I Do Not Come to You by Chance (28 page)

Cash Daddy concluded.

‘My brothers and sisters, God bless Abia State, God bless all of us.’

The crowd burst into a flood of cheering and chanting.

Cash Daddy smiled, waved, kept on waving, and continued waving for about ten more minutes, before we finally returned to the jeeps and drove off.

 

Back at the office, I waited for Cash Daddy to finish conferring with his political cronies. He wanted to meet with me afterwards. Meanwhile, I was delighted to see that my good friend Edgar was still very much in the flow.

Oh, I had no doubts at all about his commitment. For an $11.6 million cut, Goering would have been willing to save Anne Frank.

So far, Mr Hooverson had sent money to Nigeria for the change-of-beneficiary certificate and lawyer’s fees. In exchange, I had given him all the receipts and other documentation necessary to claim the money at the security firm. He was now in the hands of our associates in Amsterdam who would carry on milking him until he became unbearably desperate.

There was also an email from my Lufthansa airline pilot mugu, threatening me with the FBI. Haha. Unfortunately, the FBI could not do much to stop us. We had fictitious companies registered with the Corporate Affairs Commission and the Chamber of Commerce. We had account details that had been given to us by several different mugus over time, and we had carried out transactions from thousands of ghost accounts in banks around the globe. Anybody hoping to follow our trail would simply be throwing away their precious time.

My phone rang. It was Charity, calling from a business centre in her school.

‘Kings, they’ve fixed the date for our matriculation. It’s on the twenty-ninth of November. Are you going to be in the country on that day?’

I smiled. My sister probably added that last part to let the keen eavesdroppers know that she had a brother who could afford to travel abroad.

At first, the professor Buchi had recommended scoffed at Charity’s score when I went to visit him at the Abia State University. Then I told him how much I was willing to pay and he agreed to ‘see what I can do’. Three weeks later, Charity’s admission letter to the Department of Philosophy was ready, complete with deputy vice chancellor’s signature.

‘That’s the best I could do,’ he explained. The Law list was already jam-packed and overflowing.

My father would never have allowed his daughter to enrol on such a worthless course, but studying Philosophy was far better than staying home for a whole year, doing nothing. Plus, even though she did not comment on the process, my mother had been pleased. For an additional amount, the professor had assured me that he would switch my sister over to the Law Department by next session.

There was no way I was going to miss her matriculation ceremony. I told my sister so.

‘Thank God,’ she sighed. ‘I was afraid you might be in London again.’

‘Just make a list of everything you require for that day, then call me later and we can discuss it.’

Simple. Education without tears.

I went back to making a living.

 

‘I’m relocating my campaign headquarters to my building on Mbano Road,’ Cash Daddy announced. ‘It’s not good to mix business with pleasure. So, Kings, I want you to keep an eye on things here.’

It was becoming clearer to me by the day that God must have been speaking to him about this governorship thing for a long time, probably as far back as the day he summoned me into his private office and made me the offer to come and work with him. Somehow, I was touched that he had chosen me. And proud.

‘I’m too big to chase dollars up and down the world,’ he continued. ‘Money should be chasing me instead.’

He went on to explain that life is in stages, that each person must learn to make changes to accommodate each new stage. He said that he had paid his dues in life and it was now time for life to treat him well.

Protocol Officer’s entrance truncated his speech.

‘Cash Daddy, I’ve just been speaking with Grandma,’ he said. ‘She said someone at her bank was warning her about our account.’

As Protocol Officer gave further details, Cash Daddy grew wilder.

‘What do they mean by that?! What type of rubbish is that?!’

Protocol Officer’s ‘Grandma’ lived in Yorkshire. He must have dabbed a very potent mugu potion on his lips the first time he spoke to her, because Grandma was totally consumed with faith in whatever Protocol Officer told her. For centuries, the elderly lady had been trying to help him get his mother out of Nigeria for cancer treatment in the UK. But over time, Grandma’s more perceptive children had cautioned her. Each time, she had disregarded their advice - and now a staff member of the bank had tried. She had once again brought the matter to Protocol Officer’s attention for advice. This Grandma woman was every 419er’s dream.

‘Can you imagine this rubbish?’ Cash Daddy barked. ‘Call the bank for me right now!’

Protocol Officer unlocked a cabinet and whipped out a file. He flipped through and found the number he was looking for, dialled, and asked to speak with the manager before passing the cellular on.

‘Do you know who I am?!’ Cash Daddy bellowed.

Maybe the bank manager did, maybe he did not.

‘Is that the way you treat your big customers? Look, I’m taking this matter to the press! You hear me? You have no right to give out information about what goes on in my account to anybody!’

The bellowing went on and on and on. I could only imagine what was happening at the other end.

‘Is it because I’m black? That’s what it is, is that not so? If I was a white man, you wouldn’t treat me with such disregard. Look, let me tell you. I might be black, but I’m not a monkey and I deserve to be treated with respect!’

Haha. Cash Daddy need never worry about being mistaken for a monkey. With the right diet and the right tutoring from superior brains, a monkey could probably learn how to program computers, pen great works of literature, make scientific discoveries. But no monkey born of creation or evolution could swipe cool millions of dollars with such ease. I could not vouch for the entire black race, but the niggers of Nigeria were certainly not monkeys.

‘You’d better be very sorry!’ Cash Daddy ranted on.

Then, he handed the phone back to Protocol Officer, who spoke to the manager before hanging up.

‘They said they’ll send a formal apology,’ Protocol Officer said. ‘They said they’re very sorry, that they’ll investigate which staff member spoke to Grandma and take disciplinary measures. They promised it won’t happen again.’

No bank wanted to be publicly accused of having issues regarding clients’ confidentiality.

‘Imagine the rubbish,’ Cash Daddy continued. ‘Confidentiality. It’s a simple word. What’s so difficult about that? English is not my father’s language. Yet I understand what it means.’

‘He promised it won’t happen again,’ Protocol Officer said consolingly.

‘How can they be telling people stories about my account?’ Cash Daddy hissed. ‘Just because I’m black.’

He continued frowning.

‘Where’s that form? Who has it?’

‘Cash Daddy, I have it with me,’ Protocol Officer replied.

He brought the sheet of paper we had just purchased from the NAP headquarters, extended it across the table, and sat beside me. Cash Daddy did not even touch the form with his eyes.

‘Kings, you have a good handwriting,’ he said. ‘Fill it.’

Protocol Officer repositioned the form in front of me. I removed a pen from my shirt pocket and started filling while Protocol Officer stuck out his neck and clung his eyes to my hand. Quickly and efficiently, I filled out the section for name, address, and marital status. In the section for date of birth, I wrote July 4 and paused. I looked up at Protocol Officer and tapped my pen in the space for year of birth. He considered the matter briefly before looking up at Cash Daddy.

‘Cash Daddy, what year of birth do you want us to put?’ he asked.

‘What are they doing with my year of birth?’ Cash Daddy asked gruffly, ‘Do they want to throw a birthday party for me?’

‘Cash Daddy, it’s because of the age,’ Protocol Officer replied. ‘You know they have a minimum age for people who want to contest.’

Cash Daddy dimmed his eyes and made a humming sound in his throat, as if he had been asked to recollect the year when, for ease of administration, Lord Lugard amalgamated the Northern and Southern protectorates of the British Colony, and bundled them up into one country which Lady Lugard had named ‘area around the Niger’ - Nigeria.

‘What’s the minimum age?’ he asked eventually.

None of us was sure. Protocol Officer placed a phone call to someone he was sure would know and confirmed that the minimum age was definitely thirty years.

‘Then let’s make it thirty,’ Cash Daddy said. ‘You know, in this life, it’s always better for one to start out early. It has many advantages.’

I did a quick calculation and arrived at a year of birth which placed Cash Daddy and me within the same age bracket. I ignored this water-to-wine category of miracle and continued with my task. When I arrived at educational qualifications, again I tapped my pen and looked to Protocol Officer for assistance. I already knew that the minimum requirement for governorship candidates was a GCE certificate. Protocol Officer considered the matter and arrived at another roadblock.

‘Cash Daddy,’ he asked, ‘what do we put for your GCE?’

‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Put whatever you like. When Dibia’s preparing my birth certificate, tell him to get me a GCE certificate as well.’

In moments of great stress, it is usually the most implausible fib that comes to mind. I filled in my own straight-A result for Cash Daddy. But that was not the end. I still needed help to know what secondary school he wanted me to state. Protocol Officer drew another blank and turned to his master for help. His master banged one hand on the desk and flailed the other in the air.

‘What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you fill a simple form without asking me stupid questions? If you have to ask me about every single thing before you fill a simple form, then I don’t know why I’m paying you so much money. You might as well go and work in a bank!’

‘Cash Daddy, we’re sorry,’ we both apologised.

‘Get out of my office and go and fill that thing somewhere else. You people are starting to annoy me.’

On my way back to the Central Intelligence Agency, I was about to turn the door handle when the air suddenly filled with a sensuous, luxurious scent. I looked back and saw that a majestic frown had walked in through the connecting door to the reception area. In its train was Cash Daddy’s wife.

Mrs Boniface Mbamalu was the most beautiful wife that money could buy. Each of her facial features was perfectly sculptured. Every item on her lithe, six-foot frame could be considered a fortune. From the flaxen hair extensions, to the chunks of metal around her throat and wrists, to the lace fabric of her buba and iro. And her skin shone with a glorious luminosity that had nothing at all to do with nature; it could only have come from inside an expensive cosmetic jar.

‘Good afternoon, madam,’ I said.

She ignored me and swished past. Red-hot fumes were smoking out of her ears and nostrils.

Instinctively, I retraced my steps. Protocol Officer was frozen to the spot, as if he had just spied a three-headed python while taking a stroll in the garden behind his house. Mrs Mbamalu had swept into Cash Daddy’s office, and from where we stood, we could hear the sparking of her wrath and the thundering of her rage. Glass was smashing, wood was crashing, and her voice was at topmost volume. Everybody else in the building must have heard. Yet not even the tough-looking otimkpu dared to intervene.

‘Useless idiot!’

Crash! Smash! Bang!

‘What sort of rubbish is that?!’

Bang! Smash! Crash!

‘Whatever you do with your private life is none of my business, but I will never have you flaunt it in my face. Are you hearing me?!’

Smash! Crash! Bang!

‘If you know what’s good for you . . . better relocate that stupid girl . . . my next trip!’

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Within minutes, she had finished delivering her message and vamoosed. From what I could gather, she apparently had discovered that Cash Daddy was renting a flat for one of his girlfriends on the same street in London, Belgrave Square, where she, his wife, had her own private apartments. From all indications, this woman had flown all the way from Lagos to Port Harcourt, taken a taxi to Aba, stopped at her husband’s office, and afterwards headed directly back to Lagos. The straightforward purpose of the trip had been to communicate some slaps.

After she left, I went into Cash Daddy’s office with Protocol Officer. The place looked as if a tornado had dropped by to say hello. The exotic vases were smashed to smithereens on the floor, the wall cabinet was lying facedown like an Islamic worshipper, every single item on his executive desk had been transferred to the ground. Interestingly, the only thing in the room that seemed untouched was the photograph of him in a traditional chieftaincy outfit. The image looked down on the dishevelled room from its position high up on the wall.