If you’ve been online in the last decade or so you’ve probably received a shout out from Nigeria. A typical missive from those people tells of the untold riches you’ll receive if you help some aspiring Nigerian free his inheritance from his homeland’s backwards, benighted banking system. All you have to do is provide said solicitor with the funds needed to bride the right officials, or a bank account for them to deposit untold millions into. One would be quite mistaken if they thought this scam to be a recent phenomenon, the result of our new digital world. But this is merely the latest stage in the evolution of the scams perpetrated by perhaps the world’s most enterprising nationals, the Nigerians. I’m no Skip Gates but I’m sure a fair number of the Ibo people were instrumental in the African side of the triangle trade.
That being said the main factor in my getting played was my own greed, stupidity, and as fate would have it, messiness. I allowed my bedroom to fall into a state of utter disarray. It was so bad that it bothered me despite the fact that I was a nineteen year-old weedhead. Things were so out of control that bills and bank statements were laying out in the open. I knew that I had to tidy up but as fate would have it I never did.
This seemingly minor detail set a series of events in motion that would take years to recover from. One night a friend came over, if I remember correctly it was for a brief pre-game session before hitting the streets and bars of U Street. My old bedroom materializes around me as I reminisce. My boy was standing in my doorway as I laced up my Air Maxes. His eyes widened and then narrowed, focused on a single devious goal. “You got First Union?” he said dispassionately. “I got this thing that’s real easy money. Holler at me if you want to get this cheese,” he deadpanned in a thick West Coast accent.
It was easy to dismiss my boy’s proposal at first. Taken at face value it was extremely shady. A second thought revealed it to be unbelievably foolish. I wasn’t privy to any fine print but I understood that money would be deposited then withdrawn from my account. It was the type of game that evolved into what we call the “Nigerian E-mail Scam.” Regardless of the machinations the bottom line is simple, free money. I kept it moving without much more then a second thought.
But then, as it is wont to, something came up. It was as if Destiny seized the wheel and veered me straight into a bridge abutment. In the end it was an unpaid tuition bill that did me in, in the face of possible expulsion, suddenly my “friend’s” plan seemed like a pretty good idea. It was so stupid it might just work. I was so stupid I thought nothing bad could come out of it. Nothing from nothing will always be nothing, or so it seemed.
The homie was contacted and things began to happen. I should’ve pulled the plug when he stopped by unannounced to tell me he was coming back later with his man. The next few hours consisted of anxiety so intense I made Richard Lewis look like George Gervin. Few things can compare to waiting for an unknown criminal to meet you at the place where you and two friends sleep every night. The dude that arrived was a dapper yet diminutive Nigerian. If there were not enough red flags before, now they were billowing in the wind. But the point of no return had long since been passed. The only thing to do now was wait for everything to happen.
After a few agonizingly slow trips around the Sun the hour was upon us. It was a brisk winter day with a clear blue sky. The Nigerian wanted to get it in early so I was up at dawn’s ass crack. I’ll never forget what I wore that day (A very fly knit sweater with matching cargo pants and a J. Crew bubble coat that was twelve years ahead of it’s time). I left my place still not knowing how I was feeling. My palms were itching and a baby grand (piano brand) was dangling above my head. I got up with my homeboy and together we walked to a local fast food spot to meet the Nigerian. He showed up looking like he just robbed a Z Cavarichi store. Despite the early hour he was rocking proper mid-nineties club attire. His peasy wig and beady eyes were obscured by a corduroy bucket hat. This hat, and his wire framed sunglasses were removed often to grill me.
My instructions were simple: withdraw a few thousand bucks from a few different branches and give it to the Nigerian, who would in turn break me off with a few stacks of my own. The first stop was only a short ride but it seemed like a true sojourn. Dude was driving like he was still in Lagos so I half hoped a local cop would pull him over and put my misadventure to an end. Of course this never happened, despite spending a few hours with this clown as he ran red lights, leaving rubber on every corner in the city. The day ended with me retrieving the last G’s, which turned out to be mine. I was dropped off and sat on a park bench pondering the albatross that was nesting in my pocket.
The following few weeks were an orgy of B.I.G.ian proportions, (spending) money, (buying) clothes, and (chasing) hoes were all your neighbor knowed. The source of the money was quickly obscured by how well it spent. The kicks were fly, the dates expensive, the blunts double stuffed, everything brand new, but I digress. This trip to paradise was paid for with fool’s gold. It wasn’t long before them laws came snooping about. The first sign of trouble came in the form of a phone call. Apparently there had been some issues with my account that required my attention. No shit! I was assured that it would only take a minute. The second sign was noticed while in the bank addressing the issue. It presented in the form a police cruiser screeching to a stop just outside the door. The next few moments were surprisingly mundane. The city’s mid-afternoon activity unfolded on the other side of the car’s cage.
The first stop was a local precinct. One has to expect anything going into this situation. Luckily it was a very slow day and no one else was there. After a few unremarkable moments a detective had me brought forth. I still wasn’t feeling too much, or maybe I just couldn’t grasp what was going on. The constable blabbered on about jail and wasted years whilst I bided my time. The vaults were empty and it was only a matter of time before I’d be able to post bail. Then I heard something that to this day I still find most disconcerting: “This guy’s going over to the Secret Service.” Now things were going to start getting interesting. The scope of what had happened was just now coming into focus.
I was expecting some sort of badge shaped fortress but instead these feds kept shop in a nondescript office building downtown. The same cop that got me earlier that day was now leading me through a shuttered food court and on to an elevator. Once upstairs I realized where I was. As soon as the elevator door opened I saw the words “Secret Service” amongst what appeared to be an officer’s hall of fame. I was greeted by who was to become my escort through the wide world of witnessing. He was a squat white dude in his thirties. He looked like a cop, he talked like a cop and far as I could tell he had my balls in a vice.
The jury wasn’t out long but they did deliberate thoroughly. On the one hand I fell for these guys plan hook, line and sinker. They didn’t tell me much but they did say shit was kosher, that nothing would come of it other then paper. Or I could cop to whatever these neighbor’s did to have me sitting here in the first place, which, according to the Agent in front of me that would mean thirty years Fed time and a million dollar fine. All this would go away if I made them privy to the story I just told you.
The choice was obvious but still one with a heavy load to bear. The machinations involved drills home the reality of what you are doing. Initials everywhere, mug shots taken, photo lineups pondered, tons of paper work, guys with badges and guns, and handcuffs. I fucking hate handcuffs. Perhaps only the body bag is a more heinous tool of the public employee.
The decision I made to cooperate stuck with me for a long time. In the months following my initial interview I had to meet twice with my lawyer, the Agent, and the AUSA assigned to the case. Each meeting made me at once more anxious and relieved. It was a relief to not be wearing cuffs after each meeting but I hated helping them do their job. I never knew what became of my co-conspirators from that ill-fated day. I did see a mug shot of the kid from Cali during my last meeting and it sent chills down my spine. They put me in a bad spot, but assisting in a neighbor’s incarceration is not what’s up. Still, after all these years I look back on this regrettable episode and admire my younger self. I had the strength to own this thing with my head up high and live to see a better tomorrow.
