Sin of the Month • Abby Bardi
	Spam

I recently received an important message from the second surviving son of Nigeria's former military head of state, telling me that he is being persecuted by the government, which has "turned the klieglight of investigations" on his family.

The Nigerian Chamber of Commerce had confidentially provided the second surviving son with my name and business profile. As he explained, "The information regarding the viability of your Business concern gingered me into soliciting for your aid."

When I read the second surviving son's sad story, my first reaction, of course, was, "You poor thing! How can I help?"            

Luckily, Second Son had an idea: he could take the US $25 million presently deposited in a bank account outside his country and transfer it to my bank account. In fact, to reward me for coming to his aid, he would give me 10% of the money for my expenses and would "plunge" 30% into my "business concern." He stated, "For your information my dear grief stricken mother has the blessing of this Business transaction," and urged me to keep our proposed transaction "TOP SECRET."

He closed by saying, "Your immediate response will be appreciated and all machineries concerning this transaction will be swung into action," and signed his letter, "Yours Faithfully."

Needless to say, I was just about to email the Second Son with my okay for this plan, giving him my bank account number and any other information he might need, when I received another email.

This one was from a Mr. Elvis Edmondu, the first son of a general who was recently murdered in a land dispute in Zimbabwe. The World Trade Center in Amsterdam had furnished him with "viable information" about me and he had decided to write—in all capital letters—asking for my help.

As he explains, his family has FIFTEEN MILLION UNITED STATE DOLLARS that they would like to move "DIPLOMATICALLY," and he adds, "AS THE ELDEST SON OF MY FATHER, I AM SADDLED WITH THE RESPONSIBILITY OF SEEKING A GENUINE FOREIGN ACCOUNT WHERE THIS MONEY COULD BE TRANSFERRED WITHOUT THE KNOWLEDGE OF MY GOVERNMENT WHO ARE BENT ON TAKING EVERYTHING WE HAVE GOT." Mr. Elvis Edmondu offers me 25% of the total sum, plus an additional 5% for my expenses.           

Clearly, I was getting a better deal from the Second Son, but it was obvious that Mr. Edmondu could use my help, too. I was torn! I wasn't sure my bank, a small suburban branch, would appreciate total deposits of $40 million—where would they put it? Wouldn't they be suspicious about this transaction (since I had never had more than ten bucks in my savings account at any given time) and notify the governments of Nigeria and Zimbabwe?

As I was mulling this problem over, another letter appeared! This one, whose subject heading read, irresistibly, "Dear Friend," was from the personal accountant of the Second Son's father. Obviously, both were concerned about the General's finances, though I found it odd that each had contacted me unbeknownst to the other. Apparently, my Dear Friend had been acting in conjunction with the eldest son of the General, and I conjectured that perhaps the two brothers had not gotten along well.

Dear Friend wanted to transfer $21,320,000 into my account, and offered me $2,300,000 for my trouble.

At this point, I became a little concerned. While I would have liked to help all of my new dear friends, I wasn't sure I was really the right person to deal with high finance, since I can't even balance my checkbook, and I have no business to "plunge" millions of dollars into, unless you count my daughter's exorbitant college tuition.

As I pondered this dilemma, emails continued to appear in my inbox. Their subject headings were all compelling: "Urgent Assistance," "Help," "Please Respond," "Urgent Business Trustee," "Partnership," "A Cry for Help," and the intriguing, "Can youÉÉ.." The letters were all scrupulously polite, asking me to "take [my] time to go over this mail carefully and with patience" and affirming that they "had no doubt in [my] ability to handle this proposal involving huge sum [sic] of money." While I was flattered that so many people were clamoring for my attention, it was clear that their confidence in my ability to handle "huge sum of money" was utterly misplaced, since I have the accounting skills of a sea cucumber, and I began to fear that I would have to quit my job and devote myself full time to answering all these desperate communiqu?s.

But then, suddenly and inexplicably, the emails stopped. I continued to receive many solicitations from other less interesting sources, with subject headings like "Why not?", "Hey I bought my Man the pill," and my favorite, "Make yourself huge!" with its surrealistic echoes of Alice in Wonderland. But my letters from all the stricken countries of the world had ceased, and none of my correspondents had ever written back to tell me how they were faring or to make a final pitch for my assistance.

What had happened to Mr. Elvis Edmondu? Had he found someone to handle his $15.5 million? Had he made the purchase of new farms and machines in Swaziland, for which the money was earmarked? 

I decided to do a Google search for him. To my horror, I discovered that, like his late father, Dr. Sam Edmondu, he, too, had been murdered in a land dispute in Zimbabwe! My poor friend Elvis Edmondu had a first son, John, who was now trying to find a home for the same millions that his ill-fated parent had attempted to place with me. I felt awful! Had Mr. Elvis Edmondu's death been my fault because I had failed to act quickly enough?     

It was with a sense of dread that I Googled Mrs. Eki Omorodion—what if the same fate had befallen her?

However, to my surprise, I found Mrs. Omorodion's name and the letter she had sent me on a website called "The Nigerian Fraud Email Gallery" (http://potifos.com/fraud/). The site contained a collection of letters from many of my associates and numerous others, as well as warnings that the authors of the letters were con artists who tried to bilk their correspondents out of money or lure them to Nigeria, "where even worse things happen."

"Do not attempt to contact the perpetrators!" the website warns. "They are ruthless and violent criminals."        

A hyperlink on the site took me to an article in the Detroit Free Press by Susan Ager (www.freep.com/news/metro/ager27_20030227.htm), complaining that she, too, had received "Spam" correspondence purporting to be from citizens of a number of distressed nations. She had found a simple solution: "I zapped their notes dead."

I marveled at this. How could anyone just "zap" away these stories—stories of human anguish and displaced persons, and of the large sums of money that awaited us all if only we had the compassion to provide our social security numbers, street addresses, passport information, and fax numbers?

While I found it easy to zap messages promising me penile enlargement (which clearly would be of no use to me), quick weight loss, cut-rate software, refinancing without credit, free food, a carton of cigarettes for under $15, generic Viagra, and a Santa's Workshop screensaver, I found it difficult to erase the warm, personal letters I had received from my international virtual acquaintances.

It was hard to believe that all these heartfelt messages had been Spam.

I had eaten Spam as a child, though not willingly, and when I first heard about the recent proposals to abolish it, I was in favor of them—but it turned out the proposed legislation referred to email traffic and not to the vile product that is to meat what particle board is to mahogany.

If the legislation is to abolish nuisance emails, I guess it's a good idea—but the proposal worries me. While anti-Spam legislation might prevent ruthless, violent criminals from randomly trawling for suckers, I worry that it might ultimately be used to prevent the kind of wide-spread emailings that are the mainstay of underfunded political campaigns. (You knew I was going to figure out a way to work politics into this discussion, didn't you?)

Meanwhile, the sad stories of the Second Surviving Son, Mrs. Omorodion, and the sons of Mr. Elvis Edmondu still ring in my head. Was there a real Elvis Edmondu? Was he really killed in a land dispute?

Wherever you are, Edmondu brothers, Second Son, and Mrs. Omorodion, I hope you're all right. Drop me a line some time and let me know how you're getting on. I worry about you. Because it's a hard world out there.