I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,35
visit her shop. She always looked drawn. And when she did not have her skull wrapped up in a scarf, her beautiful hair looked as if it had converted completely to grey overnight.
Aunty Dimma had turned up with a flask of ukwa and fried plantain, which my mother had barely touched. When I walked in, Aunty stood and unfastened thick, crimson lips in one of her sensational smiles.
‘Kings, Kings,’ she crooned in C minor. ‘Opara nne ya! My charming young darling, how are you?’
She trapped me in a backbreaking hug that lasted quite long. I felt a gooey substance on my right ear and hoped that it was simply some stray hair gel from her red-streaked pompadour. She tickled my cheeks with her fingers. Aunty Dimma had always been one for histrionics, but this extra zing told me that she had learned that I had been dumped.
My mother heaved a sigh. Aunty Dimma released me and turned to her.
‘Are you doubting?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you believe God heals?’
Probably because she was a liberated woman, Aunty Dimma usually spoke in a loud, red-hot voice, even when she was not angry. She also had an opinion about everything - from the second-class status of women in Igbo Land to the status quo in Outer Mongolia. And she always made sure that her voice put the final full stop to every conversation. The only factor hindering Aunty Dimma’s complete metamorphosis from liberated woman to full-fledged man was that she had not yet grown a beard.
‘Of course I know God heals,’ my mother replied softly. ‘But I believe that sometimes, God allows sickness to teach us a lesson.’
‘If that’s the case,’ Aunty Dimma said with a smirk, ‘why are you even bothering coming to hospital?’
I dived in.
‘Mummy, what are we going to do about money? Is there anybody else we can borrow from?’
Both women crash-landed to matters arising. So far, we had borrowed once from Mr Nwude’s elder brother while Aunty Dimma had made two medium-sized cash donations that were commensurate with her pocket. All my mother’s jewellery and expensive wrappers had already been sold to provide for children’s school fees in crises past. Crumbs were left in the bank. Very soon, even if the doctors grabbed each of us by our two legs, turned us upside down with our heads facing the ground, and shook us violently, not a penny would drop.
Aunty Dimma’s voice ended the long silence.
‘What about your brother?’ she asked.
‘Which one?’ my mother replied.
‘Which other one do you think? Boniface is there in Aba spending money on foolish girls and buying new cars every day. Why not tell him that Paulinus is in hospital?’
Terrified, I shot a glance at my father, wondering if he had heard. If he had, he would want nothing more than to rise from the bed and empty his catheter bag into my aunt’s mouth. Everybody knew how much he detested Uncle Boniface. I was surprised that my mother did not immediately forbid Aunty Dimma from raising the matter again. Instead, she kept quiet.
I held my breath and watched. She actually appeared to be considering it.
‘After all, what’s the big deal?’ Aunty Dimma continued. ‘Other rich people build houses for their relatives and train their siblings’ children. One of my friends—’
‘Reduce your voice,’ my mother whispered.
‘One of my friends, her elder brother is paying for her daughter to do a Masters degree in London . . . almost ten thousand pounds. How can you people have a brother who’s so rich and you’re struggling like this?’
My mother pondered some more.
‘These nouveau riche, money-miss-road people,’ she responded at last, ‘they have a way of getting on someone’s nerves. Look at Boniface who lived with us just yesterday. All of a sudden, small money has turned his head upside down. At Papa’s burial, didn’t you see how he was moving up and down with security guards as if he’s the head of state? The boy didn’t even finish secondary school.’
Aunty Dimma looked at my mother and laughed. She finished laughing, looked at my mother again, and began another round of laughter.
‘Point of correction,’ she said, ‘his money is not small at all. The cost of his cars alone can pay off all of Nigeria’s international debts. You can go on calling him big names like “nouveau riche”. You own the big grammar, he owns the big money.’
She laughed some more.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ my mother asked now, her voice still well below normal speaking range.