I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,105
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.
The Contracts Review Panel
Central Bank of Nigeria
Abuja
Nigeria
Dear Mr Winterbottom,
PAYMENT OF OUTSTANDING DEBTS TO FOREIGN CONTRACTORS
Following a recent review, it has come to our notice that you have duly executed contract number (FMA/132/019/ 82) awarded by the Federal Ministry of Aviation. The contract sum for the first, second, and final phase of the contract is $187,381,000 (USD). This excludes an interest of $13,470,070 (USD) which has accrued owing to delays in payment by the Central Bank of Nigeria. Therefore, the amount due to you currently stands at $200,851,070 (USD).
Our office will immediately process this outstanding $200,851,070 (USD) funds as soon as we receive fluctuational charges of $6,730,000 (USD).
We apologise for any inconvenience caused by previous delays. As soon as we receive the above sum, we shall forward your outstanding $200,851,070 (USD).
Yours faithfully,
Mr Joseph Sanusi
Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria
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.