I Do Not Come to You by Chance

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  ‘When my sister rang the security company yesterday just to make sure that everything was in order, they told her that the only thing remaining is an anti-terrorist certificate.’

  ‘What! They never told me anything about that!’

  ‘I think it’s something new they just started implementing,’ Dr Wazobia said.

  We told Mr Hooverson that we had raised $5,000 of our own money for the anti-terrorist certificate, and would pay the remaining $10,000 when the consignment arrived.

  ‘Oh, great,’ he sighed.

  ‘But they said we can only have part of the delivery until I pay them the remaining.’

  ‘How much would that be . . . Part of the delivery?’

  ‘It’s one of two trunk boxes,’ I replied. ‘That comes to exactly half of the $58 million.’

  I could see the mathematics going through his head. Half of $58 million dollars was still over $25 million.

  ‘That seems like a perfect idea to me,’ he said and nodded. ‘Once we have the first trunk, we can then pay from that for the second trunk . . . Everyone is happy!’

  I dug into my pocket and brought out an envelope of cash. I counted out fifty $100 bills in full view of everybody and handed them to Dr Wazobia, who then left to pay the anti-terrorists. He was supposed to return with the certificate, which we would then take to the security company. Then we would receive our trunk of millions.

  Mr Hooverson and I were now alone.

  ‘How’s your sister doing?’ he asked in a tone of utmost concern.

  My reply painted as pathetic a picture as I could conjure. Grunts of different shapes and sizes escaped from Mr Hooverson’s lips. By the time I finished, he was clutching his chest with grief. Did I say Denzel Washington? Make that an Eddie Murphy or an Al Pacino.

  ‘How sad,’ he said. ‘How very, very sad, I would have loved to pop over to Nigeria quickly and see her, but I need to be back in the US as soon as possible. I left him at home.’

  While speaking, he reached into his wallet, extracted a photograph, and passed it on to me. I stared at the muscular, jet-black creature.

  ‘Is this your dog?’ I asked.

  Mr Hooverson glared at me as if I had just called his mother a hermaphrodite. The skin on his face changed from the colour of boiled chicken to the colour of a baboon’s buttocks.

  ‘Don’t call him a dog!’ he howled with uncharacteristic, un-good-Samaritan-ish vexation. ‘His name is Kunta Kinte!’

  My heart went pit-a-pat. Rapidly, I calculated how many leaps and bounds would get me to the door.

  ‘Kunta Kinte’s been through a lot,’ he said in a much softer voice. ‘He gets very agitated when I’m not at home. My new wife is really mean to him. She never lets him sleep in our bed.’

  I was still clutching my heart between my teeth. My mind was already halfway down the valley of the shadow of death. I recalled all those stories about Americans who suddenly whipped out guns from grocery bags and started shooting everyone in sight. And from what I had seen on television, every American had at least one firearm. What if Mr Hooverson had come along with his gun? Would he shoot me if he happened to find out right here that all this was a scam? Would he shoot himself afterwards or live to tell the story? Would the shooting event make it to CNN or BBC? Would it be on the NTA 9 o’clock news?

  What would my mother say when she saw it? I started losing weight right there in my seat.

  Mr Hooverson went on to narrate several stories about the dog, describing Kunta Kinte’s good qualities, remembering with tears in his eyes the day he lost him and later found him in the garden shed. I listened on with sweet patience, but in my mind I had started throwing huge boulders at him. At long last, I could take it no more. I had never been one to shine at small talk, but I decided to try.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ I asked, hoping that this would lead to a more tolerable topic.

  ‘Kunta Kinte is my only child,’ he replied tenderly. ‘One of the reasons why I’m looking forward to this money coming in is so I can leave him something to live comfortably on even if something was to happen to me. I’m thinking of a trust fund in his name.’

  God being so kind, right then, Dr Wazobia rang my cellular phone.

  He informed me that the person at the anti-terrorist office was insisting on the complete $15,000 before he could issue the certificate. I threw a tantrum over the phone.

  ‘What sort of rubbish is this? Mr Hooverson has come all the way from America to help us and now this! Can’t you explain to them that we’ll give it from the one in the trunk?’

  I continued the heated talk while Mr Hooverson looked increasingly worried.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he finally said.

  He rang someone in the USA and asked them to wire money, quick. The person appeared reluctant. Mr Hooverson insisted that it was an emergency. After a brief argument, the savage in him burst through the Caucasian coating.

  ‘Just do it!’ Mr Hooverson howled, punching the arm of his chair until it groaned.

  That was one thing I loved about these Yankee Doodles. They had a way of getting things done.

  The next few hours were a rush of dramatics. I accompanied the mugu to a nearby cash machine and stood respectfully aside while he punched in his pin. When would this sort of technology reach my dearly beloved Nigeria? These cash machines were like gods standing right there in the streets, answering the cries of the needy at the press of a button.

  Dr Wazobia met us up at the hotel lobby. He collected the cash, dashed out again, and returned shortly after with the anti-terrorist certificate. Now we could officially pick up our trunk of millions. We hailed a taxi to the security company. Mr Hooverson knew the address by heart.

  The security company office was complete with signboard, reception, and inner office. There was even a Caucasian man and woman in charge of things. Cash Daddy had exhumed this setup from where-I-do-not-know, but it looked perfectly authentic.

  Shortly after we arrived, the receptionist ushered us into the inner office.

  ‘Which one of you is the beneficiary?’ the white man asked.

  ‘I am,’ the mugu replied.

  Mr Hooverson whipped out his navy blue American passport. The white man examined the photo and stared up into Mr Hooverson’s face. He did this at least three more times before he was finally satisfied. Then he unfolded some documents that had been tightly clamped inside his armpit.

  ‘Could you please sign here,’ he said.

  The mugu signed - after perusing carefully - and handed back the documents. The white woman collected the documents, took them away, and returned.

  ‘Everything seems alright,’ she said. ‘I’ve just spoken to the courier. He’ll be here very soon.’

  Indeed, soon, Amuche arrived dragging a trunk box that looked exactly like the one where my mother kept her precious belongings in Umuahia.

  ‘The second one will arrive in about an hour,’ he explained. ‘For security purposes, we deliver one at a time.’

  He unlocked the box with a great deal of panache, making a show of removing the bundle of keys from his pocket, choosing the right one, and sticking it into the lock. He turned the key and paused some extra seconds before opening the lid. The trunk box appeared jammed with dollar notes. All of them stained black.

  Thus, we moved to Stage three.

  In a corner of the box, was a dark brown 150cl bottle. Mr Hooverson was speechless. Elation and confusion were fighting for space on his face.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked at last.

  ‘That’s where Dr Wazobia comes in,’ I replied. ‘He’s a professional chemist who’ll help us wash the money.’

  ‘Wash the money?’

  ‘For security purposes,’ Dr Wazobia explained, ‘we had the dollar notes invalidated with a fluid known as phosphorus sulphuric benzomate. It turns them black. All we have to do is wash them in the lactima base 69% contained in that bottle.’

  Dr Wazobia raised the bottle from
the box.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ Mr Hooverson and I replied simultaneously. Our voices had equal degrees of curiosity.

  ‘The chemical has congealed,’ Dr Wazobia said. ‘It was left in here for too long. But there’s a little left in it.’ He swished the leftover liquid in the bottle about. ‘Let’s see how much we can wash with this. I’ll need to dilute it with some water.’

  We followed him to the bathroom. Dr Wazobia put the bottle to the mouth of the running tap, placed some black notes in the sink, and poured from the bottle onto the notes.

  ‘Wow!’ Mr Hooverson gasped.

  The black paint had washed off, leaving gleaming dollar notes behind. Only the first row of notes in the trunk box were real. The rest were old newspapers, painted black and cut to dollar size. Pray tell, who was that 419er who first thought up these serpentine scams? Men and women had received the acknowledgment of History for displaying less ingenuity in other fields.

  After Dr Wazobia had washed about $1,000, the liquid in the brown bottle finished.

  ‘Sorry, this is all I can do for now,’ Dr Wazobia said. ‘You’ll have to order a fresh batch from the chemical plant. A full bottle of this size is about seventy thousand dollars. That should be more than enough to wash all the money in that trunk.’

  From the corner of my eyes, I watched Mr Hooverson, in case he actually had a gun. I expected that he might wake up at the mention of yet another payment.

  But no, the money he had seen was scattering his thoughts. In front of my eyes, Mr Hooverson became a mental case. He started shivering and pacing like someone sleepwalking. All his ten fingers went into his mouth.

  ‘We have to get that chemical. We have to get that chemical,’ he muttered. His head shot up. ‘How long does it take?’ He blew a crumb of fingernail into the air. ‘The chemical. The chemical for washing the money. How long does it take to arrive?’

  ‘Oh, the lactima base 69%. Almost immediately. They usually have it permanently in stock. It’s mostly reserved for use by the FBI and Interpol, but I have my contacts at the plant.’

  ‘We need to get that chemical. We need to get that chemical,’ Mr Hooverson repeated over and over again.

  Out of the blue, Dr Wazobia came up with a smart plan.

  ‘Why don’t we leave this with the security company until we’re ready with the money for the chemical?’

  Mr Hooverson’s face did not seem to like the idea. For a moment, he left off chewing his nails.

  ‘So, next time, after we get the chemical, all we have to do is come here, collect the keys, and take the two trunks?’ Mr Hooverson asked.

  ‘Then you can take your share and keep the rest for them,’ he nodded at me, ‘in your account. But you have to get that chemical first.’

  Mr Hooverson was pacing again. Then he stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’m not sure how long it will take,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure I can raise the funds.’

  I gasped. I considered clutching my chest, but restrained myself. No need to take the acting too far.

  ‘Mr Hooverson, I can’t let you do this,’ I said. ‘You’ve done so much for my sister and her family already.’

  ‘The sooner we get this money out, the better it is for all of us,’ he replied matter-of-factly. Clearly, the time of pretence was over.

  We parted outside the security company, but not before I drew Mr Hooverson towards me and gave him another United Nations hug.

  Cash Daddy was right. These white people were harmless.

  Thirty-two

  Too drenched in sleep, it was not until the passengers broke into a loud cheer that I jolted back to reality and realised that the plane had landed in Port Harcourt. Nigerians always clap when an international flight touches on home soil. Who could blame us? With the number of tribulations that were lurking out there, to have gone and returned in one piece was worth celebrating.

  I had spent my last few hours in Amsterdam looking over my shoulders for Interpol and the FBI. It was not until the plane lifted off the tarmac that I finally relaxed.

  The air hostess smiled and thanked me for flying with them. Having flown first class, I was entitled to their free limousine service to convey me from the airport to wherever I was going, but I had declined. I preferred for my driver to pick me up. That way, I could make personal phone calls on the journey home without worrying about being overheard.

  On my way to immigration, I switched on my phone. It rang almost immediately. It was my father’s sister.

  ‘Kings, I’m in serious trouble here. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past two days.’

  She sounded very anxious. She gave me a number and asked me to ring her back on it immediately.

  ‘Kings, I don’t know what to do. NEPA has been giving us low current and my fridge has broken down. I don’t know for how long I’ll have to keep cooking fresh food every day. It’s not easy for me at all.’

  ‘Aunty Ada, relax . . . relax. Have you asked them how much it will cost to repair the fridge?’

  ‘Hmm. Kings, it’s a very old fridge. I don’t know if anybody can repair it. Most people don’t use this type of model anymore.’

  I got the message.

  ‘Aunty Ada, how much will a new one cost?’

  She told me. I promised to send the money before the week ran out.

  ‘Only God knows how I’ll be able to do without a fridge till the weekend but thank you, anyway. I’ll try and manage somehow.’

  ‘OK, Aunty. Don’t worry. I’ll try and send the money by tomorrow.’

  ‘You really are your father’s son. God bless you my dear child. You’re such a blessing to this family.’

  The officer at immigration beamed a broad smile and lifted his right hand in amateur salute.

  ‘Welcome, sir!’ he shouted.

  Poverty had a way of sharpening the sense of smell. These sorts of people could sniff out a prospective heavy tipper. I smiled and gave him my passport.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like us to do for you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied.

  The last time I travelled with Cash Daddy, he had required the immigration officer’s assistance to adjust their stamp so that his passport could read as if he had entered Nigeria on a previous date. These minor peccadilloes were necessary to keep the people at the embassies happy.

  The immigration officer finished and held my passport towards me. I took the dark green booklet and sneaked him some Euro notes. Hopefully, the tip was heavy enough to ensure that my face was stamped in his memory for eternity, just in case I needed his help someday.

  On my way to baggage collection, I dialled Camille.

  ‘Kings, Kings! You’re back! I really missed you!’

  Camille and I had spent several more nights together since our first meeting. I would ring when I needed her, we would meet at the hotel, and she would leave the following morning. The girl had special ways of helping me forget my sorrows. Come to think of it, I did not even know her surname. But what was the point getting to know everything about a girl, only for her to dump you in the end? With Camille, I was free - free to extract as much pleasure as I wanted from our relationship whenever I wanted. That was the most important thing.

  ‘Can you meet me later tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. What time?’

  ‘I’m still at the airport. I’ll ring you when I get to Aba and let you know.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Kings. I hope you brought back something from Amsterdam for me.’

  Even her voice had something mesmerising about it. Was there a certain school where these types of girls went to master their art or was it an inborn talent? No wonder she charged so much. I rammed into someone who had been walking too slowly. He turned. I was about to apologise.

  ‘Kingsley Ibe!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Andrew Onyeije!’

  We shook hands.

  Andrew and I had competed i
n a science quiz back in form five. After a tough battle, I had won. Fresh complexion, robust cheeks . . . he looked very well.

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m based in Aba.’

  ‘Oh, really? Where do you work?’

  ‘I’m sort of doing my own thing. I’m into business. Importing and exporting.’

  He laughed.

  ‘What happened? Didn’t you always say you wanted to read Engineering?’

  ‘Actually, I read Chemical Engineering.’

  He laughed again.

  ‘And now you’re importing and exporting. What was the point of going into sciences if you weren’t intending to use it in the end?’

  I tried to smile, but I was not doing it very well.

  ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What do you do?’ Perhaps he had developed a contraceptive pill for men.

  ‘I’m into IT,’ he replied contentedly. ‘I’m based in the States.’

  That explained his fresh complexion. The wicked Nigerian sun had not smiled on him for a long time.

  ‘You know IBM, don’t you?’ he continued. ‘I’m with the head office in New York. I just flew in for my sister’s wedding. I’ll be in Nigeria for just about a week. Then I’ve gotta be back in the States for an important meeting.’

  No wonder he could afford to open his mouth and make all sorts of stupid comments. He was so busy munching frankfurters in America, he had probably not yet seen any of the engineers and lawyers and medical doctors who were wearing hunger from head to sole.

  ‘I’m soooo glad to be back home,’ he went on. ‘The last time I was in Nigeria was ages ago. There’s nothing like being back in your own country, amongst your own brothers and sisters. It’s such a wonderful feeling.’

  Together, we stood by the sluggish conveyor belt and waited. Some lackeys promptly arrived beside us with trolleys.

  ‘I’ve missed Nigeria so much,’ Andrew said.

  I pointed out my first suitcase. The lackey rushed to grab it.

  ‘What and what did you do your Masters in?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t yet done a Masters.’

  He gasped.

  ‘Kingsley Ibe! You don’t have a Masters? I don’t believe it! These days, you can’t move forward in this world without one. I have a Masters in Cyber Informatics from Rutgers, a Masters in Tetrachoric Correlations from Cornell, a Masters in Data Transmogrification from Yale, and next fall, I’ll be starting my PhD with Harvard.’