I Do Not Come to You by Chance (34 page)

‘Ola, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Things are a lot different now. I can make you happy. I have a lot of money and I can buy anything you want for you. Whatever your mother wants, I’ll give it to her.’

Udenna was the least of my worries. His only merit was his money. I was educated, certainly did not look like a troglodyte, and my bank account could now do fair battle with his. I reached out for Ola’s hand again. She drew it away and averted her eyes.

‘Ola, please. We can both start our lives afresh. Please, just give me another chance. Please.’

She looked into my eyes.

‘Kingsley,’ she said softly, ‘I’ve made enough mistakes in my life already. I think it would be extremely foolish of me to start making any fresh ones at this stage.’

She patted me twice on the cheek with her fingers. I continued staring long after she walked away into the car park. When my mugu’s phone call rammed into my misery, inquiring about his payment for the completed Akanu Ibiam International Airport project, I almost asked him to take his millions and shove them up his Winterbottom.

There were many possible explanations for the atrocious traffic in Lagos - population explosion, insufficient mass transit, tokunbo vehicles going kaput, potholes in the roads, undisciplined drivers, random police checkpoints, and fuel queues. But in Cash Daddy’s opinion, the go-slow started whenever the devil and his wives were on their way to the market. I think he was right. Certainly, today’s traffic looked as if the devil was behind it. Car bumpers were locked in French kisses. The masses, crammed into molues like slaves for sale, hopped out of the geriatric yellow buses and continued the rest of their journeys on foot. At this rate, I would be lucky not to miss my flight back home.

I had been granted leave to travel in and out of the United States of America for as many times as I pleased over the next two years. Hallelujah. Yet my mind was still troubled. Dear Ola. She seemed to hold some magical power over me. She could take over the steering wheel of my life anytime she pleased, drive me in whatever direction she chose, and then abandon me to navigate from there. Since yesterday, I had not stopped replaying my conversation with her.

Was the sacrifice I was making in 419 worth it?

Did it make sense to set my dreams aside in keen pursuit of cash?

I could do without the eight-bedroom house and the driver and the gardener and the cook, but how about the welfare of my family? My sister could do without McVities biscuits and Gucci shoes, but how about a good education? I sensed some motion by my window and turned. It was a muscular boy dangling a string of seven rats.

‘Rat poison! Rat poison!’ he shouted.

He rattled a row of red sachets in his other hand. Two of the rats twitched. I ignored the hawker until he got tired and left. I also ignored the ones that came with toilet seats, standing fans, cold drinks, gala sausage snacks, plantain chips, handkerchiefs, curtain rails, Irish potatoes, and apples. Then along came the boy selling books. When was the last time I read a book? The boy noticed my interest and clung to the body of the jeep when the traffic appeared to be moving a little bit faster. I wound the window halfway down.

‘Oga, which one you want?’ he asked.

I browsed the titles on display: Rich Dad, Poor Dad ; The Richest Man in Babylon ; God’s Plan for Your Financial Increase ; Why God Wants You Rich ; Wealth Building 101 ; Cracking the Millionaire Code ; Talent is Never Enough ; Nine Steps to Financial Freedom; Think and Grow Rich ; Money Making for Dummies . . . Then I noticed a colourful series of booklets.

‘Let me see that,’ I said.

The boy tossed four of the miniature books onto my lap: Prosperity Scriptures ; Healing Scriptures ; Marriage Scriptures ; Wisdom Scriptures. I flipped through the prosperity booklet and chuckled at the first scripture that caught my eyes: ‘A feast is made for laughter, and wine makes life merry, but money is the answer for everything.’

‘How much is it?’ I asked.

I paid the hawker for one copy. Then on second thoughts, I asked for another one. And one of the marriage ones, as well. Cash Daddy would probably find these books very helpful - an easy way to memorise yet more scriptures without wading through the entire books of the Bible.

 

Mr Winterbottom’s patience was wearing thin. After disbursing several million-dollar instalments through different foreign bank accounts to cover the Akanu Ibiam International Airport project, he had every right to be upset. He had been ringing almost daily. It was time to pacify him. Straight from the airport, I went to the office. I switched on my computer and went to work.

I printed the letter on CBN letterhead and put it through the fax machine.

There was no dial tone.

I pressed on and off; still no dial tone. I sat at my desk, stood, pressed again and again. Still nothing. With my cellular, I dialled Camille.

‘Is there anybody you can send to me this evening?’ I asked.

‘What time?’ she replied.

‘As soon as possible. I’m leaving work soon.’

‘The notice is quite short but I’ll see.’

Over time, Camille had done quite well for herself. She was now the recognised mistress of one of the state governors. Last time I spoke with her, she was on her way to Paris to shop for her birthday party. But she still made some extra income on the side by being helpful with organising girls for busy men like us as and when needed. Even when it was impromptu, like now.

‘Is it the same place as the last time?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Same place, same room number.’

As a personal policy, because my siblings popped in and out of my house from school whenever they pleased, I never brought any strange girl back home. I had a permanent reservation at Cash Daddy’s hotel. On his advice, for security reasons, I switched rooms after every few weeks.

‘OK. I’ll get back to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know if there’s any problem.’

I knew there would be no problem. There never was with Camille.

Ninety-five minutes and some hgs of blood pressure later, the fax eventually went.

 

Afterwards, the girl had started watching The Jerry Springer Show. So far, I had stomached the transvestite dwarf and the ragamuffin playboy. But now, the 400kg black American woman was yanking the brassiere off the anorexic peroxide blonde.

‘Could you please change the channel?’ I said to her.

‘Oh, sure, sure,’ she chanted, and reached for the remote control. ‘What channel do you want?’

‘Anything else,’ I replied.

She started flicking through. She hovered too long on MTV.

‘Put it on CNN,’ I suggested. The Daily Show should be on about this time.

It turned out that I was wrong. Instead of The Daily Show, Christiane Amanpour was telling the story of yet another man-made calamity that had erupted somewhere in East Africa. My cellular phone rang.

‘Kings, hurry down to the house,’ Protocol Officer whispered urgently. ‘Come quickly.’

‘Is everyth—?’

He hung up.

As I turned the doorknob, the girl switched back to Jerry Springer.

 

My driver was making the turn into Cash Daddy’s street when I noticed the police cars parked in front of the gate. It was not the usual nonchalant policemen that hung around checkpoints extorting money. This posse patrolled decisively, like they actually had some work to do.

‘Reverse!’ I yelled. ‘Turn! Quick! Quick!’

My driver obeyed and fled so fast that anyone would have thought the car was running on rocket engines.

‘Just keep driving,’ I said. I did not care if we went as far as Ouagadougou.

When I was certain that we were far away enough from danger, I collected myself and resumed the normal thinking processes that set man apart from the beasts of the field.

‘Find somewhere to park the car,’ I said.

We had found ourselves on the kind of street that was largely populated by dried maize husks, torn pure water wrappers, and straggling youngsters. My driver parked in front of an uncompleted building with a bold warning painted in red on the front wall: ‘BUYER BEWARE OF 419! THIS BUILDING IS NOT FOR SALE!’

My driver looked at me in the rearview mirror.

‘Oga, the policemen there were plenty,’ he said.

He looked in the rearview mirror again.

‘There must have been about twenty of them,’ he added.

I was not in the mood for chin-wagging. This could be the very end of me. I could just imagine my mother’s face when she heard that I had been arrested. What would happen to Godfrey and Eugene and Charity if I went to jail? I rang Protocol Officer and insisted.

‘Tell me. What exactly is going on?’

‘They’re taking Cash Daddy to the station for questioning,’ Protocol Officer whispered. ‘But I just spoke with Police Commissioner and he said it’s just routine. Hurry up because we’ll be leaving soon.’

Back at Cash Daddy’s house, some policemen who wore pot-bellies beneath their black uniforms were sitting with an almost empty bottle of Irish Cream and some wine glasses. I greeted them and strode past to join Protocol Officer, who was standing by the staircase in the dining area. He was flanked by the otimkpu and about seven of Cash Daddy’s campaign team bigwigs, all muttering indignantly.

‘Where’s Cash Daddy?’ I whispered to Protocol Officer.

‘He’s having a bath.’

I jerked my head furtively in the direction of the police officers.

‘Do they know he’s upstairs?’

‘He told them to wait,’ Protocol Officer replied impatiently, and returned his full attention to the group.

I turned to go upstairs and saw Cash Daddy on his way down. The policemen all stood and greeted him.

‘I hope they took care of you people?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the officer who looked like he was in charge.

‘Very good, very good.’

‘Are you ready to go, sir?’ the same man inquired.

‘Let’s go,’ Cash Daddy replied.

The policemen allowed him to walk ahead and followed at a respectful distance. One of them rushed to open the back door of one of their vans. We watched Cash Daddy settle uncomfortably into the backseat before we jumped into our different cars and followed behind. On the way, my cellular rang. It was my house phone.

‘Kings, are you back to Aba, yet?’ It was Charity.

‘Yes. I’m still at the office. I’m working a bit late today. I didn’t know you were at home.’

‘I just came in today. I’ll be going back first thing tomorrow but there’s something important I want to discuss with you.’

‘What’s the matter? Is everything OK?’

‘Everything is fine. It’s just something we need to discuss face-to-face. ’

Face-to-face? I died with fear. Was she having problems in school? Were her girlfriends gossiping about me seeing strange girls? Had my mother been complaining about my lifestyle? It would be very unfair if she transferred her misgivings to my siblings. Whatever my mother felt about me was her business alone.

‘Charity, I’ll see you soon, OK? I’m just finishing up something urgent at the office.’

Cash Daddy’s campaign manager was waiting at the police station, muttering into a cellular phone. Cash Daddy’s lawyer was with him. The notable human rights activist accompanied his client inside for questioning. On the way, Cash Daddy stopped suddenly.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I almost forgot.’

He removed the watch from his wrist, the phone from his pocket, the belt from his trousers, and handed them to Protocol Officer.

‘Kings, let me give you some advice,’ he said. ‘Never take anything with you into the police station if you’re not ready to part with it forever.’

God forbid. I, Kingsley Onyeaghalanwanneya Ibe, was being given advice for a trip to jail.

Soon, the lawyer emerged from the bowels of the station. Without Cash Daddy.

We panicked.

‘Where’s Cash Daddy?’

‘They decided to keep him,’ the lawyer replied. ‘But they can’t hold him for too long because they don’t really have any evidence.’

‘Evidence of what?’ one of the campaign team asked.

‘Money laundering. The allegation was made at the Zonal Command in Calabar, so the police here have to pretend as if they’re really doing something serious about it.’

‘Who made the allegation?’ I asked.

‘It’s politics,’ the campaign manager answered. ‘They just want to get Cash Daddy out of the way. They know he’s definitely going to win the elections.’

‘These are the dangers I warned him to expect right from the beginning,’ the human-rights-activist lawyer added. ‘Nigerian politics is a dirty game.’