Some years later in Lagos, after Chief told him to find a white man whom he could present as his General Manager, Obinze called Nigel. His mobile number had not changed.
“This is Vinny Boy.”
“Vincent! Are you all right, mate?”
“I’m fine, how are you?” Obinze said. Then, later, he said, “Vincent is not my real name, Nigel. My name is Obinze. I have a job offer for you in Nigeria.”
CHAPTER 29
The Angolans told him how things had “gone up,” or were more “tough,” opaque words that were supposed to explain each new request for more money.
“This is not what we agreed to,” Obinze would say, or “I don’t have any extra cash right now,” and they would reply, “Things have gone up, yeah,” in a tone that he imagined was accompanied by a shrug. A silence would follow, a wordlessness over the phone line that told him that it was his problem, not theirs. “I’ll pay it in by Friday,” he would say finally, before hanging up.
Cleotilde’s gentle sympathy assuaged him. She told him, “They’ve got my passport,” and he thought this vaguely sinister, almost a hostage holding.
“Otherwise we could just do this on our own,” she added. But he did not want to do it on his own, with Cleotilde. It was too important and he needed the weight of the Angolans’ expertise, their experience, to make sure all went well. Nicholas had already lent him some money, he had been loath enough to ask at all, because of the judgment in Nicholas’s unsmiling eyes, as though he was thinking that Obinze was soft, spoiled, and many people did not have a cousin who could lend them money. Emenike was the only other person he could ask. The last time they spoke, Emenike had told him, “I don’t know if you’ve seen this play in the West End, but Georgina and I have just been and we loved it,” as though Obinze, in his delivery job, saving austerely, consumed by immigration worries, would ever even think of seeing a West End play. Emenike’s obliviousness had upset him, because it suggested a disregard, and, even worse, an indifference to him, and to his present life. He called Emenike and said, speaking quickly, pushing the words out, that he needed five hundred pounds, which he would pay back as soon as he could find another job, and then, more slowly, he told Emenike about the Angolans, and how close he was to finally doing the marriage ceremony, but there were so many extra costs that he had not budgeted for.
“No problem. Let’s meet Friday,” Emenike said.
Now, Emenike sat across from Obinze in a dimly lit restaurant, after shrugging off his jacket to reveal a tan cashmere sweater that looked faultless. He had not put on weight like most of his other friends now living abroad, didn’t look different from the last time Obinze had seen him in Nsukka.
“Man, The Zed, you look well!” he said, his words aflame with dishonesty. Of course Obinze did not look well, shoulders hunched from stress, in clothes borrowed from his cousin. “Abeg, sorry I haven’t had time to see you. My work schedule is crazy and we’ve also been traveling a lot. I would have asked you to come and stay with us but it’s not a decision I can take alone. Georgina won’t understand. You know these oyinbo people don’t behave like us.” His lips moved, forming something that looked like a smirk. He was making fun of his wife, but Obinze knew, from the muted awe in his tone, that it was mockery colored by respect, mockery of what he believed, despite himself, to be inherently superior. Obinze remembered how Kayode had often said about Emenike in secondary school: He can read all the books he wants but the bush is still in his blood.
“We’ve just come back from America. Man, you need to go to America. No other country like it in the world. We flew to Denver and then drove to Wyoming. Georgina had just finished a really tough case, you remember I told you when I was going to Hong Kong? She was there for work and I flew over for a long weekend. So I thought we should go to America, she needed the holiday.” Emenike’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at it and grimaced, as though he wanted to be asked what the text was about, but Obinze did not ask. He was tired; Iloba had given him his own National Insurance card, even though it was risky for both of them to work at the same time, but all the job agencies Obinze had tried so far wanted to see a passport and not just the card. His beer tasted flat, and he wished Emenike would just give him the money. But Emenike resumed talking, gesturing, his movements fluid and sure, his manner still that of a person convinced they knew things that other people would never know. And yet there was something different in him that Obinze could not name. Emenike talked for a long time, often prefacing a story with “The thing you have to understand about this country is this.” Obinze’s mind strayed to Cleotilde. The Angolans said at least two people from her side had to come to Newcastle, to avoid any suspicion, but she had called him yesterday to suggest that she bring only one friend, so he would not have to pay for the train and hotel bills of two extra people. He had found it sweet, but he asked her to bring the two anyway; he would take no chances.
Emenike was talking about something that had happened at work. “I had actually arrived at the meeting first, kept my files, and then I went to the loo, only to come back and for this stupid oyinbo man to tell me, Oh, I see you are keeping to African time. And you know what? I just told him off. Since then he has been sending me e-mails to go for a drink. Drink for what?” Emenike sipped his beer. It was his third and he had become looser and louder. All his stories about work had the same arc: somebody would first underestimate or belittle him, and he would then end up victorious, with the final clever word or action.
“I miss Naija. It’s been so long but I just haven’t had the time to travel back home. Besides, Georgina would not survive a visit to Nigeria!” Emenike said, and laughed. He had cast home as the jungle and himself as interpreter of the jungle.
“Another beer?” Emenike asked.
Obinze shook his head. A man trying to get to the table behind them brushed Emenike’s jacket down from behind his chair.
“Ha, look at this man. He wants to ruin my Aquascutum. It was my last birthday present from Georgina,” Emenike said, hanging the jacket back behind his chair. Obinze did not know the brand but he knew from the stylish smirk on Emenike’s face that he was supposed to be impressed.
“Sure you don’t want another beer?” Emenike asked, looking around for the waitress. “She is ignoring me. Did you notice how rude she was earlier? These Eastern Europeans just don’t like serving black people.”
After the waitress had taken his order, Emenike brought out an envelope from his pocket. “Here it is, man. I know you asked for five hundred but it’s one thousand. You want to count it?”
Count it? Obinze nearly said, but the words did not leave his mouth. To be given money in the Nigerian manner was to have it pushed into your hands, fists closed, eyes averted from yours, your effusive thanks—and it had to be effusive—waved away, and you certainly did not count the money, sometimes did not even look at it until you were alone. But here was Emenike asking him to count the money. And so he did, slowly, deliberately, moving each note from one hand to the other, wondering if Emenike had hated him all those years in secondary school and university. He had not laughed at Emenike as Kayode and the other boys did, but he had not defended Emenike either. Perhaps Emenike had despised his neutrality.
“Thanks, man,” Obinze said. Of course it was a thousand pounds. Did Emenike think a fifty-pound note might have slipped out on his way to the restaurant?
“It’s not a loan,” Emenike said, leaning back on his seat, smiling thinly.
“Thanks, man,” Obinze said again, and despite it all he was grateful and relieved. It had worried him, how many things he still had to pay for before the wedding, and if this was what it took, counting a cash gift while Emenike watched with power in his gaze, then so be it.
Emenike’s phone rang. “Georgina,” he said happily before he took the call. His voice was slightly raised, for Obinze’s benefit. “It’s fantastic to see him again after so long.” Then, after a pause, “Of course, darling, we should do that.”
He put his phone down and told Obinze, “Georgina wants to come and meet us in the next half hour so we can all go to dinner. Is that okay?”
Obinze shrugged. “I never say no to food.”
Just before Georgina arrived, Emenike told him, in a lowered tone, “Don’t mention this marriage thing to Georgina.”
He had imagined Georgina, from the way Emenike spoke of her, as a fragile innocent, a successful lawyer who nonetheless did not truly know the evils of the world, but when she arrived, square-faced with a big square body, brown hair crisply cut, giving her an air of efficiency, he could see right away that she was frank, knowing, even world-weary. He imagined her clients instantly trusting her ability. This was a woman who would check up on the finances of charities she gave to. This was a woman who could certainly survive a visit to Nigeria. Why had Emenike portrayed her as a hapless English rose? She pressed her lips to Emenike’s, then turned to shake Obinze’s hand.
“Do you fancy anything in particular?” she asked Obinze, unbuttoning her brown suede coat. “There’s a nice Indian place nearby.”