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Welcome to Outside the Gates
Why 'Outside the Gates'? There are many gates isolating people from each other. 'Gated communities' being the most obvious, where the affluent try to segregate themselves from the poor.
The most insidious though are the gates within our minds which separate us from, make us
think we are different to, even better than the 'other'.
Yet we all experience the same emotions, feelings, wants and needs irrespective of gender, colour, race or creed.
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Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 4 |
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Thursday, 10 November 2005 |
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Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters had passed the bus driving test to the relief of Protheroe. He didn't have to reorganise."Well done." He had said on their arrival for the next briefing. "Peters, it has been arranged that within the next couple of months you will be relieved for your break from the bus by Blunt. We want you to 'sellon', recycle a used ticket just before the change over. An Inspectorfor the bus company will get on the bus the next stop that Blunt makesafter taking over. It will be obvious that Blunt was not responsible butit should act as a decoy for Elizabeth. You will be sacked and back inhere for another job.
"Elizabeth, you will bide your time. Blunt will at some point approach you. He is not slow at coming forward when he sees a beautiful woman.Be very cool to him and try and involve the other women in garage.You know, disparage him to them. We will not be acting against himuntil next year then we want you to hook him. OK any questions?"Elizabeth Boro was the first to respond. "It sounds quite easy, butwhat is multiple sclerosis?"
"It's an auto-immune disease of the central nervous system. The
bodies defence mechanism against disease has turned on the body
and is attacking it. In this case the brain and spine. He goes nutty
when in a severe relapse." Said Protheroe. "OK thats the end of the
briefing. Go and do it."
Both Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters got up and left. Peters was
pleased he would only be driving a bus for a few months.
Elizabeth/Rosemary's thoughts turned to her history.
Umukoro Oritse had heard of Akinyemi Ola. Whereas he was loose
with the law and scruple, Akinyemi Ola bought the law and had never
made acquaintance with scruple. Ola, as his name, was wealthy. A
Lagos mobster with a veneer of respectability from a semi-legitimate
bus business. He controlled the city's prostitution and had a
substantial interest in the nascent marijuana export business. Now
55, Akinyemi Ola had stayed atop the heap for the last 15 years,
from colony to independence to military rule, by applying the three
rules of gangsterism. Have enough thugs to keep enemies at bay and
'friends' subdued. Buy police and politicians. And luck.
Pre-independence had been fairly easy for Ola to progress as mobster.
The Yoruba administrators that he corrupted had originally thought
that they were helping undermine the colonial power and speed
independence. It didn't take long to realise otherwise and that what
saying anything could mean. The cash helped dull the conscience of
most.
A rumour about one conscience striken clerk with the Lagos
transport department became legend. Travelled the bye-ways, the
open sewered high-ways. Ran along the quicksilver - the rapid
changing tongues of Lagos' slums.
At the end of a days work, as the story goes, the clerk went to his
immediate superior to confess his part in a licencing scam that helped
put one of Ola's bus competitors out of business. His boss listened
then suggested it would be better to speak to the boss' boss in the
morning as he didn't have the authority to deal with such a serious
accusation or the clerk's error of judgement. That was the white
boss' responsibility. The rumour has it that the conscience stricken
clerk and his whole family; wife and children, mother and father,
sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews, uncles and aunts, the
ubiquitous cousins - his whole extended clan throughout Yorubaland
- were disappeared that night. Everybody knew the conscience
striken clerk but nobody could recall his name. The Lagos transport
department hadn't reported anybody missing from work, which,
unintentionally helped fuel the rumour. 'They're all corrupted and
scared by Akinyemi Ola', was hurried along in whispers. The clerk
was urban myth, embroidered with each re-tellers phobias. He had
crossed Akinyemi Ola so his family were feed to the pigs, buried in a
refuse dump or after being skinned alive were staked out as carrion
for hyenas and vultures to squark, squabble and laugh over. In Lagos
people spoke Akinyemi Ola's name in awe and fear. Or not at all.
The rumours served Akinyemi Ola so well it could be thought he had
instigated them.
Ola's string of girls traded services for information or just passed on
a stupid policeman's casual remark about being up early for a raid. But
Akinyemi Ola's prize corruptee and informant had been a British
police officer seconded from the Mother country to the Nigeria Police
Force. He had, bold as brass, walked into Ola's office at the bus
company unannounced and in uniform. He had dumped his escort
outside and ordered everybody in the office except Ola to join them.
He then proceeded to offer Akinyemi Ola a deal. He would take 5%
of the profits from the prostitution in return for information of any
planned raids on Ola's brothels. It came as a shock to Ola and he was
suspicious. He mumbled something about being a legitimate business
man, at which point the police officer interrupted and pointed out
that he was not asking for a cut from his marijuana business but he
could be helpful, or not, at it's destination when his secondment
finished. Ola was getting worried that this could be a sting originating
from London. He would have to stall, make enquiries.
Dai Jones, a Valleys lad moved to London, was unusually slim and tall
for someone with Welsh antecedents. The gait of his six foot frame
more a slither than a stride. He had risen to the rank to Detective
Sergeant, two rungs up the ladder in the Met's Flying Squad. But that
would be as far as he could climb. The Nigeria Police Force
secondment was a 'punishment' posting. There were questions
about a failed raid he was involved in that had caused political
embarrasment to the Met. The target, a notorious London firm, had
to have been tipped off to have escaped. Nothing pointed to him
directly, he was to astute for that. It was all conjecture and no hard
evidence, hence secondment not prosecution. His innocent minions
had been transferred to Uniform and Traffic with marked records and
reputations fucked.
A quick learner marked for fast-track promotion, Jones' 5 year
service had taught him well the ways of the force and how to
manipulate it. If his superiors had known the depth of his corruption;
the bungs, the lost evidence, the re-selling of drugs and the fit-ups
that trailed a slime stain his past 3 years in the Flying Squad, they
would have locked him in Pentonville, leave him alone with the
convicts and let their justice for ex-cops take its course.
What prats they were Jones had thought three months on. Two years
secondment in Nigeria and he could do what he liked on his return.
The lead up to independence made for many opportunities and it
hadn't taken long to identify Ola as the one to approach and start the
exploitation and graft.
He could see by the body language - crossed arms, crossed legs and
cold fixed eyes - the suspicion in Ola at his offer. He suggested
that Ola make enquiries about him and he would call, not visit in a
month for an answer.
When Jones had left Ola hit the phone, arranged a tail on Jones and
spoke to his most senior contact in the Nigeria Police Force, a
Sergeant in admin, to get what information he had. Ola had never
previously taken much interest in the colonial police officers before
because they were not as desperate for the money. They didn't have
to shake-down the poor to get a living wage. Ola took pride
in the belief that his corruption was doing a social service for the
poor by keeping the poorly paid black police off their backs. He was
the original Nigerian Robin Hood, or so he liked to deluded himself
occasionally. And anyway, he thought his network kept him up to
date on anything the white officers said and what plans they had that
could affect his operations. His Sergeant told him enough to interest
him, not whet his appetite as such but generate the hint of a
possibility. He gave the Sergeant a dressing down, verbally abused
him because he, Akinyemi Ola had to ask for the information.
The other colonial officers seemed to keep a distance from Jones.
This was the way with new boys, but it only lasted for a week or so
before they were drawn into the force's white camraderie. With
Jones it hadn't happened after three months. He was abrupt,
disrespectful and rude to his Nigerian colleagues just the same as the
others. But the Sergeant had overheard a conversation a while ago
about the force getting a 'right bastard, but nothing provable' from
London. He didn't get a name, but Jones' arrival date seemed to fit.
Dai Jones' reputation had arrived before him.
Akinyemi Ola's last call was to his second son, 25 year old Akin,
ordering him to the office. Akin Ola ran the thugs, the warrior
enforcer of his father's will in Lagos. Five foot nine, thirteen stone
solid, fearless when needed and intelligent enough to know when and
when not to fight. A flashy dresser, he took his style from Harlem.
The zoot suit king of Lagos and a Roue. A charming and ruthless
young man when following his dick. He was partial to a joint.
Akinyemi Ola told his second son that he was being sent to London to
visit his uncle Omotunde and his third son, Amari, to convey
instructions and bring back a report. He had two weeks. Akin was
told in no uncertain terms that he would have to change his attire for
the visit. Conservative business suits. It cut across the flamboyant
grain but this was London and business, not Lagos and enforcement.
No arguement. He would have preferred going to New York to visit
Adan, his older brother and Akinyemi Ola's first son. He could have
packed the zoot suits for forays in Harlem, his cultural capital.
Amari Ola had been sent to London 6 months before to help his uncle
with the British arm of his father's prostitution and dope business.
More cerebral than his brother and as ruthless as his father. 22 and
six-foot-one, he did circuits for an hour each day. Fit and strikingly
handsome with a deep red-black hue. Amari could become a
formidable enemy. Already his friendships were transactional and
political. He favoured the classical lines of Italian suits and silk shirts
to Akin's loud Black-Americana. A broad face and high forehead, his
right eye slightly squint, disconcerted those he first met. It gave him
an advantage he seldom lost. Akin was pleased Amari wasn't in Lagos
as competition for the girls.
With Amari's group in London, led by Omotunde Ola, were a choice
of Lagos' able worst - men and women. A couple, the Eweji's were
set up in a small grocery store in Shadwell, a mile from East India
Dock. It was just a corner shop specialising in African/Caribbean
goods for the small but growing Black population in London. Excellent
cover for importation and distribution of the weed in a drugs naive
London. The Eweji's were the accountants. The windows were put
out a few times by local white school kids wound up by their elders
and 'betters', scared of colour in their drab and drizzly city. But the
Ola cover held.
The rest of the staff were chosen for their other skills, whore,
lawyer, and all were at home as soldier enforcers. A house in Pimlico
was bought to use as a brothel.
The 'Madam', Dada Acacia, had been with the Akinyemi Ola business
for 20 years. One of the first in Ola's stable, it was her labour that
laid the groundwork for the Ola empire. Discovered as a Lagos street
walker and promoted when her looks and figure started to fail, and
her cunning, intellect and loyalty to Ola could better be seen. Rising
to London Madam. Viscious. At least three punters dead when she
street-walked Lagos. Skewered by her knife after being rolled when
drunk. The punters were no threat. She just didn't like them. Of her
half dozen girls in London, four were black from Lagos and two were
local white recruits. They were governed by fear. They had all heard
the stories or knew the victims of her control. A girl, Adetoun, had
tried to hold back some money from a punter and been discovered.
Before she could blink Dada Acacia had opened a 3 inch wound from
mouth to ear, destroying Adetoun's looks and income at a stroke.
But that was not enough, a lesson had to be taught. Dada Acacia
took an eye. Adetoun was last seen begging the slums of Lagos,
offering fucks for food and more often than not, refused.
It had taken two years for Omotunde Ola to find and cultivate a
market for the dimba, ganja, bhang, kiff or any other of the
hundreds of marijuana nick-names. The prostitution and grocery had
kept them afloat after remittance to Lagos. The herb part of the
business was turning a profit by the time Amari Ola arrived.
Local London firms had been slow in recognising the potential profit in
marijuana, relegated it to that 'nigger smoke', and had written off
the 'Beat' scene, its jazz and blues clubs, as places for 'poetry
poofters'. The Ola's marijuana business co-incided with the rise of
British Beatniks who took their musical references from American
Negro culture and actively sought it out. (Negro was how Black
people were known by the middle classes then. How quaint). The
original white counter-culture before the Hippies. The weed was the
drug of the clubs and the Beats adored it. Marijuana use, especially in
London mushroomed. It had even penetrated the Teddy Boys.
It didn't taken long for the London firms to realise their mistake and
try to muscle in on the African and Caribbean gangs trade. One of the
firms, the Robinson's had been eyeing the Ola's prostitution
operation but hadn't moved against him, judging it more trouble than
it was worth. But with dopes growing use by whites they recognised
its potential. The Ola enterprise now looked economically worth the
bother. They tried some strong-arm tactics. A short war, for ever
known as 'Dada's War'. After two dead, both white with throats slit
by Dada Acacia after being caught acid etching her most expensive
black girl - only Dada Acacia was allowed to hurt her girls - an
arrangement was arrived at. The Robinson's got a good deal on bulk
purchase, turf was assigned and outlets defined. A mutual aid pact
was signed. Ola got an excellent deal. A regular bulk outlet,
formalised relations and respect. The Robinson's were quicker than
the rest of the white firms to learn that profit supercedes colour.
Knowledge that came at the cost of three replaceable pawns. Cheap.
Three days after leaving his fathers officer, Akin and his minders
were in London soberly dressed. He was met at Heathrow by
Omotunde Ola and Amari. Omotunde Ola was robed. His shirt a
loose green buba, embroidered in gold around the neck, his sokoto
or trousers were a matching green. Over this he wore his agbada.
Emerald green stretched to the ground, billowing, the printed eagle
motif taking flight. Gold thread was embroidered down the lapels and
along the hem. He wore his fila on his head with nonchalance. The
round cap was gold with emerald green embroidery. He looked
impressive and not one white traveller missed his passing. He was at
his best to met his brothers envoy and enforcer. Amari was sharp in
his charcoal grey Italian suit and mohair coat. Looking the business
adviser to the second chief. He grinned at the awkwardness his
brother Akin obviously felt in conservative pinstripe, but marvelled at
his discipline.
It was Akin's first visit to London and on the drive to Pimlico all he
could do was gawp. His uncle and brother recognised themselves in
Akin's dropped jaw from their first time in London, so left him stare.
Fill his eyes and colour-in those sites he recognised from black &
white 'B' movies. Unfortunately London was its typical slate-grey
autumn and most of the colour was vibrating off Omotunde Ola as if
he was the only element painted, frame by frame, in the film.
At Pimlico, Akin took half an hour to unpack - no zoot suit - and
freshen up. After a meal where presents were given and the
conversation full of stories about family and old friends, Omotunde
Ola, Akin and Amari took a stroll to the Thames. It was 5.30pm and
the tide was high, the river full with Lighters cutting swirls through a
gentle rising mist and the ebbing light. The Lighters busy transporting
goods to and from the wharfs of Chelsea and the docks further east.
They walked east along Millbank, watching the continuos flotillas of
coal barges queuing to unload at Battersea power station, past the
Tate which Amari pointed out and suggested a visit by Akin while he
was here.
In an almost deserted Victoria Tower Gardens they sat at a bench in
front of Rodin's anguished 'Burghers of Calais'. Little wonder the
Burghers look dejected, in 1347 after a years seige by the English,
they surrendered Calais to Edward III and didn't get it back for two
hundred years. This was totally at odds with the confident smiles and
conversation of the Ola's who would get their land back in a couple
years after only 60 years of direct rule from London.
Under the doleful eyes of the Burghers, with the Houses of
Parliament to the front and MI6 over their left shoulder, Akin relaid
his message. Explained the offer by Dai Jones and the need for as
much information on him as possible. He had to be back in Lagos
within ten days, so in reality they had just a week. Omotunde Ola
couldn't place Jones' name but had heard rumours that a Flying Squad
officer was tight with the Robinsons. He would check with them
tomorrow when they came for a collection at Shadwell.
Within 24hrs they had all the information they needed about Dai
Jones. The Robinsons were the firm that Jones had forewarned about
a trap laid by the Flying Squad and that had had him seconded to
Nigeria. The Robinsons had planned a big diamond heist in Hatton
Garden, got warned the day before and didn't turn up. A couple of
youngsters on push bikes were sent to check the target on the day,
and sure enough, hundreds of coppers. It had exposed a nark
amongst them. He was quietly throttled, disposed of in a south
London glue factory, his family exiled from the East End. The only
criticism of Jones was any gangsters usual moan, he was a bit
expensive.
Akin leapt at the news. Pleased. Seven days freedom in London. He
called his minders and told them they were all free for seven days but
he expected them to accompany him around town. Omotunde Ola
released Amari from his duties for the week. He insisted Amari show
Akin the sites, visit the museums, theatres and cinemas, the parks
and clubs, not just get stoned and jiggy-jiggy all day. The girls time
was to valuable for freebies. Akin was up for it and Amari could at
last visit the British Museum, view the Benin Bronzes he had heard
legends of. Akin had read a report in the Lagos Daily Times last week
about the British Museum de-acquisitioning some of the bronzes to
help establish the National Museum in Lagos and was interested.
For Yoruba there maybe histories of wars with Edo and their Oba of
Benin scanning centuries, but they shared a cultural tradition in
creating bronzes of outstanding beauty since at least the 13th century.
Even Akin's minders, more muscle than intellect, were impressed
when they saw them. The stories of the Benin Bronzes had been true.
They are unique. In Europe, no sculpture had been produced between
the Roman Empire and two centuries after the first birth of these
bronzes from their casts that can stand comparison. The style,
virtuosity and sophistication astonished the unprecedented crowds
throughout Europe that visited the exhibitions. Picasso and Braque
could not have conceived Cubism without them. All modern European
art is their legacy.
The emotions of this small group of Yoruba men as they left the
British Museum flew between euphoria and rage. Euphoria at seeing
great African art that expressed a millennia of complex culture. Rage
that they had been stolen and black peoples histories denied.
Time,
For those Black,
Began with their slavery,
So the history teacher said.
By Ommission Les Skeates
Amari's rage was hot, sticky and viscous like the magma in a
volcanoes heart. Since being in London a day had not gone by when
some ignoramus would whisper abuse as they passed, try to shoulder
him if bigger than him or when with others, over charge him in the
shops and bar him from the pubs. “No Dogs, Irish or Niggers”, the
unwelcoming sign on many a lodging or pub. The only place he had a
semblance of comfortability with anybody white was in the Beat clubs
listening to Big Bill Broonzie, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee sing
the Blues. True the whites there were as high as kites on his dope,
but at least they tried. His rage was in danger of dismissing even
these as not worth the candle and stereotyping a race. It wouldn't
take much for him to be suckered into a quagmire of hate. The dull
eyed and dull brained minders were.
The more Akin thought about the bronzes the less he thought of the
power and wealth in their meaning than their monetary value. His
rage subsided quickly. Now some had been returned to Lagos, and
well, he was Yoruba and the bronzes Edo.
Akinyemi Ola's hint of a possiblity with Jones was starting to expand.
Akin had reported to him on his return about Jones and the working
relationship Omotunde and Amari had developed with the Robinsons.
His political weakness was his lack of officers in the military on his
payroll and Jones could be a way in. Identify those to approach or
entrap. He was warming but there still remained a nag. Jones
association with the Robinsons could prove a problem when he gets
back to London, produce divided loyalties. But any serious thinking
about that could wait.
With the lead up to Independence, Ola needed military allies and he
didn't have any. The way the British were maneuvering the 1959
pre-independence election, the way they had set up a federal
structure that in reality made for tribal and religious differences to
dominate the election, was a recipe for chaos. Divide and rule - an
effective imperial concept would be carried over into neo-colonialism
- for the benefit of British economic interests but not unity of the
new Nigerian state. At some point down the line the military would
surely have to intervene. He needed them. A risk would have to be
taken.
Six years later, the military had intervened and Jones had proved
worthwhile. The intelligence he had passed on was a bit expensive but
always proved profitable to Akinyemi Ola. Jones' contacts in the
military gave Ola the in he needed and his return to London at the end
of the secondment was even more lucrative. Jones' association with
the Robinsons no problem. Odd the alliances between black mobsters
and white policemen.
The day after Rosemary Oritse was born her father was ushered into
Akinyemi Ola's office by a petit and pretty secretary. He was not
alone. Two of his 'soldiers' were sitting on a sofa at the far end of
the room, quietly talking together. Ola's desk was at least 7ft by 7ft
of fine grained mahogany. Umukoro Oritse was impressed by its size
and shine. Its massive weight and bearing doing what it was designed
to do. The walls were decorated with what looked like the Benin
Bronzes from Lagos' new National Museum. The had to copies
thought Oritise.
Ola's businesses had all prospered. There was so much cash coming
in from the prostitution and dope smuggling that his accountants had
insisted he start sinking the money into property and shares. He
know held a portfolio through a myriad of legitimate companies that
covered property in New York, London and Lagos. On paper he was
worth legal millions. Some of the money had been used to rebuild the
garage and expand his bus fleet. He still kept his office at the garage.
“My obligation to your Uncle will be spent once this meeting is over.
What can I do for you Umukoro Oritse?” Straight to the point, as
usual with Akinyemi Ola.
“I have come to see you about a political matter and ask for your
support”, Oritse responded, sounding more confident than he felt.
The birth of Rosemary the day before had made him happy and it
carried in his voice.
“Since the coups my political and business rivals have been denouncing
me to the new Military Government so as to take over my business. I
have heard you have influence with our new rulers and would like you
to intervene with them by supporting my character.”
A muffled laugh came from the far end of the room as he ended.
Oritse couldn't work out if it was the 'soldiers' cracking jokes
between themselves or in response to what he had said. It didn't
matter, Ola was talking.
“I don't know your character. We have only just met. But I do know
about your business. The exportation of rubber and the importation
of bicycle parts are your main area of income. A few small fields you
own produce some rubber, but not enough. So you act as Broker for
other rubber producers. You need more clients. The bank has just
written to you I believe and want a meeting about your overdraft.
The business is only just staying afloat and any trouble with our new
rulers will sink it.”
Umukoro Oritse was worried and it showed. How had he known
about the bank and their hard letters?
“Don't worry, ” Ola kept talking, quick to see the nervousness arise
in Oritse. “I always do background checks on people who want to
see me and redeem an obligation. Here is what I'll do. It takes three
parts. One; I will put trade your way for export that will clear your
debt to the bank within a month and make you wealthy. Two; you are
invited to a party at my house this evening where you will be able to
met the military governor for Warri. He can make judgement on your
character. Three; as what I am offering you so far for redemption of
my obligation to your uncle excedes that obligation substantially, you
will welcome my son Amari to your house tomorrow and accept his
offer of a log of wood.” Akinyemi Ola paused for effect.
Now Umukoro Oritse was shocked not just nervous. What Ola
wanted was for him to betroth his baby daughter, Rosemary, to 30
year old Amari. He had not been expecting this.
“You do not have to make a decision now. Come to the party tonight
where you can also meet Amari and let me have your answer then.”
By his tone, body language and call to his secretary, Akinyemi Ola
indicated the meeting was at an end.
Oritse rose from his seat at the desk saying, “Thank you for your
time today and the invitation to the party. I will of course attend and
give you my decision then. Good day.”
He was escorted from the office all the way to the street by Ola's
secretary. She kept up a constant flow of small talk that Umukoro
Oritse didn't hear. At the street she raised her voice loudly enough
to work its way into his head.
“The car will take you to your hotel and pick you up this evening to
take you to Mr Ola's home. Goodbye.” She said, turned and
sasheyed her way back to Ola's office.
A black 1962 Rover P5, a brute of a car and the official vehicle for
British Prime Ministers during the 60's, was waiting with the driver
holding the front passenger door open. Only Ola sat in the back.
Stepping into the car Oritse was welcomed by a deep red and
comfortable leather seat that twenty years later would be recycled as
chic designer seating for Thatchers loft dwelling generation. The dash
was veneered walnut, kept shiny by the diligence of the proud
Chauffer. Heavy as a tank and with the illusion of space inside it
conveying security. He didn't notice any of this when first seated in
the car, but by the time he reached the hotel Oritse's head was no
longer befuddled, he thanked the driver and complimented him on the
car.
At the hotel he started to give serious thought to Ola's offer. Some
Ujowbi still practised the ancient tribal tradition of betrothal, had
absorbed it into their Catholicism. Even new born daughters could be
betrothed so it was an acceptable offer in that sense. No traceable
joint ancestors existed between Ola and Oritse, no clan association
being different tribes. What bothered him was Amari's age. He would
meet Amari tonight find out what he was like and make up his mind
then. That's what he wanted to think, but in reality, and he knew it,
this was an offer he couldn't refuse. Umukoro Oritse had to find a
way to salve his conscience and convince Isabella. He could insist on
no wedding till Rosemary was twenty. 'That's it', he thought in a
eureka moment, 'now I can win Isabella to the necessity of the
arrangement'. Salving his conscience by coincidence.
Akinyemi Ola's home was a big sprawling mansion in Ikoyi, a rich and
luxoriant neighbourhood in Lagos. Home to rich Nigerians,
Europeans, diplomats and gangsters. A gated community heavily
guarded. The house was on a hill where a slight breeze eased the
stifling heat. Ten bedrooms at least and set in five acres. The
grounds were surrounded by a ten foot high wall and patrolled
discretely by armed men.
The party was for Akin's 33rd birthday and had drawn Lagos society.
Faces that Umukoro Oritse had only seen in the papers before today.
Politicians, businessmen, Military Officers and a lot of pretty little
starlets who all seemed to congregate around Akin. No Zoot suit
anymore. He'd grown tired of it as the fashion faded and Harlem's
slow decline in status as the worlds Black Cultural Mecca started.
Oritse met Amari who was at his charismatic best. Both he and
Akinyemi Ola readily agreed with the stipulation of no wedding before
Rosemary was twenty. The military governor of Warri had promised
his help against Oritse's enemies, at a cost and which Akinyemi Ola
had insisted would only be a fraction of his profits from trading with
him. Ola was right. The rages of Oritse's wife would be forgotten
within two years as the foundations were being dug for their new five
bedroom home. She would rage instead against the Biafran Air Force
mercenaries dropping bombs on Warri just as the foundations were
being dug.
He bought an automatic 1962 Rover P5 to park on his new drive way
and impress his business contacts. A purchase in honour to his
mentor.
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