Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 4

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 'sell

on', recycle a used ticket just before the change over. An Inspector

for the bus company will get on the bus the next stop that Blunt makes

after taking over. It will be obvious that Blunt was not responsible but

it should act as a decoy for Elizabeth. You will be sacked and back in

here 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 him

until next year then we want you to hook him. OK any questions?"

Elizabeth Boro was the first to respond. "It sounds quite easy, but

what 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.