INSIDE BANKER:The book:prologue and some

Prologue
It was the most dangerous part of downtown Shanghai, but the man from
Nigeria strolled through the streets without fear. Fueled either by courage
or by sheer determination, he navigated his way through the area
notorious for its muggings, gang rapes, and knife attacks. He weaved
through the dingy stalls, avoiding the rowdy truck pushers, snake
charmers and the puddles in the muddy street.
He endured the rancid smell of market waste, as well as the sweaty
smell of the dirty traders, smearing their bodies against him as they passed
by with their precious merchandise mounted on their backs, hurrying
home before the street gangs opened for business. Above all, the smell of
death was in the air.
Although it was seven in the evening, the sun was still out, as though
lighting his path as its contribution to his mission.
He confirmed the information on the map he had been given was
genuine, when he came face to face with the shop. It was exactly where
they said it would be.
It was the only place to purchase what he was looking for.
Inside the brightly lit store, the heady smell of incense hung
profusely in the air, as if to combat the stench from outside. Apart from the
storekeeper, there was another customer standing in front of the counter.
They were haggling in Shanghainese, a dialect of Wu Chinese, or at
least, so the man learnt they spoke predominantly in these parts.
He hovered around the store, stopping before the cameras,
pretending to compare the prices of the various models on display, all the
while waiting for the rapid exchange of vowels and consonants to end.


5
The haggling stopped suddenly and money swiftly changed hands.
From the satisfied smirk on the elderly storekeeper’s face, the Nigerian
could tell he had had the upper hand in the bargain.
A nervous smile replaced the smirk, as the man approached the now
lonely storekeeper. He reached swiftly inside his jacket and produced a
picture, a cutout from a glossy magazine. The startled storekeeper‘s eyes
rested, first on the ugly scar on the man’s forearm, then on the glossy
picture he held out.
“I am told I can find this here.” The voice was steely. Steady. Sure.
The elderly man’s eyes darted from the image to the front door then
back to the image. He seemed enthralled. They received very limited
requests for this particular piece of merchandise, about once or twice a
year. He knew of the massive benefits the object could provide---in the
right hands, and the colossal damage it could inflict at the same time. A
quick shiver ran down his aging spine.
“I’m not sure...” The little yellow man replied cautiously. The
imposing black man fixed him with a stare meant to intimidate. “I will just
check my store.” He decided, disappearing into a back room.
Less than a minute later, he reappeared with objects that looked like
capsules. Only, five times the size of regular capsules. The man reached for
the inside of his jacket again and pulled out a wad of bank notes.
The merchant’s eyes grew greedy when he saw the crisp American
money. “How many you buy?” He asked hopefully. This customer was the
kind they always dreamed of, very price insensitive, always buying in bulk
and best of all they paid cash, but the menacing eyes before him suggested
that in a matter of seconds this heaven-sent customer could easily turn to
one sent from hell if anything were to go wrong. “Will you need a
demonstration?”

6
“No. I know that it works, If It does not work, I will return it.” He
said with certainty. The message to the Chinaman was clear.
“Where are you from?”
“Africa.” The man replied cryptically.
 OGEMDI IKE