When You See Gold, Run

"How much is our cut?"

"Ten million."

I looked at Abdi to see if he was joking.

He wasn't.

Ten million shillings.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been wondering how I was going to buy diapers for my son. Suddenly, I was discussing a deal that could make me a millionaire.

It sounded too good to be true.

It almost was.

I had read about gold scams and watched television reports about them, but I never imagined I would one day find myself right in the middle of one. Then again, desperate people don’t think they’re walking into a trap. They believe they are finally walking into a breakthrough.

At this point in life, I hadn't felt joy in so long I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. I went down deep. Rage became a regular part of me, and anyone who crossed my path suffered. Unfortunately, it was my wife who was mainly in the crosshairs.

I don't know about other men, but the one thing that completely deflates me is being unable to provide for my family. It makes me feel useless, vulnerable, insecure, and unworthy. Sometimes I wish I could detach myself like the so-called deadbeat men who seem unbothered by their families' struggles. I guess I was built differently.

A few months into unemployment, my parents were helping with rent, I couldn't afford diapers, electricity was disconnected, and I was playing cat-and-mouse with the landlord. The situation was dire. How much further could a man sink?

That was when Abdi walked in with a gold deal.

Abdi was a small-time gem trader. He carried little stones wrapped in tissue in his pockets, which he claimed were Tanzanite, rubies, and emeralds. He was a pretty decent guy, affable even. We'd chat now and then, but gemstones weren't really my thing. Every few days he'd tell me he'd sold another stone. Eventually, I started paying attention.

I asked how I could get into the business, but every answer came with a problem. I needed capital. There was also the risk of buying fake stones or losing them at the Tanzanian border. Grudgingly, I recoiled and decided to focus on finding money to buy diapers and food. Those were my immediate priorities.

One day, Abdi called me excitedly. I could sense the adrenaline in his voice. Normally, he was calm, but he could barely contain his excitement. He had stumbled upon a deal and wanted to know if I could help him with it. In our conversations, I had told him I had lived in Uganda for a couple of years, and as luck would have it, he had a deal in Kampala.

When I asked him the nature of the deal and the amounts of money and gold involved, his answer floored me. For a minute I couldn't breathe. Had life finally thrown me a bone?

“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to mask my own excitement.

“Boss, this is legit!” he replied with gusto.

“Okay, when do you want us to go?”

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

Now I was sure he was tripping. Such things take time to plan and execute.

“Abdi, you haven't even given me time to talk to my guy in Kampala!” I told him exasperatedly.

“How long do you need?” He asked

"Give me three days. My contact in Kampala has to verify everything."

His excitement disappeared instantly, and I could feel his adrenaline dip through the phone.

“Okay, talk to your guy”, he said, and shortly after, we ended the call.

From my Kampala days, I had a former classmate whose tentacles were in almost everything. He always seemed to know a guy who knew a guy. I called him.

“J, I need your help. We have someone who wants to buy gold from Kampala, and he seems serious,” I began.

He listened patiently to the specifics as I ambled on and on.

“Ok, give me a day or two to see what I can do,” he finally said.

Some people count their chicks before they hatch, but for me, I go above and beyond. I count them, I name them, immunize them, and even project their selling price when mature. Because of that, I was already scanning OLX for a car and had gotten a silver Audi with low-profile tires, leather seats, a sunroof, and the works. I had already got a 3-bedroom apartment with a huge balcony, all rooms en-suite, an open kitchen, and a lift so I would not tire of going up the stairs like a mere mortal. Bye bye poverty.

Four anxious days later, after several calls with my Kampala contact, I finally phoned Abdi.

“Everything is set. We can go to Kampala.”

“Sawa. Let's book a bus asap,” he replied.

The ride to Kampala was uneventful. I can’t remember how I managed to cobble up the fare, but I wasn't worried about the return ticket because, in my mind, I was soon going to be a millionaire. The finer details of the deal have escaped me, but the buyer wanted 15 kilograms of gold, and our cut was about 10 million shillings. Not bad for a few days’ work.

The buyer was an Israeli based in Dubai, which somehow made the whole thing feel more real. Little did we know that every kilometer we traveled was inching us closer and closer to an elaborate setup.

The next morning, J, Abdi, and I met the Kampala connection. They were Congolese, and they dressed like men who wanted everyone to notice them, with heavy chains adorning their necks, multiple rings on their fingers, gold teeth, and very colorful clothing. I felt like I had just walked into a Lingala music video shoot. J approached them, and they huddled together in animated conversation. Something felt off immediately. J waved at us, signaling us to join their table.

The atmosphere at the table was tense. After muted greetings and introductions, one of the Congolese addressed Abdi and me directly.

“Are you the buyers?”

‘Yes, we are,” I replied hesitantly.

“So you have the money for the transaction?” he quickly followed up.

“No, we will have it sent…” I replied before he cut me short.

‘’If you don’t have the money, you are not the buyers. Don’t waste our time!” he bellowed.

As if on cue, all four Congolese men pushed their chairs back and left. I was in shock. It had happened too quickly. I could almost see the Audi disappearing.

J told us to relax, and he followed them outside. Abdi and I looked at each other, and we just shook our heads in disbelief. A few minutes later, J came back.

‘Guys, here’s the deal. They will only deal with you if you have the buyer on the table. They don’t want to deal with brokers”

“The buyer is in Dubai!” exclaimed Abdi

“He will only come if we have identified that the product is indeed available”

“Well, you better get his ass here because that is the only way this can work,” boomed J.

The coffee tasted like bitter herbs. Abdi left to make calls. When he returned, the news was mixed: the buyer would come, but only in three days.

Back home, we had 48 hours before eviction.

Those three days passed in a blur of anxiety. Then the Israeli arrived.

He was tall, lean, and quietly confident. He listened more than he spoke, touching his glasses occasionally. He made one thing clear: at the first sign of foul play, he would walk away.

We called the Congolese. The moment of truth had arrived.

As soon as they saw the buyer was a white man, their previous hostility and bravado towards us died instantly.

“Stupid cu***”, I muttered.

In typical African fashion, they were now falling all over themselves to impress the buyer. It was sickening. Luckily, the buyer cut right to the chase.

“I'm told you have the stuff,” he said

“Yes, yes sir, we do. Don’t worry, it is there,” one of them said while smiling sheepishly.

“So how do we proceed?” the buyer asked.

“But sir, we haven’t had breakfast. Here in Africa, we discuss business after eating”

It was at that moment that the smell of money disappeared. Why the hell were they talking about food when we were more interested in the gold?

Not wanting to ruffle feathers, the buyer motioned at a waiter and asked him to serve them something to eat. The next twenty minutes were an awkward mix of silence, plates and knives cluttering, and the Congolese trying to make small talk in between mouthfuls.

Food finished and no more delaying tactics at hand, the conversation resumed.

The buyer dug right in with the precision of a surgeon.

“I have the money. Bring the gold to the hotel lobby where I'm putting up; it's a public place, and our security is guaranteed. I have someone who will inspect it, and if it's good, I pay you on the spot. Easy.“

It sounded perfectly reasonable.

“No, no. That's not how we do it,” began one of the sellers.

Another one who had remained mum to this moment took up the conversation.

“We will bring you a small sample and do the testing in Entebbe in a Government lab to prove purity. Then we will go to a safe house where the rest of the gold is, and do the transaction.”

Unfazed and emotionless, the buyer curtly refused. I could sense the deal slowly slipping away. Nobody spoke for a few seconds. All the things I thought I would buy started disappearing one by one. The smell of money was now very faint.

Try as they could, the Congolese could not move the buyer. As I would later find out, they were trying to use a common rip-off scheme. Unfortunately for them, the buyer was not wet behind his ears and had seen right through them.

Now, desperate, they even offered an armed police escort to both the lab and the safe house.

Without another word, the Israeli stood up, placed cash on the table for the meal, and walked out. He had kept his word. If the deal was suspicious, he would bolt.

The devastation on the table was palpable. The Congolese were forlorn that a prey had slipped through their fingers, while my friends and I were in anguish at the unceremonious way our hopes were dashed. With nothing left to say, we all went our separate ways.

An hour later, the Israeli sent us a text and asked us to meet for dinner. Seeing how dejected we were, he told us to raise our chins because we had just dodged a bullet. I was still in shock over the trip's failure and not too keen to listen to him. My family back home was being evicted as we sat in that cushy hotel. People I owed money were blowing up my phone.

Physically, I was present, but mentally, cogs were whirring as I tried to come up with another way to get money. One word the Israeli said brought me hurtling back to reality. Police. That piqued my interest.

The Israeli explained the scam.

They always started with a real sample of gold and a “government lab” test — the lab was compromised. Once you trusted the sample, they would insist on completing the deal in a “safe house,” often with a police escort to make everything feel official.

The moment you walked in with the money, the trap closed. Sometimes they beat you. Sometimes they just took everything. The same police who escorted you in would later escort you to the airport.

We had come very close to walking into that house.

All this information was a lot to process, and I was not sure whether to be more relieved that I had survived that, or to be more dreading going back home to my now homeless family.

Sometimes I think about the man I had become. I was so exhausted by life that even the impossible sounded reasonable.

Perhaps that is the real danger.

Gold doesn't blind you.

Hunger does.