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I've become a master builder in the current affairs sympathy scam. A broken levee and an old lady with a flooded mansion, desperate to sell her priceless antiques cheap-cheap. A Chechnyan refugee fleeing the latest Russian pogroms with her family's diamonds in tow. A Somali pirate who has found Jesus and wants to trade in his rocket launcher and ransom millions for absolution.
It's all topical. All rooted in the hard realities of the world. Ironic that Former Life I never watched the news. But then, lifestyle journalists don't have to. And normal people don't have to pay off their drug debts by writing scam letters for syndicates. Or hide their sideline from their lover, who would definitely not approve.
There are 2,581 replies waiting. Not a bad hit rate out of the 49,812 that I sent out on Monday, not including the tens of thousands that bounced off spam filters. There are 1,906 "out of office" replies, which at least marks the email addresses as active, 14 irritated missives that range from "fuck you, scamfucks" to "pull the other one". Add
292 kanji variations, 137 in French, 102 in German, 64 in Arabic, 48 in Spanish and 12 in Urdu, all of which I'll plug into my translation software later. This leaves six potentials, two responding with cautious interest and the rest with abject confusion. I forward them all on to Vuyo, who is my catcherman. If people would just read the damn email properly, they would have responded to him directly.
And then there's an anomaly that chokes my auto-filter. Two stark sentences that read as either nonsense or poetry, or both.
When you eat, you are eating things from planes. The plastic forks, they leave a mark on you.
There is no link. No return address. No point to the message at all. It makes me nervous.
There is also an email from the dentist, a friendly reminder that it's time for my six-month check-up, please contact Ms Pillay to make an appointment. I haven't been to a dentist since I went to jail three and a half years ago. This is code for "contact me immediately", which is worrying because I'm not due to report in until next week. I log in to Skype chat where Vuyo is already online. Probably talking to "clients" in other windows.
››Vuyo: Yes?
He answers right away, curt as always. Vuyo is not his real name, of course. It's probably one of several not-hisreal-names that he uses in the course of business.
I like to think of him hanging out in a huge sprawling Internet café adjoining a raucous street market in Accra or Lagos, kinda like a 419 sweatshop, but the truth is he's probably in a dingy apartment like this one, maybe even right next door. Flying solo, because it's all carefully decentralised.
››Kahlo999: Hey, hello. How are you? Got a very strange msg. No return address. About forks. I'll fwd it.
››Vuyo: No! U dont know what it is girl. Might b a virus. Might b bad muti.
››Kahlo999: Or a msg about cutlery.
››Vuyo: U dont know. Could b rival syndicate. Police. Click here.
››Kahlo999: What am I downloading? It's just, you know, I have very particular tastes in porn.
››Vuyo: Propriertary firewall 4 viruses spyware malware muti. And delete that thing.
››Kahlo999: So what's with the dental appointment, boss guy? I haven't been flossing enough?
››Vuyo: I need u 4 an interview. 2pm. Rand Club. Frances format. Clients want to meet her.
I turn cold. Frances is a refugee in a camp in Côte d'Ivoire. Twenty-three years old. Suitably flirtatious if the moegoe on the other end of the line is a man, a good chaste Christian girl if it's a woman. More or less. Most characters are designed to be slightly flexible depending on the operator, although Frances is fairly one-dimensional. After the rebels attacked, she fled to safety, got stuck in the refugee camp, and now she can't access her father's fortune. Bog standard format. That is to say, not one of mine.
››Kahlo999: Sorry. Not in my contract.
››Vuyo: Not neg.
››Kahlo999: Let's talk remuneration.
››Vuyo: Will deduct it from ur total. Dont worry, Im keeping track.
››Kahlo999: It would be nice if I could keep track too. Not that I don't trust you.
››Vuyo: U forget who u dealing with girl.
››Kahlo999: My own personal knacker. The guys who bought the lame horse of my drug debt for cheap-cheap to turn it into glue.
››Vuyo: Lame horse? Ur horse is expensive.
››Kahlo999: Do you know how much racehorses go for? R150,000 is cheap at the price. So, here's the thing. Where do we stand you and I? What's my lame horse ass worth?
››Vuyo: R55,764.18.
››Kahlo999: Profit?
››Vuyo: Ha. No. U still owe us R94,235.82.
››Kahlo999: That's impossible. How many moegoes have I hooked for you?
››Vuyo: Is v. possible. U forget interest. Normally 45%, but u get employee discount. Only 34%. And it is not fish on the hook, it is the fish in the bucket that counts.
››Kahlo999: Fuck you, Vuyo.
››Vuyo: This deal will bring in 50 Titos. If u do well, it is worth 10% to u.
››Kahlo999: And if I don't?
››Vuyo: Of course u will do well. U R practically a pro. Ur dealer told us about all the stories u came with, crying about ur mama with cancer + ur dead granny + being mugged just when u were coming to pay for ur coke. This will b easy for u.
››Kahlo999: I mean, if I don't do it at all.
››Vuyo: I will have to add a penalty to ur total. 20% + usual interest. So that is … let me work it out.
››Kahlo999: I got it, thanks.
››Vuyo: 2pm at the Rand Club. Dress nice. But not 2nice.
››Kahlo999: Refugee chic.
››Vuyo: Good girl. BTW ur new format – the coltan – its doing well. Head office likes it.
››Kahlo999: What can I say? I'm all about the job satisfaction.
››Vuyo: Cheer up girl. Greed is a bad thing. They deserve it.
Part of me thinks I do too.
I sign off and delete the forks message, but not before I've copied and pasted it into a Word doc. And I leave the install icon on the firewall waiting patiently in its folder, un-installed. I know how the Company works. Who knows what else their firewall will do?
The Rand Club is a relic of Johannesburg's Wild West days, when it was frequented by Cecil John Rhodes and other colonial slumlords who would sit around divvying up diamond fields and deciding on the fate of empires. A hangout for power people rather than two-bit crooks like Vuyo, who is waiting for me at the curved stretch of bar that folds itself around the room. I assume it's Vuyo because he's the best-dressed guy in here, in a suit and pointy shoes like shiny leather sharks.
The patrons pushing the boundaries of their liquid lunch-hour have the same aura of clingy colonial nostalgia as the venue, with its chandeliers and gilded railings, caricatures of famous members, mounted buck-heads and faded oil paintings of fox hunts. Vuyo, by comparison, has the air of the fox that's escaped the painting and doublebacked to raid the kitchen. I'd always pictured him as a skinny weasel of a guy with bad posture from hunching over his computer all day, but he's well-built, with swimmer's shoulders, broad cheekbones, a neat goatee and an easy smile. Generically handsome with a ruby stud in his ear that hints oh-so-tastefully at danger. All the better to scam the pants off you.
I extend my hand and he clasps it in both of his, as if we are old friends instead of only online acquaintances. "Mr Bacci, I can only imagine?" I say.
"Frances. It is so good to see you," he replies. I shouldn't be surprised that he speaks better than he types. Or that he's South African. Why should the West Africans and the Russians have all the fun of fleecing rich foreigners?
"Mr and Mrs Barber are waiting for us upstairs. They're excited to meet you at last," he says smoothly, as if the podgy bankers round the other side of the undulating bar might be listening in. But as he escorts me up the grand staircase, he hisses under his breath, "Less attitude, girl. You are a refugee, not a prostitute."
"Mr Bacci! Does that mean you don't like my dress?" The white shift is the plainest thing in my wardrobe, but I've touched it up with clunky beads and a shweshwe headwrap, with the perfect refugee touch, a red-, blue- and white-checked rattan carrier bulging with the weight of an exceptionally grumpy Sloth.
"It means, be soft," warns Vuyo, aka Mr Ezekiel Bacci, financial director of the Bank of Accra.
"Can you qualify that? Are we talking demure African princess soft, proud but humble and desperate to reclaim her throne? Or broken Janjaweed-gang-rape survivor soft?"
"It means none of your jokes. Keep that tongue tamed."
"You realise you employed me based on my writing skills, not my acting ability?"
"Just do what I tell you. Don't open your mouth unless I ask you something specifically. You read the emails?"
"Yes." Poor bastards.
We step into the grand library with shelves and shelves of books that look like they've never been cracked open. A couple the wrong side of middle age are waiting anxiously. Mrs Barber is sitting with a magazine on her lap, but I'm guessing she hasn't read a word. It's open to a double-page spread advertising a three yearold conference on the economics of environmental reform. Mr Barber is standing facing away from us, fiddling with the standing chessboard.
"You know, honey, I think these are ivory," he says, holding out a white bishop to Mrs Barber, his consonants a flat Mid-West drawl.
"You never know where you might find hidden treasure in Africa," I say, in my best Queen of Sheba voice.
"Oh," Mrs Barber says, looking at me. "Oh!" And then she gets up, envelops me in a crushing hug and bursts into tears. I stand there awkwardly, but with great grace, as befits a girl who has weathered the ravages of losing her throne, her family and, temporarily, a great fortune that Mr and Mrs Barber have had the great fortune to help her recover.
"My friends," I murmur softly. "My friends."
Mr Barber sits down heavily, still holding the bishop, looking shocked. I gently extricate myself from Mrs Barber's fervent embrace, only for her to grab me by the hand. I manage to manoeuvre the pair of us onto the couch.
"So, you see, here she is, after all," Vuyo says. "Safe and sound, as I told you."
"We weren't sure. We didn't know. After everything…" Mrs Barber's sentence declines into another bout of juddering sobs.
"You look different from the photographs," Mr Barber says, an obstinate flicker of suspicion flaring up. Considering they have already given Vuyo over R87,000 for various clearance certificates, passport application fees, bribes for corrupt government officials and exchange-rate commissions, and he's demanding a further R141,000, I'd say he was justified.
"Yes," I say with dignity, "I've been through a great deal." Mrs Barber pats my hand, and I lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes as if the ordeal has been unspeakable. A contemptuous bark comes from my bag. I ignore it.
"You have brought the money?" Vuyo says.
"Well, yes, but-" Mr Barber squirms.
"Why are there buts? Buts are for goats! Are you a goat? Jerry, in three days' time, you will have 2.5 million dollars in your account."
"It's only that it's my pension."
"Our savings."
"Look at this girl, Jerry. Look at her! You have done this. You have got her away from that hell. You and Cheryl have done a good thing. A life-changing thing." Vuyo takes Jerry's face between his hands and gives him a little shake for emphasis, a cross between an evangelist and a corporate teambuilder. "And here. Your certificates from the Reserve Bank, as you requested. Everything is in order. It's almost over, Jerry."
"It's almost over, Jerry," Cheryl repeats. She glances over at me and her chin starts to wobble all over again. I imagine staples fixing my smile in place and dip my head, as if equally overcome with emotion. The whole thing is grotesque, yet some perverse part of me is getting off on it. The same way I ticked off points on a scoreboard when my parents actually believed the bullshit I spun them about my car breaking down, about needing help paying the fees for a master's degree in Journalism that I never even registered for.
Jerry is looking over the certificates, immaculately forged, complete with the holographic seal of the Reserve Bank. "Of course, I'll need to get these verified by my lawyer," he says, but it's obvious that he's bluffing. The smell of money is too strong now. It bellows like a vuvuzela, drowning out the whisper of doubt.
"Of course, yes," Vuyo says, but he allows a hint of concern to smudge those generic good looks.
"What is it, Mr Bacci?"
"Please, we are all friends here. Call me Ezekiel."
"What is it, Ezekiel?"
"It is only that it might cause a delay."
Cheryl moans.
"What kind of delay?"
"No longer than a couple of weeks. Two months maximum."
"Now you just wait a minute, we have been through enough. This is everything we have in the world. Our pensions, our savings. I borrowed money from my son! Do you realise how much it costs for us to fly out here? This is the third time!"
"You have been very understanding, Mr Barber. It's only that there is a window period. It is the end of the tax year in Ghana, and the government locks down all banking transactions for the reconciliation period."
"That's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard!"
"Jerrr-ry…" Cheryl says.
"It is Ghana," Vuyo shrugs.
"So what can we do?"
Vuyo considers it and then allows illumination to spread across his face. "I have it. The bank has bearer bonds. I will give you bearer bonds to the value of your cash deposit. These will take a month to clear, but they are not subject to the restrictions of the government's reconciliation period. So you will be safe. And we can go ahead with the final transaction."
"I don't know, that sounds awfully complicated. Maybe we should wait."
"The waiting was the worst," I say, absently.
"What was that, dear?" Cheryl squeezes my hand.
"Not knowing if they were going to kill us. They would play games with us. Sometimes taking girls at random. Other times they made us choose, made us decide who it was going to be. And then they would take someone else instead. But you had to live with it, live with the betrayal of what you'd done."
"Oh, sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart," Cheryl chokes, her palm clamped over her mouth. "Oh baby, if that was our Mandy. Can you imagine? Oh."
"I just want to say thank you," I say, looking down at my hands clasped together in my lap.
"Oh," says Cheryl. "Oh, baby."
"Okay," Jerry says, defeated. "Bearer bonds, huh?"
"Only for 72 hours. And then the 2.5 will be cleared," Vuyo says.
While the menfolk sort out the matter of exchanging a tog-bag full of cash for phony bearer bonds from a nonexistent bank, I order tea for both of us.
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