. As long as we remain in the shadows, we will move as shadows do, across any surface. Show me the prison that can contain shadows! As long as we are plying our trade and collecting our dues out of sight, no one can reach us."
The Oga was right. And that was the problem. Winston didn't want to ply his trade in darkness, as though making money was something shameful. He wanted to do it openly, in direct light.
Laws were malleable; surely they could be massaged and stretched, made to include 419?
"You will have access to the best forgers Lagos can produce.
Legal wills and registered letters, birth certificates—and death—financial statements, diplomatic papers, documents from the Central Bank, stamped with the personal seal of the director. I even have printers who can typeset newspaper headlines, made to order, on real newsprint. ‘Millions missing from Delta oil contracts.' 'Foreign worker dies in ghastly car accident, leaves no heirs.' Whatever story you wish to spin, we can provide the necessary documentation. We can even create mirror websites, showing great fortunes languishing in a Nigerian bank account in any name you desire."
That's what fortunes do in Africa, Winston thought. They languish.
What Winston wanted to say was this: "My passport is suspended. I have a criminal record. I cannot leave Nigeria. Help me. Help me and I will tithe you one hundred percent. I will tithe you one hundred and ten." The clandestine printing presses on Oluwole Street, the forgery mills of Akwele Road. If they could conjure birth certificates into existence, might they not conjure visas as well? Passports, even?
These were the things he wanted to ask, but didn't. It was reckless even to dream them. Because Winston knew that to arrive in London on a forged passport was to condemn your future self to life as a fugitive. You would never be able to work at your proper level, would end up, odds-on, arrested and then deported back to Nigeria, to languish, fortune-like, in Kirikiri Prison. You would end your days broken, would never, ever leave Lagos.
And why would his Oga help him flee the cage anyway?
Winston was already imprisoned. Ironsi-Egobia was still speaking, but Winston barely heard.
"We buy cellphones in bulk. We have scanners and photocopiers. Ink pads of every colour, envelopes of every size, postage stamps of every nation. We have chop and drink when you are hungry or thirsty. Girls, for the same. And if one of your mugus is so foolish as to show up, that is manna from Heaven. We will provide you with a driver, a bone man, whatever you need. We have lawyers on payroll and police the same. We have errand boys to pick up the payments when they arrive at MoneyGram or Western Union. If anything goes wrong, they are the ones to be arrested and beaten, not you. Think of it." He folded his glasses, put them to one side. "You can tell your stories without hindrance, with no one interfering. Chop I chop. That is what we say. You eat, I eat. Chop I chop. We don't stand on each other's shadows. You have only to pay your tithe to me, a fee to the catcher, plus ten percent for expenses—bribes and so forth. What could be simpler?"
... said the blind man to the diver.
Blood was back in his cough, and Ironsi-Egobia turned away, pressed a handkerchief to his face as though it contained chloroform. Breathed through it—a gurgle in, a rattle out.
Winston was neck high in deep water now, was caught in the grip of the undertow, could feel his head about to go under. And somewhere: the smell of gasoline, more a memory of something to come than anything real.
CHAPTER 42
She'd grown thinner as her belly grew larger; it was as though the child inside was feeding on her hunger.
Were you to die out here, who would mourn? Who would perform last rites? But she already knew the answer to that: no one. Bones picked clean by desert ants, she and the child inside her would join the other skeletal remains that decorated the landscape: cattle bones with their elegant curves of white; the carcasses of cars, sun-brittle and bleached, abandoned on the roadside, stripped clean of everything worth taking. The asphalt was littered with the husks of such vehicles, testaments to the effect of sand drifts on drivers and the hazards of overtaking traffic on blind curves.
It was getting harder and harder to keep the globe turning.
She could feel her footsteps start to falter, had been having trouble keeping the jerry can balanced. Arms as thin as bird bones. Eyes, half-shut. She was stumbling across the landscape now as much as she was walking, the last of her water sloshing back and forth.
I will die here, and who will mourn?
And at precisely the moment she was about to fall: the strangest of sights. A woolly ewe driving a motorcycle. The ewe passed by with a certain aplomb, chewing the air thoughtfully, looking rather regal. The girl almost laughed, would have, had she the strength—but then she realized the significance of this omen.
CHAPTER 43
They were reconstructing her father's downfall in the same methodical manner they had reconstructed the accident itself: walking the family through it, step by step—though stage by stage might be more accurate, Laura thought. The narrative the detectives from the Economic Crime Unit were laying out for them resembled nothing so much as the Kubler-Ross checklist of grieving, albeit one that started not with denial but hesitation, then elation, and ended not in acceptance but despair.
The sun had shifted. Winter light, a low blue. There were no more reflections on the window across from Laura, only a hallway beyond lit by fluorescent tubes. The ice in their glasses had melted into nubs.
They were going over the emails her father had received, laying each one to rest in turn.
"Complements of the season!" That rankled her. It was a mistake that popped up several times, under various names: "I complement you on your speedy response." Laura had to resist the urge to correct the pages, to circle the error, change "e" to "i." I complement you!
Maybe they did. Maybe whoever was sending her father these messages did complement him. Maybe they complemented each other.
"Do you see something?" It was Brisebois, zeroing in on the way Laura was studying one of the emails.
"No," she said. "Only errors in usage."
"Sometimes it's the widow of a dead general," said Detective Saul. "Sometimes it's a government official who's been secretly skimming money from the National Treasury or siphoning funds from Nigeria's National Petroleum Corporation. Or maybe it's a long-lost relative you've never heard of who deposited a fortune just before dying in a plane crash or a traffic accident. Sometimes it's a steamer trunk filled with hundred-dolla
r bills that have been dyed black in order to smuggle them out of the country—you just need a special chemical to clean them, and the millions are yours!
It's really just pieces of cut-up construction paper, of course, with a few real bills hidden among them. Simple trick, really. It's like street magic, but with a much higher yield."
"People fall for that?" Warren asked.
"All the time."
"But whatever the variation," said Detective Rhodes, "the basic idea is the same: We'll send you a huge amount of money. All you have to do is deposit it into a bank account for us, and you'll get to keep either a healthy commission or all of it, in the case of dead relatives and surprise lotteries. No risk, no cost, huge windfall.