I Do Not Come to You by Chance (43 page)

‘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.

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.

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.

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.