I Do Not Come to You by Chance

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  Azuka declared free lunch for everyone in the office, then came over to discuss the documents for his Iranian visa.

  ‘How easy is it to get a visa to Iran?’ I asked. I had never known anyone who went to Iran.

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ he replied. ‘It’s almost the same as any other embassy.’

  I started putting together the list of documents that Dibia would need to produce.

  ‘Let me see the letter he sent to you so that I don’t make any mistakes.’

  Azuka went to his desk and forwarded the document. The passport would bear the name Sheik Idris Shamshudeen, all other documents would show that he was a contractor for the Zamfara State government. Zamfara was the first state in Nigeria to fully implement Sharia law; the Iranians would definitely fall in love with Azuka.

  I read the letter twice to make sure that there was no vital information I had missed. Suddenly, I felt strange. I had this nagging feeling that something was wrong. It was a simple letter of invitation to meet with the mugu’s Iranian partners, but something was amiss.

  ‘Let me see the other letters he’s been sending you,’ I said to Azuka.

  He forwarded many of the previous ones. I had just started reading through, when my cellular rang.

  It was Merit!

  ‘Kings, call me back on this number,’ she said. ‘It’s my office phone.’

  I scrambled to obey. Since Ola, I had not woken up in the morning and gone to bed at night with the same girl on my mind, but Merit had stayed with me. There was something about a girl who was not afraid to make the first move. I was never impressed by hard-to-get games. Saying hello when she noticed me staring at her at the wedding was obviously a come-hither gesture, and she had not feigned disinterest when taking my phone number either. Plus, I had not laughed so freely with any woman in a long time. Merit seemed to appreciate my sense of humour as well. Every human being deserved at least one person to laugh at his jokes, no matter how dry.

  After a brief chitchat, we agreed that I would pick her up from home later in the evening. My heart started playing a new song.

  Merit’s house was not difficult to find. It was on a quiet street with humble buildings that were numbered in an orderly way. The residents might not have had too much money, but they were respectable and tidy. I found a space across the road from Merit’s gate and parked. A young boy materialised by my car and tapped frantically on the window. I jumped. He said something which I did not hear.

  ‘What?’

  I still did not hear. He was super skinny, with a plantation of pimples on his forehead, but he did not look like a mugger or a psychotic, so I took a chance and wound down my window.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. His pubescent voice was just beginning to crack. ‘Please, is it Merit you’re looking for?’

  How was it his business? Nevertheless, I answered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Merit said I should ask you to wait for her. She’s coming. Let me go and tell her you’re around.’

  He took off at the rate of seven miles per hour, and dashed back out to tell me that Merit would soon be on her way. Soon, she appeared and trotted to the car. She looked and smelt like a rose.

  ‘Please drive off quickly,’ she panted.

  Instinctively, I hit the accelerator.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked when we had left her street.

  ‘Oh, it’s my parents. They’re usually quite meddlesome about my visitors. That’s why I had to ask my brother to look out and tell me when you arrived.’

  The skinny lad was her brother? Perhaps it was true that the most attractive girls seem to have the least attractive brothers. Anyway, he was young, so there was still hope for him.

  ‘Aren’t you old enough to hang out with whom you please?’ I asked.

  ‘My parents are deacons in Jehovah the King Assembly. They’re quite strict about certain things.’

  It was too early in our relationship for me to express opinions about a full-grown adult sneaking in and out of her house. I let the matter be.

  ‘Where would you like us to go to?’ I asked. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you have in mind?’

  It had been so long since I was on a proper date. I had no clue about where best to spend the evening. She suggested somewhere that I was supposed to know.

  ‘You don’t know it?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. There’s nobody in Aba who doesn’t know where it is. That’s the place everybody goes these days.’

  She gave directions. I drove. As soon as we arrived, I understood why Merit had been so eager to come here, why this was the place where everybody went these days. There was a white couple and child sitting at one table and two white men sitting at another. These ones were not real white people like Britons and Americans, though. They looked more like Lebanese or Syrians or one of that type of people, but it did not matter. I had observed the same phenomenon in every Nigerian city I had visited. Any joint that was frequented by any category of white people automatically shot up in ratings amongst indigenes. The place was jammed. As Merit and I searched for a free table, someone called out to me.

  ‘Graveyard!’

  I turned.

  ‘Graveyard! Longest time!’

  It was my roommate from university.

  ‘Ah! Enyi. How are you?’

  We shook hands. I had not seen him since my father’s burial.

  ‘Graveyard, you look good. You look really good. I hear you’re now a big—’

  I cut him off.

  ‘Merit, this is Enyi. We were roommates on campus.’

  I asked her to go ahead and find somewhere to sit.

  ‘I’ll join you soon,’ I said.

  ‘Graveyard, you look really good,’ Enyi continued after Merit left. ‘I hear you’re now a bigger boy in Aba. I hear you’re doing very, very well. And you’ve put on weight!’

  Who would ever have imagined? When they came to spend time with me during their last holidays, I had handed down a mountain of tight shirts to my brothers. I would probably have to pass on yet another batch when next any one of them was around.

  ‘Honestly, Graveyard, I’m so glad I saw you today. The other day, I was telling some people that both of us were very good friends in school and they thought I was lying.’

  I smiled some more. He dipped into the messenger bag strapped across his chest and extracted a book.

  ‘Graveyard, I just wrote my first novel. Honestly, I’ll be very honoured if you can attend my book launching.’

  He handed me the book. From Morocco to Spain in 80 Days.

  I was impressed.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a writer. That’s great. Who’re your publishers?’

  ‘My uncle owns a printing press in Ngwa. They published it for me.’

  I flipped through the uneven, poorly printed pages and paused to read. At least nine muscular typographical errors rose from the page and gave me a slap across the face.

  ‘This book is just too much,’ Enyi continued. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be a bestseller. It’s about my experiences while travelling across the Sahara to Europe.’

  I had heard of several Nigerians ready to risk wind and limb by making this treacherous journey across the desert in search of greener pastures. Some died or were arrested along the way, some were captured and kept in detention camps the moment they arrived. I considered myself lucky for the opportunity to sit at my desk and reach across to greener pastures with my keyboard.

  I handed back the book.

  ‘No, keep it. This one is your own copy. You can give me the money for it even if you’re not attending the launching.’

  I asked him how much it was; he told me.

  ‘But that’s the official price,’ he added, then smiled and winked. ‘A bigger boy like you, you can’t just pay the official price. You have to put something good on top.’

  ‘I haven’t got much with me here,’ I smiled back. ‘
I just came out with enough for our meal.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I can stop over at your office and collect it some other time. Is it not that building behind Bon Bonny Hotel?’

  I handed him a complimentary card, anyway - as an act of noblesse oblige. He assured me that he would see me soon.

  I joined Merit at the obscure table she had chosen in a far corner of the room. A waiter came round and took our orders. With Ola, we always requested that the waiters go and come back later to allow us calculate what aspects of the menu our pockets could handle. Merit made her choice of appetizer, main meal, and dessert without restraint. I felt like a real man.

  We laughed and talked while we ate. She was an Accountancy graduate and worked with her father’s friend’s private firm in Aba. She was a year younger than I. She had an elder brother, an elder sister, and three younger ones. Her father had a private law practice, her mother was a civil servant. Her elder brother was doing a Masters in International Law, her elder sister had finished university two years ago and was now doing a course at Bible School.

  ‘You know, you’re very different from the first impression I had of you when I saw you at the wedding,’ Merit said.

  ‘What first impression?’

  ‘Hmmmmm . . . ?’

  ‘Was it the way I looked?’

  ‘No, not the way you looked. I’m not really sure what it was. Maybe it’s the people I saw you sitting with. I was a bit confused because you looked different from them, but at the same time I was wondering why you were sitting with them. It was after you told me Cash Daddy was your uncle that I understood.’

  I shifted about in my chair. Perhaps I should hint at the truth.

  ‘But I work for my uncle, though.’

  She stiffened.

  ‘Work for him doing what?’

  ‘I help him with some investments . . . sort of like consultancy. He didn’t like the way other people were handling some of his business deals, so he decided that he wanted a relative to do it for him.’

  ‘Oh.’ She relaxed. ‘I hear he has a lot of businesses on the side.’

  On the side of what? Like my mother, Merit was using euphemisms. Probably to spare me the embarrassment of having an uncle who was a 419 kingpin. The nice girl.

  ‘Anyway, be careful about first impressions,’ I said. ‘The mind’s construction is not written on the face.’

  ‘Or in the clothes,’ she added.

  I laughed. She laughed. My cellular rang. It was Mr Winterbottom. I stood hastily.

  ‘Excuse me, let me take this call,’ I said to Merit and moved some distance away.

  ‘It was really tough trying to convince some of the senior bankers, ’ Mr Winterbottom said. ‘We’ve been arguing about it all day. They agreed to release this last $4.5 million dollars under the condition that the CBN will pay the full amount before the end of next month.’

  I smiled.

  ‘But I’m definitely not paying any more fees,’ he continued. ‘The bank has decided that this is the last.’

  No need for Mr Winterbottom to take his bank’s words too seriously. If given another good enough reason, they would cough out more.

  I hurried back to Merit. We talked some more about false appearances, about life and current affairs.

  ‘Do you have my house land phone number?’ she asked at the end of the evening.

  ‘No. You only gave me your office number.’

  ‘OK, I’ll give it to you. But whenever you call, please, if it’s my dad or mum who picks up, pretend that you want to speak to my older brother. His name is Mezie.’

  Forty-one

  There was something suspicious about Edgar Hooverson’s email. I read it several times even though it was very brief. My suspicion grew with each reread.

  Suddenly, it hit me. I realised what had nagged at my mind when Azuka showed me the email from his Iranian mugu. I rang his cellular phone immediately.

  ‘Azuka, where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m at the airport. We’re just about to board.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that email from your Iranian mugu. Something doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘How?’

  The Iranian mugu’s email was similar to Mr Hooverson’s.

  After the meeting in Amsterdam, Mr Hooverson had started trying to raise the $70,000 for the lactima base 69%. When it was taking too long, Dr Wazobia asked him to send an initial instalment of $15,000 to see if the people at the chemical plant would be persuaded to give us at least quarter of a bottle. Mr Hooverson made the payment in three instalments. Afterwards, the chemical plant said it was impossible to sell quarter bottles. Fortunately, Dr Wazobia also had a friend who had a contact at the chemical plant who could arrange half a bottle. If Mr Hooverson could come up with at least half of the outstanding amount.

  No reply from Mr Hooverson.

  This was the first I had heard from him since then. After ignoring all my emails and voice messages, he had now written to say that he had the rest of the money for the lactima base 69%. He was eager for another trip to the security company and would prefer bringing the raw cash all the way to Amsterdam rather than wiring it. In his email, he spent too much time emphasising all the cash he was bringing along. Plus some extra in case we needed unexpected funds.

  ‘Azuka, your mugu spent half of the email talking about the money he was going to give you and the plans for your trip to Iran. He didn’t even talk much about the business proposal and his own cut from the deal. Are you sure he’s not trying to bait you?’

  Azuka laughed.

  ‘Seriously. That’s what it looks like to me.’

  ‘Kings, don’t worry. I’ve cooked the man very well in my pot. This is a clear deal.’

  ‘Azuka, why not tell him you couldn’t make it? Schedule another date.’

  ‘Nooooo! Hei! Don’t you know that he’s already told all his partners I’m coming tomorrow? If I cancel, it might look as if I’m unserious. Especially after all the trouble he went through to help me with my visa. Don’t forget we’re talking about 150,000 dollars here - US dollars, not Taiwan dollars. Kings, after all my years of suffering, God has remembered me. This is my time.’

  ‘You don’t get it. It’s not about the money. What’s the point goi—’

  ‘Kings, don’t forget that I’m older than you,’ he said testily. ‘I’m old enough to know when something is not good for me and when it is. Relax. I have this thing under control.’

  I sighed.

  ‘Look. Kings, relax.’

  ‘OK. But please ring me as soon as you get into Iran, so that at least I’ll know that you arrived safely.’

  ‘No probs. See you next week.’

  I sat looking at my phone for a long time. Then, I went back to work. It was not always sensible to jump to conclusions, so I created a fresh email account.

  Dear Edgar Hooverson (Mr),

  Re: INTERNATIONAL COLLABORATION AGAINST ADVANCE FEE FRAUD

  I am writing to inform you that the FBI has forwarded us your complaint and we are treating it as a very serious matter from our end. Please rest assured that our government is committed to doing all it can to curb this menace of fraudsters that are tainting our image around the globe, and to tighten the loopholes that make it easy for them to operate.

  We would appreciate any assistance you can render us to catch these men and put them behind bars. Once they are captured, we would ensure that any monies seized would be returned to their rightful owners.

  Yours faithfully,

  Dr Nuhu Ribadu

  Director, Economic and Financial Crimes Commission

  Abuja, Nigeria.

  I hoped the email was vague enough to keep Mr Hooverson singing my tune even if my suspicion turned out to be wrong. But his reply, which was almost instantaneous, settled the whole matter.

  Dear Dr Ribadu,

  Thank you SO MUCH for your email. I am HAPPY to say that I CAN HELP! We can work TOGETHER to get these WICKED men into police c
ustody where they belong!

  I was pleasantly SURPRISED to hear from you. I reported my case to the FBI but they did not APPEAR to take it SERIOUSLY—

  I went on to read about how he got to know that he was being scammed through a co-worker whom he had asked for a loan and how he had been in and out of hospital ever since; how his therapist had suggested that he contact the Oprah and Montel shows for an opportunity to tell the world what he had been through.

  As usual, Cash Daddy had been right. Mr Hooverson, described me as ‘a YOUNG MAN in his twenties who looked and sounded WELL-EDUCATED and who had a very HONEST FACE’. He had even attached copies of all our email correspondence. Honestly, these white people were so funny. Did they really think that everybody else had the energy to expend on all sorts of fanciful troubles like they did? Dr Ribadu was too busy running after the billions of dollars that were going missing from the national and state coffers every day. When would the poor man have time to read all this?

  But letter writing was my source of income, so I had all the time in the world to reply.

  Dear Edgar Hooverson (Mr),

  Re: INTERNATIONAL COLLABORATION AGAINST ADVANCE FEE FRAUD (VICTIMS REIMBURSEMENT)

  Thank you for your prompt response. I am happy to inform you that, right now, we have in our custody a number of gangs of scammers who have been operating from Amsterdam for the past few years. We have seized all their assets and frozen all their accounts. We are currently working with the FBI to ensure that all the monies recovered are returned to their rightful owners.