Did you say late industrialist?

He must have died more than three years ago.

No!

Were you related then?

You can say we've been related ever since that night at the guest house. Otunba dead? Incredible. I feel... I feel... My goodness. What’s this I’m feeling? What killed him?

Death, I presume. You were telling me why my father died.

Well forgive me if I’m a bit disoriented, but you’ve just given me news of the death of your father’s killer.

You have to do better than that, Claver. Otunba had a better alibi than you. He was at a cocktail with thirty-three industrialists when my father died.

But he paid for the bullet.

You’re saying that because he’s dead. If you were so sure why didn’t you tell the police? Are you an accomplice? How can you remember so well?

Because no matter how much beer I drink, I go to sleep every night dreaming of it. I’ll tell you what happened  — and the difference between an Ordinary Asset and a Blood-Stained Asset.

Am I talking to a carton of beer or to Claver Kobina?

Judge for yourself. The Otunba was already checked into the master bedroom of the guest house when I arrived for the audit. He was the institute’s biggest contractor, and your father was having a drink with him in the lounge. I was checked into the room downstairs. That first night I slept in the guest house, I found two thousand five hundred naira in my pillowcase. That was your father's style.

Here come the character assassinations. Once you’re sure they’re dead, they are either bribers or murderers. I thought you said five hundred thousand...

Just listen, will you. I pocketed the money. I don't take bribes by the way, but if you find a diamond in the street, what do you do? In the morning I went to the Admin block. I met your father again, suave operator, no mention of the money, just asked if the room was properly air-conditioned, if the pillows were comfortable. I said it was great, and I started the audit. I'm afraid my eyes were half-closed, you know how it is... but basically, his books checked out. What struck me, then and now, was how they had poor banking routines. They were carrying a huge imprest, over half a million naira in cash in the institute’s safe...

How did he die?

...I’m getting there. On my last night at the institute, I returned to the guest house. I found that my things had been moved upstairs, to the master bedroom.

Why?

I’ll get to ‘why’ soon. At first I was pleased. I thought the Otunba had checked out and I had been upgraded. Then I realised that the air conditioner in the master bedroom had packed up. The Otunba had got the housekeeper to switch rooms for his own comfort.

What does this have to do with my father’s death?

Everything. I kicked up a fuss. I told the housekeeper to move me back to my room downstairs. The Otunba told me she’d be sacked if she did so. It was a battle of wits, I tell you. I may have been just a young government auditor, but I went to university, I did. I wasn’t going to allow an illiterate, money-miss-road government contractor to push me around...

But he got his way eventually?

Only because she took me to a corner,

Who? The housekeeper?

No, Queen Amina of Zaria. Pay attention, chartered accountant! She took me to a corner; she knelt down and begged me. She told me the Otunba had loads of clout with both the DG and the local mafia,

The local mafia?

Will you listen and stop repeating every other word I say! She told me she was a widow with five children. She wasn’t afraid of losing her job, but she had seen a man whose legs had been broken by the Otunba’s boys.

Why?

Turns out the Otunba had a moneylending sideline. Anyhow, it was my last night in the guesthouse and you know what effect female tears have on male resolution. I went upstairs to sleep; there, I found another...

The five hundred thousand?

Now you’re paying attention. I realised the truth immediately: your sly father had dug a hole in the institute's accounts. He had taken a short loan from his contractor crony to fill the hole in time for my audit.

So you left the money there, didn't you? — Not that I believe a word of all this, of course... but if you find half a million that wasn’t yours, you'd leave it there, surely...

...Listen, no one knows what he will do if he finds a diamond in the street, until he finds a diamond in the street. Half a million may not sound like much today. But in the seventies, it was more money that I could earn in ten years, it was more money than my pension, than my...

I get the point, Claver,

I guess I went a little loco. It is a documented condition you know, cash-craze, the seeing of too much  currency in one place. I bought a new portmanteau. I stuffed my clothes into dustbins. I packed the boxes full of money. I left the guesthouse.

The police report placed you at Sparklers’ Hotel.

Now you’re really paying attention! I was there when the news of the shooting at the Institute broke. I realised what must have happened. Otunba would have asked for his money, your father would have pleaded home-delivery. Next, a quarrel, accusations and counter-accusations... and then a bullet by express-delivery.

This is... incredible...

What part? Your father as a common crook, or me as an auditor?

There’s no corroboration... the police report ...

They were investigating a murder not an embezzlement. But six months down the line — this was in all papers — the ministry replaced me and the new auditor found the hole. Your father wasn’t identified by name, but the report was in the papers. If the police missed it, you won’t have.

I didn’t read any such thing.

Well, you were five years old.

Look at you. I’m sorry to be blunt, Claver Kobina, but you don’t look like an internal auditor who came into five hundred thousand naira worth of investible funds in the seventies.

It’s getting hot here; do you mind a walk outside?

Is this the part where you hit me around the head with a bottle of beer and take my bag?

Don't be silly. . I haven’t yet recovered from taking your father’s money!
     Sule! Keep this bottle in your freezer; I’ll come back for it.
     And then again, maybe I won’t.

Where are we going?

Doesn’t matter.

...Where do you sleep?

My choice entirely. I have three or four bars whose waiters can leave a backdoor unlatched for me. But I have to tell them before midnight, and get out before daybreak.

What happened to all the money? If I were in your shoes I won’t be working today.

I’m not working today, am I? Listen to me, Mr. Udensi, the first thing I felt that evening as I sat in the dining hall of the Sparklers hotel was horror. The realisation that a human being would still have been alive, if I had not taken the money. I went to bed in a daze. Around midnight, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room.

Tell me you didn’t open the door.

I did. It wasn’t Otunba. It was Oratu.

Stephen Oratu? That was my father’s aide. He was murdered the day after my father died
.
He was the one that stuffed pillows on your father’s behalf. He tracked down the taxi that took me from the guest house. He wanted the money back,

And?

I denied everything. He left angry and very very frightened. I checked out thirty minutes after he left. He must have returned with Otunba in the morning. By then I was far away. When I heard of Oratu’s death on the radio, I panicked. I was stunned...

Pleeease! What did you expect?

You believe me now, don’t you? That was when I went on the run. I knew Otunba would come after me. I didn’t have the slightest doubt about it. I mean, I had seen him drinking and laughing with your father, only to gun him down the very next day. I figured I’d spend a couple of years on the run, settle somewhere, open a small practice, marry, raise a family...

And?

The early years were the best. I’d walk into a new town, check into a hotel with a false name and live careful and care free. But I got bored eventually...

And investments? Bonds? Shares? You’re a chartered accountant for goodness sake!

You don’t know what it is like to live on the run. I never lived in a house in those early years, you know. All my life, it’s been one hotel after the other. Money burns fast when you're not earning... oh I’ve done the odd investment, half of a dry cleaners’ in Enugu, a print shop in Oyo, a third share in a hotel in Kano... I couldn’t do formal investments like bonds and stuff. - The documentation - I couldn’t use my real name...

So what happened to the businesses?

I was duped every single time. It was like the money was cursed or something.

You could have worked. You could have set up a small town accountancy practice.

Thank you. And put up the signboard: Claver Kobina & Co? How long before Otunba’s assassin walks in without an appointment? I haven’t told you how I got my limp. This was ten years ago. Otunba had traced my only fixed deposit account. He put the staff on his payroll. Can you believe it? He monitored the account for fifteen years! I gave notice to break the deposit, then I walked into a 'bank robbery'.

That was a coincidence. Nobody carries a grudge for fifteen years.

Apart from you, for instance? Well, this is quiet enough. We’ll just wait for that hawker to go far enough. We don’t want any witnesses, do we?

...What are you talking about? No... this is not about my bag... I don't have....

Just shut up about your bloody bag. I’ve seen the way you look at me, Udensi. You’re still Mister Quiet, but there’s a difference now, ever since you knew how I took the money that caused your father’s death.

Nonsense.

You can say nonsense, but I can read the real story in your face. I have a gift for reading people...

To hell with your gift! I’m not a murderer!

I know. You’re just obsessed: to carry my name in your head for donkey years. Every obsessive has at least one killing inside him. I can’t run another thirty years, my friend. Here’s my switchblade. Every street man has to carry one. I call this my Ghetto Guarantee. It’s four inches long and you know where the heart is. I know you have no experience in things like this, but that’s your third bottle. You should have some Dutch courage under your belt by now. Strike deep and strike again and again. Don’t leave me half-dead in the street.

I’m out of here. You’re crazy, that’s what you are.

And you’re a hypocrite, that’s what you are. The murder in your face is plain as light! You can’t even look me in the eyes! You can’t stick the blade in yourself, can you? Coward! Like father like son! He couldn't pay his bribes himself either. But you’ll be loitering in street corners from now on, won't you? I know your type! You’ll be skulking in bars more disreputable than John Thomas — until you find a crack head that will put a bullet into Old Korba’s head for a thousand naira.

You’re mad. Your cash-craze has become a real psychosis.

Do you deny it?

Of course! Why should I hire an assassin to kill you?

Then swear it to me. Swear in the name of God, by the memory of Prof. Udensi! Swear to me now!

Swear what, old man? Out of my way!

First give me your oath! Swear that you and your money will never conspire against my life. Swear to me now, junior Udensi.

...I... I... How can I? You ruined my life! I was five years old! Do you know what it did to my mother? It was a shadow over everything I ever did: my father was dead. Executed like a gangster. It wasn't your money, so why did you take it? Why?

Swear.

I don't believe in oaths.

Then, here’s my blade, Udensi. End it. You know my history now, and you've seen me at the bar. Now you know the height from which I fell. You've seen me scavenge ashtrays and debase myself for the dregs of your bottle of beer. You saw me! And you know I’ll return to my fix in Sule’s freezer. This is no life. End it.

Goodbye...

Turn away from me, Udensi and I swear, I'll stick this blade into your back!

Don't, don't! Just take my bag!

Damn your handbag! If I don’t die tonight, I won't live to dread the shadows in every street I walk. If you won’t swear to me, and you won’t take your revenge like a man, then I will... then I will... I'll send you to meet your father...

STOP!

Ah! Damn!

My God.

I almost killed you there! I’m fine. I'm fine now. Go away now, Udensi, you botcher. I will end it all myself.

...I... I... swear...

...swear what? To tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

That I and my money will never conspire against your life. I swear it... Now give me that switchblade.
      To... to tell the truth, I guess I've found one or two diamonds on the street myself...

Can we... shake hands on it? God bless you, Udensi. You don’t know what you’ve done for me, it was blood money and I got a life sentence... This is your father’s hand, commuting life to twenty-five years... I've served my time... You’ll never know what you have just said to me...

It’s strange... You’ve also rested my demons... I feel I am leaving a prison myself: my father was human after all!

What? You thought he was God?

You won't understand! All my life he was this saint I could never follow after. I may be quiet, but I'm a very angry man, Kobina, but most of my anger comes when I face a mirror. You have painted a human picture of my father. It is not all my fault. It is a gene thing too. I can accept and... love myself a little more, as I am. I can accept others too... I am free.
      Goodnight Claver.

One more thing, Udensi. I still have a sizeable fortune in the bank..

And you’re living like this? You’ve got to be joking..

Since I got shot ten years ago, I haven’t dared return for my fixed deposit . Otunba is dead now.

Looks like you're no longer homeless.

I want you to have that money, Udensi.

You manage to surprise me everytime you open your mouth, Claver. Why should I take your money? If you are developing a conscience in your old age, remember, the money was never my father's either.

I am an alcoholic Udensi, I drink all the beer I can get... I’m still alive because it’s not everyday I meet a man as generous as you... if I had all the beer I could drink this week, I’d drown in it. Take the money. It will kill me within the month.

I'd lose the money in a month myself. I'd give it all away. There are worse problems than alcoholism.  I cannot use 'No' in a sentence to a beggar, to a —

— You said 'No' to me. Eventually. You're changing Udensi. Take the money. If Otunba died ten years ago I'd go to Port Harcourt tomorrow, start a new life. It's too late for me now.

It is not.

At my age, accountants are retiring, not setting up practice!

Look at me, Claver Kobina. Look at me!
      What is an Asset Revaluation Reserve?

I don't know.

Quitter! And you called me a coward. You too scared to try. Old...

It is part of a company's equity!

You haven’t said anything.

It is the... differential between the value of... conventionally depreciated capital assets and the...

Yes? Yes?

...and the reassessment of... and the reassessment of the value of the assets. At a particular point in time.


There!

...What does that prove? It's an elementary concept.

Pick your small town, Claver. Somewhere you haven’t already acquired the reputation of a tramp. Put up that signboard.

Don’t be ridiculous. Would you hire someone like me?

Certainly not.
      But get yourself a bath, a shave and a new wardrobe and you can hire someone like me. A sharp youngster to do the donkey work while you build a clientele before your money runs out. You’ve got something that eight in ten sole proprietors need.

What?

Shamelessness.
      Remember your first words to me? “Are you using the rest of that beer?” I couldn’t do that in a hundred years. Yet, that's what you do everyday. And that’s exactly how to get an audit off a businessman at a golf club! Wear a suit, start drinking orange juice, and ask for business instead of beer.

I smell sarcasm.

You have a good nose. But you also have the confidence to keep on marketing yourself, rejection after rejection. You won’t drink quite so much when you’re working hard. And you won’t die quite so early when you’re making money. That’s the way to kick the booze.

I haven’t practiced in a quarter of a century! They’ll see through me!

You’re a natural, Claver Kobina, look at your clothes! If you can persuade me, dressed like this, that you are a chartered accountant, take it from me, they will see what you want them to see.

 Previous <<<<<