››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.