Metropole Magazine

 
 
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14 Feb

Jamal is an Abuja-based billionaire bachelor and businessman who works hard and parties hard. Welcome to his world.

Week 18

Monday

A ZeeGC delegation from Sierra Leone arrived for a three-day conference so I was busy all day, but I couldn’t get yesterday’s meeting off my mind. Ishaya had somehow befriended one of Alhaji’s associates who ran a business in America, and was at their house apparently to discuss an important shipment. His smooth American accent had won Alhaji over and he pitied his poverty, and I was the villain who caused it. “No matter the mistakes of the past, it is in your power now to share what we all know he has some rights to,” Alhaji had said. “Don’t be selfish Jamal.

Tuesday

Alhaji had organised a proper meeting with Ishaya and I, with himself as the umpire. I don’t know who the old man was trying to impress by taking up Ishaya’s cause. Is it my fault he squandered his opportunities whilst crying for his million-naira inheritance? “Alhaji, Uncle Gumbo gave him American citizenship, which is more than most fathers of illegitimate children do,” I said. “All I’m asking for is my father’s Kaduna properties. You can have the rest,” said Ishaya. I realised he didn’t know about the American import businesses Uncle Gumbo left me. But I still refused. 

Wednesday

Alhaji called to say he was disappointed in me, and as Zainab and I drove to Transcorp Hilton in my Porsche 911 Carrera for a technology product launch, she said he had asked her to convince me. “My father said he’s seeing a side to you he doesn’t like.” Ishaya told Alhaji he needed funds as his mother had cancer. I bet he’s lying. “I’ve just never liked him. He smoked, drank and wasted his life, now he wants a cut of what I’ve worked all these years to maintain? Never. Uncle Gumbo trusted me with his legacy, not him.”

Thursday

Ishaya’s letter written by his cheap lawyer arrived at my desk; I tore it up without reading it. I called Aliyu, who advised me to give him what he asked for before he made more trouble. But I refused on principle: No one can come and harass me to take my money. It must be won fair and square. “I don’t care if he’s my step-brother, 35 years in America and no degree? No wife? No job? I cannot trust this man to clean my pool talk less of manage an extensive property portfolio.” 

Friday

Zainab and I flew to Lagos this evening to attend Dr Bolagun’s son’s wedding tomorrow, and spend the weekend in my house on Banana Island. During dinner, I presented Zainab with a Blue Nile diamond bracelet and the number for Vivien, her new French personal shopper trained to be on call 24/7 to locate anything she needs from anywhere in the world. “You really know how to spoil a woman,” she said, with a twinkle in her almond-brown eyes. 

Saturday

Many of the high-rollers and big-hitters of Nigeria were at the lavish, noisy wedding reception at Eko Hotels this afternoon. I still insisted on a smaller, intimate affair for our wedding in Rome, but Zainab still wanted an Abuja wedding. I spotted eight of my previous conquests at the reception, one of whom tried to speak to me but I walked away. Zainab saw the whole thing and shook her head. We hung out at a friend’s yacht in the evening, which reminded me of my failed plans to purchase one. I must try again soon: Every rich man needs a yacht.

Sunday

We visited one of Zainab’s Yale university friends, and I saw another of my conquests at the house. It’s as if they all decided to come to Lagos to traumatise me. This one, Maimuna, still looked so good I had to avert my eyes to stop me from ogling her. On my jet back to Abuja, Zainab asked if I knew her, I said no. “Then why did she send me this picture?” I looked at Zainab’s iPhone and saw the distinct design of my red silk Versace bed sheets. Maimuna had taken a picture of herself posing on my bed from the time we were involved.

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07 Feb

Jamal is an Abuja-based billionaire bachelor and businessman who works hard and parties hard. Welcome to his world.

Week 17

Monday

Ishaya Gumbo was broke; his father left me all his wealth in his will. Uncle Gumbo always regretted the one-night affair that produced Ishaya, and few knew about his son’s existence. But Ishaya, who always resented me, had returned from America determined to take back control of his late father’s assets. “Just give him N30m and he’ll be happy” said Zainab. Aliyu thought N15m will be sufficient. I wanted to give him nothing.

Tuesday

“I am my father’s only child and firstborn son!” Ishaya shouted, “What belonged to him is mine.” I smiled. “Your father regretted your existence and your mother was a common whore who hit the jackpot,” I told him. “You’re lucky he sponsored your exile to America. I was the son he wished he had, and if...” I couldn’t go on. I was overcome with emotion. Uncle Gumbo loved me, but he killed my father. I ordered my staff to take Ishaya to one of my empty two-bed properties in Lugbe, give him a car and N200K until I can decide what to do.

Wednesday

Some newspapers and blogs announced my engagement to Zainab, though some also mentioned the sex scandal in their reports. Idiots. I flew to Lagos for a meeting with an Indian firm and took the opportunity to speak to my uncle about Ishaya. “The poor man has suffered. Imagine having a millionaire for a father and still struggling in a foreign land? Then you, a billionaire six years his junior is there running his father's businesses. He suggested I employ him, but I refused. I hated him and he looked too much like Uncle Gumbo for my liking. And he knows nothing about business.

Thursday

I was back in Abuja by noon and met with Aliyu. “Can the bastard sue me?” I asked. Aliyu confirmed that Ishaya had no claim on his father’s properties and businesses, since it was lawfully willed to me. “And except for the uncanny resemblance and his name, no one even knows that he's Gumbo's son. The best he can do is make noise and get people’s sympathy, and make you look like a wicked man.” I didn’t want another public scandal, so I called Ishaya to my office. “I’ll give you money, but you must return to America and stay there.” He refused.

Friday

Alhaji’s investments were already picking up thanks to my advice, and he called to praise my efforts. “You really know business Jamal, well done,” he said. I’m already preparing to run his conglomerate, which he will no doubt leave to me after I become his eldest daughter's husband. Thank God he has no sons to contest it, unlike Uncle Gumbo. Ishaya boldly demanded a substantial cut of my businesses and even brought a cheap lawyer to my office. My security barred them from entering. The desperate fool has no case and he knows it.

Saturday

Aliyu and his wife were moving to London tomorrow, and his leaving party was attended by over 400 people including senators, Honourables and a former first lady. My lawyer, best friend, confidante and voice of reason was leaving. “Don’t worry, with technology we’ll be able to communicate more than even if I was here,” he said, as we sipped cocktails and watched our women dancing. I promised to be a frequent visitor to London and lent him my private jet to fly him to his new home.

Sunday

Had lunch with some American businessmen, who complimented me on my William Fioravanti Bespoke suit. As we were leaving the restaurant, one of my previous conquests walked in with her latest millionaire. I shook my head as I remembered the folly of my promiscuity, which seemed like years ago. Zainab called to say Ishaya was talking to her father in their living room. I raced to the house. “Jamal, how can you be treating your own step-brother like this?” Alhaji asked, as Ishaya and two other men sat there and stared at the carpet. How did Ishaya gain access to Alhaji? And what else had he told him?

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