Abah Makalu steps out of his Rolls Royce into the hot Nigerian sun. It’s not everyday that you get to meet royalty, unless of course you’re royalty yourself; in which case this experience would seem fairly mundane. But for me, a simple writer for The Slant, the whole process is breathtaking. I stare at him pen in one hand, nothing in the other (forgot paper here). “Are you from the New York Times?”he asks in nearly perfect English.
“Of course I am,” I say.
We sit down in his sunroom. A large peacock wanders past us.
“Holy shit what is that?!” I exclaim.
“She is a waste of money,” he responds solemnly, stroking the vibrant and grotesque creature next to him. “I just don’t know what to do with all my money these days…” The sadness in his voice is palpable.
Using my reporting skills, I pry further.
“Yo hit me up with some of that cheddar…”
After explaining what ‘cheddar’ is, we continue.
“I’ve tried to give you Americans much of my ‘cheddar’, but they always refuse my emails. Is there something wrong with a Nigerian prince trying to give some money to the needy?”
“America huh?” I say absently, focusing all my attention on the peacock, which is totally staring at me.
“Yes America. I heard about the recession and I wanted to help.”
“Recession?” I ask. It takes me a while to remember what it is. It was that thing before swine flu, and Brett Favre, and after Michael Jackson he tells me.
“Oh yea, that thing. That’s still going on?”
After assuring me that it is, he speaks again, this time tears cloud his voice.
“I saw one of your reality shows and I was shocked at how you Americans live. In your own filth, forced into humiliating competitions just so you can stay on the same terrible island. I would hate to get voted off personally, but maybe it would be a blessing…”
“Yea it’s been rough. With fourteen meals a week and frats on probation till 2012…”
“I was going to give it to my own countrymen, for schools and hospitals, but I figured that your country needed it more. I don’t understand why you people don’t take my hand in this respect.”
“Neither do I.” I decide to help him. “Just give me the money and I’ll take it to America.”
“The cheddar?” he asks.
“Yes the cheddar, the cake, the bread, the dough…”
“Are you hungry?”
We argue over what to eat for twenty minutes before he gives me some of his fortune.
20 million Nigerian dollars in a large David Bowie wallet is what his large hand drops on the table in front of me, “I love their music, in fact I just purchased their new CD”
I tell him that I think David Bowie is “glam-rock shit that I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to”. He throws the massive bird next to him at me. I assume that a peacock to the face is the standard Nigerian custom for departure, and leave.
If there is a moral to this story, it would lie somewhere between the virtuosity philanthropy and having the foresight to check the exchange rate on Nigerian dollars. Seriously, I only got three Crunchwrap Supremes with 20 million dollars. But that night, I ate like a king; a king filled with re-re-fried beans (yes I get them triple fried, big deal…) and the knowledge that I had done some good in a world astray. Speaking of “stray”, spay and neuter your pets. Wait, what are we talking about?
