Okeke picked his nose first, wiping his right fore finger on his traditional white kaftan, then picking his teeth with his little finger and licking his teeth with his tongue for good measure. He loved eating pounded yam with vegetable soup, but hated how the evidence was left behind in his teeth, invariably spending the next few hours picking at them. He didn't care anyway, he couldn't understand why there was so much fuss about picking one's teeth or nose, for that matter in public. Okeke liked to eat with his hands the traditional way and loved to eat. Food was the source of his very living. As hard as he worked, he spent a great deal of time thinking about his next meal and what, where and when he will be eating. As food liked him very much he was a very robust man, with accompanying beer gut, over-sweaty body and necessary bald head. His neck was not where it should be. His right hand had a permanent over used and at sometime white handkerchief, which he waved as if swatting flies. He was truly a visionary Trader cum businessman dealing only in Peugeot spare parts originals, second and third hand. With the extra money he made, he started dealing in the buying and selling of second hand ladies' knickers. Business was booming. People wanted knickers, whether first or second hand, they flew off the shelves. The market was insatiable.        

This afternoon, he'd just completed one round of pounded yam with vegetable soup, garnished with stockfish, snails, periwinkles and goat meat. He was feeling full and to complete the meal, he polished off two bottles of "Gulder" beer. He dared not move and, while seated, took the opportunity to foul the air with silent ones as no-one would suspect him, but which left patrons wondering if the plumbing in the restaurant's kitchen was leaking. Yes he was feeling like the true big boss he was. A true Igbo man with money. He visualised the adage, money-miss-road and claimed it, by saying "it is I, Nna" while a cursory smile passed his lips. 
Ring, ring, ring. Okeke answered on the fourth ring. "Eh, who you? Do I know you?" the phone clutched in between thick fingers, pressed hard against his tiny ear. His gold bracelet, hung on his fat wrist, glistening, inviting you to stare, but it was too shocking to stare at for long.
"Okeke, Mr Okeke, it's me. Mrs Chiaka, Nnanna's wife. I've been trying to get you but reception is bad here in Aba". Her voice echoed down the line. She was panting and sounded on edge, while hedging her words carefully.
"What do you want; a man can't eat in peace anymore. You people are always phoning. What is it this time?  Money for school fees or is someone sick? Which one of your children this time is in hospital?" Okeke's impatience and nerves jangled. What is it with villagers, once one has your number they revel in giving it to all their friends and obscure relatives you never knew you had or even cared to meet and know.
"No sir, I just wanted to call and find out how you are doing. You know it has been long since we saw you this side. Lagos is far from Aba, remember". The line crackled with unspoken nervousness and unfamiliar relationships.  
"I know it is far. Thank you for ringing me. Eh, thank you. I suppose you now want me to send you money, at least to replace the money for the phone call, eh"?
"Ah, ah. Nda, no! I called because we have been worried about you. I was sent to ring and make sure you are okay. Since Aunty came home, we have not heard from or seen you".
"Well, that is not my fault. They made their choice. Imagine the insult: they chose my wife and children over me. Who is keeping them, is it not me? Is it not my money they are spending"?
"Yes sir" nodding her head vigorously.
Mr Okeke grunted "eh". He visualised her nervousness and previous experience exerted itself again. He knew she was affirming so as to avoid confrontation.
Sweating profusely and out of breath, he continued, "Villagers like to play partisan politics. It is not working. Well, when they are tired of the village she will have to come back to Lagos. As for me, I am not coming. Tell whoever sent you that I am fine. They have not killed me yet, you hear"?
"Yes sir. It is well. Eh, bye bye" and in one swift movement of her wrist, she placed the receiver back in its cradle.   
With that, he ended the conversation and let out a silent fart, mopping his forehead with his now completely wet handkerchief. He'd been shouting so hard, that everyone had overheard him and had exchanged knowing looks at his predicament. Of course no one approached him with free advice, but they had their conversations in earnest, and loud enough for him to hear them anyway.
Mr Okeke's long distance phone call from his cousin's wife whom he had not seen since Christmas, unnerved him. In his one lucid moment, he realised he'd been rather obnoxious and down-right rude. This woman had called and asked about his health. How strange! Such had not happened to him before and he was worried. Were they planning for him or was his time near. Was this a message from God for him to mend his ways. He shook the thoughts of God, out of his mind and focused on a game plan.
Easing himself out of the unbalanced chair, he picked up his cane which had started life as a show piece but now was a necessary accessory in his daily wardrobe and steadied his body. Placing his left foot forward and with the cane in his right hand, he made his way out of the crowded restaurant.
Mr Okeke unrolled the crumpled bundle of Naira notes he had found under the table in his shop-cum-office. As he had began to make money, he had opted not to move into one of those fancy shop type places and had stayed in his original cubicle. The cubicle could only fit one small table, plus rickety chair and with extra difficulty squeezed Mr Okeke in. Two people could not comfortably sit in this back office as he liked to call it.
"Ten thousand, fifteen, twenty..." sang Mr Okeke when he heard his name being called outside.
"Okeke, Mr Okeke"
"Onye? Who the hell is this now" ? Mr Okeke thought, but he did not look, it was yet  another insolent young man disturbing him in his work. Ignoring the voice, he remained seated and continued counting "twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five". With each pronouncement, he lifted from his left side, a bundle of 200 hundred Naira notes into the red and white Ghana-must-go bag. He was happy. The boys in his shop had surpassed themselves in sales this week. He must remember to give them a bonus at the end of the year, of course, within reason. Nothing too extravagant. He had just counted and was about to place the last bundle in the Ghana-must-go bag, when Ignatius, his new apprentice came thundering into the cubicle.
"Oga, Oga come quick! Eh, dey don beat me finish",  Ignatius cried, rubbing his chin and grabbing his crotch to hold his trousers up. It looked to Mr Okeke as if the boy had just been slapped hard across the face.
"My friend, how many times have I told you not to burst into this room anyhow!".
"...but Oga, na dis man".
"Don't oga me, you want to see what you're not supposed to. Eh. Which man? Is he not your friend? Are you in trouble again or did you borrow money from someone. Go and pay them back, now!".
"Ah, Oga, na you dem dey look for O. Not me".
"Stupid! What do you mean". He placed the final bundle of filthy naira notes into the pristine Ghana-must-go bag and got out of the chair. Beads of sweat lined his forehead, he wiped his left hand first, then right hand with his now completely dirty off-white handkerchief and walked to the counter.       
"Can I help you? I am Chief Mr Goddy-no-be-joke Okeke. What can I do you", and beamed with pride that he had said it right.
Mr Okeke collected the cubicle keys from Ignatius, the apprentice, and walked to the rear of the car. He wanted to be home on time and as his stomach governed him, he knew it was time to eat. He day dreamed about the bizarre turn of events that had unfolded a few days ago in his shop after a chance meeting with a stranger and who had refused to divulge his name. Well, he'd hired a driver as instructed by Mr no-name and had gone to the house on

13 Simpson street

, to collect his belongings. Mr Okeke knew he had never seen the man before and that he definitely did not have any belongings in his possession. But being the ever ready businessman he was, he was apprehensive, but acknowledged that he could do with a few free gift items. He didn't allow himself to be scared that evening. Was he shocked when he realised that Agatha his wife of fifteen years was what the man referred to as "belongings". Infact, on reflection he was shocked at what the man said in his shop.

13 Simpson street

, to collect his belongings. Mr Okeke knew he had never seen the man before and that he definitely did not have any belongings in his possession. But being the ever ready businessman he was, he was apprehensive, but acknowledged that he could do with a few free gift items. He didn't allow himself to be scared that evening. Was he shocked when he realised that Agatha his wife of fifteen years was what the man referred to as "belongings". Infact, on reflection he was shocked at what the man said in his shop.
"I've come to inform you that your belongings have been deposited in our house. Please you need to personally come and collect them" he'd said. Just like that. Like a machine. A computer talking. The man showed no emotions. He merely added, "come to no 13 Simpson street. I will be expecting you".
At first, Mr Okeke thought the man had smoked some serious ganja but, he became aware that as he spoke he was staring into his eyes and was being hypnotised.  Fear took hold of him and he thought that if he did not act on the man's information he might regret it. He might lose all his money. Seeing as how the man was so bizarrely attired he remembered stories he'd been told as a child about people who missed out on chances because of stubbornness. He figured this was one of those old wives' tales but he'd humour the guy by visiting Simpson street after the day's takings had been counted.
He couldn't wait, and as soon as the takings had been counted he called for the driver and off they went to

Simpson street

. They must have been waiting for him because he had not finished parking the car, nor had he located No 13 when Agatha opened the door and slid right in next to him. She looked absolutely delicious in her money-miss-road Ankara fitted blouse and long skirt with his money on her body bling bling to show for it. For a split second, he reminisced on their past escapades and how they'd met; and in that second, he was glad she was back and sorry he had been so unnecessarily difficult.
After six months of not talking and fighting, he realised that he really did love his wife, even though her wahala was too much. He squeezed her hand, pulled her closer and asked if she'd had a nice time in the village. He'd not enjoyed the conflict as he imagined he would, he was glad that she was with him and they could continue with their lives. He was also happy there was no need for the unspoken malice to continue. Now, he was a truly happy man.  
"Nno enyi m nwanyi", he said leaning closer while savouring her scent. "Idikwa delectable!" he whispered, finally making up by kissing her forehead, his arms over her shoulders. He could not kiss her on the lips now, in public, with the driver looking. Never.  What an abomination, he had a reputation to maintain.