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Mike was struck by how flat he felt. It felt like the burning passion, which had driven him up to this point, had run out of fuel, and was spending itself in the most unlikely setting of this Federal Courthouse. He barely took in the cold, impersonal feel of his surroundings – the functional, typically uncomfortable Government-issue furniture, the unimaginative attempts at decoration, the muted hum of the air-conditioning that struggled to keep out the heat of New York in August. He found it strangely difficult to focus on the man whom he had pursued for so long, almost, it seemed, to the exclusion of everything else. When he forced himself to do so, he thought it was funny how different he looked now. Yes, the suit and tie were sharp as always, and no doubt the shoes gleamed as they always did. Yet, there was something different, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Mike thought about that for a moment, and then decided that it was the arrogant, self-assured air that had gone, replaced by uncertainty and apprehension, as they all waited for the jury to return with their verdict. The defendant, Big Man, licked his lips, and frequently flicked back an immaculate cuff to glance at an expensive looking watch. Ever the showman, he tried to conceal his growing anxiety by smiling and waving at the adoring band of sycophants and hangers-on seated on the benches reserved for the public. Mike idly wondered how long they would hang around for, if, as he hoped, the jury came back with a verdict that condemned their benefactor to several years as an unwilling guest of the Government of the United States. He thought with a wry smile of the vicious infighting that was sure to follow over the ill-gotten millions Big Man had amassed over such a short time.

Things seemed to be moving. The law enforcement people in attendance stopped chatting to each other and took up positions around the room. The prissy, pompous court clerk bustled in, and the stenographers suddenly reappeared. The lawyers sat back at their tables, pens poised over yellow legal pads. The Court rose as the Judge appeared. The jury filed in and took their places. Mike scrutinised each face, hoping for a clue as to which way they would go. The foreman, a small, dark Hispanic man looked vaguely uncomfortable, as he had done since the first time Mike set eyes upon him, as if troubled by piles. Next to him was the white woman Mike had taken to calling the Bitch in his mind, although he wasn’t quite sure why. Fatso sat next to her, looking somewhat awed by the occasion, and he actually seemed to be awake for a change. Then there was the Mad Professor, who had apparently spent the entire trial leaning forward, staring intently through his thick glasses at whomever was speaking at the time, as though he were either committing every word to memory, or else divining the secrets of their souls. Mike was surprised to note that the earlier feeling of flatness had disappeared, replaced by the sort of anxiety that had accompanied waiting for exam results in his youth. Or waiting outside the labour ward all those years ago…He ground his teeth as he fought to suppress those memories; after all, that was why he was here to see this, wasn’t it?

He glanced across at Big Man. All pretence of cool detachment had vanished. The man looked frankly terrified. His hands seemed to be shaking, and he tried to control them by firmly interlocking his fingers. He leaned over to listen to his lead lawyer, but his eyes never left the jury box. He watched the Judge ask the foreman if they had reached a verdict. “Yes, Your Honour, we have”. The foreman passed a folded piece of paper to the clerk who handed it to the Judge. The Judge opened it, read what was written on it, and with no trace of expression handed it to the clerk who cleared his throat, and in his most pompous way started to read. “One Count One, we the Jury find the defendant guilty. On Count Two, we the Jury find the defendant guilty”. A low murmur spread across the room, soon drowned out by loud wailing from the public benches. Someone appeared to have collapsed. The Judge was saying something about passing sentence at a later date, but Mike barely took it in. He only had eyes for Big Man, watching with a growing sense of satisfaction as the Marshals handcuffed him behind his back, and led him away, a far cry from his days of pomp and importance as a senior figure in the Government of his country. As he disappeared, Mike seemed to wake up, and noticed that it was the defendant’s wife (or at least the most senior of the several wives and concubines) who had collapsed and was now being wheeled out by ambulance medics on a trolley, with an oxygen mask over her face. He felt a fleeting pang of guilt, and then remembered his own wife and children…

Not for the first time, Mike wondered how the hell the English managed to live with their crazy weather, when it could have been sleeting this morning, and now, late on this spring afternoon, the sun was out, it was freezing cold, and to top it all, hailstones the size of golf balls were falling. He half wished that he had taken his boss up on the offer of staying for one more drink at the boozy lunch they had had to celebrate clinching the merger of two small companies that made feminine hygiene products, as the turgid prospectus described it. The thought of having to put up with the antics of several drunken Englishmen was enough to persuade him that it was time to cut and run. Inevitably, he would have a few himself, and become less able to put up with their prejudices which seemed to come to the fore when they’d had one drink too many, and then he might do or say something he’d regret later; no, it was better to make polite excuses and leave them to it. He toyed with the idea of going home to the swish flat in Docklands that he’d bought with last year’s bonus, and maybe going for a swim, but his exercise routine didn’t appeal today. Perhaps he could give that pretty lawyer at the bank a call….now what had he done with her number?

“Why don’t you bloody look where you’re going?”

“I do beg your pardon, I was miles away”. He smiled sheepishly at the deliveryman he’d nearly knocked off his feet, and bent to help him pick up the bundles of the evening newspaper that he’d been carrying. The man grunted an acknowledgement of the apology, and went on his way. Mike looked round and spotted one of the several coffee shops that seemed to have sprung up in London over the last few years. He’d go in for a coffee to get out of the hailstones, and have a good hunt in his wallet to see if he could find the bank lawyer’s card she’d given him earlier.

“An Americano, please”.

“Sure, regular or large?” The girl behind the counter wasn’t particularly convincing that she gave a toss either way.

“Regular’s fine, thanks”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it”

“That’ll be three fifty”

Mike handed over a five-pound note and watched her search for as many fifty pence pieces as she could find in the till to give him as change. He dutifully left two of them in the saucer on the counter and took the cup from her. He wandered around, trying to find a seat, but the shop was full of other people with the same idea as him. He gave up and stood at the ledge by the window. He got his wallet out to see if he had put the lawyer’s card in there, but couldn’t find it. So much for that idea. Someone had left a copy of the same newspaper he’d just knocked over, and he glanced idly at it whilst he sipped his coffee (which was surprisingly good). He flicked through the pages of the newspaper, starting with the sports section at the back, as he usually did. Next, he glanced at the entertainment section, hoping perhaps to go and see a film. His eye was caught by an unusually large advert for a South African musical that he’d seen advertised on the Tube a few days previously, and that he’d made a mental note to look up-that he had completely forgotten about it till now was another piece of evidence that he was getting a little too stressed. He saw it was on at the Barbican, which was within easy walking distance; well, that solved the problem of what to do with himself this evening. He wasn’t to know it then, but his life would take a very different course from that moment on.

There was a fairly large crowd in front of the ticket offices at the Barbican, generating a steadily increasing volume of noise. Mike took some time to work out where he needed to go to enquire about tickets, but thankfully the queue wasn’t too long, and there were still tickets available, albeit at the pricier end of the scale. He bought a ticket in the stalls, as well as a glossy overpriced programme. The show wasn’t due to start for another hour and a half, so he looked round for a bar to sit in and while the time away with a few drinks. The bar he found was no great shakes, but it would do. He ordered a vodka and tonic, got a bag of nuts and wandered to a table in a corner that afforded him a view of the entrance. A few minutes later, his attention was caught by a striking woman who walked in with a smug looking man dressed in jeans and a shirt that looked at least a size too small for his belly. Mike pretended to read his programme whilst casting an increasingly impressed eye over the woman. He wouldn’t have described her as beautiful, but there was something about her that he found attractive. He tried to decide if it was her light skin, or the way she filled her clothes in such a sensuous way, or whether it was the haughty, somewhat arrogant look in her eyes-after some more admiring reflection, he decided it was a combination of all three. He had just started to imagine what she would look like without her clothes on when he realised with a start that she appeared to be looking directly at him. He hurriedly averted his eyes, but not before he saw an amused half-smile play over her lips, which for some reason he felt vaguely annoyed about. She started walking in his general direction, looking around her, and he realised she hadn’t been looking at him; she was trying to find a free table, which annoyed him even more. She found one a few tables along to his left, and turned to wave at Beer Belly at the bar to let him know where she was sitting. For the first time, Mike turned his gaze to Beer Belly, wondering what a stunner like her was doing with someone like him. His face was pleasant enough, but with evidence of a lifestyle of too much consumption and too little exercise. He carried himself with the haughty air of one who thought quite a bit of himself. Mike thought that there was something vaguely familiar about his face as he watched him make his way towards the table the girl was now sitting at, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. He watched him sit at the table, and pour the wine. Mike realised he was staring, and made an effort to drag his eyes back to the programme open in his lap, but couldn’t resist turning his eyes towards the couple every few minutes. He was surprised to note that he was now more preoccupied with trying to work out why Beer Belly’s face seemed so familiar than with appreciating the attractiveness of his companion. He prided himself on his memory for faces, and he just knew that he had seen that face before; it would annoy him now for the rest of the evening.

He was just starting to really wind himself up when he realised that the time had flown by and it seemed that the show was about to start, as the bar, which had filled up a fair bit without his realising it, began to empty. He got up and joined the crowd heading to the theatre, but not without first casting a last glance at Beer Belly and his companion. There was something about him….

It came to him mid-way through the first session before the interval – Beer Belly had initially been a year ahead of him at school, but they had ended up graduating together after Beer Belly had been forced to repeat the third year, much to the delight of Mike and his classmates, who had suffered much at the hands of Beer Belly when he had been their senior. Although never close, he recalled that Beer Belly had been friendly enough in their last two years at school, especially as their school leaving exams approached, and the joint need to pass with good grades overcame any lingering feelings of animosity or superiority. Now what was his proper name….Akin Something or Other, wasn’t it? Kazeem – that was it. Niggling problem resolved, Mike turned his attention to the lithe young bodies on the stage, dancing energetically to the pulsating rhythms that only African music seemed able to generate. He could see why the show had received such good reviews – the music was superb, the set and lighting much the same, and the storyline quite haunting. He settled down to enjoy the show.

“Excuse me, did you go to Sacred Heart in Lagos by any chance?”

Beer Belly turned round, with a look that suggested he was wondering what mere mortal had had the temerity to address him in this place. When he realised it was Mike, and that he did not seem to be in the least intimidated by the look, his expression softened a bit. “Yes, I did” he said.

“I thought so….Akin Kazeem, right?”

“That’s right…you are..?”

Mike stuck out a hand. “Mike Anako….we studied for our school cert exams together”

Recognition dawned on Beer Belly’s face. “Of course! I thought your face looked familiar in the bar earlier. How are you? Long time, man”

“Indeed. I don’t think I’ve seen you since we left school. You went off to Ife, right?”

“Correct…and you?”

“Stayed in Lagos to read Law, and for Law School, then went off to the States to do a Masters, and ended up in the UK a few years afterward, been working in the City as a corporate lawyer since. What are you up to these days?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt the school reunion, but the second half of the show is about to start” Mike was surprised that he hadn’t noticed Akin’s female companion, given how riveting he had found her earlier. She now added an impatient look to the previous haughtiness, which only made her look more attractive, Mike thought.

Akin looked a little sheepish. “Sorry dear, go ahead, I’ll catch you up shortly. With barely a glance at him, she swept imperiously past them without another word.

“Is that Madam?”, Mike asked.

Akin cracked a somewhat knowing smile. “For where? She’s a good friend who looks after me when I come to London, if you know what I mean”

“Say no more. Anyway, we’d better go before you get into more trouble”

“Don’t mind her jare. I don’t know what gets into all these women that after a while they think they own you…why don’t we meet up for a drink and catch up on old times? I’m in London for another few days”. They exchanged numbers and returned to the show.

Mike was impressed, despite himself. He’d lived in London all these years and thought he knew every upper, middle and lower class dive and drinking den, but this little place off Piccadilly was a new one to him. You wouldn’t have thought such discreet opulence was to be found behind the nondescript dark wood door, which had an unlabelled buzzer beside it. He had arrived with Akin after meeting up with him in the bar of the swish hotel he was staying in a couple of days after the chance encounter at the Barbican A surprisingly pleasant meal and a few drinks, accompanied by much reminiscing about schooldays, followed. It was pushing midnight, and Mike was thinking about going home when Akin suggested a nightcap at this place. More out of curiosity than desire, Mike had agreed to a nightcap, but now, sitting here with an excellent brandy in his hand, in an elegantly and tastefully furnished room, he was glad he’d come.

“So how did you find this place?” Mike asked Akin

“My boss brought me here on one of our trips to London…apparently this is where all the Naija Big Men in the know come to when they want to be discreetly entertained, if you get my drift”

It suddenly occurred to Mike that whilst Akin had said he worked “with the Government” he hadn’t actually said what exactly it was he did, so Mike asked him now.

“I wondered when you’d ask” Akin replied. “My boss is the Minister for Business and Investment, which explains the frequent overseas trips – I am his Special Adviser on Inward Investment, which explains why I travel with him so often. It’s one of the perks of the job”

“Nice work if you can get it”

Akin suddenly turned serious and leaned forward. “Have you ever thought about coming back home to Nigeria?”

“Not really…can’t say I ever thought seriously about it. Why? Do you have a job for me?” Mike asked with a laugh

Akin leaned back and waved a hand. An immaculately suited waiter appeared as if by magic and refilled their brandy snifters from an exquisite cut-glass decanter, and then soundlessly vanished again. When he had gone, Akin started again. “You may or may not be aware, but the present Government is quite clear that it needs to divest itself of its many holdings in sectors of the economy which it believes are properly the province of private enterprise – telecoms, aviation, power, and so on. There has been a wave of privatisations, and it’s not going to let up anytime soon. Many of those businesses are going to need to merge and consolidate in order to be viable. Somebody with your background and experience would be a valuable asset to us in Government in terms of reassuring your oyinbo friends that we know what we’re doing and their investments would be safe….and you could make a killing in the process. Being a special adviser to certain Ministers opens doors like you would not believe”

Mike paused for a moment, taking in what Akin had said. On the face of it, it did make sense, but he wasn’t quite sure if he was being pitched for a job. “So what exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I could arrange an appointment for you to see my Minister, and could plant the idea in his head that you would be a useful addition to the special advisers in his office”

Akin leaned back again with a slight hiss. “I can see you’ve lived abroad for too long. Do you think I would waste my time bringing you here if I wasn’t serious?”

“No vex, it’s just that I’m wondering why you would want to do this for me given that we only met again a couple of days ago after not having seen each other for more than 20 years”

“Listen, my friend, I am not a philanthropist. If you come on board and you perform, I get brownie points with the Minister. If you coming in makes him shine, he gets brownie points with the President. If that happens, we all win…you included”

“Okay, point taken” Mike raised his hands. “If I’m interested, what happens next?”

“Let me have hard and soft copies of your CV before I leave on Thursday, and I’ll take it from there”

“Soft copies?” Mike was puzzled.

“See, I told you you had become an oyinbo man. Hard copy is paper, abi? Ehen now, soft copy is electronic na” Mike laughed along with Akin.

“One last thing – given the amount of brandy I have drunk tonight, can I sleep on it and get back to you sometime tomorrow when I’m sober?”

Mike couldn’t remember the drive from the airport into Abuja being quite this long before, and wondered idly, as he stared out of the window of the black Toyota SUV with Government plates that had been sent to pick him up at the airport, whether it was that they were going a different way of if it was his memory playing tricks on him. On balance, he thought it was probably the latter; it had been some time, after all, since he’d been to Abuja, and some of the landmarks along the way seemed vaguely familiar. The driver and protocol officer that Akin had sent to the airport had been pretty quiet once they had whisked him from the plane exit door, through customs and immigration and into the car; a room had apparently been reserved for him at the Hilton, and he was due to see the Minister later this morning before said Minister left town for his “country home” later that day for the weekend.

Things had moved fairly swiftly since Akin’s trip to London a few weeks before. Mike thought to himself, not for the first time, that there was much to be said for not making decisions when pissed off. His decision to send Akin his CV had followed another crass comment from his boss at work about how much the firm valued his “African viewpoint”, whatever that meant; Mike figured he might as well explore utilising his “African viewpoint” in Africa. His surprise at himself for sending off the CV was surpassed only by the swiftness and efficiency of the response – Akin had made contact via email within a few days to say the Minister was interested, then again to offer him an interview, and finally to confirm the date and the travel arrangements – and pay for them. He had arranged to take a couple of days off work (God knows they owed him enough leave), and here he was, on his way to an interview with the Minister of Business and Investment in Abuja on a Thursday. Surreal.

Having navigated their way past several checkpoints, they arrived at the hotel. It looked in somewhat better repair than Mike remembered, but this was Nigeria – things didn’t always seem as they appeared. He was swiftly checked in by the protocol officer, and escorted to a large room, accompanied by a large and obsequious retinue of hotel staff that appeared to have emerged from the woodwork. He assured them for the umpteenth time that he knew how the air-conditioning worked and that he would not hesitate to contact them if he needed anything and eventually managed to get rid of all of them apart from the protocol officer.

“Oga says that we should ensure you are at the Ministry by 12 noon, so he can brief you before you meet with the Minister at 1.30, so I suggest that we leave here around 11.15 Sir; this Abuja traffic has been serious recently” Mike restrained himself from asking whether the Abuja traffic had previously been frivolous, and nodded agreement that he would be ready to go by then. On his own at last, he unpacked his small carryon case and stripped off, pausing on his way into the shower to run a critical eye over this reflection in the mirror – I need to step up on the exercise regime, he thought. He had a shower with tepidly warm water masquerading as cold, and returned to the relaxingly chilled atmosphere of the air-conditioned hotel bedroom. Suddenly feeling tired, he set the alarm on his phone for a couple of hours and fell asleep.

The protocol officer was right….traffic in Abuja was not to be trifled with, and what appeared to be cars queuing for fuel at petrol stations weren’t helping. They eventually arrived at the imposing building that proclaimed itself to be the Federal Ministry of Business and Investment. A fleet of black SUVs similar to the one that had picked Mike up were scattered around the compound. The protocol officer shepherded Mike through the reception procedures, and now armed with a badge carried on a lanyard around his neck the declared him to be a “Visitor – VIP”, he was taken to a lift manned by a middle-aged man who looked as is he might expire of boredom any moment.

“Which floor, sah?”

“SSA Inward” replied the protocol officer, which Mike thought was an interesting response to a fairly simple question. The reply evidently made sense to the lift operator because he punched a couple of buttons and the lift doors closed, followed by a somewhat jerky ascent. It occurred to Mike that it was unlikely that a lift malfunction now would result in a swift or efficient rescue, and he made a mental note to himself to take the stairs next time…if there was a next time. The lift arrived at their destination, and they got out. Another flunky seated behind a desk greeted the protocol officer with a cheery “OC, how far?” and then peered suspiciously at Mike and his VIP Visitor badge before waving them both through. Protocol led him to an office on the right side of the corridor where a middle-aged female secretary sat behind a desk. Three or four others sat on chairs lining the walls. Protocol spoke to the secretary “Oga dey? His visitor from overseas don come”

“He went to see the Hon Minister, he said you should wait for him” she replied to Mike, ignoring the protocol guy. “Please have your seat”. Mike suppressed a grin as he wondered which seat, exactly, was his, but dutifully sat down in a seat directly opposite the standing air-conditioning unit; at least he would be nice and cool there.

“Anything to drink, sah? Tea, coffee, or minerals?”

“I’m fine, thanks”.

“Newspapers?” the secretary asked, holding out a wad of them.

“Thanks”, Mike replied, accepting the papers, all stamped to say they belonged to “The Office of the Senior Special Adviser to Hon Minister”. He dutifully browsed through the papers, and was starting to wonder how long he was going to have to wait when the door opened and Akin walked in carrying a file and talking on his mobile phone. He spotted Mike and gesticulated at him to come in to the inner office, which he did. The secretary followed Mike in, carrying several papers and shut the door behind her. Akin waved Mike to a seat in front of his vast and cluttered desk, still talking on the phone. “Yes, sir, no problem sir, I will make sure the Minister sees your file before he travels….okay sir, no problem sir…alright sir, bye sir”

“Sorry o, that I wasn’t here when you arrived, the Minister called an impromptu meeting that I had to go to. Hope your flight was smooth?” Akin said to Mike, adding the papers he was clutching to the clutter already on his desk.

“Fine, thanks…nice office” Mike said, casting his eyes over the obligatory photographs of the President, the Minister and the Minister of State.

“Thanks….yes, what is it?” This last was directed at the still-hovering secretary.

“Sir, the Perm Sec’s office sent up these memos for you to minute on, and Finance also need you to approve some orders. The visitors I told you about are still waiting”

“Leave the papers from the Perm Sec and Finance, I will deal with them later. Which visitors are you talking about?”

“The ones from Alhaji Dan Kano that I told you about the other day when..” Akin interrupted her “Did I not say they should go and see the CBN people to solve their problem?

“Sir, yes, but…”

“Madam, please don’t vex me o. Let them carry their wahala to CBN, and if you don’t take time, you will follow them too. Now get out and go and get them out of my office” The secretary dutifully put the papers on Akin’s desk and left the office.

“These people can drive you crazy if you’re not careful. Ehen, jare, how was your trip? I hope the protocol chaps performed?” Akin returned his attention to Mike.

“I don’t think I have been out of an airport quicker in my life”

“Excellent, excellent. Now, let’s talk about your interview with the Minister this afternoon. Did you do the presentation like I suggested?”

“Yes, I have it here”

“Good. Get it ready but don’t bring it up until he asks for it. He may not do so, because he will probably want to wrap things up early before skipping town this evening for the weekend. Talking of which, if he invites you to join him for the weekend, politely decline, and plead the need to return to the UK tomorrow for work reasons – he’ll be flattered to think you flew all this way just to meet with him. Last point – whatever you do, don’t create the impression that you are coming to save us all with the white man’s knowledge of all things; the Perm Sec will be sitting in the meeting, and she’s an obnoxious xenophobic cow, so tone down the British accent, if you possibly can – any questions?”

“Well, yes…who else will be in this interview?”

“The Minister of State is out of town, so it’ll be just the Minister, the Perm Sec and I as the Senior Special Adviser. Anything else?”

“Can’t think of anything”

“Great. I suggest you review your presentation once more whilst I clear this paperwork, then we’ll go in”

In the end, it was even more straightforward than Mike had dared dream. He was in and out of the Minister’s office in less than half an hour, most of which was taken up by the Minister’s boasting about his son studying at Harvard having seen that Mike had done a Master’s degree in Banking Law at Harvard. There was a little perfunctory discussion about upcoming privatisations and the standard spiel about Government working in the best interests of the people, and that, it seemed, was that. Mike would be informed “in due course” as to the outcome of the interview – that turned out to be later that afternoon when Akin came by to pick him up at the hotel, having seen the Minister off to the airport. The job, it seemed, was his, subject to “security clearance” and the issuing of a formal letter of appointment. The money wasn’t great, but the job was something that he actually thought was interesting and the benefits in terms of housing, transport and travel weren’t at all bad – plus, it meant he could escape from the drudgery of his City job. It crossed his mind as he was speaking to the Partners about his wish to leave that they and others may well think him mad – who in their right mind would walk away from a well-paid job in the City of London to work as Ministerial Special Adviser in a Third World country with no stability or job security? But leave he would, and leave he did, having arranged to rent out his flat (he could live off that alone, since he didn’t have a mortgage, and – best of all – as he would be living abroad, he didn’t even have to pay any tax). A few raucous leaving parties later, and he was leaving the grey murkiness of London behind and heading to the warm, sunny and exciting new world of Abuja….what could possibly go wrong?