Heartstrings and Hidden Riches

CHAPTER TEN: THE MASQUERADE'S STEPS

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5:35 p.m., Wednesday, 29th July 2015.

Lagos BMW Automobile World

Hill-Top Countryside, Danny-Town, Lagos, Europe.

Oliver Chukwu's P.O.V.

The news of the discovery — on Réunion Island — of the first piece of suspected debris from Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 was trending on the international news, playing silently on the wall-mounted screen in the posh office of the CEO of Lagos BMW Automobile World. Sir Alexander Balogun shook his head sadly, watching the footage with an expression I had come to recognise as genuine, however rare such moments were for him.

"Don't you think we should celebrate that two of you missed that ill-fated flight as you cancelled your leisure trip to Thailand? That plane disappeared on 18th March 2014, right?" he asked finally, his voice quieter than I had expected from a man usually so certain of his own performances. "I feel sad for the casualties, though."

Amelia and I spoke in unison, "So sad. May their souls rest in peace!"

Everyone in the office echoed, "Amen." I found myself glancing at Amelia as the words left her lips, struck again by how close we had come to becoming names scrolling across that very screen ourselves. Sir Alexander Balogun continued speaking as the corporately dressed CEO and CFO left. Still, it lingered somewhere beneath my composure for the remainder of the meeting.

"You already met Mikel Clarke, the CEO, and Miss Pat Köhl, Personnel and Finance Director of the firm," Sir Alexander said with a smile. "Having perused all the legal documents that show that the Automobile Assembly Business has been completely handed over to the new owner of Lagos BMW Automobile World, with its assets and liabilities, I think I must do a total handing over. Feel free to relate with your staff, Oliver."

Amelia was the first to respond, her enthusiasm bright and unguarded in a way that still, even now, disarmed me. "I don't know how a person could be so kind as to bless his friend with a 450-million-pound-sterling business, just like that. Sir Alex, you are so kind! Thank you so much."

"It is my pleasure,” Sir Alexander said with a glowing smile and a bow, “From now on, there is a document that shows that he bought this from me, to forestall any action of my repossessing this business in the future. What are friends for?"

I concealed my feelings and behaved like the most appreciative pauper in the universe, aware even then that Sir Alexander's generosity carried undertones I had not yet fully deciphered — gratitude, perhaps, but also strategy, the way every gift from Alexander Balogun seemed to arrive wrapped in some quiet expectation of return. "Thank you so much, My Big Friend and Knight."

"Before we get carried away," Sir Alexander said, his tone sharpening with sudden severity, "I was a sixty per cent owner of this business before now. Among other business-running responsibilities, Mikel Clarke owned forty per cent, including the responsibility of paying staff salaries and emoluments. I used to get my dividends after the overheads had been settled. It is a large business concern, so he owes you an answer to whatever you might need to know, especially now that Mikel has sold his shares to me — and has become richer — in signing this deal. He is your employee now, with Miss Köhl and others. Oliver now has one hundred per cent of the stock and all the say now! Is that right, Mikel and Pat?"

While Mr Mikel Clarke had a smirk on his face — a smirk I filed away carefully, the way one notes the exact angle of a blade before deciding how to disarm it — Miss Pat Köhl responded with visible enthusiasm, even as something taut moved behind her eyes. "You are correct, Sir Alexander. I pray that our new boss will make us happier!"

"Boss, I am only here to help you with my experience if you like. I can invest my wealth from the company sales in a better investment,” Mikel said, with the easy arrogance of a man who had never once feared consequences, “or if you please—"

Amelia smiled and decided to cut him short before I needed to, her instincts as sharp as they had always been. At that time, Sir Alexander took his leave from the office.

"Your request is too early," Amelia said with certainty, "as if there is a skeleton somewhere. Let Oliver study what is on the ground and make decisions, right?"

Sir Alexander Balogun, I would later understand more fully, had invested heavily to control the Manor's BMW Automobile Assembly Plant years before, leaving it running in Mikel Clarke's hands — a man who thought only of ill-gotten gains, holding forty per cent of the shares while managing the firm with an iron fist. He had starved the staff of their entitlements for two years, blackmailing them into loyalty and silence, threatening any who resisted with dismissal. Yet, there is certain knowledge that no employer in the Kingdom of Lagos would touch a worker Mikel Clarke had marked to destroy.

While Amelia occupied Mr Clarke's attention with polite, pointed conversation, I stepped quietly into the Personnel Director's office to have a word with Miss Pat Köhl alone.

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I asked her cheerfully, "You must have the best relationship with Mikel, Miss Köhl. How is your rapport with your staff?"

Her smiling face turned stony. "Fine. Fine, Sir."

"Wow," I said gently. "Are we starting a new relationship with a bunch of lies and make-believe, Beautiful?"

Startled, she asked softly, "Is there anything you've heard you need to confirm, Mr President?"

"Well — do you enjoy your work here? Feel safe confiding in me, Pat." I tried to make her feel at ease, watching the careful architecture of her composure begin to strain.

"I cannot be safe with Mr Mikel breathing closer to slitting my neck," she thought aloud, before catching herself. "What? I didn't mean to say that. Don't I—"

"I know about that," I said. "Just trust me, Pat. Your staff are maltreated and short-paid. For how many months now?"

She looked afraid, glancing left and right, shivering visibly. When my hand settled on her left shoulder, she gasped. "Hmm. Oh?"

"I will protect you. Relax," I said sternly, "and answer my question."

"I received my wages up to date," she said boldly, and relapsed to sharp whispers, "But for the staff, we owe them for two years, by the end of July, Sir. My boss is a powerful figure in the underworld movement. We cannot afford to offend him. He is known to be ruthless."

"Does Sir Alexander Balogun know about this?"

"He always has detailed information from his intel. Why should that bother him? He had always wanted this business sold out but refused to let Mr Mikel Clarke buy him off."

"Sir Alexander wants to pay him off instead, and pass the burden to me. Correct?"

"The Business Community in the Kingdom know that the ‘Prince of the Manor’ is your bosom friend. Don't trouble my weak soul, Sir."

I laughed gently, hoping to steady her. "If you are on the good side, you have nothing to worry about, Pat." She nodded, still fretful. "So, talk to me. Is our firm owing — on the Annual Rent — on this skyscraper? To whom does this beautiful building belong?"

"Our lease will expire in August 2018, Mr President. The Ducal Royals of Shamgar — own this building." I felt a sudden, unexpected relief settle through me. She followed up, unaware of what her words had confirmed: "The Chukwu Dynasty of Shamgar. You must have heard about those kind-hearted people who fight for the citizens of their huge County."

I refused to react. "Why are the staff not speaking up, claiming their rights?"

"Those who spoke out among the aggrieved staff were brutally dealt with, Sir,” Miss Pat Köhl whispered with urgency. “Many staff members need their wages, but the CEO rules with an iron-clad fist."

"What if I tell you I plan to pay them now that we have taken over? How many members of staff are being owed, and how much?"

"Are you sure that huge payment is possible at once, Sir? I understand that you are just a cab driver." Her curiosity was becoming bolder than her fear, so I raised my voice more firmly.

"Answer my question, will you?"

"I am so sorry, Mr President." She opened a white file, flipping to the appropriate page. "We also have it on our company’s website. I can assist you to log in, and we can change the admin password, if you so desire. We owe two thousand and forty-seven members of staff in all.”

“On the Executive Cadre?” I requested.

“Only two hundred and sixteen are on the executive cadre, Sir. We owe the engineers and other executive staff the sum of ninety-nine million, seventy-two thousand and twelve pounds sterling, while the one thousand, eight hundred and thirty-one junior staff are owed a cumulative one hundred and twenty-six million, two hundred and eighty-eight thousand, nine hundred and two pounds sterling... The total salary owed amounts to two hundred and twenty-five million, three hundred and sixty thousand, nine hundred and fourteen pounds sterling," she said as a matter of fact.

She was now so amused, doubtful, and I understood — that a man who had received a business as a gift was now bluffing his way through a debt of twenty-four months' unpaid wages. I asked, "Are you sure the change of signatories has been fully effected?"

"Certainly, Mr President."

"When you make sales, do you get paid with bank cards?"

"Sure, Sir." She retrieved the point-of-sale machine, as though to prove I could not fool her with empty promises — with a smile that faltered the instant I withdrew an ebony-black National Bank V.V.I.P. Platinum Card and stretched it toward her. She froze, shaken to her marrow. "I hope we're safe with this?"

"I beg your pardon?" I retorted.

Her recovery was smart, professional, though her voice trembled beneath it. "So sorry. This is a limited edition of the National Bank's V.V.I.P. Platinum Card. The least balance in each unit of these cards is ten billion pounds sterling."

I cut her explanation short. "Swipe it for only two hundred and twenty-five million, three hundred and sixty thousand, nine hundred and fourteen pounds. I will insert the PIN."

Her hands began shaking. Soon, a soft electronic chime confirmed the transaction's success. She looked up at me, awe-struck, while I remained deliberately emotionless.

"Miss Pat Köhl," I said sternly, "you deal with hiring and firing in this firm, correct?"

She nodded, almost mechanically.

"As you said — I am just a cab driver. I will fire you the moment I hear about our little transaction here, spoken of anywhere. Is that a deal?"

"Y-yes, Sir." Her face turned as pale as a writing pad's blank page.

"You have seen my first act as President of this firm," I continued. "Next, you will summarily dismiss Mr Mikel Clarke, and I want to countersign that letter. State the employment codes he has breached. Afterwards, you will let me sign individual cheques for the two thousand and forty-seven members of staff, who will be paid in full tomorrow. Is there any ambiguity, Madam?"

"No, Sir… Who are you, Sir?” she asked with fear. She got no answer. So, she concluded, “All your demands are noted for immediate action, Mr President."

Beyond the office door, I could hear Amelia's laughter mingling with Mikel Clarke's forced civility. I allowed myself, briefly, that satisfaction — the quiet knowledge that somewhere beneath the taxi driver's disguise I still wore, a Chukwu had finally begun to act like one.

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