“You are so 1921, Monica Adderley, so 1921.”

If it was necessary to label her shortcomings, everyone would agree, Monica Adderley was too trusting. On one hand, it was life affirming to see such naiveté in a harsh jaded world; on the other hand, it was stupid.

After joyously corresponding with desperate Nigerian Princes on the e-mail, she clapped her hands for a job completed and well done. At no point, did she even consider that Nigeria could have so much royalty, and unlike a certain president of the United States, she preferred to believe in prosperity over shit hole nations.

Her buzz was immediately squashed upon the appearance of her overly pragmatic sister, Nancy, who filled the doorway, hands on hips ready to judge at the drop of a hat. The moment the hat hit the floor, she launched, “OMG, I can tell by that smug look-” Her tirade was cut short by the peculiar whir of vibrating phone on top of a napkin inching across the desk.

Monica picked up the phone, “Yellow, Monica here.” The speaker was on. She yanked the phone away from her ear wincing. The voice of a man of Indian descent spoke nervously, “Yes, hello, may I speak to the household member responsible for the electric bill?”

Monica beamed, “Speaking.”

Nancy snatched the phone and swiped left. “OMG, what the hell is wrong with you? You can’t-”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted, and Monica, with the attention span of a two-year old ran to the door and opened it widely. There stood a Nigerian Prince holding two large burlap bags with dollar signs crudely drawn on them. In a very thick accent, he exclaimed, “Face it, tiger… you just hit the jackpot!”