Mes Dépêches

I’m early. It’s a rare occurrence, don’t get used to it.

I’m not sure why I’m early. Perhaps I felt some tinge of guilt that the selected meeting spot was nearer my apartment than hers, but looking back, shockingly for me, it wasn’t an enthusiasm for the topic. This esoteric (read: boring) crap is right up my alley.

A cloudy mist floats as I emerge from Starbucks and secure a bench out front of Chelsea Town Hall. The flowers coating the left-side staircase would indicate someone is getting married today, but it’s Lockdown. Love is postponed, for now.

I’m meeting my boss. She’s one of the group CFOs, I’m the token American who is here to, I don’t know, smile? They think I’m clever and dote on my “American” accent, so of course I play to the crowd.

If being the court jester is the price to pay for a fully unearned Sloane Square apartment and expense account, then, by God, watch this Yankee Doodle dance.

The bench, like the sidewalk in front of it, is marked with signs and tape to keep us at least two meters apart. We will shout, I suppose.

The office is closed again and sitting at home is awfully lonely and I’m always up for an adventure and Nigeria has just slapped such an arbitrarily enormous reserve requirement on several multinational banks that our entire operation in that inflation-smacked economy, Africa’s largest, is in jeopardy.

I see her emerge from Starbucks, bounding enthusiastically as ever with a binder in one hand and coffee in the other. If she’s at war with a central bank today, she doesn’t show it.

Not unlike Monty Python’s “only a flesh wound,” the Brits have a way of hiding their misery, as wailing would be improper. Carry on, through imperial decline and stagnant wages. Carry on, as local companies eschew the FTSE for America’s markets, as its children flee for her opportunities. Keep strong and carry on.

We sit on opposite sides of the bench, initially curious if we should wear masks but ultimately decide against it. I agree to not sneeze in her direction.

Ever since the Prime Minister rode his bicycle far into the hinterland and the Health Secretary evolved the Lockdown rules on the spot, folks have seemed a bit less enthusiastic with compliance. A few weeks ago I stood on a completely empty train platform, but today the masks sneak beneath nostrils at Waitrose, and I have company on my meandering train rides.

From the binder my boss extracts facts and figures explaining Nigeria’s series of currency controls and the relative impacts of each over time. I nod reflectively, hoping to give off more of a contemplative vibe, not wanting my face to betray the depth of my confusion. My focus is singular: praying for no follow-up questions.

I assume all CEOs and CFOs have those moments, with so many underlings and folks focused on the minutia of millions of individual crises, and there’s just no way you could understand each of them in intricate detail.

Yes, we’ll go with that. I’ll be the CEO here today.

Abusive though the Nigerian position in this case may be, there is an irony that a former colony would inflict such pain on its abusive former stepparent.

Debate rages in the papers today over the return of the Benin Bronzes, statuettes extracted from Nigeria’s French West African neighbor in the 19th century.

The story goes that cheery British explorers wandered into Benin City and were annihilated by savages, and thus the Brits sent slightly less cheery troops to get even, including by grabbing the cherished artifacts and sending souvenirs to museums around the globe.

Someone with greater creativity than I could frame today’s Nigerian bank tax in a similar light.

In the grand scheme I’m not sure it matters. The Kings Road is glorious, as is most of West London. The vast expanse of wealth gives all indications of being the center of the world.

But across from the Town Hall is a Metro Bank, a startup darling from the teens which is essentially insolvent. Down the street is an HSBC, which desperately wants to leave town for China. Good luck finding a NatWest, which is still over half owned by the government.

Without the empire, without the European Union, without growth and with swelling debts, the road ahead is long. Today the Brits castigate the Nigerians but surely they will soon need to levy their own taxes, hopefully just for revenue and not for currency control but who could say?

It’s a road that will need that enthusiastic British bounce, forged with a pep in the step.

Keep strong and carry on.