The island nation of East Malaysia—not to be confused with the Southeast Asian territory—was a cartographic footnote, a speck of volcanic rock adrift in the vast, blue indifference of the ocean. Its economy, a fragile thing built on subsistence agriculture and the desperate export of whatever the tired soil could yield, consistently vied for the bottom rungs of global rankings. It was a place where poverty was not a condition but a heirloom, passed down through generations with the grim certainty of a genetic trait. Yet, in recent years, a new dream had flickered to life in the hearts of its people: the economic miracle of a rising China, a land of mythical opportunity just a flight away .
Behind the wheel of his most prized possession—a second-hand BYD F3 sedan with a distinguished black diplomatic license plate—David navigated the traffic-clogged arteries leading out of Guangzhou. The car, acquired with over fifty thousand kilometers already on its odometer, was meticulously maintained, a testament to his pride. A tinny Cantonese pop song warbled from the CD player, and David, a man in his late thirties with skin the color of rich ebony, whistled along, his spirits as buoyant as the melody. To a listener, his name might conjure images of a Renaissance marble statue, but David was unequivocally, proudly African. His position as a senior official at the East Malaysian consulate placed him firmly within the upper echelons of his country's society—a society where the average annual income was a stark sub-$500 figure. His life in Guangzhou—a leased three-bedroom apartment, fully furnished, and this private vehicle—was a level of luxury that would make his relatives back home green with envy. This comfortable existence, however, was not sustained by his modest government salary and stipends. It was funded by his flexible mind and entrepreneurial spirit .
A contact, a friend of a friend, had introduced him to a Chinese construction boss, a Mr. Wang. In David's understanding, Chinese construction bosses were synonymous with wealth. Mr. Wang had proposed a meeting in Yangcheng, a few hours' drive away. The offer was simple: a flat fee of three thousand yuan for his time and travel, regardless of the meeting's outcome. David, a shrewd calculator, had already factored in the petrol and tolls. The net profit would be a tidy two thousand. If a deal was struck, the potential was even greater. The Chinese had a phrase for such a fortunate turn of events: měi zī zī—delightful. The matter of neglecting his consular duties? The thought was almost laughable. His small, quiet office saw little in the way of pressing international affairs .
After over a decade in Guangzhou, David was a true China hand. He spoke the language with fluency, understood its customs, and could read the newspaper without a dictionary. Two hours later, as dusk settled over the urban landscape, his BYD pulled into Yangcheng. Following the instructions from Gaode Maps, he arrived at the designated meeting spot: the Yue-Xiang Grand Restaurant. Stepping out of the car, he immediately identified the two Chinese men waiting for him. His eyes went straight to the older, shorter, portly man adorned with a thick gold chain—the unmistakable aura of a man of means. The younger man beside him was surely an assistant. David approached, a practiced,reserved yet polite smile gracing his lips .
Meanwhile, the object of his assessment, Michael, was experiencing a profound sense of cognitive dissonance. As Mr. Wang enthusiastically introduced the smiling black man as "Senior Official David from the East Malaysian Consulate," Michael's mind reeled. A deep-seated suspicion took root: was this man, for whom he had paid a total of three thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight yuan (Mr. Wang had initially quoted three thousand, only for David to counter with a request for the extra 168 "for good luck, yī liù bā, meaning 'a smooth path to wealth'"), nothing but a clever con artist? It was only after Mr. Wang's vehement assurances—swearing he had visited the consulate himself multiple times—that Michael reluctantly accepted the man's credentials. Even then, the presentation was jarring. The official car was a well-kept but undeniably cheap and faded model, seeming unworthy of its diplomatic plates. David himself, dressed in a white shirt, slacks, and leather shoes despite the heat, carried an air of formality that, upon closer inspection, was undermined by the clear cheapness of his attire. It wasn't snobbery, Michael told himself, just a shock to his expectations of how a foreign diplomat should present himself. The encounter was rapidly reshaping his worldview .
However, a quick mental review of the sparse information he'd found online about East Malaysia earlier that evening normalized the situation. If the country was as impoverished as the data suggested, then perhaps this was indeed its diplomatic norm. The bizarre proposal from Mr. Wang suddenly gained a sliver of credibility. Forget it,Michael reasoned. It's just a little money. If it secures legitimate identities for Onil and the others, it's a worthwhile investment. Once I get my hands on those magical slave contracts, I'll have a trustworthy crew to bring over anyway…
The evening proceeded with Michael playing the host at a restaurant specializing in pungent, oil-rich Hunan cuisine. David attacked the spread of fish and meat with a virtuoso's skill with chopsticks, his face flushing a deep red from the spices, yet his pace never slackening. Two bottles of Wuliangye liquor were emptied between the three men. By the end, a thoroughly lubricated David, his speech slurred, cut to the chase. "Mr. Wang, let's be direct. If it is within my power, and the compensation is sufficient, any transaction can be discussed. If not, then please just cover my travel expenses. Oh, and 'don't drive drunk'—is there a 7 Days Inn nearby?"
The man'sdown-to-earth nature was staggering. Under Mr. Wang's prompting, Michael laid out his proposal. "I have a dozen… workers of African descent. Their passport situation makes it impossible for them to get proper jobs or residency. I wonder if you have a solution? If you can manage it, I'm willing to pay this much per person." He held up a hand, all five fingers extended. His mind had been thinking in US dollars, a significant sum given his current financial squeeze, but one he was prepared to pay for a loyal modern-world faction .
The black man across the table gave a sly, knowing smile. "No problem. It won't take long. I can get them genuine East Malaysian passports. But I'll need to grease a few palms upstairs. Five thousand per person is too little. I'll need ten thousand."
"Deal!" Michael agreed instantly, the word escaping his lips before he could reconsider. The official had mistaken the five fingers for five thousand renminbi, not dollars. The sudden, massive discount made agreement the only logical response .
Later, after Michael had vied to pay the bill, a jubilant Mr. Wang suggested they all go for a proper bathhouse experience—his treat. In that moment, Michael remembered the vow he'd made outside the "Good Fortune Bath Center" after being insulted by the security guard. But glancing at Mr. Wang's beat-up pickup and David's aging BYD, he abandoned the idea. No,he thought, I'll wait until I'm driving a proper luxury car.Right now, he had supplies to procure and a world to save. The thought echoed in his mind with the force of a promise: Just you wait. I'll be back.