An afternoon indoors but for sunbeams flecking

the audience of relatives, it could be any evening

any century before ‘Nigeria’ was coined to group

the villages, the hundreds of thousands of families

gathered where the wind is low, the rumbling forest

paused for the passing Griot/Storyteller/PopStar

of the time. My uncle tells a joke in this tradition

risen before the hushed cluster of us. An American

Businessman, he says, thumbs tucked in his belt,

stomach puffed out and you can picture so perfect

the TexasOil/GunToting/WarOnTerror/NewMoney

Rich who counts out 5,000 in cash and throws it

in the coffin of a deceased colleague – a Ghanaian

uncle adds, us, laughing. The English Businessman,

not to be outdone, uncle says, stiffening his top lip,

his nose pinched and you can picture so perfect

the Old Etonian/ForQueenAndCountry/OldMoney

Rich who counts out 5,000 in cash and throws it

in the coffin of the recently deceased. Both regard

the Nigerian, uncle says, relaxing now to his Casual

Slouch/AfroBeat/HalfDancing/RoughMoneyRich.

The Nigerian shakes his head at the new world order,

shrugs at the old, writes a cheque for 15, throws it

in the coffin, gathers the cash and leaves to applause,

rolling laughter, the CrazyTrickster/MoneySwindler/

FastTalking/SlipperyPalmed/Stereotype/Everything.