I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,24

what she wanted him to remain. But now I was ready to lower my standards. Most of the New Generation banks were willing to hire anybody who could pass their aptitude tests. They did not seem to mind whether your degree was in Carpentry or Fisheries or Hairdressing. All they wanted was someone who could speak English, who could add, subtract, and multiply.

‘I’m thinking of maybe a bank.’

‘Are there not banks here?’

‘There are more opportunities outside here,’ I replied.

After all was said and done, Umuahia was still one of the Third World towns in Nigeria. The same bank that would have just one branch in Umuahia, for example, could have thirty in bustling cities like Lagos. Plus, larger cities presented more diverse opportunities for work even if it meant that I would have to trudge the streets and seek employment in any other field.

My mother considered this.

‘But where are you planning to stay? You can’t afford a place of your own and you can’t be sure how long you’ll be looking for work.’ She paused. ‘The only person I can think of is Dimma. Which is good because then you’ll be closer to the oil companies when they invite you for interviews.’

I knew that Aunty Dimma would be very pleased to have me at her place in Port Harcourt for however long I chose to stay, but I had other ideas.

‘How about Uncle Boniface?’ I asked.

My mother laughed and looked at me as if I was trying to convince her that G is for Jesus.

‘Mummy, seriously. I think Lagos is the best option. I’m sure I’ll get a job quickly. I hear people like Arthur Andersen will give you an interview once they see that you made an exceptional result.’

Uncle Boniface lived not too far away from us, in Aba, but he owned a house in faraway FESTAC Town, Lagos, where his wife and children lived. He probably would not mind my lodging with them, especially since he owed my family a social debt. The youngest of my mother’s siblings, Uncle Boniface was the illegitimate son that my late grandfather had fathered by some non-Igbo floozy from Rivers State. Out of anger, my mother’s family had refused to acknowledge Uncle Boniface as part of them. And with his failing health, my grandfather had found it difficult to cope. The family made a communal decision. Uncle Boniface moved in with us. Over the years, we had several of these relatives coming and going, but Uncle Boniface’s stay was particularly memorable.

A few weeks after he moved in and started attending a nearby secondary school, he drew me aside into the kitchen and whispered into my ears.

‘Kings,’ he said, ‘I’ve noticed that you have a very good handwriting.’

I accepted the compliment with a smile. He looked over his shoulders and lowered his voice some more.

‘Do you know how to write letters?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, with the confidence of the best English student in his class.

My uncle nodded with satisfaction.

‘Kings, I need you to do me a favour. I want you to help me write a letter.’

Such a task was mere bread to me.

Later that night, after the whole family had gone to bed, he summoned me from the children’s bedroom. We sneaked into the kitchen, and he turned on the light and started whispering.

‘Look,’ he said, pulling out a scrunched-up sheet from the pocket of his shorts and unfolding it hurriedly, ‘copy this for me in your handwriting.’

I recognised the ugly, bulbous squiggles that were the signature handwriting of the rural classes and the poorly educated. With some slight alterations, this could have been the handwriting of any one of the different people who had come to live with us from the village. I read the first few sentences. None of it made any sense.

‘Look at you,’ he jeered, planting a biro in my hands. ‘Mind you, the person I copied this from is the best student in our class. He wrote it for his own girlfriend.’

My face did not change.

‘These are big boy matters. Don’t worry, one day you’ll understand. Just copy it for me.’

He tore out a fresh sheet from the exercise book he was holding and gave it to me. I placed the paper on one of the kitchen worktops and went to work.

My dearest, sweetest, most magnificent, paragon of beauty a.k.a. Ijeoma,

I hope this letter finds you in a current state of sound body and mind. My principal reason for writing this epistle is to gravitate your mind towards an