the two quick pecks on each cheek, followed by the smooth handshake that ended with a brief wrestling of their middle fingers and snap against their palms. The famously cool snapshake, which she was still struggling to master. As they stepped aside to let other guests filter in, outdoor lighting streaming through the sliding glass illuminated their corner.
Chlöe expelled a tiny gasp. The man’s face was … captivating. The landscape of his features was more hewn than crafted, like his maker had taken a machete to the bark of dark walnut, methodically yet somehow carelessly. His forehead, cheeks and nose appeared to rest on angular props that shifted in entrancing ways each time his expression changed. His laugh leapt past dark, almost wastefully full lips, a laugh that seemed to emit from the bottom of a well; a sultry, disconcerting boom. At long last, the stream of jabber between him and Vee ended, and with a pat on her shoulder and a nod to Chlöe, he moved inside.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, Lovett Massaquoi, attorney-at-large. We’ve done some work together.”
“Lovett? What kind of name is that? Doesn’t sound … indigenous.”
“His granma was one of those rare, olden-time feminists. She be damned her grandson was carrying her last name one way or the other.” Vee broke stride and threw a squinty side-eye. “Come oooon … Say it, I won’t judge.”
Chlöe blushed. “What?”
“Girl, please. I know you too good,” Vee teased. “You were thinking he looks all menacing black male, like those tribal masks I got up on my living room wall.” She made an arc through the air as if lining up the array of miniature carvings of her country’s sixteen tribes, a fascination for Chlöe every time she came over. “Comes busting through the bush all junta rebel-like, his sweaty, rippling chest bared to the elements, ready to stick some chocolate into your cream …”
“You’re an idiot. A disgusting, racist idiot.”
“Fine. Since you’re not asking, Lovett is and was no rebel. Lovett does not do guns or physical violence; Lovett does not do blood. Or swearing. I don’t think dirt, sweat or morning breath have any feature in that hologram of perfection he calls his life.” Vee nudged her. “I also know you don’t do boys, but shut it down in case you’re planning to experiment. That one’s a real pompous ass.”
“Nothing to shut down, trust me. If he’s an ass what was that back there?”
Vee shrugged. “We …” She mish-mashed her fingers together to indicate it was complicated. “We coexist. There’s a working respect, but we still fuss with each other. That boy’s a class act.”
“So are you. Did you ever …”
“Hell no.” Vee looked appalled. “He don’t do it for me. And long as I’m not a skinny blonde called Tiffany, Lovett ain’t lookin’. Huge kryptonite junkie. Didn’t you see who his date was?” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions then?”
“It’s just rare that I see you with your kinfolk. Nosiness is allowed when I do. What threw a lawyer and a journalist in the same line of work?”
“Ah, that.” Vee passed a hand over her forehead. “We’re rare out here; the Nigerians represent the whole west coast, if you know what I mean. That’s part of how we met. I needed to sort out my name and place of birth issues on my birth certificate once and for all. It was getting annoying, not to mention crippling, all the attitude from Home Affairs and not being able to apply for certain things.”
Chlöe did a double-take. That Voinjama went through life named after a northern trading city because of a clerical error on an identity document was hilarious enough. “What the wuhhhh?! I thought you sorted it years ago.” She poked Vee in the ribs. “Come on, why won’t you tell me what your real name was meant to be? It can’t be that embarrassing. Was it Meredith?”
Vee smirked. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. But it wasn’t done, that kinda thing is never top priority for kids. Then the war happened and … well. We did some hurry-hurry documents when I left Ghana for the States, that’s what I use here.” She wolfed a sushi roll from the snacks tray. “Anyway, Lovett finally saw to it. He’s a consultant for firms and businesses, and also runs his own legal aid set-up called Advocates for Refugees Abroad, ARA. He started it with a couple of his friends, and there’s one in the US, one in Ghana, plus the one in Joburg.”
“He had this case a few years ago. A Liberian couple living in some ghetto in Joburg got reported to the police for abusing their daughter. Our embassy in Pretoria asked Lovett to get involved, to make sure they were protected and everything was above board with local authorities. The couple claimed they only spoke the Grebo dialect and that made everything difficult, especially translating court procedure and working on their defence. Lovett didn’t trust the situation so while they scouted around for a translator here, he did his own hunting. I was visiting Joburg at the time, someone mentioned to him that I ‘investigated things’ and he got in touch.”
“You’re not Grebo. Or a detective.” Chlöe flapped a wave. “Okay, you do have that knack for ingenious, moronic plans. What did you do?”
“Nothing crazy. Apart from the elderly and people in remote rural areas, there’s hardly anybody who can’t speak colloqua, or pidgin English. And if you know that, your English’s good enough. I tailed them for a whole day and finally managed to video-record them having a full-blown discussion in a supermarket about the best type of rice to buy. Things turned around after that. Turns out the kid wasn’t even theirs, they took her from her Ma who was the man’s distant relative … it was a mess. In the end, they got deported to face the charges at home and the girl was eventually reunited with her mother.”
“And everyone lived happily ever after thanks to Miss Cleverclogs.”
“Lovett did most of the work, but you know …” Vee batted her lashes.
“Well since you’re such a bright spark, can you figure out what that means?”
“Legacy Entrepreneurial Advancement Deal. That’s what it stands for.”
Eyes aglow with youthful zest and a head of light-brown hair so rowdy it looked like it was trying to escape, the very tall man cut the caricature of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He knuckled glasses up his nose with one hand, using the other to stab at each letter on the banner above the door that read ‘L.E.A.D … Into Our Innovative Present and Our Prosperous Tomorrow’. “That’s us. Business owners who innovate,” he said.
Vee and Chlöe both opened their mouths.
“The potential for expansion and diversification in most African economies has largely been taken out of the hands of their own governments, whether they accept it or not,” blurted an overly studious-looking woman with short natural hair framing mousy features. “More and more, it’s up to big private financiers to be the driving force behind up-and-comers. They can better evaluate our capacity to innovate, our fiscal probity and our chances of success, and back us accordingly.” She sipped her wine. “Especially in post-World Cup South Africa. This is still a thriving era despite the global economic downturn.”
“Did she just, like, say ‘fiscal probity’ at a party?” Chlöe asked sotto voce.
“I believe so,” Vee whispered back, alarmed.
A gnome of a man with a crown of shiny, beaver-black hair guffawed. “Well, well, looks like somebody
