biting.
I've become a master builder in the current affairs sympathy scam. A broken levee and an old lady with a flooded mansion, desperate to sell her priceless antiques cheap-cheap. A Chechnyan refugee fleeing the latest Russian pogroms with her family's diamonds in tow. A Somali pirate who has found Jesus and wants to trade in his rocket launcher and ransom millions for absolution.
It's all topical. All rooted in the hard realities of the world. Ironic that Former Life I never watched the news. But then, lifestyle journalists don't have to. And normal people don't have to pay off their drug debts by writing scam letters for syndicates. Or hide their sideline from their lover, who would definitely not approve.
There are 2,581 replies waiting. Not a bad hit rate out of the 49,812 that I sent out on Monday, not including the tens of thousands that bounced off spam filters. There are 1,906 'out of office' replies, which at least marks the email addresses as active, 14 irritated missives that range from 'fuck you, scamfucks' to 'pull the other one'. Add
292 kanji variations, 137 in French, 102 in German, 64 in Arabic, 48 in Spanish and 12 in Urdu, all of which I'll plug into my translation software later. This leaves six potentials, two responding with cautious interest and the rest with abject confusion. I forward them all on to Vuyo, who is my catcherman. If people would just read the damn email properly, they would have responded to him directly.
And then there's an anomaly that chokes my auto-filter. Two stark sentences that read as either nonsense or poetry, or both.
When you eat, you are eating things from planes. The plastic forks, they leave a mark on you.
There is no link. No return address. No point to the message at all. It makes me nervous.
There is also an email from the dentist, a friendly reminder that it's time for my six-month check-up, please contact Ms Pillay to make an appointment. I haven't been to a dentist since I went to jail three and a half years ago. This is code for 'contact me immediately', which is worrying because I'm not due to report in until next week. I log in to Skype chat where Vuyo is already online. Probably talking to 'clients' in other windows.
››Vuyo: Yes?
He answers right away, curt as always. Vuyo is not his real name, of course. It's probably one of several not-hisreal-names that he uses in the course of business.
I like to think of him hanging out in a huge sprawling Internet cafe adjoining a raucous street market in Accra or Lagos, kinda like a 419 sweatshop, but the truth is he's probably in a dingy apartment like this one, maybe even right next door. Flying solo, because it's all carefully decentralised.
››Kahlo999: Hey, hello. How are you? Got a very strange msg. No return address. About forks. I'll fwd it.
››Vuyo: No! U dont know what it is girl. Might b a virus. Might b bad muti.
››Kahlo999: Or a msg about cutlery.
››Vuyo: U dont know. Could b rival syndicate. Police. Click here.
››Kahlo999: What am I downloading? It's just, you know, I have very particular tastes in porn.
››Vuyo: Propriertary firewall 4 viruses spyware malware muti. And delete that thing.
››Kahlo999: So what's with the dental appointment, boss guy? I haven't been flossing enough?
››Vuyo: I need u 4 an interview. 2pm. Rand Club. Frances format. Clients want to meet her.
I turn cold. Frances is a refugee in a camp in Cote d'Ivoire. Twenty-three years old. Suitably flirtatious if the
››Kahlo999: Sorry. Not in my contract.
››Vuyo: Not neg.
››Kahlo999: Let's talk remuneration.
››Vuyo: Will deduct it from ur total. Dont worry, Im keeping track.
››Kahlo999: It would be nice if I could keep track too. Not that I don't trust you.
››Vuyo: U forget who u dealing with girl.
››Kahlo999: My own personal knacker. The guys who bought the lame horse of my drug debt for cheap- cheap to turn it into glue.
››Vuyo: Lame horse? Ur horse is expensive.
››Kahlo999: Do you know how much racehorses go for? R150,000 is cheap at the price. So, here's the thing. Where do we stand you and I? What's my lame horse ass worth?
››Vuyo: R55,764.18.
››Kahlo999: Profit?
››Vuyo: Ha. No. U still owe us R94,235.82.
››Kahlo999: That's impossible. How many moegoes have I hooked for you?
››Vuyo: Is v. possible. U forget interest. Normally 45%, but u get employee discount. Only 34%. And it is not fish on the hook, it is the fish in the bucket that counts.
››Kahlo999: Fuck you, Vuyo.
››Vuyo: This deal will bring in 50 Titos. If u do well, it is worth 10% to u.
››Kahlo999: And if I don't?
››Vuyo: Of course u will do well. U R practically a pro. Ur dealer told us about all the stories u came with, crying about ur mama with cancer + ur dead granny + being mugged just when u were coming to pay for ur coke. This will b easy for u.
››Kahlo999: I mean, if I don't do it at all.
››Vuyo: I will have to add a penalty to ur total. 20% + usual interest. So that is … let me work it out.
››Kahlo999: I got it, thanks.
››Vuyo: 2pm at the Rand Club. Dress nice. But not 2nice.
››Kahlo999: Refugee chic.
››Vuyo: Good girl. BTW ur new format – the coltan – its doing well. Head office likes it.
››Kahlo999: What can I say? I'm all about the job satisfaction.
››Vuyo: Cheer up girl. Greed is a bad thing. They deserve it.
Part of me thinks I do too.
I sign off and delete the forks message, but not before I've copied and pasted it into a Word doc. And I leave the install icon on the firewall waiting patiently in its folder, un-installed. I know how the Company works. Who knows what else their firewall will do?
The Rand Club is a relic of Johannesburg's Wild West days, when it was frequented by Cecil John Rhodes and other colonial slumlords who would sit around divvying up diamond fields and deciding on the fate of empires. A hangout for power people rather than two-bit crooks like Vuyo, who is waiting for me at the curved stretch of bar that folds itself around the room. I assume it's Vuyo because he's the best-dressed guy in here, in a suit and pointy shoes like shiny leather sharks.
The patrons pushing the boundaries of their liquid lunch-hour have the same aura of clingy colonial nostalgia as the venue, with its chandeliers and gilded railings, caricatures of famous members, mounted buck- heads and faded oil paintings of fox hunts. Vuyo, by comparison, has the air of the fox that's escaped the painting and doublebacked to raid the kitchen. I'd always pictured him as a skinny weasel of a guy with bad posture from hunching over his computer all day, but he's well-built, with swimmer's shoulders, broad cheekbones, a neat goatee and an easy smile. Generically handsome with a ruby stud in his ear that hints oh-so-tastefully at danger. All the better to scam the pants off you.
I extend my hand and he clasps it in both of his, as if we are old friends instead of only online acquaintances. 'Mr Bacci, I can only imagine?' I say.
'Frances. It is so good to see you,' he replies. I shouldn't be surprised that he speaks better than he types. Or that he's South African. Why should the West Africans and the Russians have all the fun of fleecing rich foreigners?
'Mr and Mrs Barber are waiting for us upstairs. They're excited to meet you at last,' he says smoothly, as if the podgy bankers round the other side of the undulating bar might be listening in. But as he escorts me up the grand staircase, he hisses under his breath, 'Less attitude, girl. You are a refugee, not a prostitute.'
