HAWES ESCAPES

Akunna stared at the laptop. It was a good one, a Dell he’d gotten from the Kenyan. He thumbed his phrasebook, scratched his head.

“Come give me your opinion,” he said to Chimaobi.

“I know you will be surprised at the tone of my letter to you, as I wish to send you greetings and tell you of a surprising new business relationship that is a singular opportunity of your life,”  Chimaobi read from the screen.

“Is it sufficiently formal?” asked Akunna. “The sender needs to seem a man of great importance. A banker, perhaps.”

“I am not sure,” said Chimoabi. “I have never been in a bank.”

Kwento came back to the table holding a game board. “Come on, Chimo. Let’s play some Ayo.”

“What do you think, Kwento?” asked Akunna.

“It should be once in a lifetime opportunity, fool,” he said. “That is how bankers talk.”

What Pegman Saw

Many undergraduates in Nigerian universities dabble in internet fraud. Nicknamed “Yahoo Boys” (pronounced Ya-oo), scamming has become a way of life for the young con-artists. The Nigerian Prince scam is seen as a crude, low-return scheme by the more experienced practitioners. They have moved on to far more sophisticated cons that employ online dating, nanny services,  phishing, social media fraud and a host of other practices. 

The once-ubiquitous Internet Cafe is fast disappearing from Nigeria as wireless broadband makes cyberspace more accessible to everyone, including these fraudsters.

The Lodge packed us a wonderful lunch of fried chicken, biscuits, and pie in an old-fashioned wicker basket complete with plates and silverware. We’d driven the station wagon to a secluded spot and hiked to a spreading oak at the base of a rocky bluff. I spread the red-and-white checkered cloth on the ground, leery of ants. A breeze wafted across the valley, so I anchored the cloth with a stone on one side and the basket on the other.

“Come here!” called Jeremy. “I want to take your picture.”

I went and stood in the mouth of a cave, turned to face Jeremy and the camera.  Beneath the tree below,  I saw a tall bear in a porkpie hat, collar and long tie. He sauntered over, picked up our basket and trotted away, a smaller bear following after.

Jeremy saw my face, “What?” he asked.

What Pegman Saw

“Marsh Harbor will take you in his runabout, sir.”

The skinny boy looked no more than twelve, and made younger by the eagerness of expression.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” I said.

“I am an excellent driver, sir,” said the boy. “The best on the Cay.”

The car was a right-hand drive Austin Moke of considerable antiquity. I wedged myself into the passenger seat. The boy gunned it, spraying a fantail of sand behind us.

“Your name is Marsh Harbor?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.  “Like the town?”

“I was named after it, sir. You are from Miami?”

“No. I’ve been there, though”

He grinned. “All my life, I have longed to go to Miami.  I have never left Green Turtle Cay.”

“Not even to Nassau?”

“No sir. My grandmother forbids it. She says Nassau is a place of sin.”

“But not Miami.”

“No sir. Miami is the New World.”

What Pegman Saw: Bahamas