The Best American Short Stories® 2011 Read Online Free PDF

Knows Tomorrow'?" Then he proceeded to sing the song with childish gusto.
No one knows tomorrow! To-mo-rrow! No one knows tomorrow!
Another generous splash of cognac in his glass. "That is the principle on which the ambitious segment of the Nigerian society is based. No one knows tomorrow. Look at those big bankers with all their money and the next thing they knew, they were in prison. Look at that pauper who could not pay his rent yesterday and now because Babangida gave him an oil well, he has a private jet!" Chief always spoke with a triumphant tone, mundane observations delivered as grand discoveries. After Obinze had visited a few more times, drawn in part because Chief's steward always served fresh pepper soup, and because Amaka told him to just keep hanging around until Chief did something for him, Chief told him, "You are hungry and honest, that is very rare in this country. Is that not so?"
    "Yes," Obinze said, even though he was not sure whether he was agreeing about his own quality or the rarity of it.
    "Everybody is hungry, even the rich men are hungry, but nobody is honest. Twenty years ago I had nothing until somebody introduced me to General Babangida's brother. He saw that I was hungry and honest and he gave me some contacts. Look at me today. I have money. Even my great-grandchildren will not finish eating my money. But power? Yes, that one I work hard to have. I was Babangida's friend. I was Abacha's friend. Now that the military has gone, Obasanjo is my friend. The man has created opportunities in this country. Big opportunities for people like me. I know they are going to privatize the National Farm Support Corporation because they said it is bankrupt. Do you know this? No. By the time you know it, I would have taken a position and I would have benefited from the arbitrage. That is our free market!" Chief laughed. "The corporation was set up in the 1960s and it owns property everywhere. The houses are all rotten and termites are eating the roofs. But they are selling them. I'm going to buy seven properties for five million each. You know what they are listed for in the books? One million. You know what the real worth is? Fifty million." Chief stopped again to laugh and swallow some cognac. "So I will put you in charge of that deal. They need somebody to do the evaluation consulting, and I will put you there. Amaka said you are sharp and I can see it in your face. Your first job will be to help me make money, but your second job will be to make your own money. You will make sure you undervalue the properties and make sure it looks as if we are all following due process. It's not difficult. You acquire the property, sell off half to pay your purchase price, and you are in business! You'll build a house in Lekki and buy some cars and ask your hometown to give you some titles and your friends to put congratulatory messages in the newspapers for you and before you know, any bank you walk into, they will want to package a loan immediately and give you, because they think you no longer need the money. Ah, Nigeria! No one knows tomorrow!" Chief paused to stare at one of his ringing cell phones—four were placed on the table next to him—and then ignored it and leaned back on his leather sofa. "And after you register your own company, you must find a white man. You had friends in England before you were deported? Find one white man. Tell everybody he is your general manager. It gives you immediate legitimacy with many idiots in this country. This is how Nigeria works, I'm telling you."
    And it was, indeed, how it worked and still worked for Obinze. The ease of it had disoriented him. The first time he took his offer letter to the bank, he had felt surreal saying "fifty" and "fifty-five" and leaving out the "million" because there was no need to state the obvious. That day he had written an e-mail to Ifemelu, which was still in the drafts folder of his old Hotmail account, unsent after six years. She was the only