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her lap, but I'm guessing she hasn't read a word. It's open to a double-page spread advertising a three yearold conference on the economics of environmental reform. Mr Barber is standing facing away from us, fiddling with the standing chessboard.
       "You know, honey, I think these are ivory," he says, holding out a white bishop to Mrs Barber, his consonants a flat Mid-West drawl.
       "You never know where you might find hidden treasure in Africa," I say, in my best Queen of Sheba voice.
       "Oh," Mrs Barber says, looking at me. "Oh!" And then she gets up, envelops me in a crushing hug and bursts into tears. I stand there awkwardly, but with great grace, as befits a girl who has weathered the ravages of losing her throne, her family and, temporarily, a great fortune that Mr and Mrs Barber have had the great fortune to help her recover.
       "My friends," I murmur softly. "My friends."
       Mr Barber sits down heavily, still holding the bishop, looking shocked. I gently extricate myself from Mrs Barber's fervent embrace, only for her to grab me by the hand. I manage to manoeuvre the pair of us onto the couch.
       "So, you see, here she is, after all," Vuyo says. "Safe and sound, as I told you."
       "We weren't sure. We didn't know. After everything…" Mrs Barber's sentence declines into another bout of juddering sobs.
       "You look different from the photographs," Mr Barber says, an obstinate flicker of suspicion flaring up. Considering they have already given Vuyo over R87,000 for various clearance certificates, passport application fees, bribes for corrupt government officials and exchange-rate commissions, and he's demanding a further R141,000, I'd say he was justified.
       "Yes," I say with dignity, "I've been through a great deal." Mrs Barber pats my hand, and I lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes as if the ordeal has been unspeakable. A contemptuous bark comes from my bag. I ignore it.
       "You have brought the money?" Vuyo says.
       "Well, yes, but–" Mr Barber squirms.
       "Why are there buts? Buts are for goats! Are you a goat? Jerry, in three days' time, you will have 2.5 million dollars in your account."
       "It's only that it's my pension."
       "Our savings."
       "Look at this girl, Jerry. Look at her! You have done this. You have got her away from that hell. You and Cheryl have done a good thing. A life-changing thing." Vuyo takes Jerry's face between his hands and gives him a little shake for emphasis, a cross between an evangelist and a corporate teambuilder. "And here. Your certificates from the Reserve Bank, as you requested. Everything is in order. It's almost over, Jerry."
       "It's almost over, Jerry," Cheryl repeats. She glances over at me and her chin starts to wobble all over again. I imagine staples fixing my smile in place and dip my head, as if equally overcome with emotion. The whole thing is grotesque, yet some perverse part of me is getting off on it. The same way I ticked off points on a scoreboard when my parents actually believed the bullshit I spun them about my car breaking down, about needing help paying the fees for a master's degree in Journalism that I never even registered for.
       Jerry is looking over the certificates, immaculately forged, complete with the holographic seal of the Reserve Bank. "Of course, I'll need to get these verified by my lawyer," he says, but it's obvious that he's bluffing. The smell of money is too strong now. It bellows like a vuvuzela, drowning out the whisper of doubt.
       "Of course, yes," Vuyo says, but he allows a hint of concern to smudge those generic good looks.
       "What is it, Mr Bacci?"
       "Please, we are all friends here. Call me Ezekiel."
       "What is it, Ezekiel?"
       "It is only that it might cause a delay."
       Cheryl moans.
       "What kind of delay?"
       "No longer than a couple of weeks. Two months maximum."
       "Now you just wait a minute, we have