The Sponsor

Mzee Ajabu

His Gulfstream G550 touched the runway at Wilson airport at 0300hrs. The first thing he got was a phone call from his third lover. His bastard daughter was in the club running amok.

Monica could tell you clearly what it meant to live on the lap of luxury. At the age of nineteen she drove a Porsche Cayenne and had a monthly allowance of five hundred thousand bob which she burnt with Spas, luxury brands and clubs.

There wasn't a single club in the city that did not know her by name. Her garish flamboyance, rowdiness and loose mouth. She could spend up to fifty thousand a night on expensive liquors, wines and extravagant whiskys.

She was at the VIP lounge of a top club in the city. There was hue and cry it was about a boy. She was sure she would take him home but after the third bottle of dom perignon the boy wanted to go home and Monica's anger had gotten the better part of her and she found herself breaking a bottle on the table and the boy now had a gash of blood coming out of his left ear.

Monica wasn't ugly but she wasn't beautiful either. She had a button nose but her lips were big so that they resembled those of a fish. Her face was almost oval but not quite. She was the kind of woman who gained weight rapidly if she did not watch what she was eating. And Monica had no time for watching. If she wanted it she got it.

"Curse you, my father will hear about this," she said to nobody in particular. Drunk as a sponge having trouble maintaining her standing posture.

Mzee Ajabu had fallen in love with her mother, Helena the moment she had seen her. She was a news anchor and they fell in love just after Fred was born. She was yellow with a full figure and a brain to boot or so Mzee Ajabu thought. Beside her journalism gig she also had one of the most successful beauty parlors in the city but her money was never touched because Mzee Ajabu paid for every single thing.

Mzee Ajabu looked at his phone after the line went dead. He thought for a second of calling Monica and chastising her but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears that was if she picked and stayed quiet long enough without calling him a dead beat dad.

He scrolled through his contact list and in less than a minute he was talking to the owner of the club. Within seconds, the boy was being escorted out of the club by bouncers while crying and bleeding, Monica was in her Porsche Cayenne with a driver she didn't know heading for home. Back in the club the CCTV cameras were being destroyed. The incident was non existent, it had never happened.