'When we used to go out every Sunday to feed poor people in the streets. One time, there was this man who came and asked us for his own pack of rice and sachet of water. We gave him. Then he asked us to give him another one for his wife.'

They asked the man to go and bring his wife; they were only supposed to feed those physically present. He explained that his wife was ill. They asked him to imagine what would happen if everybody collected an extra portion for a spouse who was ill. There would be nothing for those who actually came.

As Ola spoke, a huge fly came and took up residence on her left ear. I wanted to stretch out my hand and frighten it away, but for some reason, I did not.

'Do you know that the man got so angry with us?' The fly ran away but returned almost immediately. 'He told us that we were insulting him, that we were calling him a liar. That did we think it was a big deal that we were giving him food?'

Then he flung the rice and water on the floor in front of them and stormed off.

'Can you imagine?' she concluded.

She had narrated the story to me the very same day it happened. Still, I shook my head and tut-tut-ed in all the right places as if I were hearing it for the first time.

'Like I said before, I'm quite surprised that somebody like you is doing 419. You used to be so soft and innocent. How do you cope with swindling all those white people of their money? Don't you feel guilty?'

I shrugged. The fly left her ear at last.

'Well, I guess I just don't think about it too much,' I replied.

'But how can you not feel guilty?'

She appeared truly bemused. What was there to be guilty about? Was anybody feeling guilty about the artefacts and natural resources pilfered from Africa over the centuries? My mugus were merely fulfilling their role in the food chain.

'So how's married life?' I asked, changing the topic.

'Oh, everything is fine,' she replied quickly. The smile that should have accompanied her voice came some nanoseconds after she had spoken. 'My husband opened a new headquarters in Enugu, so we moved from Umuahia almost immediately after we got married.'

She paused.

'The kids and I will be leaving for London by next weekend.' Her face lit up with excitement; emotion had now returned. 'We'll be there for about two weeks and then we'll go on to America.'

She rhapsodised some more about the forthcoming holiday trip. I asked her what she was doing at present. All the excitement left her voice in a deep sigh.

'My husband doesn't want me to work. He wants me to just stay at home and take care of the kids and it's really frustrating. Everybody has tried talking to him but he's been adamant.'

Apparently, the man's decision had taken her by surprise. I could have warned her for free. His actions perfectly fitted the profile of the average, uneducated Igbo entrepreneur.

'What type of job would you have wanted to do?' I asked.

'I'd like to work in a large organisation . . . Something related to my degree. Or maybe just get one of these bank jobs that everybody seems to be getting these days. Anyway, I've already made up my mind. As soon as my youngest child starts school, I'm going to look for a job.'

'What if your husband says no?'

She frowned.

'Kings, leaving my brain to lie fallow is too high a penalty to pay for maternity. God knows I won't allow that to happen.'

Good luck to her. The best the man would probably ever allow her was a boutique where his friends' wives could go and purchase expensive shoes and bags.

'How old are your children?'

She smiled.

'Ah, I have some pictures here.'

She dipped into her Louis Vuitton handbag and whipped out a batch of photographs.

'These are from the birthday party of my first child.'

I inspected each photograph. There was a shot with the two children sitting in front of a huge Spiderman birthday cake with their mother and a man who, by the proud smile on his face and the way his hand was clasped around Ola's ribs too close to her breasts, appeared to be their father. Hopefully, my face did not betray my shock. Poor Ola - her husband was unpardonably ugly, as if he had done it on purpose. As if he had gone to a native doctor and asked for some juju that would make his face hideous. Where was I to start? Was it the square eyes or the spacious nostrils, or the puckered face or the quadruple chin? The man was a veritable troglodyte.

Fortunately for the children, their mother's genes had won the battle. The outcome could win a Nobel Prize for Nature. Ola's children were all quite handsome - saved, delivered, from their father's DNA. At that moment, I decided that if losing Ola to this man meant that the human gene pool had discontinued some frightful traits and produced a better-looking hybrid, then I was glad to have made my noble contribution to the advancement of humankind. I handed back the photographs.

'You have very lovely kids,' I said.

Like all proud mothers, she smiled as if she had been waiting all the while to hear me say just that.

'And they are American citizens,' she added. 'They were born in the US.'

I smiled louder, to prove that I was happy for her.

I asked about Ezinne, about her other sisters, and about her mother. She asked about my mother and my siblings: 'How's your uncle . . . Cash Daddy? I still find it difficult to believe that he's actually contesting for governor.'

I smiled. She laughed. Then, we were silent for a while. Sitting in front of her like that reminded me of old times, of how much I used to love being with her.

'So are you seeing anyone?' she asked suddenly.

I could not look her in the face.

'Not really.'

'Not really, how?'

'I'm not in any serious relationship.'

'How come?'

'How come not?' I forced a smile.

How was I supposed to tell her that while she was busy popping babies and growing fat, I was paying dollars for sex?

'I don't really have the time,' I lied.

'Time? Why? Are you burying your head in your books again? What? Are you doing a postgraduate course?'

Haha.

I sighed.

'Ola, right now, I'm not thinking about any of that. I look at my siblings and I'm satisfied that they're doing well and it makes me content with being the sacrificial lamb. I don't mind setting aside-'

'Kings, it's not worth it.'

The force of her words, though quietly rendered, could have smashed a hole right through the Great Wall of China.

'Kings, you can't set aside your goals and convictions just for the sake of your family or any other people. Take it from me, I know what I'm talking about.'

We went back to silence again, both of us deep in thought. I had spent my childhood daydreaming about my future as a scientist. Ola knew this. My name was going to appear in my children's science textbooks. I was going to be known all over the world because of my inventions. Top on my list, I once told her, was an electric fan that also ran on batteries so that the mosquitoes would not bite even if NEPA took the light in the middle of the night.

A wave of depression came over me. Ola was right. This was never the life I had planned.

Suddenly, it struck me. Inside all those layers of fat, the Ola I loved was still there. She had a way of getting to me, of making me think differently. She had seen me at my lowest and at my highest, at my best and at my worst. And I had not been able to talk to any other person with such easy freedom in a long time - with honesty, with confidence, without apprehension. Ola was my soul mate. Unlike my mother, she understood without being judgemental.

'Ola . . .' I paused. 'Maybe if I had you by my side, things would be different. Maybe you're what I need.'

She remained quiet. Abruptly, she stood and said that it was time for her to leave. She had not touched her Diet Coke. I had not touched my Classic Coke.

'Ola,' I said.

I reached out and held her hand. The warmth of her soft palm was as delicious as a forbidden fruit. I felt a slight tingling run down my spine. Still holding her hand, I asked if we could arrange to meet some other time. She did not respond.

'Even if it's just to talk,' I added. 'Even if it's just for a meal. You know I always dreamed of taking you out to somewhere nice and expensive but I never had the chance.'

Ola continued being quiet. After a while, she pulled her hand away and shook her head. In desperation, I cast off all restraint and said it.

'Ola, I still love you.'

She did not appear startled or repelled.

'I've never stopped-'

'Kings, let's not start something that neither of us can finish,' she said quietly.

'Ola, there's nothing to be afraid of. Things are a lot different now. I can make you happy. I have a lot of money and I can buy anything you want for you. Whatever your mother wants, I'll give it to her.'

Udenna was the least of my worries. His only merit was his money. I was educated, certainly did not look like a troglodyte, and my bank account could now do fair battle with his. I reached out for Ola's hand again. She drew it away and averted her eyes.

'Ola, please. We can both start our lives afresh. Please, just give me another chance. Please.'

She looked into my eyes.

'Kingsley,' she said softly, 'I've made enough mistakes in my life already. I think it would be extremely foolish of me to start making any fresh ones at this stage.'

She patted me twice on the cheek with her fingers. I continued staring long after she walked away into the car park. When my mugu's phone call rammed into my misery, inquiring about his payment for the completed Akanu Ibiam International Airport project, I almost asked him to take his millions and shove them up his Winterbottom.

Thirty-five

There were many possible explanations for the atrocious traffic in Lagos - population explosion, insufficient mass transit, tokunbo vehicles going kaput, potholes in the roads, undisciplined drivers, random police checkpoints, and fuel queues. But in Cash Daddy's opinion, the go-slow started whenever the devil and his wives were on their way to the market. I think he was right. Certainly, today's traffic looked as if the devil was behind it. Car bumpers were locked in French kisses. The masses, crammed into molues like slaves for sale, hopped out of the geriatric yellow buses and continued the rest of their journeys on foot. At this rate, I would be lucky not to miss my flight back home.

I had been granted leave to travel in and out of the United States of America for as many times as I pleased over the next two years. Hallelujah. Yet my mind was still troubled. Dear Ola. She seemed to hold some magical power over me. She could take over the steering wheel of my life anytime she pleased, drive me in whatever direction she chose, and then abandon me to navigate from there. Since yesterday, I had not stopped replaying my conversation with her.

Was the sacrifice I was making in 419 worth it?

Did it make sense to set my dreams aside in keen pursuit of cash?

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 PanelCentral Bank of NigeriaAbujaNigeria 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 SanusiGovernor 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.