I Do Not Come to You by Chance (32 page)

‘Kings, I’m sorry but something urgent just came up. I won’t be able to see you tonight.’

No way. I really needed her tonight.

‘OK, how about tomorrow? How early can you come over?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not available tomorrow. I’m not going to be available for the rest of the week.’

I was about to ask where she was going.

‘But I can send you someone else,’ she said.

What? I felt as if I was being rudely awakened from a long and pleasant dream.

‘Kings, would you like me to send someone else?’

Gradually, I came out of my swoon. I hung up. The smoke screen cleared from my mind. Unlike my cellular phone, which belonged to me and me alone, Camille was like a public telephone - available for use as far as it was free. Andrew’s third suitcase arrived along with his fourth. He gestured to let me know that those were the last. Together, we headed out of the airport with the lackeys pushing along behind us.

Andrew screamed.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

He was feverishly shoving his hands in and out of his trouser pockets like someone having a convulsion.

‘My passport! My US passport! I’m certain it was in this pocket!’

‘When last did you see it?’

‘I had it stamped right there at immigration, then I put it back in my pocket. I remember vividly. It was right here with my boarding pass.’

He convulsed through his pockets again. Still, no passport.

‘It’s gone!’ he announced three times. ‘I had it in this pocket,’ he cried two times. ‘I’m quite certain of that.’

‘You’d better go and report it immediately,’ I advised. If not, a desperate immigrant could be out of the country with that passport on the next flight to the US.

Suddenly, his patriotism changed colour.

‘This country is unbelievable! I haven’t even come in yet and they’ve already stolen my passport!’

His American accent had also vamoosed.

‘Someone probably saw you putting it back in your pocket,’ I said.

‘I just don’t believe this! I’ve been looking forward to coming back home after all these years. I haven’t even been here up to an hour already, and now this!’

How could I abscond when he was in such dire straits? Besides, the petty enmities that exist between one man and another suddenly disintegrate when they are linked with the bond of affliction. Now that Andrew had been initiated into the brotherhood of motherland mishaps, I found myself hating him less. I accompanied him to the security office to make a preliminary report.

‘Ha!’ a potbellied security officer laughed. ‘How could you have done such a thing?’

‘Done what?’

‘Are you stupid? How can you put your passport inside your pocket? American passport for that matter. Why didn’t you put it inside your trousers? Don’t you wear underwear?’

‘Fuck you!’ Andrew exploded.

‘Hey!’ A more gaunt security man threatened him with a raised baton. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’

‘Andrew, cool down, cool down,’ I said, hiding my Schadenfreude away.

‘I know my rights! He can’t do anything to me.’

I almost laughed.

Quickly, I stepped in and apologised on his behalf. He was from America; he did not understand. Twenty minutes later, the security officer kindly agreed to forgive.

‘Talk to them politely so that you can get it sorted out soon,’ I said to Andrew. ‘You’ll need a report from them to take to the police.’

Despite all his Masters degrees and PhDs, Andrew took my advice and explained his predicament in meeker tones. The potbellied man assigned a female officer to attend to him. She brought out a form, which Andrew was supposed to fill in.

‘Oga, what did you bring for us from America?’ the female officer tweeted, her fingers still super-glued to the form.

Andrew turned to me with bulging eyeballs and soaring eyebrows. My father never gave bribes, no matter for how long the police detained us at their checkpoints, but what did my father know about survival?

‘Just give her a small tip so that they can treat your matter as urgent,’ I whispered.

‘I can’t believe this . . . I just can’t. Man, this country is seriously fucked up.’

No, this country was not fucked up. It was also not a place for idealising and Auld Lang Syne. Once you faced the harsh facts and learnt to adapt, Nigeria became the most beautiful place in the world.

If there was a world record for brevity of time spent on grooming, I had just broken it. I sped a comb through my hair while racing downstairs. I was panting when I reached my BMW. Before jumping into the car, I paused and inspected my appearance in the window. I straightened my jacket and adjusted my shirt collar, but all that did not matter. Any outfit that cost an arm and two legs could speak for itself, whether neatened or not.

My cellular phone rang while I was reversing out of the gate. It was Charity.

‘Charity, I’m on my way. I’m on my way. I’m just leaving the house.’

She was relieved.

My sister had rung several times the previous day. She wanted to make sure I would be there early. She wanted to remind me to bring my camcorder along. She wanted me to know where we should all meet up afterwards, just in case we did not get to see her before she went into the school auditorium for the matriculation ceremony. This morning, her phone call had woken me from sleep.

‘Kings, you’re still sleeping!’

‘No . . . I’m awake.’

‘Kings, please wake up and start getting ready. By the time you get here, the ceremony would have already gone halfway.’

She obviously did not know the abilities of my latest BMW 5 Series. Anyhow, my sister had a right to be anxious on this special day of her life. I had felt the same way on my graduation day.

I remembered everything about that great event as if it had happened just yesterday.

My mother spent the evening before supervising the slaughtering and plucking of three grown chickens, putting the finishing touches to four adult male shirts and plaiting her thirteen-year-old daughter’s hair. Yet by the time the rest of us woke up on my graduation day morning, she was already in the kitchen and the whole house was consumed with the smell of good things. While washing the odour of kerosene fumes off her body, my mother sang the first two stanzas of ‘There Shall Be Showers of Blessing’ at top volume.

Ordinarily, I would have expected that my mother would be the one to cry. But from what she said, as soon as I rose to collect my certificate, her only response was to stand and clap. My father, on the other hand, sat in his seat and wiped his eyes. I was the very first of the second generation of university graduates from the whole Ibe extended family.

After the ceremony, I left the auditorium and went to meet them at a prearranged location, under the mango tree by the university health centre. Aunty Dimma was waiting with them. She had insisted on coming to the school as well, instead of just turning up at the house later in the day like our other invited guests. As soon as they saw me approaching, all of them rushed towards me.

‘Congratulations,’ my father said, shaking my hand.

‘Congratulations,’ my mother said, giving me a hug.

‘Congratulations,’ Ola said, placing her hands on my shoulders and giving me a holy kiss on the cheek.

Ola had worn a smart blue skirt suit which my mother later told me was too short.

‘Congratulations,’ Charity said, hugging me around the waist and refusing to let go.

‘Congratulations,’ Godfrey and Eugene said, with their eyes on the coolers of food that would soon be opened.

‘Mr Chemical Engineer,’ Aunty Dimma said, locking me inside her arms and pecking my cheek.

We ate. Some people I knew and many people I did not came round, and my mother dished out some food from the coolers for them. The total expenditure for the day’s celebration had seriously head-butted my parents’ budget and broken its two legs, but they did not mind. My graduation from university was supposed to be the dawn of a new day in their lives.

Fortunately, things were different this time around. I had made sure of that. Finances were the last thing my family had had to worry about while preparing for Charity’s matriculation.

 

We would never have found Charity in that crowd. There were human heads everywhere. After the ceremony, I and my mother and Aunty Dimma proceeded to the designated meeting place by the car park and waited. It was not long before Charity joined us. She and my mother and Aunty Dimma did their hugging routine.

‘Hmm . . . Charity, you’re now a big chick!’ Aunty Dimma said. ‘You look so beauuuuutiful.’

‘Thank you,’ Charity said and blushed.

In her dark green River Island skirt suit and black Gucci heels, Charity definitely looked sharp. I had purchased the top-to-toe outfit specially for this day. No stupid man would ever jump out of the hedges and turn my sister’s head upside down because of Gucci.

‘Did you people see me?’ Charity asked.

We had seen her sitting amongst the matriculating students, but at the end of the ceremony, she had disappeared amid the sea of tasseled caps.

Eugene could not make it. He had exams coming up soon and the nine-hour journey from Ibadan would have been too much of a distraction.

Godfrey eventually arrived. Accompanied by three of his friends. Dressed like a drug baron. Pierre Cardin shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, white Givenchy, silver-capped shoes, and texturised hair. Two gold chains dangled from his neck, a gold bracelet danced around his wrist. No wonder he was constantly running out of pocket money and ringing me to send some more. Often, I succumbed. I wanted to be as much of a father to him - to them all - as possible. I wanted to be there for them in ways that my father had never been there for me. The few clothes I had in school - the ones that were not gifts from Ola - had come from the ‘bend-down’ boutiques, where different grades of secondhand clothing that the people in Europe and America no longer wanted to wear were displayed on waterproof sheets on the ground and sold. I made sure that my siblings wore the latest styles and the best quality.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Godfrey apologised. ‘Our car had to keep stopping because one of the passengers had a running stomach. If I had known, we would have just paid for all the seats and had a taxi to ourselves. Kings, where are the things you bought for me?’

‘I wasn’t able to do much shopping on this trip,’ I said.

‘You didn’t buy the CD?’

‘I really didn’t have the time.’

He frowned.

‘Kings, that CD is the hottest thing right now. They haven’t yet started selling it in Nigeria so just a few people have it.’

‘I’m sorry. But don’t worry, I’m travelling again soon.’

We posed for several photographs. Godfrey put the camcorder to work and attracted quite a few stares in the process. For the first time in a very long time, I missed having my father around. I could perfectly imagine him on a day like this. Proud, emotional, optimistic. Matriculation was not such a grand event as graduation from university so my mother had not done any cooking for today. But Charity had made me promise that I would take her and her friends out to a fancy restaurant. It was Godfrey who had given her the suggestion.

Charity went off to find her friends. My cellular rang. It was Protocol Officer.

‘Kings, Cash Daddy said I should tell you to look out for him on TV on Monday night. He’s appearing on Tough Talk.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘He said you should also make sure everyone in the office watches it. It’s at 10 p.m.’

‘OK, I will.’

I noticed Aunty Dimma staring at me in a funny way, as if she had been trying to read my lips. As soon as Protocol Officer hung up, my aunty miraculously found herself by my side.

‘Kings,’ she said quietly, ‘what are you doing the Friday after next?’

‘I’m not sure. Why?’

‘I want to invite you to a special programme we’re having in my church. It’s a one-day deliverance session.’

‘Deliverance from what?’

‘All types. Deliverance from enemies, from your past . . .’ She paused. ‘Deliverance from demonic influences and evil spirits.’

‘Ah. Aunty, I just remembered. I don’t think I’ll be free on that day. I have some things I planned to do.’

‘You can still try and make it. Honestly, it’ll be worth it.’

I promised her that I would try. I knew that I would not. Charity returned with her friends. About seventeen of them.

‘Aren’t they too many?’ Aunty Dimma rebuked Charity in a red-hot whisper.

‘Aunty,’ I cut in, ‘there’s no problem.’

My pocket was more than equal to the task.

The American Embassy officer scrutinised my documents. She scanned the pages of my passport and saw evidence of my frequent trips to and from the UK and the Schengen region. She saw written evidence that I had my own importing and exporting business. She observed my bulging bank accounts and knew that I could not be planning to remain illegally in her country, flipping burgers in McDonald’s or bathing corpses in a morgue.

Still, the scowling brunette on the other side of the glass partition grilled me belligerently, as if it was my fault that she had found herself in such a lousy job.

‘What are you going to the United States to do?’

‘Let me see your tax clearance certificate.’

‘Fold it!’

‘How long do you plan to stay?’

‘Why aren’t you going with your wife and children?’

‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking!’

‘Have you ever been involved in any terrorist activity?’

‘How do I know you’re planning to return to Nigeria?’

After about forty-five minutes, the inquisition was over. The Gestapo officer instructed me to return to the embassy by 2 p.m. the following day for collection of my stamped passport. Hurrah. My journey from Aba to Lagos had not been in vain.