'Do they have pig meat here?'

'Pork, eh? I can arrange that for dinner. But for lunch let's go to McDonald's.'

'What's that?'

'You've never tasted a Big Mac? Then come, brother, allow me to introduce you to the wonderful world of junk food.'

Mike led the way to a nearby McDonald's where he bought Eketi a full-size meal and an ice-cream cone. As the tribal polished off a juicy burger, Mike draped his arm across Eketi's shoulder. 'Now tell me, my friend, what have you done? Have you killed someone?'

'No,' said Eketi, munching on his French fries.

'Then you must have robbed someone?'

'No,' said Eketi and slurped his Coke. 'I have only run away from Ashok.'

'Ashok? Now who is this Ashok?'

'Kujelli!' said Eketi and bit his lip. 'He is a bad man who was troubling me.'

'Oh, so he was your employer? And you got fed up of him and ran away from your village?'

'Yes, yes,' Eketi nodded eagerly, beginning on the ice cream.

'But how did you land up in Chennai, brother? That's a long way from Jharkhand.'

'Ashok brought me here for some work. I don't know what,' said Eketi and gave a satisfied burp.

'If you are on the run, I'm presuming you don't have a place to stay. Is that right?' Mike asked.

'Yes. I don't have a house here.'

'No problem. I shall take care of that as well. Come, let me take you to my pad.'

They boarded a garish green MTC bus for T. Nagar, where the Nigerian rented a modest two-room house. Mike took Eketi inside and pointed to an oversized sofa in the drawing room. 'You can sleep on that. Now get some rest while I nip across to buy provisions for dinner.'

Mike had taken off his dark glasses and for the first time Eketi saw the Nigerian's eyes. They were cold and emotionless, but the tribal was reassured by his smile, which was full of warmth and friendship. Mike was also an excellent cook and his dinner of lentil soup and spicy pork sausages had Eketi licking his fingers.

Lying on the sofa that night, feeling sated and safe, the Onge thanked Puluga for the kindness of strangers. And the tastiness of pork.

Michael Busari loved to talk. And even though he addressed Eketi while he was speaking, the tribal felt he was talking to himself. Through these monologues, Eketi learnt that Mike had been living in India for the past seven years. He said he was a businessman with several ventures and had come to Chennai a week ago to conclude a transaction with a jewellery merchant by the name of J. D. Munusamy. 'This is where I might need your help, brother.' He patted Eketi on the knee.

'What kind of help?'

'I have persuaded Mr Munusamy to make a major investment in the Nigerian oil industry. It is a venture which will bring him a very hefty profit. As the middleman, I am entitled to my commission. Munusamy was to have transferred one hundred thousand dollars to my bank account, but at the last minute he said he would give me cash. I want you to collect that cash on my behalf from his house. Can you do this little job for your brother?'

'For you I can even give my life,' Eketi said and hugged Mike.

'Good. Then you shall have an appointment with Mr Munusamy at nine p.m. on 26 October – that's two days from now. Till then relax, enjoy, eat, drink.'

Eketi took that advice to heart, spending the rest of the day lazing in the house, watching television and gorging on pork sausages. In the evening he requested Mike to take him to the beach, and the Nigerian obliged.

They went through the clogged artery of Mount Road with its gleaming skyscrapers and neon-lit shopping plazas. Eketi became delirious as the MTC bus entered the narrow alleys of Triplicane, full of old houses and ancient temples, and the heavy smell of salt entered his nostrils. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the sea, and lost all interest in the impressive statues and imposing memorials lining the promenade.

He was the first passenger to jump out of the bus the moment it stopped at Marina Beach. Even at this time of night the beach was quite crowded. Several families relaxed on the sand, eating their dinner. Children rode horseback, squealing with delight, while their mothers shopped for trinkets in lantern-lit shops. The swirling beam of a lighthouse sent glitter across the ocean's surface. The lights of a distant ship twinkled in the night as the foamy waves rolled gently on to the shore. Eketi inhaled the tangy air of the ocean, redolent of salt and fish, and from that single smell a whole island rose in his memory. He waved at Mike, still a good hundred metres behind him, and began wading into the water fully clothed.

'Jiba! Jiba! Come back!' Mike shouted, but the tribal was already well out to sea and swimming farther away. He emerged from the ocean twenty minutes later, his skin glistening with tiny pearls of water, seaweed clinging to his clothes, sand dripping from the hole in his cap.

'You had me worried sick,' Mike grumbled.

'I thought I would take a bath,' he grinned.

'And what's that you are hiding?'

Eketi brought out his right hand from behind his back. 'Dinner!' he declared, holding up a large fluttering fish.

Mike bought two cans of Coke, Eketi lit a fire, and they shared a tasty meal of roasted fish.

'So how are you liking Chennai, brother?' Mike asked.

'I am loving it!' Eketi gushed. 'I am going mad with all the sounds, colours and lights of this wonderful world.' He took another swig from the Coke can, poked at the dying embers with a stick, and looked at the Nigerian intently. 'You are the nicest and kindest man I have met.'

'We are brothers, my friend, you and I.'

'Can you also help me find a wife?'

'A wife? Of course. Once you do that little job for me, I will have a dozen girls lined up for you to choose from.' Mike's promise was enough to make Eketi approach the operation to collect money from the jewellery merchant with the pleasurable anticipation of a pig hunt. He was in unusually high spirits as Mike took him to Guindy, in the south-western part of the city.

Munusamy's house was deep inside a residential block and there was a hushed stillness in the area compared to the kinetic bustle of the main streets. A pallid streetlamp cast intriguing shadows on a row of duplex apartments lining both sides of the road.

Mike pointed out Munusamy's house, Number Thirty-Six, which had a carved wooden door. 'I will be waiting for you just around the corner,' he whispered to Eketi and handed him a small envelope. 'Give this to Munusamy. I have explained everything in this note, so you won't have to open your mouth. Best of luck.'

The Nigerian receded into the shadows and Eketi advanced towards Munusamy's door. A servant was expecting him. He led Eketi up a flight of steps and showed him into a drawing room where a balding, middle-aged man was seated on a cream sofa. Mr Munusamy wore a white shirt over a cream-coloured veshti. He had a round face dominated by two features: a small rectangular moustache which looked like hair jutting out of his nose, and three horizontal lines of yellow clay on his forehead.

'Welcome, welcome,' he greeted Eketi.

Eketi bowed and handed over the envelope.

Munusamy quickly read Mike's note and looked at the tribal with a crestfallen expression. 'I was looking forward to meeting the great Michael Busari, but it turns out you are just his agent.'

'Give me money,' Eketi said.

'Here it is,' said Munusamy and pulled out a small briefcase which he had neatly concealed behind his legs.

As Eketi bent down to pick up the briefcase, a flashbulb popped in his face with the suddenness of lightning. Almost simultaneously five policemen rushed into the room from various doors and pounced on him.

'You are under arrest,' an Inspector announced. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he was handcuffed and bundled into a police van.