I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,114

shook it from side to side. No.

‘Mummy, please get up,’ I insisted.

This time, she did not even bother raising her hand. I cajoled some more, she remained silent. Finally I lost my temper.

‘Well, if that’s what you want,’ I scolded, ‘if what you’re trying to do is punish me, you can have it your way. God knows I’m doing—’

‘Kings,’ she interrupted, speaking in the same soft and steady of yesterday, that betrayed neither stubbornness, nor resentment, nor contempt, ‘the only way you can make me happy is to leave this thing you’re doing and get a job and settle down. It’s not your money, it’s not your cars, that can make me happy. You know it really worries me no end.’ Her voice became less soft. ‘The way it is now, there’s no time I think about you and I’m happy. No time at all. It’s always worry and fear. And with Boniface and his politics, I’m terrified each time I think that you’re—’

‘Mummy, I’ve told you. I’m not involved in the campaign. I work strictly in the office while Cash . . . Uncle Boniface has other people working on the elections.’

She forced her eyes as far open as they would go. Her look seemed to ask if I genuinely thought she believed anything I told her any longer.

‘Kings, please . . . Your father would be miserable seeing you like this.’

I slammed the door on my way out.

My car was parked beside Mr Nwude’s blue Volkswagen. One of the back tyres of the faithful car was missing and had been replaced by a cement block. Some children were gathered around my jeep. They caressed the body and peered into the rear lights. One stood beside the driver’s door, mimicking the whirr of the engine and pretending that the deflated football in his hands was the steering wheel.

Quietly, I retreated into the vestibule and watched. The likelihood that any one of them would ever grow up to own a car like that was low. Very low. I was one of the lucky few. And my own children would be bred from birth with cash. The good things of life would be natural to them.

Alas, with the kind of girls I had been hanging out with, the prospect of marriage and children was still very far away.

Thirty-nine

The place looked like a carnival. There were elegant and haggard, wrinkled-faced and fresh, respectable and uncouth. Many of these guests at Protocol Officer’s wedding had probably strayed in from the highways and the byways. Most likely, many of them had never set eyes on the bride and groom before.

But the assessment of this wedding would depend on how well the hosts incorporated these unexpected guests into their planning. If the food ran out, the wedding was a failure. If there was still food for the inevitable latecomers who would arrive after the bride and groom had gone off to live happily ever after, the wedding was a success.

I experienced a moment of disorientation on seeing the colourful orange banner that ran from one end of the hall to the other: ‘NWAEZE WEDS NKECHI’. Of course, the name on his birth certificate could not possibly have read ‘Protocol Officer’, but it had never occurred to me that he actually had a name and a life of his own, a life that was not attached in some way to Cash Daddy’s welfare.

Three hours after the wedding reception began, right after the bride knelt in front of her husband and fed him with the ceremonial first meal - a piece of the wedding cake - the emcee put the ceremony on hold.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘right now, I would like us to acknowledge the presence of a very special guest in our midst. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together to welcome the sponsor of this wedding. Chief Boniface Mbamalu alias Cash Daddy.’

The ladies and gentlemen put their hands together. Cash Daddy entered slowly, accompanied by his otimkpu.

‘Cash Daddy, we would like to request the honour of your presence at the high table,’ the emcee added.

Two female ushers escorted Cash Daddy to join the bride and groom at the table where they sat with both sets of parents. The otimkpu followed and stood behind.

The rest of us who went by the euphemism ‘special guests of the groom’, had our own special tables right beside the platoon of bridesmaids. Excluding those of us from the CIA, these special tables were occupied by people who had