I Do Not Come to You by Chance (23 page)

Mr Hooverson would probably need a little bit more time to chew and swallow - or spit. This was the crucial point. Many keen mugus swiftly lost interest as soon as they learned about their expected role in the whole affair. Did they really expect to receive so much money without doing anything substantial? Thankfully, there were the few who made all the efforts worth it, the true believers who swallowed hook, line and swindler.

I strolled across to give Wizard the list of names I had copied out while watching television last night. He was our cyberspace harvester. Using software that could crawl through hundreds of servers, he fetched thousands of email addresses in one go. I encouraged him to always be on the lookout - in movies, newspapers, magazines - for rarer names. At some point or another, the average John or Peter or Smith had probably been blasted by a great number of 419ers, which is why all we were likely to receive for our effort was hate mail filled with four-letter words and clear directions to hellfire - one mugu had even assured me that I would share a stall in hell with Jack the Ripper. But a Wigglesworth or an Albright or a Letterman would most likely be receiving their first ever email blast of all time.

‘Kings, please come and tell me what you think,’ Ogbonna called out from his desk.

I went and studied the letter on his screen.

The grammatical errors stood up from the page and punched me right in the middle of my face.

‘Please, move,’ I said.

Ogbonna shifted away, allowing me space to take over his keyboard. Unlike Azuka and Buchi, he had never made it to university. The level of language in our emails did not matter, though. It was probably just the purist in me. Apparently, mugus were never really surprised to see an African emitting dented English.

When I finished with the corrections and returned to my desk, Mr Hooverson’s reply was waiting. Perhaps it would simply be a ‘Get lost, you orangutan! What a load of balderdash!’ Well, life would simply go on to the next mugu. A new one was born every minute. With heart pounding against my teeth, I opened the email.

Each word was as pleasant as the clinking of dishes on a tray. A fresh rush of that good old thrill coursed through my veins. No one could accuse me of being dishonest when I addressed Edgar Hooverson as ‘my dear friend’ in my next email.

I was finetuning the email for the billionth time, when my intercom bleeped.

‘Kings, Cash Daddy wants to see you,’ Protocol Officer said. ‘Now.’

I clicked Send before I went.

 

Cash Daddy had recently taken an excessive interest in newspapers. He had a vendor deliver ten different dailies every morning, which he perused page by page. He ran a commentary on and generated fresh topics from the headlines. He asked me to read lengthy opinion-editorials and give him a verbal summary of whatever the writers had said. Unlike my father, instead of throwing tantrums when he read something outrageous, he nodded his head and saw a new perspective on life.

‘Well,’ he once said after reading about a reform-minded gubernatorial aspirant who had been assassinated in Ekiti State, ‘at least it will always be remembered that he died for the cause of democracy.’

Now, his eyes remained transfixed on whatever he was reading on the front page while I sat beside Protocol Officer and waited. At last, Cash Daddy snapped up his head.

‘Government,’ he said. ‘That’s where the real money is. Do you know how much money Nigeria makes from oil? Billions and billions of dollars. And it belongs to all of us. There’s no reason why people like me should not be able to taste some of it. After all, we’re all Nigerians.’

He tossed the newspaper on top of the thick, black Bible that was open to the book of Ecclesiastes on his desk. I glimpsed the bold front-page headline of the story he had been engrossed in.

SCOTLAND YARD ARRESTS NIGERIAN
STATE GOVERNOR IN LONDON WITH
£2 MILLION CASH

‘Kings, you’re no longer a little bird,’ Cash Daddy continued. ‘It’s time for you to fly out of the nest. I’m having an important meeting with a mugu next month. Ask Dibia to start sorting out the documents for your UK visa. You’re travelling to London with me.’

My heart jumped twice and somersaulted thrice. My intestines started tying themselves up into tight knots. I had always wondered what England, the celebrated land of my father’s traveller’s tales, was like. But for the first time ever, I was going to be face-to-face with one of our mugus.

‘Why is your face like that?’ Cash Daddy asked.

I must have looked as if I wanted to run up a tree and hide, then uproot the tree and pull it up after me.

‘Kings, there’s nothing to be afraid of. What can a white man do to you? Oyibo people are harmless. It’s not today I started dealing with them. There’s no reason why you should be afraid.’

Yes, I had reason to be afraid. The Columbine murderers and the Unabomber and Dr Harold Shipman. I forced my face to look less terrorised.

‘Where are those documents?’ Cash Daddy asked.

Protocol Officer whipped out a sheaf from a folder in front of him. This one must be big. Cash Daddy had boys working for him in Amsterdam, Houston, London. As a godfather, he hardly ever got directly involved in a job unless the dollar prospects were colossal - large enough to require a foreign bank account. He was the only one who knew the details and locations of these foreign accounts, the only one who dealt directly with the bankers.

‘Kings, read them,’ Cash Daddy said.

I started with the business proposal on top of the pile. The left corner of my mouth twitched slightly.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘No . . . nothing.’

‘Why were you laughing?’

‘I wasn’t—’

Protocol Officer chuckled. That gave me the confidence to tell the truth.

‘Is that his real name?’ I asked.

‘No, no, no, no,’ Cash Daddy reprimanded in a soft, serious voice. ‘You people shouldn’t laugh at him. Do you know that this is the man whose money is going to feed your children and your children’s children and your children’s children’s children?’

On that note alone, the mugu could be forgiven. After all, his money was all that really counted. But what on earth had the man’s ancestors been thinking when they took a name like Winterbottom upon themselves?

Satellite TV bought me my freedom from the national prison sentence of having nothing else to watch at 9 p.m. every day, when all the local TV stations in the land switched to Lagos for the Network News. Occasionally, however, it made sense to touch base with home, irrespective of how doctored the local news might be. I reached for the remote control and flicked from BBC to NTA.

A disgruntled Senator from the thirty-third largest political party had decamped to form a brand new party of his own. Another billionaire had declared his intentions to join the presidential race. Exactly as I and my mother had warned Eugene, the Wild, Wild Western Nigeria was a-boiling. Apart from the usual riots and disruption of the voters’ registration process, this morning, yet another House of Assembly aspirant in Oyo State had been assassinated. This recent killing brought the total number of politically motivated assassinations in the country to twenty three. Within this election period alone.

Different public awareness campaigns had been encouraging people to turn out for the voters’ registration process. The posters, the announcements on radio and television, insisted that it was a civic responsibility and the only opportunity to make a change. Apparently, the public were responding well. A reporter had turned up at one of the voters’ registration centres in Enugu and was interviewing the masses.

‘How long have you been waiting here?’ she asked.

In the background, a multitude was buzzing around.

‘I’ve been here since 6 a.m.,’ the man replied.

‘That means you’ve been waiting for about ten hours.’

‘It’s my civic responsibility,’ he replied proudly. The haggard man had my father’s Nigeria-is-a-land-flowing-with-bottled-milk-and-jarred-honey tone of voice. ‘This current regime has done nothing for us and it’s time for change. I’m ready to pay any price to vote.’

Pity that such a well-spoken man had been taken in by all that hogwash. The only power to change anything that needed changing was the power of cash.

My cellular rang. I reached across the vast mattress and grabbed it from the edge of my sixth pillow. Real feathers. John Lewis, House of Fraser.

‘Where are you?’ Cash Daddy bellowed.

‘I’m at home.’

‘I’m just coming from the golf club,’ he said. ‘You know it’s not everybody who wants to join that they allow. I’m going to see one girl . . . that beautiful girl from Liberia who’s been begging to have a baby for me. Today’s her birthday.’

He paused. I knew he could not have finished.

‘Honestly, I won’t mind allowing her to have a baby for me, but Liberia’s too far. You know how these women behave. One day she’ll just wake up and tell me she’s taking my child back with her to Liberia and I don’t want that type of rubbish. You know they all have one kind of funny accent. I won’t spend long at the birthday. I just want to show my face and dash her some small pocket money. From there, I’ll go straight home. Come and see me.’

 

At Cash Daddy’s mansion, the gateman threw open the gates before I honked the horn. I parked my Grand Cherokee Jeep beside Cash Daddy’s latest Acura. I strode inside and headed for the stairs. The four young men seated at the dining table greeted me fervently. I mumbled a reply and marched up, taking the stairs three at a time.

In Cash Daddy’s bedroom, I glanced around. Then I pushed the door of the bathroom. He was scrubbing himself in the shower.

‘Kings, Kings! How are you?’

‘I’m fine, tha—’

‘Have you heard from Dibia about the documents for your UK visa?’

‘Yes. He said they’ll be ready soon.’

‘Very good, very good.’ He looked me over from top to toe and wagged his finger at me. ‘Make sure you buy some proper clothes before we go. You can’t follow me around looking like this.’

Cash Daddy paused to scrub under his arms while I surveyed my shirt - new, but obviously not good enough. Well, truth be told, despite my Swatch and my Lexus, I had not yet completely relaxed into the habit of lavishing things like clothes on myself. Some of Wizard and Ogbonna’s shirts could have funded my siblings’ tuition for two whole semesters.

‘As soon as we come back,’ Cash Daddy continued, ‘tell him to start working on documents for your US visa. Those ones might take a little longer. You know the Americans are much more difficult.’

I nodded. I had heard that the American was the one embassy where no officials agreed to have their palms greased in exchange for visas or for keeping closed eyes about spurious documents. Even booking an interview date with either of their embassies, in Abuja or Lagos, could take several months. But Dibia’s skill was truly a gift from God. It had never failed.