I Do Not Come to You by Chance (6 page)

Had I been less preoccupied with other matters, I would have supplied the answer to that question for free. After the third accident, I had read an interview in which this same governor’s press secretary had blamed the governor’s enemies, insinuating that they had used a powerful juju to engineer these mishaps in order to embarrass the governor.

Before the news ended, my father had had enough. He stood up and hissed.

‘I’m going in,’ he said.

My mother followed.

Shortly after, Godfrey dived towards the television and tuned to a channel that was just starting to show a Nollywood movie. I was not a fan of these locally produced Nigerian movies, so I also stood and went into the children’s room.

Sleep refused to happen. Three days after my visit to Ola, my mind was still bustling with worry. What was it that her mother was unhappy with me about? Perhaps she and Ola were having a misunderstanding. Perhaps she was angry that I had not been to visit her as regularly as I should have. But then, the woman was always busy. Ola’s mother, for the earlier part of her married life, had been a contented housewife. She was forced to start her own business only after her husband defected to some other woman. Now she owned a busy pepper-soup joint somewhere in the middle of town, which she ran with an almost fanatical zeal.

This mystery was going to torment me forever. There was no better way to regain my peace of mind than to pay her a visit tomorrow.

 

I decided to walk. As I tried my best to avoid the speeding cars and the gaping gutters, I was amazed to see how much this obscure town was developing just a few years after Abia State had been carved out of Imo State, and Umuahia made the capital. There were several more cars on the roads, and neon signs announcing new businesses. There were more and more posters advertising the political intentions of . . . almost everybody. The scallywags hired to post these bills did not spare any available space in the pursuit of their endeavours. Faces of candidates were posted over traffic signs, and faces over the faces of other contestants. There were even faces posted on dustbins. Did these people not realise the subconscious message of seeing a candidate’s hopeful face grinning from a container specially prepared for garbage? Perhaps most of them did not go to school.

A red car zoomed past and nearly broomed me off the road.

‘Hei!’ I cried while struggling to keep myself from tumbling into the gutter.

These parts were largely populated by civil servants and traders; the most ostentatious they aspired to was a Mercedes-Benz V-Boot. Anybody riding such an extraterrestrial car must either be a dealer in human body parts or a 419er - a swindler of men and women in distant lands, an offender against section 419 of the Nigerian Criminal Code, which addresses fraudulent schemes.

‘Criminal!’ I hissed after the flashy vehicle. Was it his dirty money that had constructed the road?

Ola and I had done this journey between her house and mine several times before. It was best enjoyed in the late evening - when there were fewer cars on the road, when the ill-tempered sun was taking its leave, when a fresh breeze was fanning the skin. Walking with Ola was magical. We would take slow steps and talk about everything - our dreams, our fears, what happened to us during the day, how we had spent our time. Usually, I did most of the serious talking. But once in a while, she raised some heavy issues.

‘My mother was asking me some things about you today,’ she said sometime towards the end of my stay in school.

‘Oh, really? What did she want to know?’

‘She was asking how I was sure that you would still be interested in marrying me when you finished school and got a good job in an oil company.’

I laughed. Ola’s laughter was much smaller.

‘She was going on about how she wasted her life trying to please my father, only for him to leave her for someone else.’

I stopped laughing. It had been a painful experience for them. Following the birth of the first two girls, Ola’s father had made it quite clear to their mother that what he now wanted was a boy. Three girls later, he began his coalition with another woman, who agreed to bring forth sons only if he married her. Without informing his existing family, Ola’s father paid the woman’s bride price, arranged a traditional marriage ceremony, and moved in with her. So far, the newer bride had popped out two bouncing baby girls.

‘How can she think I’m so fickle?’ I asked indignantly. ‘She obviously doesn’t know how much you mean to me.’

‘That’s what I told her,’ Ola smiled, and squeezed my hand.

But there was still something else on her mind. It came after a few paces of silence.

‘Kings, but how come you haven’t given me a ring?’ she asked.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t have to give you a ring for you to know I love you,’ I cooed back.

‘I know, but other people might not see it like that. They might think we’re just fooling around.’

As usual, she had a point.

My next pocket money had been swallowed up by an engagement ring. Ola wore it until late last year when the metal turned green. She did not seem too bothered about a ring these days, but I had promised that when I started working I would buy her one that sparkled so bright she would have to wear Christian Dior shades.

Most times while we walked and talked, I would have my arm around her with my hand inside the back pocket of her jeans. I never held her openly in Umuahia, though; people would think she was promiscuous. Ola never wore trousers in the streets of Umuahia either; girls who wore them were seen as wayward. Men would toss lecherous comments, women would fling snide remarks, children would stop and stare. But in school, we could do whatever we wanted. There were several open fields and bushy gardens. Fortunately, the university budget did not include streetlights.

At Ola’s house, I knocked. Ezinne peeped through the transparent glass door, unlocked it hurriedly, and hugged my waist.

‘Good afternoon, Brother Kings.’

‘My darling little sweetheart, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

I pecked her two cheeks.

Ezinne was the youngest of Ola’s five sisters. She was a miniature version of her elder sister, both in looks and in personality. And she had taken to me just as naturally, too. We had a special bond.

‘Didn’t you go to school today?’ I asked.

‘No, Brother. I ate too much pepper soup yesterday and my tummy was running throughout the night. My mummy said I should stay at home today so that I won’t be running to the toilet when I’m in school.’

‘So how’re you feeling now?’

‘I’m feeling better, thank you.’

Ola’s mother was sitting on one of the wooden chairs in the meagrely furnished living room. The only chair with a cushion had belonged to the Man of the House. There were some brightly coloured plastic flowers standing in an aluminium vase on the centre table. The table legs were leaning at a 120-degree angle - an extra ten degrees from the last time I was here. I had heard of men who aspired to marry girls from rich homes, but there was something gratifying about having a fiancee whose family house was in a more deplorable state than mine.

All my life, I had heard my mother say things like: ‘If not for your daddy, I would never have attended university’, ‘If not for your daddy, I would still be walking about barefoot in the village’. I dreamt of a wife who would say similarly enchanting things about me, a wife who saw me as Deliverer. ‘If not for your daddy, I would never have lived in a house where we didn’t have to pay rent’, ‘If not for your daddy, I would never have lived in a duplex with a high fence and large compound’, ‘If not for your daddy, I would never have been on a plane, I would never even have left the shores of Nigeria’.

That last one was particularly essential, especially for my children. During my school days, the rest of us had been constantly oppressed by children whose parents could afford to take them away to England and America on holidays. They came back several shades lighter in complexion and never stopped yammering on about their exotic experiences, complete with nasal accents. They flaunted unusual stationery and attracted more than their fair share of friends. Teachers treated them with blatant favouritism. My children would have more than enough to attract the envy of their peers. I would show Ola the world.

‘Good morning, Mama,’ I greeted.

‘Ezinne, lock that door and go inside,’ she said without looking in my direction.

Despite the burden of several excess kilograms of fat, Ola’s mother was usually as beautiful as her daughters. But today, she was sporting a livid frown. I sat in the chair beside her, feeling the sort of apprehension that you experience when visiting the dentist.

She sighed deeply and placed an arm underneath her chin with the elbow supported by the armrest of her chair. She was wearing two shiny bracelets that were too big to be gold, and a sparkly wristwatch with small white stones that were certainly not diamonds.

‘Mama, is everything alright?’

After some long seconds, she turned abruptly in my direction.

‘No . . . no! Everything is not alright!’ she said without lifting her eyes to my face.

Another spell of quiet followed. At last, unable to take it anymore, I leaned over and patted her hand, hoping to provide some comfort for whatever was troubling her. Instantly, she drew her arm away.

‘Don’t touch me . . . you hear? Just don’t touch me. You’d better make your intentions clear . . . you hear me? Me, I don’t know what’s happening; I don’t know what you’re doing with my daughter. This thing has gone on too long. I’ve said my own.’

So this was what the gloominess was about. Poor woman. I smiled.

‘Ah, ah, Mama, but you should know by now that I’m very serious. Ola and I are still very much in love. In fact I saw her in school a few days ago. There’s no need for you to be bothering yourself. Ola is my wife.’

‘I’ve been hearing this same thing for how many years now. Me, I’m tired. Every day, “My wife, my wife, my wife . . .”, “I love her, I love her, I love her . . .” Is it wife for mouth? Is it love for mouth? After all, love does not keep the pot boiling.’

‘Mama, but you know the situation. As soon as I get a good job . . . once I’m settled down . . . I won’t need anyone to remind me to come and pay the bride price. That matter is already settled.’

She looked at me as if I had just told her that O is for automobile.

‘So how long exactly are we supposed to wait for you to settle down? Ola needs to move on, don’t you know? She would have been married and settled down long time ago if not for all your rubbish.’

She adjusted her wrappers and laughed. There was no single drop of amusement in the sound.

‘Look, let me just make it clear to you. There are other men out there who would gladly marry her, but she’s still holding back because of you. Ola is not getting any younger. I’ve almost finished training her in university. I expected that by now, she and her husband would be the ones taking care of us. Me, I’m getting tired.’

She had a right to be upset. Agreed, Ola’s mother had always displayed slight traces of sourness which must have had roots in the many jagged Frisbees life had tossed at her, but every other parent in her situation would feel this way. I was ransacking my verbal storehouse for the appropriate words to soothe her when she hissed. Her eyes were dark and narrowed - focused on me at last. Terror laid firm hold of my heart.

‘Other men are finding their way,’ she said. ‘Other men know what and what to do to move ahead. Your own is just different. Is it certificate that we shall eat? If I say that you’re useless, it’ll be as if I’m insulting you. But since you people met, I can’t see anything at all - not one single thing - that Ola has benefited from you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a complete disappointment.’

My heart rent in two. Different colours of bright little stars danced in front of my eyes. I felt as if she had risen from her chair, balanced one fat foot firmly on the floor, and kicked in my teeth with the other. For the first time, I wondered what my family - what Ola - really thought of me. Did they also feel that, I, Kingsley Onyeaghalanwanneya Ibe, was a disappointment?

Maybe I had not been as smart as other young men who were ‘finding their way’. Maybe I had been too carried away by my academic achievements. After all, my father, with all his brilliance, was wallowing in poverty. I shuddered at the thought of ending up like him - full brain, empty pocket.

My thoughts wandered to my mother’s half-brother, Uncle Boniface. He had lived with us when I was a child. At the time, he slept on a mattress on the living room floor and ate with a plastic plate on his knees in the kitchen like Odinkemmelu and Chikaodinaka. He had repeated several classes more than once, and eventually left secondary school without a certificate. But Uncle Boniface knew exactly what he wanted from the future. And he never kept quiet about it.

‘Kings, sit down and watch me,’ he would say. ‘Let me show you how rich men behave.’

Then he would puff out his arms and stride around the living room in slow, unhurried steps. Then he would stop and frown and dim his eyes, and look up into the air. Then he would sit in my father’s favourite chair, cross his legs, and shout orders at invisible servants.

‘Come and take away these plates!’ he would bark at one.

‘Will you stop wasting my time!’ he would howl at another. ‘Do you think I pay you so much money for doing nothing?’

Then he would glare at invisible naira notes in his hands and chuck them onto the floor.

‘Kings, come and take them and throw them in the bin,’ he would say. ‘These notes are too dirty to be in my wallet.’

It used to be a fun game that tickled my fancy no end. Not any more. Despite his poor academic record, Uncle Boniface was extremely wealthy. Rumours abounded of his innumerable cars and real estate and frequent trips abroad. And here I was sitting beside Ola’s mother, a complete disappointment.