What only few people knew was that Ken Solomon spends most of his cherished weekends at his home town of San-Francisco, one of the fifty states that made up the United States of America. San Francisco many have agreed is a strikingly beautiful city, famous for its Golden gates, hills and bridges with sea on its three sides. According to reports in the first century, San Francisco was one of the friendliest cities in the country with magnificent parks, schools, and abundant supply of family house. According to information by the popular economy magazine, The Economist, the city is home to some of the richest people in America. Almost seventy percent of its population is detail to be single. Some are even of the popular opinion that it has more dogs than children.
The city has also been described as part of the vertical America, a land of soaring skyscrapers and high density living. It is said to have a mixture of blue bloods, gays and the Dot.com millionaires and ageing hippies’ population. Again, it is assumed to host one of the country’s biggest concentrations of homeless people and also known as one of the most liberal states in America. San Francisco is also acknowledged as the city of political activists and pacifists. In fact, it saw some of the biggest public protest against the wars in Iraq, and Afghanistan, in which Ken Solomon was a strong financial and active anti-war supporter. He and some of his rich and influential townsmen and women had organized and bankrolled most of the protests. Thus instigating the other educated folks who were mostly graduates and postgraduates residence.
A noticeable feature of the population in San Francisco is the educated people and their democratic attitudes. The war in Iraq and Afghanistan had really upset their intellectual ways of reasoning and pitched them against the supporters of the ‘wasteful’ wars who were mostly Republicans and supporters of President Bush. The educated and mostly democratic San-Franciscans had trooped out in large number to express their displeasure with all the concocted lies being forced on the American public, including the high rate of American soldiers daily maimed in the wars. They had fought intellectually, using the press and other peaceful medium form of expression to expose the deceits in the wars. At the end they gallantly organized the biggest most successful public protest against the war.
Ken Solomon being a staunch pacifist hated violence as much as he hated wars and those perpetrating them. He had this strong conviction that the mysterious creator of all the beautiful natural things on earth did not just created them to be destroyed by some selfish men and women. He was always happy whenever he had the chance to contribute financially, spiritually and physically to anything that has to do with peace and safeguarding the earth.

Presently, he had decided to sleeked away from his penthouse in New York and come straight to his Palladian style villa with a terrace that overlook the Mediterranean. In the very house he had always found peace, after long hours of calculations, strategizing and hard thinking. It was in this same place he had first met, talked and dinned with the woman that entrusted him with the first million dollars he ever held in his life and what was to become the watershed in the long adventurous story of his pet company Shares.com Although all these had been almost six years ago, but one thing that still baffles him till date was how he was later to become the owner of the property which was ranked as one of the most spectacular antique villas in Baltimore –San Francisco and also one of the most beautiful in America. This was something he had never dream of in his frequent fantasies of those days. And today, it is not only part of a dream, it is a reality.
Now here he was, a Mr. Landlord, inside his exquisite furnished house, thinking his ass-off at this late hour while most of his other rich neighbors were busy fucking their wives, mistresses, girlfriends or boyfriends, depending on their taste or probably resting their rich heads in their expensive magnificent beds. Ken Solomon imagined, now dressed in a green combat chinos with a white unbuttoned silky short sleeve. He sipped a Carlsberg Pilsner beer, stared at the can, and then stared thoughtfully away at the shining stars and moon from his bedroom terrace.
His house was one of those rare Palladian style villas with a stylish terrace and a living room that opens into the terrace. The walls were painted in clear white with the furnishing done in silk draperies and masterfully crafted antique settees, sofas, topped console chairs and low tables, all painted in shining black colour; thus giving the room a kind of black-and-white setting. Even his bedroom was branded in the same two colors. The house has big rooms with Jacobean plaster ceilings and 19th century Persian carpets and a big oak paneled piano also painted in black. This was where KS derived most of his happiness, this after playing tune after tunes of his self composed inspirational songs. He was in reality a good and gifted pianist with passion for Beethoven and Mozart, two musical ‘prophets’ as he called them that were ever sent to mankind. He loved and admired their musical genius, and some of their erratic characters. So he had groomed his musical pattern and style of playing after the two great pianists.

KS always loved doing the best whenever it comes to doing anything. The question he had always asked himself when embarking on anything was: Why do the least, when you can always do the best? Part of doing and owing the best was his abundantly stuffed library with a curving staircase and black rolls of painted shelves housing some of the best classical books in the world. From Robinson Crusoe’s Dafoe, A Tale of two cities, The Last of the Mohicans, The Three Musketeers, The Sorrows of Satan, The Arabian Night, Animal Farm, 1984, The Prince, The Art of War, The Auto-biography of Benvenito, Gulliver Travel, Shogun, Root, Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe, The Man Died by Soyinka, Cyprian Ekwensi’s African Night Entertainment, some collection of James Hadley Chase and other world classics, including of course, all the various classical religious books on earth, from the Christians Holy Bible, the sacred Torah, books on Buddhism, and Hindu, including the Muslims mighty Koran.
Again, among the beauty of his breathtaking villa was his presidential style master bedroom with a French door that opens to a terrace marked with sculpted balusters and thick faceted terracotta columns with a secret facade closed for privacy and to also eliminate noise. Apart from KS, two other trusted aides inhabited the house with him. The soft-spoken Mr. Patrick, his butler of many years who also served as his chef and housekeeper. A combination KS handsomely paid him every two weeks for. The other occupant was Mario, his Mexican-American gardener, Chauffeur, bodyguard and close friend. KS also makes sure that he received his weekly wages handsomely on time. The three of them, including his two dogs Enigma and Zika made up the inhabitants of the ‘Villa de Peace’ as its first owner had rightly named the place, and KS had retained the name after spending his first few hours in the magnificent house few years ago. The villa was quite that night with occasional sound of waves from the sea and the ceremonious songs from owls and other night birds residing or on transit within the tree lined vast estate. The moon on this particular night was still fully awake and glowing freely to those who were still out of bed, thinking, planning or analyzing the cumbersome task of living.

Ken Solomon, his athletic frame resting firmly on the sculptured baluster ray of his terrace, stared thoughtfully into the night, his mind strategizing on how or when was the best time to storm Nigeria. His dogs flanked him by both side as he cracked his brain into the night. He was certain every other member of the house were sleeping by now. The gates were securely locked and electrified by this hour to fend off invaders. A security measure that the fearless KS had finally approved after two war supporters had one night stole into the villa during one of his numerous isolated weekends. Luckily for him, he had spent the night playing poker and drinking mugs of beer with some of his childhood friends at the Fishermen’s Wharf, one of his favorite hangouts in San-Francisco. Mario had professionally disarmed one of the armed men and used him as a shade against his equally armed colleague who had angrily blasted his gun, splitting his partner brains across the room. Mario had shot him straight, knocking him unconscious on the Persian rug, and inflected a serious wound on his trigger-happy hand. He then phoned Ken Solomon who quietly excused himself from the game he was playing and then called the police.

The incident had happened shortly after their well-organized and adequately publicized protest against the Iraqi war. However, this did not dampen his spirit nor scared him from further contributing financially and participating in rallies and protests against wars and other earth destructive plans. In fact, KS knew that the government was not happy with the physical and financial supports he was pumping into most of the anti-war non- government organizations across the country and his growing popularity among republicans and democrats alike. Therefore, the attack did not come as a surprise to him. He knew they would eventually come after him. But, he was certain spiritually that no one really dies before his or her time. Just the way his parent had both died in the ghastly auto accident that claimed their lives when he was just three years old. He had grown up with two kind foster couple who had nursed and groomed him to be a self dependant man, despite the health challenges and financial crisis that tormented their lives till the end. But death had also claimed them at the appropriate time. He reasoned and smiled broadly to himself.

He had inherited no ‘ dime’ from them, not because they were penny-pinching, no, the reality was that they had no dime to give him not after spending all those tormented years in various Health Care Centres. The only valuable thing they left him was an old Grandfather Wall clock he had pawned off immediately to run away from poverty in Baltimore, the very day their mortgaged house went back to the Mortgage Company. He was then sixteen but claimed eighteen in New York to get a job as a clerk in a Casino, and it was there that he saw it all. The good, bad and ugly side of money and apart from these three elements, he also met some of the best smart criminals in New York during those unforgettable years. He grinned as he remembered his days at some of the places life had ferried him to without his consent and the many escapes. He smiled and brooded over some of the tricksters and smart conmen he had come across. Smart men like Sam, the Cash, Sneaky Billy, Joe Shine, Neat Charley and Breezy John, not forgetting sweet suede talking women like Vera, the ‘sleepy eyes’ and Agatha Smiles. These were all smart conmen and women his path had encountered in his turbulent years and all of them had left an impact on him with the many secrets they taught him in the ‘art of war’ of survival as a youngster in the hard streets of New York.
Some of these lessons later helped him scaled through college on scholarship, and equally shielded him from all the troubles, battles and worries on Wall Street when he first came in as a novice. And right now they were part of the elements he must unleash on the criminals who stole his money and the authority who certainly would unleash their fangs any moment. He reasoned, sipped his beer and smiled broadly.
However, so far, he was happy that he had been able to stay above water, away from the government and their charges, blackmails and attacks. Though he had no doubt in his mind that the top men and women in Washington still have their curious eyes and inching fingers not too far away from him. Right now, he knew he could fall into their anxious pews through the financial mess he had suddenly found himself; unless he could think fast and quickly find a way out. If not, then the dreaded frame up charges of fraud, embezzlement and tax evasion would be their next streak of attack.

Ken Solomon sipped from his can beer again, stared thoughtfully into the sky, and then sauntered back to his antique resting sofa, followed by his loyal dogs. He dropped his frame, and then silently wrapped a weed from a silver box. He lit up some sweet-smelling incense from an electric incense appliance and set the smoke on fire. He took a soft drag, inhaled and exhaled and blew the curved smoke across his face thoughtfully. He stretched forward from his seat, picked another can of beer from a cool vacuum flask on a side stool. He was on his fifth can from the pack of six. He was already feeling high, the smoke taking its spot in his body, making his mind more focus and alert. He realized that his thoughts were now flowing freely as many torrents of questions raced through his mind. What was the best thing to do? How to do it? When to do it? All these raced through his brainpower as he whistled to his dogs and parted them obediently on their heads.
Should he call a press conference and break the news to the world? Make a call to some influential friends in Washington and inform them about the fraud? Call his attorney, tell him the news over cups of coffee and couple of beer, and then finally declare bankruptcy? No, all these were negative solutions, he reasoned. They were not dangerous and adventurous ideas; rather they were self-crucifying suggestion and solutions that could place him at the mercy of his enemies. He cautioned himself. Why call a press conference and foolishly exposed his ass to the world to laugh at and make jest of? On the other hand, why inform his so-called friends in Washington when anyone of them could turn out to be a Judas?

He quickly reasoned, mentally remembering one of Niccolo Machiavelli’s principles in The Prince, one of his favorite books. “This is to be asserted in general of men, that they will offer you their blood, property, life and children when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you” This line was one of Ken Solomon’s much loved Machiavelli doctrine. Stored permanently inside his memory, he could recite the line off head even when woken from a deep sleep. He cherished the principle and always used it whenever he found himself in a tight situation like this. No, he will not call any friend in Washington and opened his financial anatomy to them, the FBI and the other curious anti-fraud boys to operate upon. This alternative was foolish and cowardly. He concluded.

Among Ken Solomon’s prized possessions was a Bose music sound box; A six CD changer with a 4 jewel cube speakers and a hideaway bass mode. The box stood perfectly on a transparent glass with black painted shining frame. KS had thoughtfully distributed the speakers across his most frequent part of the house. He had done the distribution himself on one of his frequent visits to the villa. He always enjoyed the effect of the music whenever he snorts in a disk and played some of his favourite songs from various world artists. So, on this night as he dragged his weed, sipped his drink, and played with his dogs, he picked up a remote control nearby and clicked on a button suddenly filling the room with the soft classical music of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro.

He suddenly wished he could increase the volume of the music to the fullest just as he was doing everything this night. Enjoying his life to the fullest before the troubles come crashing openly. He wished he could loud the music and let the soft sound diminish his problems. He suddenly wished that he was already in Africa where he learnt people have the liberty to raise the volume of their music and blast their sorrows and pains away. However, this was Baltimore and still part of the United States where people must sacrifice their enjoyment for the happiness of others. Well, maybe it was better he play his music softly not to wake up some of his rich neighbors and arouse their curiosities on what he was doing in his Villa in San Francisco on a working day of the week? This was something they all knew he never do, as if they owned the villa with him and San Francisco was not actually his state of origin. He thought and grinned.

Apart from Patrick, Mario and his dogs, the only other people that knew he was in San Francisco that day was old Mr. Brown, the popular newspaperman at the airport where he had stopped to pick some newspapers and magazines from his stand as usual whenever he sneaked into town. The others were Harry and Joe, the two airport staff that always cleared his luggage and Ma Gloria, the old and always suspicious florist who had a florist shop close to the arrival hall of the busy airport. These four people he could not fully trust not to report him to the authorities when the need arise. But Mario, Patrick and his dogs he could rely on, since they all relied on him for their daily sustenance. He nevertheless refused to tell anyone else his current financial dilemma. So, apart from himself and the faceless fraudsters somewhere in Africa no one else knew about his imprudent predicament. So he had thought and concluded and slowly decreased the volume of his music set.

The instrument cut softly into the silent night, filling it with a soft soul refining melody. KS dragged on his smoke, sipped his beer and silently analyzed the third alternative. Was it safe to call his attorney and confess his mistakes to him, mistakes that the state might quickly interpret as a crime? Should he call this mortal like him and surrender his fate in his hands? Giving him and his other zealous partners in law the opportunity to exploit his remaining scanty money in trying to defend him against much stronger, richer and powerful state funded attorneys and ambitious prosecutors.
No, no, no, he exclaimed loudly, and then pushed himself up from his seat. He made his way back to the baluster and then stared once again thoughtfully into the night. No, he will not call any lawyer, not now, maybe later. He concluded on this, dragged his smoke, sipped his drink and then stared up to the sky. His two dogs by now had both taken different positions not far from him. This was part of his loads, and he must be ready to carry them alone for now. Maybe shout for help when the loads become unbearable, but definitely not now. He started the whole shit alone, so he should be ready to tolerate the stink as well.

Why quickly confess to his attorney that he had actually committed a crime for money launder and tax evasion when he still believes there is possible alternative to his problem? So what exactly should he do? He questioned himself silently as he dragged his smoke and sipped his drink. Simple – go after his money and the faceless smart crooks now probably blowing it freely somewhere in Nigeria. He finally concluded and his rich worried face suddenly creased into a smirk. He nodded his head happily to the music on the background and slowly twisted his body to the melodious tune. Yes, he will be safer in Nigeria and free to go after his money. He assured himself and sauntered back to his seat. He whistled softly, parted his dogs on their heads, picked the last can of Carlsberg and popped it opened with a happy grin.

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