I Do Not Come to You by Chance

by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

  ‘Kingsley,’ she said, with tears rising in her eyes, ‘your father and I did not raise you to be a conman. You hear me? Enough is enough. You have to stop this 419. If not, I will never mention your name again as my son. As far as I’m concerned, you no longer exist.’

  She sniffed. The tears had now overflowed the banks and were creeping far out to shore.

  ‘Since this your fast money has given you the guts to talk about your father in this manner, then you might as well just forget about me. Until you stop this 419, I will never, ever set foot in your house again. And I don’t want you to come and visit me. If you ever see me here in your house again, that is the day I will drop dead. You had better not think for one second that I’m joking. I mean every single word I’m saying.’

  She grabbed her handbag and stormed out. Even the sound of Charity’s sobbing was drowned out by her footsteps.

  ‘Kingsley,’ Aunty Dimma said. ‘Don’t allow the devil to use you to wreak havoc in this family! Don’t allow—’

  ‘You people should learn to be realistic,’ I cut in gruffly, recalling Cash Daddy’s long-time-ago imitation of how rich people behaved and spoke. ‘This has nothing to do with the devil.’

  ‘That’s what you think! Even the devil was not always the devil. God made Lucifer then Lucifer turned himself into the devil. You might not know it, but money is turning you into a devil. You’d better stop yourself before—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more of this rubbish. Aunty Dimma, I’ve tolerated your tongue enough. All this talk . . . Does it put food on the table? Does it pay school fees? Me, I don’t believe in film tricks, I believe in real, live action.’

  Whatever else she wanted to say got stuck inside her throat. She looked on in disbelief while I stormed past her and headed for the stairs.

  For the first time in the history of womankind, Aunty Dimma’s tongue appeared tied.

  I sat on my bed and swept the room with my eyes. My Rolexes and Movados on the dresser, my five bunches of car keys on the bedside stool, my Persian rug, my six pillows, my rows of shoes by the split-unit air conditioner - a mere fraction of what I had in my closet. None of this was worth losing my mother for. And, truth be told, I would have loved to have Merit in my life.

  Nevertheless, I could not face poverty again. Never again. My best bet was Cash Daddy’s suggestion. Once I took up his job offer at the Ministry of Works and Transport, my mother - and Merit - would definitely be appeased. So what if it was just a façade?

  I noticed that my cellular screen was flashing. I grabbed it from the edge of my pillow and saw the five missed calls. All were from Cash Daddy’s number. I rang back immediately.

  ‘Kings, they got him, they got him,’ Protocol Officer said over and over again.

  ‘Got whom?’

  ‘Kings, Cash Daddy is dead.’

  Then he started sobbing, making the sort of noises you should hope never to hear from a grown man.

  Forty-five

  At first, nobody was sure how it happened. Early on Sunday morning, the Indian girls had suddenly started screaming and scampered out of the room. Nobody had understood what they were saying. The security personnel had rushed in. Cash Daddy was lying stark naked on his belly with white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth and blood dripping from his rectum.

  Protocol Officer was summoned. Cash Daddy was rushed to a private hospital. Shortly after, the next democratically elected executive governor of Abia State was pronounced dead. Death by poisonous substance.

  For starters, the Indian girls were arrested and carted off to the police station. But after hours of questioning, the officers of the Criminal Investigative Division were unable to get any sensible information out of them. One of the smarter policemen then came up with an idea. Mr Patel, the CEO of Aba Calcutta Plastics Industry, was invited to interpret.

  The girls said that everything had gone very well till Saturday evening. But after his nightly snack of fried meat and wine, curiously, Cash Daddy had declined all their offers of amusement, stumbled into bed, and fallen asleep. In the morning, they prepared themselves for his body rub - one of his favourite daybreak pleasures. They tickled him. Cash Daddy did not stir. They shook him. He still did no stir. Then, one of them climbed onto his back. She noticed the foam at the corner of his lips and screamed. The other two also saw it and joined in.

  The police thanked Mr Patel for his services but still held onto the girls.

  Next, all the staff of the hotel restaurant - both waiters and chefs - were rounded up and also taken to the police station. Each of them proclaimed undying love for their dead master; they all swore that their hands were clean. The police tried different methods to get a confession, all without success.

  Eventually, Protocol Officer suggested investigating all the staff’s bank accounts. An unexplainable two hundred thousand naira was sitting snugly in the Diamond Bank account of one chef. The Indian prostitutes were released, the other staff were released, the chef kept swearing that he had received the money from a 419 deal. But when a quarter of his back had turned raw and red, the man finally confessed that someone had paid him to poison Cash Daddy’s 404 meat. He insisted it was two men whom he had met only once. He could not give any further information about them, not even when the rest of his back was raw and red.

  If Cash Daddy had lived to see the drama in the days following his death, he would have been very proud of himself.

  The Association of Pepper and Tomato Sellers, Aba Branch, took to the streets in angry protest. Not wanting to be left out, the street touts joined in. Their placard carrying, ‘Death to the murderers!’ chanting, and wanton looting lasted for three whole days, grinding all commercial activity in Aba to a halt. The mayhem made it into the nine o’clock news headlines. The entire nation of Nigeria was forced to take note.

  Newspaper and soft-sell headlines screamed in anger. Politicians of timbre and calibre - Uwajimogwu included - granted press briefings to publicly condemn the senseless killing of yet another one of Nigeria’s great politicians. The president of the Federal Republic of Nigeria was not left out of the tirade.

  ‘Enough is enough!’ he declared. ‘It is time for God to punish whoever these assassins are! They shall never cease to entertain sorrow in their homes, they shall never know peace, their grief shall be passed on from generation to generation of their families.’

  The inspector general of police went on national television and made a golden pledge to the nation.

  ‘Whoever is behind this dastardly act will soon be unmasked!’ he promised.

  As proof that he meant it - this time - he had invited the British Metropolitan Police into the investigation.

  ‘Not because our police officers are not capable of handling it,’ he explained, ‘but right now, we lack the required forensic facilities for the successful investigation of these assassination cases.’

  Journalists and opinion-editorials immediately went berserk.

  ‘Why not invite the whole British government to come run the rest of Nigeria?’ some asked. ‘Then maybe we would have electricity, running water, good hospitals, and our highways would cease to be death traps.’

  ‘The rampant assassinations are the fault of the electorate,’ some others said. ‘They are the ones who reward the assassins by victory in the polls.’

  Yet others cautioned the public about automatically assuming that all assassinations were political; some could actually have been in-house engineered.

  Protocol Officer did not buy that talk. When he turned up suddenly at my house a few days after the murder, he told me exactly what was on his mind.

  ‘I’m sure it’s Uwajimogwu,’ he insisted. ‘Everybody else loved Cash Daddy. There’s no one else it can be.’

  That opinion was shared by the majority of people in Abia State. The rioters had even razed Uwajimogu’s campaign office headquarters in Aba. With Cash Daddy’s relocation to the other world, he was the new flag bearer of the NAP gubernatorial tic
ket, certain to become the next democratically elected governor of Abia State.

  Mrs Boniface Mbamalu had come all the way from Lagos to take her position as widow in Cash Daddy’s living room. Each morning, she appeared wearing a different black designer dress and a different pair of designer shades. With his fresh complexion, his gentlemanly clothes and English manners, her opara sat by her side. So far, eleven condolence registers had been filled. Still, the dignitaries continued pouring in.

  ‘I can’t believe Cash Daddy has gone like that,’ Protocol Officer continued. ‘Just like that. Every morning I wake up and expect him to ring my phone. I spend the whole day waiting for him to ring.’

  I also was still finding it hard to believe. Cash Daddy was one of those people who seemed as if they were born never to die. Even after Protocol Officer’s phone call, I had to see for myself. I jumped into my car and accelerated all the way to the mortuary and saw him lying with his name - complete with nickname - tagged to his big toe. His face was contorted and pallid. I clutched my head, stumbled out of the cold room, and collapsed in the hall.

  To think that I had heard the last Igbo proverb and that I would never again have to shield my ears from his thunderous ‘Speak to me!’ How could Cash Daddy be dead? The man who had taken me under his wing. The man who had given me a new life. The man who had given me an opportunity to prove myself when everybody else kept turning me down. I had not just lost an uncle and a boss, I had lost a father.

  And Cash Daddy would have been good for Abia State. After all was said and done, my uncle loved his people. He might have pocketed a billion or two in the process, but in the long run, our lot would have been better. We would have had better roads. We would have had running water. We would have had a public officer who could not bear to watch his brothers and sisters in distress. Abia had just lost the best governor we could ever have had. I wailed even louder.

  Eventually, an elderly man who could have been a morgue attendant or a fellow-mourner or a ghost, tapped my shoulders firmly.

  ‘Be a man,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s enough. Be a man and dry your tears.’

  He waited beside me until I wiped my eyes and got up. I realised that I was barefooted, in boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  I did not feel like going home. I drove to the office and was startled. There were two giant black padlocks on the main gates and on the front door.

  Could it be the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission who had barricaded our office? Could it be the FBI? Had our friends in the police abandoned us so quickly after Cash Daddy’s death? With panic, I rang Protocol Officer.

  ‘I’m the one that locked it,’ he said, in a teary but firm tone. ‘I don’t want anybody to tamper with any of Cash Daddy’s things. Nobody should go inside. ’

  Amazing that he could function so effectively even at a time like this. He must have dashed out to lock the office immediately after learning of his master’s death. But then, no one could blame me for having been paranoid. First Azuka, then Cash Daddy. Who knew where the lightning was planning to strike next?

  Perhaps, we were being punished for all the mugus. I pushed away the thought. The only offences I had committed were against the people I loved. I replayed my misbehaviour towards Godfrey and my mother. I was consumed with shame. Truly, I was becoming a devil.

  Nay, I was a devil.

  Back at home, I rang Merit.

  ‘Merit is busy,’ her brother said calmly.

  She was still busy the fifth time I rang.

  I got dressed, drove to her house and waited outside, hoping to see someone whom I could send inside to call her. To my relief, after about two hours, the gates opened and her skinny brother appeared. He was dressed casually in singlet, jeans and bathroom slippers, as if he was just taking a stroll.

  ‘Hello,’ I called out to him.

  He froze when he saw me, then scurried back inside like a mouse caught in full view on the kitchen floor when the lights were turned on suddenly in the middle of the night. I waited for another hour without anybody going in or coming out. Finally, I left.

  I changed my mind about driving to Umuahia to see my mother. What would I even say to her? I locked myself in my bedroom and stared at the ceiling till dark. With the assistance of two tiny tablets, I had been managing about three hours of sleep per night ever since Cash Daddy’s death.

  But my deep sorrow could certainly be nothing compared to whatever Protocol Officer was feeling. I had always thought of him as the real McCoy Graveyard, but today, he talked and talked and talked. In between, he sobbed. At some point, I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder. My own eyes had no more tears left to shed.

  He talked about how some wicked people were spreading the rumour that Cash Daddy had expired in the throes of orgasm. He talked about how the people that really mattered were being left out of the planning for Cash Daddy’s funeral. The National Advancement Party, in collaboration with the Abia State government, had announced plans to honour ‘our great man of peace, who has left a great example of politics without bitterness’ with a befitting state burial. He talked about how poorly the crime scene had been managed. Cash Daddy’s hotel room had not been cordoned off for several hours after his body was discovered, and the British police had gathered more than 5,000 fingerprints. He talked about how Cash Daddy had been a peace-loving man; if not, he would have got his opponents before they got him.

  Finally he stopped. I removed my hand from his shoulder. We were quiet, then I chortled. Protocol Officer looked at me askance.

  ‘Knowing Cash Daddy,’ I smiled, ‘I won’t be surprised if he rises up from the coffin while all of us are gathered round during the funeral.’

  He thought about it briefly. To my relief, he giggled.

  ‘Cash Daddy, Cash Daddy,’ he said. ‘There are no two like him in this world.’

  We went back to quiet again. Suddenly, he dipped his hand inside the inner pocket of his jacket, brought out a sheaf of papers and placed them on my lap.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked.

  At the same time, I looked at them and gasped. Sheet after sheet of foreign bank account details. Cash Daddy’s holiest of holies.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked again. This time, my question meant something different.

  ‘Kings, Cash Daddy thought very highly of you. You’re the only one who can take over the work.’

  He also brought out two large, shiny keys from his socks and stretched them towards me.

  ‘The keys to the Unity Road office,’ he said. ‘You can reopen it whenever you want.’

  I stared at the keys and at the documents.

  ‘Why did you bring them to me?’

  ‘Kings, if Cash Daddy knew that anything was going to happen to him, he would have handed them over to you.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure.’

  I continued staring at the keys. A wave of emotions flooded my heart. Unlike my natural father, who had left me nothing but grand ideals and textbooks, Cash Daddy had left me a flourishing business. I was touched. And proud.

  I reached out for the keys in Protocol Officer’s outstretched hand.

  I remembered my mother. I remembered Merit.

  My mind changed gear.

  Perhaps this was my opportunity to gather my takings and leave the CIA. Going cold turkey would certainly not be easy, but with the millions I had stashed away in the bank, I could gradually start my life afresh. My father had steered me to engineeing, my uncle had persuaded me to 419. For a change, I would decide what I wanted to do with my own life. I retrieved my hand without touching the keys.

  ‘No,’ I said to Protocol Officer. I gathered up the sheets and transferred them to his lap. ‘No, I don’t want them.’

  ‘Kings?’ Protocol Officer gaped.

  I continued shaking my head. He continued staring with mouth agape. For the very first time in my life, I felt in control. I was the master of my destiny.

  Epilogue

  Good mothers know all about patience. They know
about lugging the promise of a baby around for nine whole months, about the effort of pushing and puffing until a head pops; they know about being pinned to a spot, wincing as gums make contact with sore nipples; they know about keeping vigil over a cot all night, praying that the doctor’s medicine will work; they know that even when patience seems to be at an end, more is required. Always more. That is why Augustina could hardly believe that the day had finally come.

  The forty-five minute journey from Umuahia to Aba felt more like three hours. Throughout, Augustina hummed the first two stanzas of ‘How Great Thou Art’. All the plants seemed to have an unusual splendour, despite having leaves caked in Harmattan dust. A wrinkled man in the owner’s corner of an oncoming V-Boot winked, mistaking her smile as being directed at him. Augustina looked away and sighed. If only Paulinus had lived to make the trip with her. Quickly, she pushed away the greedy thought. Today was what she had and she was grateful. She could be happy enough for both of them.

  The car veered off the expressway and onto a dirt road. An okada zoomed past carrying a woman with two toddlers straddled between her and the driver, and a baby strapped to her back with an ankara cloth. Augustina was saying a silent prayer for the baby’s safety when her own head bumped against the Mercedes S-Class roof. But the second and the third and the fourth potholes did not catch her unawares. Her arms were already wrapped firmly around the headrest of the front passenger seat. All this excitement about democracy. Yet so much was left undone.

  At last, they came onto a tarred road. The driver pulled up at a grand storied building and waited for her to dismount before going off to park the car. The building was painted pure white, broad, and tall. Augustina did not need anyone to give her directions. The signboard on the ground floor was enough. More than enough. To Augustina, it was everything.

  KINGS VENTURES INTERNATIONAL

  The large hall was as crowded as an anthill. Rows and rows of computers, and there was barely sitting space left. People clicked away at keyboards, clusters giggled around screens, queues on benches awaited their turns. Friendly notices, against using Kings Cafe computers to download pornography or to participate in terrorism, hung beside stern warnings from the Nigerian Economic and Financial Crimes Commission - official admonitions proclaiming that customers caught engaging in internet fraud would be handed over to the police. These EFCC notices were a symptom of the many changes sweeping across Nigeria.