No need telling him that this was all film tricks; our beautiful Abuja was a Potemkin village. Mr Winterbottom would probably never have to cross the River Niger to Igbo land, where poverty and disarray would stare him eyeball to eyeball. Not only was Abuja the Federal Capital Territory and the new seat of government, it was probably the most expensive city in Nigeria. Whenever the masses complained about the astronomical costs of living, the government reminded them that Abuja was not for everyone. The journalists and opinion-eds were still debating who the 'everyone' was. Meanwhile, it was probably time for me to speak to an estate agent about buying some nice property here.

The meeting took place in the Ministry of Aviation complex. The real complex. World Bank's wife number two's cousin had risen to the level of having a somewhat fancy office in the building, and for a fee, he had agreed to lend it to us.

Cash Daddy was sitting in the executive chair when we entered. He was in a hurry to attend a meeting with the president, he said, but granted us a brief chat before handing over the necessary documents.

'We're still expecting the National Assembly to OK the budget,' the minister said. 'So, we can't give any mobilisation fees to any contractors right now.'

Mr Winterbottom assured him that we were loaded enough to go ahead, and he was happy to wait and collect all the outstanding payments later.

'That might even mean waiting till the completion of the project,' the minister warned. 'We might just end up paying the $187 million in full at the same time.'

The sound of $187 million arriving in full does a certain something to the human brain. Mr Winterbottom giggled and hopped about in his seat.

Back at the hotel, I brought out Ozu High Seas letterheaded documents and handed Mr Winterbottom his copies. I guess the Englishman from Uganda and Argentina was not such a mugu after all. He perused each piece of paper intensely, asking me questions from time to time before he was satisfied and finally willing to sign. Then he brought out a sleek pen from his jacket pocket and inserted a signature that looked as if it was in the habit of endorsing billions.

Afterwards, Mr Winterbottom said he wanted to go sightseeing. He had travelled along with his camera. The hired driver said he knew the best places we could see. I agreed to accompany Mr Winterbottom on the tour.

The driver showed us the modern mansions of Asokoro and the scenic streets of Maitama. He pointed out former Head of State General Ibrahim Babangida's mansion, former head of state General Yakubu Gowon's mansion, former head of state General Abdulsallam Abubakar's mansion. He even showed us a house that was built in the shape of an aeroplane. But Mr Winterbottom was not impressed.

'Where can I get some real good shots?' he asked. 'I want some real photos of real Africans.'

I apologised that Abuja was not the right place. There were no bare-bottomed children running around with flies in their nostrils. The driver of the hired car overheard our conversation and chipped in.

'Oga, e get plenty villages wey dey for around Abuja, If you want, make I take you. Them no dey far at all.'

He took us just fifteen minutes away, to Kikaokuchi village. What I saw was beyond belief. The slum was teeming with real Africans living in real African houses. How could such sordidness be juxtaposed with so much affluence? The villagers gathered and stared at the white visitor in their midst. Mr Winterbottom went around patting shoulders.

'Bature, bature,' they whispered excitedly amongst themselves.

After about three hours of babbling with awestruck natives, listening to a bare-bottomed lad playing a bamboo flute, and taking photographs of men drinking fura da nono on raffia mats in front of their shacks, Mr Winterbottom was thirsty for new wine. The driver suggested yet another village that was just twenty minutes away.

'No, I think we should go back to the hotel,' I said. I had seen more than enough of Africa for one day.

'I don't mind visiting a few more places,' Mr Winterbottom said. 'This is really very exciting.'

'I think we should go back to the hotel,' I insisted. 'You know Nigeria is a dangerous place.' I paused. 'Especially for a white man.'

That did the trick. He entered the car without another word of protest.

Back at the hotel, the driver nearly zonked out when Mr Winterbottom recompensed him with $100 - a likely approximate of his monthly income in just one day. The man genuflected at least a gazillion times, chanting 'thank you, Master, thank you, Master' each time his head arched towards the floor.

I shook Mr Winterbottom's hand, wished him a good evening, and left him by his room door. Someday, he would look back and understand why I had been so shy throughout the African tour, why I had declined every one of his fervent invitations to feature in his photo shots.

Twenty-nine

On the day that Cash Daddy publicly declared himself as one of the Abia State gubernatorial aspirants, there was not a single tout left roaming the streets of Aba. All of them had been paid in advance and transported in fifty-eight-sitter buses to the National Advancement Party (NAP) headquarters in Umuahia, where they were gathered and waiting when our convoy of brand new jeeps arrived. As soon as they sighted us, the crowd chanted and cheered with naira-fuelled gusto.

'Cash Daddy na our man! Cash Daddy na our man!'

Their man descended slowly from his carriage and waved with a straight face. Protocol Officer, his bodyguards, some of his new political friends, and yours truly accompanied him into the building, where Protocol Officer presented a seven-figure naira cheque in exchange for the nomination form. The crowd hollered another loud cheer when they saw us emerge from the building. They grew more deafening when Cash Daddy waved the form in the air. Major newspapers and television stations in Abia State had been paid good money to cover the event, so the cameras flashed and the microphones popped out. When Cash Daddy raised his right hand, the crowd fell silent.

'People of Abia State,' he began. His voice was deep and calm, like a defence counsel in a murder trial closing his case. 'I appreciate that you've turned out to show your support as I declare my intention to contest for governor of this great state. I thank you very much. I promise you will never regret it.'

The crowd cheered. He dimmed his eyes and scanned the multitude as if taking personal note of each person's face.

'I've been very, very blessed in Abia State, and all I want is an opportunity to be a blessing in return.'

He told them of his plans to provide free education at primary school level, about his plans for agriculture and for development of roads and other infrastructure. He promised to attract foreign investors to ensure that Abia was given its rightful place on the map of the world. Once again, I could not restrain my admiration for this Boniface Mbamalu of a man. I had composed this speech two days ago and spent most of the previous night rehearsing it with him. But I was the mere architect; Cash Daddy had infused the words with real life. The touts gathered might not be equipped to appreciate all these wonderful promises, but the television and radio audiences would understand.

Cash Daddy concluded.

'My brothers and sisters, God bless Abia State, God bless all of us.'

The crowd burst into a flood of cheering and chanting.

Cash Daddy smiled, waved, kept on waving, and continued waving for about ten more minutes, before we finally returned to the jeeps and drove off.

Back at the office, I waited for Cash Daddy to finish conferring with his political cronies. He wanted to meet with me afterwards. Meanwhile, I was delighted to see that my good friend Edgar was still very much in the flow.

Dear Shehu, ALUTA CONTINUA!

I received another phone call from Jude at the security company and he ACCUSED me of causing unnecessary delays. I assured him that it WASN'T MY FAULT that things were taking SO LONG. I had NO IDEA about all the FULL REQUIREMENTS before I sent him the other documents, if not I would have waited. I would APPRECIATE if you or your sister could give him a call and assure him that all the delays haven't been any fault of mine.

I know you and your sister already have A LOT you're dealing with, but DON'T WORRY, I'm right here to HELPyou get this thing sorted out. You REST ASSURED that I'm COMMITTED to helping you TILL THE VERY END.

Best,Your friend, Edgar Oh, I had no doubts at all about his commitment. For an $11.6 million cut, Goering would have been willing to save Anne Frank.

So far, Mr Hooverson had sent money to Nigeria for the change-of-beneficiary certificate and lawyer's fees. In exchange, I had given him all the receipts and other documentation necessary to claim the money at the security firm. He was now in the hands of our associates in Amsterdam who would carry on milking him until he became unbearably desperate.

There was also an email from my Lufthansa airline pilot mugu, threatening me with the FBI. Haha. Unfortunately, the FBI could not do much to stop us. We had fictitious companies registered with the Corporate Affairs Commission and the Chamber of Commerce. We had account details that had been given to us by several different mugus over time, and we had carried out transactions from thousands of ghost accounts in banks around the globe. Anybody hoping to follow our trail would simply be throwing away their precious time.

My phone rang. It was Charity, calling from a business centre in her school.

'Kings, they've fixed the date for our matriculation. It's on the twenty-ninth of November. Are you going to be in the country on that day?'

I smiled. My sister probably added that last part to let the keen eavesdroppers know that she had a brother who could afford to travel abroad.

At first, the professor Buchi had recommended scoffed at Charity's score when I went to visit him at the Abia State University. Then I told him how much I was willing to pay and he agreed to 'see what I can do'. Three weeks later, Charity's admission letter to the Department of Philosophy was ready, complete with deputy vice chancellor's signature.

'That's the best I could do,' he explained. The Law list was already jam-packed and overflowing.

My father would never have allowed his daughter to enrol on such a worthless course, but studying Philosophy was far better than staying home for a whole year, doing nothing. Plus, even though she did not comment on the process, my mother had been pleased. For an additional amount, the professor had assured me that he would switch my sister over to the Law Department by next session.

There was no way I was going to miss her matriculation ceremony. I told my sister so.

'Thank God,' she sighed. 'I was afraid you might be in London again.'

'Just make a list of everything you require for that day, then call me later and we can discuss it.'

Simple. Education without tears.

I went back to making a living.

'I'm relocating my campaign headquarters to my building on Mbano Road,' Cash Daddy announced. 'It's not good to mix business with pleasure. So, Kings, I want you to keep an eye on things here.'

It was becoming clearer to me by the day that God must have been speaking to him about this governorship thing for a long time, probably as far back as the day he summoned me into his private office and made me the offer to come and work with him. Somehow, I was touched that he had chosen me. And proud.

'I'm too big to chase dollars up and down the world,' he continued. 'Money should be chasing me instead.'

He went on to explain that life is in stages, that each person must learn to make changes to accommodate each new stage. He said that he had paid his dues in life and it was now time for life to treat him well.

Protocol Officer's entrance truncated his speech.

'Cash Daddy, I've just been speaking with Grandma,' he said. 'She said someone at her bank was warning her about our account.'

As Protocol Officer gave further details, Cash Daddy grew wilder.

'What do they mean by that?! What type of rubbish is that?!'

Protocol Officer's 'Grandma' lived in Yorkshire. He must have dabbed a very potent mugu potion on his lips the first time he spoke to her, because Grandma was totally consumed with faith in whatever Protocol Officer told her. For centuries, the elderly lady had been trying to help him get his mother out of Nigeria for cancer treatment in the UK. But over time, Grandma's more perceptive children had cautioned her. Each time, she had disregarded their advice - and now a staff member of the bank had tried. She had once again brought the matter to Protocol Officer's attention for advice. This Grandma woman was every 419er's dream.

'Can you imagine this rubbish?' Cash Daddy barked. 'Call the bank for me right now!'

Protocol Officer unlocked a cabinet and whipped out a file. He flipped through and found the number he was looking for, dialled, and asked to speak with the manager before passing the cellular on.

'Do you know who I am?!' Cash Daddy bellowed.

Maybe the bank manager did, maybe he did not.

'Is that the way you treat your big customers? Look, I'm taking this matter to the press! You hear me? You have no right to give out information about what goes on in my account to anybody!'

The bellowing went on and on and on. I could only imagine what was happening at the other end.

'Is it because I'm black? That's what it is, is that not so? If I was a white man, you wouldn't treat me with such disregard. Look, let me tell you. I might be black, but I'm not a monkey and I deserve to be treated with respect!'

Haha. Cash Daddy need never worry about being mistaken for a monkey. With the right diet and the right tutoring from superior brains, a monkey could probably learn how to program computers, pen great works of literature, make scientific discoveries. But no monkey born of creation or evolution could swipe cool millions of dollars with such ease. I could not vouch for the entire black race, but the niggers of Nigeria were certainly not monkeys.

'You'd better be very sorry!' Cash Daddy ranted on.

Then, he handed the phone back to Protocol Officer, who spoke to the manager before hanging up.

'They said they'll send a formal apology,' Protocol Officer said. 'They said they're very sorry, that they'll investigate which staff member spoke to Grandma and take disciplinary measures. They promised it won't happen again.'

No bank wanted to be publicly accused of having issues regarding clients' confidentiality.

'Imagine the rubbish,' Cash Daddy continued. 'Confidentiality. It's a simple word. What's so difficult about that? English is not my father's language. Yet I understand what it means.'

'He promised it won't happen again,' Protocol Officer said consolingly.

'How can they be telling people stories about my account?' Cash Daddy hissed. 'Just because I'm black.'

He continued frowning.

'Where's that form? Who has it?'

'Cash Daddy, I have it with me,' Protocol Officer replied.

He brought the sheet of paper we had just purchased from the NAP headquarters, extended it across the table, and sat beside me. Cash Daddy did not even touch the form with his eyes.

'Kings, you have a good handwriting,' he said. 'Fill it.'

Protocol Officer repositioned the form in front of me. I removed a pen from my shirt pocket and started filling while Protocol Officer stuck out his neck and clung his eyes to my hand. Quickly and efficiently, I filled out the section for name, address, and marital status. In the section for date of birth, I wrote July 4 and paused. I looked up at Protocol Officer and tapped my pen in the space for year of birth. He considered the matter briefly before looking up at Cash Daddy.

'Cash Daddy, what year of birth do you want us to put?' he asked.

'What are they doing with my year of birth?' Cash Daddy asked gruffly, 'Do they want to throw a birthday party for me?'

'Cash Daddy, it's because of the age,' Protocol Officer replied. 'You know they have a minimum age for people who want to contest.'

Cash Daddy dimmed his eyes and made a humming sound in his throat, as if he had been asked to recollect the year when, for ease of administration, Lord Lugard amalgamated the Northern and Southern protectorates of the British Colony, and bundled them up into one country which Lady Lugard had named 'area around the Niger' - Nigeria.

'What's the minimum age?' he asked eventually.

None of us was sure. Protocol Officer placed a phone call to someone he was sure would know and confirmed that the minimum age was definitely thirty years.

'Then let's make it thirty,' Cash Daddy said. 'You know, in this life, it's always better for one to start out early. It has many advantages.'

I did a quick calculation and arrived at a year of birth which placed Cash Daddy and me within the same age bracket. I ignored this water-to-wine category of miracle and continued with my task. When I arrived at educational qualifications, again I tapped my pen and looked to Protocol Officer for assistance. I already knew that the minimum requirement for governorship candidates was a GCE certificate. Protocol Officer considered the matter and arrived at another roadblock.