CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A KLM passenger plane landed safely at about 10:45pm, Nigerian time, at the Nnamdi Azikwe International airport; situated few kilometers at the outskirt of the Nigerian federal capital territory, Abuja. The plane, an Airbus A3330-200 with a capacity of 243 passengers was a business class built aircraft with an economy comfort zone, economy class and seats with extra legroom, with a cruising speed of 880 km/hIt.
The large plane made its final taxi along the lighted runaway that night and then finally parked at a designated parking space, a convenient place that allow the hundreds of passengers on board to disembark happily into the cool breezy night. Among the curious faces that came out of the flight that night was an athletic built white American citizen who was paying his first visit to the most controversial populous nation on the African continent.

Kenneth Edward Solomon paused briefly by the emerging staircase and surveyed the busy airport. He was in a casual blue jean, white long sleeve sweatshirt, a blue and white matching sandal, and a blue baseball cap. . He had made some little modification to his appearance. He wore a white rimless glass and now carried a low-cut from his usual full brown hair and a distinctive silver pen hung from his shirt. Nobody would have recognized him as the CEO of Shares.com in his simple appearance.
He had deliberately decided to come into the country casually; his plan was not to arouse much curiosity in his appearance. He preferred to look much like a curious tourist/business man that he was supposed to be. He clutched his expensive Apple Laptop on his right shoulder and held his Louis Vuitton bag in his left hand. He surveyed the lighted airport silently and was quick to note the presence of different uniformed security operatives as they mingled freely among the other busy airport porters and passengers. He allowed his lung the pleasure to gulp the free night breeze, grinned and followed the other eager passengers down the remaining stairs towards the arrival terminal.
Few minutes later, he presented himself at the check-in terminal where friendly airport officials smiled up at him, checked his luggage, threw some banters at him, stared suspiciously at his smiling face on his passport and then finally welcomed him to Nigeria; after been satisfied that he was actually the face on the passport. Ken Solomon working on the information he had gathered on the country, smiled and strolled casually out of the terminal and stared suspiciously at the lines of green painted cabs around.

He scrutinized them suspiciously and then finally settled for one with a GLOWORLD branded advertisement. At least this was a brand name he knew and trusted worldwide. He reasoned as he dropped his luggage on the back seat beside him and then directed the young looking driver in a black jean and multi colour African shirt to take him straight to the Mercury Hotel. The driver smiled happily at him, glanced at his luggage and outfit and then finally engaged gears.

“Welcome to Nigeria, sir.” He announced in perfect English and slowly eased out of the airport, along with the ‘Awe’ tune by Asa, filtering mildly from the Green Cab. Ken Solomon’s ears picked out the melodious song as he fed his eyes to the night vista of the Federal Capital City.



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An hour and some few minutes later now dressed in a tobacco color Khaki short and a white T-shirt with an inscription of the statue of liberty and a brown sandals, Ken Solomon, a can of Heineken beer in his hand and a pack of Marlboro cigarette by his side on a glass stool, sat thoughtfully on the balcony from where he admired the facilitating night view of Abuja from his tenth floor room at the Mercury. The art –décor style 26m2/280sqft room with the city view known as the guest room, is a bright airy room with original art work and a large opening window. Among its convenience was the comfort at which guests could catch up on work at the desk, check mails with high speed internet collection, recline on a mini chaise lounge and re-energize in the marble bathroom.

Ken Solomon, a hotel freak, has seen quite a number of hotel rooms in his life, but yet he was still impressed with what he saw at the Mercury Hotel, despite been inside his visualized ‘African jungle’. But was he really in a jungle as they were always meant to see and believe? He reasoned silently. Fine the continent was nothing compared to Europe or other more developed continent he had visited, but definitely he was certain that he was not really in a jungle with what he has seen so far within the past forty six hours or so since his secret escape from America. He sipped his drink, dragged his cigarette and instinctively wished he had some weed close by. But right now, he knew that was impossible being a stranger, but all the same, he promised himself to go out the next day and hunt secretly for some sweet African grass. He had heard much about the portent of weed from this continent, so he looked forward to lay his fingers on some good one very soon. He assured himself.

He had always had this strong notion that marijuana was simply the most popular and available grass in the world. Just know your way and the right language, before you know it, the controversial green grass could be yours within the shortest possible time. This he had learned from experience during some of his numerous trips to Europe, and Asia. But this was still Africa, so he must be extremely careful, he cautioned himself. The fact was that he knew there has been a long war of propaganda and hypocrisy against the grass by the west, especially his dear country America. Again, he still told himself to be careful. But wondered why all the lies and deceits when many farmers in his country still secretly and knowingly cultivate the rich grass on a large scale. He was appalled that his country could donate millions of dollars each year to help fight against the grass in Africa and at the same time encouraged what it called Medical Marijuana in its own states. He remembered that a Federal Judge in Sacramento had recently given one of its citizens; pot grower, Michael Lombardo the permission to use medical marijuana. He also remembered reading an article recently titled: Local Pot Tax Hurried onto Sac Ballot, which stated that Sacramento, California, is hotbed for cannabis and that dozens of medical marijuana dispensaries operated in the city. It further stated that a local ordinance regulating dispensaries is being drafted, and it is expected to be voted upon by the city council with an expected vote on proposition 19, a state initiative that allow localities to tax and regulate cannabis revenues to potentially help reduce the city’s debt.

Ken Solomon was long aware that despite the continue denials by the U.S Federal Government and its ridiculous and erroneous classification of marijuana as a ‘schedule 1’ substance, meaning a high potential for abuse and not accepted medical use, but the feds themselves have been giving out free marijuana to a selected group of patients for more than 30 years. He reasoned. If it could do that to its citizens why not in Africa where there appears to be a lot of poverty and disease? He questioned himself, silently sipped his drink and dragged his cigarette. He wondered how many people in this part of the world knew, especially farmers that Hemp was so important in England in the 16th century which prompted King Henry VIII to pass a law in 1553 which fined farmers who failed to grow at least one quarter acre of hemp for every 60 acres of arable land they owned. Or do they know that there was even a time in history for over 200 years when you could pay your taxes in America with hemp? And that it is on record that in 1850 there were more than 8,300 hemp farms in the United States. How many people in this part of the world have the knowledge that it is estimated that hemp has approximately 25,000 uses? These uses include food, paint and fuel, to clothing and construction materials. Furthermore, that several cars made today contained hemp. Were they aware that the oldest relic of human industry is a piece of hemp fabric (canvas) found in ancient Mesopotamia dating back to approximately 8000 B.C.? In addition, that the oldest surviving piece of paper made over 2000 years ago in China was made from hemp fibre?

So many questions raced through his mind as he sipped his drink, dragged his cigarette and kept wondering about the hypocrisy on weed and its importance. He wondered if the people in this country knew the efficacy of the controversial grass. Hemp to him was truly a "perfect balance" food source. Just know how to use it and just like any other eatable and drinkable, don’t abuse it. He told himself and then grinned thoughtfully into the night.
Again, were they knowledgeable that the first diesel engine was designed to run on vegetable oils, one of which was hemp oil? In addition, that the great American automobile designer Henry Ford in the 1930s produced an automobile composed of 70 percent hemp plastic that also ran on hemp based fuel and oil. In 2001, the "Hempcar" circled the North American continent powered by hemp oil.
What about the use of Hemp by great artists like Rembrandt, Vincent Van Gogh, and Thomas Gainsborough whose great paintings were painted primarily on hemp canvas, often with hemp oil based paint? Ken Solomon being an addictive hemp smoker had long done a research on all these. He was aware of the hypocrisy and always marveled at the uneducated manner some third world countries, including some of the so called developed ones were handling the issue and felt sorry for those whose eyes were still masked from the reality. Well, presently this was not his major problem, his big dilemma right now was how to trace and locate the smart criminals who conned him off his millions and right now have turned him into a fugitive. Where the hell could they or would they be hiding now? He thought silently, as his eyes stared blankly at the beautiful lights across the city. Who were these faceless thieves and how exactly do they look like? Where exactly should he begin his search? Or who the hell should he take his complains to? All these questions raced through his troubled mind as he sipped his drink, lit another cigarette and crossed his legs thoughtfully.

The jazz track playing from his laptop skipped a bit and then continued. He suddenly grinned, and remembered how he had smartly slipped out of his apartment in Baltimore and took a flight straight to Washington, unnoticed by the various curious eyes and then quietly made arrangement for his lifetime journey to Nigeria. Only two people knew exactly where he was at the moment. The amiable Pamela Evans and his trusted Mexican chauffeur Mario. Not even his curious and suspicious looking butler, Patrick, knew of his trip, including Thompson, his womanizing Bank Manager, and he had wisely decided not to tell Adams as well, as he was not too certain of his loyalty on this matter.

So far, things were moving smoothly according to plans with only one fear on his mind, money. He knew he needed some available cash handy to enables him carry out his one-man mission effectively and presently he knew the money left with him was fast running out. He had wisely opened a secret account with a Nigerian bank in Baltimore that has a global connection, but all the same, right now, he had less than twenty thousand dollars left in this account, this after settling his travelling expenses which included bribing his way for a quick visa, flight and ticket, this he had all paid for in cash. He also paid for a reserved room at the Mercury Hotel for two weeks. Thank God for the internet, travelling was now easier. He reasoned. He had actually browsed the internet, found the Mercury Hotel website, and after a prudent research and convinced that the site was real; he had booked and reserved a room under a false name, using fake travelling documents. All these expenses dug hole in his account and also set him back in hundreds of dollars. But Ken Solomon was someone who believed in possibility and thinks nothing in settling his way or spending a fortune to get what he wanted.

He had actually wanted to stay in one of the executive lounges at the Mercury which has the convenience of a top floor and advantage of a private check-in and check-out, including a free continental breakfast. However, his instinct had cautioned him and warned him about his dwindling fortune and most importantly he wanted to maintain a low profile as much as possible.
He sipped his drink slowly and dwell on his situation. The earlier he starts his search the better for him. He must not allow himself to be in a desperate situation in a foreign, unfamiliar ground. That would be dangerous and frustrating to his mission. He told himself. But where exactly should he begin from? Who should he talk to about his predicament; certainly not the American consulate here or straight to the police? He had this strong conviction that the faceless smart thieves where somewhere down here, blowing away his money and enjoying their lives in one of the secluded rich mansions or hotels in this city, but where? This was the million dollar question he must find an answer to in the next couple of hours.

He fetched out one of his favourite books from his bag ‘Sun Tzu’s ART OF WAR FOR EXECUTIVES - by Donald G. Krause and quietly flipped through the pages and then went through Sun Tzu 10 most vital Principles: (1) Learn to fight (2) Show the way (3) Do the right ((4) Know the facts (5) Expect the worst (6) Seize the day (7) Burn the bridges ( Do it better (9) Pull together (10) Keep them guessing

He read through the sentences and deliberated on all the ten, breaking them down to his present situation and then analyzed his strength and weakness. Going through the book re-energized him and he smiled thoughtfully. Yes, better he keep the criminals guessing. He told himself gladly as he reflected on the tenth principles. He suddenly wished he had someone trustful he could unburden his heart to. He lit another cigarette, picked up the Nokia mobile phone he had bought in one of the shops down stairs, and then stared thoughtfully at the GLO registered network. He had been assured that the network had a large coverage and subscriber base in the country by the slim charming shop assistant who proudly told him this as she handed him the package. He scanned through his brown leather diary, and found what he was looking for. He calculated what time it was right then in New-York as he slowly dialed Pamela Evans number.


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