Recently, a proliferation of internet service and cable TV providers had brought the rest of the globe a little bit closer to the man in the street. GSM technology meant that more people could afford mobile phones, never mind the murderous per minute cost of calls. The other day, Augustina had actually seen a pepper seller in Nkwoegwu market laughing loudly into a mobile phone. There were even rumours of cash machines and shopping malls coming soon.
Kings Cafes were the largest and most popular business centres in Aba, Umuahia, and Owerri. In addition to facilities for browsing the Internet, there was also a section for private phone booths and another where registered customers could read national dailies free of charge. All sections were fully air-conditioned. This main branch in Aba also served as head office for Kings Ventures International, which was comprised of importing and exporting of computer equipment and GSM phone supplies.
Most of the Kings Cafe customers came to send requests to relatives abroad or to chat with lovers in distant lands. But today, customers who should have been busy making good use of their hard-earned cyber time had turned away from their screens, their faces hopeful of a full-blown fight.
The cafe manager was on the brink of exchanging blows with a young man in plaited hair whose eyes were flashing murder, and their voices were raised to a frenzied pitch.
Augustina froze in her steps. If only young people of these days could learn that violence was not the way forward. Back in her days, young people worked off their excess energy by climbing trees or digging ridges in the farm, and any issue that needed resolving was tabled before an elder. As the only real adult around, Augustina considered intervening. But then, she did not want to tempt trouble on a beautiful day like this. Any man who went around with plaited hair must surely be a hooligan; he could easily despise her grey hairs and knock her to the ground. Kingsley might be better off leaving this arena to his hot-blooded customers and relocating his private office to another building.
Out of nowhere, a magisterial voice boomed.
‘Odinkemmelu, what’s all the hullabaloo about?’
In the wave of silence that came next, you could almost hear the swishing of angel’s garments. All eyes in the hall sought out the sound of the voice. The manager and the man in plaited hair stopped being barbarian and turned.
Standing an authoritative few paces behind the squabbling men was Kingsley.
Augustina’s heart pumped with pride. In his cream linen suit, oxblood shoes, and budding potbelly, her son was as elegant as a lord. His back was straight, his hands stayed deep inside his pockets, and his gaze was clear and unflinching. Without a doubt, Augustina knew that her opara was the man in charge.
‘What’s the problem?’ Kingsley repeated.
‘Chairman, I have try explain for him,’ Odinkemmelu responded quickly. ‘His ticket have expire.’
‘I don’t care what he says,’ the young man howled through gritted teeth. ‘I want my money back!’
‘Chairman, he is buy the ticket from last week—’
‘It’s a one-hour ticket. I only used five minutes out of it.’
‘I am told him that our ticket is expire after five days. It didn’t matter if he use it or don’t.’
‘Look, if you don’t want trouble—’
Kingsley stared casually as the duet continued, his face giving nothing away. Augustina remembered her husband and the way he never exchanged words with house helps. Really, there was something about being educated that made a man stand out from the crowd.
Eventually, Kingsley raised the open palm of his right hand. The two men shut up.
‘Young man, what exactly is the problem?’ Kingsley asked calmly.
The man in plaited hair proceeded to explain. It was exactly as Odinkemmelu had said, except in more conventional grammar.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ Kingsley said while the man was still expressing himself. ‘This time, we’ll let it pass. But, young man, next time, please be aware that our tickets expire after five days. Odinkemmelu, give him another ticket.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the young man exhaled.
Gradually, the spectators turned back to their computer screens. This must have been an anticlimax to what had started out as a great show.
Without moving, Kingsley watched while Odinkemmelu issued the fresh ticket. Augustina made her way eagerly towards her son. She reached him as the man in plaited hair strutted away victoriously with the slice of paper that had his new log-on code.
‘Mummy!’ Kingsley exclaimed with excitement.
‘Ma Kingsley, welcome, Ma,’ Odinkemmelu mumbled with downcast gaze.
Augustina embraced her son. From the corners of her eyes, she was pleased to note that many customers were glued to this less brutish show.
‘Kings, I hope I’m not disturbing your work,’ she said, smiling brightly.
‘Of course not! Come, let me show you round.’
He took her by the hand. Abruptly, he paused in his stride and turned, resuming his CEO composure.
‘I don’t want to see this again,’ Kingsley reprimanded Odinkemmelu quietly, wagging his finger at him. This kind of scene must be avoided.’
‘Chairman, I am told him before about our ticket. It’s not a lie. I am told him.’
Odinkemmelu was still a rough diamond. A short while ago, he had decided that he had exceeded the acceptable age of being a dependent relative. He wanted to earn an income and help his parents and siblings in the village. His dream was to open a provision store, and he had found a kiosk to let on the same street as Augustina’s tailoring shop. Odinkemmelu approached Kingsley for the capital at about the same time that Kingsley was facing a challenge of his own.
The graduate of economics he had employed as manager of the Kings Cafe’s main branch, Aba, had been caught doctoring the books. Over a period of weeks, the man had silently siphoned off several thousands of naira. He vanished into a puff of smoke the moment his crookedness was discovered. Kingsley was outraged. Augustina then advised her son.
‘That’s why it’s better to employ relatives,’ she had said. ‘If they steal or misbehave, you can always trace them to their homes. No matter how efficient strangers are, they can do whatever they want to do without fear of being traced.’
Her son had paid heed to her advice. Odinkemmelu was offered the job. He moved from Umuahia to Kingsley’s house in Aba and took up his white collar job with zeal. Now, in his yellow shirt, red trousers, and green tie, Odinkemmelu trembled, apparently fearful that he had bungled so soon.
‘I’m not saying you did anything wrong,’ Kingsley said. ‘But one does not scratch open his skin simply because of how badly he feels an itch. Learn not to overreact. The cost of one ticket is not worth all the disturbance that man was causing. I could hear him all the way from my office.’
‘Chairman, am very sorry, sir,’ Odinkemmelu said.
Kingsley took Augustina on a tour of all four floors. He showed her the different kinds of equipment for sale and explained their functions. She shuddered at the heavy price tags. Her main enjoyment derived from the staff gazing upon her in awe. The CEO’s mother.
Kingsley then led her into his private office. Tears sprang to Augustina’s eyes. If only Paulinus had lived to see the fruits of his labour in their opara.
The office was large and uncluttered, with a refrigerator in a corner and a wide, mahogany cabinet displaying several exotic vases and several awards extolling her son’s financial contributions to different organisations, and a smiling portrait of Thelma in a gold frame. Not for the first time, Augustina wondered how her son’s sweetheart could bear the burden of those enormous breasts on such a petite figure.
But Augustina soon lost interest in the awards and the photograph. Her eyes and heart had settled on the large mahogany shelf filled with books. And not just any books. Augustina recognised many of her husband’s priceless textbooks and smiled. Really, there was no better legacy a father could bestow on his son than knowledge
as vast as eternity.
‘Your office is lovely,’ she said, a broad grin on her face. ‘Anyway, you’ve always had good taste. Just like your father.’
Augustina noticed that her son’s expression did not acknowledge the compliment. It was probably his way of showing humility at being compared to such a great man. Kingsley offered her a seat and sat in the grand leather chair behind the executive desk.
‘How about the MBA?’ she asked. ‘Have you started applying?’
‘I just downloaded the forms for the Manchester Business School today,’ he said, swivelling to the right. ‘I’ll send them off by tomorrow.’
‘Oh, good! Have you confirmed the fees?’
He swivelled to the left and told her the amount.
‘Really!’ she exclaimed. ‘That means Imperial Business School is even cheaper.’
‘Yes, but Manchester is one of the top three in Europe.’
‘Oh.’ She was quiet. Then, ‘your father would be very happy if you went to his alma mater.’
Kingsley laughed a brief, staccato laugh.
‘Mummy, the same medicine that is good for the eyes may not be good for the ears. Daddy studied Engineering, mine is an MBA.’
Augustina went quiet. She remained quiet.
‘OK,’ Kingsley said at last. ‘If that’s what you really want, I’ll fill out the application forms to Imperial as well.’
‘Kings, that would be lovely,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘That would be really lovely. Imperial is still a very good school, no matter what you’re studying.’
The important thing was for people to see that her son, the CEO of Kings Ventures International, had an MBA from a foreign university. In Nigeria, foreign degrees carried huge respect, whether they were from Manchester or Imperial or Peckham. And now that it seemed as if democracy had indeed come to stay, hordes from the diaspora were shaking off their phobias and coming back home, and people with local degrees were becoming more and more invisible. In the next few years, Augustina was confident that her son would do well enough to become one of the most respected entrepreneurs from this part of the world. An MBA from a reputable foreign school would definitely go a long way in making him stand out farther from the crowd. And in an economy that was so shaky and unpredictable, it would also be a good insurance policy to fall back on, in case business went awry.
A harsh tune pierced the air. Kingsley brought his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He excused himself, rose quickly, and strode towards the window at the far end of the room.
‘Hello Mr Winterbottom,’ he said with quiet authority.
Augustina lost control of her mouth and giggled.
‘I was just about to ring you now, but my mother dropped by and I got busy attending to her.’
That was something Augustina loved about her son: family always came first.
‘I’ve confirmed that the funds have definitely been sent to your bank,’ he said, ‘but the delay is from the brokerage firm. They said they can’t conclude the transfer without first receiving their commission. That’s their policy.’
He turned from the window and glanced quickly at her.
Augustina smiled and waved her hand for him to continue with his conversation. She did not mind; she was not in any hurry.
‘One per cent. That’s the standard fee on all transactions.’ He paused. ‘Yes, one per cent of the 420 million.’
He nodded. He nodded again and again.
‘Just let me know as soon as you’ve made the payment to them, so that I can follow up and make sure there are no further delays.’
Kingsley returned to his desk, his face aglow with a gigantic grin.
‘One of my foreign investors,’ he explained.
Augustina nodded.
Exactly as she had guessed.
Paulinus had always said that their opara’s brains would someday make him great beyond Nigeria’s shores. This was only the beginning.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to:
~ Kirsty Dunseath, my editor, for giving me a wonderful home.
~ Daniel Lazar a.k.a. Master, my literary agent of inestimable value. Charming, long-suffering, conscientious, filled with remarkable wisdom.
~ Bibi Bakare-Yusuf, my trailblazing Nigerian publisher, for believing in me from the very beginning.
~ Brenda Copeland, my US editor, for the endless tutoring and enthusiasm.
~ My friends, both old and new. I’m convinced that no one in the universe has a circle more amazing. I started mentioning your names but it went on for two whole pages, and yet, I was not finished!
~ Uluobi Andrea, for making sure that my bank account never ran dry.
~ Uncle Sunmi Smart-Cole, for those beautiful ‘awoof ’ photographs.
~ Dr. Chioma Ejikeme, for constantly telling me that I was making the whole family proud.
~ Fred Ukachi Onuobia, for the unflinchingly high expectations.
~ Aunty Mary Ibe, for taking care of me.
~ Professor Adigun Agbaje, for all the intellectual advice.
~ Eyo Ekpo, my veritable ‘Encyclopaedia Africana’.
~ Gilda O’Neil, for that dramatic boost.
~ L. M. Stephenson Jr, for the great suggestion which I initially found amusing.
~ My 419 sources and acquaintances, for kindly or inadvertently allowing me a peep into your surreal world.
~ Magnus, Uwasinachi Dave and Ekwueme, for being part of us.
~ My life coach and my mentors, for teaching me that, truly, anything is possible.
~ The One who put the talent in my hands and blessed me with the mimshach.
I Do Not Come to You by Chance Page 34