I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,12
you. I have enough for my transport.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Still take it.’
‘Mummy, no thank you.’
‘OK, at least use it to buy something for Ola.’
‘Mummy, don’t worry. I can manage till Daddy gives me my next pocket money.’
‘Kings, look. I know it’s just for a brief period and that things will work out for you soon. Take the money.’
Disgraceful that a twenty-five-year-old was still depending on his parents, but she smiled and looked tremendously pleased when I took the notes. Right there and then, I decided that the first thing I would do when I got a job was to buy my mother a brand new car.
Three
The 504 station wagon had a handwritten sign on the roof - UMUAHIA to OWERRI via MBAISE. The vehicle had originally been designed to carry the driver and one passenger in the front seat, three people in the middle row, two at the back. But an ingenious rascal had come up with a more lucrative agenda. Now two people were sitting beside the driver in front, four in the middle row, and three at the back. Being last to arrive, I had to squeeze myself into the back middle seat, the tightest, most unbearable position in the entire vehicle.
Wedged on my right was an abundantly bottomed lady who chomped her pungent breakfast of boiled eggs and bread with noisy gusto. On my left was a man whose eye sockets were empty, with a boy of about eight years old perched on his lap. From the ruggedness of the man’s clothes, his random chants and subservient manner, I could tell that he was a professional beggar. The boy was acting as his eyes and would not have to pay extra since, technically, they shared the same space. So we were four in the back row, sitting in a place prepared for three, which had originally been meant for two.
The combined stench of the beggar’s rags and the woman’s egg almost made my intestines jump past my teeth and onto the floor. I was eager for take-off, and hoped that as the car increased velocity, the pressure would force fresh breeze to diffuse the gas chamber at the back.
‘Bring your money!’ the driver hollered, stretching a cracked palm into the car.
I brought out my wallet from my trouser pocket. I shifted the naira notes aside and gazed at the photograph that I carried wherever I went. It was one of Ola and me with our arms completely wrapped around each other at Mr Bigg’s on Valentine’s Day two years ago. The photograph had been shot by one of those pesky, hawker photographers who hung around restaurants and occasions. At first, I was adamant about not paying, even after the photographer had stood begging for about ten minutes. But when I noticed how much Ola appeared to like the picture, I dipped into what I had reserved for cake and ice cream, and paid for the photographs instead.
Another of Ola’s favourites was one that my father had taken when I was three. Ola had asked my mother for the photo during one of her visits.
‘I love the way you look in it,’ she had said. ‘Like a miniature Albert Einstein. Anybody seeing this photograph can tell that you were destined to be a nerd.’
Ola was funny sometimes.
Her third favourite was the one of me holding my rolled up university certificate, wearing my convocation gown and grinning as if I were about to conquer the world. All three photographs were displayed in pretty frames on top of the wooden cupboard beside her bed.
We handed our fares to the driver, who then waited for the little boy to finish unwrapping the diminutive notes and coins which the blind man had extracted from somewhere within the inner regions of his trousers. The boy counted aloud.