Week 16
Monday
I was back in Abuja feeling stronger. Even though a shipment of luxury office furniture for one of my store was damaged and the store’s MD wasn’t picking up his calls, and even though I was still getting annoying emails and calls about the sex scandal, I was feeling on top of the world. I will soon marry the woman I love, the one who warmed my heart enough for it to spill its secrets, and who didn’t judge me for becoming rich off the proceeds of my father’s death. I arranged for Louis Vuitton representatives to bring their choice products to a private viewing for her, and told her to choose whatever she wanted.
Tuesday
ZeeGC’s 320 factory staff in Brazzaville were protesting poor working conditions, so I approved a salary increase and six buses for their transportation, calculating that the predicted profits from my interests in Congo will cover that shortfall. One of my drivers who I’d sponsored to Mecca absconded, and when he was caught he gave Saudi authorities my number. After I arranged for his return he begged for his job back but I refused. But the new driver that replaced him crashed my Rolls Royce today and abandoned the vehicle in fear, so I gave the old driver one his job back. At least he drove carefully.
Wednesday
I had dinner with Zainab’s parents and her four sisters including Halima, who never looked me in the eye. We discussed plans for the wedding, but when Alhaji asked about my mother, Zainab and I looked at each other in alarm, then I told him my mother will contact him soon. Zainab and I have decided not to tell anyone about my father’s murder, especially since Alhaji had known Uncle Gumbo in the past. Although my mother disliked Zainab’s family, if she doesn’t cooperate I’ll just tell them she can’t attend the wedding.
Thursday
I wore my Armani Herringbone-striped suit to a meeting at the UN headquarters to discuss a collaboration, and afterwards had lunch with Dr Bolagun and the Chens, who I hadn’t seen since our emergency meeting following the sex scandal. Today we discussed the divorce of a colleague who had impregnated their second housegirl in two years. I marvelled at how gossip travelled so fast among the business community, and I was happy I was no longer the topic of conversation.
Friday
Zainab wanted a wedding in Abuja, but I wanted it in Rome. My nightmares had stopped, but I was still seeing Dr Ferral whenever I could. He was the only other person who knew about the murder, and I spent our sessions recalling details I’d forgotten and talking about how badly I treated my mother afterwards. I’d concentrated my anger on her instead of Uncle Gumbo, and she reacted by letting me shut her out of my life. “Has she had any therapy?” Dr Ferral asked. I laughed. “Just because I’m talking with you doesn’t mean it’s normal for Africans to tell strangers their problems,” I said.
Saturday
Dr Ferral noted that I ended up resenting the girl in the room with me as well as my mother following my father’s death, and concluded that my love-hate relationship with women sprang from that night. I somehow blamed them for his death. Tonight at our engagement party at my house, Zainab agreed. “You enjoy women, but you don’t like them. Except for me,” she smiled sweetly and I laughed. I’d arranged for Tuface to perform tonight, along with fireworks, chocolate fountains, Chinese circus acrobats and the video of my proposal in Switzerland playing on a big screen in the garden.
Sunday
After a meeting at the House of Representatives, I had lunch with some associates before heading back to my office, and was reading an MOU when my assistant told me my brother was at the gate. Strangers often try and get through security by saying they’re family members just to beg for money, so I told him to refuse the man entry. “He said his name is Ishaya Gumbo.” I froze. Uncle Gumbo’s illegimate son had been in America with his mother since we were kids. When he walked into my office I was shocked: he looked exactly like Uncle Gumbo. It was like seeing a ghost.
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