Before long, his verbalomania kicked into action and Cash Daddy, once again, became as talkative as a magpie.

'These people don't know who they're dealing with,' he began. 'Of course I know it's Uwajimogwu that arranged this police trouble for me. The eagle said that it wasn't a child when it started travelling long distances. I've been getting in and out of trouble since I was this small.' He indicated a distance from the floor to the air that was not higher than a toilet seat. 'Honestly, he doesn't know who he's dealing with.'

Uwajimogwu was his co-contender for the gubernatorial ticket of the National Advancement Party. It was general knowledge that even though there were at least thirty others who had collected forms and indicated their intention to contest, the fight was really just between both men. Whichever of them won the primaries was fairly certain to become the next governor of Abia State. The NAP was currently the strongest party, the one with the most billionaires and the highest concentration of reincarnated politicians whose histories went as far back as Nigeria's first democratic elections in the 1960s.

'He knows I have the police here under my control, that's why he went and lodged his complaints with the Zonal Command in Calabar. But they still don't have any proof. Money laundering of all charges. He wants to get me into jail and the only thing he could come up with is money laundering.'

Cash Daddy laughed. This tactic of digging into a co-contender's past to unearth crimes was proving quite effective in many states around the country. Just last week, a House of Representatives candidate in Delta State had been disqualified for spending four years in an Italian jail for drug trafficking. The man had kept denying the allegation until his opponents published the twenty-year-old records, which they had obtained from the Italian police, in five national dailies.

'At first, I tried to be considerate,' Cash Daddy continued. 'I had planned to allow a few delegates to vote for him in the primaries, but now he has made me very angry. I'm going to make sure that not a single vote goes to him on that day. He'll see that they don't call me Cash Daddy for nothing. If a person bites you on the head without being concerned about your hair, then you can bite him on the buttocks without being concerned about his shit. Is that not so?'

Fortunately, I was not required to answer.

Cash Daddy tucked his hands beneath his T-shirt and started slapping a rhythm on his belly.

'I'm very hungry,' he announced. 'I don't think I slept more than five minutes last night. Mosquitoes were singing the national anthem in my ears. I have to make a complaint to Police Commissioner. At least they should have put a fan in my room.'

From what I had heard of our police cells, the facilities in a horse stable were supposed to be better.

Cash Daddy stretched his upper jaw to the North Pole, his lower jaw to the South Pole, and yawned. A billion mosquitoes must have lost their lives in the malodorous fumes from his mouth. Cleaning his teeth must have been the very last thing on his mind this morning.

'I'm sure the whole of Nigeria has been trying to reach me,' he said, switching on the cellular phone Protocol Officer had returned to him.

His face split in another yawn. He peered through his tinted window. A blue Bentley was coming from the opposite direction.

'Is that not World Bank?' he asked excitedly.

Protocol Officer had already seen the oncoming car and confirmed that it was.

'I haven't seen him in a long time,' Cash Daddy said. 'Stop!'

The driver stopped. Exactly where the Jaguar was in the middle of the road. He wound down Cash Daddy's window from the control panel in front, and Cash Daddy stuck his head out. World Bank noticed his pal and must have commanded his own driver who stopped directly beside us. Also in the middle of the road.

'Your Excellency!' World Bank hailed. 'Long time no see!'

'My brother,' Cash Daddy replied, 'you know it's not my fault. I've been very busy with the campaigns. Every day it's one meeting after another.'

'It's a good thing I saw you now. Very soon, we'll have to fill forms and go through all sorts of protocol before we can see you.'

'That's the way life is,' Cash Daddy replied apologetically. 'From one level to another. Anyway, we shall survive. How are things with you?'

'Cash Daddy, let me give you notice. I'm throwing a party for my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary in August. And I'm celebrating it big! Even my sister in Japan is coming back with her family. It'll be a good opportunity for a family reunion. The last time we were all together was during my father's burial. It's such a pity that he's not alive to witness the anniversary.'

By this time, there was a pile up of cars in both directions of the busy road, a road made even narrower by erosion and debris. The accommodating drivers waited for what they assumed would be a brief chat. When it went on for longer than was acceptable by highway etiquette, many of them started honking. Some stuck out their heads and yelled earnest invectives. Cash Daddy and World Bank were unperturbed. They continued their chitchat to its natural conclusion before saying goodbye.

While the driver was pressing the control to slide Cash Daddy's window back up, a man who was about four cars behind World Bank's Bentley, leaned out of a Datsun Sunny that looked as if it had been stuck together with chewing gum and tied up with thread.

'Thieves!' he shouted. '419ers! Please get out of the way! Was it your dirty money that built this road?'

As we drove on and past the Datsun Sunny, the irate driver stretched out a fist and punched the body of the Jaguar viciously. Protocol Officer took this action personally. He cursed loudly and started winding down his window.

'Don't mind him, don't mind him,' Cash Daddy said calmly, like the elephant who had just been told that the spider was coming to wage war against her. 'Just ignore him. You don't blame him, his problem is just poverty. Can't you see the type of car he's driving? If you were the one driving that type of car, wouldn't you be angry? That's why I don't like poor people around me. They're always looking for someone to blame for their problems.'

Reluctantly, Protocol Officer wound his window back up. Cash Daddy wagged his finger at me.

'But that doesn't mean you should cut off all the poor people you know,' he warned. 'They don't have to be very close to you, but it's good to keep them within reach, because they can come in handy once in a while. Me, I know enough pepper and tomato sellers who can start a riot for me any day I want.'

As we drove on, there was silence for a while. But not for too long.

'How did it go at the American Embassy?'

'I collected my visa yesterday.'

I gave brief details of the stressful interview.

'Don't worry about all that,' Cash Daddy said. 'By the time you reach America, you'll see that it was worth it. That's the same way they'll stress you at the point of entry, but it still doesn't matter. They'll even bring big, big dogs to sniff your whole body, but that's how they treat every other Nigerian, so there's no need for you to start thinking you've done something wrong. The only way you can avoid all that stress is to get an American passport.'

He yawned again.

'You're lucky that you're not yet married,' Cash Daddy continued. 'If I'd thought about it early enough, I would've married a woman who's a British or American citizen. By now I would have had my own full citizenship.'

He tossed his head back onto the headrest.

'By the way, Kings, have you decided when you're getting married?'

I snorted.

'You think it's funny, eh? Listen, let me tell you something. When a warrior is involved in a wrestling bout and has his eyes both on the fight and on his surroundings, even a woman can defeat him. That's why it's good to marry early. Better hurry up. Even Protocol Officer is getting married.'

'Ah! Protocol Officer? Congratulations.'

'Thank you,' he replied without looking behind. Years of sitting in the front of Cash Daddy's vehicles had taught him the art of turning his ears around without turning his head. I tried to imagine all that his ears must have soaked in while sitting there all these years.

When we drove through the gates of the mammoth mansion, nine men ran out of the house to welcome Cash Daddy. As soon as he stepped out of the car, almost all of them struggled to be the ones to clean his shoes. That was when it occurred to me just how much all of us loved him, how much he meant to us. What would become of all of us if he went to jail? Then I remembered the gifts I bought for him. I grabbed the carrier bag from the floor of the car before climbing out after him.

'Cash Daddy, here's something I got for you in Lagos,' I said, stretching the bag out to him respectfully, with my two hands and with a slight stoop.

'What?'

'Here's something I got for you.'

For once, Cash Daddy was as speechless as a stone. He kept looking at my hands without touching the bag. Finally, the shock covered the whole acreage of his face and passed. He shook his head slowly and took the bag from me.

'This boy, your head is not correct,' he said quietly. 'There's something wrong with you. Why didn't you use the money to buy garri for one old woman in your village? How can you be spending your money buying me things?'

He started walking towards the house. After a few paces, he stopped and turned.

'I was just thinking about it,' he said. 'Do you know that this is the first time in almost fifteen years that anybody has bought anything for me? Just like that . . . for no reason?'

He smiled like a delighted child and continued towards the house.

Thirty-seven

Charity had taken the weekend off school for the special occasion. Her suitor was paying me a courtesy call this Saturday afternoon. From my bedroom window, I saw that Johnny a.k.a Nwokeoma was not infected with the 'African Time' epidemic. He had arrived a whole seven minutes before his 2 p.m. appointment. To make sure that nobody mistook his brand new Honda for a tokunbo, Johnny had left the protective cellophane wrappings on the seat covers and on the headrests. Like many people, he would probably never tear the covers off but leave them to wear out with time.

My sister rushed outside to welcome him. With fury, I watched them embrace. I was daring the man to take their body contact any further when they held hands and sauntered happily into my house. Charity had him seated comfortably in the living room, then came upstairs to announce his arrival. I had been pacing up and down in my bedroom for the past thirty minutes, wondering what to say to him when he turned up. Still, I allowed an extra forty minutes to pass before coming downstairs. I did not offer any apologies for keeping him waiting.

Johnny presented some 'wine' to formally initiate me into his intentions. I received the two bottles of Remy Martin cognac and placed them on the stool beside me. Since I was not particularly desperate for my sister to leave the house, I was not going to ask for a wineglass and sip from the drink immediately.

'I'm delighted to finally meet you,' he said. 'Charity holds you in such high regard. Very soon, you'll meet my family as well. They've all met Charity and they're also looking forward to meeting you.'

The man greatly amused me. He was tall, thin, slow, hairy, with heavy linear eyebrows that looked as if they had been cut out of a thick rug and pasted onto his face with cheap glue. Each time he shifted his head, I half-expected the eyebrows to drop onto the floor. His look was stiff and sluggish, like all his mannerisms. When he began a five-word sentence, I could have walked up the flight of stairs, gone to the bathroom in my bedroom, turned on the tap, washed my hands, turned off the tap, descended the stairs, sat down, and he would still not have finished speaking.

But there is some good in everybody: beneath his burdensome eyebrows, Johnny was quite handsome.

'I hear you're a banker,' I said.

'Yes, I am,' he replied as if each word had a phobia of the next one coming after it. 'I'm head of operations at the Standard Trust Bank in Okigwe.'

For a second, I relished the many advantages of having an in-law who worked in a bank. In our line of business, it always helped to have a banker on your side.

He went on to say that he had a degree in Business Administration from the Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. He was Roman Catholic, his parents were civil servants, and he was desperately in love with my sister of course. Plus, he was thirty-four years old!

At that moment, Charity walked in with a tray of refreshments. The corners of the man's mouth expanded to his ears in a smile. He stopped speaking while she adjusted the centre table and deposited her offering in front of him. He fixed gleaming and delighted eyes on my sister from the moment she entered the room, while she was opening the bottle of soft drink, till she twisted her tiny behind and left. There was a strong possibility that his eyeballs would have popped out of their sockets if she had not left when she did.

I felt like bruising his handsome jaw with my fist.

'If everything goes according to plan,' he continued, 'we would be married by August.'

He was a British citizen, you see, and had enrolled at the London School of Economics. The postgraduate course would be starting in September. He wanted Charity to come along with him as his wife.

I listened to him broadcasting his well-calculated plans and thought to myself, what a fool.

He kept talking. His voice started sounding as annoying as a toddler crying on the plane during an all-night flight. I stopped listening and started wondering. Finally, I reached a conclusion. There could only be one reason why my young, intelligent, beautiful, naive, unassuming, impressionable sister would want to marry this cradle-snatching slug. He had a British passport. This Anglo-Nigerian was her ticket to a better world - a marriage proposal attached to a magic carpet.

The whirring noise in my ears suddenly ceased. The man had finished his ditty. Out of curiosity - strictly out of curiosity - I asked him one last question.

'What about her education? What will happen if she gets married now and has to leave the country?'

Of course he had that all planned out, too.

'That's not a problem. She can transfer to some schools in London. Or she can just start right from the beginning. It all depends how long we'll remain in the UK.'

I nodded. The man was not such a fool, after all.

'I plan to go and see your mother in Umuahia by next week,' he said.

Because I was opara - and in my father's absence, the head of the family - he had come to see me first.

When he was ready to leave, Charity accompanied me in seeing him off. As his brand new Honda slid out of my gates, she took my hand in hers and looked up shyly. She was anxious to know what I thought of her beau.

'He's OK,' I replied as we walked back into the house. 'He's quite OK.'

'Do you know that he's a British citizen?' she asked, her eyeballs swollen with visions of a magnificent future in El Dorado.

'Yes. He told me.'

We sat in the living room, pretended that we had both forgotten about Johnny, and watched a Nollywood movie about a girl who was engaged to a boy that she did not know was the child her mother had abandoned by the riverside twenty-three years ago. Just as Charity was slotting in Part 4, I invited her into my bedroom. We sat side by side on the bed.

'Charity,' I began, 'how did you say you met Johnny?'

'I met him through a friend at school,' she began excitedly, almost out of breath. 'In fact you even know her. Thelma.'

Who on earth was Thelma?

'She was one of those who came with us on my matriculation day. The one that sat next to you at the restaurant.'

Ah! The girl whose breasts were as big as if she were nine months pregnant with twins, who had kept digging her foot into my calf. And winking each time I looked up, oblivious to Godfrey slobbering across the table. The only reason why I did not follow up was because she was not my type and I did not want to just fool around with my little sister's friend.

'Oh, yes. I remember her,' I said.

'She's known Johnny's people for a very long time and she says they're from a good family.'

In other words, his family were neither osu nor ohu. None of their ancestors had been dedicated as slaves to the pagan gods of any shrine, none of their ancestors had been slaves to other families. And so we nwadiala, freeborn, were not forbidden from marrying amongst them. The first thing my father's sisters had wanted to know when I told them about Ola was whether or not she was osu. But with Johnny, I had other concerns.

'How long have you known him?' I asked.

'We've known each other for four months,' Charity replied. 'He's reeeeally nice.'

She placed an emphasis on the 'really', as if to distinguish between his own and the other types of niceness that exist. I nodded to show that I understood.

'Do you like him?'

'I love him,' she answered swiftly and confidently.

I nodded again. Something caught my eyes. Her matriculation photograph in a silver picture frame on the dresser beside my bed. She was wearing the mauve gown and cap that she had hired from the university. She was smiling in a juvenile way that showed her dazzling white teeth like a crescent moon in the sky. Charity had eventually misplaced the cap and I had had to pay a ridiculous amount to the school for its replacement. She told me that my unrestrained expense at the fancy restaurant had been the talk of her friends at school for days.

'Why do you want to get married now?' I continued.

She frowned.