'Because . . . because I've met someone I love,' she answered stupidly.

'You're not even up to twenty.' I did not wait for her to answer. 'Charity, there's no need to make any rash decisions that you may later regret. Look at you. You're bright, beautiful, and you have your whole future ahead of you. Even if you say you love him, it doesn't matter. You'll definitely find another person that you can also fall in love with. Life goes on and you won't die.'

The attentiveness on her face did not alter. Neither did she look like she was going to cry. I decided it was safe for me to push ahead.

'Charity, remember that you don't have to be as desperate as so many other girls are. There's nothing for you to escape from.' I paused. 'Charity, look at me.'

She lifted her gaze and stared into my eyes.

'Charity, you know I have money. OK? Plenty of it. Just focus on your studies and forget about a husband for now. OK?'

She nodded.

'I have nothing against Johnny,' I lied. 'But no matter how far you want to go . . . if it's Harvard or Cambridge . . . there's no problem. My money can take you there . . . and you'll be able to make better choices. Do you hear me?'

Charity sat frozen, so I took her in my arms and squeezed her tight. She placed her head against my chest and folded her arms into my embrace.

Right there and then, I realised that Ola was wrong. My sacrifice was worth it.

'OK?'

Her head moved up and down against my chest. We were silent for a while.

'Charity, do you want to go to London next summer?'

She looked up at me with awestruck eyes.

'I'll arrange a visa for you. We can travel together.'

She stretched her arms around my torso and hugged me.

Suddenly, I noticed that the matriculation photograph in the silver frame on the dresser was starting to swim in front of me. Then a drop of water tapped my cheek. I had not realised I was crying.

By two o'clock in the morning, I was still awake. I got out of bed, went quickly to my dressing table, and flipped open my wallet. I wavered. After a long glance, I removed the photograph. That Kingsley whose arms were once wrapped around Ola at the Mr Bigg's eatery on Valentine's Day had been standing guard in my heart for too long and preventing a successor from taking his place. It was now time for him to give way. Henceforth, he did not exist.

Before climbing back into bed, I tore the photograph into shreds.

Thirty-eight

I had tried to keep track of their names. After Camille, there was Jackie. Then Imabong, then Chichi, Precious, Amaka . . . These days, I no longer bothered to ask. Today's girl was getting up to go to the bathroom when I noticed that her right foot had a big toe that was much, much smaller than all her other toes.

The one thing these strange girls had in common was that they were all undergraduates of the neighbouring universities and poly-technics. They were forced to exchange their bodies for cash in order to bear the burdens of survival in school. Interestingly, of the girls that Camille sent, the ones drenched from head to toe in Fendi and Gucci and Chanel, were usually the ones who carted off all the soap and shampoo and body lotion from my bathroom, and the Cokes and bottled water from my fridge, on their way home. One particular girl had even stolen the pack of toothpicks, and the roll of tissue paper from the holder on the wall.

My cellular rang. It was Aunty Dimma.

'Kingsley Ibe! What kind of child are you?'

Her voice singed my ears.

'Aunty, what do you mean?'

'What do you mean by what do I mean? I find it difficult to believe that you, of all people, have turned out like this. Men! You people are all the same.'

'Turned out like how?'

'So you think your lifestyle is normal? You actually think your lifestyle is normal? That's the problem with money. It's an evil spirit. Kingsley Ibe, I don't like the person you've become!'

What made her think I liked the person she had become? She used to be less opinionated and less aggressive. If Aunty Dimma so badly wanted to be a man, she could at least try being a gentleman.

'Aunty, why are you shouting at me?'

'Kingsley, when last did you visit your mother?'

Her question threw me off balance.

'Errrr . . . I've . . . She . . .'

'Kingsley, I'm asking you. When last did you visit your mother?'

'Aunty, I've been very bu-'

She detonated.

'Busy doing what?! What is so busy about your life that you can't travel down to Umuahia and see your mother regularly? Is that too much to ask of a first son?'

I was defeated.

'OK, Aunty, I'll go and see her this weekend.'

'You can't wait until weekend. Go today! Your mother hasn't been feeling well.'

I swung my feet to the floor. The girl came out of the bathroom wearing nothing. My heart slammed against my chest. It had nothing to do with the temptation in front of me.

'Not feeling well? What's wrong with her?'

'You should be ashamed of yourself.'

'Aunty, please.'

'You should have been the first person to know. You should have been the one calling to tell me. But you're too busy. Busy making money for that criminal.' She paused to suck in a breath. 'She's been having eye trouble. I'm just coming from Umuahia. I spent the past two days with her.'

She ranted some more. I apologised. She terminated the call halfway through my apology. I sprang up from the bed.

'Is everything OK?' the naked girl asked.

I had actually forgotten that she was there.

'Get dressed,' I replied. 'I need to go out now.'

'Would you like me to wait for you?'

Never. Apart from the Cokes and toilet paper, it had taken a pair of Prada slippers, 100mls of Issey Miyake perfume, a pack of Calvin Klein boxer shorts and $3,500 cash for me to learn. These strange girls were never to be left alone.

'Get dressed,' I said.

I jangled my car keys and waited for her to gather her clothes. When she was through, I removed five $100 bills from my wallet and pushed them into her palm. She stuffed the money into her Ferragamo handbag and walked out ahead of me.

My mother was lying flat on her back. I held her hand and stroked her face. Her eyes were red and swollen.

'Kings, how was your trip?'

My trip to America had gone very well. It was my neuroscientist mugu's turn to visit Nigeria next. America was all that Cash Daddy had said it would be and more, but I was glad when my stay eventually came to an end. With the mighty portions of food they served in American restaurants, it would only have been a matter of time before my bathroom scale started reading to-be-continued when I stepped on it. No wonder many shrivelled Nigerians who visited yonder returned massive overnight.

'Mummy, how are you? How are you feeling?'

She sighed.

'They gave me some eyedrops at the hospital, but it doesn't seem to be helping much. The eyes have started swelling again and they're aching me right inside. I've booked to see the specialist next Thursday.'

I hissed.

'Mummy, don't worry. I'll come tomorrow and take you to the Specialist Eye Hospital in Port Harcourt. I hear they have the best ophthalmologists there. I'm sure someone will be able to see you immediately.' It was just a matter of cash.

My mother closed her eyes.

'Mummy, did you hear me? I'll come and take you tomorrow morning. First thing in the morning. OK?'

'Don't worry. I'll wait for my turn at the General Hospital.'

'But they ca-?'

Realisation struck me dumb. I continued staring at her in disbelief.

'Mummy, please,' I said quietly. 'We're not talking about a car or a house. This is a matter of your health. Please don't make a fuss over anything.'

Her sore eyes caught mine and held onto them with as much strength as they could muster.

'Kings, I'm not going with you to Port Harcourt,' she said calmly.

I stood up from the bed and paced up and down the room. I stopped abruptly in front of her with arms akimbo.

'Mummy, are you trying to kill yourself just to make a point? This is your health.'

'Kings, I've told you that I'm not going. Just forget it.'

Her voice was soft and steady, betraying neither stubbornness, nor resentment, nor contempt. I sat back on the bed and kept quiet. Then I pretended as if I had taken her seriously and started chatting about different trivial things. After a while, I left.

Before she had even woken from sleep the next morning, I turned up again at the house. Her eyes were so swollen that she could hardly open them. When I touched her, she sucked in air and grunted with pain.

'Mummy, get up.'

She raised her hand and shook it from side to side. No.

'Mummy, please get up,' I insisted.

This time, she did not even bother raising her hand. I cajoled some more, she remained silent. Finally I lost my temper.

'Well, if that's what you want,' I scolded, 'if what you're trying to do is punish me, you can have it your way. God knows I'm doing-'

'Kings,' she interrupted, speaking in the same soft and steady of yesterday, that betrayed neither stubbornness, nor resentment, nor contempt, 'the only way you can make me happy is to leave this thing you're doing and get a job and settle down. It's not your money, it's not your cars, that can make me happy. You know it really worries me no end.' Her voice became less soft. 'The way it is now, there's no time I think about you and I'm happy. No time at all. It's always worry and fear. And with Boniface and his politics, I'm terrified each time I think that you're-'

'Mummy, I've told you. I'm not involved in the campaign. I work strictly in the office while Cash . . . Uncle Boniface has other people working on the elections.'

She forced her eyes as far open as they would go. Her look seemed to ask if I genuinely thought she believed anything I told her any longer.

'Kings, please . . . Your father would be miserable seeing you like this.'

I slammed the door on my way out.

My car was parked beside Mr Nwude's blue Volkswagen. One of the back tyres of the faithful car was missing and had been replaced by a cement block. Some children were gathered around my jeep. They caressed the body and peered into the rear lights. One stood beside the driver's door, mimicking the whirr of the engine and pretending that the deflated football in his hands was the steering wheel.

Quietly, I retreated into the vestibule and watched. The likelihood that any one of them would ever grow up to own a car like that was low. Very low. I was one of the lucky few. And my own children would be bred from birth with cash. The good things of life would be natural to them.

Alas, with the kind of girls I had been hanging out with, the prospect of marriage and children was still very far away.

Thirty-nine