I Do Not Come to You by Chance

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ He had turned the volume of his voice up again. ‘If a man is denying that he has a swollen scrotum, the place for him to prove it’s a lie is by the riverside. Why don’t you have any women?’

  ‘I was in a relationship that ended a long time ago. Since then, I’ve not really—’

  ‘A relationship!’ He screamed louder than ever. ‘Your head is not correct! Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have regular servicing from women? Are you normal at all?’

  ‘Cash Daddy, it doesn’t really matter to me. I believe that true love is more important than sex in a relationship. After all, sex isn’t one of the basic physiological—’

  ‘Come on will you shut up your mouth! I don’t believe it. How can I have somebody on my staff who is not being taken care of? Please leave off that your big grammar and just shut up. Your head is not correct.’

  He paused thoughtfully. Then looked up with face aglow, as if he had just discovered fire.

  ‘Kings, when is your birthday?’

  What had that got to do with the price of fish?

  ‘Am I not talking to you? I said, when is your birthday?’

  ‘It’s on the sixth of November.’

  ‘Good. I know what to do. I’m going to give you an early birthday present.’

  He brought out his phone and ordered someone at the other end to meet us in the VIP section of his hotel bar later that night. I marvelled at this man who had just been smashed by his wife, and who was now trying to vivify my sex life.

  The Bon Bonny Hotel was a popular hangout for people in our line of business. The car park was jammed with all manner of exotic cars and the lobby was equally jammed. Men in dark glasses and dark suits waited as their masters dined or womanised. There were also yellow-skinned, scantily clad ladies who had probably come to see if they could get their hands on some of the International Cake.

  On my way to the bar, I spied Azuka disappearing into the elevator with a luscious lady entwined around his arms. Her bright yellow back was bare. Clearly, his newfound good luck was still a-flowing.

  The writer of an opinion editorial I read recently in This Day had blamed the proliferation of bleached skin amongst young ladies on the average 419er’s preference for yellow women who went hand-in-hand with his flashy lifestyle. Another editorial, written by a Roman Catholic priest, blamed the 419ers and their ‘promiscuous lifestyles’ on the recent ‘rise in materialism’ amongst young girls and their tendency to dress in ‘Babylonian apparel’. Yet another writer blamed the 419ers for importing the AIDS virus to Nigeria.

  Blaming problems on 419ers had turned into a national pastime, but then, it all depended on which part of the elephant you could feel.

  I knew, for example, that Cash Daddy was personally responsible for the upkeep of the 221 orphans in the Daughters of St Jacinta Orphanage, Aba. He tarred all the roads in my mother’s local community. He dug boreholes, installed streetlights, built a primary health care centre. Just two days ago, I received a letter from the Old Boys’ Association of my secondary school requesting my contribution towards a new classroom block. I replied immediately to say I would fund the whole project. I knew what it felt like to endure classrooms that had no windows, no doors, and no tiles on the floors, just because the complete funds pledged towards the project had not yet been collected.

  So, no matter what the media proclaimed, we were not villains, and the good people of Eastern Nigeria knew it.

  In the bar, I sat at an inconspicuous table and waited. Cash Daddy was the Patron Saint of ‘African Time’; he would be at least an hour late as usual.

  A waitress strutted over with a priceless smile.

  ‘Good evening, Oga,’ she beamed, and jiggled her waist to one side.

  ‘Good eve—’

  ‘What of Oga Cash Daddy?’ she beamed, and jiggled her waist to the other side.

  ‘He’s coming later,’ I replied.

  I asked for a bottle of Coke and tipped her enough to compensate for the beaming and jiggling. As I sipped, I peered around the room.

  There was Kanu Sterling. Both he and Cash Daddy had worked under Money Magnet. I had heard that Kanu lit his cigarettes with one-dollar bills.

  There was Smooth. A chromosomal criminal, unlike some of us. Well educated, extremely cultured, he had been familiar with the good things of life since birth. But while he was schooling in Stanford, USA, the sweet lure of illegal money had been like a siren to him.

  There was Amarachamiheuwa. He was personally responsible for the death-by-cardiac-arrest of one of the most prominent businessmen in Brazil, after duping the man out of 115 polo horses.

  Cash Daddy arrived exactly two and a half hours after the time he had given me - without Protocol Officer, which meant that he probably had a high-maintenance adulteress waiting in one of the rooms and would spend the night at the hotel. He went from table to table, slapping hands and exchanging wild laughter. These men were not necessarily his friends, but they were all united in the brotherhood of cool cash.

  ‘Pound Sterling!’ Cash Daddy said to Kanu. ‘The only currency with a surname! I haven’t seen you in a long time. I was wondering if the white people had carried you away.’

  ‘Me?’ the man replied and beat his chest repeatedly. ‘Cash Daddy, me? How? They no afraid to carried me away? O bu na ujo adighi atu fa? Does they knows who I am?’

  Amarachamiheuwa’s subsequent phone conversation eclipsed every other sound in the building.

  ‘Go to my house right now!’ he screamed. ‘No, not the one on Azikiwe Road! Go to the one on Michael Opara Crescent! Ask my gateman to show you where I parked my Mazda! It’s inside my garage, the one that’s very close to my swimming pool! Between my Volvo and my Navigator! Inside the boot, you’ll find three briefcases! One contains pounds! One contains dollars! One contains naira! Bring the briefcase with naira for me! Hurry up and come back now!’

  Finally, Cash Daddy finished his rounds, sat at a table of his choice and beckoned me to join.

  ‘The usual,’ he said to the waitress who sauntered across. She was different from the one who had attended to me earlier.

  I ordered oxtail pepper soup to go with another bottle of Coke. Our orders arrived in a jiffy.

  ‘Kings,’ Cash Daddy said after jawing the first chunk from a piece of fried meat in his saucer, ‘have you noticed that I never fall sick? Even if I go to a place where mosquitoes drink blood with straws, I can never catch malaria.’

  He leaned closer and whispered.

  ‘Have you also noticed that my women are always coming back for more? No matter how many times they’re with me, they still want more. It’s because there’s nobody who satisfies them the way I do.’

  He laughed.

  ‘This is my secret.’ He pointed at the meat he was chomping on. ‘404 works wonders in the body. You see all those funny diseases that women carry around in their bodies? With 404 you won’t catch anything.’

  I was aghast. 404 was dog meat. I had heard of certain parts of Nigeria where dog meat was a delicacy, but this was my first time watching someone eating it.

  ‘And another thing . . .’ he continued, ‘404 protects you from your enemies. No one of them can touch me if I keep eating it regularly.’

  He took a sip from the wine in his glass.

  ‘Should I tell them to bring some for you?’ He grinned. ‘You’ll need it against tonight. You know you have to sharpen your machete very well before you set off for the farm.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied quickly.

  Recently, I had done several things of which I had never thought myself capable, but eating the body parts of a dog was way beyond my league.

  ‘OK, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Cash Daddy said. ‘Camille is a very dangerous girl.’

  While we were eating, an enchantress stiletto-ed over to our table in a short red dress that clung dangerously to her derriere. Her knees and knuckles were black where the bleaching cream had refused to
work. Her hair extensions went all the way down to her waist and curled at the tips. Cash Daddy patted her behind and introduced us.

  ‘This is Camille,’ he said. ‘My jewel of inestimable value. She’s a law student at Abia State University.’ He grabbed my shoulder and shook. ‘This is Kings. The latest millionaire in town. After all, our elders say that a dirty hand will eventually lead to an oily mouth.’

  I realised too late that the misapplication of this popular Igbo proverb was supposed to be a joke. My laughter joined in when theirs was already at an anticlimax.

  Camille bubbled with goodwill to all mankind. She gazed attentively at Cash Daddy, and winked at me from time to time. She wiped some grease from his upper lip, and straightened my shirt collar. Eventually, she reached over and kissed me briefly on the lips. I worried that some of her rouge might have stayed behind, but resisted the urge to wipe my lips with my hands. Then she transferred herself to my lap and smiled like someone used to turning scrawny sonnies into world heavyweight boxing champions. I was not sure where to keep my hands; I left them dangling awkwardly by my side.

  Camille’s instructions from Cash Daddy were simple.

  ‘Collect the key to room 671,’ he said. ‘Take him inside and deal with him. It doesn’t matter how much it costs. By the time you’re through, I don’t even want him to remember his father’s name.’

  •

  It was not until about noon the following day that I was finally able to lift myself out of bed and answer my phone. It was my mother.

  ‘Kingsley!’ she said with fire in her voice.

  ‘Mummy.’

  ‘You’re still sleeping?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Kings, are you well?’ she asked with concern.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you sure—’

  ‘Mummy, I’m fine.’

  She paused. She remembered why she had called. Her voice resumed its initial fire.

  ‘Kingsley, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why didn’t I tell you what?’

  ‘I saw on the news last night that Boniface is contesting for governor. Is it true?’

  Agreed, the Nigerian media were experts at conjuring headline news out of incidents that never happened, but surely my mother must have seen Cash Daddy declaring his good intentions to the world with his very own mouth.

  ‘Yes, he’s contesting.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me in advance?’

  ‘I didn’t? I thought I did.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Kings, have you started looking for another job?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘That’s what you told me the last time.’

  ‘Mummy, I’m working on it.’

  ‘Where and where have you applied to?’

  ‘Different places.’

  ‘Does it mean not one of them has called you in for an interview yet?’

  ‘Mummy, you know how Nigeria is.’

  ‘Kings, please, please, please. Find a proper job. I don’t understand this so-called work you say you’re doing for Boniface. You know Nigerian politics is very dangerous.’

  ‘Mummy, I’m not in any way involved in his campaign. Stop worrying yourself unnecessarily.’

  ‘There’s no way you can be working with him and not—’

  ‘Mummy, I need to go now. I’ll talk to you some other time.’

  ‘Remember you promised your fa—’

  It was only a matter of time before she would come round. I returned to Camille. In a short while, I forgot everything about my dead father and my worried mother. I was transported to another galaxy.

  Thirty-one

  Mr Edgar Hooverson’s was a typical case of gambler’s fallacy. Every additional payment had simply increased his commitment, the need to win money had kept him going.

  But at last, all the mind-bending was taking its toll. After paying $16,000 for lawyer’s fees, $19,000 for a Change of Beneficiary Certificate, $14,500 for Security Company Tariff, $21,000 for Transfer of Ownership, $11,900 for courier charges, $23,000 for Customs Clearance, $17,000 for Hague Authorisation, $9,000 for ECOWAS Duty, and $18,700 for insurance fees, his enthusiasm had started waning. The time was ripe to release the $58 million into his care.

  My friend, Edgar, then sent me an email.

  Dear Shehu,

  ALUTA CONTINUA!

  I’ve spoken with Jude and arranged to be in Amsterdam on TUESDAY THE 27th. Is that date CONVENIENT for you? Please let me know so I can go ahead and book my ticket and accommodation. I intend to be at THE AMSTERDAM AMERICAN HOTEL which Jude told me is not too far from the security company.

  I’ll send the $4,000 for your travel ticket and hotel accommodation BEFORE the day runs out.

  I’m quite EXCITED and LOOKING FORWARD to meeting you after all this correspondence. My regards to your dear sister.

  Best,

  Your friend, Edgar

  PS: Something just occurred to me! I’ll also email you a RECENT PHOTOGRAPH of myself. The one on my driving license and international passport is a bit OUTDATED and I want to avoid the risk of you coming to the hotel and MISTAKING me with someone else. I know it’s not very likely that would happen, but as an EXPERIENCED business man, I’ve learnt to always take ADDITIONAL PRECAUTIONS.

  I had no reason to doubt Mr Hooverson’s experienced-ness as a businessman. He might even have been one of the most brilliant. After all, there were people renowned for their ability to remove tumours from tricky crevices in the human body, who were useless at changing their car tyres. Others could interpret every formula that Newton and Einstein had come up with, but could not tell the beginning or the end of the stock market. Any intelligent, experienced expert could become a mugu. It was all about the packaging.

  The date that Mr Hooverson had chosen - just a few days before Charity’s matriculation - was actually not convenient for me. But our associates in Amsterdam advised that it was risky to postpone the meeting; Mr Hooverson’s desperation was dead ripe. Pity, I would have to rush back so soon. It would have been nice to check out all the outlandish stories Cash Daddy had narrated about the Red Light District in Amsterdam.

  In Amsterdam, after checking into my hotel, I met my associates in a nearby cafe. Either of them could have been the Jude who had been in touch with Mr Hooverson.

  They laughed when I would not take off my coat.

  ‘You should have worn a lighter coat,’ Amuche said. ‘This one you’re wearing is meant for the peak of winter.’

  ‘Anybody seeing you would know immediately that you’re a Johnny-just-come straight off the boat,’ Obideozor added.

  ‘I don’t think you people understand what I’m going through here,’ I said and shivered.

  Both men laughed without control.

  After a life of sweating it out in the blazing heat of tropical West Africa, nothing could have prepared me for the plummeting temperatures of this, my very first winter on earth. Suddenly, bits of puzzling information started making sense. At last, I understood the necktie - an item of clothing that had never previously made the slightest sense. I now knew that boots were more than a fashion statement. They were a lifesaver. And as the cold November air charged through the broad entrances to my nostrils, I remembered something my father had once said.

  ‘The white people’s narrow nostrils and pointed noses are not just to help them speak with a nasal accent,’ he had said. ‘It’s to help protect them against the cold.’

  I rubbed my palms vigorously and wished that my nose was more pointed. My two associates continued being amused. I and Obideozor finished our cups of tea and headed out.

  ‘I’ll be waiting for your call,’ Amuche said.

  We had planned everything right down to the smallest detail. I was the one to knock. The face that peeped out of the narrow space beside the open door when I did was exactly
the same as the one in the Jpeg that Edgar Hooverson had sent.

  ‘Mr Hooverson?’

  ‘Yes?’ he replied sternly, like a female post office clerk.

  ‘Aluta Continua!’

  His smile opened up like an umbrella. He pulled the door all the way. In his neat, old-fashioned suit, Mr Hooverson could easily have passed for a Baptist minister. He was a tall, handsome man who looked as if he had recently started feeding too often and too well. I was not quite sure about his age. He looked slightly older than a secondary school principal, but much younger than a grandfather. I noticed that his fingernails were bitten halfway down to the cuticles.

  ‘I’m Shehu Musa Abacha. This is Dr Wazobia. He was my late brother’s trusted chemist.’

  Mr Hooverson’s smile flickered. He looked unsure of this new character. His mouth opened to ask a question; I grabbed him into a tight embrace.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said with tears in my voice. ‘Thank you very, very much for all your help towards my sister and my family.’

  It is amazing the things we never know about ourselves, the skills that situations and circumstances drag out of us. In all my six years of secondary school, nobody had ever considered me for a single part in the yearly Inter-House Drama Competition. They said I was too set in my personality, they said I could not act. Now, here I was giving a performance that was on a par with any of Denzel Washington’s.

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he replied and hugged me back.

  We remained in each other’s arms for several seconds. The whole thing had a certain United Nations touch.

  ‘My sister Mariam asked me to apologise for not being able to meet you herself,’ I said, as we went into the room.

  ‘Oh, I perfectly understand. I understand about the horrible situation in your country. It’s really very sad.’

  I moved on to stage two.