was to back off just the same—though guymen did occasionally get caught up in an online tussle over a particularly plump prize. A " mugu war," as they called it. Winston avoided these as well. They were counterproductive and only distracted from the task at hand: to snare, spear, snatch, and squeeze the mugu , the fool, dry.
Sometimes Winston would find a CV posted online, with street addresses and phone numbers given. That was especially useful when it came time to cut the mugu loose, to threaten their lives, family, et cetera. These exchanges usually ended in blubbering pleas from the mugu: "O, you have ruined me," "O, you have tricked me." Sometimes the blubbering turned into legal threats—more an annoyance than anything worth fretting over—and this was where a home address proved a boon. Attaching a simple Google Maps photo of the mugus house to a note saying "We know where you live" was usually enough to shut down such nonsense. And even then there was little danger of any real legal action; it was more akin to swatting aside a fly. A minor annoyance at most, all those angry/ sad/rebuffed/baffled emails cluttering one's inbox.
The real danger lay here in Lagos, in the sudden swoops of EFCC officers seeking to "rehabilitate" Nigeria's reputation.
Interfering with hard-working 419ers, staging publicity-stunt raids and mass arrests. Winston had been caught in one such sweep—that was why he now moved from cyber cafe to cyber cafe, avoiding overnight stays and always scouting the quickest exit.
He started out as a yahoo boy, taking advantage of the cheaper prices to remain at the cafes overnight, long after the CLOSED sign had been turned and the door bolted. He'd never cared for the crude company of the other overnighters, though. The low laughs, the desperation disguised as camaraderie, the eye-stinging haze of cigarettes —Was he the only man in Lagos who didn't smoke ?—the constant dull-witted banter, the tiresome obsession with the female form. Winston wasn't staying up all night to share lurid tales of sexual conquest, real or imagined; he had business to conduct, and the rambling discussions the other yahoo boys had about the best way to 419 a girl from Victoria Island into your bed was a taxing waste of energy. Winston had bigger plans than that.
He was no mere wayo man, a trickster, a huckster, a carnival conjurer. He was a true guyman, living by his wits, outsmarting the odds. This was what he told himself to buoy his spirits when he felt adrift.
There were times he thought he should make more of an effort to chum around with the yahoo boys, exchanging tips, sharing advice. He'd purchased his first formats from a yahoo boy, after all, a lengthy plea from the widow of General Abacha, almost comically inept in its structure and internal inconsistencies, but a start nonetheless. And after two hundred tries, it had paid off: a small payout from an engineering student in Edinburgh, only a few thousand pounds but enough to keep him going.
It seemed so long ago now. Winston waved for another cup of tea. The yahoo boys drank minerals and beer, but Winston was cut from a different cloth. Lemon spiced with ginger.
He forced a sigh back into his throat, scrolled again through the profiles he was compiling.
A city of millions, built on a swamp, on a series of stepping stones, on islands thick with humidity. The worst place to construct a metropolis, but that was Lagos. It defied common sense. Winston dreamed of streamlined cities, where action could follow plan smoothly and without the endless layers of dash and deceit that Lagos demanded. The yahoo boys were impatient—that was their problem. That was the city's problem, too; Lagos was always hurrying, always getting in its own way. The place needed less hustle, more strategy. There was so much energy expended daily over the most mundane of details—getting a haircut, paying a bill. Every transaction had to be wrestled to the
Sometimes Winston would find a CV posted online, with street addresses and phone numbers given. That was especially useful when it came time to cut the mugu loose, to threaten their lives, family, et cetera. These exchanges usually ended in blubbering pleas from the mugu: "O, you have ruined me," "O, you have tricked me." Sometimes the blubbering turned into legal threats—more an annoyance than anything worth fretting over—and this was where a home address proved a boon. Attaching a simple Google Maps photo of the mugus house to a note saying "We know where you live" was usually enough to shut down such nonsense. And even then there was little danger of any real legal action; it was more akin to swatting aside a fly. A minor annoyance at most, all those angry/ sad/rebuffed/baffled emails cluttering one's inbox.
The real danger lay here in Lagos, in the sudden swoops of EFCC officers seeking to "rehabilitate" Nigeria's reputation.
Interfering with hard-working 419ers, staging publicity-stunt raids and mass arrests. Winston had been caught in one such sweep—that was why he now moved from cyber cafe to cyber cafe, avoiding overnight stays and always scouting the quickest exit.
He started out as a yahoo boy, taking advantage of the cheaper prices to remain at the cafes overnight, long after the CLOSED sign had been turned and the door bolted. He'd never cared for the crude company of the other overnighters, though. The low laughs, the desperation disguised as camaraderie, the eye-stinging haze of cigarettes —Was he the only man in Lagos who didn't smoke ?—the constant dull-witted banter, the tiresome obsession with the female form. Winston wasn't staying up all night to share lurid tales of sexual conquest, real or imagined; he had business to conduct, and the rambling discussions the other yahoo boys had about the best way to 419 a girl from Victoria Island into your bed was a taxing waste of energy. Winston had bigger plans than that.
He was no mere wayo man, a trickster, a huckster, a carnival conjurer. He was a true guyman, living by his wits, outsmarting the odds. This was what he told himself to buoy his spirits when he felt adrift.
There were times he thought he should make more of an effort to chum around with the yahoo boys, exchanging tips, sharing advice. He'd purchased his first formats from a yahoo boy, after all, a lengthy plea from the widow of General Abacha, almost comically inept in its structure and internal inconsistencies, but a start nonetheless. And after two hundred tries, it had paid off: a small payout from an engineering student in Edinburgh, only a few thousand pounds but enough to keep him going.
It seemed so long ago now. Winston waved for another cup of tea. The yahoo boys drank minerals and beer, but Winston was cut from a different cloth. Lemon spiced with ginger.
He forced a sigh back into his throat, scrolled again through the profiles he was compiling.
A city of millions, built on a swamp, on a series of stepping stones, on islands thick with humidity. The worst place to construct a metropolis, but that was Lagos. It defied common sense. Winston dreamed of streamlined cities, where action could follow plan smoothly and without the endless layers of dash and deceit that Lagos demanded. The yahoo boys were impatient—that was their problem. That was the city's problem, too; Lagos was always hurrying, always getting in its own way. The place needed less hustle, more strategy. There was so much energy expended daily over the most mundane of details—getting a haircut, paying a bill. Every transaction had to be wrestled to the
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