Heartstrings and Hidden Riches

Chapter TWO: BEATRICE FU-CHENG AGAIN?

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6.00 a.m. to 5.00 p.m., On The Road!

Wednesday, 15th April 2015.

Oliver Chukwu's P.O.V.

The city had changed in nine years — new crystal towers where old markets once sprawled, new voices layered over old rhythms — but the traffic remained gloriously, stubbornly the same. I guided my New-Landon-licensed, faded-looking but solid, bluish taxi through the crawl of New Landon City I had left as a boy of fourteen.

I had been home only three weeks. Three weeks of reacquainting myself with a country that felt both foreign and achingly familiar — the smell of African roasted corn drifting through open windows in Europe’s Lagos, the particular chaos of Lagos traffic that no amount of Oxford polish could have prepared me for. This Lagos Nation reminds me of Africa’s Lagos. I chose the taxi business again, not out of necessity this time, but out of instinct. It was the only version of myself I trusted completely to win Amelia.

I glanced at the rear-view mirror, my eyes narrowing as I observed the corporately dressed oriental beauty sitting in the backseat of my taxi. Oh, my one-night-stand fling, Beatrice Fu-Cheng: This daughter of a diplomat was the last person I expected to find in my humble cab in my native land. Thank God, I now have a befitting moustache that changed my looks, or so I thought. Nervously, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my mind racing with the implications of this unexpected encounter. She who made herself believe that she was Evelyn Sterling’s friend while she hates Amelia Sinclair as one loathes faeces in the refuse dump.

This gorgeous Beatrice shifted in the backseat; her gaze fixed out the window. I glanced at her reflection, wondering if she had recognised me. The last thing I needed was for my carefully crafted facade to crumble before my eyes. Clearing my throat, I spoke up in my worst Nigerian accent, my voice betraying a hint of unease:

"Good evening, Beautiful. So, where can I take you, Miss?"

Beatrice turned her attention to me, a slight smile playing on her sensuous lips. "Just to the New Landon City Centre, if you don't mind. I have a few errands to run for the Manor Engineering Boss."

“Certainly!”

I nodded, my heart pounding as I navigated the familiar route. I couldn't help but wonder what Beatrice was doing with Sir Alexander Balogun in the lowest slums of our Kingdom’s Capital City, far from the high society circles she was accustomed to. Was she here on business, or was there something more to her presence?

As I pulled up my taxi to the curb, Beatrice reached into her branded purse and handed me a crisp bill without trying to alight.

"Thank you for knowing exactly where I needed to alight, Handsome. Keep the change."

I accepted the payment, offering a polite nod and a cheerful statement:

"I appreciate you. Have a good day, Miss."

Beatrice paused, her eyes locking with mine in the rear-view mirror.

"You know, you remind me of someone; he’s English. I think he hails originally from this European Nation... As I mentioned Sir Alexander Balogun’s name, you seem to know where I am headed. Have we met before?"

My breath was caught in my throat, my mind racing to come up with a plausible response. I am a professional colleague of Sir Alexander, and I know where he could send a gorgeously dressed subordinate to in the City Centre. But I will be damned if I say the wrong words. I struggled and told a lie:

"I'm afraid not, Miss. I’m glad I guessed right. I'm just a simple taxi driver, trying to make an honest living," I spoke with an exaggerated Nigerian accent that almost shocked me, especially when she seemed to get more interested in me.

“Same roots with him, Handsome? Are you a Nigerian? My friend has that ancestry,” she said in an impeccable British accent that I know of.

My heart skipped, and I surprisingly feigned laughter and became historical. “I love it when people ask me if I am Nigerian. My four great-grandparents have strong genes. I am Caucasian, as you can see: Euro-Lagosian. I can also speak my great-grandpa’s native Igbo and maternal great-grandma’s native Yorùbá. How I wished I had succeeded in getting tanned!”

Beatrice's brow furrowed, and for a moment, I feared that she had seen through my charade. But then, a flicker of understanding crossed her face, and she nodded, “A small world, after all.” She giggled, opening the rear door and stepping out onto the bustling street.

I watched as Beatrice disappeared into the crowd, my heart still pounding in my chest. I heaved a sigh of relief, knowing I had come dangerously close to being exposed, and the thought sent a chill down my spine. Shaking my head, I pulled back into traffic, determined to put the encounter behind me. As the day wore on, I found myself unable to shake off the memory of my last sensuous encounter with Beatrice: that one-night goodbye romp of s*x. In my mind, I also replayed her conversation with me in my taxi, wondering if I had been too convincing in my act, or if I had somehow given myself away. The idea of Amelia discovering my identity through this “spoiler” Beatrice terrified me, for I knew that the revelation would not only shatter the carefully curated life I had built in my mind but would also jeopardise my planned burgeoning relationship with Amelia.

It was no secret that Amelia came from a wealthy and influential family, and I knew that – by my script – our social circles were vastly different. The thought of being rejected by Amelia because of my true status was a constant source of anxiety, and I found myself increasingly torn between my desire for a genuine connection and my need to protect my secret.

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5.10 p.m., Wednesday, 15th day of April 2015.

Chukwu Mansion, Shamgar City.

As the sun began to set, I pulled my taxi into the garage, my mind still consumed by the events of the day. I knew that I couldn't keep up the charade forever, but the thought of coming clean to Amelia filled me with dread. What if she couldn't see past the facade and the social divide that separated us?

Sighing, I made my way to my true home and stepped through the door. I was greeted by the familiar opulence of my family's exotic mansion, a stark contrast to the modest accommodation I had grown accustomed to in my now 7 years as a full-fledged "taxi driver."

Removing my cap and jacket, I went to my father my father, Sir Reginald III's Home Library. The elder Chukwu was a formidable business entrepreneur and the doyen of the Engineering Profession in the Kingdom, known for his shrewd tactics, experiential excellence and unwavering determination. I knew that I would have to tread carefully, for my father was not one to be easily fooled.

"Oliver, my son," Sir Reginald-the-third greeted me, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "I've been expecting you."

I swallowed hard, my eyes meeting my father's wise gaze as I stuttered, "Father, I..."

Sir Reginald III raised a hand, silencing me. "No need to explain yourself, my son. I've known about your little charade all along."

My eyes widened in shock, my heart racing. I asked, "How... what did you know?"

Sir Reginald chuckled, leaning back in his gold-plated, carved and red-upholstered rocking chair. "My dear son, I'm a man of many talents, and one of them is the ability to see through even the most elaborate of disguises. Did you think you could hide your identity from me?" The old man peeled off my fake moustache, and we both laughed. I had forgotten to remove it in the car garage.

"I... I just wanted to experience a free life, a bit more, without the weight of our legacy on my shoulders."

Sir Reginald nodded, his expression unreadable as he muttered, "I understand, Oliver. But you must know that you can't keep this up forever: Two days as my Assisting Principal Partner and the next two days as a moustached cab driver. None of your ancestors had ever fallen in love with our 10-year test before! The world you've created for yourself is on a foundation of lies, and it will only lead to more complications down the line if you keep it up... Spend this time – that you have regained your status – to build an exemplary life, not longing after one pretty little pleasure unit who seeks to serve herself of you!"

My shoulders slumped at the weight of my father's words. "I understand your cultivated point of view: Amelia is a rare jewel, Father. I just... I don't know how to reconcile the life I was born into with the one I want to live."

Sir Reginald raised a hand, silencing my voice once more. "Fear not, my son. I have no intention of revealing the secret you shared with the Ambassador’s self-centred daughter who flocks with my acquaintance’s son. It's rather amusing."

I stared at my father, bewildered. "Amusing? How can you possibly find Beatrice’s saga amusing?"

Sir Reginald-the-third chuckled. "Because - Oliver, my son—this is a game of wits, and I've always enjoyed a good challenge. The way you've managed to navigate the complexities of your dual identity is truly impressive, and I look forward to seeing how this all unfolds… Beatrice is extra baggage that is already here in the Kingdom. Win that chess game first… Then Sir Michael Sinclair’s heiress will be a positive expectation."

The old man’s musing never fails to enlighten me. I failed to find a word immediately. So, Dad leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he placed a caring hand on my shoulder. "What interests me, my son, is the genuine challenge. You must find a way to bridge the gap between your two identities, to find a balance that allows you to fulfil your familial responsibilities while still achieving the freedom you desire."

I nodded. "And what about Amelia? She has already started to suspect something."

Sir Reginald's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, yes, the lovely Miss Sinclair. I must say, you've managed to pique her interest, haven't you?"

I felt a surge of panic. "Father, please, you can't tell her the truth. I... I don't know how she'll react." The Duke waved his index fingers and smiled slyly.

I blinked, unsure of how to respond. "So, you're not going to stop me?"

Sir Reginald-the-third shook his head. "On the contrary, I'm going to help you. After all, you're going to need a bit of wisdom to keep up this Beatrice and the taxi charade and still win Amelia's heart... Our ancestors started this path of thinking - using our lives as guinea pigs prepared for scientific experiments and making us suffer a lot before we received our inheritance. If your truth had been exposed before your 24th Birthday, I would have been handicapped to help you... I imagine how our family practice makes us acclimatise to our real job without getting a dime for upkeep so that the main circle of business colleagues know who we are. But we are… a bunch of nobodies – slugging it out – like the poorest of men out there in the cold!"

I felt a glimmer of hope, but also a sense of trepidation. "You taught me that we need humility, Godliness and contentment – not thinking so highly of our physical positioning. What more do you have in mind, Father?"

Sir Reginald leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "Well, my son, it's high time we started planning the ultimate masquerade..."

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